“You can leave de Batz and his gang alone, citizen Heron,” said
Chauvelin, as soon as he had closed the door behind him; “he had nothing
to do with the escape of the Dauphin.”
Heron growled out a few words of incredulity. But Chauvelin shrugged his
shoulders and looked with unutterable contempt on his colleague. Armand,
who was watching him closely, saw that in his hand he held a small piece
of paper, which he had crushed into a shapeless mass.
“Do not waste your time, citizen,” he said, “in raging against an
empty wind-bag. Arrest de Batz if you like, or leave him alone an you
please--we have nothing to fear from that braggart.”
With nervous, slightly shaking fingers he set to work to smooth out the
scrap of paper which he held. His hot hands had soiled it and pounded it
until it was a mere rag and the writing on it illegible. But, such as
it was, he threw it down with a blasphemous oath on the desk in front of
Heron’s eyes.
“It is that accursed Englishman who has been at work again,” he said
more calmly; “I guessed it the moment I heard your story. Set your whole
army of sleuth-hounds on his track, citizen; you’ll need them all.”
Heron picked up the scrap of torn paper and tried to decipher the
writing on it by the light from the lamp. He seemed almost dazed now
with the awful catastrophe that had befallen him, and the fear that his
own wretched life would have to pay the penalty for the disappearance of
the child.
As for Armand--even in the midst of his own troubles, and of his own
anxiety for Jeanne, he felt a proud exultation in his heart. The Scarlet
Pimpernel had succeeded; Percy had not failed in his self-imposed
undertaking. Chauvelin, whose piercing eyes were fixed on him at that
moment, smiled with contemptuous irony.
“As you will find your hands overfull for the next few hours, citizen
Heron,” he said, speaking to his colleague and nodding in the direction
of Armand, “I’ll not trouble you with the voluntary confession this
young citizen desired to make to you. All I need tell you is that he
is an adherent of the Scarlet Pimpernel--I believe one of his most
faithful, most trusted officers.”
Heron roused himself from the maze of gloomy thoughts that were again
paralysing his tongue. He turned bleary, wild eyes on Armand.
“We have got one of them, then?” he murmured incoherently, babbling like
a drunken man.
“M’yes!” replied Chauvelin lightly; “but it is too late now for a formal
denunciation and arrest. He cannot leave Paris anyhow, and all that your
men need to do is to keep a close look-out on him. But I should send him
home to-night if I were you.”
Heron muttered something more, which, however, Armand did not
understand. Chauvelin’s words were still ringing in his ear. Was he,
then, to be set free to-night? Free in a measure, of course, since
spies were to be set to watch him--but free, nevertheless? He could not
understand Chauvelin’s attitude, and his own self-love was not a little
wounded at the thought that he was of such little account that these men
could afford to give him even this provisional freedom. And, of course,
there was still Jeanne.
“I must, therefore, bid you good-night, citizen,” Chauvelin was saying
in his bland, gently ironical manner. “You will be glad to return to
your lodgings. As you see, the chief agent of the Committee of General
Security is too much occupied just now to accept the sacrifice of your
life which you were prepared so generously to offer him.”
“I do not understand you, citizen,” retorted Armand coldly, “nor do I
desire indulgence at your hands. You have arrested an innocent woman on
the trumped-up charge that she was harbouring me. I came here to-night
to give myself up to justice so that she might be set free.”
“But the hour is somewhat late, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin urbanely.
“The lady in whom you take so fervent an interest is no doubt asleep in
her cell at this hour. It would not be fitting to disturb her now.
She might not find shelter before morning, and the weather is quite
exceptionally unpropitious.”
“Then, sir,” said Armand, a little bewildered, “am I to understand that
if I hold myself at your disposition Mademoiselle Lange will be set free
as early to-morrow morning as may be?”
“No doubt, sir--no doubt,” replied Chauvelin with more than his
accustomed blandness; “if you will hold yourself entirely at our
disposition, Mademoiselle Lange will be set free to-morrow. I think
that we can safely promise that, citizen Heron, can we not?” he added,
turning to his colleague.
But Heron, overcome with the stress of emotions, could only murmur
vague, unintelligible words.
“Your word on that, citizen Chauvelin?” asked Armand.
“My word on it an you will accept it.”
“No, I will not do that. Give me an unconditional certificate of safety
and I will believe you.”
“Of what use were that to you?” asked Chauvelin.
“I believe my capture to be of more importance to you than that of
Mademoiselle Lange,” said Armand quietly.
“I will use the certificate of safety for myself or one of my friends if
you break your word to me anent Mademoiselle Lange.”
“H’m! the reasoning is not illogical, citizen,” said Chauvelin, whilst a
curious smile played round the corners of his thin lips. “You are quite
right. You are a more valuable asset to us than the charming lady who, I
hope, will for many a day and year to come delight pleasure-loving Paris
with her talent and her grace.”
“Amen to that, citizen,” said Armand fervently.
“Well, it will all depend on you, sir! Here,” he added, coolly running
over some papers on Heron’s desk until he found what he wanted, “is an
absolutely unconditional certificate of safety. The Committee of General
Security issue very few of these. It is worth the cost of a human life.
At no barrier or gate of any city can such a certificate be disregarded,
nor even can it be detained. Allow me to hand it to you, citizen, as a
pledge of my own good faith.”
Smiling, urbane, with a curious look that almost expressed amusement
lurking in his shrewd, pale eyes, Chauvelin handed the momentous
document to Armand.
The young man studied it very carefully before he slipped it into the
inner pocket of his coat.
“How soon shall I have news of Mademoiselle Lange?” he asked finally.
“In the course of to-morrow. I myself will call on you and redeem that
precious document in person. You, on the other hand, will hold yourself
at my disposition. That’s understood, is it not?”
“I shall not fail you. My lodgings are--”
“Oh! do not trouble,” interposed Chauvelin, with a polite bow; “we can
find that out for ourselves.”
Heron had taken no part in this colloquy. Now that Armand prepared to
go he made no attempt to detain him, or to question his colleague’s
actions. He sat by the table like a log; his mind was obviously a blank
to all else save to his own terrors engendered by the events of this
night.
With bleary, half-veiled eyes he followed Armand’s progress through
the room, and seemed unaware of the loud slamming of the outside door.
Chauvelin had escorted the young man past the first line of sentry, then
he took cordial leave of him.
“Your certificate will, you will find, open every gate to you.
Good-night, citizen. A demain.”
“Good-night.”
Armand’s slim figure disappeared in the gloom. Chauvelin watched him for
a few moments until even his footsteps had died away in the distance;
then he turned back towards Heron’s lodgings.
“A nous deux,” he muttered between tightly clenched teeth; “a nous deux
once more, my enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel.”