Heron was not at his lodgings when, at last, after vigorous pulls at
the bell, a great deal of waiting and much cursing, Chauvelin, closely
followed by Armand, was introduced in the chief agent’s office.
The soldier who acted as servant said that citizen Heron had gone out
to sup, but would surely be home again by eight o’clock. Armand by this
time was so dazed with fatigue that he sank on a chair like a log, and
remained there staring into the fire, unconscious of the flight of time.
Anon Heron came home. He nodded to Chauvelin, and threw but a cursory
glance on Armand.
“Five minutes, citizen,” he said, with a rough attempt at an apology. “I
am sorry to keep you waiting, but the new commissaries have arrived who
are to take charge of Capet. The Simons have just gone, and I want to
assure myself that everything is all right in the Tower. Cochefer
has been in charge, but I like to cast an eye over the brat every day
myself.”
He went out again, slamming the door behind him. His heavy footsteps
were heard treading the flagstones of the corridor, and gradually dying
away in the distance. Armand had paid no heed either to his entrance or
to his exit. He was only conscious of an intense weariness, and would at
this moment gladly have laid his head on the scaffold if on it he could
find rest.
A white-faced clock on the wall ticked off the seconds one by one. From
the street below came the muffled sounds of wheeled traffic on the soft
mud of the road; it was raining more heavily now, and from time to time
a gust of wind rattled the small windows in their dilapidated frames, or
hurled a shower of heavy drops against the panes.
The heat from the stove had made Armand drowsy; his head fell forward
on his chest. Chauvelin, with his hands held behind his back, paced
ceaselessly up and down the narrow room.
Suddenly Armand started--wide awake now. Hurried footsteps on the
flagstones outside, a hoarse shout, a banging of heavy doors, and the
next moment Heron stood once more on the threshold of the room. Armand,
with wide-opened eyes, gazed on him in wonder. The whole appearance of
the man had changed. He looked ten years older, with lank, dishevelled
hair hanging matted over a moist forehead, the cheeks ashen-white, the
full lips bloodless and hanging, flabby and parted, displaying both rows
of yellow teeth that shook against each other. The whole figure looked
bowed, as if shrunk within itself.
Chauvelin had paused in his restless walk. He gazed on his colleague, a
frown of puzzlement on his pale, set face.
“Capet!” he exclaimed, as soon as he had taken in every detail of
Heron’s altered appearance, and seen the look of wild terror that
literally distorted his face.
Heron could not speak; his teeth were chattering in his mouth, and his
tongue seemed paralysed. Chauvelin went up to him. He was several inches
shorter than his colleague, but at this moment he seemed to be towering
over him like an avenging spirit. He placed a firm hand on the other’s
bowed shoulders.
“Capet has gone--is that it?” he queried peremptorily.
The look of terror increased in Heron’s eyes, giving its mute reply.
“How? When?”
But for the moment the man was speechless. An almost maniacal fear
seemed to hold him in its grip. With an impatient oath Chauvelin turned
away from him.
“Brandy!” he said curtly, speaking to Armand.
A bottle and glass were found in the cupboard. It was St. Just who
poured out the brandy and held it to Heron’s lips. Chauvelin was once
more pacing up and down the room in angry impatience.
“Pull yourself together, man,” he said roughly after a while, “and try
and tell me what has occurred.”
Heron had sunk into a chair. He passed a trembling hand once or twice
over his forehead.
“Capet has disappeared,” he murmured; “he must have been spirited away
while the Simons were moving their furniture. That accursed Cochefer was
completely taken in.”
Heron spoke in a toneless voice, hardly above a whisper, and like one
whose throat is dry and mouth parched. But the brandy had revived him
somewhat, and his eyes lost their former glassy look.
“How?” asked Chauvelin curtly.
“I was just leaving the Tower when he arrived. I spoke to him at the
door. I had seen Capet safely installed in the room, and gave orders
to the woman Simon to let citizen Cochefer have a look at him, too, and
then to lock up the brat in the inner room and install Cochefer in the
antechamber on guard. I stood talking to Cochefer for a few moments in
the antechamber. The woman Simon and the man-of-all-work, Dupont--whom
I know well--were busy with the furniture. There could not have been any
one else concealed about the place--that I’ll swear. Cochefer, after he
took leave of me, went straight into the room; he found the woman Simon
in the act of turning the key in the door of the inner chamber. I have
locked Capet in there,’ she said, giving the key to Cochefer; ‘he will
be quite safe until to-night; when the other commissaries come.’”
“Didn’t Cochefer go into the room and ascertain whether the woman was
lying?”
“Yes, he did! He made the woman re-open the door and peeped in over her
shoulder. She said the child was asleep. He vows that he saw the child
lying fully dressed on a rug in the further corner of the room. The
room, of course, was quite empty of furniture and only lighted by one
candle, but there was the rug and the child asleep on it. Cochefer
swears he saw him, and now--when I went up--”
“Well?”
“The commissaries were all there--Cochefer and Lasniere, Lorinet and
Legrand. We went into the inner room, and I had a candle in my hand. We
saw the child lying on the rug, just as Cochefer had seen him, and for
a while we took no notice of it. Then some one--I think it was
Lorinet--went to have a closer look at the brat. He took up the candle
and went up to the rug. Then he gave a cry, and we all gathered round
him. The sleeping child was only a bundle of hair and of clothes, a
dummy--what?”
There was silence now in the narrow room, while the white-faced clock
continued to tick off each succeeding second of time. Heron had once
more buried his head in his hands; a trembling--like an attack of
ague--shook his wide, bony shoulders. Armand had listened to the
narrative with glowing eyes and a beating heart. The details which the
two Terrorists here could not probably understand he had already added
to the picture which his mind had conjured up.
He was back in thought now in the small lodging in the rear of St.
Germain l’Auxerrois; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was there, and my Lord Tony and
Hastings, and a man was striding up and down the room, looking out into
the great space beyond the river with the eyes of a seer, and a firm
voice said abruptly:
“It is about the Dauphin!”
“Have you any suspicions?” asked Chauvelin now, pausing in his walk
beside Heron, and once more placing a firm, peremptory hand on his
colleague’s shoulder.
“Suspicions!” exclaimed the chief agent with a loud oath. “Suspicions!
Certainties, you mean. The man sat here but two days ago, in that very
chair, and bragged of what he would do. I told him then that if he
interfered with Capet I would wring his neck with my own hands.”
And his long, talon-like fingers, with their sharp, grimy nails, closed
and unclosed like those of feline creatures when they hold the coveted
prey.
“Of whom do you speak?” queried Chauvelin curtly.
“Of whom? Of whom but that accursed de Batz? His pockets are bulging
with Austrian money, with which, no doubt, he has bribed the Simons and
Cochefer and the sentinels--”
“And Lorinet and Lasniere and you,” interposed Chauvelin dryly.
“It is false!” roared Heron, who already at the suggestion was foaming
at the mouth, and had jumped up from his chair, standing at bay as if
prepared to fight for his life.
“False, is it?” retorted Chauvelin calmly; “then be not so quick, friend
Heron, in slashing out with senseless denunciations right and left.
You’ll gain nothing by denouncing any one just now. This is too
intricate a matter to be dealt with a sledge-hammer. Is any one up in
the Tower at this moment?” he asked in quiet, business-like tones.
“Yes. Cochefer and the others are still there. They are making wild
schemes to cover their treachery. Cochefer is aware of his own danger,
and Lasniere and the others know that they arrived at the Tower several
hours too late. They are all at fault, and they know it. As for that de
Batz,” he continued with a voice rendered raucous with bitter passion,
“I swore to him two days ago that he should not escape me if he meddled
with Capet. I’m on his track already. I’ll have him before the hour
of midnight, and I’ll torture him--yes! I’ll torture him--the Tribunal
shall give me leave. We have a dark cell down below here where my men
know how to apply tortures worse than the rack--where they know just how
to prolong life long enough to make it unendurable. I’ll torture him!
I’ll torture him!”
But Chauvelin abruptly silenced the wretch with a curt command; then,
without another word, he walked straight out of the room.
In thought Armand followed him. The wild desire was suddenly born in him
to run away at this moment, while Heron, wrapped in his own meditations,
was paying no heed to him. Chauvelin’s footsteps had long ago died away
in the distance; it was a long way to the upper floor of the Tower, and
some time would be spent, too, in interrogating the commissaries. This
was Armand’s opportunity. After all, if he were free himself he might
more effectually help to rescue Jeanne. He knew, too, now where to join
his leader. The corner of the street by the canal, where Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes would be waiting with the coal-cart; then there was the spinney
on the road to St. Germain. Armand hoped that, with good luck, he might
yet overtake his comrades, tell them of Jeanne’s plight, and entreat
them to work for her rescue.
He had forgotten that now he had no certificate of safety, that
undoubtedly he would be stopped at the gates at this hour of the
night; that his conduct proving suspect he would in all probability he
detained, and, mayhap, be brought back to this self-same place within an
hour. He had forgotten all that, for the primeval instinct for freedom
had suddenly been aroused. He rose softly from his chair and crossed
the room. Heron paid no attention to him. Now he had traversed the
antechamber and unlatched the outer door.
Immediately a couple of bayonets were crossed in front of him, two more
further on ahead scintillated feebly in the flickering light. Chauvelin
had taken his precautions. There was no doubt that Armand St. Just was
effectually a prisoner now.
With a sigh of disappointment he went back to his place beside the
fire. Heron had not even moved whilst he had made this futile attempt at
escape. Five minutes later Chauvelin re-entered the room.