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<H3><CENTER><U><FONT COLOR="#990000" SIZE="+3" FACE="Apple Chancery">Lord
Tony's Wife</FONT></U><FONT COLOR="#990000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><BR>
by Baroness Orczy<BR>
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</FONT><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Thanks to Lani
(</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mailto:lsbretta@aol.com">Lsbretta@aol.com</A></FONT><FONT
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of this e-text!</FONT><FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><BR>
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<H3><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Table
of Contents</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><A HREF="ltprologue.html"><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Prologue:
Nantes, 1789</FONT></A></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book One<BR>
Bath, 1793</FONT></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><A HREF="ltchp1.html"><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Chp
1 - The Moor</FONT></A><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp2.html">Chp 2 - The
Bottom Inn</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp3.html">Chp 3 - The
Assembly Room</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp4.html">Chp 4 - The
Father</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp5.html">Chp 5 - The
Nest</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp6.html">Chp 6 - The
Scarlet Pimpernel</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp7.html">Chp 7 - Marguerite</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp8.html">Chp 8 - The
Road to Porishead</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="ltchp9.html">Chp 9 - The
Coast of France</A></FONT></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book Two<BR>
Nantes, December 1793<BR>
<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp1.html">Chp
1 - The Tiger's Lair</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp2.html">Chp 2 - Le
Bouffay</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp3.html">Chp 3 - The
Fowlers</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp4.html">Chp 4 - The
Net</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp5.html">Chp 5 - The
Message of Hope</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp6.html">Chp 6 - The
Rat Mort</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp7.html">Chp 7 - The
Fracas in the Tavern</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp8.html">Chp 8 - The
English Adventurers</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp9.html">Chp 9 - The
Proconsul</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="lt2chp10.html">Chp 10 - Lord
Tony</A></FONT></CENTER></H3>

<H3><CENTER><A HREF="lt2chp10.html"><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><IMG 
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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Sink me! <!-- Begin Beseen Hit counter --><IMG 
SRC="http://pluto.beseen.com/hit.counter?account=shgumby@aol.com-ltw&font=TealOnWhite&base=1"
BORDER="0" ALIGN="BOTTOM"> <!-- End Beseen Hit counter -->lucky
people have read this story!</FONT></CENTER></H3>

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<H3><CENTER><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Hosted by <A HREF="http://www.geocities.com/Paris/Palais/1797"
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Prologue<BR>
Nantes, 1789</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tyrant! tyrant! tyrant!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Pierre who spoke, his voice was hardly
raised above a murmur, but there was such an intensity of passion
expressed in his face, in the fingers of his hand which closed
slowly and convulsively as if they were clutching the throat of
a struggling viper, there was so much hate in those muttered words,
so much power, such compelling and awesome determination that
an ominous silence fell upon the village lads and the men who
sat with him in the low narrow room of the auberge des Trois Vertus.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even the man in the tattered coat and threadbare
breeches, who &shy;&shy; perched upon the centre table-- had been
haranguing the company on the subject of the Rights of Man, paused
in his peroration and looked down on Pierre half afraid of that
fierce flame of passionate hate which his own words had helped
to kindle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The silence, however, had only lasted a few
moments, the next Pierre was on his feet, and a cry like that
of a bull in a slaughter-house escaped his throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'In the name of God!' he shouted, 'let us cease
all that senseless talking. Haven't we planned enough and talked
enough to satisfy our puling consciences? The time has come to
strike, mes amis, to strike I say, to strike at those cursed aristocrats,
who have made us what we are-- ignorant, wretched, downtrodden
-- senseless clods to work our fingers to the bone, our bodies
till they break so that they may wallow in their pleasures and
their luxuries! Strike, I say!' he reiterated while his eyes glowed
and his breath came and went through his throat with a hissing
sound. 'Strike! as the men and women struck in Paris on that great
day in July. To them the Bastille stood for tyranny-- and the
tyrant cowered, cringed, made terms-- he was frightened at the
wrath of the people! That is what happened in Paris! That is what
must happen in Nantes. The ch&acirc;teau of the duc de Kernogan
is our Bastille! Let us strike at it to-night, and if the arrogant
aristocrat resists, we'll raze his house to the ground. The hour,
the day, the darkness are all propitious. The arrangements hold
good. The neighbours are ready. Strike, I say!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He brought his hard fist crashing down upon
the table, so that mugs and bottles rattled: his enthusiasm had
fired all his hearers: his hatred and his lust of revenge had
done more in five minutes than all the tirades of the agitators
sent down from Paris to instil revolutionary ideas into the slow-moving
brains of village lads.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Who will give the signal?' queried one of
the older men quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I will!' came in lusty response from Pierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He strode to the door, and all the men jumped
to their feet, ready to follow him, dragged into this hot-headed
venture by the mere force of one man's towering passion. They
followed Pierre like sheep -- sheep that have momentarily become
intoxicated --sheep that have become fierce -- a strange sight
truly-- and yet one that the man in the tattered coat who had
done so much speechifying lately watched with eager interest and
presently related with great wealth of detail to M. de Mirabeau
the champion of the people.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It all came about through the death of a pair
of pigeons,' he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The death of the pigeons, however, was only
the spark which set all these turbulent passions ablaze. They
had been smouldering for half a century, and had been ready to
burst into flames for the past decade.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Antoine Melun, the wheelwright, who was to
have married Louise, Pierre's sister, had trapped a pair of pigeons
in the woods of M. le duc de Kernogan. He had done it to assert
his rights as a man-- he did not want the pigeons. Though he was
a poor man, he was no poorer than hundreds of peasants for miles
around: but he paid imposts and taxes until every particle of
profit which he gleaned from his miserable little plot of land
went into the hands of the collectors, whilst M. le duc de Kernogan
paid not one sou towards the costs of the State, and he had to
live on what was left of his own rye and wheat after M. le duc's
pigeon ahd had their fill of them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon Antoine was arrested for poaching
and thieving: he was tried at Nantes under the presidency of M.
le duc de Kernogan, and ten minutes ago while the man in the tattered
coat was declaiming to a number of peasant lads in the coffee-room
of the auberge des Trois Vertus on the subject of their rights
as men and citizens, some one brought the news that Antoine Melus
had just been condemned to death and would be hanged on the morrow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was the spark which had fanned Pierre
Adet's hatred of the aristocrats to a veritable conflagration:
the news of Antoine Melun's fate was the bleat which rallied all
those human sheep around their leader. For Pierre had naturally
become their leader because his hatred of M. le duc was more tangible,
more powerful than theirs. Pierre had had more education than
they. His father, Jean Adet the miller, had sent him to a school
in Nantes, and when Pierre came home M. le cur&eacute; of Vertou
took an interest in him and taught him all he knew himself-- which
was not much-- in the way of philosophy and the classics. But
later on Pierre took to reading and writings of M. Jean-Jacques
Rousseau and soon knew the<I> Contrat Social </I>almost by heart.
He had also read the articles in M. Marat's newspaper <I>L'ami
du Peuple!</I> and like Antoine Melun, the wheelwright, he had
got it into his head that it was not God, nor yet Nature who had
intended one man to starve while another gorged himself on all
the good things of this world.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He did not, however, speak of these matters,
either to his father or to his sister or to M. le cur&eacute;,
but he brooded over them, and when the price of bread rose to
four sous he muttered curses against M. le duc de Kernogan, and
when famine prices ruled throughout the district those curses
became overt themes; and by the time that the pinch of hunger
was felt in Vertou Pierre's passion of fury against the duc de
Kernogan had turned to a frenzy of hate against the entire noblesse
of France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Still he said nothing to his father, nothing
to his mother and sister. But his father knew. Old Jean would
watch the storm-clouds which gathered on Pierre's lowering brow;
he heard the muttered curses which escaped from Pierre's lips
whilst he worked for the liege-lord whom he hated. But Jean was
a wise man and knew how useless it is to put out a feeble hand
in order to stem the onrush of a torrent. He knew how useless
are the words of wisdom from an old man to quell the rebellious
spirit of the young.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jean was on the watch. And evening after evening
when the work on the farm was done, Pierre would sit in the small
low room of the auberge with other lads from the village talking,
talking of their wrongs, of the arrogance of the aristocrats,
the sins of M. le duc and his family, the evil conduct of the
King and the immorality of the Queen: and men in ragged coats
and tattered breeches came in from Nantes, and even from Paris,
in order to harangue these village lads and told them yet further
tales of innumerable wrongs suffered by the people at the hands
of the aristos, and stuffed their heads full of schemes for getting
even once and for all with those men and women who fattened on
the sweat of the poor and drew their luxury from the hunger and
the toil of the peasantry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pierre sucked in these harangues through every
pore: they were meat and drink to him. His hate and passions fed
upon these effusions till his whole being was consumed by a maddening
desire for reprisals, for vengeance-- for the lust of triumph
over those whom he had been taught to fear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And in the low, narrow room of the auberge
the fevered heads of village lads were bent together in conclave,
and the ravings and shoutings of a while ago were changed to whisperings
and low murmurings behind barred doors and shuttered windows.
Men exchanged cryptic greetings when they met in the village street,
enigmatical signs passed between them while they worked: strangers
came and went at dead of night to and from the neighbouring villages.
M. le duc's overseers saw nothing, heard nothing, guessed nothing.
M. le cur&eacute; saw much and old Jean Adet guessed a great deal,
but they said nothing, for nothing then would have availed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then came the catastrophe.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pierre pushed open the outer door of the auberge
des Trois Vertus and stepped out under the porch. A gust of wind
caught him in the face. The night, so the chronicles of the time
tell us, was as dark as pitch: on ahead lay the lights of the
city flickering in the gale: to the left the wide tawny ribbon
of the river wound its turbulent course toward the ocean, the
booming of the waters swollen by the recent melting of the snows
sounded like the weird echoes of invisible cannons far away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Without hesitation Pierre advanced. His little
troop followed him in silence. They were a little sobered now
that they came out into the open and that the fumes of cider and
of hot, perspiring humanity no longer obscurred their vision or
inflamed their brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They knew whither Pierre was going. It had
all been pre-arranged --throughout this past summer, in the musty
parlour of the auberge, behind barred doors and shuttered windows--
all they had to do was to follow Pierre, whom they had tacitly
chosen as their leader. They walked on behind him, their hands
buried in the pockets of their thin, tattered breeches, their
heads bent forward against the fury of the gale.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pierre made straight for the mill- his home-
where his father lived and where Louise was even now crying her
eyes out because Antoine Melun, her sweetheart, had been condemned
to be hanged for killing two pigeons.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the back of the mill was the dwelling house
and beyond it a small farmery, for Jean Adet owned a little bit
of land and would have been fairly well off if the taxes had not
swallowed up all the money that he made out of the sale of his
rye and his hay. Just here the ground rose sharply to a little
hillock which dominated the flat valley of the Loire and commanded
a fine view over the more distant villages.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pierre skirted the mill and without looking
round to see if the others followed him he struck squarely to
the right up a narrow lane bordered by tall poplars, and which
led upwards to the summit of the little hillock around which clustered
the tumble-down barns of his father's farmery.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The gale lashed the straight, tall stems of
the poplars until they bent nearly double, and each tiny bare
twig sighed and whispered as if in pain. Pierre strode on and
the others followed in silence. They were chilled to the bone
under their scanty clothes, but they followed on with grim determination,
set teeth, and anger and hate seething in their hearts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The top of the rising ground was reached. It
was pitch dark, and the men when they halted fell up against one
another trying to get a foothold on the sodden ground. But Pierre
seemed to have eyes like a cat. He only paused one moment to get
his bearings, then --still without a word-- he set to work. A
large barn and a group of small circular straw ricks loomed like
solid masses out of the darkness - black, silhouetted against
the black of the stormy sky. Pierre turned toward the barn: those
of his comrades who were in the forefront of the small crowd saw
him disappearing inside one of those solid shadowy masses that
looked so ghostlike in the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Anon those who watched and who happened to
be facing the interior of the barn saw sparks from a tinder flying
in every direction: the next moment they could see in every direction:
the next moment they could see Pierre himself quite clearly. He
was standing in the middle of the barn and intent on lighting
a roughly-fashioned torch with his tinder: soon the resin caught
a spark and Pierre held the torch inclined toward the ground so
that the flames could lick their way up the shaft. The flickering
light cast a weird glow and deep grotesque shadows upon the face
and figure of the young man. His hair, lanky and dishevelled,
fell over his eyes; his mouth and jaw, illumined from below by
the torch, looked unnaturally large, and showed his teeth gleaming
white, like the fangs of a beast of prey. His shirt was torn open
at the neck and the sleeves of his coat were rolled up to the
elbow. He seemed not to feel either the cold from without or the
scorching heat of the flaming torch in his hand. But he worked
deliberately and calmly, without haste or febrile movements: grim
determination held his excitement in check.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At last his work was done. The men who had
pressed forward, in order to watch him, fell back as he advanced
torch in hand. They knew exactly what he was going to do, they
had thought it all out, planned it, spoken of it till even their
unimaginative minds had visualized this coming scene with absolutely
realistic perception. And yet now that the supreme hour had come,
now that they saw Pierre -- torch in hand-- prepared to give the
signal which would set ablaze the seething revolt of the country-side,
their heart seemed to stop its beating within their body; they
held their breath, their toil-worn hands went up to their throats
as if to repress that awful choking sensation which was so like
fear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Pierre had no such hesitations; if his
breath seemed to choke him as it reached his throat, if it escaped
through his set teeth with a strange whistling sound, it was because
his excitement was that of a hungry beast who has sighted his
prey and is ready to spring and devour. His hand did not shake,
his step was firm: the gusts of wind caught the flame of his torch
till the sparks flew in every direction and scorched his hair
and his hands, and while the others recoiled he strode on, to
the straw-rick that was nearest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For one moment he held the torch aloft. There
was triumph now in his eyes, in his whole attitude. He looked
out into the darkness far away which seemed all the more impenetrable
beyond the restricted circle of flickering torch-light. It seemed
as if he would wrest from that inky blackness all the secrets
which it hid-- all the enthusiasm, the excitement, the passions,
the hatred which he would have liked to set ablaze as he would
the straw-ricks anon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Are you ready, mes amis?' he called.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Aye! aye!' they replied-- not gaily, not lustily,
but calmly and under their breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One touch of the torch and the dry straw began
to crackle; a gust of wind caught the flame and whipped it into
energy; it crept up the side of the little rick like a glowing
python that wraps its prey in its embrace. Another gust of wind
and the flame leapt joyously up to the pinnacle of the rick, and
sent forth other tongues to lick and to lick, to enfold the straw,
to devour, to consume.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Pierre did not wait to see the consummation
of his work of destruction. Already with a few rapid strides he
had reached his father's second straw-rick and this too he set
alight, and then another and another, until six blazing furnaces
sent their lurid tongues of flames, twisting and twirling, writhing
and hissing through the stormy night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Within the space of two minutes the whole summit
of the hillock seemed to be ablaze and Pierre, like a god of fire,
torch in hand seemed to preside over and command a multitude of
ever-spreading flames to his will. Excitement had overmastered
him now, the lust to destroy was upon him, and excitement had
seized all the others too.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was shouting and cursing, and laughter
that sounded mirthless and forced, and calls to Pierre, and oaths
of revenge. Memory like an evil-intentioned witch was riding invisibily
in the darkness and she touched each seething brain with her fever-giving
wand. Every man had an outrage to remember, an injustice to recall,
and strong, brown fists were shaken aloft in the direction of
the ch&acirc;teau de Kernogan whose lights glimmered feebly in
the distance beyond the Loire.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Death to the tyrant! A la lanterne les aristos!
The people's hour has come at last! No more starvation! No more
injustice! Equality! Liberty! A mort les aristos!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The shouts, the curses, the crackling flames,
the howling of the wind, the soughing of the trees made up a confusion
of sounds which seemed hardly of this earth; the blazing ricks,
the flickering, red light of the flames had finally transformed
the little hillock behind the mill into another Brocken on whose
summit witches and devils do of a truth hold their revels.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'A moi!' shouted Pierre again, and he threw
his torch down upon the ground and once more made for the barn.
The others followed him. In the barn were such weapons as these
wretched penniless peasants had managed to collect -- scythes,
poles, axes, saws, anything that would prove useful for the destruction
of the ch&acirc;teau de Kernogan and the proposed brow-beating
of M. le duc and his family. All the men trooped in in the wake
of Pierre. The entire hillock was now a blaze of light-- lurid
and red and flickering-- alternately teased and fanned and subdued
by the gale, so that at times every object stood out clearly cut,
every blade of grass, every stone in bold relief, and in the ruts
and fissures, every tiny pool of muddy water shimmered like strings
of fire-opals: whilst at others a pall of inky darkness, smoke-laden
and impenetrable would lie over the ground and erase the outline
of farm-buildings and distant mill and of the pushing and struggling
mass of humanity inside the barn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Pierre, heedless of light and darkness,
of heat or of cold, proceeded quietly and methodically to distribute
the primitive implements of warfare to this crowd of ignorant
men who were by now over ready for mischief: and with every weapon
which he placed in willing hands he found the right words for
willing ears-- words which would kindle passion and lust of vengeance
most readily where they lay dormant, or would fan them into greater
vigour where they smouldered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'For thee this scythe, Hector Lebrun,' he would
say to a tall, lanky youth whose emaciated arms and bony hands
were stretched with longing toward the bright piece of steel;
'remember last year's harvest, the heavy tax thou wert forced
to pay, so that not one sou of profit went into thy pocket, and
thy mother starved whilst M. le duc and his brood feasted and
danced and shiploads of corn were sunk in the Loire lest abundance
made bread too cheap for the poor!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'For thee this pick-axe, Henri Meunier! Remember
the new roof on thy hut, which thou didst build to keep the wet
off thy wife's bed who was crippled with ague --and the heavy
impost levied on thee by the tax-collector for this improvement
to thy miserable hovel.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'This pole for thee, Charles Blanc! Remember
the beating administered to thee by the duc's bailiff for daring
to keep a tame rabbit to amuse thy children!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Remember! Remember, mes amis!' he added exultantly,
'remember every wrong you have endured, every injustice, every
blow! remember your poverty and his wealth, your crusts of dry
bread and his succulent meals, your rags and his silks and velvets,
remember your starving children and ailing mother, your care-laden
wife and toil-worn daughters! Forget nothing, mes amis, to-night,
and at the gates of the ch&acirc;teau de Kernogan demand of its
arrogant owner wrong for wrong and outrage for outrage.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A deafening cry of triumph greeted this peroration,
scythes and sickles and axes and poles were brandished in the
air and several scores of hands were stretched out to Pierre and
clasped in this newly-found bond of vengeful fraternity.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then it was that with vigorous play of the
elbows Jean Adet, the miller, forced his way through the crowd
till he stood face to face with his son.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Unfortunate!' he cried, 'what is all this?
What dost thou propose to do? Whither are ye all going?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'To Kernogan!' they all shouted in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'En avant, Pierre! we follow!' cried some of
them impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Jean Adet --who was a powerful man despite
his years-- had seized Pierre by the arm and dragged him to a
distant corner of the barn:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pierre!' he said in tones of command, 'I forbid
thee in the name of thy duty and the obedience which thou dost
owe to me and to thy mother, to move another step in this hot-headed
adventure. I was on the high-road, walking homewards, when that
conflagration and the senseless cries of these poor lads warned
me that some awful mischief was afoot. Pierre! my son! I command
thee to lay that weapon down.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Pierre -- who in his normal state was a
dutiful son and sincerely fond of his father -- shook himself
free from Jean Adet's grasp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Father!' he said loudly and firmly, 'this
is no time for interference. We are all of us men here and know
our own minds. What we mean to do to-night we have thought on
and planned for weeks and months. I pray you, father, let me be!
I am not a child and I have work to do.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not a child?' exclaimed the old man as he
turned appealingly to the lads who had stood by, silent and sullen
during this little scene. 'Not a child? But you are all only children,
my lads. You don't know what you are doing. You don't know what
terrible consequences this mad escapade will bring upon us all,
upon the whole village, aye! and the country-side. Do you suppose
for one moment that the ch&acirc;teau of Kernogan will fall at
the mercy of a few ignorant unarmed lads like yourselves? Why!
four hundred of you would not succeed in forcing your way even
as far as the courtyard of the palace. M. le duc has had wind
for some time of your turbulent meetings at the auberge: he has
kept an armed guard inside his castle yard for weeks past, a company
of artillery with two guns hoisted upon his walls. My poor lads!
you are running straight to ruin! Go home, I beg of you! Forget
this night's escapade! Nothing but misery to you and yours can
result from it.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They listened quietly, if surlily, to Jean
Adet's impassioned words. Far be it from their thoughts to flout
or to mock him. Paternal authority commanded respect even among
the most rough; but they all felt that they had gone too far now
to draw back: the savour of anticipated revenge had been too sweet
to be forgone quite so readily, and Pierre with his vigorous personality,
his glowing eloquence, his compelling power had more influence
over them than the sober counsels of prudence and the wise admonitions
of old Jean Adet. Not one word was spoken, but with an instinctive
gesture every man grasped his weapon more firmly and then turned
to Pierre, thus electing him their spokesman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pierre too had listened in silence to all that
his father said, striving to hide the burning anxiety which was
gnawing at his heart, lest his comrades allowed themselves to
be persuaded by the old man's counsels and their ardour be cooled
by the wise dictates of prudence. But when Jean Adet had finished
speaking and Pierre saw each man thus grasping his weapon all
the more firmly and in silence, a cry of triumph escaped his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It is all in vain, father,' he cried, 'our
minds are made up. A host of angels from heaven would not bar
our way now to victory and to vengeance.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pierre!' admonished the old man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It is too late, my father,' said Pierre firmly,
'en avant, lads!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes! en avant! en avant!' assented some, 'we
have wasted too much time as it is.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But, unfortunate lads,' admonished the old
man, 'what are you going to do?-- a handful of you-- where are
you going?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'We go straight to the cross-roads, now, father,'
said Pierre firmly. 'The firing of your ricks --for which I humbly
crave your pardon-- is the preconcerted signal which will bring
the lads from all the neighbouring villages -- from Goulaine and
les Sorini&egrave;res and Doulon and Tourne-Bride -- to our meeting
place. Never you fear! There will be more than four hundred of
us and a company of paid soldiers is not like to frighten us.
Eh, lads?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No! no! en avant!' they shouted and murmured
impatiently, 'there has been too much talking already and we have
wasted precious time.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pierre!' entreated the miller.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But no one listened to the old man now. A general
movement down the hillock had already begun and Pierre turning
his back on his father had pushed his way to the front of the
crowd and was now leading the way down the slope. Up on the summit
the fire was already burning low: only from time to time an imprisoned
tongue of flame would dart out of the dying embers and leap fitfully
up into the night. A dull red glow illumined the small farmery
and the mill and the slowly moving mass of men along the narrow
road, whilst clouds of black, dense smoke were tossed about by
the gale. Pierre walked with head erect. He ceased to think of
his father and he never looked back to see if the others followed
him. He knew that they did: like the straw-ricks a while ago,
they had become the prey of a consuming fire: the fire of their
own passion which had caught them and held them and would not
leave them now until their ardour was consumed in victory or defeat.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">M. le duc de Kernogan had just finished dinner
when Jacques Labruni&egrave;re his head-bailiff came to him with
the news that a rabble crowd composed of the peasantry of Goulaine
and Vertou and the neighbouring villages had assembled at the
cross-roads, there held revolutionary speeches, and was even now
marching toward the castle still shouting and singing and brandishing
of miscellaneous collection of weapons chiefly consisting the
scythes and axes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The guard is under arms, I imagine,' was M.
le duc's comment on this not altogether unforeseen piece of news.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Everything is in perfect order,' replied the
head-bailiff coolly, 'for the defence of M. le duc and his property
--and of Mademoiselle.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">M. le duc who had been lounging in one of the
big armchairs in the stately hall of Kernogan jumped to his feet
at these words: his cheeks suddenly pallid, and a look of deadly
fear in his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Mademoiselle,' he said hurriedly, 'by G-d,
Labruni&egrave;re, I had forgotten -- momentarily--'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'M. le duc?' stammered the bailiff in anxious
inquiry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Mademoiselle de Kernogan is on her way home--
even now-- she spent the day with Mme. la Marquise d'Herbignac--
she was to return at about eight o'clock. . . . If those devils
meet her carriage on the road. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'There is no cause for anxiety, M. le duc,'
broke in Labruni&egrave;re hurriedly. 'I will see that half a
dozen men get to horse at once and go and meet Mademoiselle adn
escort her home. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes,. . yes . . . Labruni&egrave;re,' murmured
the duc, who seemed very much overcome with terror now that his
daughter's safety was in jeopardy, 'see to it at once. Quick!
quick! I shall wax crazy with anxiety.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While Labruni&egrave;re ran to make the necessary
arrangements for an efficient escort for Mademoiselle de Kernogan
and gave the sergeant in charge of the posse the necessary directions,
M. le duc remained motionless, huddled up in the capacious armchair,
his head buried in his hand, shivering in front of the huge fire
which burned in the monumental hearth, himself the prey of nameless,
overwhelming terror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He knew--none better-- the appalling hatred
wherewith he and all his family and belongings were regarded by
the local peasantry. Astride upon his manifold rights -- feudal,
territorial, seignorial rights-- he had all his life ridden roughshod
over the prejudices, the miseries, the undoubted rights of the
poor people, who were little better than serfs in the possession
of the high and mighty duc de Kernogan. He also knew -- none better--
that gradually, very gradually it is true, but with unerring certainty,
those same down-trodden, ignorant, miserable and half-starved
peasants were turning against their oppressors, that riots and
outrages had occurred in many rural districts in the North and
that the insidious poison of social revolution was gradually creeping
toward the south and West, and had already infected the villages
and small townships which were situated quite unpleasantly close
to Nantes and to Kernogan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For this reason he had kept a company of artillery
at his own expense inside the precincts of his ch&acirc;teau,
and with the aristocrat's open contempt for his peasantry which
it had not yet learned to fear, he had disdained to take further
measures for the repression of local gatherings, and would not
pay the village rabble the compliment of being afraid of them
in any way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But with his daughter Yvonne in the open roadway
on the very night when an assembly of that same rabble was obviously
bent on mischief, matters became very serious. Insult, outrage
or worse might befall the proud aristocrat's only child, and knowing
that from these people, whom she had been taught to look upon
as little better than beasts, she could expect neither mercy nor
chivalry, the duc de Kernogan within his unassailable castle felt
for his daughter's safety the most abject, the most deadly fear
which hath ever unnerved any man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Labruni&egrave;re a few minutes later did his
best to reassure his master.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I have ordered the men to take the best horses
out of the stables, M. le duc,' he said, 'and to cut across the
fields toward la Gramoire so as to intercept Mademoiselle's coach
ere it reach the cross-roads. I feel confident that there is no
cause for alarm,' he added emphatically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pray God you are right, Labruni&egrave;re,'
murmured the duc feebly. 'Do you know how strong the rabble crowd
is?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, Monseigneur, not exactly. Camille the
under-bailiff, who brought me the news, was riding homewards across
the meadows about an hour ago when he saw a huge conflagration
which seemed to come from the back of Adet's mill: the whole sky
has been lit up by a lurid light for the past hour, and I fancied
myself that Adet's staw must be on fire. But Camille pushed his
horse up the rising ground which culminates at Adet's farmery.
It seems that he heard a great deal of shouting which did not
seem to be accompanied by any attempt at putting out the fire.
So he dismounted and led his horse round the hillock skirting
Adet's farm buildings so that he should not be seen. Under cover
of darkness he heard and saw the old miller with his son Pierre
engaged in distributing scythes, poles and axes to a crowd of
youngsters and haranguing them wildly all the time. He also heard
Pierre Adet speak of the conflagration as a perconcerted signal,
and say that he and his mates would meet the lads of the neighbouring
villages at the cross-roads. . . and that four hundred of them
would then march on Kernogan and pillage the castle.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Bah!' quoth M. le duc in a voice hoarse with
execration and contempt, 'a lot of oafs who will give the hangman
plenty of trouble to-morrow. As for that Adet and his son, they
shall suffer for this . . . I can promise them that . . If only
Mademoiselle were home!' he added with a heartrending sigh.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, had M. le duc de Kernogan been gifted
with second sight, the agony of mind which he was enduring would
have been aggravated an hundredfold. At the very moment when the
head-bailiff was doing his best to reassure his liege-lord as
to the safety of Mlle. de Kernogan, her coach was speeding along
from the ch&acirc;teau of Herbignac toward those same cross-roads
where a couple of hundred hot-headed peasant lads were planning
as much mischief as their uniimaginative minds could conceive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The fury of the gale had in no way abated,
and now a heavy rain was falling -- a drenching, sopping rain
which in the space of half an hour had added five centimetres
to the depth of hte mud on the roads, and had in that same space
of time considerably damped the enthusiasm of some of the poor
lads. Three score or so had assembled from Goulaine, two score
from les Sorini&egrave;res, some three dozen from Doulon: they
had rallied to the signal in hot haste, gathered their scythes
and spades, very eager and excited, and had reached the cross-roads
which were much nearer to their respective villages than to Jean
Adet's farm and the mill, even while the old man was admonishing
his son and the lads of Vertou on the summit of the blazing hillock.
Here they had spent half an hour in cooling their heels and their
tempers under the drenching rain --wet to the skin-- fuming and
fretting at the delay.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But even so- -- damped in ardour and chilled
to the marrow-- they were still a dangerous crowd and prudence
ought to have dictated to Mademoiselle de Kernogan the wiser course
of ordering her coachman Jean-Marie to head his horses back toward
Herbignac, the moment that the outrider reported that a mob, armed
with scythes, spades and axes, held the cross-roads and that it
would be dangerous for the coach to advance any further.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already for the past few minutes the sound
of loud shouting had been heard even above the tramp of the horses
and the clatter of the coach. Jean-Marie had pulled up and sent
one of the outriders on ahead to see what was amiss: the man returned
with very unpleasant tidings -- in his opinion it certainly would
be dangerous to go any further. The mob appeared bent on mischief:
he had heard threats and curses all levelled against M. le duc
de Kernogan --the conflagration up at Vertou was evidently a signal
which would bring along a crowd of malcontents from all the neighbouring
villages. He was for turning back forthwith. But Mademoiselle
put her head out of the window just then and asked what was amiss.
On hearing that Jean-Marie and the postilion and outriders were
inclined to be afraid of a mob of peasant lads who had assembled
at the cross-roads and were apparently threatening to do mischief,
she chided them for their cowardice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Jean-Marie,' she called scornfully to the
old coachman, who had been in her father's service for close on
half a century, 'do you really mean to tell me that you are afraid
of that rabble!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Why no! Mademoiselle, so please you,' replied
the old man, nettled in his pride by the taunt, 'but the temper
of the peasantry round here has been ugly of late, and 'tis your
safety I have got to guard.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">' 'Tis my commands you have got to obey,' retorted
Mademoiselle with a gay little laugh which mitigated the peremptoriness
of her tone. 'If my father should hear that there's trouble on
the road he will die of anxiety if I do not return: so whip up
the horses Jean-Marie. No one will dare to attack the coach.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But Mademoiselle --' remonstrated the old
man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ah &ccedil;&agrave;!' she broke in more impatiently,
'am I to be openly disobeyed? Best join that rabble, Jean-Marie,
if you have no respect for my commands.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus twitted by Mademoiselle's sharp tongue
Jean-Marie could not help but obey. He tried to peer into the
distance through the veil of blinding rain which beat against
his face and stung the horses to restlessness. But the light from
teh coach lanthorns prevented his seeing clearly into the darkness
beyond. Still it seemed to him that on ahead a dense and solid
mass was moving toward the coach, also that the sound of shouting
and of excited humanity was considerably nearer than it had been
before. No doubt the mob had perceived the lights of the coach
and was even now making towards it, with what intent Jean-Marie
divined all too accurately.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he had his orders, and though he was an
old and trusted servant disobedience these days was not even to
be thought of. So he did as he was bid. He whipped up his horses,
which were high-spirited and answered to the lash with a bound
and a plunge forward. Mlle. de Kernogan leaned back on the cushions
of the coach. She was satisfied that Jean-Marie had done as he
was told, and she was not in the least afraid.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But less than five minutes later she ahd a
rude awakening. The coach gave a terrific lurch. The horses reared
and plunged, there was a deafening clamour all around: men were
shouting and cursing: there was the clash of wood and iron and
the cracking of whips: the tramp of horses' hoofs in the soft
ground, and the dull thud of human bodies falling in the mud followed
by loud cries of pain. There was the sudden crash of broken glass,
the coach lanthorns had been seized and broken: it seemed to Yvonne
de Kernogan that out of the darkness faces distorted with fury
were peering at her through the window-panes. But through all
the confusion the coach kept moving on. Jean-Marie stuck to his
post as did also the postilion and the four outriders, and with
whip and tongue they urged their horses to break through the crowd
regardless of human lives, knocking and trampling down men and
lads heedless of curses and blasphemies which were hurled on them
and on the occupants of the coach, whoever they might be.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment, however, the coach came to
a sudden halt and a wild cry of triumph drowned the groans of
the injured and the dying.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Kernogan! Kernogan!' was shouted from every
side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Adet! Adet!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You limbs of Satan,' cried Jean-Marie, 'you'll
rue this night's work and weep tears of blood for the rest of
your lives. Let me tell you that! Mademoiselle is in the coach.
When M. le duc hears of this, there will be work for the hangman.
. .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Mademoiselle in the coach,' broke in a hoarse
voice with a rough tone of command. 'Let's look at her. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Aye! Aye! let's have a look at Mademoiselle,'
came with a volley of objurgations and curses from the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You devils -- you would dare?' protested Jean-Marie.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Within the coach Yvonne de Kernogan hardly
dared to breathe. She sat bolt upright, her cape held tightly
round her shoulders: her eyes -- dilated now with excitement,
if not with fear, were fixed upon the darkness beyond the window
panes. She could see nothing, but she felt the presence of that
hostile crowd who had succeeded in overpowering Jean-Marie and
were intent on doing her harm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she belonged to a caste which never reckoned
cowardice amongst its many faults. During these few moments when
she knew that her life hung on the merest thread of chance, she
neither screamed nor fainted but sat rigidly still, her heart
beating in unison with the agonizing seconds which went so fatefully
by. And even now when the carriage door was torn violently open
and even through the darkness she discerned vaguely the forms
of these avowed enemies close beside her, and anon felt a rough
hand seize her wrist, she did not move, but said quite calmly,
with hardly a tremor in her voice:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Who are you? and what do you want?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An outburst of harsh and ironical laughter
came in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Who are we, my fine lady?' said the foremost
man in the crowd, he who had seized her wrist and was half in
and half out of the coach at this moment, 'we are the men who
throughout our lives have toiled and starved whilst you and such
as you travel in fine coaches and eat your fill. What we want?
Why just the spectacle of such a fine lady as you are being knocked
down into the mud just as our wives and daughters are if they
happen to be in the way when your coach is passing. Isn't that
it, mes amis?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Aye! aye!' they replied, shouting lustily.
'Into the mud with the fine lady. Out with her, Adet. Let's have
a look at Mademoiselle how she will look with her face in the
mud. Out with her, quick!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the man who was still half in and half
out of the coach and who had hold of Mademoiselle's wrist did
not obey his mates immediately. He drew her nearer to him and
suddenly threw his rough, begrimed arms round her, and with one
hand pulled back her hood, then placing two fingers under chin,
he jerked it up till her face was level with his own.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne de Kernogan was certainly no coward,
but at the loathsome contact of this infuriated and vengeful creature,
she was overcome with such a hideous sense of fear that for the
moment consciousness almost left her: not completely alas! for
though she could not distinguish his face she could feel his hot
breath upon her cheeks, she could smell the nauseating odour of
his damp clothes and she could hear his hoarse mutterings as for
the space of a few seconds he held her thus close to him in an
embrace which to her was far more awesome than that of death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And just to punish you, my fine lady,' he
said in a whisper which sent a shudder of horror right through
her, 'to punish you for what you are, the brood of tyrants, proud,
disdainful, a budding tyrant yourself, to punish you for every
misery my mother and sister have had to endure, for every luxury
which you have enjoyed, I will kiss you on the lips and the cheeks
and just between your white throat and chin and never as long
as you live if you die this night or live to be an hundred will
you be able to wash off those kisses showered upon you by one
who hates and loathes you --a miserable peasant whom you despise
and who in your sight is lower far than your dogs.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne with eyes closed hardly breathed, but
through the veil of semi-consciousness which mercifully wrapped
her senses she could still hear those awful words, and feel the
pollution of those loathsome kisses with which -- true to his
threat --this creature --half man, wholly devil, whom she could
not see but whome she hated and feared as she would Satan himself
-- now covered her face and throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that she remembered nothing more. Consciousness
mercifully forsook her altogether. When she recovered her senses,
she was within the percincts of the castle: a confused murmur
of voices reached her ears, and her father's arms were round her.
Gradually she distinguished what was being said: she gathered
the threads of the story which Jean-Marie and the postilion and
outriders were hastily unravelling in response to M. le duc's
commands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These men of course knew nothing of the poignant
little drama which had been enacted inside the coach. All they
knew was that they had been surrounded by a rough crowd -- a hundred
or so strong-- who brandished scythes and spades, that they had
made valiant efforts to break through the crowd by whipping up
their horses, but that suddenly some of those devils more plucky
than the others seized the horses by their bits and rendered poor
Jean-Marie quite helpless. He thought then that all would be up
with the lot of them and was thinking of scrambling down from
his box in order to protect Mademoiselle with his body, and the
pistols which he had in the boot, when happily for every one concerned
he heard in the distance -- above the clatter which that abominable
rabble was making, the hurried tramp of horses. At once he jumped
to the conclusion that these could be none other than a company
of soldiers sent by M. le duc. This spurred him to a fresh effort
and gave him a new idea. To Carmail the postilion who had a pistol
in his holster he gave the peremptory order to fire a shot into
the air or into the crowd, Jean-Marie cared not which. This Carmail
did and at once the horses, already maddened by the crowd, plunged
and reared wildly, shaking themselves free. Jean-Marie, however,
had them well in hand, and from far away there came the cries
of encouragement from the advancing horsemen who were bearing
down on them full tilt. The next moment there was a general m&ecirc;l&eacute;e.
Jean-Marie saw nothing save his horses' heads, but the outriders
declared that men were trampled down like flies all around while
others vanished into the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What happened after that none of the men knew
or cared. Jean-Marie galloped his horses all the way to the castle
and never drew rein until the precincts were reached.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Had M. de Kernogan had his way and a free hand
to mete out retributive justice in the proportion that he desired,
there is no doubt that the hangman of Nantes would have been kept
exceedingly busy. As it was a number of arrests were effected
the following day -- half the manhood of the countryside was implicated
in the aborted <I>Jacquerie</I> and the city prison was not large
enough to hold it all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A court of justice presided over by M. le duc
and composed of half a dozen men who were directly or indirectly
in his employ pronounced summary sentences on the rioters which
were to have been carried out as soon as the necessary arrangements
for such wholesale executions could be made. Nantes was turned
into a city of wailing; peasant-women --mothers, sisters, daughters,
wives of the condemned, trooped from their villages into the city,
loudly calling on M. le duc for mercy, besieging the improvised
court-house, the prison gates, the town residence of M. le duc,
the palace of the bishop: they pushed their way into the courtyards
and the very corridors of those buildings -- flunkeys could not
cope with them --they fought with fists and elbows for the right
to make a direct appeal to the liege-lord who had power of life
and death over their men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The municipality of Nantes held aloof from
this distressful state of things and the town councillors, the
city functionaries and their families shut themselves up in their
houses in order to avoid being a witness to the heartrending scenes
which took place uninterruptedly round the court-house and the
prison. The mayor himself was powerless to interfere, but it is
averred that he sent a secret courier to Paris to M. de Mirabeau,
who was known to be a personal friend of his, with a detailed
account of the Jacquerie and of the terrible measures of reprisal
contemplated by M. le duc de Kernogan, together with an earnest
request that pressure from the highest possible quarters be brought
to bear upon His Grace so that he should abate something of his
vengeful rigours.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Poor King Louis, who in these days was being
terrorized by the National Assembly and swept off his feet by
the eloquence of M. de Mirabeau, was only too ready to make concessions
to the democratic spirit of the day. He also desired his noblesse
to be equally ready with such concessions. He sent a personal
letter to M. le duc, not only asking him but commanding him to
show grace and mercy to a lot of misguided peasant lads whose
loyalty and adherence -- he urged --might be won by a gracious
and unexpected act of clemency.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The King's commands could not in the nature
of things be disobeyed: the same stroke of the pen which was about
to send half a hundred young countrymen to the gallows granted
them M. le duc's gracious pardon and their liberty: the only exception
to this general amnesty being Pierre Adet, the son of the miller.
M. le duc's servants had deposed to seeing him pull open the door
of the coach and stand for some time half in and half out of the
carriaged, obviously trying to terrorize Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle
refused either to corroborate or to deny this statement, but she
had arrived fainting at the gate of the ch&acirc;teau, and she
had been very ill ever since. She had sustained a serious shock
to her nerves, so the doctor hastily summoned from Paris had averred,
and it was supposed that she had lost all recollection of the
terrible incidents of that night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But M. le duc was satisfied that it was Pierre
Adet's presence inside the coach which had brought about his daughter's
mysterious illness and that heartrending look of nameless horror
which had dwelt in her eyes ever since. Therefore with regard
to that man M. le duc remained implacable and as a concession
to a father's outraged feelings both the mayor of Nantes and the
city functionaries accepted Adet's condemnation without a murmur
of dissent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sentence of death finally passed upon Pierre,
the son of Jean Adet, miller of Vertou, could not, however, be
executed, for the simple reason that Pierre had disappeared and
that the most rigorous search instituted in the neighbourhood
and for miles around failed to bring him to justice. One of the
outriders who had been in attendance on Mademoiselle on that fateful
night declared that when Jean-Marie finally whipped up his horses
at the approach of the party of soldiers, Adet fell backwards
from the step of the carriage and was run over by the hind wheels
and instantly killed. But his body was never found among the score
or so which were left lying there in the mud of the road until
the women and old men came to seek their loved ones among the
dead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pierre Adet had disappeared. But M. le duc's
vengeance had need of a prey. The outrage which he was quite convinced
had been perpetrated against his daughter must be punished by
death -- if not by the death of the chief offender, then by that
of the one who stood nearest to him. Thus was Jean Adet the miller
dragged from his home and cast into prison. Was he not implicated
himself in the riots? Camille the bailiff had seen and heard him
among the insurgents on the hillock that night. At first it was
stated that he would be held as hostage for the reappearance of
his son. But Pierre Adet had evidently fled the countryside: he
was obviously ignorant of the terrible fate which hiw own folly
had brought upon his father. Many thought that he had gone to
seek his fortune in Paris where his talents and erudition would
ensure him a good place in the present mad rush for equality amongst
all men. Certain it is that he did not return and that with merciless
hate and vengeful relentlessness M. le duc de Kernogan had Jean
Adet hanged for a supposed crime said to be committed by his son.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jean Adet died protesting his innocence. But
the outburst of indignation and revolt aroused by this crying
injustice was swamped by the torrent of the revolution which,
gathering force by these very acts of tyranny and of injustice,
soon swept innocent and guilty alike into a vast whirlpool of
blood and shame and tears.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">Chapter One<BR>
The Moor</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Silence. Loneliness. Desolation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the darkness of late afternoon in November,
when the fog from the Bristol Channel had laid its pall upon moor
and valley and hill: the last grey glimmer of a wintry sunset
had faded in the west: earth and sky are wrapped in the gloomy
veils of oncoming night. Some little way ahead a tiny light flickers
feebly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Surely we cannot be far now.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'A little more patience, Mounzeer. Twenty minutes
and we be there.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Twenty minutes, mordieu. And I have ridden
since the morning. And you tell me it was not far.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not far, Mounzeer. But we be not 'orzemen
either of us. We doan't travel very fast.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'How can I ride fast on this heavy beast? And
in this <I>satan&eacute;</I> mud. My horse is up to his knees
in it. And I am wet --ah! wet to my skin in this <I>sacr&eacute;</I>
fog of yours.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The other made no reply. Indeed he seemed little
inclined for conversation: his whole attention appeared to be
riveted on the business of keeping in his saddle, and holding
his horse's head turned in the direction in which he wished it
to go: he was riding a yard or two ahead of his companion, and
it did not need any assurance on his part that he was no horseman:
he sat very loosely in his saddle, his broad shoulders bent, his
head thrust forward, his knees turned out, his hands clinging
alternately to the reins and to the pommel with that ludicrous
inconsequent gesture peculiar to those who are wholly unaccustomed
to horse exercise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His attitude, in fact, as well as the promiscuous
set of clothes which he wore -- a labourer's smock, a battered
high hat, threadbare corduroys and fisherman's boots -- at once
suggested the loafer, the do-nothing who hangs round the yards
of half-way houses and posting inns on the chance of earning a
few coppers by an easy job which does not entail too much exertion
on his part and which will not take him too far from his favourite
haunts. When he spoke -- which was not often-- the soft burr in
the pronunciation of the sibilants betrayed the Westcountryman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His companion, on the other hand, was obviously
a stranger: high of stature, and broadly built, his wide shoulders
and large hands and feet, his square head set upon a short thick
neck, all bespoke the physique of a labouring man, whilst his
town-made clothes -- his heavy caped coat, admirably tailored,
his buckskin breeches and boots of fine leather -- suggested,
if not absolutely the gentleman, at any rate one belonging to
the well-to-do classes. Though obviously not quite so inexperienced
in the saddle as the other man appeared to be, he did not look
very much at home in the saddle either: he held himself very rigid
and upright and squared his shoulders with a visible effort at
seeming at ease, like a townsman out for a constitutional on the
fashionable promenade of his own city, or a cavalry subaltern
but lately emerged from a riding school. He spoke English quite
fluently, even colloquially at times, but with a marked Gallic
accent.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The road along which the two cavaliers were
riding was unspeakably lonely and desolate -- an offshoot from
the main Bath to Weston road. It had been quite a good secondary
road once. The accounts of the county administration under date
1725 go to prove that it was completed in that year at considerable
expense and with stone brought over for the purpose all the way
from Draycott quarries, and for twenty years after that a coach
used to ply along it between Chelwood and Redhill as well as two
or three carriers, and of course there was all the traffic in
connexion with the Stanton markets and the Norton Fairs. But that
was night on fifty years ago now, and somehow -- once the mail
coach was discontinued -- it had never seemed worth while to keep
the road in decent repair. It had gone from bad to worse since
then, and travelling on it these days either ahorse or afoot had
become very unpleasant. It was full of ruts and crevasses and
knee-deep in mud, as the stranger had very appositely remarked,
and the stone parapet which bordered it on either side, and which
had once given it such an air of solidity and of value, was broken
down in very many places and threatened soon to disappear altogether.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The country round was as lonely and desolate
as the road. And that sense of desolation seemed to pervade the
very atmosphere right through the darkness which had descended
on upland and valley and hill. Though nothing now could be seen
through the darkness which had descended on upland and valley
and hill. Though nothing now could be seen through the gloom and
the mist, the senses were conscious that even in broad daylight
there would be nothing to see. Loneliness dwelt in the air as
well as upon the moor. There were no homesteads for miles around,
no cattle grazing, no pastures, no hedges, nothing-- just arid,
waste land with here and there a group of stunted trees or an
isolated yew, and tracts of rough, coarse grass not nearly good
enough for cattle to eat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There are vast stretches of upland equally
desolate in many parts of Europe -- notably in Northern Spain
-- but in England, where they are rare, they seem to gain an additional
air of loneliness through the very life which dulsates in their
vicinity. This bit of Somersetshire was one of them in this year
of grace 1793. Despite the proximity of Bath and its fashionable
life, its gaieties and vitality, distant only a little over twenty
miles, and of Bristol distant less than thirty, it had remained
wild and forlorn, almost savage in its grim isolation, primitive
in the grandeur of its solitude.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The road at the point now reached by the travellers
begins to slope in a gentle gradient down to the level of the
Chew, a couple of miles further on: it was midway down this slope
that the only sign of living humanity could be perceived in that
tiny light which glimmered persistently. The air itself under
its mantle of fog had become very still, only the water of some
tiny moorland stream murmured feebly in its stony bed ere it lost
its entity in the bosom of the river far away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Five more minutes and we be at th' Bottom
Inn,' quoth the man who was ahead, in response to another impatient
ejaculation from his companion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If we don't break our necks meanwhile in this
confounded darkness,' retorted the other, for his horse had just
stumbled and the inexperienced rider had been very nearly pitched
over into the mud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I be as anxious to arrive as you are, Mounzeer,'
observed the countryman laconically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I thought you knew the way,' muttered the
stranger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">' 'Ave I not brought you safely through the
darkness?' retorted the otehr; 'you was pretty well ztranded at
Chelwood Mounzeer, or I be much mistaken. Who else would 'ave
brought you out 'ere at this time o' night, I'd like to know --
and in this weather too? You wanted to get to th' Bottom Inn and
didn't know 'ow to zet about it: none o' the gaffers up to Chelwood
'peared eager to 'elp you when I come along. Well, I've brought
you to th' Bottom Inn and . . . Whoa! Whoa! my beauty! Whoa, confound
you! Whoa!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And for the next moment or two the whole of
his attention had perforce to be concentrated on the business
of sticking to his saddle whilst he brought his fagged-out, ill-conditioned
nag to a standstill.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The little glimmer of light had suddenly revealed
itself in the shape of a lanthorn hung inside the wooden porch
of a small house which had loomed out of the darkness and the
fog. It stood at an angle of the road where a narrow lane had
its beginnings ere it plunged into the moor beyond and was swallowed
up by the all-enveloping gloom. The house was small and ugly;
square like a box and built of grey stone, its front flush with
the road, its rear flanked by several small oubuildings. Above
the porch hung a plain sign-board bearing the legend: 'The Bottom
Inn' in white letters upon a black ground: to right and left of
the porch there was a window with closed shutters, and on the
floor above two more windows -- also shuttered-- completed the
architectural features of the Bottom Inn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was uncompromisingly ugly and uninviting,
for beyond the faint glimmer of the lanthorn only one or two narrow
streaks of light filtrated through the chinks of the shutters.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The travellers, after some difference of opinion
with their respective horses, contrived to pull up and to dismount
without any untoward accident. The stranger looked about him,
peering into the darkness. The place indeed appeared dismal and
inhospitable enough: its solitary aspect suggested footpads and
the abode of cut-throats. The silence of the moor, the pall of
mist and gloom that hung over upland and valley sent a shiver
through his spine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are sure this is the place?' he queried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Can't ye zee the zign?' retorted the other
gruffly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Can you hold the horses while I go in?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I doan't know as 'ow I can, Mounzeer. I've
never 'eld two 'orzes all at once. Suppose they was to start kickin'
or thought o' runnin' away.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Running away, you fool!' muttered the stranger,
whose temper had evidently suffered grievously during the weary,
cold journey from Chelwood. 'I'll break your satan&eacute; head
if anything happens to the beasts. How can I get back to Bath
save the way I came? Do you think I want to spend the night in
this God-forsaken hole?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Without waiting to hear any further protests
from the lout, he turned into the porch and with his riding whip
gave three consecutive raps against the door of the inn, followed
by two more. The next moment there was the sound of rattling of
bolts and chains, the door was cautiously opened and a timid voice
queried:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Is it Mounzeer?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pardieu! Who else?' growled the stranger.
'Open the door, woman. I am perished with cold.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With an unceremonious kick he pushed the door
further open and strode in. A woman was standing in the dimly
lighted passage. As the stranger walked in she bobbed him a respectful
curtsey.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It is all right, Mounzeer,' she said; 'the
Captain's in the coffee-room. He came over from Bristol early
this afternoon.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No one else here, I hope,' he queried curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No one, zir. It ain't their hour not yet.
You'll 'ave the 'ouse to yourself till after midnight. After that
there'll be a bustle, I reckon. Two shiploads come into Watchet
last night -- brandy and cloth, Mounzeer, so the Captain says,
and worth a mint o' money. The pack 'orzes will be through yere
in the small hours.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That's all right, then. Send me in a bite
and a mug of hot ale.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I'll see to it, Mounzeer.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And stay -- have you some sort of stabling
where the man can put the two horses up for an hour's rest?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Aye, aye, zir.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very well then, see to that too: and see that
the horses get a feed and a drink and give the man something to
eat.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very good, Mounzeer. This way, zir. I'll see
the man presently. Straight down the passage, zir. The coffee-room
is on the right. The Captain's there, waiting for ye.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She closed the front door carefully, then followed
the stranger to the door of the coffee-room. Outside an anxious
voice was heard muttering a string of inconsequent and wholly
superfluous 'Whoa's!' Of a truth the two wearied nags were only
too anxious for a little rest.<BR>
<BR>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter Two<BR>
The Bottom Inn</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A man was sitting, huddled up in the ingle-nook
of the small coffee-room, sipping hot ale from a tankard which
he had in his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Anything less suggestive of a rough sea-faring
life than his appearance it would be difficult to conceive; and
how he came by the appellation 'the Captain' must for ever remain
a mystery.  He was small and spare, with thin delicate face and
slender hands: though dressed in very rough garments, he was obviously
ill at east in them; his narrow shoulders scarcely appeared able
to bear the weight of the coarsely made coat and his thin legs
did not begin to fill the big fisherman's boots which reached
midway up his lean thighs.  His hair was lank and plentifully
sprinkled with gray: he wore it tied at the nape of the neck with
a silk bow which certainly did not harmonize with the rest of
his clothing.  A wide-brimmed felt hat something the shape of
a sailor's, but with higher crown -- of the shape worn by the
peasantry in Brittany-- lay on the bench beside him.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When the stranger entered he had greeted him
curtly, speaking in French.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The room was inexpressibly stuffy, and reeked
of the fumes of stale tobacco, stale victuals and stale beer;
but it was warm, and the stranger, stiff to the marrow and wet
to the skin, uttered an exclamation of well-being as he turned
to the hearth, wherein a bright fire burned cheerily.  He had
put his hat down when first he entered and had divested himself
of his big coat: now he held one foot and then the other to the
blaze and tried to infuse new life into his numbed hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The Captain' took scant notice of his comings
and goings.  He did not attempt to help him off with his coat,
nor did he make an effort to add another log to the fire.  He
sat silent and practically motionless, save when from time to
time he took a sip out of his mug of ale.  But whenever the new-comer
came within his immediate circle of vision he shot a glance at
the latter's elegant attire -- the well-cut coat, the striped
waistcoat, the boots of fine leather-- the glance was quick and
comprehensive and full of scorn, a flash that lasted only an instant
and was at once veiled again by the droop of the flaccid lids
which hid the pale, keen eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'When the woman has brought me something to
eat and drink,' the stranger said after a while, 'we can talk.
 I have a good hour to spare, as those miserable nags must have
some rest.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He too spoke in French and with an air of authority,
not to say arrogance, which caused 'the Captain's' glance of scorn
to light up with an added gleam of hate and almost of cruelty.
 But he made no remark and continued to sip his ale in silence,
and for the next half-hour the two men took no more notice of
one another, just as if they had never travelled all those miles
and come to this desolate spot for the sole purpose of speaking
with one another.  During the course of that half-hour the woman
brought in a dish of mutton stew, a chunk of bread, a piece of
cheese and a jug of spiced ale, and placed them on the table:
all of these good things the stranger consumed with an obviously
keen appetite.  When he had eaten and drunk his fill, he rose
from the table, drew a bench into the ingle-nook and sat down
so that his profile only was visible to his friend 'the Captain.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Now, citizen Chauvelin,' he said with an attempt
at ease and familiarity not unmixed with condescension, 'I am
ready for your news.'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had winced perceptibly both at the
condescension and the familiarity.  It was such a very little
while ago that men had trembled at a look, a word from him: his
silence had been wont to strike terror in quaking hearts.  It
was such a very little while ago that he had been president of
the Committee of Public Safety, all powerful, the right hand of
citizen Robespierre, the master sleuth-hound who could track an
unfortunate 'suspect' down to his most hidden lair, before whose
keen, pale eyes the innermost secrets of a soul stood revealed,
who guessed at treason ere it was wholly born, who scented treachery
ere it was formulated.  A year ago he had with a word sent scores
of men, women and children to the guillotine -- he had with a
sign brought the whole machinery of the ruthless Committee to
work against innocent of guilty alike on mere suspicion, or to
gratify his own hatred against all those whom he considered to
be the enemies of that bloody revolution which he had helped to
make.  Now his presence, his silence, had not even the power to
ruffle the self-assurance of an upstart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But in the hard school both of success and
of failure through which he had passed during the last decade,
there was one lesson which Armand once Marquis de Chauvelin had
learned to the last letter, and that was the lesson of self-control.
 He had winced at the other's familiarity, but neither by word
nor gesture did he betray what he felt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I can tell you,' he merely said quite curtly,
'all I have to say in far less time than it has taken you to eat
and drink, citizen Adet. . . '</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But suddenly, at sound of that name, the other
had put a warning hand on Chauvelin's arm, even as he cast a rapid,
anxious look all around the narrow room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Hush, man!' he murmured hurriedly, 'you know
quite well that that name must never be pronounced here in England.
 I am Martin-Roget now,' he added, as he shook off his momentary
fright with equal suddenness, and once more resumed his tone of
easy condescension, 'and try not to forget it.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin without any haste quietly freed his
arm from the other's grasp.  His pale face was quite expressionless,
only the thin lips were drawn tightly over the teeth now, and
a curious hissing sound escaped faintly from them as he said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I'll try and remember, citizen, that here
in England you are an aristo, the same as all these confounded
English whom may the devil sweep into a bottomless sea.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget gave a short, complacent laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ah,' he said lightly, 'no wonder you hate
them, citizen Chauvelin.  You too were an aristo here in England
once -- not so very long ago, I am thinking-- special envoy to
His Majesty King George, what? -- until failure to bring one of
these <I>satan&eacute;</I> Britishers to book made you . . . er.
. . well, made you what you are now.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He drew up his tall, broad figure as he spoke
and squared his massive shoulders as he looked down with a fatuous
smile and no small measure of scorn on the hunched-up little figure
beside him.  It had seemed to him that something in the nature
of a threat had crept into Chauvelin's attitude, and he, still
flushed with his own importance, his immeasurable belief in himself,
at once chose to measure his strength against this man who was
the personification of failure and disgrace --this man whom so
many people had feared for so long and whom it might not be wise
to defy even now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No offence meant, citizen Chauvelin,' he added
with an air of patronage which once more made the other wince.
 'I had no wish to wound your susceptibilities.  I only desired
to give you timely warning that what I do here is no one's concern,
and that I will brook interference and criticism from no man.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Chauvelin, who in the past had oft with
a nod sent a man to the guillotine, made no reply to this arrogant
taunt.  His small figure seemed to shrink still further within
itself: and anon he passed his think, claw-like hand over his
face as if to obliterate from its surface any expression which
might war with the utter humility wherewith he now spoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Nor was there any offence meant on my part,
citizen Martin-Roget,' he said suavely.  'Do we not both labour
for the same end?  The glory of the Republic and the destruction
of her foes?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget gave a sigh of satisfaction. 
The battle had been won: he felt himself strong again --stronger
than before through that very act of deference paid to him by
the once all-powerful Chauvelin.  Now he was quite prepared to
be condescending and jovial once again:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Of course, of course,' he said pleasantly,
as he once more bent his tall figure to the fire.  'We are both
servants of the Republic, and I may yet help you to retrieve your
past failures, citizen, by giving you an active part in the work
I have in hand.  And now,' he added in a calm, business-like manner,
the manner of a master addressing a servant who has been found
at fault and is taken into favour again, 'let me hear your news.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I have made all the arrangements about the
ship,' said Chauvelin quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ah! that is good news indeed.  What is she?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'She is a Dutch ship.  Her master and crew
are all Dutch. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That's a pity.  A Danish master and crew would
have been safer.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I could not come across any Danish ship willing
to take the risks,' said Chauvelin dryly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well!  And what about this Dutch ship then?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'She is called the <I>Hollandia</I> and is
habitually engaged in the sugar trade: but her master does a lot
of contraband --more that than fair trading, I imagine: anyway,
he is willing for the sum you originally named to take every risk
and incidentally to hold his tongue about the whole business.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'For two thousand francs?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And he will run the<I> Hollandia</I> into
Le Croisic?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'When you command.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And there is suitable accommodation on board
her for a lady and her woman?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I don't know what you call suitable,' said
Chauvelin with a sarcastic tone, which the other failed or was
unwilling to note, 'and I don't know what you call a lady.  The
accommodation available on board the <I>Hollandia</I> will be
sufficient for two men and two women.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And her master's name?' queried Martin-Roget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Some outlandish Dutch name,' replied Chauvelin.
 'It is spelt K U Y P E R.  The devil only knows how it is pronounced.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well!  And does Captain K U Y P E R understand
exactly what I want?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He says he does.  The Hollandia will put into
Portishead on the last day of this month.  You and your guests
can get aboard her any day after that you choose.  She will be
there at your disposal, and can start within an hour of your getting
aboard.  Her master will have all his papers ready.  He will have
a cargo of West Indian sugar on board -- destination Amsterdam,
consignee Mynheer van Smeer-- everything perfectly straight and
square.  French aristos, &eacute;migr&eacute;s on board on their
way to join the army of the Princes.  There will be on difficulty
in England.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And none in Le Croisic.  The man is running
no risks.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He thinks he is.  France does not make Dutch
ships and Dutch crews exactly welcome just now, does she?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Certainly not.  But in Le Croisic and with
citizen Adet on board. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I thought that name was not to be mentioned
here,' retorted Chauvelin dryly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are right, citizen,' whispered the other,
'it escaped me and . . .' </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already he had jumped to his feet: his face
suddenly pale, his whole manner changed from easy, arrogant self-assurance
to uncertainty and obvious dread.  He moved to the window, trying
to subdue the sound of his footsteps upon the uneven floor.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Are you afraid of eavesdroppers, citizen Roget?'
queried Chauvelin with a shrug of his narrow shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No.  There is no one there.  Only a lout from
Chelwood who brought me here.  The people of the house are safe
enough.  They have plenty of secrets of their own to keep.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was obviously saying all this in order to
reassure himself, for there was no doubt that his fears were on
the alert.  With a febrile gesture he unfastened the shutters,
and pushed them open, peering out into the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Hallo!' he called.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he received no answer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It has started to rain,' he said more calmly.
 'I imagine that lout has found shelter in an outhouse with the
horses.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very likely,' commented Chauvelin laconically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then if you have nothing more to tell me,'
quoth Martin-Roget, 'I may as well think about getting back. 
Rain or no rain, I want to be in Bath before midnight.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ball or supper-party at one of your duchesses?'
queried the other with a sneer.  'I know them.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this Martin-Roget vouchsafed no reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'How are things at Nantes?' he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Splendid!  Carrier is like a wild beast let
loose.  The prisons are over-full: the surplus of accused, condemned
and suspect fills the cellars and warehouses along the wharf.
 Priests and such like trash are kept on disused galliots up stream.
 The guillotine is never idle, and friend Carrier fearing that
she might give out --get tired, what?-- or break down-- has invented
a wonderful way of getting rid of shoals of undesirable people
at one magnificent swoop.  You have heard tell of it no doubt.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes.  I have heard of it,' remarked the other
curtly.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He began with a load of priests.  Requisitioned
an old barge.  Ordered Baudet the shipbuilder to construct half
a dozen portholes in her bottom.  Baudet demurred: he could not
understand what the order could possibly mean.  But Foucaud and
Lamberty --Carrier's agents -- you know them-- explained that
the barge would be towed down the Loire and then up one of the
smaller navigable streams which it was feared the royalists were
preparing to use as a way for making a descent upon Nantes, and
that the idea was to sink the barge in midstream in order to obstruct
the passage of their army.  Baudet, satisfied, put five of his
men to the task.  Everything was ready on the 16th of last month.
 I know the woman Pichot, who keeps a small tavern opposite La
S&eacute;cherie.  She saw the barge glide up the river toward
the galliot where twenty-five priests of the diocese of Nantes
had been living for the past two months in the company of rats
and other vermin as noxious as themselves.  Most lovely moonlight
there was that night.  The Loire looked like a living ribbon of
silver.  Foucaud and Lamberty directed operations, and Carrier
had given them full instructions.  They tied the calotins up two
and two and and transferred them from the galliot to the barge.
 It seems they were quite pleased to go.  Had enough of the rats,
I presume.  The only thing they didn't like was being searched.
 Some had managed to screte silver ornaments about their person
when they were arrested.  Crucifixes and such like.  They didn't
like to part with these, it seems.  But Foucaud and Lamberty relieved
them of everything but the necessary clothing, and they didn't
want much of that seeing whither they were going.  Foucaud made
a good pile, so they say.  Self-seeking, avaricious brute!  He'll
learn the way to one of Carrier's barges too one day, I'll bet.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He rose and with quick footsteps moved to the
table.  There was some ale left in the jug which the woman had
brought for Martin-Roget a while ago.  Chauvelin poured the contents
of it down his throat.  He had talked uninterruptedly, in short,
jerky sentences, without the slightest expression of horror at
the atrocities which he recounted.  His whole appearance had become
transfigured while he spoke.  Gone was the urbane manner which
he had learnt at courts long ago, gone was the last instinct of
the gentleman sunk to proletarianism through stress of circumstances,
or financial straits or even political convictions.  The erstwhile
Marquis de Chauvelin -- envoy of the Republic at the Court of
St. James' -- had become citizen Chauvelin in deed and in fact,
a part of that rabble which he had elected to serve, one of that
vile crowd of bloodthirsty revolutionaries who had sullied the
pure robes of Liberty and of Fraternity by spattering them with
blood.  Now he smacked his lips, wiped his mouth with his sleeve,
and burying his hands in the pockets of his breeches he stood
with legs wide apart and a look of savage satisfaction settled
upon his pale face.  Martin-Roget had made no comment upon the
narrative.  He had resumed his seat by the fire and was listening
attentively.  Now while the other drank and paused, he showed
no sign of impatience, but there was something in the look of
the bent shoulders, in the rigidity of the attitude, in the large,
square hands tightly clasped together which suggested the deepest
interest and an intentness that was almost painful.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I was at the woman Pichot's tavern that night,'
resumed Chauvelin after a while.  'I saw the barge-- a moving
coffin, what?-- gliding down stream towed by the galliot and escorted
by a small boat.  The floating battery at La Samaritaine challenged
her as she passed, for Carrier had prohibited all navigation up
or down the Loire until further notice.  Foucaud, Lamberty, Fouquet
and O'Sullivan the armourer were in the boat: they rowed up to
the pontoon and Vailly the chief gunner of the battery challenged
them once more.  However, they had some sort of written authorization
from Carrier, for they were allowed to pass.  Vailly remained
on guard.  He saw the barge glide further down stream.  It seems
that the moon at the time was hidden by a cloud.  But the night
was not dark and Vailly watched the barge till she was out of
sight.  She was towed past Trentemoult and Chantenay into the
wide reach of the river just below Chevir&eacute; where, as you
know, the Loire is nearly two thousand feet wide.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more he paused, looking down with grim
amusement on the bent shoulders of the other man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin laughed.  The query sounded choked
and hoarse, whether through horror, excitement or mere impatient
curiosity it were impossible to say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well!' he retorted with a careless shrug of
the shoulders.  'I was too far up stream to see anything and Vailly
saw nothing either.  But he heard.  So did others who happened
to be on the shore close by.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What did they hear?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The hammering,' replied Chauvelin curtly,
'when the portholes were knocked open to let in the flood of water.
 And the screams and yells of five and twenty drowning priests.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not one of them escaped, I suppose?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not one.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more Chauvelin laughed.  He had a way
of laughing -- just like that-- in a peculiar mirthless, derisive
manner, as if with joy at another man's discomfiture, at another's
material or moral downfall.  There is only one language in the
world which has a word to express that type of mirth; the word
is <I>Schadenfreude</I>.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Chauvelin's turn to triumph now.  He
had distinctly perceived the signs of an inward shudder which
had gone right through Martin-Roget's spine: he had also perceived
through the man's bent shoulders, his silence, his rigidity that
his soul was filled with horror at the story of that abominable
crime which he -- Chauvelin -- had so blandly retailed and that
he was afraid to show the horror which he felt.  And the man who
is afraid can never climb the ladder of success above the man
who is fearless.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was silence in the low raftered room
for awhile: silence only broken by the crackling and sizzling
of damp logs in the hearth, and the tap-tapping of a loosely fastened
shutter which sounded weird and ghoulish like the knocking of
ghosts against the window-frame.  Martin-Roget bending still closer
to the fire knew that Chauvelin was watching him and that Chauvelin
had triumphed, for --despite failure, despite humiliation and
disgrace -- that man's heart and will had never softened: he had
remained as merciless, as fanatical, as before and still looked
upon every sign of pity and humanity for a victim of that bloody
revolution -- which was his child, the thing of his creation,
yet worshipped by him, its creator -- as a crime against patriotism
and against the Republic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Martin-Roget fought within himself lest
something he might say or do, a look, a gesture should give the
other man an indication that the horrible account of a hideous
crime perpetrated against twenty-five defenceless men had roused
a feeling of unspeakable horror in his heart.  That was the punishment
of these callous makers of a ruthless revolution -- that was their
hell upon earth, that they were doomed to hate and to fear one
another; every man feeling that the other's hand was up against
him as it had been against law and order, against the guilty and
the innocent, the rebel and the defenceless; every man knowing
that the other was always there on the alert, ready to pounce
like a beast of prey upon any victim -- friend, comrade, brother
-- who came within reach of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Like many men stronger than himself, Pierre
Adet --or Martin-Roget as he now called himself -- had been drawn
into the vortex of bloodshed and of tyranny out of which now he
no longer had the power to extricate himself.  Nor had he any
wish to extricate himself.  He had too many past wrongs to avenge,
too much injustice on the part of Fate and Circumstance to make
good, to wish to draw back now that a newly-found power had been
placed in the hands of men such as he through the revolt of an
entire people.  The sickening sense of horror which a moment ago
had caused him to shudder and to turn away in loathing from Chauvelin
was only like the feeble flicker of a light before it wholly dies
down -- the light of something purer, early lessons of childhood,
former ideals, earlier aspirations, now smothered beneath the
passions of revenge and of hate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he would not give Chauvelin the satisfaction
of seeing him wince.  He was himself ashamed of his own weakness.
 He had deliberately thrown in his lot with these men and he was
determined not to fall a victim to their denunciations and to
their jealousies.  So now he made a great effort to pull himself
together, to bring back before his mind those memory-pictures
of past tyranny and oppression which had effectually killed all
sense of pity in his heart, and it was in a tone of perfect indifference
which gave no loophole to Chauvelin's sneers that he asked after
awhile: </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And was citizen Carrier altogether pleased
with the result of his patriotic efforts?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh, quite!' replied the other.  'He has no
one's orders to take.  He is proconsul -- virtual dictator in
Nantes: and he has vowed that he will purge the city from all
save its most deserving citizens.  The cargo of priests was followed
by one of malefactors, night-birds, cut-throats and such like.
 That is where Carrier's patriotism shines out in all its glory.
 It is not only priests and aristos, you see -- other miscreants
are treated with equal fairness.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes!  I see he is quite impartial,' remarked
Martin-Roget coolly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Quite,' retorted Chauvelin, as he once more
sat down in the ingle-nook.  And, leaning his elbows upon his
knees he looked straight and deliberately into the other man's
face, and added slowly: 'You will have no cause to complain of
Carrier's want of patriotism when you hand over your bag of birds
to him.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This time Martin-Roget had obviously winced,
and Chauvelin had the satisfaction of seeing that his thrust had
gone home: though Martin-Roget's face was in shadow, there was
something now in his whole attitude, in the clasping and unclasping
of his large, square hands which indicated that the man was labouring
under the stress of a violent emotion.  In spite of this he managed
to say quite coolly: 'What do you mean exactly by that, citizen
Chauvelin?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh!' replied the other, 'you know well enough
that I mean-- I am no fool, what? . . . or the Revolution would
have no use for me.  If after my many failures she still commands
my services and employs me to keep my eyes and ears open, it is
because she knows that she can count on me.  I do keep my eyes
and ears open, citizen Adet or Marin-Roget, whatever you like
to call yourself, and also my mind-- and I have a way of putting
two and two together to make four.  There are few people in Nantes
who do not know that old Jean Adet, the miller, was hanged four
years ago, because his son Pierre had taken part in some kind
of open revolt against the tyranny of the ci-devant duc de Kernogan,
and was not there to take his punishment himself.  I knew old
Jean Adet. . . . I was on the Place du Bouffay at Nantes when
he was hanged . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But already Martin-Roget had jumped to his
feet with a muttered blasphemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Have done, man,' he said roughly, 'have done!'
</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he started pacing up and down the narrow
room like a caged panther, snarling and showing his teeth, whilst
his rough, toil-worn hands quivered with the desire to clutch
an unseen enemy by the throat and to squeeze the life out of him.
 'Think you,' he added hoarsely, 'that I need reminding of that?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No.  I do not think that, citizen,' replied
Chauvelin calmly, 'I only desired to warn you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Warn me?  Of what?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nervous, agitated, restless, Martin-Roget had
once more gone back to his seat: his hands were trembling as he
held them up mechanically to the blaze and his face was the colour
of lead.  In contrast with his restlessness Chauvelin appeared
the more calm and bland.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Why should you wish to warn me?' asked the
other querulously, but with an attempt at his former over-bearing
manner.  'What are my affairs to you --what do you know about
them?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh, nothing, nothing, citizen Martin-Roget,'
replied Chauvelin pleasantly, 'I was only indulging the fancy
I spoke to you about just now of putting two and two together
in order to make four.  The chartering of a smuggler's craft--
aristos on board her -- her ostensible destination Holland --
her real objective Le Croisic . . . . Le Croisic is now the port
for Nantes and we don't bring aristos into Nantes these days for
the object of providing them with a feather-bed and a competence,
what?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And,' retorted Martin-Roget quietly, 'if your
surmises are correct, citizen Chauvelin, what then?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh, nothing!' replied the other indifferently.
 'Only . . . take care, citizen . . . that is all.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Take care of what?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Of the man who brought me, Chauvelin, to ruin
and disgrace.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh!  I have heard of that legend before now,'
said Martin-Roget with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
 'The man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel you mean?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Why, yes!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What have I to do with him?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I don't know.  But remember that I myself
have twice been after that man here in England; that twice he
slipped through my fingers when I thought I held him so tightly
that he could not possibly escape and that twice in consequence
I was brought to humiliation and to shame.  I am a marked man
now -- the guillotine will soon claim me for her future use. 
Your affairs, citizen, are no concern of mine, but I have marked
that Scarlet Pimpernel for mine own.  I won't have any blunderings
on your part give him yet another triumph over us all.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more Martin-Roget swore one of his favourite
oaths.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'By Satan and all his brood, man,' he cried
in a passion of fury, 'have done with this interference.  Have
done, I say.  I have nothing to do, I tell you, with your <I>satan&eacute;</I>
Scarlet Pimpernel.  My concern is with. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'With the duc de Kernogan,' broke in Chauvelin
calmly, 'and with his daughter; I know that well enough.  You
want to be even with them over the murder of your father.  I know
that too.  All that is your affair.  But beware, I tell you. 
To being with, the secrecy of your identity is absolutely essential
to the success of your plan.  What?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Of course it is.  But . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But nevertheless, your identity is known to
the most astute, the keenest enemy of the Republic.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Impossible,' asserted Martin-Roget hotly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The duc de Kernogan. . .?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Bah!  He had never the slightest suspicion
of me.  Think you his High and Mightiness in those far-off days
ever looked twice at a village lad so that he would know him again
four years later?  I came into this country as an &eacute;migr&eacute;
stowed away in a smuggler's ship like a bundle of contraband goods.
 I have papers to prove that my name is Martin-Roget and that
I am a banker from Brest.  The worthy bishop of Brest -- denounced
to the Commitee of Public Safety for treason against the Republic
-- was given his life and a safe conduct into Spain on the condition
that he gave me --Martin-Roget -- letters of personal introduction
to various high-born &eacute;migr&eacute;s in Holland, in Germany
and in England.  Armed with these I am invulnerable.  I have been
presented to His Royal Highness the Regent, and to the &eacute;lite
of English society in Bath.  I am the friend of M. le duc de Kernogan
now and the accredited suitor for his daughter's hand.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'His daughter!' broke in Chauvelin with a sneer,
and his pale, keen eyes had in them a spark of malicious mockery.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget made no immediate retort to the
sneer.  A curious hot flush had spread over his forehead and his
ears, leaving his cheeks wan and livid.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What about the daughter?' reiterated Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yvonne de Kernogan has never seen Pierre Adet
the miller's son,' replied the other curtly.  'She is now the
affianced wife of Martin-Roget the millionaire banker of Brest.
 To-night I shall persuade M. le duc to allow my marriage with
his daughter to take place within the week.  I shall plead pressing
business in Holland and my desire that my wife shall accompany
me thither.  The duke will consent and Yvonne de Kernogan will
not be consulted.  The day after my wedding I shall be on board
the <I>Hollandia</I> with my wife and father-in-law, and together
we will be on our way to Nantes where Carrier will deal with them
both.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are quite satisfied that this plan of
yours is known to no one, that no one at the present moment is
aware of the fact that Pierre Adet, the miller's son, and Martin-Roget,
banker of Brest, are one and the same?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Quite satisfied,' replied Martin-Roget emphatically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very well, then, let me tell you this, citizen,'
rejoined Chauvelin slowly and deliberately, 'that in spite of
what you say I am as convinced as that I am here, alive, that
your real identity will be known-- if it is not known already--
to a gentleman who is at this present moment in Bath, and who
is known to you, to me, to the whole of France as the Scarlet
Pimpernel.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget laughed and shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Impossible!' he retorted.  'Pierre Adet no
longer exists. . . he never existed . . much. . . Anyhow, he ceased
to be on that stormy day in September, 1789.  Unless your pet
enemy is a wizard he cannot know.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'There is nothing that my pet enemy -- as you
call him-- cannot ferret out if he has a mind to.  Beware of him,
citizen Martin-Roget.  Beware, I tell you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'How can I,' laughed the other contemptuously,
'if I don't know who he is?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If you did,' retorted Chauvelin, 'it wouldn't
help you . . . much.  But beware of every man you don't know;
beware of every stranger you meet; trust no one; above all, follow
no one.  He is there when you lease expect him under a disguise
you would scarcely dream of.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tell me who he is then-- since you know him--
so that I may duly beware of him.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No,' rejoined Chauvelin with the same slow
deliberation, 'I will not tell you who he is.  Knowledge in this
case would be a very dangerous thing.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Dangerous?  To whom?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'To yourself probably.  To me and to the Republic
most undoubtedly.  No!  I will not tell you who the Scarlet Pimpernel
is.  But take my advice, citizen Martin-Roget,' he added emphatically,
'go back to Paris or to Nantes and strive there to serve your
country rather than run your head into a noose by meddling with
things here in England, and running after your own schemes of
revenge.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'My own schemes of revenge!' exclaimed Martin-Roget
with a hoarse cry that was like a snarl. . . It seemed as if he
wanted to say something more, but that the words choked him even
before they reached his lips.  The hot flush died down from his
forehead and his face was once more the colour of lead.  He took
up a log from the corner of the hearth and threw it with a savage,
defiant gesture into the fire.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Somewhere in the house a clock struck nine.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget waited until the last echo of
the gong had died away, then he said very slowly and very quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Forgo my own schemes of revenge?  Can you
even remotely guess, citizen Chauvelin, what it would mean to
a man of my temperament and of my calibre to give up that for
which I have toiled and striven for the past four years?  Think
of what I was on that day when a conglomeration of adverse circumstances
turned our proposed expedition against the ch&acirc;teau de Kernogan
into a disaster for our village lads, and a triumph for the duc.
 I was knocked down and crushed all but to death by the wheels
of Mlle. de Kernogan's coach.  I managed to crawl in the mud and
the cold and the rain, on my hands and knees, hurt, bleeding,
half dead, as far as the presbytery of Vertou where the <I>cur&eacute;</I>
kept me hidden at risk of his own life for two days until I was
able to crawl farther away out of sight.  The <I>cur&eacute;</I>
did not know, I did not know then of the devilish revenge which
the duc de Kernogan meant to wreak against my father.  The news
reached me when it was all over and I had worked my way to Paris
with the few sous in my pocket which that good <I>cur&eacute;</I>
had given me, earning bed and bread as I went along.  I was an
ignorant lout when I arrived in Paris.  I had been one of the
ci-devant Kernogan's labourers --his chattel, what?-- little better
or somewhat worse off than a slave.  There I heard that my father
had been foully murdered -- hung for a crime which I was supposed
to have committed, for which I had not even been tried.  Then
the change in me began.  For four years I starved in a garret,
toiling like a galley-slave with my hands and muscles by day and
at my books by night.  And what am I now?  I have worked at books,
at philosophy, at science: I am a man of education.  I can talk
and discuss with the best of those d---d aristos who flaunt their
caprices and their mincing manners in the face of the outraged
democracy of two continents.  I speak English -- almost like a
native-- and Danish and German too.  I can quote English poets
and criticize M. de Voltaire.  I am an aristo, what?  For this
I have worked, citizen Chauvelin --day and night--oh! those nights!
how I have slaved to make myself what I now am!  And all for that
one object--the sole object without which existence would have
been absolutely unendurable.  That object guided me, helped me
to bear and to toil, it cheered and comforted me!  To be even
one day with the duc de Kernogan and with his daughter! to be
their master! to hold them at my mercy!. . . to destroy or pardon
as I choose! . . . to be the arbiter of their fate! . . . I have
worked for four years: now my goal is in sight, and you talk glibly
of forgoing my own schemes of revenge!  Believe me, citizen Chauvelin,'
he concluded, 'it would be easier for me to hold my right hand
into those flames until it hath burned to a cinder than to forgo
the hope of that vengeance which has eaten into my soul.  It would
hurt much less.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had spoken thus at great length, but with
extraordinary restraint.  Never once did he raise his voice or
indulge in gesture.  He spoke in even, monotonous tones, like
one who is reciting a lesson; and he sat straight in front of
the fire, his elbow on his knee, his chin resting in his hand
and his eyes fixed upon the flames.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had listened in perfect silence.
 The scorn, the resentful anger, the ill-concealed envy of the
fallen man for the successful upstart had died out of his glance.
 Martin-Roget's story, the intensity of feeling betrayed in that
absolute, outward clam had caused a chord of sympathy to vibrate
in the other's atrophied heart.  How well he understood that vibrant
passion of hate, that longing to exact an eye for an eye, an outrage
for an outrage!  Was not his own life given over now to just such
a longing? -- a mad aching desire to be even once with that hated
enemy, that maddening, mocking, elusive Scarlet Pimpernel who
had fooled and baffled him so often?</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Some few moments had gone by since Martin-Roget's
harsh, monotonous voice had ceased to echo through the low raftered
room: silence had fallen between the two men-- there was indeed
nothing more to say; the one had unburthened his overfull heart
and the other had understood.  They were of a truth made to understand
one another, and the silence between them betokened sympathy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Around them all was still, the stillness of
a mist-laden night; in the house no one stirred: the shutter even
had ceased to creak; only the crackling of the wood fire broke
that silence which soon became oppressive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget was the first to rouse himself
from this trance-like state wherein memory was holding such ruthless
sway: he brought his hands sharply down on his knees, turned to
look for a moment on his companion, gave a short laugh and finally
rose, saying briskly the while:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And now, citizen, I shall have to bid you
adieu and make my way back to Bath.  The nags have had the rest
they needed and I cannot spend the night here.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He went to the door and opening it called a
loud 'Hallo, there!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The same woman who had waited on him on his
arrival came slowly down the stairs in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The man with the horses,' commanded Martin-Roget
peremptorily.  'Tell him I'll be ready in two minutes.' </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He returned to the room and proceeded to struggle
into his heavy coat, Chauvelin as before making no attempt to
help him.  He sat once more huddled up in the ingle-nook hugging
his elbows with his thin white hands.  There was a smile half
scornful, but not wholly dissatisfied around his bloodless lips.
 When Martin-Roget was ready to go he called out quietly after
him:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The Hollandia remember!  At Portishead on
the last day of the month.  Captain K U Y P E R.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Quite right,' replied Martin-Roget laconically.
 'I'm not like to forget.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He then picked up his hat and riding whip and
went out.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Outside in the porch he found the woman bending
over the recumbent figure of his guide.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He be azleep, Mounzeer,' she said placidly,
'fast azleep, I do believe.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Asleep?' cried Martin-Roget roughly, 'we'll
soon see about waking him up.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave the man a violent kick with the toe
of his boot.  The man groaned, stretched himself, turned over
and rubbed his eyes.  The light of the swinging lanthorn showed
him the wrathful face of his employer.  He struggled to his feet
very quickly after that.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Stir yourself, man,' cried Martin-Roget savagely,
as he gripped the fellow by the shoulder and gave him a vigorous
shaking.  'Bring the horse along now, and don't keep me waiting,
or there'll be trouble.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'All right, Mounzeer, all right,' muttered
the man placidly, as he shook himself free from the uncomfortable
clutch on his shoulder and leisurely made his way out of the porch.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Haven't you got a boy or a man who can give
that lout a hand with those <I>sacr&eacute;</I> horses?' queried
Martin-Roget impatiently.  'He hardly knows a horse's head from
its tail.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, zir, I've no one to-night,' replied the
woman gently.  'My man and my son they be gone down to Watchet
to 'elp with the cargo and the pack-'orzes.  They won't be 'ere
neither till after midnight.  But,' she added more cheerfully,
'I can straighten a saddle if you want it.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That's all right then--but. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused suddenly, for a loud cry of 'Hallo!
 Well!  I'm. . .' rang through the night from the direction of
the rear of the house.  The cry expressed both surprise and dismay.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What the --- is it?' called Martin-Roget loudly
in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The 'orzes!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What about them?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this there was no reply, and with a savage
oath and calling to the woman to show him the way Martin-Roget
ran out in the direction whence had come the cry of dismay.  He
fell straight into the arms of his guide, who promptly set up
another cry, more dismal, more expressive of bewilderment than
the first.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'They be gone,' he shouted excitedly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Who have gone?' queried the Frenchman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The 'orzes!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The horses?  What in --- do you mean?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The 'orzes have gone, Mounzeer.  There was
no door to the ztables and they be gone.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You're a fool,' growled Martin-Roget, who
of a truth had not taken in as yet the full significance of the
man's jerky sentences.  'Horses don't walk out of the stables
like that.  They can't have done if you tied them up properly.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I didn't tie them up,' protested the man.
 'I didn't know 'ow to tie the beastly nags up, and there was
no one to 'elp me.  I didn't think they'd walk out like that.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well! if they're gone you'll have to go and
get them back somehow, that's all,' said Martin-Roget, whose temper
by now was beyond his control, and who was quite ready to give
the lout a furious thrashing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Get them back, Mounzeer,' wailed the man,'
'ow can I?  In the dark, too.  Besides, if I did come nose to
nose wi' 'em I shouldn't know 'ow to get 'em.  Would you, Mounzeer?'
he added with bland impertinence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I shall know how to lay you out, you <I>satan&eacute;</I>
idiot,' growled Martin-Roget, 'if I have to spend the night in
this hole.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He strode on in the darkness in the direction
where a little glimmer of light showed the entrance to a wide
barn which obviously was used as a rough stabling.  He stumbled
through a yard and over a miscellaneous lot of rubbish.  It was
hardly possible to see one's hand before one's eyes in the darkness
and the fog.  The woman followed him, offering consolation in
the shape of a seat in the coffee-room whereon to pass the night,
for indeed she had no bed to spare, and the man from Chelwood
brought up the rear -- still ejaculating cries of astonishment
rather than distress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are that careless, man!' the woman admonished
him placidly, 'and I give you a lanthorn and all for to look after
your 'orzes properly.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But you didn't give me a 'and for to tie 'em
up in their stalls, and give 'em their feed.  Drat 'em!  I 'ate
'orzes and all to do with 'em.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Didn't you give 'em the feed I give you for
'em then?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, I didn't.  Think you I'd go into one o'
them narrow stalls and get kicked for my pains.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then they was 'ungry, pore things,' she concluded,
'and went out after the 'ay what's just outside.  I don't know
'ow you'll ever get 'em back in this fog.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was indeed no doubt that the nags had
made their way out of the stables, in that irresponsible fashion
peculiar to animals, and that they had gone astray in the dark.
 There certainly was no sound in the night to denote their presence
anywhere near.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'We'll get 'em all right in the morning,' remarked
the woman with her exasperating placidity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'To-morrow morning!' exclaimed Martin-Roget
in a passion of fury.  'And what the d---l am I going to do in
the meanwhile?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman reiterated her offers of a seat by
the fire in the coffee-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The men won't mind ye, zir,' she said, 'heaps
of 'em are Frenchies like yourself, and I'll tell 'em you ain't
a spying on 'em.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It's no more than five mile to chelwood,'
said the man blandly, 'and maybe you get a better shakedown there.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'A five-mile tramp,' growled Martin-Roget,
whose wrath seemed to have spent itself before the hopelessness
of his situation, 'in the fog and gloom, and knee-deep in mud.
. . . There'll be a sovereign for you, woman,' he added curtly,
'if you can give me a clean bed for the night.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman hesitated for a second or two.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You shall 'ave my son's bed.  I know 'e'd
rather 'ave the zovereign if 'e was ever zo tired.  This way,
zir,' she added, as she once more turned toward the house, 'mind
them 'urdles there.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And where am I goin' to zleep?' called the
man from Chelwood after the two retreating figures.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I'll look after the man for you, zir,' said
the woman; 'for a matter of a shillin' 'e can sleep in the coffee-room,
and I'll give 'im 'is breakfast too.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not one farthing will I pay for the idiot,'
retorted Martin-Roget savagely.  'Let him look after himself.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had once more reached the porch.  Without
another word, and not heeding the protests and curses of the unfortunate
man whom he had left standing shelterless in the middle of the
yard, he pushed open the front door of the house and once more
found himself in the passage outside the coffee-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the woman had turned back a little before
she followed her guest into the house, and she called out to the
man in the darkness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You may zleep in any of them outhouses and
welcome, and zure there'll be a bit o' porridge for ye in the
mornin'!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Think ye I'll stop,' came in a furious growl
out of the gloom, 'and conduct that d---d frogeater back to Chelwood?
 No fear.  Five miles ain't nothin' to me, and 'e can keep the
miserable shillin' 'e'd 'ave give me for my pains.  Let 'im get
'is 'orzes back 'izelf and get to Chelwood as best 'e can.  I'm
off, and you can tell 'im zo from me.  It'll make 'im sleep all
the better, I reckon.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman was obviously not of a disposition
that would ever argue a matter of this sort out.  She had done
her best, she reckoned, both for master and man, and if they chose
to quarrel between themselves that was their business and not
hers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So she quietly went into the house again; barred
and bolted the door, and finding the stranger still waiting for
her in the passage she conducted him to a tiny room on the floor
above.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'My son's room, Mounzeer,' she said; 'I 'ope
as 'ow ye'll be comfortable.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It will do all right,' assented Martin-Roget.
 'Is &quot;the Captain&quot; sleeping in the house to-night?'
he added as with an afterthought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Only in the coffee-room, Mounzeer.  I couldn't
give 'im a bed.  &quot;The Captain&quot; will be leaving with
the pack 'orzes a couple of hours before dawn.  Shall I tell 'im
you be 'ere.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, no,' he replied promptly.  'Don't tell
him anything.  I don't want to see him again: and he'll be gone
before I'm awake, I reckon.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That 'e will, zir, most like.  Good-night,
zir.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Good-night.  And --mind--that lout gets the
two horses back again for my use in the morning.  I shall have
to make my way to Chelwood as early as may be.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Aye, aye, zir,' assented the woman placidly.
 It were no use, she thought, to upset the Mounzeer's temper once
more by telling him that his guide had decamped.  Time enough
in the morning, when she would be less busy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And my John can see 'im as far as Chelwood,'
she thought to herself, as she finally closed the door on the
stranger and made her way slowly down the creaking stairs.<!--SELECTION--></FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter Three<BR>
The Assembly Rooms</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter IV<BR>
The Father</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was close on ten o'clock now in the morning
on the following day, and M. le duc de Kernogan was at breakfast
in his lodgings in Laura Place, when a courier was announced who
was the bearer of a letter for M. le duc.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He thought the man must have been sent by Martin-Roget,
who mayhap was sick, seeing that he had not been present at the
Assembly Rooms last night, and the duc took the letter and opened
it without misgivings.  He read the address on the top of the
letter: 'Combwich Hall' -- a place unknown to him, and the first
words of the letter: 'Dear father!'  And even then he had no misgivings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In fact he had to read the letter through three
times before the full meaning of its contents had penetrated into
his brain.  Whilst he read, he sat quite still, and even the hand
which held the paper had not the slightest tremor.  When he had
finished he spoke quite quietly to his valet:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Give the courier a glass of ale, Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick,'
he said, 'and tell him he can go; there is no answer.  And --stay,'
he added, 'I want you to go round at once to M. Martin-Roget's
lodgings and ask him to come and speak with me as early as possible.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The valet left the room, and M. le duc deliberately
read through the letter from end to end for the fourth time. 
There was no doubt, no possible misapprehension.  His daughter
Yvonne de Kernogan had eloped clandestinely with my lord Anthony
Dewhurst and had been secretly married to him in the small hours
of the morning in the Protestant church of St. James, and subsequently
before a priest of her own religion in the Priory Church of St.
John the Evangelist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She apprised her father of this fact in a few
sentences which purported to be dictated by profound affection
and filial respect, but in which M. de Kernogan failed to detect
the slightest trace of contrition.  Yvonne! his Yvonne!  the sole
representative now of the old race -- eloped like a kitchen-wench!
 Yvonne! his daughter! his asset for the future!  his thing! 
his fortune!  that which he meant with perfect egoism to sacrifice
on the altar of his own beliefs and his own loyalty to the kingship
of France!  Yvonne had taken her future in her own hands!  She
knew that her hand, her person, were the purchase price of so
many millions to be poured into the coffers of the royalist cause,
and she had disposed of both, in direct defiance of her father's
will and of her duty to her King and to his cause!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne de Kernogan was false to her traditions,
false to her father! false to her King and country!  In the years
to come when the chroniclers of the time came to write the histories
of the great families that had rallied round their King in the
hour of his deadly peril, the name of Kernogan would be erased
from those glorious pages.  The Kernogans will have failed in
their duty, failed in their loyalty!  Oh! the same of it all!
 The shame!!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The duc was far too proud a gentleman to allow
his valet to see him under the stress of violent emotion, but
now that he was alone his thin, hard face-- with that air of gravity
which he had transmitted to his daughter-- became distorted with
the passio of unbridled fury; he tore the letter up into a thousand
little pieces and threw the fragments into the fire.  On the bureau
beside him there stood a miniature of Yvonne de Kernogan painted
by Hall three years ago, and framed in a circlet of brilliants.
 M. le duc's eyes casually fell upon it; he picked it up and with
a violent gesture of rage threw it on the floor and stamped upon
it with his heel, destroying in this paroxysm of silent fury a
work of art worth many hundred pounds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His daughter had deceived him.  She had also
upset all his plans whereby the army of M. le Prince de Cond&eacute;
would have been enriched by a couple of million francs.  In addition
to the shame upon her father, she had also brought disgrace upon
herself and her good name, for she was a minor and this clandestine
marriage, contracted without her father's consent, was illegal
in France, illegal everywhere: save perhaps in England -- of this
M. de Kernogan was not qutie sure, but he certainly didn't care.
 And in this solemn moment he registered a vow that never as long
as he lived would he be reconciled to that English nincompoop
who had dared to filch his daughter from him, and never -- as
long as he lived-- would he by his consent render the marriage
legal, and the children born of that wedlock legitimate in the
eyes of his country's laws.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A calm akin to apathy had followed his first
outbreak of fury.  He sat down in front of the fire, and buried
his chin in his hand.  Something of course must be done to get
his daughter back.  If only Martin-Roget were here, he would know
better how to act.  Would Martin-Roget stick to his bargain and
accept the girl for wife, now that her fame and honour had been
irretrievably tarnished?  There was the question which the next
half-hour would decide.  M. de Kernogan cast a feverish, anxious
look on the clock.  Half an hour had gone by since Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick
went to seek Martin-Roget, and the latter had not yet appeared.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Until he had seen Martin-Roget and spoken with
Martin-Roget M. de Kernogan could decide nothing.  For one brief,
mad moment, the project had formed itself in his disordered brain
to rush down to Combwich Hall and provoke that impudent Englishman
who had stolen his daughter: to kill him or be killed by him;
in either case Yvonne would then be parted from him for ever.
 But even then, the thought of Martin-Roget brought more sober
reflection.  Martin-Roget would see to it.  Martin-Roget would
know what to do.  After all, the outrage had hit the accredited
lover just as hard as the father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But why in the name of --- did Martin-Roget
not come?</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was past midday when at last Martin-Roget
knocked at the door of M. le duc's lodgings in Laura Place.  The
older man had in the meanwhile gone through every phase of overwhelming
emotions.  The outbreak of unreasoning fury -- when like a maddened
beast that bites and tears he had broken his daughter's miniature
and trampled it under foot-- had been followed by a kind of dull
apathy, when for close upon an hour he had sat staring into the
flames, trying to grapple with an awful reality which seemed to
elude him all the time.  He could not believe that this thing
had really happened: that Yvonne, his well-bred dutiful daughter,
who had shown such marvellous courage and presence of mind when
the necessity of flight and of exile had first presented itself
in the wake of the awful massacres and wholesale executions of
her own friends and kindred, that she should have eloped -- like
some flirtatious wench-- and outraged her father in this monstrous
fashion, by a clandestine marriage with a man of alien race and
of a heretical religion!  M. de Kernogan could not realize it.
 It passed the bounds of possibility.  The very flames in the
hearth seemed to dance and to mock the bare suggestion of such
an atrocious transgression.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this gloomy numbing of the senses had succeeded
the inevitable morbid restlessness: the pacing up and down the
narrow room, the furtive glances at the clock, the frequent orders
to Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick to go out and see if M. Martin-Roget
was not yet home.  For Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick had come back after
his first errand with the astounding news that M. Martin-Roget
had left his lodgings the previous day at about four o'clock,
and had not been seen or heard of since.  In fact his landlady
was very anxious about him and was sorely tempted to see the town-crier
on the subject.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Four times did Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick have
to go from Laura Place to the Bear Inn in Union Street, where
M. Martin-Roget lodged, and three times he returned with the news
that nothing had been heard of Mounzeer yet.  The fourth time
-- it was then close on midday-- he came back running --thankful
to bring back the good tidings, since he was tired of that walk
from Laura Place to the Bear Inn.  M. Martin-Roget had come home.
 He appeared very tired and in rare ill-humour: but Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick
had delivered the message from M. le duc, whereupon M. Martin-Roget
had become most affable and promised that he would come round
immediately.  In fact he was even then treading hard on Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick's
heels.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'My daughter has gone!  She left the ball clandestinely
last night, and was married to Lord Anthony Dewhurst in the small
hours of the morning.  She is now at a place called Combwich Hall
--with him!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">M. le duc de Kernogan literally threw these
words in Martin-Roget's face, the moment the latter had entered
the room, and Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick had discreetly closed the
door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What?  What?' stammered the other vaguely.
 'I don't understand.  What do you mean?' he added, bewildered
at the duc's violence, tired after his night's adventure and the
long ride in the early morning, irritable with want of sleep and
decent food.  He stared, uncomprehending, at the duc, who had
once more started pacing up and down the room, like a caged beast,
with hands tightly clenched behind his back, his eyes glowering
both at the new-comer and at the imaginary presence of his most
bitter enemy -- the man who had dared to come between him and
his projects for his daughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget passed his hand across his brow
like a man who is not yet fully awake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What do you mean?' he reiterated hazily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Just what I say,' retorted the other roughly.
 'Yvonne has eloped with that nincompoop Lord Anthony Dewhurst.
 They have gone through some sort of marriage ceremony together.
 And she writes me a letter this morning to tell me that she is
quite happy and contented and spending her honeymoon at a place
called Combwich Hall.  Honeymoon!' he repeated savagely, as if
to lash his fury up anew, 'Tsha!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget on the other hand was not the
man to allow himself to fall into a state of frenzy, which would
necessarily interfere with calm consideration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had taken the fact in now.  Yvonne's elopement
with his English rival, the clandestine marriage, everything.
 But he was not going to allow his inward rage to obscure his
vision of the future.  He did not spend the next precious seconds
-- as men of his race are wont to do -- in smashing things around
him, in raving and fuming and gesticulating.  No.  That was not
the temper M. Martin-Roget was in at this moment when Fate and
a girl's folly were ranging themselves against his plans.  His
friend, citizen Chauvelin, would have envied him his calm in the
face of this disaster.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whilst M. le duc still stormed and raved, Martin-Roget
sat down quietly in front of the fire, rested his chin in his
hand and waited for a lull in the other man's paroxysm ere he
spoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'From your attitude, M. le duc,' he then said
quietly, hiding obvious sarcasm behind a veil of studied deference,
'from your attitude I gather that your wishes with regard to Mlle.
de Kernogan have undergone no modification.  You would still honour
me by desiring that she should become my wife?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am not in the habit of changing my mind,'
said M. le duc gruffly.  He desired the marriage, he coveted Martin-Roget's
millions for the royalist cause, but he had no love for the man.
 All the pride of the Kernogans, their long line of ancestry,
rebelled against the thought of a fair descendant of this glorious
race being allied to a<I> roturier</I> -- a <I>bourgeois</I> --
a tradesman, what? and the cause of King and country counted few
greater martyrdoms than that of the duc de Kernogan whenever he
met the banker Martin-Roget on an equal social footing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then there is not much harm done,' rejoined
the latter coolly; 'the marriage is not a legal one.  It need
not even be dissolved -- Mademoiselle de Kernogan is still Mademoiselle
de Kernogan and I her humble and faithful adorer.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">M. le duc paused in his restless walk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You would . . .' he stammered, then checked
himself, turning abruptly away.  He had some difficulty in hiding
the scorn wherewith he regarded the other's coolness.  Bourgeois
blood was not to be gainsaid.  The tradesman --or banker, whatever
he was -- who hankered after an alliance with Mademoiselle de
Kernogan, and was ready to lay down a couple of million for the
privilege -- was not to be deterred from his purpose by any considerations
of pride or of honour.  M. le duc was satisfied and re-assured,
but he despised the man for his leniency for all that.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The marriage is no marriage at all according
to the laws of France,' reiterated Martin-Roget calmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, it is not,' assented the Duke roughly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a while there was silence: Martin-Roget
seemed immersed in his own thoughts and not to notice the febrile
comings and goings of the other man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What we have to do, M. le duc,' he said after
a while, 'is to induce Mlle. de Kernogan to return here immediately.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'How are you going to accomplish that?' sneered
the Duke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh! I was not suggesting that I should appear
in the matter at all,' rejoined Martin-Roget with a shrug of the
shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then how can I. . .?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Surely . . .' argued the younger man tentatively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You mean. . . .?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget nodded.  Despite these ambiguous
half-spoken sentences the two men had understood one another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'We must get her back, of course,' assented
the Duke, who had suddenly become as calm as the other man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'There is no harm done,' reiterated Martin-Roget
with slow and earnest emphasis.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon the Duke, completely pacified, drew
a chair close to the hearth and sat down, leaning his elbows on
his knees and holding his fine, aristocratic hands to the blaze.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick came in half an hour
later to ask if M. le duc would have his luncheon.  He found the
two gentlemen sitting quite close together over the dying embers
of a fire that had not been fed for close upon an hour: and that
prince of valets was gald to note that M. le duc's temper had
quite cooled down and that he was talking calmly and very affably
to M. Martin-Roget.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter Five</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter Five<BR>
The Nest</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There are lovely days in England sometimes
in November or December, days when the departing year strives
to make us forget that winter is nigh, and autumn smiles, gentle
and benignant, caressing with a still tender kiss the last leaves
of the scarlet oak which linger on the boughs, and touching up
with a vivid brush the evergreen verdure of bay trees, of ilex
and of yew.  The sky is of that pale, translucent blue which dwellers
in the South never see, with the soft transparency of an aqua-marine
as it fades into the misty horizon at midday.  And at dusk the
thrushes sing: 'Kiss me quick! kiss me quick! kiss me quick' in
the naked branches of old acacias and chestnuts, and the robins
don their crimson waistcoats and dart in and out among the coppice
and through the feathery arms of larch and pine.  And the sun
which tips the prickly points of holly leaves with gold, joins
in this merry make-believe that winter is still a very, very long
way off, and that mayhap he has lost his way altogether, and is
never coming to this balmy beautiful land again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just such a day was the penultimate one of
November, 1793, when Lady Anthony Dewhurst sat at a desk in the
wide bay window of the drawing-room in Combwich Hall, trying to
put into a letter to Lady Blakeney all that her heart would have
wished to express of love and gratitude and happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Three whole days had gone by since that exciting
night, when before the break of day in the dimly-lighted old church,
in the presence of two or three faithful friends, she had plighted
her troth to Lord Anthony: even whilst other kind friends -- including
His Royal Highness-- formed part of the little conspiracy which
kept her father occupied and, if necessary, would have kept M.
Martin-Roget out of the way.  Since then her life had been one
continuous dream of perfect bliss.  From the moment when after
the second religious ceremony in the Roman Catholic church she
found herself alone in the carriage with milor, and felt his arms
-- so strong and yet so tender-- closing round her and his lips
pressed to hers in the first masterful kiss of complete possession,
until this hour when she saw his tall, elegant figure hurrying
across the garden toward the gate and suddenly turning toward
the window whence he knew that she was watching him, every hour
and every minute had been nothing but unalloyed happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even there where she had looked for sorrow
and difficulty her path had been made smooth for her.  Her father,
who she feared would prove hard and irreconcilable had been tender
and forgiving to such an extent that tears almost of shame would
gather in her eyes whenever she thought of him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as she arrived at Combwich Hall she
had written a long and deeply affectionate letter to her father,
imploring his forgiveness for the deception and unfilial conduct
which on her part must so deeply have grieved him.  She pleaded
for her right to happiness in words of impassioned eloquence,
she pleaded for her right to love and to be loved, for her right
to a home, which a husband's devotion would make a paradise for
her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This letter she had sent by special courier
to her father and the very next day she had his reply.  She had
opened the letter with trembling fingers, fearful lest her father's
harshness should mar the perfect serenity of her life.  She was
afraid of what he would say, for she knew her father well: knew
his faults as well as his qualities, his pride, his obstinacy,
his unswerving determination and his loyalty to the King's cause
-- all of which must have been deeply outraged by his daughter's
high-handed action.  But as she began to read, astonishment, amazement
at once filled her soul: she could hardly trust her comprehension,
hardly believe that what she read could indeed be reality, and
not just the continuance of the happy dream wherein she was dwelling
these days.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her father --gently reproachful-- had not one
single harsh word to utter.  He would not, he said, at the close
of his life, after so many bitter disappointments, stand in the
way of his daughter's happiness: 'You should have trusted me,
my child,' he wrote: and indeed Yvonne could not believe her eyes.
 'I had no idea that your happiness was at stake in this marriage,
or I should never have pressed the claims of my own wishes in
the matter.  I have only you in the world left, now that misery
and exile are to be my portion!  Is it likely that I would allow
any personal desires to weigh against my love for you?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Happy as she was Yvonne cried -- cried bitterly
with remorse and shame when she read that letter.  How could she
have been so blind, so senseless as to misjudge her father so?
 Her young husband found her in tears, and had much ado to console
her: he too read the letter and was deeply touched by the kind
reference to himself contained therein: 'My lord Anthony is a
gallant gentleman,' wrote M. le duc de Kernogan, 'he will make
you happy, my child, and your old father will be more than satisfied.
 All that grieves me is that you did not trust me sooner.  A clandestine
marriage is not worthy of a daughter of the Kernogans.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I did speak most earnestly to M. le duc,'
said Lord Tony reflectively, 'when I begged him to allow me to
pay my addresses to you.  But then,' he added cheerfully, 'I am
such a clumsy lout when I have to talk at any length -- and especially
clumsy when I have to plead my own cause.  I suppose I put my
case so badly before your father, m'dear, that he thought me three
parts an idiot and would not listen to me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I too begged and entreated him, dear,' she
said with a smile, 'but he was very determined then and vowed
that I should marry M. Martin-Roget despite my tears and protestations.
 Dear father!  I suppose he didn't realize that I was in earnest.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He has certainly accepted the inevitable very
gracefully,' was my lord Tony's final comment.<BR>
</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then they read the letter through once more,
sitting close together, he with one arm round her shoulder, she
nestling against his chest, her hair brushing against his lips
and with the letter in her hands which she could scarcely read
for the tears of joy which filled her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I don't feel very well to-day,' the letter
concluded; 'the dampness and the cold have got into my bones:
moreover you two young love birds will not desire company just
yet, but to-morrow if the weather is more genial I will drive
over to Combwich in the afternoon, and perhaps you will give me
supper and a bed for the night.  Send me word by the courier who
will forthwith return to Bath if this will be agreeable to you
both.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Could anything be more adorable, more delightful?
 It was just the last drop that filled Yvonne's cup of happiness
right up to the brim.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next afternoon she sat at her desk in order
to tell Lady Blakeney all about it.  She made out a copy of her
father's letter and put that in with her own, and begged dear
Lady Blakeney to see Lady Ffoulkes forthwith and tell her all
that had happened.  She herself was expecting her father every
minute and milor Tony had gone as far as the gate to see if the
barouche was in sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Half an hour later M. de Kernogan had arrived
and his daughter lay in his arms, happy, beyond the dreams of
men.  He looked rather tired and wan and still complained that
the cold had got into his bones: evidently he was not very well
and Yvonne after the excitement of the meeting felt not a little
anxious about him.  As the evening wore on he became more and
more silent; he hardly would eat anything and soon after eight
o'clock he announced his desire to retire to bed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am not ill,' he said as he kissed his daughter
and bade her a fond 'Good-night,' 'only a little wearied . . .
with emotion no doubt.  I shall be better after a night's rest.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had been quite cordial with my lord Tony,
though not effusive, which was only natural-- he was at all times
a very reserved man, and -- unlike those of his race-- never demonstrative
in his manner: but with his daughter he had been singularly tender,
with a wistful affection which almost suggested remorse, even
though it was she who, on his arrival, had knelt down before him
and had begged for his blessing and his forgiveness.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the following morning he appeared to be
really ill: his cheeks looked sunken, almost livid, his eyes dim
and hollow.  Nevertheless he would not hear of staying on another
day or so.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, no,' he declared emphatically, 'I shall
be better in Bath.  It is more sheltered there, here the north
winds would drive me to my bed very quickly.  I shall take a course
of baths at once.  They did me a great deal of good before, you
remember, Yvonne -- in September when I caught a chill. . . they
soon put me right.  That is all that ails me now . . . I've caught
a chill.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He did his best to reassure his daughter, but
she was far from satisfied: more especially as he hardly would
touch the cup of chocolate which she had prepared for him with
her own hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I shall be quite myself again in Bath,' he
declared, 'and in a day or two when you can spare the time --
or when milor can spare you -- perhaps you will drive over to
see how the old father is getting on, eh?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Indeed,' she said firmly, 'I shall now allow
you to go to Bath alone.  If you will go, I shall accompany you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Nay!' he protested, 'that is foolishness,
my child.  The barouche will take me back quite comfortably. 
It is less than two hours' drive and I shall be quite safe and
comfortable.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You will be quite safe and comfortable in
my company,' she retorted with a tender, anxious glance at his
pale face and the nervous tremor of his hands.  'I have consulted
with my dear husband and he has given his consent that I should
accompany you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But you can't leave milor like that, my child,'
he protested once more.  'He will be lonely and miserable without
you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes.  I think he will,' she said wistfully.
 'But he will be all the happier when you are well again, and
I can return to Combwich satisfied.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon M. le duc yielded.  He kissed and
thanked his daughter and seemed even relieved at the prospect
of her company.  The barouche was ordered for eleven o'clock,
and a quarter of an hour before that time Lord Tony had his young
wife in his arms, bidding her a sad farewell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I hate your going from me, sweetheart,' he
said as he kissed her eyes, her hair, her lips.  'I cannot bear
you out of my sight even for an hour. . . let alone a couple of
days.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yet I must go, dear heart,' she retorted,
looking up with that sweet, grave smile of hers into his eager
young face.  'I could not let him travel alone. . . could I?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, no,' he assented somewhat dubiously, 'but
remember, dear heart, that you are infinitely precious and that
I shall scarce live for sheer anxiety until I have you here, safe,
once more in my arms.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I'll send you a courier this evening,' she
rejoined, as she extricated herself gently from his embrace, 'and
if I can come back to-morrow. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I'll ride over to Bath in any case in the
morning so that I may escort you back if you really can come.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I will come if I am reassured about father.
 Oh, my dear lord,' she added with a wistful little sigh, 'I knew
yesterday morning that I was too happy, and that something would
happen to mar the perfect felicity of these last few days.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are not seriously anxious about M. le
duc's health, dear heart?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No, not seriously anxious.  Farewell, milor.
 It is <I>au revoir</I> . . a few hours and we'll resume our dream.'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was nothing in all that to arouse my
lord Tony's suspicions.  All day he was miserable and forlorn
because Yvonne was not there -- but he was not suspicious.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fate had a blow in store for him, from which
he was destined never wholly to recover, but she gave him no warning,
no premonition.  He spent the day in making up arrears of correspondence,
for he had a large private fortune to administer -- trust funds
on behalf of brothers and sisters who were minors -- and he always
did it conscientiously and to the best of his ability.  The last
few days he had lived in a dream and there was an accumulation
of business to go through.  In the evening he expected the promised
courier, who did not arrive: but his was not the sort of disposition
that would fret and fume because of a contretemps which might
be attributable to the weather -- it had rained heavily since
afternoon-- or to sundry trifling causes which he at Combwich,
ten or a dozen miles from Bath, could not estimate.  He had no
suspicions even then.  How could he have?  How could he guess?
 Nevertheless when he ultimately went to bed, it was with the
firm resolve that he would in any case go over to Bath in the
morning and remain there until Yvonne was able to come back with
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Combwich without her was anyhow unendurable.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He started for Bath at nine o'clock in the
morning.  It was still raining hard.  It had rained all night
and the roads were very muddy.  He started out without a groom.
 A little after half-past ten, he drew rein outside his house
in Chandos Buildings, and having changed his clothes he started
to walk to Laura Place.  The rain had momentarily left off, and
a pale wintry sun peeped out through rolling banks of grey clouds.
 He went round by way of Saw Close and the Upper Borough Walls,
as he wanted to avoid the fashionable throng that crowded the
neighbourhood of the Pump Room and the Baths.  His intention was
to seek out the Blakeneys at their residence in the Circus after
he had seen Yvonne and obtained news of M. le duc.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had no suspicions.  Why should he have?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Abbey clock struck a quarter-past eleven
when finally he knocked at the house in Laura Place.  Long afterwards
he remembered how just at that moment a dense grey mist descended
into the valley.  He had not noticed it before, now he saw it
had enveloped this part of the city so that he could not even
see clearly across the Place.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A woman came to open the door.  Lord Tony then
thought this strange considering how particular M. le duc always
was about everything pertaining to the management of his household:
'The house of a poor exile,' he was wont to say, 'but nevertheless
that of a gentleman.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Can I go straight up?' he asked the woman,
who he thought was standing ostentatiously in the hall as if to
bar his way.  'I desire to see M. le duc.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ye can walk upstairs, zir,' said the woman,
speaking with a broad Somersetshire accent, 'but I doubt me if
ye'll see 'is Grace the Duke.  'Es been gone these two days.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Tony had paid no heed to her at first; he had
walked across the narrow hall to the oak staircase, and was halfway
up the first flight when her last words struck upon his ear .
. . quite without meaning for the moment . . . but nevertheless
he paused, one foot on one tread, and the other two treads below.
. . and he turned round to look at the woman, a swift frown across
his smooth forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Gone these two days,' he repeated mechanically;
'what do you mean?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well!  'Is Grace left the day afore yesterday
-- Thursday it was . . . 'Is man went yesterday afternoon with
luggage and sich . . . 'e went by coach 'e did . . . Leave off,'
she cried suddenly; 'what are ye doin'?  Ye're 'urtin me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For Lord Tony had rushed down the stairs again
and was across the hall, gripping the unoffending woman by the
wrist and glaring into her expressionless face until she screamed
with fright.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I beg your pardon,' he said humbly as he released
her wrist: all the instincts of the courteous gentleman arrayed
against his loss of control.  'I . . . I forgot myself for the
moment,' he stammered; 'would you mind telling me again . . .
what . . . what you said just now?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman was prepared to put on the airs of
outraged dignity, she even glanced up at the malapert with scorn
expressed in her small beady eyes.  But at sight of his face her
anger and her fears both fell away from her.  Lord Tony was white
to the lips, his cheeks were the colour of dead ashes, his mouth
trembled, his eyes alone glowed with ill-repressed anxiety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">' 'Is Grace,' she said with slow emphasis,
for of a truth she thought that the young gentleman was either
sick or daft, ' 'Is Grace left this 'ouse the day afore yesterday
in a hired barouche.  'Is man -- Frederick-- went yesterday afternoon
with the liggage.  'E caught the Bristol coach at two o'clock.
 I was 'Is Grace's 'ousekeeper and I am to look after the 'ouse
and the zervants until I 'ear from 'Is Grace again.  Them's my
orders.  I know no more than I'm tellin' ye.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But His Grace returned here yesterday forenoon,'
argued Lord Tony calmly, mechanically, as one who would wish to
convince an obstinate child.  'And my lady. . . Mademoiselle Yvonne,
you know. . . was with him.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Noa!  Noa!' said the woman placidly.  ' 'Is
Grace 'asn't been near this 'ouse come Thursday afternoon, and
'is man left yesterday wi' th' liggage.  Why!' she added confidentially,
' 'e ain't gone far.  It was all zettled that zuddint I didn't
know nothing about it myzelf till I zeed Mr. Frederick start off
wi' th' liggage.  Not much liggage neither it wasn't.  Sure but
'Is Grace'll be 'ome zoon.  'E can't have gone far.  Not wi' that
bit o'liggage.  Zure.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But my lady . . . Mademoiselle Yvonne. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Lor, zir, didn't ye know?  Why 'twas all over
th' town o'Tuesday as 'ow Mademozell 'ad eloped with my lord Anthony
Dew'urst, and . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes! Yes!  But you have seen my lady since?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not clapped eyes on 'er, zir, since she went
to the ball come Monday evenin'.  An' a picture she looked in
'er white gown . . .' </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And . . did His Grace leave no message . .
. for. . . for anyone?  . . no letter?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ah, yes, now you come to metion it, zir. 
Mr. Frederick 'e give me a letter yesterday.  &quot; 'Is Grace,&quot;
sez 'e, &quot;left this yere letter on 'is desk.  I just found
it,&quot; sez 'e.  &quot;If my lord Anthony Dew'urst calls,&quot;
sez 'e, &quot;give it to 'im.&quot;  I've got the letter zomewhere,
zir.  What may your name be?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am Lord Anthony Dewhurst,' replied the young
man mechanically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Your pardon, my lord, I'll go fetch th' letter.'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lord Tony never moved while the woman shuffled
across the passage and down the back stairs.  He was like a man
who has received a knock-out blow and has not yet had time to
recover his scattered senses.  At first when the woman spoke,
his mind had jumped to fears of some awful accident. . . runaway
horses . . a broken barouche. . . or a sudden aggravation of the
duc's ill-health.  But soon he was forced to reject what now would
have seemed a consoling thought: had there been  an accident,
he would have heard -- a rumour would have reached him -- Yvonne
would have sent a courier.  He did not know yet what to think,
his mind was like a slate over which a clumsy hand had passed
a wet sponge -- iimpressions, recollections, above all a hideous,
nameless fear, were all blurred and confused within his brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman came back carrying a letter which
was crumpled and greasy from a prolonged sojourn in the pocket
of her apron.  Lord Tony took the letter and broke its heavy seal.
 The woman watched him, curiously, pityingly now, for he was good
to look on, and she scented the signifigance of the tragedy which
she had been the means of revealing to him.  But he had become
quite unconscious of her presence, of everything in fact save
those few sentences, written in French, in a cramped hand, and
which seemed to dance a wild saraband before his eyes:</FONT></P>

<BLOCKQUOTE>
  <P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Milor,--</FONT></P>
  <P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You tried to steal my daughter from me, but
  I have taken her from you now.  By the time this reaches you
  we shall be on the high seas on our way to Holland, thence to
  Coblentz, where Mademoiselle de Kernogan will in accordance with
  my wishes be united in lawful marriage to M. Martin-Roget whom
  I have chosen to be her husband.  She is not and never was your
  wife.  As far as one may look into the future, I can assure you
  that you will never in life see her again.'</FONT></P></BLOCKQUOTE>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And to this monstrous document of appalling
callousness and cold-blooded cruelty there was appended the signature
of Andr&eacute; Dieudonn&eacute; Duc de Kernogan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But unlike the writer thereof Lord Anthony
Dewhurst neither stormed nor raged: he did not even tear the execrable
letter into an hundred fragments.  His firm hand closed over it
with one convulsive clutch, and that was all.  Then he slipped
the crumpled paper into his pocket.  Quite deliberately he took
out some money and gave a piece of silver to the woman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I thank you very much,' he said somewhat haltingly.
 'I quite understand everything now.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman curtseyed and thanked him; tears
were in her eyes, for it seemed to her that never had she seen
such grief depicted upon any human face.  She preceded him to
the hall door and held it open for him, while he passed out. 
After the brief gleam of sunshine it had started to rain again,
but he didn't seem to care.  The woman suggested fetching a hackney
coach, but he refused quite politely, quite gently: he even lifted
his hat as he went out.  Obviously he did not know what he was
doing.  Then he went out into the rain and strode slowly across
the Place.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter VI<BR>
The Scarlet Pimpernel</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinct kept him away from the more frequented
streets -- and instinct after awhile drew him in the direction
of his friend's house at the corner of The Circus.  Sir Percy
Blakeney had not gone out fortunately: the lacquey who opened
the door to my lord Tony stared astonished and almost paralyzed
for the moment at the extraordinary appearance of his lordship.
 Rain dropped down from the brim of his hat on to his shoulders:
his boots were muddy to the knees, his clothes wringing wet. 
His eyes were wild and hazy and there was a curious tremor round
his mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The lacquey declared with a knowing wink afterwards
that his lordship must 'ave been drinkin'!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But at the moment his sense of duty urged him
to show my lord -- who was his master's friend-- into the library,
whatever condition he was in.  He took his dripping coat and hat
from him and marshalled him across the large, square hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy Blakeney was sitting at his desk,
writing, when Lord Tony was shown in.  He looked up and at once
rose and went to his friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Sit down, Tony,' he said quietly, 'while I
get you some brandy.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He forced the young man down gently into a
chair in front of the fire and threw another log into the blaze.
 Then from a cupboard he fetched a flask of brandy and a glass,
poured some out and held it to Tony's lips.  The latter drank
-- unresisting-- like a child.  Then as some warmth penetrated
into his bones, he leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees
and buried his face in his hands.  Blakeney waited quietly, sitting
down opposite to him, until his friend should be able to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And after all that you told me on Monday night!'
were the first words which came from Tony's quivering lips, 'and
the letter you sent me over on Tuesday!  Oh!  I was prepared to
mistrust Martin-Roget.  Why!  I never allowed her out of my sight!
. . . But her father! . . . How could I guess?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Can you tell me exactly what happened?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lord Tony drew himself up, and staring vacantly
into the fire told his friend the events of the past four days.
 On Wednesday the courier with M. de Kernogan's letter, breathing
kindness and forgiveness.  On Thursday his arrival and seeming
ill-health, on Friday his departure with Yvonne.  Tony spoke quite
calmly.  He had never been anything but calm since first, in the
house of Laura Place, he had received that awful blow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I ought to have know,' he concluded dully,
'I ought to have guessed.  Especially since you warned me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I warned you that Martin-Roget was not the
man he pretended to be,' said Blakeney gently, 'I warned you against
him.  But I too failed to suspect the duc de Kernogan.  We are
Britishers, you and I, my dear Tony,' he added with a quaint little
laugh, 'our minds will never be quite equal to the tortuous ways
of these Latin races.  But we are not going to waste time now
talking about the past.  We have got to find your wife before
those brutes have time to wreak their devilries against her.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'On the high seas . . . on the way to Holland.
. . thence to Coblentz . . ' murmured Tony, 'I have not yet shown
you the duc's letter to me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He drew from his pocket the crumpled, damp
piece of paper on which the ink had run into patches and blotches,
and which had become almost undecipherable now.  Sir Percy took
it from him and read it through:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The duc de Kernogan and Lady Anthony Dewhurst
are not on their way to Holland and to Coblentz,' he said quietly
as he handed the letter back to Lord Tony.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Not on their way to Holland?' queried the
young man with a puzzled frown.  'What do you mean?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney drew his chair closer to his friend:
a marvellous and subtle change had suddenly taken place in his
individuality.  Only a few moments ago he was the polished, elegant
man of the world, then the kindly and understanding friend --
self-contained, reserved, with a perfect manner redolent of sympathy
and dignity.  Suddenly all that was changed.  His manner was still
perfect and outwardly calm, his gestures scarce, his speech deliberate,
but the compelling power of the leader -- which is the birthright
of such men-- glowed and sparkled now in his deep-set eyes: the
spirit of adventure and reckless daring was awake -- insistent
and rampant-- and subtle effluvia of enthusiasm and audacity emanated
from his entire personality.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy Blakeney had sunk his individuality
in that of the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I mean,' he said, returning his friend's anxious
look with one that was inspiring in its unshakable confidence,
'I mean that on Monday last, the night before your wedding --
when I urged you to obtain Yvonne de Kernogan's consent to an
immediate marriage-- I had followed Martin-Roget to a place called
'The Bottom Inn' on Goblin Combe -- a place well known to every
smuggler in the country.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You, Percy!' exclaimed Tony in amazement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes, I,' laughed the other lightly.  'Why
not?  I had had my suspicions of him for some time.  As luck would
have it he started off on the Monday afternoon by hired coach
to Chelwood.  I followed.  From Chelwood he wanted to go on to
Redhill:  but the roads were axle deep in mud, and evening was
gathering in very fast.  Nobody would take him.  He wanted a horse
and a guide.  I was on the spot -- as disreputable a barloafer
as you ever saw in your life.  I offered to take him.  He had
no choice.  He had to take me.  No one else had offered.  I took
him to the Bottom Inn.  there he met our esteemed friend M. Chauvelin.
. .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Chauvelin!' cried Tony, suddenly roused from
the dull apathy of his immeasurable grief, at sound of that name
which recalled so many exciting adventures, such mad, wild, hair-breadth
escapes.  'Chauvelin!  What in the world is he doing here in England?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Brewing mischief, of course,' replied Blakeney
dryly.  'In disgrace, discredited, a marked man-- what you will--
my friend M. Chauvelin has still an infinite capacity for mischief.
 Through the interstices of a badly fastened shutter I heard two
blackguards devising infinite devilry.  That is why, Tony,' he
added, 'I urged an immediate marriage as the only real protection
for Yvonne de Kernogan against those blackguards.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Would to God you had been more explicit,'
exclaimed Tony with a bitter sigh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Would to God I had,' rejoined the other, 'but
there was so little time, with licences and what not all to arrange
for, and less than an hour to do it in.  And would you have suspected
the Duc himself of such execrable duplicity even if you had known,
as I did then, that the so-called Martin-Roget hath name Adet,
and that he matures thoughts of deadly revenge against the duc
de Kernogan and his daughter?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Martin-Roget? the banker-- the exiled royalist
who. . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He may be a banker now . . . but he certainly
is no royalist -- he is the son of a peasant who was unjustly
put to death four years ago by the duc de Kernogan.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ye gods!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He came over to England plentifully supplied
with money -- I could not gather if the money is his or if it
has been entrusted to him by the revolutionary government for
purposes of spying and corruption -- but he came to England in
order to ingratiate himself with the duc de Kernogan and his daughter,
and then to lure them back to France, for what purpose you may
well imagine.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Good God, man . . . you can't mean . . .?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'He has chartered a smuggler's craft -- or
rather Chauvelin has done it for him.  Her name is the <I>Hollandia</I>,
her master hath name Kuyper.  She was to be in Portishead harbour
on the last day of November:  all her papers in order.  Cargo
of West India sugar, destination Amsterdam, consignee some Mynheer
over there.  But Martin-Roget, or whatever his name may be, and
no doubt our friend Chauvelin too, were to be aboard her, and
also M. le duc de Kernogan and his daughter.  And the <I>Hollandia
</I>is to put into Le Croisic for Nantes, whose revolutionary
proconsul, that infamous Carrier, is of course Chauvelin's bosom
friend.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy Blakeney finished speaking.  Lord
Tony had listened to him quietly and in silence: now he rose and
turned resolutely to his friend.  There was no longer any trace
in him of that stunned apathy which had been the primary result
of the terrible blow.  His young face was still almost unrecognizable
from the lines of grief and horror which marred its habitual fresh,
boyish look.  He looked twenty years older than he had done a
few hours ago, but there was also in his whole attitude now the
virility of more mature manhood, its determination and unswerving
purpose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And what can I do now?' he asked simply, knowing
that he could trust his friend and leader with what he held dearest
in all the world.  'Without you, Blakeney, I am of course impotent
and lost.  I haven't the head to think.  I haven't sufficient
brains to pit against those cunning devils.  But if you will help
me. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he checked himself abruptly, and the look
of hopeless despair once moe crept into his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am mad, Percy,' he said with a self-deprecating
shrug of the shoulders, 'gone crazy with grief, I suppose, or
I shouldn't talk of asking your help, of risking your life in
my cause.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tony, if you talk that rubbish, I shall be
forced to punch your head,' retorted Blakeney with his light laugh.
 'Why man,' he added gaily, 'can't you see that I am aching to
have at my old friend Chauvelin again.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And indeed the zest of adventure, the zest
to fight, never dormant, was glowing with compelling vigour now
in those lazy eyes of his which were resting with such kindliness
upon his stricken friend.  'Go home, Tony!' he added, 'go you
rascal, and collect what things you want, while I send for Hastings
and Ffoulkes, and see that four good horses are ready for us within
the hour.  To-night we sleep at Portishead, Tony.  The Day Dream
is lying off there, ready to sail at any hour of the day or night.
 The Hollandia has twenty-four hours' start of us, alas! and we
cannot overtake her now: but we'll be in Nantes ere those devils
can do much mischief: and once in Nantes! . . . Why, Tony man!
think of the glorious escapes we've had together, you and I! 
Think of the gay, mad rides across the north of France, with half-fainting
women and swooning children across our saddlebows!  Think of the
day when we smuggled the de Tournais out of Calais harbour, the
day we snatched Juliette D&eacute;roul&egrave;de and her Paul
out of the tumbril and tore across Paris with that howling mob
at our heels!  Think! think, Tony! of all the happiest, merriest
moments of your life and they will seem dull and lifeless beside
what is in store for you, when with your dear wife's arms clinging
round your neck, we'll fly along the quay of Nantes on the road
to liberty!  Ah, Tony lad! were it not for the anxiety which I
know is gnawing at your heart, I would count this, one of the
happiest hours of my happy life!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was so full of enthusiasm, so full of vitality,
that life itself seemed to emanage from him and to communicate
itself to the very atmosphere around.  Hope lit up my lord Tony's
wan face: he believed in his friend as mediaeval ascetics believed
in the saints whom they adored.  Enthusiasm had crept into his
veins, dull despair fell away from him like a mantle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'God bless you, Percy,' he exclaimed as his
firm and loyal hand grasped that of the leader whom he revered.
 </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Nay!' retorted Blakeney with sudden gravity.
 'He hath done that already.  Pray for His help to-day, lad, as
you have never prayed before.'<BR>
</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter Seven</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter VII<BR>
Marguerite</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lord Tony had gone, and for the space of five
minutes Sir Percy Blakeney stood in front of the hearth staring
into the fire.  Something lay before him, something had to be
done now, which represented the heavy price that had to be paid
for those mad and happy adventures, for that reckless daring,
aye for that selfless supreme sacrifice which was as the very
breath of life to the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And in the dancing flames he could see Marguerite's
blue eyes, her ardent hair, her tender smile all pleading with
him not to go.  She had so much to give him -- so much happiness,
such an infinity of love, and he was all that she had in the world!
 It seemed to him as if he could feel her arms around him even
now, as if he could hear her voice whispering appealingly: 'Do
not go!  Am I nothing to you that thoughts of others should triumph
over my pleading? that the need of others should outweight mine
own most pressing need?  I want you, Percy! aye!  even I!  You
have done so much for others -- it is my turn now.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But even as in a kind of trance those words
seemed to reach his strained senses, he knew that he must go,
that he must tear himself away once more from the clinging embrace
of her dear arms and shut his eyes to the tears which anon would
fill her own.  Destiny demanded that he should go.  He had chosen
his path in life himself, at first only in a spirit of wild recklessness,
a mad tossing of his life into the scales of Fate.  But now that
same destiny which he had chosen had become his master: he no
longer could draw back.  What he had done once, twenty times,
an hundred times, that he must do again, all the while that the
weak and the defenceless called mutely to him from across the
seas, all the while that innocent women suffered and orphaned
childred cried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And to-day it was his friend, his comrade,
who had come to him in his distress: the young wife whom he idolized
was in the most dire peril that could possibly threaten any woman:
she was at the mercy of a man who, driven by the passion of revenge,
meant to show her no mercy, and the devil alone knew these days
to what lengths of infamy a man so driven would go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The minutes sped on.  Blakeney's eyes grew
hot and wearied from staring into the fire.  He closed them for
a moment and then quietly turned to go.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All those who knew Marguerite Blakeney these
days marvelled if she was ever unhappy.  Lady Ffoulkes, who was
her most trusted friend, vowed that she was not.  She had moments
-- days -- sometimes weeks of intense anxiety, which amounted
to acute agony.  Whenever she saw her husband start on one of
those expeditions to France wherein every minute, every hour,
he risked his life and more in order to snatch yet another threatened
victim from the awful clutches of those merciless Terrorists,
she endured soul-torture such as few women could have withstood
who had not her splendid courage and her boundless faith.  But
against such crushing sorrow she had to set off the happiness
of those reunions with the man whom she loved so passionately
-- happiness which was so great, that it overrode and conquered
the very memory of past anxieties.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite Blakeney suffered terribly at times
-- at others she was overwhelmingly happy -- the measure of her
life was made up of the bitter dregs of sorrow and the sparkling
wine of joy!  No!  she was not altogether unhappy: and gradually
that enthusiasm which irradiated from the whole personality of
the valiant Scarlet Pimpernel, which dominated his every action,
entered into Marguerite Blakeney's blood too.  His vitality was
so compelling, those impulses which carried him headlong into
unknown dangers were so generous and were actuated by such pure
selflessness, that the noble-hearted woman whose very soul was
wrapped up in the idolized husband, allowed herself to ride by
his side on the buoyant waves of his enthusiasm and of his desires:
she smothered every expression of anxiety, she swallowed her tears,
she learned to say the word 'Good-bye' and forgot the word 'Stay!'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was half an hour after midday when Percy
knocked at the door of her boudoir.  She had just come in from
a walk in the meadows round the town and along the bank of the
river: the rain had overtaken her and she had come in very wet,
but none the less exhilarated by the movement and the keen, damp,
salt-laden air which came straight over the hills from the Channel.
 She had taken off her hat and her mantle and was laughing gaily
with her maid who was shaking the wet out of a feather.  She looked
round at her husband when he entered, and with a quick gesture
ordered the maid out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had learned to read every line on Percy's
face, every expression of his lazy, heavy-lidded eyes.  She saw
that he was dressed with more than his usual fastidiousness, but
in dark clothes and travelling mantle.  She knew, moreover, by
that subtle instinct which had become a second nature and which
warned her whenever he meant to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nor did he announce his departure to her in
so many words.  As soon as the maid had gone, he took his beloved
in his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'They have stolen Tony's wife from him,' he
said with that light, quaint laugh of his.  'I told you that the
man Martin-Roget had planned some devilish mischief -- well! he
has succeeded so far, thanks to that unspeakable fool the duc
de Kernogan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He told her briefly the history of the past
few days.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tony did not take my warning seriously enough,'
he concluded with a sigh; 'he ought never to have allowed his
wife out of his sight.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite had not interrupted him while he
spoke.  At first she just lay in his arms, quiescent and listening,
nerving herself by a supreme effort not to utter one sigh of misery
or one word of appeal.  Then, as her knees shook under her, she
sank back into a chair by the hearth and he knelt beside her with
his arms clasped tightly round her shoulders, his cheek pressed
against hers.  He had no need to tell her that duty and friendship
called, that the call of honour was once again-- as it so often
has been in the world -- louder than that of love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She understood and she knew, and he, with that
super-sensitive instinct of his, understood the heroic effort
which she made.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Your love, dear heart,' he whispered, 'will
draw me back safely home as it hath so often done before.  You
believe that, do you not?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And she had the supreme courage to murmur:
'Yes!'</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter Eight</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter Eight<BR>
The Road to Portishead</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was not until Bath had very obviously been
left behind that Yvonne de Kernogan -- Lady Anthony Dewhurst --
realized that she had been trapped.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">During the first half-hour of the journey her
father had lain back against the cushions of the carriage with
eyes closed, his face pale and wan as if with great suffering.
 Yvonne, her mind a prey to the gravest anxiety sat beside him,
holding his limp cold hand in hers.  Once or twice she ventured
on a timid question as to his health and he invariably murmured
a feeble assurance that he felt well, only very tired and disinclined
to talk.  Anon she suggested -- diffidently, for she did not mean
to disturb him -- that the driver did not appear to know his way
into Bath, he had turned into a side road which she felt sure
was not the right one.  M. le duc then roused himself for a moment
from his lethargy.  He leaned forward and gazed out of the window.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The man is quite right, Yvonne,' he said quietly,
'he knows his way.  He brought me along this road yesterday. 
He gets into Bath by a slight d&eacute;tour but it is pleasanter
driving.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This reply satisfied her.  She was a stranger
in the land, and knew little or nothing of the environs of Bath.
 True, last Monday morning after the ceremony of her marriage
she had driven out to Combwich, but dawn was only just breaking
then, and she had lain for the most part -- wearied and happy--
in her young husband's arms.  She had taken scant note of roads
and signposts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few minutes later the coach came to a halt
and Yvonne, looking through the window, saw a man who was muffled
up to the chin and enveloped in a huge travelling cape, mount
swiftly up beside the driver.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Who is that man?' she queried sharply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Some friend of the coachman's, no doubt,'
murmured her father in reply, 'to whom he is giving a lift as
far as Bath.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The barouche had moved on again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne could not have told you why, but at
her father's last words she had felt a sudden cold grip at her
heart -- the first since she started.  It was neither fear nor
yet suspicion, but a chill seemed to go right through her.  She
gazed anxiously through the window, and then  looked at her father
with eyes that challenged and that doubted.  But M. le duc would
not meet her gaze.  He had once more closed his eyes and sat quite
still, pale and haggard, like a man who is suffering acutely.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Father we are going back to Bath, are we not?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The query came out trenchant and hard from
her throat which now felt hoarse and choked.  Her whole being
was suddenly pervaded by a vast and nameless fear.  Time had gone
on, and there was no sign in the distance of the great city. 
M. de Kernogan made no reply, but he opened his eyes and a curious
glance shot from them at the terror-stricken face of his daughter.
 </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she knew -- knew that she had been tricked
and trapped-- that her father had played a hideous and complicated
r&ocirc;le of hypocrisy and duplicity in order to take her away
from the husband whom she idolized.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fear and her love for the man of her choice
gave her initiative and strength.  Before M. de Kernogan could
realize what she was doing, before he could make a movement to
stop her, she had seized the handle of the carriage door, wrenched
the door open and jumped out into the road.  She fell on her face
in the mud, but the next moment she picked herself up again and
started to run -- down the road which the carriage had just traversed,
on and on as fast as she could go.  She ran on blindly, unreasoningly,
impelled by a purely physical instinct to escape, not thinking
how childish, how futile such an attempt was bound to be.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already after the first few minutes of this
swift career over the muddy road, she heard quick, heavy footsteps
behind her.  Her father could not run like that -- the coachman
could not have thus left his horses -- but still she could hear
those footsteps at a run -- a quicker run than hers-- and they
were gaining on her -- every minute, every second.  The next,
she felt two powerful arms suddenly seizing her by the shoulders.
 She stumbled and would once more have fallen, but for those same
strong arms which held her close.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Let me go!  Let me go!' she cried, panting.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she was held and could no longer move.
 She looked up into the face of Martin-Roget, who without any
hesitation or compunction lifted her up as if she had been a bale
of light goods and carried her back toward the coach.  She had
forgotten the man who had been picked up on the road awhile ago,
and had been sitting beside the coachman since.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He deposited her in the barouche beside her
father, then quietly closed the door and once more mounted to
his seat on the box.  The carriage moved on again.  M. de Kernogan
was no longer lethargic, he looked down on his daughter's inert
form beside him, and not one look of tenderness or compassion
softened the hard callousness of his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Any resistance, my child,' he said coldly,
'will as you see be useless as well as undignified.  I deplore
this necessary violence, but I should be forced once more to requisition
M. Martin-Roget's help if you attempted such foolish tricks again.
 When you are a little more calm, we will talk openly together.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the moment she was lying back against the
cushions of the carriage; her nerves having momentarily given
way before this appalling catastrophe which had overtaken her
and the hideous outrage to which she was being subjected by her
own father.  She was sobbing convulsively.  But in the face of
his abominable callousness, she made a great effort to regain
her self-control.  Her pride, her dignity came to the rescue.
 She had had time in those few seconds to realize that she was
indeed more helpless than any bird in a fowler's net, and that
only absolute calm and presence of mind could possibly save her
now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">If indeed there was the slightest hope of salvation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She drew herself up and resolutely dried her
eyes and readjusted her hair and her hood and mantle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'We can talk openly at once, sir,' she said
coldly.  'I am ready to hear what explanation you can offer for
this monstrous outrage.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I owe you no explanation, my child,' he retorted
calmly.  'Presently when you are restored to your own sense of
dignity and of self-respect you will remember that a lady of the
house of Kernogan does not elope in the night with a stranger
and a heretic like some kitchen-wench.  Having so far forgotten
herself my daughter must, alas! take the consequences, which I
deplore, of her own sins and lack of honour.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And no doubt, father,' she retorted, stung
to the quick by his insults, 'that you too will anon be restored
to your own sense of self-respect and remember that hitherto no
gentleman of the house of Kernogan has acted the part of a liar
and of a hypocrite!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Silence!' he commanded sternly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes!' she reiterated wildly, 'it was the r&ocirc;le
of a liar and of a hypocrite that you played from the moment when
you sat down to pen that letter full of protestations of affection
and forgiveness, until like a veritable Judas you betrayed your
own daughter with a kiss.  Shame on you, father!' she cried. 
'Shame!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Enough!' he said, as he seized her wrist so
roughly that the cry of pain which involuntarily escaped her effectually
checked the words in her mouth.  'You are mad, beside yourself,
a thoughtless, senseless creature whom I shall have to coerce
more effectually if you do not cease your ravings.  Do not force
me to have recourse once again to M. Martin-Roget's assistance
to keep your undignified outbursts in check.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The name of the man whom she had learned to
hate and fear more than any other human being in the world was
sufficient to restore to her that measure of self-control which
had again threatened to leave her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Enough indeed,' she said more calmly; 'the
brain that could devise and carry out such infamy in cold blood
is not like to be influenced by a defenceless woman's tears. 
Will you at least tell me whither you are taking me?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'We go to a place on the coast now,' he replied
coldly, 'the outlandish name of which has escaped me.  There we
embark for Holland, from whence we shall join their Royal Highnesses
at Coblentz.  It is at Coblentz that your marriage with M. Martin-Roget
will take place, and . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Stay, father,' she broke in, speaking quite
as calmly as he did, 'ere you go any further.  Understand me clearly,
for I mean every word I say.  In the sight of God -- if not in
that of the laws of France -- I am the wife of Lord Anthony Dewhurst.
 By everything that I hold most sacred and most dear I swear to
you that I will never become Martin-Roget's wife.  I would die
first,' she added with burning but resolutely suppressed passion.
 </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pshaw, my child,' he said quietly, 'many
a time since the world began have women registered such solemn
and sacred vows, only to break them when force of circumstance
and their own good sense made them ashamed of their own folly.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'How little you know me, father,' was all that
she said in reply.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, Yvonne de Kernogan -- Yvonne Dewhurst
as she was now in the sight of God and men-- had far too much
innate dignity and self-respect to continue this discussion, seeing
that in any case she was physically the weaker, and that she was
absolutely helpless and defenceless in the hands of two men, one
of whom -- her own father-- who should have been her protector,
was leagued with her bitterest enemy against her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That Martin-Roget was her enemy -- aye and
her father's too -- she had absolutely no doubt.  Some obscure
yet keen instinct was working in her heart, urging her to mistrust
him even more wholly than she had done before.  Just now, when
he laid ruthless hands on her and carried her, inert and half-swooning,
back into the coach, and she lay with closed eyes, her very soul
in revolt against this contact with him, against the feel of his
arms around her, a vague memory surcharged with horror and with
dread stirred within her brain: and over the vista of the past
few years she looked back upon an evening in the autumn -- a rough
night with the wind from the Atlantic blowing across the lowlands
of Poitou and soughing in the willow trees that bordered the Loire
-- she seemed to hear the tumultuous cries of enraged human creatures
dominating the sound of the gale, she felt the crowd of evil-intentioned
men around the closed carriage wherein she sat, calm and unafraid.
 Darkness then was all around her.  She could not see.  She could
only hear and feel.  And she heard the carriage door being wrenched
open, and she felt the cold breath of the wind upon her cheek,
and also the hot breath of a man in a passion of fury and of hate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had seen nothing then, and mercifully semi-unconsciousness
had dulled her aching senses, but even now her soul shrunk with
horror at the vague remembrance of that ghostlike form -- the
spirit of hate and of revenge -- of its rough arms encircling
her shoulders, its fingers under her chin -- and then that awful,
loathsome, contaminating kiss which she thought then would have
smirched her for ever.  It had taken all the pure, sweet kisses
of a brave and loyal man whom she loved and revered, to make her
forget that hideous, indelible stain: and in the arms of her dear
milor she had forgotten that one terrible moment, when she had
felt that the embrace of death must be more endurable than that
of this unknown and hated man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the memory of that awful night which
had come back to her as in a flash while she lay passive and broken
in Martin-Roget's arms.  Of course for the moment she had no thought
of connecting the rich banker from Brest, the enthusiastic royalist
and &eacute;migr&eacute;, with one of those turbulent, uneducated
peasant lads who had attacked her carriage that night:  all that
she was conscious of was that she was outraged by his presence,
just as she had been outraged then, and that the contact of his
hands, of his arms, was absolutely unendurable.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To fight against the physical power which held
her a helpless prisoner in the hands of the enemy was sheer impossibility.
 She knew that, and was too proud to make feeble and futile efforts
which could only end in defeat and further humiliation.  She felt
hideously wretched and lonely -- thoughts of her husband, who
at this hour was still serenely unconscious of the terrible catastrophe
which had befallen him, brought tears of acute misery to her eyes.
 What would he do when -- to-morrow perhaps-- he realized that
his bride had been stolen from him, that he had been fooled and
duped as she had been too.  What could he do when he knew?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She tried to solace her own soul-agony by thinking
of his influential friends who, of course, would help him as soon
as they knew.  There was that mysterious and potent friend of
whom he spoke so little, who already had warned him of coming
danger and urged on the secret marriage which should have proved
a protection.  There was Sir Percy Blakeney, of whom he spoke
much, who was enormously rich, independent, the most intimate
friend of the Regent himself.  There was . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But what was the use of clinging even for one
instant to those feeble cords of Hope's broken lyre.  By the time
her dear lord knew that she was gone, she would be on the high
seas, far out of his reach.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And she had not even the solace of tears --
heart-broken sobs rose in her throat, but she resolutely kept
them back.  Her father's cold, impassive face, the callous glitter
in his eyes told her that every tear would be in vain, her most
earnest appeal an object for his sneers.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As to how long the journey in the coach lasted
after that Yvonne Dewhurst could not have said.  It may have been
a few hours, it may have been a cycle of years.  She had been
young -- a happy bride, a dutiful daughter -- when she left Combwich
Hall.  She was an old woman now, a supremely unhappy one, parted
from the man she loved without hope of ever seeing him again in
life, and feeling nothing but hatred and contempt for the father
who had planned such infamy against her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She offered no resistance whatever to any of
her father's commands.  After the first outburst of revolt and
indignation she had not even spoken to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a halt somewhere on the way, when
in the low-raftered room of a posting-inn, she had to sit at table
with the two men who had compassed her misery.  She was thirsty,
feverish and weak: she drank some milk in silence.  She felt ill
physically as well as mentally, and the constant effort not to
break down had helped to shatter her nerves.  As she had stepped
out of the barouche without a word, so she stepped into it again
when it stood outside, ready with a fresh relay of horses to take
her further, still further, away from the cosy little nest where
even now her young husband was waiting longingly for her return.
 The people of the inn -- a kindly-looking woman, a portly middle-aged
man, one or two young ostlers and serving-maids were standing
about in the yard when her father led her to the coach.  For a
moment the wild idea rushed to her mind to run to these people
and demand their protection, to proclaim at the top of her voice
the infamous act which was dragging her away from her husband
and her home, and lead her a helpless prisoner to a fate that
was infinitely worse than death.  She even ran to the woman who
looked so benevolent and so kind, she placed her small quivering
hand on the other's rough toil-worn one and in hurried, appealing
words begged for her help and the shelter of a home till she could
communicate with her husband.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman listened with a look of kindly pity
upon her homely face, she patted the small, trembling hand and
stroked it gently, tears of compassion gathered in her eyes:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes, yes, my dear,' she said soothingly, speaking
as she would to a sick woman or to a child, 'I quite understand.
 I wouldna' fret if I was you.  I would jess go quietly with your
pore father: 'e knows what's best for you, that 'e do.  You come
'long wi' me,' she added as she drew Yvonne's hand through her
arm, 'I'll see  ye're comfortable in the coach.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne, bewildered, could not at first understand
either the woman's sympathy or her obvious indifference to the
pitiable tale, until -- Oh! the shame of it! -- she saw the two
young serving-maids looking on her with equal pity expressed in
their round eyes, and heard one of them whispering to teh other:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pore lady! so zad ain't it?  I'm that zorry
for the pore father!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the girl with a significant gesture indicated
her own forehead and glanced knowingly at her companion.  Yvonne
felt a hot flush rise to the very roots of her hair.  So her father
and Martin-Roget had thought of everything, and had taken every
precaution to cut the ground from under her feet.  Wherever a
halt was necessary, wherever the party might come in contact with
the curious or the indifferent, it would be given out that the
poor young lady was crazed, that she talked wildly, and had to
be kept under restraint.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne as she turned away from that last faint
glimmer of hope, encountered Martin-Roget's glance of triumph
and saw the sneer which curled his full lips.  Her father came
up to her just then and took her over from the kindly hostess,
with the ostentatious manner of one who has charge of a sick person,
and must take every precaution for her welfare.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Another loss of dignity, my child,' he said
to her in French, so that none but Martin-Roget could catch what
he said.  'I guessed that you would commit some indiscretion,
you see, so M. Martin-Roget and myself warned all the people at
the inn the moment we arrived.  We told them that I was travelling
with a sick daughter who had become crazed through the death of
her lover, and believed herself -- like most crazed persons do
-- to be persecuted and oppressed.  You have seen the result.
 They pitied you.  Even the serving-maids smiled.  It would have
been wiser to remain silent.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon he handed her into the barouche with
loving care, a crowd of sympathetic onlookers gazing with obvious
compassion on the poor crazed lady and her sorely tried father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After this episode Yvonne gave up the struggle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No one but God could help her, if He chose
to perform a miracle.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The rest of the journey was accomplished in
silence.  Yvonne gazed, unseeing, through the carriage window
as the barouche rattled on teh cobble-stones of the streets of
Bristol.  She marvelled at the number of people who went gaily
by along the streets, unheeding, unknowing that the greatest depths
of misery to which any human being could sink had been probed
by the unfortunate young girl who wide-eyed, mute and broken-hearted
gazed out upon the busy world without.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Portishead was reached just when the grey light
of day turned to a gloomy twilight.  Yvonne unresisting, insentient,
went whither she was bidden to go.  Better that, than to feel
Martin-Roget's coercive grip on her arm, or to hear her father's
curt words of command.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She walked along the pier and anon stepped
into a boat, hardly knowing what she was doing: the twilight was
welcome to her, for it hid much from her view and her eyes --
hot with unshed tears -- ached for the restful gloom.  She realized
that the boat was being rowed along for some little way down the
stream, that Fr&eacute;d&eacute;rick, who had come she knew not
how or whence, was in the boat too with some luggage which she
recognized as being familiar: that another woman was there whom
she did not know, but who appeared to look after her comforts,
wrapped a shawl closer round her knees and drew the hood of her
mantle closer round her neck.  But it was all like an ugly dream:
 the voices of her father and of Martin-Roget, who were talking
in monosyllables, the sound of the oars as they struck the water,
or creaked in the rowlocks, came to her as from an ever-receding
distance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A couple of hours later she came back to complete
consciousness.  She was in a narrow place, which at first appeared
to her like a cupboard: the atmosphere was both cold and stuffy
and reeked of tar and of oil.  She was lying on a hard bed with
her mantle and a shawl wrapped round her.  It was very dark save
where the feeble glimmer of a lamp threw a circle of light around.
 Above her head there was a constant and heavy tramping of feet,
and the sound of incessant and varied creakings and groanings
of wood, cordage and metal filled the night air with their weird
and dismal sounds.  A slow feeling of movement coupled with a
gentle oscillation confirmed the unfortunate girl's first waking
impression that she was on board a ship.  How she had got there
she did not know.  She must ultimately have fainted in the small
boat and been carried aboard.  She raised herself slightly on
her elbow and peered round her into the dark corners of the cabin:
opposite to her upon a bench, also wrapped up in shawl and mantle,
lay the woman who had been in attendance on her in the boat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman's heavy breathing indicated that
she was fast asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Loneliness!  Misery! Desolation encompassed
the happy bride of yesterday.  With a moan of exquisite soul-agony
she fell back against the hard cushions, and for the first time
this day a convulsive flow of tears eased the super-acuteness
of her misery.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter Nine</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter Nine<BR>
The Coast of France</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The whole of that wretched mournful day Yvonne
Dewhurst spent upon the deck of the ship which was bearing her
away every hour, every minute, further and still further from
home and happiness. She seldom spoke: she ate and drank when food
was brought to her: she was conscious neither of cold nor of wet,
of well-being or ill. She sat upon a pile of cordages in the stern
of the ship leaning against the taff-rail and in imagination seeing
the coast of England fade into illimitable space.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Part of the time it rained, and then she sat
huddled up in the shawls and tarpaulins which the woman placed
about her: then, when the sun came out, she still sat huddled
up, closing her eyes against the glare.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When daylight faded into dusk, and then twilight
into night she gazed into nothingness as she had gazed on water
and sky before, thinking, thinking, thinking! This could not be
the end -- it could not. So much happiness, such pure love, such
perfect companionship as she had had with the young husband whom
she idolized could not all be wrenched from her like that, without
previous foreboding and without some warning from Fate. This miserable,
sordid, wretched journey to an unknown land could not be the epilogue
to the exquisite romance which had suddenly changed the dreary
monotony of her life into one long, glowing dream of joy and of
happiness! This could not be the end!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And gazing into the immensity of the far horizon
she thought and thought and racked her memory for every word,
every look which she had had from her dear milor. And upon the
grey background of sea and sky she seemed to perceive the vague
and dim outline of that mysterious friend -- the man who knew
everything -- who foresaw everything, even and above all the dangers
that threatened those whom he loved. He ahd foreseen this awful
danger too! Oh! if only milor and she herself had realized its
full extent! But now surely! surely! he would help, he would know
what to do. Milor was wont to speak of him as being omniscient
and having marvellous powers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once or twice during the day M. le duc de Kernogan
came to sit beside his daughter and tried to speak a few words
of comfort and of sympathy. Of a truth -- here on the open sea
-- far both from home and kindred and from the new friends he
had found in hospitable England -- his heart smote him for all
the wrong he had done to his only child. He dared not think of
the gentle and patient wife who lay at rest in the churchyard
of Kernogan, for he feared that with his thoughts he would conjure
up her pale, avenging ghost who would demand an account of what
he had done with her child.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Cold and exposure -- the discomfort of the
long sea-journey in this rough, trading ship had somewhat damped
M. de Kernogan's pride and obstinacy: his loyalty to the cause
of his King had paled before the demands of a father's duty toward
his helpless daughter.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was close on six o'clock and the night,
after the turbulent and capricious alternations of rain and sunshine
promised to be beautifully clear, though very cold. The pale crescent
of the moon had just emerged from behind the thick veil of cloud
and mist which still hung threateningly upon the horizon: a fitful
sheen of silver danced upon the waves.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">M. le duc stood beside his daughter. He had
inquired after her health and well-being and received her monosyllabic
reply with an impatient sigh. M. Martin-Roget was pacing up and
down the deck with restless and vigorous strides: he had just
gone by and made a loud and cheery comment on the weather and
the beauty of the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Could Yvonne Dewhurst have seen her father's
face now, or had she cared to study it, she would have perceived
that he was gazing out to sea in the direction to which the schooner
was heading with an intent look of puzzlement, and that there
was a deep furrow between his brows. Half an hour went by and
he still stood there, silent and absorbed: then suddenly a curious
exclamation escaped his lips: he stooped and seized his daughter
by the wrist!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yvonne!' he said excitedly, 'tell me! am I
dreaming or am I crazed?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What is it?' she asked coldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Out there! Look! Just tell me what you see?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He appeared so excited and his pressure on
her wrist was so insistent that she dragged herself to her feet
and looked out to sea in the direction to which he was pointing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tell me what you see,' he reiterated with
ever-growing excitement, and she felt that the hand which held
her wrist trembled violently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The light from a lighthouse, I think,' she
said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And besides that?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Another light -- a much smaller one -- considerably
higher up. It must be perched up on some cliffs.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Anything else?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes. There are lights dotted about here and
there. Some village on the coast.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'On the coast?' he murmured hoarsely, 'and
we are heading towards it.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'So it appears,' she said indifferently. What
cared she to what shore she was being taken: every land save England
was exile to her now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just at this moment M. Martin-Roget in his
restless wanderings once more passed by.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'M. Martin-Roget!' called the duc.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And vaguely Yvonne wondered why his voice trembled
so.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'At your service, M. le duc,' replied the other
as he came to a halt, and then stood with legs wide apart firmly
planted upon the deck, his hands buried in the pockets of his
heavy mantle, his head thrown back, as it defiantly, hiw whole
attitude that of a master condescending to talk with slaves.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What are those lights over there, ahead of
us?' asked M. le duc quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The lighthouse of Le Croisic, M. le duc,'
replied Martin-Roget dryly, 'and of the guard-house above and
the harbour below. All at your service,' he added, with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Monsieur . . .' exclaimed the duc.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Eh? what?' queried the other blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What does this mean?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the vague, dim light of the moon Yvonne
could just distinguish the two men as they stood confronting one
another. Martin-Roget, tall, massive, with arms now folded across
his breast, shrugging his broad shoulders at the duc's impassioned
query -- and her father who suddenly appeared to have shrunk within
himself, who raised one trembling hand to his forehead and with
the other sought with pathetic entreaty the support of his daughter's
arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What does this mean?' he murmured again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Only,' replied Martin-Roget with a laugh,
'that we are close to the coast of France and that with this unpleasant
but useful north-westerly wind we shall be in Nantes two hours
before midnight.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'In Nantes?' queried the duc vaguely, not understanding,
speaking tonelessly like a somnambulist or a man in a trance.
He was leaning heavily now on his daughter's arm, and she with
that motherly instinct which is ever present in a good woman's
heart even in the presence of her most cruel enemy, drew him tenderly
towards her, gave him the support he needed, not quite understanding
herself yet what it was that had befallen them both.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes, in Nantes, M. le duc,' reiterated Martin-Roget
with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But 'twas to Holland we were going.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'To Nantes, M. le duc,' retorted the other
with a ringing note of triumph in his voice, 'to Nantes, from
which you fled like a coward when you realized that the vengeance
of an outraged people had at last overtaken you and your kind.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I do not understand, 'stammered the duc, and
mechanically now -- instinctively -- father and daughter clung
to one another as if each was striving to protect the other from
the raving fury of this madman. Never for a moment did they believe
that he was sane. Excitement, they thought, had turned his brain:
he was acting and speaking like one possessed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I dare say it would take far longer than the
next four hours while we glide gently along the Loire, to make
such as you understand that your arrogance and your pride are
destined to be humbled at last and that you are now in the power
of those men who awhile ago you did not deem worthy to lick your
boots. I dare say,' he continued calmly, 'you think that I am
crazed. Well! perhaps I am, but sane enough anyhow, M. le duc,
to enjoy the full flavour of revenge.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Revenge? . . . what have we done? . . . what
has my daughter done? . . .' stammered the duc incoherently. 'You
swore you loved her . . .desired to make her your wife . . . I
consented . . . she . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget's harsh laugh broke in on his
vague murmurings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And like an arrogant fool you fell into the
trap,' he said with calm irony, 'and you were too blind to see
in Martin-Roget, suitor for your daughter's hand, Pierre Adet,
the son of the victim of your execrable tyranny, the innocent
man murdered at your bidding.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pierre Adet . . . I don't understand.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">' 'Tis but little meseems that you do understand,
M. le duc,' sneered the other. 'But turn your memory back, I pray
you, to the night four years ago when a few hot-headed peasant
lads planned to give you a fright in your castle of Kernogan .
. . the plan failed and Pierre Adet, the leader of that unfortunate
band, managed to fly the country, whilst you, like a crazed and
blind tyrant, administered punishment right and left for the fright
which you had had. Just think of it! those boors! those louts!
that swinish herd of human cattle had dared to raise a cry of
revolt against you! To death with them all! to death! Where is
Pierre Adet, the leader of those hogs? to him an exemplary punishment
must be meted! a deterrent against any other attempt at revolt.
Well, M. le duc, do you remember what happened then? Pierre Adet,
severely injured in the m&eacute;l&eacute;e, had managed to crawl
away into safety. While he lay betwixt life and death, first in
the presbytery of Vertou, then in various ditches on his way to
Paris, he knew nothing of what happened at Nantes. When he returned
to consciousness and to active life he heard that his father,
Jean Adet the miller, who was innocent of any share in the revolt,
had been hanged by order of M. le duc de Kernogan.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused awhile and a curious laugh -- half-convulsive
and not unmixed with sobs-- shook his broad shoulders. Neither
the duc nor Yvonne made any comment on what they heard: the duc
felt like a fly caught in a death-dealing web. He was dazed with
the horror of his position, dazed above all with the rush of bitter
remorse which had surged up in his heart and mind, when he realized
that it was his own folly, his obstinacy -- aye! and his heartlessness
which had brought this awful fate upon his daughter. And Yvonne
felt that whatever she might endure of misery and hopelessness
was nothing in comparison with what her father must feel with
the addition of bitter self-reproach.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Are you beginning to understand the position
better now, M. le duc?' queried Martin-Roget after awhile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The duc sank back nerveless upon the pile of
cordages close by. Yvonne was leaning with her back against the
taffrail, her two arms outstretched, the north-west wind blowing
her soft brown hair about her face whilst her eyes sought through
the gloom to read the lines of cruelty and hatred which must be
distorting Martin-Roget's face now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And,' she said quietly after awhile, 'you
have waited all these years, Monsieur, nursing thoughts of revenge
and of hate against us. Ah! believe me,' she added earnestly,
'though God knows my heart is full of misery at this moment, and
though I know that at your bidding death will so soon claim me
and my father as his own, yet would I not change my wretchedness
for yours.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And I, citizeness,' he said roughly, addressing
her for the first time in the manner prescribed by the revolutionary
government, 'would not change places with any king or other tyrant
on earth. Yes,' he added as he came a step or two closer to her,
'I have waited all these years. For four years I have thought
and striven and planned, planned to be even with your father and
with you one day. You had fled the country -- like cowards, bah!--
ready to lend your arms to the foreigner against your own country
in order to re-establish a tyrant upon the throne whom the whole
of the people of France loathed and detested. You had fled, but
soon I learned whither you had gone. Then I set to work to gain
access to you . . . I learned English . . . I too went to England
. . . under an assumed name. . . with the necessary introductions
so as to gain a footing in the circles in which you moved. I won
your father's condescension -- almost his friendship! . . . The
rich banker from Brest should be fleeced in order to provide funds
for the armies that were to devastate France -- and the rich banker
of Brest refused to be fleeced unless he was lured by the promise
of Mlle. de Kernogan's hand in marriage.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You need not, Monsieur,' rejoined Yvonne coldly,
while Martin-Roget paused in order to draw breath, 'you need not,
believe me, take the trouble to recount all the machinations which
you carried through in order to gain your ends. Enough that my
father was so foolish as to trust you, and that we are now completely
in your power, but. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'There is no &quot;but,&quot; ' he broke in
gruffly, 'you are in my power and will be made to learn the law
of the talion which demands an eye for an eye, a life for a life:
that is the law which the people are applying to that herd of
aristos who were arrogant tyrants once and are shrinking, cowering
slaves now. Oh! you were very proud that night, Mademoiselle Yvonne
de Kernogan, when a few peasant lads told you some home truths
while you sat disdainful and callous in your carriage, but there
is one fact that you can never efface from your memory, strive
how you may, and that is that for a few minutes I held you in
my arms and that I kissed you, my fine lady, aye! kissed you like
I would any pert kitchen wench, even I, Pierre Adet, the miller's
son.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He drew nearer and nearer to her as he spoke;
she, leaning against the taffrail, could not retreat any further
from him. He laughed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If you fall over into the water, I shall not
complain,' he said, 'it will save our proconsul the trouble, and
the guillotine some work. But you need not fear. I am not trying
to kiss you again. You are nothing to me, you and your father,
less than nothing. Your death in misery and wretchedness is all
I want, whether you find a dishonoured grave in the Loire or by
suicide I care less than nothing. But let me tell you this,' he
added, and his voice came now like a hissing sound through his
set teeth, 'that there is no intention on my part to make glorious
martyrs of you both. I dare say you have heard some pretty stories
over in England or aristos climbing the steps of the guillotine
with an ecstatic look of martyrdom upon their face: and tales
of the tumbrils of Paris laden with men and women going to their
death and shouting &quot;God save the King&quot; all the way.
That is not the sort of paltry revenge which would satisfy me.
My father was hanged by yours as a malefactor -- hanged, I say,
like a common thief! he, a man who had never wronged a single
soul in the whole course of his life, who had been an example
of fine living, of hard work, of noble courage through many adversities.
My mother was left a widow -- not the honoured widow of an honourable
man-- but a pariah, the relict of a malefactor who had died of
the hangman's rope -- my sister was left an orphan -- dishonoured--
without hope of gaining the love of a respectable man. All that
I and my family owe to ci-devant M. le duc de Kernogan, and therefore
I tell you, that both he and his daughter shall not die like martyrs
but like malefactors too --shamed-- dishonoured -- loathed and
execrated even by their own kindred! Take note of that, M. le
duc de Kernogan! You have sown shame, shame shall you reap! and
the name of which you are so proud will be dragged in the mire
until it has become a by-word in the land for all that is despicable
and base.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Perhaps at no time of his life had Martin-Roget,
erstwhile Pierre Adet, spoken with such an intensity of passion,
even though he was at all times turbulent and a ready prey to
his own emotions. But all that he had kept hidden in the inmost
recesses of his heart, ever since as a young stripling he had
chafed at the social conditions of his country, now welled forth
in that wild harangue. For the first time in his life he felt
that he was really master of those who had once despised and oppressed
him. He held them and was the arbiter of their fate. The sense
of possession and of power had gone to his head like wine: he
was intoxicated with his own feeling of triumphant revenge, and
this impassioned rhetoric flowed from his mouth like the insentient
babble of a drunken man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The duc de Kernogan, sitting on the coil of
cordages with his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his
hands, had no thought of breaking in on the other man's ravings.
The bitterness of remorse paralyzed his thinking faculties. Martin-Roget's
savage words struck upon his senses like blows from a sledge-hammer.
He knew that nothing but his own folly was the cause of Yvonne's
and his own misfortune. Yvonne had been safe from all evil fortune
under the protection of her fine young English husband; he --
the father who should have been her chief protector-- had dragged
her by brute force away from that husband's care and had landed
her . . . where? . . . A shudder like acute ague went through
the unfortunate man's whole body as he thought of the future.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nor did Yvonne Dewhurst attempt to make reply
to her enemy's delirious talk. She would not give him even the
paltry satisfaction of feeling that he had stung her into a retort.
She did not fear him -- she hated him too much for that -- but
like her father she had no illusions as to his power over them
both. While he stormed and raved she kept her eyes steadily fixed
upon him. She could only just barely distinguish him in the gloom,
and he no doubt failed to see the expression of lofty indifference
wherewith she contrived to regard him: but he <I>felt</I> her
contempt, and but for the presence of the sailors on the deck
he probably would have struck her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As it was when, from sheer lack of breath,
he had to pause, he gave one last look of hate on the huddled
figure of the duc, and the proud, upstanding one of Yvonne, then
with a laugh which sounded like that of a fiend -- so cruel, so
callous was it, he turned on his heel, and as he strode away towards
the bow his tall figure was soon absorbed in the surrounding gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The duc de Kernogan and his daughter saw little
or nothing of Martin-Roget after that. For awhile longer they
caught sight of him from time to time as he walked up and down
the deck with ceaseless restlessness and in the company of another
man, who was much shorter and slimmer than himself and whom they
had not noticed hitherto. Martin-Roget talked most of the time
in a loud and excited voice, the other appearing to listen to
him with a certain air of deference. Whether the conversation
between these two was actually intended for the ears of the two
unfortunates, or whether it was merely chance which brought certain
phrases to their ears when the two men passed closely by, it were
impossible to say. Certain it is that from such chance phrases
they gathered that the barque would not put into Nantes, as the
navigation of the Loire was suspended for the nonce by order of
Proconsul Carrier. He had need of the river for his awesome and
nefarious deeds. Yvonne's ears were regaled with tales -- told
with loud ostentation-- of the terrible <I>noyades</I>, the wholesale
drowning of men, women and children, malefactors and traitors,
so as to ease the burden of the guillotine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After three bells it got so bitterly cold that
Yvonne, fearing that her father would become seriously ill, suggested
their going down to their stuffy cabins together. After all, even
the foul and shut-up atmosphere of these close, airless cupboards
was preferable to the propinquity of those two human fiends up
on deck and the tales of horror and brutality which they loved
to tell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And for two hours after that, father and daughter
sat in the narrow cell-like place, locked in each other's arms.
She had everything to forgive, and he everything to atone for:
but Yvonne suffered so acutely, her misery was so great that she
found it in her heart to pity the father whose misery must have
been even greater than hers. The supreme solace of bestowing love
and forgiveness and of easing the racking paroxysms of remorse
which brought the unfortunate man to the verge of dementia, warmed
her heart towards him and brought surcease to her own sorrow.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter I<BR>
The Tiger's Lair</FONT><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nantes is in the grip of the tiger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Representative Carrier -- with powers as of
a proconsul -- has been sent down to stamp out the lingering remnants
of the counter-revolution.  La Vend&eacute;e is temporarily subdued;
the army of the royalists driven back across the Loire; but traitors
still abound -- this the National Convention in Paris hath decreed
-- there are traitors everywhere.  They were not<I> all</I> massacred
at Cholet and Savenay.  Disbanded, yes! but not exterminated,
and wolves must not be allowed to run loose, lest they band again,
and try to devour the flocks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Therefore extermination is the order of the
day.  Every traitor or would-be traitor -- every son and daughter
and father and mother of traitors must be destroyed ere they do
more mischief.  And Carrier -- Carrier the coward who turned tail
and bolted at Cholet -- is sent to Nantes to carry on the work
of destruction.  Wolves and wolflings all!  Let none survive.
 Give them fair trial, of course.  As traitors they deserve death
-- have they not taken up arms against the Republic and against
the Will and the Reign of the People?  But let a court of justice
sit in Nantes town; let the whole nation know how traitors are
dealt with: let the nation see that her rulers are both wise and
just.  Let wolves and wolflings be brought up for trial, and set
up the guillotine on Place du Bouffay with four executioners appointed
to do her work.  There would be too much work for two, or even
three.  Let there be four -- and let the work of extermination
be complete.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Carrier -- with powers as of a proconsul
-- arrives in Nantes town and sets to work to organize his household.
 Civil and military -- with pomp and circumstance -- for the son
of a small farmer, destined originally for the Church and for
obscurity is now virtual autocrat in one of the great cities of
France.  He has power of life and death over thousands of citizens
-- under the direction of justice, of course!  So now he has citizens
of the bedchamber, and citizens of the household, he has a guard
of honour and a company of citizens of the guard.  And above all
he has a crowd of spies around him -- servants of the Committee
of Public Safety so they are called -- they style themselves &quot;La
Compagnie Marat&quot; in honour of the great patriot who was foully
murdered by a female wolfling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So la Compagnie Marat is formed -- they wear
red bonnets on their heads-- no stockings on their feet -- short
breeches to display their bare shins: their captain, Fleury, has
access at all times to the person of the proconsul, to make report
on the raids which his company effect at all hours of the day
or night.  Their powers are supreme too.  In and out of houses
-- however private -- up and down the streets -- through shops,
taverns, and warehouses, along the quays and the yards -- everywhere
they go.  Everywhere they have the right to go! to ferret and
to spy, to listen, to search, to interrogate -- the red-capped
Company is paid for what it can find.  Piece-work, what?  Work
for the guillotine!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And they it is who keep the guillotine busy.
 Too busy in fact.  And the court of justice sitting in the H&ocirc;tel
du D&eacute;partement is overworked too.  Carrier gets impatient.
 Why waste the time of patriots by so much paraphernalia of justice?
 Wolves and wolflings can be exterminated so much more quickly,
more easily than that.  It only needs a stroke of genius, one
stroke, and Carrier has it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He invents the <I>Noyades!</I></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Drownages we may call them!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They are so simple!  An old flat-bottomed barge.
 The work of two or three ship's carpenters!  Portholes below
the water-line and made to open at a given moment.  All so very,
very simple.  Then a journey downstream as far as Belle Isle or
la Mar&eacute;chale, and &quot;sentence of deportation&quot; executed
without any trouble on a whole crowd of traitors -- &quot;vertical
deportation&quot; Carrier calls it facetiously and is mightily
proud of his invention and of his witticism too.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The first attempt was highly successful.  Ninety
priests, and not one escaped.  Think of the work it would have
entailed on the guillotine -- and on the friends of Carrier who
sit in justice in the H&ocirc;tel du D&eacute;partement!  Ninety
heads!  Bah!  That old flat-bottomed barge is the most wonderful
labour-saving machine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that the &quot;Drownages&quot; become
the order of the day.  The red-capped Company recruits victims
for the hecatomb and over Nantes Town there hangs a pall of unspeakable
horror.  The prisons are not vast enough to hold all the victims,
so the huge entrep&ocirc;t, the bonded warehouse on the quay,
is converted: instead of chests of coffee it is now encumbered
with human freight: into it pell-mell are thrown all those who
are destined to assuage Carrier's passion for killing: ten thousand
of them: men, women, and young children, counter-revolutionists,
innocent tradesmen, thieves, aristocrats, criminals, and women
of evil fame -- they are herded together like cattle, without
straw whereon to lie, without water, without fire, with barely
food enough to keep up the last attenuated thread of a miserable
existence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And when the warehouse gets over full, to the
Loire with them! -- a hundred or two at a time!  Pestilence, dysentery
decimates their numbers.  Under pretence of hygienic requirements
two hundred are flung into the river on the 14th day of December.
 Two hundred -- many of them women -- crowds of children and a
batch of parish priests.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Some there are among Carrier's colleagues --
those up in Paris -- who protest!  Such wholesale butchery will
not redound to the credit of any revolutionary government -- it
even savours of treachery -- it is unpatriotic!  There are the
emissaries of the National Convention, deputed from Paris to supervise
and control -- they protest as much as they dare -- but such men
are swept off their feet by the torrent of Carrier's gluttony
for blood.  Carrier's mission is to &quot;purge the political
body of every evil that infests it.&quot;  Vague and yet precise!
 He reckons that he has full powers and thinks he can flaunt those
powers in the face of those sent to control him.  He does it too
for three whole months ere he in his turn meets his doom.  But
for the moment he is omnipotent.  He has to make report every
week to the Committee of Public Safety, and he sends brief, garbled
versions of his doings.  'He is pacifying La Vend&eacute;e! he
is stamping out the remnants of the rebellion! he is purging the
political body of every evil that infests it.'  Anon he succeeds
in getting the emissaries of the National Convention recalled.
 He is impatient of control.  'They are weak, pusillanimous, unpatriotic!
 He must have freedom to act for the best.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that he remains virtual dictator, with
none but obsequious, terrified myrmidons around him: these are
too weak to oppose him in any way.  And the municipality dare
not protest either -- nor the district council -- nor the departmental.
 They are merely sheep who watch others of their flock being sent
to the slaughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that from within his lair the man tiger
decides that it is a pity to waste good barges on the cattle:
'Fling them out!' he cries.  'Fling them out!  Tie two and two
together.  Man and woman!  criminal and aristo! the theif and
the ci-devant duke's daughter! the ci-devant marquis with the
slut from the streets!  Fling them all out together into the Loire
and pour a hail of grape shot above them until the last struggler
has disappeared!  Equality!' he cries, 'Equality for all!  Fraternity!
Unity in death!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His friends call this new invention of his:
 'Marriage R&eacute;publican!' and he is pleased with the <I>mot</I>.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Republican marriages become the order of
the day.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nantes itself now is akin to a desert -- a
desert wherein the air is filled with weird sounds of cries and
of moans, of furtive footsteps scurrying away into dark and secluded
byways, of musketry and confused noises, of sorrow and of lamentations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nantes is a city of the dead -- a city of sleepers.
 Only Carrier is awake -- thinking and devising and planning shorter
ways and swifter, for the extermination of traitors.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the H&ocirc;tel de la Villestreux the tiger
has built his lair: at the apex of the island of Feydeau, with
the windows of the hotel facing straight down the Loire.  From
here there is a magnificent view downstream upon the quays which
are now deserted and upon the once prosperous port of Nantes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The staircase of the hotel which leads up to
the apartments of the proconsul is crowded every day and all day
with suppliants and with petitioners, with the citizens of the
household and the members of the Compagnie Marat.  But no one
has access to the person of the dictator.  He stands aloof, apart,
hidden from the eyes of the world, a mysterious personality whose
word sends hundreds to their death, whose arbitrary will has reduced
a once flourishing city to abject poverty and squalor.  No tyrant
has ever surrounded himself with a greater paraphernalia of pomp
and circumstance -- no aristo has ever dwelt in greater luxury:
 the spoils of churches and chateaux fill the H&ocirc;tel de la
Villestreux from attic to cellar, gold and silver plate adorn
his table, priceless works of art hang upon his walls, he lolls
on couches and chairs which have been the resting place of kings.
 The wholesale spoliation of the entire country-side has filled
the demagogue's abode with all that is most sumptuous in the land.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he himself is far more inaccessible than
was le Roi Soleil in the days of his most towering arrogance,
than were the Popes in the glorious days of medieval Rome.  Jean
Baptiste Carrier, the son of a small farmer, the obscure deputy
for Cantal in the National Convention, dwells in the H&ocirc;tel
de la Villestreux as in a stronghold.  No one is allowed near
him save a few -- a very few -- intimates:  his valet, two or
three women, Fleury the commander of the Marats, and that strange
and abominable youngster, Jacques Lalou&euml;tm about whom the
chroniclers of that tragic epoch can tell us so little -- a cynical
young braggart, said to be a cousin of Robespierre and the son
of a midwife of Nantes, beardless, handsome and vicious: the only
human being -- so we are told -- who had any influence over the
sinister proconsul: mere hanger-on of Carrier or spy of the National
Convention, no one can say -- a malignant personality which has
remained an enigma and a mystery to this hour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">None but these few are ever allowed now inside
the inner sanctuary wherein dwells and schemes the dictator. 
Even Lamberty, Fouquet and the others of the staff are kept at
arm's length.  Martin-Roget, Chauvelin and other strangers are
only allowed as far as the ante-room.  The door of the inner chamber
is left open and they hear the proconsul's voice and see his silhouette
pass and repass in front of them, but that is all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fear of assassination -- the inevitable destiny
of the tyrant -- haunts the man-tiger even within the fastnesses
of his lair.  Day and night a carriage with four horses stands
in readiness on La Petite Hollande, the great, open, tree-bordered
Place at the extreme end of the Isle Feydeau and on which give
the windows of the H&ocirc;tel de la Villestreux.  Day and night
the carriage is ready -- with coachman on the box and postillion
in the saddle, who are relieved every two hours lest they get
sleepy or slack -- with luggage in the boot and provisions always
kept fresh inside the coach; everything always ready lest something
-- a warning from a friend or a threat from an enemy, or merely
a sudden access of unreasoning terror, the haunting memory of
a bloody act -- should decide the tyrant at a moment's notice
to fly from the scenes of his brutalities.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier in the small room which he has fitted
up for himself as a sumptuous boudoir, paces up and down just
like a wild beast in its cage: and he rubs his large bony hands
together with the excitement engendered by his own cruelties,
by the success of this wholesale butchery which he has invented
and carried through.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There never was an uglier man than Carrier,
with that long hatchet-face of his, those abnormally high cheek
bones, that stiff, lanky hair, that drooping, flaccid mouth and
protruding underlip.  Nature seemed to have set herself the task
of making the face of a true mirror of the soul -- the dark and
hideous soul on which of a surety Satan had already set his stamp.
 But he is dressed with scrupulous care -- not to say elegance
-- and with a display of jewelry the provenance of which is as
unjustifiable as that of the works of art which fill his private
sanctum in every nook and cranny.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In front of the tall window, heavy curtains
of crimson damask are drawn closely together, in order to shut
out the light of day: the room is in all but total darkness: for
that is the proconsul's latest caprice: that no one shall see
him save in semi-obscurity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Captain Fleury has stumbled into the room,
swearing lustily as he barks his shins against the angle of a
priceless Louis XV bureau.  He has to make report on the work
done by the Compagnie Marat.  Fifty-three priests from the department
of Anjou who have refused to take the new oath of obedience to
the government of the Republic.  The red-capped Company who tracked
them down and arrested them, vow that all these <I>calotins</I>
have precious objects -- money, jewelry, gold plate -- concealed
about their persons.  What is to be done about these things? 
Are the <I>calotins</I> to be allowed to keep them or to dispose
of them for their own profit?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier is highly delighted.  What a haul!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Confiscate everything,' he cries, 'then ship
the whole crowd of that pestilential rabble, and don't let me
hear another word about them.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury goes.  And that same night fifty-three
priests are 'shipped' in accordance with the orders of the proconsul,
and Carrier, still rubbing his large bony hands contentedly together,
exclaims with glee:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What a torrent, eh!  What a torrent!  What
a revolution!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he sends a letter to Robespierre.  And
to the Committee of Public Safety he makes report:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Public spirit in Nantes,' he writes, 'is magnificent:
it has risen to the most sublime heights of revolutionary ideals.'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After the departure of Fleury, Carrier suddenly
turned to a slender youth, who was standing close by the window,
gazing out through the folds of the curtain on the fine vista
of the Loire and the quays which stretched out before him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Introduce citizen Martin-Roget into the ante-room
now, Lalou&euml;t,' he said loftily.  'I will hear what he has
to say, and citizen Chauvelin may present himself at the same
time.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Young Lalou&euml;t lolled across the room,
smothering a yawn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Why should you trouble about all that rabble?'
he said roughly, 'it is nearly dinner-time and you know that the
chef hates the soup to be kept waiting.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I shall not trouble about them very long,'
replied Carrier, who had just started picking his teeth with a
tiny gold tool.  'Open the door, boy, and let the two men come.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lalou&euml;t did as he was told.  The door
through which he passed he left wide open, he then crossed the
ante-room to a further door, threw it open and called in a loud
voice:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Citizen Chauvelin!  Citizen Martin-Roget!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For all the world like the ceremonious audiences
at Versailles in the days of the great Louis.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was sound of eager whisperings, of shuffling
of feet, of chairs dragged across the polished floor.  Young Lalou&euml;t
had already and quite unconcernedly turned his back on the two
men who, at his call, had entered the room.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two chairs were placed in front of the door
which led to the private sanctuary -- still wrapped in religious
obscurity -- where Carrier sat enthroned.  The youth curtly pointed
to the two chairs, then went back to the inner room.  The two
men advanced.  The full light of midday fell upon them from the
tall window on their right -- the pale, grey, colourless light
of December.  They bowed slightly in the direction of the audience
chamber where the vague silhouette of the proconsul was alone
visible.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The whole thing was a farce.  Martin-Roget
held his lips tightly closed together lest a curse or a sneer
escaped them.  Chauvelin's face was impenetrable -- but it is
worthy of note that just one year later when the half-demented
tyrant was in his turn brought before the bar of the convention
and sentenced to the guillotine, it was citizen Chauvelin's testimony
which weighed most heavily against him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was silence for a time: Martin-Roget
and Chauvelin were waiting for the dictator's word.  He sat at
his desk with the scanty light, which filtrated between the curtains,
immediately behind him, his ungainly form with the high shoulders
and mop-like, shaggy hair half swallowed up by the surrounding
gloom.  He was deliberately keeping the other two men waiting
and busied himself with turning over desultorily the papers and
writing tools upon his desk, in the intervals of picking at his
teeth and muttering to himself all the time as was his wont. 
Young Lalou&euml;t had resumed his post beside the curtained window
and he was giving sundry signs of his growing impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At last Carrier spoke:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And now, citizen Martin-Roget,' he said in
tones of that lofty condescension which he loved to affect, 'I
am prepared to hear what you have to tell me with regard to the
cattle which you brought into our city the other day.  Where are
the aristos now? and why have they not been handed over to commandant
Fleury?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The girl,' replied Martin-Roget, who had much
ado to keep his vehement temper in check, and who chose for the
moment to ignore the second of Carrier's peremptory queries, 'the
girl is in lodgings in the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie.  The
house is kept by my sister, whose lover was hanged four years
ago by the ci-devant duc de Kernogan for trapping two pigeons.
 A dozen or so lads from our old village -- men who worked with
my father and others who were my friends -- lodge in my sister's
house.  They keep a watchful eye over the wench for the sake of
the past, for my sake and for the sake of my sister Louise.  The
ci-devant Kernogan woman is well-guarded.  I am satisfied as to
that.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And where is the ci-devant duc?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'In the house next door -- a tavern at the
sign of the Rat Mort -- a place which is none too reputable, but
the landlord -- Lemoine-- is a good patriot and he is keeping
a close eye on the aristo for me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And now will you tell me, citizen,' rejoined
Carrier with that unctuous suavity which always veiled a threat,
'will you tell me how it comes that you are keeping a couple of
traitors alive all this while at the country's expense?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'At mine,' broke in Martin-Roget curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'At the country's expense,' reiterated the
proconsul inflexibly.  'Bread is scarce in Nantes.  What traitors
eat is stolen from good patriots.  If you can afford to fill two
mouths at your expense, I can supply you with some that have never
done aught but proclaim their adherence to the Republic.  You
have had these two aristos inside the city nearly a week and --'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Only three days,' interposed Martin-Roget,
'and you must have patience with me, citizen Carrier.  Remember
I hae done well by you, by bringing such high game to your bag
--'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Your high game will be no use to me,' retorted
the other with a harsh laugh, 'if I am not to have the cooking
of it.  You have talked of disgrace for the rabble and of your
own desire for vengeance over them, but --'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Wait, citizen,' broke in Martin-Roget firmly,
'let us understand one another.  Before I embarked on this business
you gave me your promise that no one -- not even you -- would
interfere between me and my booty.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And no one has done so hitherto to my knowledge,
citizen,' rejoined Carrier blandly.  'The Kernogan rabble has
been yours to do with what you like -- er -- so far,' he added
significantly.  'I said that I would not interfere and I have
not done so up to now, even though the pestilential crowd stinks
in the nostrils of every good patriot in Nantes.  But I don't
deny that it was a bargain that you should have a free hand with
them . . . for a time, and Jean Baptiste Carrier has never yet
gone back on a given word.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget made no comment on this peroration.
 He shrugged his broad shoulders and suddenly fell to contemplating
the distant landscape.  He had turned his head away in order to
hide the sneer which curled his lips at the recollection of that
'bargain' struck with the imperious proconsul.  It was a matter
of five thousand francs which had passed from one pocket to the
other and had bound Carrier down to definite promise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After a brief while Carrier resumed: 'At the
same time,' he said, 'my promise was conditional, remember.  I
want that cattle out of Nantes -- I want the bread they eat --
I want the room they occupy.  I can't allow you to play fast and
loose with them indefinitely -- a week is quite long enough--'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Three days,' corrected Martin-Roget once more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well! three days or eight,' rejoined the other
roughly.  'Too long in any case.  I must be rid of them out of
this city or I shall have all the spies of the Convention about
mine ears.  I am beset with spies, citizen Martin-Roget, yes,
even I -- Jean Baptiste Carrier -- the most selfless, the most
devoted patriot the Republic has ever known!  Mine enemies up
in Paris send spies to dog my footsteps, to watch mine every action.
 They are ready to pounce upon me at the slightest slip, to denounce
me, to drag me to their bar -- they have already whetted the knife
of the guillotine which is to lay low the head of the finest patriot
in France--'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Hold on! hold on, Jean Baptiste my friend,'
here broke in young Lalou&euml;t with a sneer, 'we don't want
protestations of your patriotism just now.  It is nearly dinner
time.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier had been carried away by his own eloquence.
 At Lalou&euml;t's mocking words he pulled himself together: murmured:
'You young viper!' in tones of tigerish affection, and then turned
back to Martin-Roget and resumed more calmly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'They'll be saying that I harbour aristos in
Nantes if I keep that Kernogan rabble here any longer.  So I must
be rid of them, citizen Martin-Roget. . . say within the next
four-and-twenty hours . . .'  He paused for a moment or two, then
added drily: 'That is my last word, and you must see to it.  What
is it you do want to do with them enfin?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I want their death,' replied Martin-Roget
with a curse, and he brought his heavy fist crashing down upon
the arm of his chair, 'but not a martyr's death, understand? 
I don't want the pathetic figure of Yvonne Kernogan and her father
to remain as a picture of patient resignation in the hearts and
minds of every other aristo in the land.  I don't want it to excite
pity or admiration.  Death is nothing for such as they! they glory
in it! they are proud to die.  The guillotine is their final triumph!
 What I want for them is shame . . . degradation . . a sensational
trial that will cover them with dishonour. . . I want their name
dragged in the mire -- themselves an object of derision or of
loathing.  I want articles in the Moniteur giving account of the
trial of the ci-devant duc de Kernogan and his daughter for something
that is ignominious and base.  I want shame and mud slung at them
-- noise and beating of drums to proclaim their dishonour.  Noise!
noise! that will reach every corner of the land, aye that will
reach Coblentz and Germany and England.  It is that which they
would resent -- the shame of it -- the disgrace of their name!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tshaw!' exclaimed Carrier.  'Why don't you
marry the wench, citizen Martin-Roget?  That would be disgrace
enough for her, I'll warrant,' he added with a loud laugh, enchanted
at his witticism.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I would to-morrow,' replied the other, who
chose to ignore the coarse insult, 'if she would consent.  That
is why I have kept her at my sister's house these three days.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Bah! you have no need of a traitor's consent.
 My consent is sufficient . . . I'll give it if you like.  The
laws of the Republic permit, nay desire every good patriot to
ally himself with an aristo, if he have a mind.  And the Kernogan
wench face to face with the guillotine -- or worse -- would surely
prefer your embraces, citizen, what?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A deep frown settled between Martin-Roget's
glowering eyes, and gave his face a sinister expression.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I wonder. . .' he muttered between his teeth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then cease wondering, citizen,' retorted Carrier
cynically, 'and try our Republican marriage on your Kernogans
. . . thief linked aristo, cut-throat to a proud wench . . . and
then the Loire!  Shame?  Dishonour?  Fal lal I say!  Death, swift
and sure and unerring.  Nothing better has yet been invented for
traitors.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You have never known,' he said quietly, 'what
it is to hate.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier uttered an exclamation of impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Bah!' he said, 'that is all talk and nonsense.
 Theories, what?  Citizen Chauvelin is a living example of the
futility of all that rubbish.  He too has an enemy it seems whom
he hates more thoroughly than any good patriot has ever hated
the enemies of the Republic.  And hath this deadly hatred availed
him, forsooth?  He too wanted the disgrace and dishonour of that
confounded Englishman whom I would simply have tossed into the
Loire long ago, without further process.  What is the result?
 The Englishman is over in England, safe and sound, making long
noses at citizen Chauvelin, who has much ado to keep his own head
out of the guillotine.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget once more was silent: a look of
sullen obstinacy had settled upon his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You may be right, citizen Carrier,' he muttered
after awhile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am always right,' broke in Carrier curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Exactly . . . but I have your promise.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And I'll keep it, as I have said, for another
four and twenty hours.  Curse you for a mulish fool,' added the
proconsul with a snarl, 'what in the d----l's name do you want
to do?  You have talked a vast deal of rubbish but you have told
me nothing to your plans.  Have you any . . . that are worthy
of my attention?'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget rose from his seat and began pacing
up and down the narrow room.  His nerves were obviously on edge.
 It was difficult for any man -- let alone one of his temperament
and half-tutored disposition -- to remain calm and deferential
in face of the overbearance of this brutal Jack-in-office.  Martin-Roget
-- himself an upstart -- loathed the offensive self-assertion
of that uneducated and bestial parvenu, who had become all-powerful
through the sole might of his savagery, and it cost him a mighty
effort to keep a violent retort from escaping his lips -- a retort
which probably would have cose him his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin, on the other hand, appeared perfectly
unconcerned.  He possessed the art of outward placidity to a masterly
degree.  Throughout all this while he had taken no part in the
discussion.  He sat silent and all but motionless, facing the
darkened room in front of him, as if he had done nothing else
in all his life but interview great dictators who chose to keep
their sacred persons in the dark.  Only from time to time did
his slender fingers drum a tattoo on the arm of his chair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier had resumed his interesting occupation
of picking his teeth: his long, thin legs were stretched out before
him; from beneath his flaccid lids he shot swift glances upwards,
whenever Martin-Roget in his restless pacing crossed and recrossed
in frong of the open door.  But anon, when the latter came to
a halt under the lintel and with his foot almost across the threshold,
young Lalou&euml;t was upon him in an instant, barring the way
to the inner sanctum.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Keep your distance, citizen,' he said drily,
'no one is allowed to enter here.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinctively Martin-Roget had drawn back --
suddenly awed despite himself by the air of mystery which hung
over that darkened room, and by the dim silhouette of the sinister
tyrant who at his approach had with equal suddenness cowered in
his lair, drawing his limbs together and thrusting his head forward,
low down over the desk, like a leopard crouching for a spring.
 But this spell of awe only lasted a few seconds, during which
Martin-Roget's unsteady gaze encountered the half-mocking, wholly
supercilious glance of young Lalou&euml;t.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next, he had recovered his presence of
mind.  But this crowning act of audacious insolence broke the
barrier of his self-restraint.  An angry oath escaped him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Are we,' he exclaimed roughly, 'back in the
days of Capet, the tyrant, and of Versailles, that patriots and
citizens are treated like menials and obtrusive slaves?  Pardieu,
citizen Carrier, let me tell you this. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pardieu, citizen Martin-Roget,' retorted Carrier
with a growl like that of a savage dog, 'let <I>me</I> tell <I>you</I>
that for less than two pins I'll throw you into the next barge
that will float with open portholes down the Loire.  Get out of
my presence, you swine, ere I call Fleury to throw you out.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget at the insult and the threat had
become as pale as the linen at his throat: a cold sweat broke
out upon his forehead and he passed his hand two or three times
across his brow like a man dazed with a sudden and violent blow.
 His nerves, already overstrained and very much on edge, gave
way completely.  He staggered and would have measured his length
across the floor, but that his hand encountered the back of his
chair and he just contrived to sink into it, sick and faint, horror-struck
and pallid.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A low cackle -- something like a laugh -- broke
from Chauvelin's thin lips.  As usual he had witnessed the scene
quite unmoved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'My friend Martin-Roget forgot himself for
the moment, citizen Carrier,' he said suavely, 'already he is
ready to make amends.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jacques Lalou&euml;t looked down for a moment
with infinite scorn expressed in his fine eyes, on the presumptuous
creature who had dared to defy the omnipotent representative of
the People.  Then he turned on his heel, but he did not go far
this time: he remained standing close beside the door -- the terrier
guarding his master.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier laughed loud and long.  It was a hideous,
strident laugh which had not a tone of merriment in it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Wake up, friend Martin-Roget,' he said harshly,
'I bear no malice: I am a good dog when I am treated the right
way.  But if any one pulls my tail or treads on my paws, why!
 I snarl and growl of course.  If the offense is repeated . .
. I bite . . . remember that; and now let us resume our discourse,
though I confess I am getting tired of your Kernogan rabble.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While the great man spoke, Martin-Roget had
succeeded in pullin himself together.  His throat felt parched,
his hands hot and moist:  he was like a man who had been stumbling
along a road in the dark and been suddenly pulled up on the edge
of a yawning abyss into which he had all but fallen.  With a few
harsh words, with a monstrous insult Carrier had made him feel
the gigantic power which could hurl any man from the heights of
self-assurance and of ambition to the lowest depths of degradation:
he had shown him the glint of steel upon the guillotine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had been hit as with a sledge-hammer --
the blow hurt terribly, for it had knocked all his self-esteem
into nothingness and pulverized his self-conceit.  It had in one
moment turned him into a humble and cringing sycophant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I had no mind,' he began tentatively, 'to
give offence.  My thoughts were bent on the Kernogans.  They are
a find haul for us both, citizen Carrier, and I worked hard and
long to obtain their confidence over in England and to induce
them to come with me to Nantes.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No one denies that you have done well,' retorted
Carrier gruffly and not yet wholly pacified.  'If the haul had
not been worth having you would have received no help from me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I have shown my gratitude for your help, citizen
Carrier.  I would show it again. . . more substantially if you
desire . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He spoke slowly and quite deferentially but
the suggestion was obvious.  Carrier looked up into his face:
the light of measureless cupidity -- the cupidity of the coarse-grained,
enriched peasant -- glittered in his pale eyes.  It was by a great
effort of will that he succeeded in concealing his eagerness beneath
his habitual air of lofty condescension:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Eh?  What?' he queried airily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If another five thousand francs is of any
use to you  . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You seem passing rich, Martin-Roget,' sneered
Carrier.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I have slaved and saved for four years.  What
I have amassed I will sacrifice for the complettion of my revenge.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well!' rejoined Carrier with an expressive
wave of the hand, 'it certainly is not good for a pure-minded
republican to own too much wealth.  Have we not fought,' he continued
with a grandiloquent gesture, 'for equality of fortune as well
as of privileges. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A sardonic laugh from young Lalou&euml;t broke
in on the proconsul's eloquent effusion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier swore as was his wont, but after a
second or two he began again more quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I will accept a further six thousand francs
from you, citizen Martin-Roget, in the name of the Republic and
all her needs.  The Republic of France is up in arms against the
entire world.  She hath need of men, of arms, of . . . '</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh! cut that,' interposed young Lalou&euml;t
roughly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the over-vain, high and mighty despot who
was ready to lash out with unbridled fury against the slightest
show of disrespect on the part of any other man, only laughed
at the boy's impudence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Curse you, you young viper,' he said with
that rude familiarity which he seemed to reserve for the boy,
'you presume too much on my forbearance.  These children you know,
citizen . . . Name of a dog!' he added roughly, 'we are wasting
time!  What was I saying . . .?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That you would take six thousand francs,'
replied Martin-Roget curtly, 'in return for further help in the
matter of the Kernogans.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Why, yes!' rejoined Carrier blandly, 'I was
forgetting.  But I'll show you what a good dog I am.  I'll help
you with those Kernogans . . . but you mistook my words, citizen:
'tis ten thousand francs you must pour into the coffers of the
Republic, for her servants will have to be placed at the disposal
of your private schemes of vengeance.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ten thousand francs is a large sum,' said
Martin-Roget.  'Let me hear what you will do for me for that.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had regained something of his former complacency.
 The man who buys -- be it goods, consciences or services -- is
always for the moment master of the man who sells.  Carrier, despite
his dictatorial ways, felt this disadvantage, no doubt, for his
tone was more bland, his manner less curt.  Only young Jacques
Lalou&euml;t  stood by -- like a snarling terrier -- still arrogant
and still disdainful -- the master of the situation -- seeing
that neither schemes of vengeance nor those of corruption had
ruffled his self-assurance.  He remained beside the door, ready
to pounce on either of the two intruders if they showed the slightest
sign of forgetting the majesty of the great proconsul.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I told you just now, citizen Martin-Roget,'
resumed Carrier after a brief pause, 'and I suppose you knew it
already, that I am surrounded with spies.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Spies, citizen?' murmured Martin-Roget, somewhat
taken aback by this sudden irrelevance.  'I didn't know . . .
I imagine . . . Any one in your position . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That's just it,' broke in Carrier roughly.
 'My position is envied by those who are less competent, less
patriotic than I am.  Nantes is swarming with spies.  Mine enemies
in Paris are working against me.  They want to undermine the confidence
which the National Convention reposes in her accredited representative.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Preposterous,' ejaculated young Lalou&euml;t
solemnly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well!' rejoined Carrier with a savage oath,
'you would have thought that the Convention would be only too
thankful to get a strong man at the head of affairs in this hotbed
of treason and of rebellion.  You would have thought that it was
no one's affair to interfere with the manner in which I administer
the powers that have been given me.  I command in Nantes, what?
 Yet some busy-bodies up in Paris, some fools, seem to think that
we are going too fast in Nantes.  They have become weaklings over
there since Marat has gone.  It seems that they have heard rumours
of our flat-bottomed barges and of our fine Republican marriages:
apparently they disapprove of both.  They don't realize that we
have to purge an entire city of every kind of rabble -- traitors
as well as criminals.  They don't understand my aspirations, my
ideals,' he added loftily and with a wide, sweeping gesture of
his arm, 'which is to make Nantes a model city, to free her from
the taint of crime and of treachery, and . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An impatient exclamation from young Lalou&euml;t
once again broke in on Carrier's rhetoric, and Martin-Roget was
able to slip in the query which had been hovering on his lips:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And is this relevant, citizen Carrier,' he
asked, 'to the subject which we have been discussing?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It is,' replied Carrier drily, 'as you will
see in a moment.  Learn then, that it has been my purpose for
some time to silence mine enemies by sending to the National Convention
a tangible reply to all the accusations which have been levelled
against me.  It is my purpose to explain to the Assembly my reasons
for mine actions in Nantes, my Drownages, my Republican marriages,
all the coercive measures which I have been forced to take in
order to purge the city from all that is undesirable.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And think you, citizen Carrier,' queried Martin-Roget
without the slightest trace of a sneer, 'that up in Paris they
will understand your explanations?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes! they will -- they must when they realize
that everything that I have done has been necessitated by the
exigencies of public safety.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'They will be slow to realize that,' mused
the other.  'The National Convention to-day is not what the Constitutional
Assembly was in '92.  It has become soft and sentimental.  Many
there are who will disapprove of your doings . . . Robespierre
talks loftily of the dignity of the Republic . . . her impartial
justice . . . The Girondins. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier interposed with a coarse imprecation.
 He suddenly leaned forward, sprawling right across the desk.
 A shaft of light from between the damask curtains caught the
end of his nose and the tip of his protruding chin, distorting
his face and making it seem grotesque as well as hideous in the
dim light.  He appeared excited and inflated with vanity.  He
always gloried in the atrocities which he committed, and though
he professed to look with contempt on every one of his colleagues,
he was always glad of an opportunity to display his inventive
powers before them, and to obtain their fulsome eulogy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I know well enough what they talk about in
Paris,' he said, 'but I have an answer -- a substantial, definite
answer for all their rubbish.  Dignity of the Republic?  Bah!
 Impartial justice?  'Tis force, strength, Spartan vigour that
we want . . . and I'll show them. . . Listen to my plan, citizen
Martin-Roget, and see how it will work in with yours.  My idea
is to collect together all the most disreputable and notorious
evil-doers of this city . . . there are plenty in the entrep&ocirc;t
at the present moment, and there are plenty more still at large
in the streets of Nantes -- thieves, malefactors, forgers of State
bonds, assassins and women of evil fame . . .and to send them
in a batch to Paris to appear before the Committee of Public Safety,
whilst I will send to my colleagues there a letter couched in
terms of gentle reproach: &quot;See!&quot; I shall say, &quot;what
I have to content with in Nantes.  See! the moral pestilence that
infests the city.  These evil-doers are but a few among the hundreds
and thousands of whom I am vainly trying to purge this city which
you have entrusted to my care!&quot;  They won't know how to deal
with the rabble,' he continued with his harsh strident laugh.
 'They may send them to the guillotine wholesale or deport them
to Cayenne, and they will have to give them some semblance of
a trial in any case.  But they will have to admit that my severe
measures are justified, and in future, I imagine, they will leave
me more severly alone.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If as you say,' urged Martin-Roget, 'the National
Convention give your crowd a trial, you will have to produce some
witnesses.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'So I will,' retorted Carrier cynically.  'So
I will.  Have I not said that I wil round up all the most noted
evil-doers in the town.  There are plenty of them I assure you.
 Lately, my Company Marat have not greatly troubled about them.
 After Savenay there was such a crowd of rebels to deal with,
there was no room in our prisons for malefactors as well.  But
we can easily lay our hands on a couple of hundred or so, and
members of the municipality or of the district council, or tradespeople
of substance in the city will only be too glad to b rid of them,
and will testify against those that were actually caught red-handed.
 Not one but has suffered from the pestilential rabble that has
infested the streets at night, and lately I have been pestered
with complaints of all these night-birds -- men and women and
. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Suddenly he paused.  He had caught Martin-Roget's
feverish gaze fixed excitedly upon him.  Whereupon he leaned back
in his chair, threw his head back and broke into loud and immoderate
laughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'By the devil and all his myrmidons, citizen!'
he said, as soon as he had recovered his breath, 'meseems you
have tumbled to my meaning as a pig into a heap of garbage.  Is
not ten thousand francs far too small a sum to pay for such a
perfect realization of all your dreams?  We'll send the Kernogan
girl and her father to Paris with the herd, what? . . . . I promise
you that such filth and mud will be thrown on them and on their
precious name that no one will care to bear it for centuries to
come.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget of a truth had much ado to control
his own excitement.  As the proconsul unfolded his infamous plan,
he had at once seen as in a vision the realization of all his
hopes.  What more awful humiliation, what more dire disgrace could
be devised for proud Kernogan and his daughter than being herded
together with the vilest scum that could be gathered together
among the flotsam and jetsam of the population of a seaport town.
 What more perfect realization could there be for the ignominious
death of Jean Adet the miller?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget leaned forward in his chair. 
The hideous figure of Carrier was no longer hideous to him.  He
saw in that misshapen, gawky form the very embodiment of the god
of vengeance, the wielder of the flail of retributive justice
which was about to strike the guilty at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are right, citizen Carrier,' he said,
and his voice was thick and hoarse with excitement.  He rested
his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand.  He hammered his
nails against his teeth.  'That was exactly in my mind while you
spoke.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am always right,' retorted Carrier loftily.
 'No one knows better than I do how to deal with traitors.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And how is the whole thing to be accomplished?
 The wench is in my sister's house at present . . . the father
is in the Rat Mort . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And the Rat Mort is an excellent place
. . . I know of none better.  It is one of the worst-famed houses
in the whole of Nantes . . . the meeting-place of all the vagabonds,
the thieves and the cut-throats of the city.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes!  I know that to my cost.  My sister's
house is next door to it.  At night the street is not safe for
decent females to be abroad: and though there is a platoon of
Marats on guard at Le Bouffay close by, they do nothing to free
the neighbourhood of that pest.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Bah!' retorted Carrier with cynical indifference,
'they have more important quarry to net.  Rebels and traitors
swarm in Nantes, what?  Commandant Fleury has had no time hitherto
to waste on mere cut-throats, although I had thoughts before now
of razing the place to the ground.  Citizen Lamberty has his lodgings
on the other side and he does nothing but complain of the brawls
that go on there o' nights.  Sure it is that while a stone of
the Rat Mort remains standing all the night-hawks of Nantes will
congregate around it and brew mischief there which is no good
to me and no good to the Republic.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes!  I know all about the Rat Mort.  I found
a night's shelter there four years ago when . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'When the ci-devant duc de Kernogan was busy
hanging your father -- the miller -- for a crime which he never
committed.  Well then, citizen Martin-Roget,' continued Carrier
with one of his hideous leers, 'since you know the Rat Mort so
well what say you to your fair and stately Yvonne de Kernogan
and her father being captured there in the company of the lowest
scum of the population of Nantes?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You mean . . .?'  murmured Martin-Roget, who
had become livid with excitement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I mean that my Marats have orders to raid
some of the haunts of our Nantese cut-throats, and that they may
as well begin to-night and with the Rat Mort.  They will make
a descent on the house and a thorough perquisition, and every
person -- man, woman and child -- found on the premises will be
arrested and sent with a batch of malefactors to Paris, there
to be tried as felons and criminals and deported to Cayenne where
they will, I trust, rot as convicts in that pestilential climate.
 Think you,' concluded the odious creature with a sneer, 'that
when put face to face with the alternative, your Kernogan wench
will still refuse to become the wife of a fine patriot like yourself?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I don't know,' murmured Martin-Roget.  'I
. . . I  . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But I do know,' broke in Carrier roughly,
'that ten thousand francs is far too little to pay for so brilliant
a realization of all one's hopes.  Ten thousand francs?  'Tis
an hundred thousand you should give to show your gratitude.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget rose and stretched his large,
heavy figure to its full height.  He was at great pains to conceal
the utter contempt which he felt for the abominable wretch before
whom he was forced to cringe.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You shall have ten thousand francs, citizen
Carrier,' he said slowly; 'it is all that I possess in the world
now -- the last remaining fragment of a sum of twenty-five thousand
francs which I earned and scraped together for the past four years.
 You have had five thousand francs already.  And you shall have
the other ten.  I do not grudge it.  If twenty years of my life
were any use to you, I would give you that, in exchange for the
help you are giving me in what means far more than life to me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The proconsul laughed and shrugged his shoulders
-- of a truth he thought citizen Martin-Roget an awful fool.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very well then,' he said, 'we will call the
matter settled.  I confess that it amuses me, although remember
that I have warned you.  With all these aristos, I believe in
the potency of my barges rather than in your elaborate schemes.
 Still!  it shall never be said that Jean Baptiste Carrier has
left a friend in the lurch.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am grateful for your help, citizen Carrier,'
said Martin-Roget coldly.  Then he added slowly, as if reviewing
the situation in his own mind: 'To-night, you say?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes.  To-night.  My Marats under the command
of citizen Fleury will make a descent upon the Rat Mort.  Those
shall be my orders.  The place will be swept clean of every man,
woman and child who is inside.  If your two Kernogans are there
. . . well!' he said with a cynical laught and a shrug of his
shoulders, 'they can be sent up to Paris with the rest of the
herd.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The dinner bell has gone long ago,' here interposed
young Lalou&euml;t drily, 'the soup will be stone-cold and the
chef red-hot with anger.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are right, citizen Lalou&euml;t,' said
Carrier as he leaned back in his chair once more and stretched
out his long legs at his ease.  'We have wasted far too much time
already over the affairs of a couple of aristos, who ought to
have been at the bottom of the Loire a week ago.  The audience
is ended,' he added airily, and he made a gesture of overweening
condescension, for all the world like the one wherewith the <I>Grand
Monarque</I> was wont to dismiss his courtiers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin rose too and quietly turned to the
door.  He had not spoken a word for the past half-hour, ever since
in fact he had put in a conciliatory word on behalf of his impetuous
colleague.  Whether he had taken an active interest in the conversation
or not it were impossible to say.  But now, just as he was ready
to go, and young Lalou&euml;t prepared to close the doors of the
audience chamber, something seemed suddenly to occur to him and
he called somewhat peremptorily to the young man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'One moment, citizen,' he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What is it now?' queried the youth insolently,
and from his fine eyes there shot a glance of contempt on the
meagre figure of the once powerful Terrorist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'About the Kernogan wench,' continued Chauvelin.
 'She will have to be conveyed some time before night to the tavern
next door.  There may be agencies at work on her behalf . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Agencies?' broke in the boy gruffly.  'What
agencies?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh!' said Chauvelin vaguely, 'we all know
that aristos have powerful friends these days.  It will not be
over safe to take the girl across after dark from one house to
another . . . the alley is badly lighted: the wench will not go
willingly.  She might scream and create a disturbance and draw
. . . er. . . those same unknown agencies to her rescue.  I think
a body of Marats should be told off to convey her to the Rat Mort
. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Young Lalou&euml;t shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That's your affair,' he said curtly, 'Eh,
Carrier?'  And he glanced over his shoulder at the proconsul,
who at once assented.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget -- struck by his colleague's argument
-- would have interposed, but Carrier broke in with one of his
uncontrolled outbursts of fury.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ah &ccedil;a,' he exclaimed, 'enough of this
now.  Citizen Lalou&euml;t is right and I have done enough for
you already.  If you want the Kernogan wench to be at the Rat
Mort, you must see to getting her there yourself.  She is next
door, what?  I won't have anything to do with it and I won't have
my Marats implicated in the affair either.  Name of a dog! have
I not told you that I am beset with spies.  It would of a truth
be a climax if I was denounced as having dragged aristos to a
house of ill-fame and then had them arrested there as malefactors!
 Now out with you!  I have had enough of this!  If your rabble
is at the Rat Mort to-night, they shall be arrested with all hte
other cut-throats.  That is my last word.  The rest is your affair.
 Lalou&euml;t! the door!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And without another word, and without listening
to further protests from Martin-Roget or Chauvelin, Jacques Lalou&euml;t
closed the doors of the audience chamber in their face.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">VII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Outside on the landing, Martin-Roget swore
a violent, all comprehensive oath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'To think that we are under the heel of that
skunk!' he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And that in the pursuit of our own ends we
have need of his help!' added Chauvelin with a sigh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If it were not for that . . . And even now,'
continued Martin-Roget moodily, 'I doubt what I can do.  Yvonne
de Kernogan will not follow me willingly either to the Rat Mort
or elsewhere, and if I am not to have her conveyed by the guard
. . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused and swore again.  His companion's
silence appeared to irritate him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What do you advise me to do, citizen Chauvelin?'
he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'For the moment,' replied Chauvelin imperturbably,
'I should advise you to join me in a walk along the quay as far
as Le Bouffay.  I have work to see to inside the building and
the north-westerly wind is sure to be of good counsel.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An angry retort hovered on Martin-Roget's lips,
but after a second or two he succeeded in holding his irascible
temper in check.  He gave a quick sigh of impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very well,' he said curtly.  'Let us to Le
Bouffay by all means.  I have much to think on, and as you say
the north-westerly wind may blow away the cobwebs which for the
nonce do o'ercloud my brain.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the two men wrapped their mantles closely
round their shoulders, for the air was keen.  Then they descended
the staircase of the hotel and went out into the street.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter II<BR>
Le Bouffay</FONT><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the centre of the Place the guillotine stood
idle -- the paint had worn off her sides -- she looked weather-beaten
and forlorn -- stern and forbidding still, but in a kind of sullen
loneliness, with the ugly stains of crimson on her, turned to
rust and grime.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Place itself was deserted, in strange contrast
to the bustle and the movement which characterized it in the days
when the death of men, women and children was a daily spectacle
here for the crowd.  Then a constant stream of traffic, of carts
and of tumbrils, of soldiers and gaffers encumbered it in every
corner, now a few tumble-down booths set up against the frontage
of the grim edifice -- once the stronghold of the Dukes of Brittany,
now little else but a huge prison -- a few vendors and still fewer
purchasers of the scanty wares displayed under their ragged awnings,
one or two idlers loafing against the mud-stained walls, one or
two urchins playing in the gutters were the only signs of life.
 Martin-Roget with his colleague Chauvelin turned into the Place
from the quay -- they walked rapidly and kept their mantles closely
wrapped under their chin, for the afternoon had turned bitterly
cold.  It was then close upon five o'clock -- a dark, moonless,
starless night had set in with only a suspicion of frost in the
damp air; but a blustering north-westerly wind blowing down the
river and tearing round the narrow streets and the open Place,
caused passers-by to muffle themselves, shivering, yet tighter
in their cloaks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget was talking volubly and excitedly,
his tall, broad figure towering above the slender form of his
companion.  From time to time he tossed his mantle aside with
an impatient, febrile gesture and then paused in the middle of
the Place, with one hand on the other man's shoulder, marking
a point in his discourse or emphasizing his argument with short
staccato sentences and brief, emphatic words.  Chauvelin -- placid
and impenetrable as usual -- listened much and talked little.
 He was ready to stand still or to walk along just as his colleague's
mood demanded; in the darkness, and with the collar of a large
mantle pulled tightly up to his ears, it was impossible to guess
by any sign in his face what was going on in his mind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They were a strange contrast these two men
-- temperamentally as well as physically -- even though they had
so much in common and were both the direct products of the same
social upheaval which was shaking the archaic dominion of France
to its very foundations.  Martin-Roget, tall, broad-shouldered,
bull-necked, the typical self-educated peasant, with square jaw
and flat head, with wide bony hands and spatulated fingers: and
Chauvelin -- the aristocrat turned demagogue, thin and frail-looking,
bland of manner and suave of speech, with delicate hands and pale,
almost ascetic face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The one represented all that was most brutish
and sensual in this fight of one caste against the other, the
thirst for the other's blood, the human beast that has been brought
to bay through wrongs perpetrated against it by others and has
turned upon its oppressors, lashing out right and left with blind
and lustful fury at the crowd of tyrants that had kept him in
subjection for so long.  Whilst Chauvelin was the personification
of the spiritual side of this bloody Revolution -- the spirit
of cool and calculating reprisals that would demand an eye for
an eye and see that it got two.  The idealist who dreams of the
righteousness of his own cause and the destruction of its enemies,
but who leaves to others the accomplishment of all the carnage
and the bloodshed which his idealism has demanded, and which his
reason has appraised as necessary for the triumph of which he
dreams.  Chauvelin was the man of thought and Martin-Roget the
man of action.  With the one, revenge and reprisals were selfish
desires, the avenging of wrongs done to himself or to his caste,
hatred for those who had injured him or his kindred.  The other
had no personal feelings of hatred: he had no personal wrongs
to avenge: his enemies were the enemies of his party, the erstwhile
tyrants who in the past had oppressed an entire people.  Every
man, woman or child who was not satisfied with the present Reign
of Terror, who plotted or planned for its overthrow, who was not
ready to see husband, father, wife or child sacrificed for the
ultimate triumph of the Revolution was in Chauvelin's sight a
noxious creature, fit only to be trodden under heel and ground
into subjection or annihilation as a danger to the State.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget was the personification of sans-culottism,
of rough manners and foul speech -- he chafed against the conventions
which forced him to wear decent clothes and boots on his feet
-- he would gladly have seen every one go about the streets half-naked,
unwashed, a living sign of that downward levelling of castes which
he and his friends stood for, and for which they had fought and
striven and committed every crime which human passions let loose
could invent.  Chauvelin, on the other hand, was one of those
who wore fine linen and buckled shoes and whose hands were delicately
washed and perfumed whilst they signed decrees which sent hundreds
of women and children to a violent and cruel death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The one trod in the paths of Danton: the other
followed in the footsteps of Robespierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Together the two men mounted the outside staircase
which leads up past the lodge of the concierge and through the
clerk's office to the interior of the stronghold.  Outside the
monumental doors they had to wait a moment or two while the clerk
examined their permits to enter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Will you come into my office with me?' asked
Chauvelin of his companion; 'I have a word or two to add to my
report for the Paris courier to-night.  I won't be long.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are still in touch with the Committee
of Public Safety then?' asked Martin-Roget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Always,' replied the other curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget threw a quick, suspicious glance
on his companion.  Darkness and the broad brim of his sugar-loaf
hat effectually concealed even the outlines of Chauvelin's face,
and Martin-Roget fell to musing over one or two things which Carrier
had blurted out awhile ago.  The whole of France was overrun with
spies these days -- every one was under suspicion, every one had
to be on his guard.  Every word was overheard, every glance seen,
every sign noted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What was this man Chauvelin doing here in Nantes?
what reports did he send up to Paris by special courier?  He,
the miserable failure who had ceased to count was nevertheless
in constant touch with that awful Committee of Public Safety which
was wont to strike at all times and unexpectedly in the dark.
 Martin-Roget shivered beneath his mantle.  For the first time
since his schemes of vengeance had wholly absorbed his mind he
regretted the freedom and safety which he had enjoyed in England,
and he marvelled if the miserable game which he was playing would
be worth the winning in the end.  Nevertheless he had followed
Chauvelin without comment.  The man appeared to exercise a fascination
over him -- a kind of subtle power, which emanated from his small
shrunken figure, from his pale keen eyes and his well-modulated,
suave mode of speech.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The clerk had handed the two men their permits
back.  They were allowed to pass through the gates.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the hall some half-dozen men were nominally
on guard -- nominally, because discipline was not over strict
these days, and the men sat or lolled about the place; two of
them were intent on a game of dominoes, another was watching them,
whilst the other three were settling some sort of quarrel among
themselves which necessitated vigorous and emphatic gestures and
the copious use of expletives.  One man, who appeared to be in
command, divided his time impartially between the domino-players
and those who were quarrelling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The vast place was insufficiently lighted by
a chandelier which hung from the ceiling and a couple of small
oil-lamps placed in the circular niches in the wall opposite the
front door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No one took any notice of Martin-Roget or of
Chauvelin as they crossed the hall, and presently the latter pushed
open a door on the left of the main gates and held it open for
his colleague to pass through.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You are sure that I shall not be disturbing
you?' queried Martin-Roget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Quite sure,' replied the other curtly.  'And
there is something I must say to you . . . where I know that I
shall not be overheard.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he followed Martin-Roget into the room
and closed the door behind him.  The room was scantily furnished
with a square deal table in the centre, two or three chairs, a
broken-down bureau leaning against one wall and an iron stove
wherein a meagre fire sent a stream of malodorous smoke through
sundry cracks in its chimney-pipe.  From the ceiling there hung
an oil-lamp the light of which was thrown down upon the table,
by a large green shade made of cardboard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin drew a chair to the bureau and sat
down; he pointed to another and Martin-Roget took a seat beside
the table.  He felt restless and excited -- his nerves all on
the jar: his colleague's calm, sardonic glance acted as a further
irritant to his temper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What is it that you wish to say to me, citizen
Chauvelin?' he asked at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Just a word, citizen,' replied the other in
his quiet urbane manner.  'I have accompanied you faithfully on
your journey to England: I have placed my feeble powers at your
disposal: awhile ago I stood between you and the proconsul's wrath.
 This, I think, has earned me the right of asking what you intend
to do.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I don't know about the right,' retorted Martin-Roget
gruffly, 'but I don't mind telling you.  As you remarked awhile
ago the North-West wind is wont to be of good counsel.  I have
thought the matter over whilst I walked with you along the quay
and I have decided to act on Carrier's suggestion.  Our eminent
proconsul said just now that it was the duty of every true patriot
to marry an aristo, an he be free and Chance puts a comely wench
in his way.  I mean,' he added with a cynical laugh, 'to act on
that advice and marry Yvonne de Kernogan . . . if I can.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'She has refused you up to now?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes . . . up to now.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You have threatened her -- and her father?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes -- both.  Not only with death but with
shame.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And still she refuses?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Apparently,' said Martin-Roget with every-growing
irritation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It is often difficult,' rejoined Chauvelin
meditatively, 'to compel these aristos.  They are obstinate. .
. '</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh! don't forget that I am in a position now
to bring additional pressure on the wench.  That lout Carrier
has splendid ideas -- a brute, what? but clever and full of resource.
 That suggestion of his about the Rat Mort is splendid . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You mean to try and act on it?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Of course I do,' said Martin-Roget roughly.
 'I am going over presently to my sister's house to see the Kernogan
wench again, and to have another talk with her.  Then if she still
refuses, if she still chooses to scorn the honourable position
which I offer her, I shall act on Carrier's suggestion.  It will
be at the Rat Mort to-night that she and I will have our final
interview, and there when I dangle the prospect of Cayenne and
the convict's brand before her, she may not prove so obdurate
as she has been up to now.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'H'm!  That is as may be,' was Chauvelin's
dry comment.  'Personally I am inclined to agree with Carrier.
 Death, swift and sure -- the Loire or the guillotine -- is the
best that has yet been invented for traitors and aristos.  But
we won't discuss that again.  I know your feelings in the matter
and in a measure I respect them.  But if you will allow me I would
like to be present at your interview with the <I>soi-disant</I>
Lady Anthony Dewhurst.  I won't disturb you and I won't say a
word . . . but there is something I would like to make sure of.
. .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What is that?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Whether the wench has any hopes . . .' said
Chauvelin slowly, 'whether she has received a message or has any
premonition . . . whether in short she thinks that outside agencies
are at work on her behalf.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tshaw!' exclaimed Martin-Roget impatiently,
'you are still harping on that Scarlet Pimpernel idea.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I am,' retorted the other drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'As you please.  But understand, citizen Chauvelin,
that I will not allow you to interfere with my plans, whilst you
go off on one of those wild-goose chases which have already twice
brought you into disrepute.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I will not interfere with your plans, citizen,'
rejoined Chauvelin with unwonted gentleness, 'but let me in my
turn impress one thing upon you, and that is that unless you are
as wary as the serpent, as cunning as the fox, all your precious
plans will be upset by that interfering Englishman whom you choose
to disregard.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What do you mean?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I mean that I know him -- to my cost -- and
you do not.  But you will, an I am not gravely mistaken, make
acquaintance with him ere your great adventure with these Kernogan
people is successfuly at an end.  Believe me, citizen Martin-Roget,'
he added impressively, 'you would have been far wiser to accept
Carrier's suggestion and let him fling that rabble into the Loire
for you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Pshaw! you are not childish enough to imagine,
citizen Chauvelin, that your Englishman can spirit away that wench
from under my sister's eyes?  Do you know what my sister suffered
at the hands of the Kernogans?  Do you think that she is like
to forget my father's ignominious death any more than I am?  And
she mourns a lover as well as a father -- she mourns her youth,
her happiness, the mother whom she worshipped.  Think you a better
gaoler could be found anywhere?  And there are friends of mine
-- lads of our own village, men who hate the Kernogans as bitterly
as I do myself -- who are only too ready to lend Louise a hand
in case of violence.  And after that -- suppose your magnificent
Scarlet Pimpernel succeeded in hoodwinking my sister and in evading
the vigilance of a score of determined village lads, who would
sooner die one by one than see the Kernogan escape -- suppose
all that, I say, there would still be the guard at every city
gate to challenge.  No! no! it couldn't be done, citizen Chauvelin,'
he added with a complacent laugh.  'Your Englishman would need
the help of a legion of angels, what? to get the wench out of
Nantes this time.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin made no comment on his colleague's
impassioned harangue.  Memory had taken him back to that one day
in September in Boulogne when he too had set one prisoner to guard
a precious hostage: it brought back to his mind a vision of a
strangely picturesque figure as it appeared to him in the window-embrasure
of the old castle-hall: it brought back to his ears the echo of
that quaint, irresponsible laughter, of that lazy, drawling speech,
of all that had acted as an irritant on his nerves ere he found
himself baffled, foiled, eating out his heart with vain reproach
at his own folly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I see you are unconvinced, citizen Martin-Roget,'
he said quietly, 'and I know that it is the fashion nowadays among
young politicians to sneer at Chauvelin -- the living embodiment
of failure.  But let me just add this.  When you and I talked
matters over together at the Bottom Inn, in the wilds of Somersetshire,
I warned you that not only was your identity known to the man
who calls himself the Scarlet Pimpernel, but also that he knew
every one of your plans with regard to the Kernogan wench and
her father.  You laughed at me them . . . do you remember? . .
. you shrugged your shoulders and jeered at what you called my
far-fetched ideas . . . just as you do now.  Well! will you let
me remind you of what happened within four-and-twenty hours of
that warning which you chose to disregard? . . . Yvonne de Kernogan
was married to Lord Anthony Dewhurst and . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I know all that, man,' broke in Martin-Roget
impatiently.  'It was all a mere coincidence . . . the marriage
must have been planned long before that . . . your Scarlet Pimpernel
could not possibly have had anything to do with it.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Perhaps not,' rejoined Chauvelin drily.  'But
mark what has happened since.  Just now when we crossed the Place
I saw in the distance a figure flitting past -- the gorgeous figure
of an exquisite who of a surety is a stranger in Nantes: and carried
upon the wings of the north-westerly wind there came to me the
sound of a voice which, of late, I have only heard in my dreams.
 On my soul, citizen Martin-Roget,' he added with earnest emphasis,
'I assure you that the Scarlet Pimpernel is in Nantes at the present
moment, that he is scheming, plotting, planning to rescue the
Kernogan wench, out of you clutches.  He will not leave her in
your power, on this I would stake my life; she is the wife of
one of his dearest friends: he will not abandon her, not while
he keeps that resourceful head of his on his shoulders.  Unless
you are desperately careful he will outwit you; of that I am as
convinced as that I am alive.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Bah! you have been dreaming, citizen Chauvelin,'
rejoined Martin-Roget with a laugh and shrugging his broad shoulders;
'your mysterious Englishman in Nantes?  Why man! the navigation
of the Loire has been totally prohibited these last fourteen days
-- no carriage, van or vehicle of any kind is allowed to enter
the city -- no man, woman or child to pass the barriers without
special permit signed either by the proconsul himself or by Fleury
the captain of the Marats.  Why! even I, when I brought the Kernogans
in overland from Le Croisic, I was detained two hours outside
Nantes while my papers were sent in to Carrier for inspection.
 You know that, you were with me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I know it,' replied Chauvelin drily, 'and
yet . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, with one clawlike finger held erect
to demand attention.  The door of the small room in which they
sat gave on the big hall where the half-dozen Marats were stationed,
the single window at right angles to the door looked out upon
the Place below.  It was from there that suddenly there came the
sound of a loud peal of laughter -- quaint and merry -- somewhat
inane and affected, and at the sound Chauvelin's pale face took
on the hue of ashes and even Martin-Roget felt a strange sensation
of cold creeping down his spine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a few seconds the two men remained quite
still, as if a spell had been cast over them through that light-hearted
peal of rippling laughter.  Then equally suddenly the younger
man shook himself free of the spell; with a few long strides he
was already at the door and out in the vast hall:  Chauvelin following
closely on his heels.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The clock in the tower of the edifice was even
then striking five.  The Marats in the hall looked up with lazy
indifference at the two men who had come rushing out in such an
abrupt and excited manner.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Any stranger been through here?' queried Chauvelin
peremptorily of the sergeant in command.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No,' replied the latter curtly.  'How could
they, without a permit?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He shrugged his shoulders and the men resumed
their game and their argument.  Martin-Roget would have parleyed
with them but Chauvelin had already crossed the hall and was striding
past the clerk's office and the lodge of the concierge out toward
the open.  Martin-Roget, after a moment's hestitation, followed
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Place  was wrapped in gloom.  From the
platform of the guillotine an oil-lamp hoisted on a post threw
a small circle of light around.  Small pieces of tallow candle,
set in pewter sconces, glimmered feebly under the awnings of the
booths, and there was a street-lamp affixed to the wall of the
old ch&acirc;teau immediately below the parapet of the staircase,
and others at the angles of the Rue de la Monnaye and the narrow
Ruelle des Jacobins.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin's keen eyes tried to pierce the surrounding
darkness.  He leaned over the parapet and peered into the remote
angles of the building and round the booths below him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were a few people on the Place, some
walking rapidly across from one end to the other, intent on business,
others pausing in order to make purchases at the booths.  Up and
down the steps of the guillotine a group of street urchins were
playing hide-and-seek.  Round the angles of the narrow streets
the vague figures of passers-by flitted to and fro, now easily
discernible in the light of the street lanthorns, anon swallowed
up again in the darkness beyond.  Whilst immediately below the
parapet two or three men of the Company Marat were lounging against
the walls.  Their red bonnets showed up clearly in the flickering
light of the street lamps, as did their bare shins and the polished
points of their sabots.  But of an elegant, picturesque figure
such as Chauvelin had described awhile ago there was not a sign.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget leaned over the parapet and called
peremptorily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Hey there!  citizens of the Company Marat!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One of the red-capped men looked up leisurely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Your desire, citizen?' he queried with insolent
deliberation, for they were mighty men, this bodyguard of the
great proconsul, his spies and tools in the awesome work of frightfulness
which he carried on so ruthlessly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Is that you Paul Friche?' queried Martin-Roget
in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'At your service, citizen,' came the glib reply,
delivered not without mock deference.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then come up here.  I wish to speak with you.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I can't leave my post, nor can my mates,'
retorted the man who had answered to the name of Paul Friche.
 'Come down, citizen, an you desire to speak with us.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget swore lustily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The insolence of that rabble . . .' he murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Hush!  I'll go,' interposed Chauvelin quickly.
 'Do you know that man Friche?  Is he trustworthy?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes, I know him.  As for being trustworthy
. . . ' added Martin Roget with a shrug of the shoulders.  'He
is a corporal in the Marats and high in favour with commandant
Fleury.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Every second was of value, and Chauvelin was
not the man to waste time in useless parleyings.  He ran down
the stairs at the foot of which one of the red-capped gentry deigned
to speak with him.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Have you seen any strangers across the Place
just now?' he queried in a whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes,' replied the man Friche.  'Two!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he spat upon the ground and added spitefully:
 'Aristos, what?  In fine clothes -- like yourself citizen . .
.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Which way did they go?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Down the Ruelle des Jacobins.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'When?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Two minutes ago.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Why did you not follow them? . . . Aristos
and . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I would have followed,' retorted Paul Friche
with studied insolence; ' 'twas you called me away from my duty.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'After them then!' urged Chauvelin peremptorily.
 'They cannot have gone far.  They are English spies, and remember,
citizen, that there's a reward for their apprehension.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man grunted an eager assent.  The word
'reward' had fired his zeal.  In a trice he had called to his
mates and the three Marats soon sped across the Place and down
the Ruelle des Jacobins where the surrounding gloom quickly swallowed
them up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin watched them till they were out of
sight, then he rejoined his colleagues on the landing at the top
of the stairs.  For a second or two longer the click of the men's
sabots upon the stones resounded on the adjoining streets and
across the Place, and suddenly that same quaint, merry, somewhat
inane laugh woke the echoes of the grim buildings around and caused
many a head to turn inquiringly, marvelling who it could be that
had the heart to laugh these days in the streets of Nantes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Five minutes or so later the three Marats could
vaguely be seen recrossing the Place and making their way back
to Le Bouffay, where Martin-Roget and Chauvelin still stood on
the top of the stairs excited and expectant.  At sight of the
men Chauvelin ran down the steps to meet them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well?' he queried in an eager whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'We never saw them,' replied Paul Friche gruffly,
'though we could hear them clearly enough, talking, laughing and
walking very rapidly toward the quay.  Then suddenly the earth
or the river swallowed them up.  We saw and heard nothing more.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin swore and a curious hissing sound
escaped his thin lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Don't be too disappointed, citizen,' added
the man with a coarse laugh, 'my mate picked this up at the corner
of the Ruelle, when, I fancy, we were pressing the aristos pretty
closely.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He held out a small bundle of papers tied together
with a piece of red ribbon: the bundle had evidently rolled in
the mud, for the papers were covered with grime, Chauvelin's thin,
claw-like fingers had at once closed over them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You must give me back those papers, citizen,'
said the man, 'they are my booty.  I can only give them up to
citizen-captain Fleury.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I'll give them to the citizen-captain myself,'
retorted Chauvelin.  'For the moment you had best not leave your
post of duty,' he added more peremptorily, seeing that the man
made as he would follow him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I take orders from no one except . . .' protested
the man gruffly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You will take them from me now,' broke in
Chauvelin with a sudden assumption of command and authority which
sat with weird strangeness upon his thin shrunken figure.  'Go
back to your post at once, ere I lodge a complain against you
for neglect of duty, with the citizen proconsul.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He turned on his heel and, without paying further
heed to the man and his mutterings, he remounted the stone stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No success, I suppose?' queried Martin-Roget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'None,' replied Chauvelin curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had the packet of papers tightly clasped
in his hand.  He was debating in his mind whether he would speak
of them to his colleague or not.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What did Friche say?' asked the latter impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh! very little.  He and his mates caught
sight of the strangers and followed them as far as the quays.
 But they were walking very fast and suddenly the Marats lost
their trace in the darkness.  It seemed, according to Paul Friche,
as if the earth or the night had swallowed them up.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And was that all?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes.  That was all.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I wonder,' added Martin-Roget with a light
laugh and a careless shrug of his wide shoulders, 'I wonder if
you and I, citizen Chauvelin -- and Paul Friche too for that matter
--have been the victims of our nerves.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I wonder,' assented Chauvelin drily.  And
-- quite quietly -- he slipped the packet of papers in the pockets
of his coat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then we may as well adjourn.  There is nothing
else you wish to say to me about that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel
of yours?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No -- nothing.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And you still would like to hear what the
Kernogan wench will say and see how she will look when I put my
final proposal to her?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'If you will allow me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then come,' said Martin-Roget.  'My sister's
house is close by.'<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter III<BR>
The Fowlers</FONT><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In order to reach the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie
the two men had to skirt the whole edifice of Le Bouffay, walk
a little along the quay and turn up the narrow alley opposite
the bridge.  They walked on in silence, each absorbed in his own
thoughts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The house occupied by the citizeness Adet lay
back a little from the others in the street.  It was one of an
irregular row of mean, squalid, tumble-down houses, some of them
little more than lean-to-sheds built into the walls of Le Bouffay.
 Most of them had overhanging roofs which stretched out like awnings
more than half-way across the road, and even at midday shut out
any little ray of sunshine which might have a tendency to peep
into the street below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In this year II of the Republic the Carrefour
de la Poissonnerie was unpaved, dark and evil-smelling.  For two
thirds of the year it was ankle-deep in mud:  the rest of the
time the mud was baked into cakes and emitted clouds of sticky
dust under the shuffling feet of the passers-by.  At night it
was dimly lighted by one or two broken-down lanthorns which were
hung on transverse chains overhead from house to house.  These
lanthorns only made a very small circle of light immediately below
them:  the rest of the street was left in darkness save for the
faint glimmer which filtrated through an occasional ill-fitting
doorway or through the chinks of some insecurely fastened shutter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Carrefour de la Poissonnerie was practically
deserted in the daytime; only a few children -- miserable little
atoms of humanity showing their meagre, emaciated bodies through
the scanty rags which failed to cover their nakedness -- played
weird, mirthless games in the mud and filth of the street.  But
at night it became strangely peopled with vague and furtive forms
that were wont to glide swiftly by, beneath the hanging lanthorns,
in order to lose themselves again in the welcome obscurity beyond:
 men and women -- ill-clothed and unshod, with hands buried in
pockets or beneath scanty shawls -- their feet, oft-times bare,
making no sound as they went squishing through the mud.  A perpetual
silence used to reign in this kingdom of squalor and of darkness,
where nighthawks alone fluttered their wings; only from time to
time a joyless greeting of boon-companions, or the hoarse cough
of some wretched consumptive would wake the dormant echoes that
lingered in the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget knew his way about the murky street
well enough.  He went up to the house which lay a little back
from the others.  It appeared even more squalid than the rest,
not a sound came from within -- hardly a light -- only a narrow
glimmer found its way through the chink of a shutter on the floor
above.  To right and left of it the houses were tall, with walls
that reeked of damp and of filth: from one of these -- the one
on the left -- an iron sign dangled and creaked dismally as it
swung in the wind.  Just above the sign there was a window with
partially closed shutters: through it came the sound of two husky
voices raised in heated arguments.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the open space in front of Louise Adet's
house vague forms standing about or lounging against the walls
of the neighbouring houses were vaguely discernible in the gloom.
 Martin-Roget and Chauvelin as they approached were challenged
by a raucous voice which came to them out of the inky blackness
around.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Halt!  who goes there?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Friends!' replied Martin-Roget promptly. 
'Is citizeness Adet within?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes! she is!' retorted the man bluntly; 'excuse
me, friend Adet -- I did not know you in this confounded darkness.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'No harm done,' said Martin-Roget.  'And it
is I who am grateful to you all for your vigilance.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh!' said the other with a laugh, 'there's
not much fear of your bird getting out of its cage.  Have no fear,
friend Adet!  That Kernogan rabble is well looked after.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The small group dispersed in the darkness and
Martin-Roget rapped against the door of his sister's house with
his knuckles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That is the Rat Mort,' he said, indicating
the building on his left with a nod of the head.  'A very unpleasant
neighbourhood for my sister, and she has oft complained of it
-- but name of a dog! won't it prove useful this night?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had as usual followed his colleague
in silence, but his keen eyes had not failed to note the presence
of the village lads of whom Martin-Roget had spoken.  There are
no eyes so watchful as those of hate, nor is there aught so incorruptible.
 Every one of these men here had an old wrong to avenge, an old
score to settle with those ci-devant Kernogans who had once been
their masters and who were so completely in their power now. 
Louise Adet had gathered round her a far more efficient bodyguard
than even the proconsul could hope to have.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A moment or two later the door was opened,
softly and cautiously, and Martin-Roget asked: 'Is that you, Louise?'
for of a truth the darkness was almost deeper within than without,
and he could not see who it was that was standing by the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Yes! it is,' replied a weary and querulous
voice.  'Enter quickly.  The wind is cruel, and I can't keep myself
warm.  Who is with you, Pierre?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'A friend,' said Martin-Roget drily.  'We want
to see the aristo.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman without further comment closed the
door behind the new-comers.  The place now was as dark as pitch,
but she seemed to know her way about like a cat, for her shuffling
footsteps were heard moving about unerringly.  A moment or two
later she opened another door opposite the front entrance, revealing
an inner room -- a sort of kitchen -- which was lighted by a small
lamp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You can go straight up,' she called curtly
to the two men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The narrow, winding staircase was divided from
this kitchen by a wooden partition.  Martin-Roget, closely followed
by Chauvelin, went up the stairs.  On the top of these there was
a tiny landing with a door on either side of it.  Martin-Roget
without any ceremony pushed open the door on his right with his
foot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A tallow candle fixed in a bottle and placed
in the centre of a table in the middle of the room flickered in
the draught as the door flew open.  It was bare of everything
save a table and a chair, and a bundle of straw in one corner.
 The tiny window at right angles to the door was innocent of glass,
and the north-westerly wind came in an icy stream through the
aperture.  On the table, in addition to the candle, there was
a broken pitcher half-filled with water, and a small chunk of
brown bread blotched with stains of mould.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the chair beside the table and immediately
facing the door sat Yvonne Lady Dewhurst.  On the wall above her
head a hand unused to calligraphy had traced in clumsy characters
the words:  'Libert&eacute;!  Fraternit&eacute;!  Egalit&eacute;!'
and below that 'ou la Mort.'</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men entered the narrow room and Chauvelin
carefully closed the door behind him.  He at once withdrew into
a remote corner of the room and stood there quite still, wrapped
in his mantle, a small, silent, mysterious figure on which Yvonne
fixed dark, inquiring eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget, restless and excited, paced up
and down the small space like a wild animal in a cage.  From time
to time exclamations of impatience escaped him and he struck one
fist repeatedly against his open palm.  Yvonne followed his movements
with a quiet, uninterested glance, but Chauvelin paid no heed
whatever to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was watching Yvonne ceaselessly, and closely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Three days' incarceration in this wind-swept
attic, the lack of decent food and of warmth, the want of sleep
and the horror of her present position all following upon the
soul-agony which she had endured when she was forcibly torn away
from her dear milor, had left their mark on Yvonne Dewhurst's
fresh young face.  The look of gravity which had always sat so
quaintly on her piquant features had now changed to one of deep
and abiding sorrow:  her large dark eyes were circled and sunk:
 they had in them the unnatural glow of fever, as well as the
settled look of horror and of pathetic resignation.  Her soft
brown hair had lost its lustre: her cheeks were drawn and absolutely
colourless.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget paused in his restless walk. 
For a moment he stood silent and absorbed, contemplating by the
flickering light of the candle all the havoc which his brutality
had wrought upon Yvonne's dainty face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Yvonne after a while ceased to look at
him -- she appeared to be unconscious of the gaze of these two
men, each of whom was at this moment only thinking of the evil
which he meant to inflict upon her -- each of whom only thought
of her as a helpless bird whom he had at last ensnared and whom
he could crush to death as soon as he felt so inclined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She kept her lips tightly closed and her head
averted.  She was gazing across at the unglazed window into the
obscurity beyond, marvelling in what direction lay the sea and
the shores of England.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget crossed his arms over his broad
chest and clutched his elbows with his hands with an obvious effort
to keep control over his movements and his temper in check.  The
quiet, almost indifferent attitude of the girl was exasperating
to his over-strung nerves.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Look here, my girl,' he said at last roughly
and peremptorily, 'I had an interview with the proconsul this
afternoon.  He chides me for my leniency toward you.  Three days
he thinks is far too long to keep traitors eating the bread of
honest citizens and taking up valuable space in our city.  Yesterday
I made a proposal to you.  Have you thought on it?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne made no reply.  She was still gazing
out into nothingness and just at that moment she was very far
away from the narrow, squalid room and the company of these two
inhuman brutes.  She was thinking of her dear milor and of that
lovely home at Combwich wherein she had spent three such unforgettable
days.  She was remembering how beautiful had been the colour of
the bare twigs in the chestnut coppice when the wintry sun danced
through and in between them and drew fantastic patterns of living
gold upon the carpet of dead leaves; and she remembered too how
exquisite were the tints of russet and blue on the distant hills,
and how quaintly the thrushes had called: 'Kiss me quick!'  She
saw again those trembling leaves of a delicious faintly crimson
hue which still hung upon the branches of the scarlet oak, and
the early flowering heath which clothed the moors with a gorgeous
mantle of rosy amethyst.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget's harsh voice brought her abruptly
back to the hideous reality of the moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Your obstinacy will avail you nothing,' he
said, speaking quietly, even though a note of intense irritation
was distinctly perceptible in his voice.  'The proconsul has given
me a further delay wherein to deal leniently with you and with
your father if I am so minded.  You know what I have proposed
to you: Life with me as my wife -- in which case your father will
be free to return to England or to go to the devils as he pleases
-- or the death of a malefactor for you both in the company of
all the thieves and evil-doers who are mouldering in the prisons
of Nantes at this moment.  Another delay wherein to choose between
an honourable life and a shameful death.  The proconsul waits.
 But to-night he must have his answer.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then Yvonne turned her head slowly and looked
calmly on her enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The tyrant who murders innocent men, women
and children,' she said, 'can have his answer now.  I choose death
which is inevitable in preference to a life of shame.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'You seem,' he retorted, 'to have lost sight
of the fact that the law gives me the right to take by force that
which you so obstinately refuse.'  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Have I not said,' she replied, 'that death
is my choice?  Life with you would be a life a shame.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I can get a priest to marry us without your
consent: and your religion forbids you to take your own life,'
he said with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this she made no reply, but he knew that
he had his answer.  Smothering a curse, he resumed after a while:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'So you prefer to drag your father to death
with you?  Yet he has begged you to consider your decision and
to listen to reason.  He has given his consent to our marriage.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Let me see my father,' she retorted firmly,
'and hear him say that with his own lips.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Ah!' she added quickly, for at her words Martin-Roget
had turned his head away and shrugged his shoulders with well-assumed
indifference, 'you cannot and dare not let me see him.  For three
days now you have kept us apart and no doubt fed us both up with
your lies.  My father is duc de Kernogan, Marquis de Trentemoult,'
she added proudly, 'he would far rather die side by side with
his daughter than see her wedded to a criminal.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And you, my girl,' rejoined Martin-Roget coldly,
'would you see your father branded as a malefactor, linked to
a thief and sent to perish in the Loire?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'My father,' she retorted, 'will die as he
has lived, a brave and honourable gentleman.  The brand of a malefactor
cannot cling to his name.  Sorrow we are ready to endure -- death
is less than nothing to us -- we will but follow in the footsteps
of our King and of our Queen and of many whom we care for and
whom you and your proconsul and your colleagues have brutally
murdered.  Shame cannot touch us, and our honour and our pride
are so far beyond your reach that your impious and blood-stained
hands can never sully them.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had spoken very slowly and very quietly.
 There were no heroics about her attitude.  Even Martin-Roget
-- callous brute though he was -- felt that she had only spoken
just as she felt, and that nothing that he might say, no plea
that he might urge, would ever shake her determination.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then it seems to me,' he said, 'that I am
only wasting my time by trying to make you see reason and common-sense.
 You look upon me as a brute.  Well! perhaps I am.  At any rate
I am that which your father and you have made me.  Four years
ago, when you had power over me and over mine, you brutalized
us.  To-day we -- the people -- are your masters and we make you
suffer, not for all -- that were impossible -- but for part of
what you made us suffer.  That, after all, is only bare justice.
 By making you my wife I would have saved you from death -- not
from humiliation, for that you must endure, and at my hands in
a full measure -- but I would have made you my wife because I
still have pleasant recollections of that kiss which I snatched
from you on that never-to-be-forgotten night and in the darkness
-- a kiss for which you would gladly have seen me hang then, if
you could have laid hands on me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, trying to read what was going on
behind those fine eyes of hers, with their vacant, far-seeing
gaze which seemed like another barrier between her and him.  At
this rough allusion to that moment of horror and of shame, she
had not moved a muscle, nor did her gaze lose its fixity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He laughed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It is an unpleasant recollection, eh, my proud
lady?  The first kiss of passion was not implanted on your exquisite
lips by that fine gentleman whom you deemed worthy of your hand
and your love, but by Pierre Adet, the miller's son, what? a creature
not quite so human as your horse or your pet dog.  Neither you
nor I are like to forget that methinks . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne vouchsafed no reply to the taunt, and
for a moment there was silence in the room, until Chauvelin's
thin, suave voice broke in quite gently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Do not lose your patience with the wench,
citizen Martin-Roget.  Your time is too precious to be wasted
in useless recriminations.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I have finished with her,' retorted the other
sullenly.  'She shall be dealt with now as I think best.  I agree
with citizen Carrier.  He is right after all.  To the Loire with
the lot of that foul brood!'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Nay!' here rejoined Chauvelin with placid
urbanity, 'are you not a little harsh, citizen, with our fair
Yvonne?  Remember!  Women have moods and megrims.  What they indignantly
refuse to yield to us one day, they will grant with a smile the
next.  Our beautiful Yvonne is no exception to this rule, I'll
warrant.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even while he spoke he threw a glance of warning
on his colleague.  There was something enigmatic in his manner
at this moment, in the strange suavity wherewith he spoke these
words of conciliation and of gentleness.  Martin-Roget was as
usual ready with an impatient retort.  He was in a mood to bully
and to brutalize, to heap threat upon threat, to win by frightfulness
that which he could not gain by persuasion.  Perhaps that at this
moment he desired Yvonne de Kernogan for wife, more even than
he desired her death.  At any rate his headstrong temper was ready
to chafe against any warning or advice.  But once again Chauvelin's
stronger mentality dominated over his less resolute colleague.
 Martin-Roget -- the fowler -- was in his turn caught in the net
of a keener snarer than himself, and whilst -- with the obstinacy
of the weak -- he was making mental resolutions to rebuke Chauvelin
for his interference later on, he had already fallen in with the
latter's attitude.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The wench has had three whole days wherein
to alter her present mood,' he said more quietly, 'and you know
yourself, citizen, that the proconsul will not wait after to-day.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The day is young yet,' rejoined Chauvelin.
 'It still hath six hours to its credit . . . Six hours . . .
Three hundred and sixty minutes!' he contined with a pleasant
little laugh; 'time enough for a woman to change her mind three
hundred and sixty times.  Let me advise you, citizen, to leave
the wench to her own meditations for the present, and I trust
that she will accept the advise of a man who has a sincere regard
for her beauty and her charms and who is old enough to be her
father, and seriously think the situation over in a conciliatory
spirit.  M. le duc de Kernogan will be grateful to her, for of
a truth he is not over happy either at the moment . . . and will
be still less happy in the d&eacute;p&ocirc;t to-morrow: it is
over-crowded, and typhus, I fear me, is rampant among the prisoners.
 He has, I am convinced -- in spite of what the citizeness says
to the contrary -- a rooted objection to being hurled into the
Loire, or to be arraigned before the bar of the Convention, not
as an aristocrat and a traitor but as an unit of an undesirable
herd of criminals sent up to Paris for trial, by an anxious and
harried proconsul.  There! there!' he added benignly, 'we will
not worry our fair Yvonne any longer, will we, citizen?  I think
she has grasped the alternative and will soon realize that marriage
with an honourable patriot is not such an untoward fate after
all.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'And now, citizen Martin-Roget,' he concluded,
'I pray you allow me to take my leave of the fair lady and to
give you the wise recommendation to do likewise.  She will be
far better alone for awhile.  Night brings good counsel, so they
say.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He watched the girl keenly while he spoke.
 Her impassivity had not deserted her for a single moment: but
whether her calmness was of hope or of despair he was unable to
decide.  On the whole he thought it must be the latter: hope would
have kindled a spark in those dark, purple-rimmed eyes, it would
have brought moisture to the lips, a tremor to the hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Scarlet Pimpernel was in Nantes -- that
fact was established beyond a doubt -- but Chauvelin had come
to the conclusion that so far as Yvonne Dewhurst herself was concerned,
she knew nothing of the mysterious agencies that were working
on her behalf.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin's hand closed with a nervous contraction
over the packet of papers in his pocket.  Something of the secret
of that enigmatic English adventurer lay revealed within its folds.
 Chauvelin had not yet had the opportunity of examining them:
the interview with Yvonne had been the most important business
for the moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From somewhere in the distance a city clock
struck six.  The afternoon was wearing on.  The keenest brain
in Europe was on the watch to drag one woman and one man from
the deadly trap which had been so successfully set for them. 
A few hours more and Chauvelin in his turn would be pitting his
wits against the resources of that intricate brain, and he felt
like a war-horse scenting blood and battle.  He was aching to
get to work -- aching to form his plans -- to lay his snares --
to dispose his trap so that the noble English quarry should not
fail to be caught within its meshes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a last look to Yvonne, who was still
sitting quite impassive, gazing through the squalid walls into
some beautiful distance, the reflection of which gave to her pale,
wan face an added beauty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Let us go, citizen Martin-Roget,' he said
peremptorily.  'There is nothing else that we can do here.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Martin-Roget, the weaker morally of the
two, yielded to the stronger personality of his colleague.  He
would have liked to stay on for awhile, to gloat for a few moments
longer over the helplessness of the woman who to him represented
the root of every evil which had ever befallen him and his family.
 But Chauvelin commanded and he felt impelled to obey.  He gave
one long, last look on Yvonne -- a look that was as full of triumph
as of mockery -- he looked round the four dank walls, the unglazed
window, the broken pitcher, the mouldy bread.  Revenge was of
a truth the sweetest emotion of the human heart.  Pierre Adet
-- son of the miller who had been hanged by orders of the Duc
de Kernogan for a crime which he had never committed -- would
not at this moment have changed places with Fortune's Benjamin.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Downstairs in Louise Adet's kitchen, Martin-Roget
seized his colleague by the arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Sit down a moment, citizen,' he said persuasively,
'and tell me what you think of it all.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin sat down at the other's invitation.
 All his movements were slow, deliberate, perfectly calm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I think,' he said drily, 'as far as your marriage
with the wench is concerned, that you are beaten, my friend.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tshaw!'  The exclamation, raucous and surcharged
with hate came from Louise Adet.  She, too, like Pierre -- more
so than Pierre mayhap -- had cause to hate the Kernogans.  She,
too, like Pierre had lived the last three days in the full enjoyment
of the thought that Fate and Chance were about to level things
at last between herself and those detested aristos.  Silent and
sullen she was shuffling about in the room, among her pots and
pans, but she kept an eye upon her brother's movements and an
ear on what he said.  Men were apt to lose grit where a pretty
wench was concerned.  It takes a woman's rancour and a woman's
determination to carry a scheme of vengeance against another to
a successful end.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget rejoined more calmly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I knew that she would still be obstinate,'
he said.  'If I forced her into a marriage, which I have the right
to do, she might take her own life and make me look a fool.  So
I don't want to do that.  I believe in the persuasiveness of the
Rat Mort to-night,' he added with a cynical laugh, 'and if that
fails . . . Well!  I was never really in love with the fair Yvonne,
and now she has even ceased to be desirable . . . If the Rat Mort
fails to act on her sensibilities as I would wish, I can easily
console myself by following Carrier's herd to Paris.  Louise shall
come with me -- eh, little sister? -- and we'll give ourselves
the satisfaction of seeing M. le duc de Kernogan and his exquisite
daughter stand in the felon's dock -- tried for malpractices and
for evil living.  We'll see them branded as convicts and packed
off like so much cattle to Cayenne.  That will be a sight,' he
concluded with a deep sigh of satisfaction, 'which will bring
rest to my soul.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused: his face looked sullen and evil
under the domination of that passion which tortured him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Louise Adet had shuffled up close to her brother.
 In one hand she held the wooden spoon wherewith she had been
stirring the soup: with the other she brushed away the dark, lank
hair which hung in strands over her high, pale forehead.  In appearance
she was a woman immeasurably older than her years.  Her face had
the colour of yellow parchment, her skin was stretched tightly
over her high cheekbones -- her lips were colourless and her eyes
large, wide-open, were pale in hue and circled with red.  Just
now a deep frown of puzzlement between her brows added a sinister
expression to her cadaverous face:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'The Rat Mort?' she queried in that tired voice
of hers.  'Cayenne?  What is all that about?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'A splendid scheme of Carrier's, my Louise,'
replied Martin-Roget airily.  'We convey the Kernogan woman to
the Rat Mort.  To-night a descent will be made on that tavern
of ill-fame by a company of Marats and every man, woman and child
within it will be arrested and sent to Paris as undesirable inhabitants
of this most moral city:  in Paris they will be tried as malefactors
or evil-doers -- cut throats, thieves, what? and deported as convicts
to Cayenne, or else sent to the guillotine.  The Kernogans among
that herd!  What sayest thou to that, little sister?  Thy father,
thy lover, hung as thieves!  M. le Duc and Mademoiselle branded
as convicts!  'Tis pleasant to think on, eh?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Louise made no reply.  She stood looking at
her brother, her pale, red-rimmed eyes seemed to drink in every
word that he uttered, while her bony hand wandered mechanically
across and across her forehead as if in a pathetic endeavour to
clear the brain from everything save of the satisfying thoughts
which this prospect of revenge had engendered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin's gentle voice broke in on her meditations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'In the meanwhile,' he said placidly, 'remember
my warning, citizen Martin-Roget.  There are passing clever and
mighty agencies at work, even at this hour, to wrest your prey
from you.  How will you convey the wench to the Rat Mort?  Carrier
has warned you of spies -- but i have warned you against a crowd
of English adventurers far more dangerous than an army of spies.
 Three pairs of eyes -- probably more, and one pair the keenest
in Europe -- will be on the watch to seize upon the woman and
to carry her off under your very nose.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget uttered a savage oath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'That brute Carrier has left me in the lurch,'
he said roughly.  'I don't believe in your nightmares and your
English adventurers, still it would have been better if I could
have had the woman conveyed to the tavern under armed escort.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Armed escort has been denied you, and anyway
it would not be much use.  You and I, citizen Martin-Roget, must
act independently of Carrier.  Your friends down there,' he added,
indicating the street with a jerk of the head, 'must redouble
their watchfulness.  The village lads of Vertou are of a truth
no match intellectually with our English adventurers, but they
have vigorous fists in case there is an attack on the wench while
she walks across to the Rat Mort.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It would be simpler,' here interposed Louise
roughly, 'if we were to knock the wench on the head and then let
the lads carry her across.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It would not be simpler,' retorted Chauvelin
drily, 'for Carrier might at any moment turn against us.  Commandant
Fleury with half a company of Marats will be posted round the
Rat Mort, remember.  They may interfere with the lads and arrest
them and snatch the wench from us, when all our plans may fall
to the ground . . . one never knows what double game Carrier may
be playing.  No! no! the girl must not be dragged or carried to
the Rat Mort.  She must walk into the trap of her own free will.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'But name of a dog! how is it to be done?'
ejaculated Martin-Roget, and he brought his clenched fist crashing
down upon the table.  'The woman will not follow me -- or Louise
either -- anywhere willingly.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'She must follow a stranger then -- one whom
she thinks is a stranger -- some one who will have gained her
confidence . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Impossible.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh! nothing is impossible, citizen,' rejoined
Chauvelin blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Do you know a way then?' queried the other
with a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I think I do.  If you will trust me that is
--'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I don't know that I do.  Your mind is so intent
on those English adventurers, you are like as not to let the aristos
slip through your fingers.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well, citizen,' retorted Chauvelin imperturbably,
'will you take the risk of conveying the fair Yvonne to the Rat
Mort by twelve o'clock to-night?  I have very many things to see
to, I confess that I should be glad if you will ease me from that
responsibility.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I have already told you that I see no way,'
retorted Martin-Roget with a snarl.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Then why not let me act?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'What are you going to do?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'For the moment I am going for a walk on the
quay and once more will commune with the North-West wind.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tshaw!' ejaculated Martin-Roget savagely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Nay, citizen,' resumed Chauvelin blandly,
'the winds of heaven are excellent counsellors.  I told you so
just now and you agreed with me.  They blow away the cobwebs of
the mind and clear the brain for serious thinking.  You want the
Kernogan girl to be arrested inside the Rat Mort and you see no
way of conveying her thither save by the use of violence, which
for obvious reasons is to be deprecated: Carrier, for equally
obvious reasons, will not have her taken to the place by force.
 On the other hand you admit that the wench would not follow you
willingly -- Well, citizen, we must find a way out of that impasse,
for it is too unimportant an one to stand in the way of our plans:
for this I must hold a consultation with the North-West wind.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'I won't allow you to do anything without consulting
me.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Am I likely to do that?  To begin with I shall
have need of your co-operation and that of the citizeness.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'In that case . . .' muttered Martin-Roget
grudgingly.  'But remember,' he added with a return to his usual
self-assured manner, 'remember that Yvonne and her father belong
to me and not to you.  I brought them into Nantes for mine own
purposes -- not for yours.  I will not have my revenge jeopardized
so that your schemes may be furthered.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Who spoke of my schemes, citizen Martin-Roget?'
broke in Chauvelin with perfect urbanity.  'Surely not I?  What
am I but an humble tool in the service of the Republic? . . .
a tool that has proved useless -- a failure, what?  My only desire
is to help you to the best of my abilities.  Your enemies are
the enemies of the Republic: my ambition is to help you in destroying
them.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment longer Martin-Roget hesitated:
he abominated this suggestion of becoming a mere instrument in
the hands of this man whom he still would have affected to despise
-- had he dared.  But here came the difficulty: he no longer dared
to despise Chauvelin.  He felt the strength of the man -- the
clearness of his intellect, and though he -- Martin-Roget -- still
chose to disregard every warning in connexion with the English
spies, he could not wholly divest his mind from the possibility
of their presence in Nantes.  Carrier's scheme was so magnificent,
so satisfying, that the ex-miller's son was ready to humble his
pride and set his arrogance aside in order to see it carried through
successfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So after a moment or two, despite the fact
that he positively ached to shut Chauvelin out of the whole business,
Martin-Roget gave a grudging assent to his proposal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Very well!' he said, 'you see to it.  So long
as it does not interfere with my plans . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'It can but help them,' rejoined Chauvelin
suavely.  'If you will act as I shall direct I pledge you my word
that the wench will walk to the Rat Mort of her free will and
at the hour when you want her.  What else is there to say?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'When and where shall we meet again?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Within the hour I will return here and explain
to you and to the citizeness what I want you to do.  We will get
the aristos inside the Rat Mort, never fear; and after that I
think that we may safely leave Carrier to do the rest, what?'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He picked up his hat and wrapped his mantle
round him.  He took no further heed of Martin-Roget or of Louise,
for suddenly he had felt the crackling of crisp paper inside the
breast-pocket of his coat and in a moment the spirit of the man
had gone a-roaming out of the narrow confines of this squalid
abode.  It had crossed the English Channel and wandered once more
into a brilliantly-lighted ball-room where an exquisitely dressed
dandy declaimed inanities and doggrel rhymes for the delectation
of a flippant assembly: it heard once more the lazy, drawling
speech, the inane, affected laugh, it caught the glance of a pair
of lazy, grey eyes fixed mockingly upon him.  Chauvelin's thin
claw-like hand went back to his pocket: it felt that packet of
papers, it closed over it like a vulture's talon does upon a prey.
 He no longer heard Martin-Roget's obstinate murmurings, he no
longer felt himself to be the disgraced, humiliated servant of
the State: rather did he feel once more the master, the leader,
the successful weaver of an hundred clever intrigues.  The enemy
who had baffled him so often had chosen once more to throw down
the glove of mocking defiance.  So be it!  The battle would be
fought this night -- a decisive one -- and long live the Republic
and the power of the people!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a curt nod of the head Chauvelin turned
on his heel and without waiting for Martin-Roget to follow him,
or for Louise to light him on his way, he strode from the room,
and out of the house, and had soon disappeared in the darkness
in the direction of the quay.</FONT></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more free from the encumbering companionship
of Martin-Roget, Chauvelin felt free to breathe and to think.
 He, the obscure and impassive servant of the Republic, the cold-blooded
Terrorist who had gone through every phase of an exciting career
without moving a muscle of his grave countenance, felt as if every
one of his arteries was on fire.  He strode along the quay in
the teeth of the north-westerly wind, grateful for the cold blast
which lashed his face and cooled his throbbing temples.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The packet of papers inside his coat seemed
to sear his breast.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Before turning to go along the quay he paused,
hesitating for a moment what he would do.  His very humble lodgings
were at the far end of the town, and every minute of time was
precious.  Inside Le Bouffay, where he had a small room allotted
to him as a minor representative in Nantes of the Committee of
Public Safety, there was the ever present danger of prying eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the whole -- since time was so precious
-- he decided on returning to Le Bouffay.  The concierge and the
clerk fortunately let him through without those official delays
which he -- Chauvelin -- was wont to find so galling ever since
his disgrace had put a bar against the opening of every door at
the bare mention of his name or the display of his tricolour scarf.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He strode rapidly across the hall: the men
on guard eyed him with lazy indifference as he passed.  Once inside
his own sanctum he looked carefully around him;  he drew the curtain
closer across the window and dragged the table and a chair well
away from the range which might be covered by an eye at the keyhole.
 It was only when he had thoroughly assured himself that no searching
eye or inquisitive ear could possibly be watching over him that
he at last drew the precious packet of papers from his pocket.
 He undid the red ribbon which held it together and spread the
papers out on the table before him.  Then he examined them carefully
one by one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As he did so an exclamation of wrath or of
impatience escaped him from time to time, once he laughed -- involuntarily
-- aloud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The examination of the papers took him some
time.  When he had finished he gathered them all together again,
retied the bit of ribbon round them and slipped the packet back
into the pocket of his coat.  There was a look of grim determination
on his face, even though a bitter sigh escaped his set lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Oh! for the power,' he muttered to himself,
'which I had a year ago! for the power to deal with mine enemy
myself.  So you have come to Nantes, my valiant Sir Percy Blakeney?'
he added while a short, sardonic laugh escaped his thin, set lips:
'and you are determined that I shall know how and why you came!
 Do you reckon, I wonder, that I have no longer the power to deal
with you?  Well! . . .'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He sighed again but with more satisfaction
this time.  </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Well! . . .' he reiterated with obvious complacency.
 'Unless that oaf Carrier is a bigger fool than I imagine him
to be I think I have you this time, my elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.'</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER IV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE NET</FONT></B><FONT
 SIZE="+1"></FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was not an easy thing to obtain an audience
of the great proconsul at this hour of the night, nor was Chauvelin,
the disgraced servant of the Committee of Public Safety, a man
to be considered. Carrier, with his love of ostentation and of
tyranny, found great delight in keeping his colleagues waiting
upon his pleasure, and he knew that he could trust young Jacques
Lalou&euml;t to be as insolent as any tyrant's flunkey of yore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I must speak with the proconsul at once,&quot;
had been Chauvelin's urgent request of Fleury, the commandant
of the great man's bodyguard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The proconsul dines at this hour,&quot;
had been Fleury's curt reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;'Tis a matter which concerns the welfare
and the safety of the State!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The proconsul's health is the concern
of the State too, and he dines at this hour and must not be disturbed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Commandant Fleury!&quot; urged Chauvelin,
&quot;you risk being implicated in a disaster. Danger and disgrace
threaten the proconsul and all his adherents. I must speak with
Citizen Carrier at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fortunately for Chauvelin there were two keys
which, when all else failed, were apt to open the doors of Carrier's
stronghold: the key of fear and that of cupidity. He tried both
and succeeded. He bribed and he threatened: he endured Fleury's
brutality and Lalou&euml;t's impertinence but he got his way.
After an hour's weary waiting and ceaseless parleyings he was
once more ushered into the ante-chamber where he had sat earlier
in the day. The doors leading to the inner sanctuary were open.
Young Jacques Lalou&euml;t stood by them on guard. Carrier, fuming
and raging at having been disturbed, vented his spleen and ill-temper
on Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If the news that you bring me is not
worth my consideration,&quot; he cried savagely, &quot;I'll send
you to the moulder in Le Bouffay or to drink the waters of the
Loire.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin silent, self-effaced, allowed the
flood of the great man's wrath to spend itself in threats. Then
he said quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Proconsul I have come to tell
you that the English spy, who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel,
is now in Nantes. There is a reward of twenty thousand francs
for his capture and I want your help to lay him by the heels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier suddenly paused in his ravings. He
sank into a chair and a livid hue spread over his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It's not true!&quot; he murmured hoarsely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I saw him--not an hour ago. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What proof have you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll show them to you--but not across
this threshold. Let me enter, Citizen Proconsul, and close your
sanctuary doors behind me rather than before. What I have come
hither to tell you, can only be said between four walls.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll make you tell me,&quot; broke in
Carrier in a raucous voice, which excitement and fear caused almost
to choke in his throat. &quot;I'll make you . . . curse you for
the traitor that you are. . . . Curse you!&quot; he cried more
vigorously, &quot;I'll make you speak. Will you shield a spy by
your silence, you miserable traitor? If you do I'll send you to
rot in the mud of the Loire with other traitors less accursed
than yourself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you only knew,&quot; was Chauvelin's
calm rejoinder to the other's ravings, &quot;how little I care
for life. I only live to be even one day with an enemy whom I
hate. That enemy is now in Nantes, but I am like a bird of prey
whose wings have been clipped. If you do not help me mine enemy
will again go free--and death in that case matters little or nothing
to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment longer Carrier hesitated. Fear
had gripped him by the throat. Chauvelin's earnestness seemed
to vouch for the truth of his assertion, and if this were so--if
those English spies were indeed in Nantes--then his own life was
in deadly danger. He--like every one of those bloodthirsty tyrants
who had misused the sacred names of Fraternity and of Equality--had
learned to dread the machinations of those mysterious Englishmen
and of their unconquerable leader. Popular superstition had it
that they were spies of the English Government and that they were
not only bent on saving traitors from well-merited punishment
but that they were hired assassins paid by Mr. Pitt to murder
every faithful servant of the Republic. The name of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, so significantly uttered by Chauvelin, had turned Carrier's
sallow cheeks to a livid hue. Sick with terror now he called Lalou&euml;t
to him. He clung to the boy with both arms as to the one being
in this world whom he trusted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What shall we do, Jacques?&quot; he murmured
hoarsely, &quot;shall we let him in?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The boy roughly shook himself free from the
embrace of the great proconsul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you want twenty thousand francs,&quot;
he said with a dry laugh, &quot;I should listen quietly to what
Citizen Chauvelin has to say.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Terror and rapacity were ranged on one side
against inordinate vanity. The thought of twenty thousand francs
made Carrier's ugly mouth water. Money was over scarce these days:
also the fear of assassination was a spectre which haunted him
at all hours of the day and night. On the other hand he positively
worshipped the mystery wherewith he surrounded himself. It had
been his boast for some time now that no one save the chosen few
had crossed the threshold of his private chamber: and he was miserably
afraid not only of Chauvelin's possible evil intentions, but also
that this despicable ex-<I>aristo</I> and equally despicable failure
would boast in the future of an ascendancy over him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He thought the matter over for fully five minutes,
during which there was dead silence in the two rooms--silence
only broken by the stertorous breathing of that wretched coward,
and the measured ticking of the fine buhl clock behind him. Chauvelin's
pale eyes were fixed upon the darkness, through which he could
vaguely discern the uncouth figure of the proconsul, sprawling
over his desk. Which way would his passions sway him? Chauvelin
as he watched and waited felt that his habitual self-control was
perhaps more severely taxed at this moment than it had ever been
before. Upon the swaying of those passions, the passions of a
man infinitely craven and infinitely base, depended all his--Chauvelin's--hopes
of getting even at last with a daring and resourceful foe. Terror
and rapacity were the counsellors which ranged themselves on the
side of his schemes, but mere vanity and caprice fought a hard
battle too.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the end it was rapacity that gained the
victory. An impatient exclamation from young Lalou&euml;t roused
Carrier from his sombre brooding and hastened on a decision which
was destined to have such momentous consequences for the future
of both these men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Introduce Citizen Chauvelin in here,
Lalou&euml;t,&quot; said the proconsul grudgingly. &quot;I will
listen to what he has to say.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin crossed the threshold of the tyrant's
sanctuary, in no way awed by the majesty of that dreaded presence
or confused by the air of mystery which hung about the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He did not even bestow a glance on the multitudinous
objects of art and the priceless furniture which littered the
tiger's lair. His pale face remained quite expressionless as he
bowed solemnly before Carrier and then took the chair which was
indicated to him. Young Lalou&euml;t fetched a candelabra from
the anteroom and carried it into the audience chamber: then he
closed the communicating doors. The candelabra he placed on a
console-table immediately behind Carrier's desk and chair, so
that the latter's face remained in complete shadow, whilst the
light fell full upon Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! what is it?&quot; queried the proconsul
roughly. &quot;What is this story of English spies inside Nantes?
How did they get here? Who is responsible for keeping such rabble
out of our city? Name of a dog, but some one has been careless
of duty! and carelessness these days is closely allied to treason.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He talked loudly and volubly--his inordinate
terror causing the words to come tumbling, almost incoherently,
out of his mouth. Finally he turned on Chauvelin with a snarl
like an angry cat:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And how comes it, Citizen,&quot; he added
savagely, &quot;that you alone here in Nantes are acquainted with
the whereabouts of those dangerous spies?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I caught sight of them,&quot; rejoined
Chauvelin calmly, &quot;this afternoon after I left you. I knew
we should have them here, the moment Citizen Martin-Roget brought
the Kernogans into the city. The woman is the wife of one of them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Curse that blundering fool Martin-Roget
for bringing that rabble about our ears, and those assassins inside
our gates.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay! Why should you complain, Citizen
Proconsul, rejoined Chauvelin in his blandest manner. &quot;Surely
you are not going to let the English spies escape this time? And
if you succeed in laying them by the heels--there where every
one else has failed--you will have earned twenty thousand francs
and the thanks of the entire Committee of Public Safety.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused: and young Lalou&euml;t interposed
with his impudent laugh:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go on, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; he said,
&quot;if there is twenty thousand francs to be made out of this
game, I'll warrant that the proconsul will take a hand in it--eh,
Carrier?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with the insolent familiarity of a terrier
teasing a grizzly he tweaked the great man's ear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin in the meanwhile had drawn the packet
of papers from his pocket and untied the ribbon that held them
together. He now spread the papers out on the desk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are these?&quot; queried Carrier.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A few papers,&quot; replied Chauvelin,
&quot;which one of your Marats, Paul Friche by name, picked up
in the wake of the Englishmen. I caught sight of them in the far
distance, and sent the Marats after them. For awhile Paul Friche
kept on their track, but after that they disappeared in the darkness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who were the senseless louts,&quot; growled
Carrier, &quot;who allowed a pack of foreign assassins to escape?
I'll soon make them disappear . . . in the Loire.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will do what you like about that,
Citizen Carrier,&quot; retorted Chauvelin dryly; &quot;in the
meanwhile you would do well to examine these papers.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He sorted these out, examined them one by one,
then passed them across to Carrier. Lalou&euml;t, impudent and
inquisitive, sat on the corner of the desk, dangling his legs.
With scant ceremony he snatched one paper after another out of
Carrier's hands and examined them curiously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Can you understand all this gibberish?&quot;
he asked airily. &quot;Jean Baptiste, my friend, how much English
do you know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not much,&quot; replied the proconsul,
&quot;but enough to recognize that abominable doggerel rhyme which
has gone the round of the Committees of Public Safety throughout
the country.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know it by heart,&quot; rejoined young
Lalou&euml;t. &quot;I was in Paris once, when Citizen Robespierre
received a copy of it. Name of a dog!&quot; added the youngster
with a coarse laugh, &quot;how he cursed!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is doubtful however if Citizen Robespierre
did on that occasion curse quite so volubly as Carrier did now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If I only knew why that <I>satan&eacute;</I>
Englishman throws so much calligraphy about,&quot; he said, &quot;I
would be easier in my mind. Now this senseless rhyme. . . . I
don't see . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It's importance?&quot; broke in Chauvelin
quietly. &quot;I dare say not. On the face of it, it appears foolish
and childish: but it is intended as a taunt and is really a poor
attempt at humour. They are a queer people these English. If you
knew them as I do, you would not be surprised to see a man scribbling
off a cheap joke before embarking on an enterprise which may cost
him his head.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And this inane rubbish is of that sort,&quot;
concluded young Lalou&euml;t. And in his thin high treble he began
reciting:</FONT></P>

<UL>
  <UL>
    <UL>
      <DIR>
        <P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We seek him here;</FONT>
        <P><FONT SIZE="+1">We seek him there!</FONT>
        <P><FONT SIZE="+1">Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.</FONT>
        <P><FONT SIZE="+1">Is he in heaven?</FONT>
        <P><FONT SIZE="+1">Is he in h--ll?</FONT>
        <P><FONT SIZE="+1">That demmed elusive Pimpernel?&quot;</FONT>
      </DIR>
    </UL>
  </UL>
</UL>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pointless and offensive,&quot; he said
as he tossed the paper back on the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A cursed <I>aristo</I> that Englishman
of yours,&quot; growled Carrier. &quot;Oh! when I get him. . .
.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He made an expressive gesture which made Lalou&euml;t
laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What else have we got in the way of documents,
Citizen Chauvelin?&quot; he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is a letter,&quot; replied the
latter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Read it,&quot; commanded Carrier. &quot;Or
rather translate it as you read. I don't understand the whole
of the gibberish.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Chauvelin, taking up a sheet of paper which
was covered with neat, minute writing, began to read aloud, translating
the English into French as he went along&quot;</FONT></P>

<UL>
  <DIR>
    <P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Here we are at last, my dear Tony! Didn't
    I tell you that we can get in anywhere despite all precautions
    taken against us!&quot;</FONT>
  </DIR>
</UL>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The impudent devils!&quot; broke in Carrier.</FONT></P>

<UL>
  <DIR>
    <P><FONT SIZE="+1">--&quot;Did you really think that they could
    keep us out of Nantes while Lady Anthony Dewhurst is a prisoner
    in their hands.&quot;</FONT>
  </DIR>
</UL>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who is that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Kernogan woman. As I told you just
now, she is married to an Englishman who is named Dewhurst and
who is one of the members of that thrice cursed League.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he continued to read:</FONT></P>

<UL>
  <DIR>
    <P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And did you really suppose that they
    would spot half a dozen English gentlemen in the guise of peat-gatherers,
    returning at dusk and covered with grime from their work? Not
    like, friend Tony! Not like! If you happen to meet mine engaging
    friend Monsieur Chambertin before I have that privilege myself
    tell him I pray you, with my regards, that I am looking forward
    to the pleasure of making a long nose at him once more. Calais,
    Boulogne, Paris--now Nantes--the scenes of his triumphs multiply
    exceedingly.&quot;</FONT>
  </DIR>
</UL>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What in the devil's name does all this
mean?&quot; queried Carrier with an oath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You don't understand it?&quot; rejoined
Chauvelin quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No. I do not.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet I translated quite clearly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is not the language that puzzles me.
The contents seem to me such drivel. The man wants secrecy, what?
He is supposed to be astute, resourceful, above all mysterious
and enigmatic. Yet he writes to his friend--matter of no importance
between them, recollections of the past, known to them both--and
threats for the future, equally futile and senseless. I cannot
reconcile it all. It puzzles me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And it would puzzle me,&quot; rejoined
Chauvelin, while the ghost of a smile curled his thin lips, &quot;did
I not know the man. Futile? Senseless, you say? Well, he does
futile and senseless things one moment and amazing deeds of personal
bravery and of astuteness the next. He is three parts a braggart
too. He wanted you, me--all of us to know how he and his followers
succeeded in eluding our vigilance and entered our closely-guarded
city in the guise of grimy peat-gatherers. Now I come to think
of it, it was easy enough for them to do that. Those peat-gatherers
who live inside the city boundaries return from their work as
the night falls in. Those cursed English adventurers are passing
clever at disguise--they are born mountebanks the lot of them.
Money and impudence they have in plenty. They could easily borrow
or purchase some filthy rags from the cottages on the dunes, then
mix with the crowd on its return to the city. I dare say it was
cleverly done. That Scarlet Pimpernel is just a clever adventurer
and nothing more. So far his marvellous good luck has carried
him through. Now we shall see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier had listened in silence. Something
of his colleague's calm had by this time communicated itself to
him too. He was no longer raving like an infuriated bull--his
terror no longer made a half-cringing, wholly savage brute of
him. He was sprawling across the desk--his arms folded, his deep-set
eyes studying closely the well-nigh inscrutable face of Chauvelin.
Young Lalou&euml;t too had lost something of his impudence. That
mysterious spell which seemed to emanate from the elusive personality
of the bold English adventurer had been cast over these two callous,
bestial natures, humbling their arrogance and making them feel
that here was no ordinary situation to be dealt with by smashing,
senseless hitting and the spilling of innocent blood. Both felt
instinctively too that this man Chauvelin, however wholly he may
have failed in the past, was nevertheless still the only man who
might grapple successfully with the elusive and adventurous foe.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you assuming, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot;
queried Carrier after awhile, &quot;that this packet of papers
was dropped purposely by the Englishman, so that it might get
into our hands?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is always such a possibility,&quot;
replied Chauvelin dryly. &quot;With that type of man one must
be prepared to meet the unexpected.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then go on, Citizen Chauvelin. What else
is there among these <I>satan&eacute;</I> papers?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing further of importance. There
is a map of Nantes, and one of the coast and of Le Croisic. There
is a cutting from <I>Le Moniteur</I> dated last September, and
one from the <I>London Gazette</I> dated three years ago. The
<I>Moniteur</I> makes reference to the production of <I>Athalie</I>
at the Th&eacute;&acirc;tre Moli&egrave;re, and the <I>London
Gazette</I> to the sale of fat cattle at an agricultural show.
There is a receipted account from a London tailor for two hundred
pounds worth of clothes supplied, and one from a Lyons mercer
for an hundred francs worth of silk cravats. Then there is the
one letter which alone amidst all this rubbish appears to be of
any consequence. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He took up the last paper: his hand was still
quite steady.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Read the letter,&quot; said Carrier.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is addressed in the English fashion
to Lady Anthony Dewhurst,&quot; continued Chauvelin slowly, &quot;the
Kernogan woman you know Citizen. It says:</FONT></P>

<UL>
  <DIR>
    <P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Keep up your courage. Your friends are
    inside the city and on the watch. Try the door of your prison
    every evening at one hour before midnight. Once you will find
    it yield. Slip out and creep noiselessly down the stairs. At
    the bottom a friendly hand will be stretched out to you. Take
    it with confidence--it will lead you to safety and to freedom.
    Courage and secrecy.&quot;</FONT>
  </DIR>
</UL>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lalou&euml;t had been looking over his shoulder
while he read: now he pointed to the bottom of the letter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And there is the device&quot; he said,
&quot;we have heard so much about of late--a five-petalled flower
drawn in red ink . . . the Scarlet Pimpernel, I presume.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! the Scarlet Pimpernel,&quot; murmured
Chauvelin, &quot;as you say! Braggadocio on his part or accident,
his letters are certainly in our hands now and will prove--must
prove, the tool whereby we can be even with him once and for all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; interposed
Carrier with a sneer, &quot;are mighty lucky to have me to help
you this time. I am not going to be fooled, as Candeille and you
were fooled last September, as you were fooled in Calais and H&eacute;ron
in Paris. I shall be seeing this time to the capture of those
English adventurers.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that capture should not be difficult,&quot;
added Lalou&euml;t with a complacent laugh. &quot;Your famous
adventurer's luck hath deserted him this time: an all-powerful
proconsul is pitted against him and the loss of his papers hath
destroyed the anonimity on which he reckons.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin paid no heed to the fatuous remarks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How little did this flippant young braggart
and this coarse-grained bully understand the subtle workings of
that same adventurer's brain! He himself--one of the most astute
men of the day--found it difficult. Even now--the losing of those
letters in the open streets of Nantes--it was part of a plan.
Chauvelin could have staked his head on that--apart of a plan
for the liberation of Lady Anthony Dewhurst--but what plan?--what
plan?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He took up the letter which his colleague had
thrown down: he fingered it, handled it, letting the paper crackle
through his fingers, as if he expected it to yield up the secret
which it contained. The time had come--of that he felt no doubt--when
he could at last be even with his enemy. He had endured more bitter
humiliation at the hands of this elusive Pimpernel than he would
have thought himself capable of bearing a couple of years ago.
But the time had come at last--if only he kept his every faculty
on the alert, if Fate helped him and his own nerves stood the
strain. Above all if this blundering, self-satisfied Carrier could
be reckoned on! . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There lay the one great source of trouble!
He--Chauvelin--had no power: he was disgraced--a failure--a nonentity
to be sneered at. He might protest, entreat, wring his hands,
weep tears of blood and not one man would stir a finger to help
him: this brute who sprawled here across his desk would not lend
him half a dozen men to enable him to lay by the heels the most
powerful enemy the Government of the Terror had ever known. Chauvelin
inwardly ground his teeth with rage at his own impotence, at his
own dependence on this clumsy lout, who was at this moment possessed
of powers which he himself would give half his life to obtain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But on the other hand he did possess a power
which no one could take from him--the power to use others for
the furtherance of his own aims--to efface himself while others
danced as puppets to his piping. Carrier had the power: he had
spies, Marats, prison-guards at his disposal. he was greedy for
the reward, and cupidity and fear would make of him a willing
instrument. All that Chauvelin need do was to use that instrument
for his own ends. One would be the head to direct, the other--a
mere insentient tool.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From this moment onwards every minute, every
second and every fraction of a second would be full of portent,
full of possibilities. Sir Percy Blakeney was in Nantes with at
least three or four members of his League: he was at this very
moment taxing every fibre of his resourceful brain in order to
devise a means whereby he could rescue his friend's wife from
the fate which was awaiting her: to gain this end he would dare
everything, risk everything--risk and dare a great deal more than
he had ever dared and risked before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin was finding a grim pleasure in reviewing
the situation, in envisaging the danger of failure which he knew
lay in wait for him, unless he too was able to call to his aid
all the astuteness, all the daring, all the resource of his own
fertile brain. He studied is colleague's face keenly--that sullen,
savage expression in it, the arrogance, the blundering vanity.
It was terrible to have to humour and fawn to a creature of that
stamp when all one's hopes, all one's future, one's ideals and
the welfare of one's country were at stake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But this additional difficulty only served
to whet the man's appetite for action. He drew in a long breath
of delight, like a captive who first after many days and months
of weary anguish scents freedom and ozone. He straightened out
his shoulders. A gleam of triumph and of hope shot out of his
keen pale eyes. He studied Carrier and he studied Lalou&euml;t
and he felt that he could master them both--quietly, diplomatically,
with subtle skill that would not alarm the proconsul's rampant
self-esteem: and whilst this coarse-fibred brute gloated in anticipatory
pleasure over the handling of a few thousand francs, and whilst
Martin-Roget dreamed of a clumsy revenge against one woman and
one man who had wronged him four years ago, he--Chauvelin--would
pursue his work of striking at the enemy of the Revolution--of
bringing to his knees the man who spent life and fortune in combating
its ideals and in frustrating its aims. The destruction of such
a foe was worthy a patriot's ambition.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the other hand some of Carrier's bullying
arrogance had gone. He was terrified to the very depths of his
cowardly heart, and for once he was turning away from his favourite
Jacques Lalou&euml;t and inclined to lean on Chauvelin for advice.
Robespierre had been known to tremble at sight of that small scarlet
device; how much more had he--Carrier--cause to be afraid? He
knew his own limitations and he was terrified of the assassin's
dagger. As Marat had perished, so he too might end his days, and
the English spies were credited with murderous intentions and
superhuman power. In his innermost self Carrier knew that despite
countless failures Chauvelin was mentally his superior, and though
he never would own to this and at this moment did not attempt
to shed his overbearing manner, he was watching the other keenly
and anxiously, ready to follow the guidance of an intellect stronger
than his own.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At last Carrier elected to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And now, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; he
said, &quot;we know how we stand. We know that the English assassins
are in Nantes. The question is how are we going to lay them by
the heels?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin gave him no direct reply. He was
busy collecting his precious papers together and thrusting them
back into the pocket of his coat. Then he said quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is through the Kernogan woman that
we can get hold of him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where she is, there will the Englishmen
be. They are in Nantes for the sole purpose of getting the woman
and her father out of your clutches . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then it will be a fine haul inside the
Rat Mort,&quot; ejaculated Carrier with a chuckle. &quot;Eh, Jacques,
you young scamp? You and I must go and see that, what? You have
been complaining that life was getting monotonous. Drownages--Republican
marriages! They have all palled in their turn on your jaded appetite.
. . . But the capture of the English assassins, eh? . . . of that
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel which has ever caused citizen
Robespierre much uneasiness--that will stir up your sluggish blood,
you lazy young vermin! . . . Go on, go on, Citizen Chauvelin,
I am vastly interested!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He rubbed his dry, bony hands together and
cackled with glee. Chauvelin interposed quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Inside the Rat Mort, eh, Citizen?&quot;
he queried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why, yes. Citizen Martin-Roget means
to convey the Kernogan woman to the Rat Mort, doesn't he?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He does.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you say that where the Kernogan woman
is there the Englishmen will be. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The inference is obvious.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Which means ten thousand francs from
that fool Martin-Roget for having the wench and her father arrested
inside the Rat Mort! and twenty thousand for the capture of the
English spies. . . . Have you forgotten, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot;
he added with a raucous cry of triumph, &quot;that commandant
Fleury has my orders to make a raid on the Rat Mort this night
with half a company of my Marats, and to arrest every one whom
they find inside?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Kernogan wench is not at the Rat
Mort yet,&quot; quoth Chauvelin dryly, &quot;and you have refused
to lend a hand in having her conveyed thither.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I can't do it, my little Chauvelin,&quot;
rejoined Carrier, somewhat sobered by this reminder. &quot;I can't
do it . . . you understand . . . my Marats taking an <I>aristo</I>
to a house of ill-fame where presently I have her arrested . .
. it won't do . . . it won't do . . . you don't know how I am
spied upon just now. . . . It really would not do. . . . I can't
be mixed up in that part of the affair. The wench must go to the
Rat Mort of her own free will, or the whole plan falls to the
ground. . . . That fool Martin-Roget must think of a way . . .
it's his affair, after all. He must see to it. . . . Or you can
think of a way,&quot; he added, assuming the coaxing ways of a
tiger-cat; &quot;you are so clever, my little Chauvelin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; replied Chauvelin quietly,
&quot;I can think of a way. The Kernogan wench shall leave the
house of Citizeness Adet and walk into the tavern of the Rat Mort
of her own free will. Your reputation, Citizen Carrier,&quot;
he added without the slightest apparent trace of a sneer, &quot;your
reputation shall be safeguarded in this matter. But supposing
that in the interval of going from the one house to the other
the English adventurer succeeded in kidnapping her. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pah! is that likely?&quot; quoth Carrier
with a shrug of the shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Exceedingly likely, Citizen; and you
would not doubt it if you knew this Scarlet Pimpernel as I do.
I have seen him at his nefarious work. I know what he can do.
There is nothing that he would not venture . . . there are few
ventures in which he does not succeed. He is as strong as an ox,
as agile as a cat. He can see in the dark and he can always vanish
in a crowd. Here, there and everywhere, you never know where he
will appear. He is a past master in the art of disguise and he
is a born mountebank. Believe me, Citizen, we shall want all the
resources of our joint intellects to frustrate the machinations
of such a foe.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier mused for a moment in silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;H'm!&quot; he said after awhile, and
with a sardonic laugh. &quot;You may be right, Citizen Chauvelin.
You have had experience with the rascal . . . you ought to know
him. We won't leave anything to chance--don't be afraid of that.
My Marats will be keen on the capture. We'll promise commandant
Fleury a thousand francs for himself and another thousand to be
distributed among his men if we lay hands on the English assassins
to-night. We'll leave nothing to chance,&quot; he reiterated with
an oath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In which case, Citizen Carrier, you must
on your side agree to two things,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin firmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are they?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must order Commandant Fleury to place
himself and half a company of his Marats at my disposal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What else?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must allow them to lend a hand if
there is an attempt to kidnap the Kernogan wench while she is
being conveyed to the Rat Mort. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier hesitated for a second or two, but
only for form's sake: it was his nature whenever he was forced
to yield to do so grudgingly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Very well!&quot; he said at last. &quot;I'll
order Fleury to be on the watch and to interfere if there is any
street-brawling outside or near the Rat Mort. Will that suit you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Perfectly. I shall be on the watch too--somewhere
close by. . . . I'll warn commandant Fleury if I suspect that
the English are making ready for a coup outside the tavern. Personally
I think it unlikely--because the Duc de Kernogan will be inside
the Rat Mort all the time, and he too will be the object of the
Englishmen's attacks on his behalf. Citizen Martin-Roget too has
about a score or so of his friends posted outside his sister's
house: they are lads from his village who hate the Kernogans as
much as he does himself. Still! I shall feel easier in my mind
now that I am certain of Commandant Fleury's co-operation.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then it seems to me that we have arranged
everything satisfactorily, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everything, except the exact moment when
Commandant Fleury shall advance with his men to the door of the
tavern and demand admittance in the name of the Republic.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, he will have to make quite sure
that the whole of our quarry is inside the net, eh? . . . before
he draws the strings . . . or all our pretty plans fall to nought.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As you say,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin,
&quot;we must make sure. Supposing therefore that we get the wench
safely into the tavern, that we have her there with her father,
what we shall want will be some one in observation--some one who
can help us draw our birds into the snare just when we are ready
for them. Now there is a man whom I have in my mind: he hath name
Paul Friche and is one of your Marats--a surly, ill-conditioned
giant . . . he was on guard outside Le Bouffay this afternoon.
. . . I spoke to him . . . he would suit our purpose admirably.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you want him to do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only to make himself look as like a Nantese
cut-throat as he can. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He looks like one already,&quot; broke
in Jacques Lalou&euml;t with a laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So much the better. He'll excite no suspicion
in that case in the minds of the frequenters of the Rat Mort.
Then I'll instruct him to start a brawl--a fracas--soon after
the arrival of the Kernogan wench. The row will inevitably draw
the English adventurers hot-haste to the spot, either in the hope
of getting the Kernogans away during the m&ecirc;l&eacute;e or
with a view to protecting them. As soon as they have appeared
upon the scene, the half company of the Marats will descend on
the house and arrest every one inside it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It all sounds remarkably simple,&quot;
rejoined Carrier, and with a leer of satisfaction he turned to
Jacques Lalou&euml;t. &quot;What think you of it, Citizen?&quot;
he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That it sounds so remarkably simple,&quot;
replied young Lalou&euml;t, &quot;that personally I should be
half afraid . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of what?&quot; queried Chauvelin blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you fail, Citizen Chauvelin. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If the Englishmen do not appear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Even so the citizen proconsul will have
lost nothing. He will merely have failed to gain the twenty thousand
francs. But the Kernogans will still be in his power and citizen
Martin-Roget's ten thousand francs are in any case assured.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Friend Jean-Baptiste,&quot; concluded
Lalou&euml;t with his habitual insolent familiarity &quot;you
had better do what Citizen Chauvelin wants. Ten thousand francs
are good . . . and thirty better still. Our privy purse has been
empty far too long, and I for one would like the handling of a
few brisk notes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It will only be twenty-eight, Citizen
Lalou&euml;t,&quot; interposed Chauvelin blandly, &quot;for Commandant
Fleury will want one thousand francs and his men another thousand
to stimulate their zeal. Still! I imagine that these hard times
twenty-eight thousand francs are worth fighting for.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You seem to be fighting and planning
and scheming for nothing, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; retorted young
Lalou&euml;t with a sneer. &quot;What are you going to gain, I
should like to know, by the capture of that dare-devil Englishman?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh!&quot; replied Chauvelin suavely,
&quot;I shall gain the citizen proconsul's regard, I hope--and
yours too, Citizen Lalou&euml;t. I want nothing more except the
success of my plan.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Young Lalou&euml;t jumped down to his feet.
He shrugged his shoulders and through his fine eyes shot a glance
of mockery and scorn on the thin, shrunken figure of the Terrorist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How you do hate that Englishman, Citizen
Chauvelin,&quot; he said with a light laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Carrier having fully realized that he in any
case stood to make a vast sum of money out of the capture of the
band of English spies, gave his support generously to Chauvelin's
scheme. Fleury, summoned into is presence, was ordered to place
himself and half a company of Marats at the disposal of Citizen
Chauvelin. He demurred and growled like a bear with a sore head
at being placed under the orders of a civilian, but it was not
easy to run counter to the proconsul's will. A good deal of swearing,
one or two overt threats and the citizen commandant was reduced
to submission. The promise of a thousand francs, when the reward
for the capture of the English spies was paid out by a grateful
government, overcame his last objections.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think you should rid yourself of that
obstinate oaf,&quot; was young Lalou&euml;t's cynical comment,
when Fleury had finally left the audience chamber; &quot;he is
too argumentative for my taste.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin smiled quietly to himself. He cared
little what became of every one of these Nantese louts once his
great object had been attained.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I need not trouble you further, Citizen
Carrier,&quot; he said as he finally rose to take his leave. &quot;I
shall have my hands full until I myself lay that meddlesome Englishman
bound and gagged at your feet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The phrase delighted Carrier's insensate vanity.
He was overgracious to Chauvelin now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You shall do that at the Rat Mort, Citizen
Chauvelin,&quot; he said with marked affability, &quot;and I myself
will commend you for your zeal to the Committee of Public Safety.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Always supposing,&quot; interposed Jacques
Lalou&euml;t with his cynical laugh, &quot;that citizen Chauvelin
does not let the whole rabble slip through his fingers.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If I do,&quot; concluded Chauvelin dryly,
&quot;you may drag the Loire for my body to-morrow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh!&quot; laughed Carrier, &quot;we won't
trouble to do that. <I>Au revoir, </I>Citizen Chauvelin,&quot;
he added with one of his grandiloquent gestures of dismissal,
&quot;I wish you luck at the Rat Mort to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Jacques Lalou&euml;t ushered Chauvelin out.
When he was finally left standing alone at the head of the stairs
and young Lalou&euml;t's footsteps had ceased to resound across
the floors of the rooms beyond, he remained quite still for awhile,
his eyes fixed into vacancy, his face set and expressionless;
and through his lips there came a long-drawn-out sigh of intense
satisfaction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And now, my fine Scarlet Pimpernel,&quot;
he murmured softly, &quot;once more <I>a nous deux</I>.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he ran swiftly down the stairs and a moment
later was once more speeding toward Le Bouffay.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE MESSAGE
OF HOPE</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After Martin-Roget and Chauvelin had left her,
Yvonne had sat for a long time motionless, almost unconscious.
It seemed as if gradually, hour by hour, minute by minute, her
every feeling of courage and of hope were deserting her. Three
days now she had been separated from her father--three days she
had been under the constant supervision of a woman who had not
a single thought of compassion or of mercy for the &quot;aristocrat&quot;
whom she hated so bitterly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At night, curled up on a small bundle of dank
straw Yvonne had made vain efforts to snatch a little sleep. Ever
since the day when she had been ruthlessly torn away from the
protection of her dear milor', she had persistently clung to the
belief that he would find the means to come to her, to wrest her
from the cruel fate which her pitiless enemies had devised for
her. She had clung to that hope through that dreary journey from
dear England to this abominable city. She had clung to it even
whilst her father knelt at her feet in an agony of remorse. She
had clung to hope while Martin-Roget alternately coaxed and terrorized
her, while her father was dragged away from her, while she endured
untold misery, starvation, humiliation at the hands of Louis Adet:
but now--quite unaccountably--that hope seemed suddenly to have
fled from her, leaving her lonely and inexpressibly desolate.
That small, shrunken figure which, wrapped in a dark mantle, had
stood in the corner of the room watching her like a serpent watches
its prey, had seemed like the forerunner of the fate with which
Martin-Roget, gloating over her helplessness, had already threatened
her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She knew, of course, that neither from him,
nor from the callous brute who governed Nantes, could she expect
the slightest justice or mercy. She had been brought here by Martin-Roget
not only to die, but to suffer grievously at his hands in return
for a crime for which she personally was in no way responsible.
To hope for mercy from him at the eleventh hour were worse than
futile. Her already over-burdened heart ached at thought of her
father: he suffered all that she suffered, and in addition he
must be tortured with anxiety for her and with remorse. Sometimes
she was afraid that under the stress of desperate soul-agony he
might perhaps have been led to suicide. She knew nothing of what
had happened to him, where he was, nor whether privations and
lack of food or sleep, together with Martin-Roget's threats, had
by now weakened his morale and turned his pride into humiliating
submission.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A distant tower-clock struck the evening hours
one after the other. Yvonne for the past three days had only been
vaguely conscious of time. Martin-Roget had spoken of a few hours'
respite only, of the proconsul's desire to be soon rid of her.
Well! this meant no doubt that the morrow would see the end of
it all--the end of her life which such a brief while ago seemed
so full of delight, of love and of happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The end of her life! She had hardly begun to
live and her dear milor' had whispered to her such sweet promises
of endless vistas of bliss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne shivered beneath her thin gown. The
north-westerly blast came in cruel gusts through the unglazed
window and a vague instinct of self-preservation caused Yvonne
to seek shelter in the one corner of the room where the icy draught
did not penetrate quite so freely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eight, nine and ten struck from the tower-clock
far away: she heard these sounds as in a dream. Tired, cold and
hungry her vitality at that moment was at its lowest ebb--and,
with her back resting against the wall she fell presently into
a torpor-like sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Suddenly something roused her, and in an instant
she sat up--wide-awake and wide-eyed, every one of her senses
conscious and on the alert. Something had roused her--at first
she could not say what it was--or remember. Then presently individual
sounds detached themselves from the buzzing in her ears. Hitherto
the house had always been so still; except on the isolated occasions
when Martin-Roget had come to visit her and his heavy tread had
cause every loose board in the tumble-down house to creak, it
was only Louise Adet's shuffling footsteps which had roused the
dormant echoes, when she crept upstairs either to her own room,
or to throw a piece of stale bread to her prisoner.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But now--it was neither Martin-Roget's heavy
footfall nor the shuffling gait of Louis Adet which had roused
Yvonne from her trance-like sleep. It was a gentle, soft, creeping
step which was slowly, cautiously mounting the stairs. Yvonne
crouching against the wall could count every tread--now and then
a board creaked--now and then the footsteps halted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne, wide-eyed, her heart stirred by a nameless
terror was watching the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The piece of tallow-candle flickered in the
draught. Its feeble light just touched the remote corner of the
room. And Yvonne heard those soft, creeping footsteps as they
reached the landing and came to a halt outside the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Every drop of blood in her seemed to be frozen
by terror: her knees shook: her heart almost stopped its beating.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Under the door something small and white had
just been introduced--a scrap of paper; and there it remained--white
against the darkness of the unwashed boards--a mysterious message
left her by an unknown hand, whilst the unknown footsteps softly
crept down the stairs again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For awhile longer Yvonne remained as she was--cowering
against the wall--like a timid little animal, fearful lest that
innocent-looking object hid some unthought-of danger. Then at
last she gathered courage. Trembling with excitement she raised
herself to her knees and then on hands and knees--for she was
very weak and faint--she crawled up to that mysterious piece of
paper and picked it up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her trembling hand closed over it. With wide
staring terror-filled eyes she looked all round the narrow room,
ere she dared cast one more glance on that mysterious scrap of
paper. Then she struggled to her feet and tottered up to the table.
She sat down and with fingers numbed with cold she smoothed out
the paper and held it close to the light, trying to read what
was written on it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her sight was blurred. She had to pull herself
resolutely together, for suddenly she felt ashamed of her weakness
and her overwhelming terror yielded to feverish excitement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The scrap of paper contained a message--a message
addressed to her in that name of which she was so proud--the name
which she thought she would never be allowed to bear again: Lady
Anthony Dewhurst. She reiterated the words several times, her
lips clinging lovingly to them--and just below them there was
a small device, drawn in red ink . . . a tiny flower with five
petals. . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne frowned and murmured, vaguely puzzled--no
longer frightened now: &quot;A flower . . . drawn in red . . .
what can it mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But now suddenly all her fears fell away from
her. Hope was once more knocking at the gates of her heart--vague
memories had taken definite shape . . . the mysterious letter
. . . the message of hope . . . the red flower . . . all were
gaining significance. She stooped low to read the letter by the
feeble light of the flickering candle. She read it through with
her eyes first--then with her lips in a soft murmur, while her
mind gradually took in all that it meant for her.</FONT></P>

<UL>
  <DIR>
    <P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Keep up your courage. Your friends are
    inside the city and on the watch. Try the door of your prison
    every evening at one hour before midnight. Once you will find
    it yield. Slip out and creep noiselessly down the stairs. At
    the bottom a friendly hand will be stretched out to you. Take
    it with confidence--it will lead you to safety and freedom. Courage
    and secrecy.&quot;</FONT>
  </DIR>
</UL>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When she had finished reading, her eyes were
swimming in tears. There was no longer any doubt in her mind about
the message now, for her dear milor' had so often spoken to her
about the brave Scarlet Pimpernel who had risked his precious
life many a time ere this, in order to render service to the innocent
and the oppressed. And now, of a surety, this message came from
him: him: from her dear milor' and from his gallant chief. There
was the small device--the little red flower which had so often
brought hope to despairing hearts. And it was more than hope that
it brought to Yvonne. It brought certitude and happiness, and
a sweet, tender remorse that she should ever have doubted. She
ought to have known all along that everything would be for the
best: she had no right ever to have given way to despair. In her
heart she prayed for forgiveness from her dear absent milor'.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How could she ever doubt him? Was it likely
that he would abandon her?--he and that brave friend of his whose
powers were indeed magical. Why! she ought to have done her best
to keep up her physical as well as her mental faculties--who knows?
But perhaps physical strength might be of inestimable value both
to herself and to her gallant rescuers presently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She took up the stale brown bread and ate it
resolutely. She drank some water and then stamped round the room
to get some warmth into her limbs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A distant clock had struck ten awhile ago--and
if possible she ought to get an hour's rest before the time came
for her to be strong and to act: so she shook up her meagre straw
paillasse and lay down, determined if possible to get a little
sleep--for indeed she felt that that was just what her dear milor'
would have wished her to do.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus time went by--waking or dreaming, Yvonne
could never afterwards have said in what state she waited during
that one long hour which separated her from the great, blissful
moment. The bit of candle burnt low and presently died out. After
that Yvonne remained quite still upon the straw, in total darkness:
no light came in through the tiny window, only the cold north-westerly
wind blew in in gusts. But of a surety the prisoner who was within
sight of freedom felt neither cold nor fatigue now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The tower-clock in the distance struck the
quarters with dreary monotony.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The last stroke of eleven ceased to vibrate
through the stillness of the winter's night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne roused herself from the torpor-like
state into which she had fallen. She tried to struggle to her
feet, but intensity of excitement had caused a strange numbness
to invade her limbs. She could hardly move. A second or two ago
it had seemed to her that she heard a gentle scraping noise at
the door--a drawing of bolts--the grating of a key in the lock--then
again, soft, shuffling footsteps that came and went and that were
not those of Louise Adet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At last Yvonne contrived to stand on her feet;
but she had to close her eyes and to remain quite still for awhile
after that, for her ears were buzzing and her head swimming: she
thought that she must fall if she moved and mayhap lose consciousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But this state of weakness only lasted a few
seconds: the next she had groped her way to the door and her hand
had found the iron latch. It yielded. Then she waited, calling
up all her strength--for the hour had come wherein she must not
only think and act for herself, but think of every possibility
which might occur, and act as she imagined her dear lord would
require it of her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She pressed the clumsy iron latch further:
it yielded again, and anon she was able to push open the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Excited yet confident she tip-toed out of the
room. The darkness--like unto pitch--was terribly disconcerting.
With the exception of her narrow prison Yvonne had only once seen
the interior of the house and that was when, half fainting, she
had been dragged across its threshold and up the stairs. She had
therefore only a very vague idea as to where the stairs lay and
how she was to get about without stumbling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Slowly and cautiously she crept a few paces
forward, then she turned and carefully closed the door behind
her. There was not a sound inside the house: every-thing was silent
around her: neither footfall nor whisperings reached her straining
ears. She felt about with her hands, she crouched down on her
knees: anon she discovered the head of the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly she drew back, like a frightened
hare conscious of danger. All the blood rushed back to her heart,
making it beat so violently that she once more felt sick and faint.
A sound--gentle as a breath--had broken that absolute and dead
silence which up to now had given her confidence. She felt suddenly
that she was no longer alone in the darkness--that somewhere close
by there was some one--friend or foe--who was lying in watch for
her--that somewhere in the darkness something moved and breathed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crackling of the paper inside her kerchief
served to remind her that her dear milor' was on the watch and
that the blessed message had spoken of a friendly hand which would
be stretched out to her and which she was enjoined to take with
confidence. Reassured she crept on again, and anon a softly murmured:
&quot;Hush-sh!--sh!--&quot; reached her ear. It seemed to come
from down below--not very far--and Yvonne, having once more located
the head of the stairs with her hands, began slowly to creep downstairs--softly
as a mouse--step by step--but every time that a board creaked
she paused, terrified, listening for Louise Adet's heavy footstep,
for a sound that would mean the near approach of danger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush--sh--sh&quot; came again as a gentle
murmur from below and the something that moved and breathed in
the darkness seemed to draw nearer to Yvonne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few more seconds of soul-racking suspense,
a few more steps down the creaking stairs and she felt a strong
hand laid upon her wrist and heard a muffled voice whisper in
English:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All is well! Trust me! Follow me!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She did not recognize the voice, even though
there was something vaguely familiar in its intonation. Yvonne
did not pause to conjecture: she had been made happy by the very
sound of the language which stood to her for every word of love
she had ever heard: it restored her courage and her confidence
in their fullest measure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Obeying the whispered command, Yvonne was content
now to follow her mysterious guide who had hold of her hand. The
stairs were steep and winding--at a turn she perceived a feeble
light at their foot down below. Up against this feeble light the
form of her guide was silhouetted in a broad, dark mass. Yvonne
could see nothing of him beyond the square outline of his shoulders
and that of his sugar-loaf hat. Her mind now was thrilled with
excitement and her fingers closed almost convulsively round his
hand. He led her across Louise Adet's back kitchen. It was from
here that the feeble light came--from a small oil lamp which stood
on the centre table. It helped to guide Yvonne and her mysterious
friend to the bottom of the stairs, then across the kitchen to
the front door, where again complete darkness reigned. But soon
Yvonne--who was following blindly whithersoever she was led--heard
the click of a latch and the grating of a door upon its hinges:
a cold current of air caught her straight in the face. She could
see nothing, for it seemed to be as dark out of doors as in: but
she had the sensation of that open door, of a threshold to cross,
of freedom and happiness beckoning to her straight out of the
gloom. Within the next second or two she would be out of this
terrible place, its squalid and dank walls would be behind her.
On ahead in that thrice welcome obscurity her dear milor' and
his powerful friend were beckoning to her to come boldly on--their
protecting arms were already stretched out for her; it seemed
to her excited fancy as if the cold night-wind brought to her
ears the echo of their endearing words.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She filled her lungs with the keen winter air:
hope, happiness, excitement thrilled her every nerve.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A short walk, my lady,&quot; whispered
the guide, still speaking in English: &quot;you are not cold?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, no, I am not cold,&quot; she whispered
in reply. &quot;I am conscious of nothing save that I am free.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you are not afraid&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Indeed, indeed I am not afraid,&quot;
she murmured fervently. &quot;May God reward you, sir, for what
you do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Again there had been that certain something--vaguely
familiar--in the way the man spoke which for the moment piqued
Yvonne's curiosity. She did not, of a truth, know English well
enough to detect the very obvious foreign intonation; she only
felt that sometime in the dim and happy past she had heard this
man speak. But even this vague sense of puzzlement she dismissed
very quickly from her mind. Was she not taking everything on trust?
Indeed hope and confidence had a very firm hold on her at last.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter 6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE RAT MORT</FONT></B><FONT
 SIZE="+1"></FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The guide had stepped out of the house into
the street, Yvonne following closely on his heels. The night was
very dark and the narrow little Carrefour de la Poissonnerie very
sparsely lighted. Somewhere overhead on the right, something groaned
and creaked persistently in the wind. A little farther on a street
lanthorn was swinging aloft throwing a small circle of dim, yellowish
light on the unpaved street below. By its fitful glimmer Yvonne
could vaguely perceive the tall figure of her guide as he stepped
out with noiseless yet firm tread, his shoulder brushing against
the side of the nearest house as he kept closely within the shadow
of its high wall. The sight of his broad back thrilled her. She
had fallen to imagining whether this was not perchance that gallant
and all-powerful Scarlet Pimpernel himself: the mysterious friend
of whom her dear milor' so often spoke with an admiration that
was akin to worship. He too was probably tall and broad--for English
gentlemen were usually built that way; and Yvonne's over-excited
mind went galloping on the wings of fancy, and in her heart she
felt that she was glad that she had suffered so much, and then
lived through such a glorious moment as this.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now from the narrow unpaved yard in front of
the house the guide turned sharply to the right. Yvonne could
only distinguish outlines. The streets of Nantes were familiar
to her, and she knew pretty well where she was. The lanthorn inside
the clock tower of Le Bouffay guided her--it was now on her right--the
house wherein she had been kept a prisoner these past three days
was built against the walls of the great prison house. She knew
that she was in the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She felt neither fatigue nor cold, for she
was wildly excited. The keen north-westerly wind searched all
the weak places in her worn clothing and her thin shoes were wet
through. But her courage up to this point had never forsaken her.
Hope and the feeling of freedom gave her marvellous strength,
and when her guide paused a moment ere he turned the angle of
the high wall and whispered hurriedly: &quot;You have courage,
my lady?&quot; she was able to answer serenely: &quot;In plenty,
sir.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She tried to peer into the darkness in order
to realize whither she was being led. The guide had come to a
halt in front of the house which was next to that of Louise Adet:
it projected several feet in front of the latter: the thing that
creaked so weirdly in the wind turned out to be a painted sign,
which swung out from an iron bracket fixed into the wall. Yvonne
could not read the writing on the sign, but she noticed that just
above it there was a small window dimly lighted from within.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What sort of a house it was Yvonne could not,
of course, see. The frontage was dark save for narrow streaks
of light which peeped through the interstices of the door and
through the chinks of ill-fastened shutters on either side. Not
a sound came from within, but now that the guide had come to a
halt it seemed to Yvonne--whose nerves and senses had become preternaturally
acute--that the whole air around her was filled with muffled sounds,
and when she stood still and strained her ears to listen she was
conscious right through the inky blackness of vague forms--shapeless
and silent--that glided past her in the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your friends will meet you here,&quot;
the guide whispered as he pointed to the door of the house in
front of him. &quot;The door is on the latch. Push it open and
walk in boldly. Then gather up all your courage, for you will
find yourself in the company of poor people, whose manners are
somewhat rougher than those to which you have been accustomed.
But though the people are uncouth, you will find them kind. Above
all you will find that they will pay no heed to you. So I entreat
you do not be afraid. Your friends would have arranged for a more
refined place wherein to come and find you, but as you may well
imagine they had no choice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I quite understand, sir,&quot; said Yvonne
quietly, &quot;and I am not afraid.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! that's brave!&quot; he rejoined.
&quot;Then do as I tell you. I give you my word that inside that
house you will be perfectly safe until such time as your friends
are able to get to you. You may have to wait an hour, or even
two; you must have patience. Find a quiet place in one of the
corners of the room and sit there quietly, taking no notice of
what goes on around you. You will be quite safe, and the arrival
of your friends is only a question of time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My friends, sir?&quot; she spoke earnestly,
and her voice shook slightly as she spoke, &quot;are you not one
of the most devoted friends I can ever hope to have? I cannot
find the words now wherewith to thank you, but . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I pray you do not thank me,&quot; he
broke in gruffly, &quot;and do not waste time in parleying. The
open street is none too safe a place for you just now. The house
is.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His hand was on the latch and he was about
to push open the door, when Yvonne stopped him with a word.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My father?&quot; she whispered with passionate
entreaty. &quot;Will you help him too?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Monsieur le Duc de Kernogan is as safe
as you are, my lady,&quot; he replied. &quot;He will join you
anon. I pray you have no fears for him. Your friends are caring
for him in the same way as they care for you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then I shall see him . . . soon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Very soon. And in the meanwhile,&quot;
he added, &quot;I pray you to sit quite still and to wait events
. . . despite anything you may see or hear. Your father's safety
and your own--not to speak of that of your friends--hangs on your
quiescence, your silence, your obedience.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will remember, sir,&quot; rejoined
Yvonne quietly. &quot;I in my turn entreat you to have no fears
for me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even while she said this, the man pushed the
door open.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne had meant to be brave. Above all she
had meant to be obedient. But even so, she could not help recoiling
at sight of the place where she had just been told she must wait
patiently and silently for an hour, or even two.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The room into which her guide now gently urged
her forward was large and low, only dimly lighted by an oil-lamp
which hung from the ceiling and emitted a thin stream of black
smoke and evil smell. Such air as there was, was foul and reeked
of the fumes of alcohol and charcoal, of the smoking lamp and
of rancid grease. The walls had no doubt been white-washed once,
now they were of a dull greyish tint, with here and there hideous
stains of red or the marks of a set of greasy fingers. The plaster
was hanging in strips and lumps from the ceiling; it had fallen
away in patches from the walls where it displayed the skeleton
laths beneath. There were two doors in the wall immediately facing
the front entrance, and on each side of the latter there was a
small window, both insecurely shuttered. To Yvonne the whole place
appeared unspeakably squalid and noisome. Even as she entered
her ears caught the sound of hideous muttered blasphemy, followed
by quickly suppressed hoarse and mirthless laughter and the piteous
cry of an infant at the breast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were perhaps sixteen to twenty people
in the room--amongst them a goodly number of women, some of whom
had tiny, miserable atoms of humanity clinging to their ragged
skirts. A group of men in tattered shirts, bare shins and sabots
stood in the centre of the room and had apparently been in conclave
when the entrance of Yvonne and her guide caused them to turn
quickly to the door and to scan the new-comers with a furtive,
suspicious look which would have been pathetic had it not been
so full of evil intent. The muttered blasphemy had come from this
group; one or two of the men spat upon the ground in the direction
of the door, where Yvonne instinctively had remained rooted to
the spot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for the women, they only betrayed their
sex by the ragged clothes which they wore: there was not a face
here which had on it a single line of softness or of gentleness:
they might have been old women or young: their hair was of a uniform,
nondescript colour, lank and unkempt, hanging in thin strands
over their brows; their eyes were sunken, their cheeks either
flaccid or haggard--there was no individuality amongst them--just
one uniform sisterhood of wretchedness which had already gone
hand in hand with crime.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Across one angle of the room there was a high
wooden counter like a bar, on which stood a number of jugs and
bottles, some chunks of bread and pieces of cheese, and a collection
of pewter mugs. An old man and a fat, coarse-featured, middle-aged
woman stood behind it and dispensed various noxious-looking liquors.
Above their heads upon the grimy, tumble-down wall the Republican
<I>device &quot;Libert&eacute;! Egalit&eacute; Fraternit&eacute;!</I>&quot;
was scrawled in charcoal in huge characters, and below it was
scribbled the hideous doggerel which an impious mind had fashioned
last autumn on the subject of the martyred Queen.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne had closed her eyes for a moment as
she entered; now she turned appealingly towards her guide.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Must it be in here?&quot; she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am afraid it must,&quot; he replied
with a sigh. &quot;You told me that you would be brave.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She pulled herself together resolutely. &quot;I
will be brave,&quot; she said quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! that's better,&quot; he rejoined.
&quot;I give you my word that you will be absolutely safe in here
until such time as your friends can get to you. I entreat you
to gather up your courage. I assure you that these wretched people
are not unkind: misery--not unlike that which you yourself have
endured--has made them what they are. No doubt we should have
arranged for a better place for you wherein to await your friends
if we had the choice. But you will understand that your safety
and our own had to be our paramount consideration, and we had
no choice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I quite understand, sir,&quot; said Yvonne
valiantly, &quot;and am already ashamed of my fears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And without another word of protest she stepped
boldly into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment or two the guide remained standing
on the threshold, watching Yvonne's progress. She had already
perceived an empty bench in the farthest angle of the room, up
against the door opposite, where she hoped or believed that she
could remain unmolested while she waited patiently and in silence
as she had been ordered to do. She skirted the groups of men in
the centre of the room as she went, but even so she felt more
than she heard that muttered insults accompanied the furtive and
glowering looks wherewith she was regarded. More than one wretch
spat upon her skirts on the way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But now she was in no sense frightened, only
wildly excited; even her feeling of horror she contrived to conquer.
The knowledge that her own attitude, and above all her obedience,
would help her gallant rescuers in their work gave her enduring
strength. She felt quite confident that within an hour or two
she would be in the arms of her dear milor' who had risked his
life in order to come to her. It was indeed well worth while to
have suffered as she had done, to endure all that she might yet
have to endure, for the sake of the happiness which was in store
for her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She turned to give a last look at her guide--a
look which was intended to reassure him completely as to her courage
and her obedience: but already he had gone and had closed the
door behind him, and quite against her will the sudden sense of
loneliness and helplessness clutched at her heart with a grip
that made it ache. She wished that she had succeeded in catching
sight of the face of so valiant a friend: the fact that she was
safely out of Louise Adet's vengeful clutches was due to the man
who had just disappeared behind that door. It would be thanks
to him presently if she saw her father again. Yvonne felt more
convinced than ever that he was the Scarlet Pimpernel--milor's
friend--who kept his valiant personality a mystery, even to those
who owed their lives to him. She had seen the outline of his broad
figure, she had felt the touch of his hand. Would she recognize
these again when she met him in England in the happy days that
were to come? In any case she thought that she would recognize
the voice and the manner of speaking, so unlike that of any English
gentleman she had known.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man who had so mysteriously led Yvonne
de Kernogan from the house of Louis Adet to the Rat Mort, turned
away from the door of the tavern as soon as it had closed on the
young girl, and started to go back the way he came.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the angle formed by the high wall of the
tavern he paused; a moving form had detached itself form the surrounding
gloom and hailed him with a cautious whisper:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hist! Citizen Martin-Roget, is that you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everything just as we anticipated?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everything.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And the wench safely inside?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite safely.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The other gave a low cackle, which might have
been intended for a laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The simplest means,&quot; he said, &quot;are
always the best.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She never suspected me. It was all perfectly
simple. You are a magician, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; added Martin-Roget
grudgingly. &quot;I never would have thought of such a clever
ruse.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You see,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin dryly.
&quot;I graduated in the school of a master of all ruses--a master
of daring and a past master in the art of mimicry. And hope was
our great ally--the hope that never forsakes a prisoner--that
of getting free. Your fair Yvonne had boundless faith in the power
of her English friends, therefore she fell into our trap like
a bird.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And like a bird she shall struggle in
vain after this,&quot; said Martin-Roget slowly. &quot;Oh! that
I could hasten the flight of time--the next few minutes will hang
on me like hours. And I wish too it were not so bitterly cold,&quot;
he added with a curse; &quot;this north-westerly wind has got
into my bones.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On to your nerves, I imagine, Citizen,&quot;
retorted Chauvelin with a laugh; &quot;for my part I feel as warm
and comfortable as on a lovely day in June.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hark! Who goes there? broke in the other
man abruptly, as a solitary moving form detached itself form the
surrounding inky blackness and the sound of measured footsteps
broke the silence of the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite in order, citizen!&quot; was the
prompt reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The shadowy form came a step of two farther
forward.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is it you, Citizen Fleury?&quot; queried
Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Himself, Citizen,&quot; replied the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men had spoken in a whisper. Fleury now
placed his hand on Chauvelin's arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We had best not stand so close to the
tavern,&quot; he said, &quot;the night hawks are already about
and we don't want to scare them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He led the others up the yard, then into a
very narrow passage which lay between Louise Adet's house and
the Rat Mort and was bordered by the high walls of the houses
on either side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This is a blind alley,&quot; he whispered.
&quot;We have the wall of Le Bouffay in front of us: the wall
of the Rat Mort is on one side and the house of the Citizeness
Adet is on the other. We can talk here undisturbed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Overhead there was a tiny window dimly lighted
from within. Chauvelin pointed up to it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is that?&quot; he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An aperture too small for any human being
to pass through,&quot; replied Fleury dryly. &quot;It gives on
a small landing at the foot of the stairs. I told Friche to try
and maneuver so that the wench and her father are pushed in there
out of the way while the worst of the fracas is going on. That
was your suggestion, Citizen Chauvelin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was. I was afraid the two <I>aristos</I>
might get spirited away while your men were tackling the crowd
in the tap-room. I wanted them put away in a safe place.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The staircase is safe enough,&quot; rejoined
Fleury, &quot;it has no egress save that on the tap-room and only
leads to the upper story and the attic. The house has no back
entrance--it is built against the wall of Le Bouffay.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And what about your Marats, Citizen Commandant?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! I have them all along the street--entirely
under cover but closely on the watch--half a company and all keen
after the game. The thousand francs you promised them has stimulated
their zeal most marvellously, and as soon as Paul Friche in there
has whipped up the tempers of the frequenters of the Rat Mort,
we shall be ready to rush the place, and I assure you, Citizen
Chauvelin, that only a disembodied ghost--if there be one in the
place--will succeed in evading arrest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is Paul Friche already at his post then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And at work--or I'm much mistaken,&quot;
replied Fleury as he suddenly gripped Chauvelin by the arm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For just at this moment the silence of the
winter's night was broken by loud cries which came from the interior
of the Rat Mort--voices were raised to hoarse and raucous cries--men
and women all appeared to be shrieking together, and presently
there was a loud crash as of overturned furniture and broken glass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A few minutes longer, Citizen Fleury,&quot;
said Chauvelin, as the commandant of the Marats turned on his
heel and started to go back to the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh yes!&quot; whispered the latter, &quot;We'll
wait awhile longer to give the Englishmen time to arrive on the
scene. The coast is clear for them--my Marats are hidden from
sight behind doorways and shop-fronts of the houses opposite.
In about three minutes from now I'll send them forward.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And good luck to your hunting, Citizen,&quot;
whispered Chauvelin in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury very quickly disappeared in the darkness
and the other two men followed in his wake. They hugged the wall
of the Rat Mort as they went along and its shadow enveloped them
completely: their shoes made no sound on the unpaved ground. Chauvelin's
nostrils quivered as he drew the keen, cold air into his lungs
and faced the north-westerly blast which at this moment also lashed
the face of his enemy. His keen eyes tried to pierce the gloom,
his ears were strained to hear that merry peal of laughter which
in the unforgettable past had been wont to proclaim the presence
of the reckless adventurer. He knew--he felt--as certainly as
he felt the air which he breathed, that the man whom he hated
beyond everything on earth was somewhere close by, wrapped in
the murkiness of the night--thinking, planning, intriguing, pitting
his sharp wits, his indomitable pluck, his impudent dare-devilry
against the sure and patient trap which had been set for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Half a company of Marats in front--the walls
of Le Bouffay in the rear! Chauvelin rubbed his thin hands together!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are not a disembodied ghost, my fine
Scarlet Pimpernel,&quot; he murmured, &quot;and this time I really
think----&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter 7</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE FRACAS
IN THE TAVERN</FONT><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"></FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne had settled herself in a corner of the
tap-room on a bench and had tried to lose consciousness of her
surroundings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was not easy! Glances charged with rancour
were levelled at her dainty appearance--dainty and refined despite
the look of starvation and of weariness on her face and the miserable
state of her clothing--and not a few muttered insults waited on
those glances.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as she was seated Yvonne noticed that
the old man and the coarse, fat woman behind the bar started an
animated conversation together, of which she was very obviously
the object, for the two heads--the lean and the round--were jerked
more than once in her direction. Presently the man--it was George
Lemoine, the proprietor of the Rat Mort--came up to where she
was sitting: his lank figure was bent so that his lean back formed
the best part of an arc, and an expression of mock deference further
distorted his ugly face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He came up quite close to Yvonne and she found
it passing difficult not to draw away from him, for the leer on
his face was appalling: his eyes, which were set very near to
his hooked nose, had a horrible squint, his lips were thick and
moist, and his breath reeked of alcohol.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What will the noble lady deign to drink?&quot;
he now asked in an oily, suave voice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Yvonne, remembering the guide's admonitions,
contrived to smile unconcernedly into the hideous face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would very much like some wine,&quot;
she said cheerfully, &quot;but I am afraid that I have no money
wherewith to pay you for it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The creature with a gesture of abject humility
rubbed his greasy hands together.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And may I respectfully ask,&quot; he
queried blandly, &quot;what are the intentions of the noble lady
in coming to this humble abode, if she hath no desire to partake
of refreshments?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am expecting friends,&quot; replied
Yvonne bravely; &quot;they will be here very soon, and will gladly
repay you lavishly for all the kindness which you may be inclined
to show to me the while.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was very brave indeed and looked this awful
misshapen specimen of a man quite boldly in the face: she even
contrived to smile, though she was well aware that a number of
men and women--perhaps a dozen altogether--had congregated in
front of her in a compact group around the landlord, that they
were nudging one another and pointing derisively--malevolently--at
her. It was impossible, despite all attempts at valour, to mistake
the hostile attitude of these people. Some of the most obscene
words, coined during these last horrible days of the Revolution,
were freely hurled at her, and one woman suddenly cried out in
a shrill treble:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Throw her out, Citizen Lemoine! We don't
want spies in here!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Indeed, indeed,&quot; said Yvonne as
quietly as she could, &quot;I am no spy. I am poor and wretched
like yourselves! and desperately lonely, save for the kind friends
who will meet me here anon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>Aristos</I> like yourself!&quot; growled
one of the men. &quot;This is no place for you or for them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! No! This is no place for <I>aristos</I>,&quot;
cried one of the women in a voice which many excesses and many
vices had rendered hoarse and rough. &quot;Spy or not, we don't
want you in here. Do we?&quot; she added as with arms akimbo she
turned to face those of her own sex, who behind the men had come
up in order to see what was going on.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Throw her out, Lemoine,&quot; reiterated
a man who appeared to be an oracle amongst the others.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Please! please let me stop here!&quot;
pleaded Yvonne; &quot;if you turn me out I shall not know what
to do: I shall not know where to meet my friends . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pretty story about those friends,&quot;
broke in Lemoine roughly. &quot;How do I know if you're lying
or not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From the opposite angle of the room, the woman
behind the bar had been watching the little scene with eyes that
glistened with cupidity. Now she emerged from behind her stronghold
of bottles and mugs and slowly waddled across the room. She pushed
her way unceremoniously past her customers, elbowing men, women
and children vigorously aside with a deft play of her large, muscular
arms. Having reached the forefront of the little group she came
to a standstill immediately in front of Yvonne, and crossing her
mighty arms over her ponderous chest she eyed the &quot;<I>aristo</I>&quot;
with unconcealed malignity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We do know that the slut is lying--that
is where you make the mistake, Lemoine. A slut, that's what she
is--and the friend whom she's going to meet . . . ? Well!&quot;
she added, turning with an ugly leer towards the other women,
&quot;we all know what sort of friend that one is likely to be,
eh, mesdames? Bringing evil fame on this house, that's what the
wench is after . . . so as to bring the police about our ears
. . . I wouldn't trust her, not another minute. Out with you and
at once--do you hear? . . . this instant . . . Lemoine has parleyed
quite long enough with you already!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Despite all her resolutions Yvonne was terribly
frightened. While the hideous old hag talked and screamed and
waved her coarse, red arms about, the unfortunate young girl with
a great effort of will, kept repeating to herself: &quot;I am
not frightened--I must not be frightened. He assured me that these
people would do me no harm. . . .&quot; But now when the woman
had ceased speaking there was a general murmur of:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Throw her out! Spy or <I>aristo</I> we
don't want her here!&quot; whilst some of the men added significantly:
&quot;I am sure that she is one of Carrier's spies and in league
with his Marats! We shall have those devils in here in a moment
if we don't look out! Throw her out before she can signal to the
Marats!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ugly faces charged with hatred and virulence
were thrust threateningly forward--one or two of the women were
obviously looking forward to joining in the scramble, when this
&quot;stuck-up wench&quot; would presently be hurled out into
the street.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now then, my girl, out you get,&quot;
concluded the woman Lemoine, as with an expressive gesture she
proceeded to roll her sleeves higher up her arm. She was about
to lay her dirty hands on Yvonne, and the poor girl was nearly
sick with horror, when one of the men--a huge, coarse giant, whose
muscular torso, covered with grease and grime showed almost naked
through a ragged shirt which hung from his shoulders in strips--seized
the woman Lemoine by the arm and dragged her back a step or two
away from Yvonne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't be a fool, <I>petit m&egrave;re</I>,&quot;
he said, accompanying this admonition with a blasphemous oath.
&quot;Slut or no, the wench may as well pay you something for
the privilege of staying here. Look at that cloak she's wearing--the
shoe-leather on her feet. Aren't they worth a bottle of your sour
wine?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's that to you, Paul Friche?&quot;
retorted the woman roughly, as with a vigorous gesture she freed
her arm from the man's grasp. &quot;Is this my house or yours?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yours, of course,&quot; replied the man
with a coarse laugh and a still coarser jest, &quot;but this won't
be the first time that I have saved you from impulsive folly.
Yesterday you were for harbouring a couple of rogues who were
Marats in disguise: if I hadn't given you warning, you would now
have swallowed more water from the Loire than you would care to
hold. But for me two days ago you would have received the goods
pinched by Fert&eacute; out of Balaze's shop, and been thrown
to the fishes in consequence for the entertainment of the proconsul
and his friends. You must admit that I've been a good friend to
you before now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And if you have, Paul Friche,&quot; retorted
the hag obstinately, &quot;I paid you well for your friendship,
both yesterday and the day before, didn't I?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You did,&quot; assented Friche imperturbably.
&quot;That's why I want to serve you again to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't listen to him, <I>petit m&egrave;re</I>,&quot;
interposed one or two out of the crowd. &quot;He is a white-livered
skunk to talk to you like that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Very well! Very well!&quot; quoth Paul
Friche, and he spat vigorously on the ground in token that henceforth
he divested himself from any responsibility in this matter, &quot;don't
listen to me. Lose a benefit of twenty, perhaps forty francs for
the sake of a bit of fun. Very well! Very well!&quot; he continued
as he turned and slouched out of the group to the farther end
of the room, where he sat down on a barrel. He drew the stump
of a clay pipe out of the pocket of his breeches, stuffed it into
his mouth, stretched his long legs out before him and sucked away
at his pipe with complacent detachment. &quot;I didn't know,&quot;
he added with biting sarcasm by way of a parting shot, &quot;that
you and Lemoine had come into a fortune recently and that forty
or fifty francs are nothing to you now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Forty or fifty?&quot; Come! come!&quot;
protested Lemoine feebly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne's fate was hanging in the balance. The
attitude of the small crowd was no less threatening than before,
but immediate action was withheld while the Lemoines obviously
debated in their minds what was best to be done. The instinct
to &quot;have at&quot; an <I>aristo</I> with all the accumulated
hatred of many generations was warring with the innate rapacity
of the Breton peasant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Forty or fifty?&quot; reiterated Paul
Friche emphatically. &quot;Can't you see that the wench is an
<I>aristo</I> escaped out of Le Bouffay or the <I>entrep&ocirc;t?</I>&quot;
he added contemptuously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know that she is an <I>aristo</I>,&quot;
said the woman, &quot;that's why I want to throw her out.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And get nothing for your pains,&quot;
retorted Friche roughly. &quot;If you wait for her friends we
may all of us get as much as twenty francs each to hold our tongues.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Twenty francs each. . . .&quot; The murmur
was repeated with many a sigh of savage gluttony, by every one
in the room--and repeated again and again--especially by the women.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are a fool, Paul Friche . . .&quot;
commented Lemoine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A fool am I?&quot; retorted the giant.
&quot;Then let me tell you, that 'tis you who are a fool and worse.
I happen to know,&quot; he added as he once more rose and rejoined
the group in the centre of the room, &quot;I happen to know that
you and every one here is heading straight for a trap arranged
by the Committee of Public Safety, whose chief emissary came into
Nantes awhile ago and is named Chauvelin. It is a trap which will
land you all in the criminal dock first and on the way to Cayenne
or the guillotine afterwards. This place is surrounded with Marats,
and orders have been issued to them to make a descent on this
place, as soon as Papa Lemoine's customers are assembled. There
are two members of the accursed company amongst us at the present
moment. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was standing right in the middle of the
room, immediately beneath the hanging lamp. At his words--spoken
with such firm confidence, as one who knows and is therefore empowered
to speak--a sudden change came over the spirit of the whole assembly.
Everything was forgotten in the face of this new danger--two Marats,
the sleuth-hounds of the proconsul--here present, as spies and
as informants! Every face became more haggard--every cheek more
livid. There was a quick and furtive scurrying towards the front
door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Two Marats here?&quot; shouted one man,
who was bolder than the rest. &quot;Where are they?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Paul Friche, who towered above his friends,
stood at this moment quite close to a small man, dressed like
the others in ragged breeches and shirt, and wearing the broad-brimmed
hat usually affected by the Breton peasantry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Two Marats?&quot; Two spies?&quot; screeched
a woman, &quot;Where are they?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Here is one,&quot; replied Paul Friche
with a loud laugh and with his large grimy hand he lifted the
hat from his neighbour's head and threw it on the ground; &quot;and
there,&quot; he added as with long, bony finger he pointed to
the front door, where another man--a square-built youngster with
tow-coloured hair somewhat resembling a shaggy dog--was endeavouring
to effect a surreptitious exit, &quot;there is the other; and
he is on the point of slipping quietly away in order to report
to his captain what he has seen and heard at the Rat Mort. One
moment, Citizen,&quot; he added, and with a couple of giant strides
he too had reached the door; his large rough hand had come down
heavily on the shoulder of the youth with the tow-coloured hair,
and had forced him to veer round and to face the angry, gesticulating
crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Two Marats! Two spies!&quot; shouted
the men. &quot;Now we'll soon settle their little business for
them!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marat yourself,&quot; cried the small
man who had first been denounced by Friche. &quot;I am no Marat,
as a good many of you here know. Maman Lemoine,&quot; he added
pleading, &quot;you know me. Am I a Marat?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the Lemoines--man and wife--at the first
suggestion of police had turned a deaf ear to all their customers.
Their own safety being in jeopardy they cared little what happened
to anybody else. They had retired behind their counter and were
in close consultation together, no doubt as to the best means
of escape if indeed the man Paul Friche spoke the truth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know nothing about him,&quot; the woman
was saying, &quot;but he certainly was right last night about
those two men who came ferreting in here--and last week too .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Am I a Marat, Maman Lemoine?&quot; shouted
the small man as he hammered his fists upon the counter. &quot;For
ten years and more I have been a customer in this place and .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Am I a Marat?&quot; shouted the youth
with the tow-coloured hair addressing the assembly indiscriminately.
&quot;Some of you here know me well enough. Jean Paul, you know--Ledouble,
you too . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of course! Of course I know you well
enough, Jacques Leroux,&quot; came with a loud laugh from one
of the crowd. &quot;Who said you were a Marat?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Am I a Marat, Maman Lemoine?&quot; reiterated
the small man at the counter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! leave me alone with your quarrels,&quot;
shouted the woman Lemoine in reply. &quot;Settle them among yourselves.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then if Jacques Leroux is not a Marat,&quot;
now came in a bibulous voice from a distant corner of the room,
&quot;and this compeer here is known to Maman Lemoine, where are
the real Marats who according to this fellow Friche, whom we none
of us know, are spying upon us?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! where are they?&quot; suggested
another. &quot;Show 'em to us Paul Friche, or whatever your accursed
name happens to be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell us where you come from yourself,&quot;
screamed the woman with a shrill treble, &quot;it seems to me
quite possible that you're a Marat yourself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This suggestion was at once taken up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marat yourself!&quot; shouted the crowd,
and the two men who a moment ago had been accused of being spies
in disguise shouted louder than the rest: &quot;Marat yourself!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that, pandemonium reigned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The words &quot;police&quot; and &quot;Marats&quot;
had aroused the terror of all these night-hawks, who were wont
to think themselves immune inside their lair: and terror is at
all times an evil counsellor. In the space of a few seconds confusion
held undisputed sway. Every one screamed, waved arms, stamped
feet, struck out with heavy bare fists at his nearest neighbour.
Every one's hand was against every one else.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Spy! Marat! Informer!&quot; were the
three words that detached themselves most clearly from out the
babel of vituperations freely hurled from end to end of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The children screamed, the women's shrill or
hoarse treble mingled with the cries and imprecations of the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Paul Friche had noted that the turn of the
tide was against him, long before the first naked fist had been
brandished in his face. Agile as a monkey he had pushed his way
through to the bar, and placing his two hands upon it, with a
swift leap he had taken up a sitting position in the very middle
of the table amongst the jugs and bottles, which he promptly seized
and used as missiles and weapons, whilst with his dangling feet
encased in heavy sabots he kicked out vigorously and unceasingly
against the shins of his foremost assailants.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had the advantage of position and used it
cleverly. In his right hand he held a pewter mug by the handle
and used it as a swivel against his aggressors with great effect.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Loire for you--you blackmailer! liar!
traitor!&quot; shouted some of the women who, bolder than the
men, thrust shaking fists at Paul Friche as closely as that pewter
mug would allow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Break his jaw before he can yell for
the police,&quot; admonished one of the men from the rear &quot;before
he can save his own skin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But those who shouted loudest had only their
fists by way of weapon and Paul Friche had mugs and bottles, and
those sabots of his kicked out with uncomfortable agility.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Break my jaw will you,&quot; he shouted
every time that a blow from the mug went home, &quot;a spy am
I? Very well then, here's for you, Jacques Leroux; go and nurse
your cracked skull at home. You want a row,&quot; he added, hitting
at a youth who brandished a heavy fist in his face, &quot;well!
you shall have it and as much of it as you like! as much of it
as will bring the patrols of police comfortably about your ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Bang! went the pewter mug crashing against
a man's hard skull! Bang went Paul Friche's naked fist against
the chest of another. He was a hard hitter and swift.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Lemoines from behind their bar shouted
louder than the rest, doing as much as their lungs would allow
them in the way of admonishing, entreating, protesting--cursing
every one for a set of fools who were playing straight into the
hands of the police.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now then! Now then, children, stop that
bellowing, will you? There are no spies here. Paul Friche was
only having his little joke! We all know one another, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Camels!&quot; added Lemoine more forcibly.
&quot;They'll bring the patrols about our ears for sure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Paul Friche was not by any means the only man
who was being vigorously attacked. After the first two or three
minutes of this kingdom of pandemonium, it was difficult to say
who was quarrelling with whom. Old grudges were revived, old feuds
taken up there, where they had previously been interrupted. Accusations
of spying were followed by abuse for some past wrong of black-legging
or cheating a confr&egrave;re. The temperature of the room became
suffocating. All these violent passions seething within these
four walls seemed to become tangible and to mingle with the atmosphere
already surcharged with the fumes of alcohol, of tobacco and of
perspiring humanity. There was many a black-eye already, many
a contusion: more than one knife--surreptitiously drawn--was already
stained with red.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was also a stampede for the door. One
man gave the signal. Seeing that his mates were wasting precious
time by venting their wrath against Paul Friche and then quarrelling
among themselves he hoped to effect an escape ere the police came
to stop the noise. No one believed in the place being surrounded.
Why should it be? The Marats were far too busy hunting up rebels
and <I>aristos</I> to trouble much about the Rat Mort and its
customers, but it was quite possible that a brawl would bring
a patrol along, and then 'ware the <I>police correctionnelle </I>and
the possibility of deportation or worse. Retreat was undoubtedly
safer while there was time. One man first: then one or two more
on his heels, and those among the women who had children in their
arms or clinging to their skirts: they turned stealthily to the
door--almost ashamed of their cowardice, ashamed lest they were
seen abandoning the field of combat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was while confusion reigned unchecked that
Yvonne--who was cowering, frankly terrified at last, in the corner
of the room, became aware that the door close beside her--the
door situated immediately opposite the front entrance--was surreptitiously
opened. She turned quickly to look--for she was like a terror-stricken
little animal now--one that scents and feels and fears danger
from every quarter round. The door was being pushed open very
slowly by what was still to Yvonne an unseen hand. Somehow that
opening door fascinated her: for the moment she forgot the noise
and the confusion around her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly with a great effort of will she
checked the scream which had forced itself up to her throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Father!&quot; was all that she contrived
to say in a hoarse and passionate murmur.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fortunately as he peered cautiously round the
room, Monsieur le Duc caught sight of his daughter. She was staring
at him--wide-eyed, her lips bloodless, her cheeks the colour of
ashes. He looked but the ghost now of that proud aristocrat who
little more than a week ago was the centre of a group of courtiers
round the person of the heir to the English throne. Starved, emaciated,
livid, he was the shadow of his former self, and there was a haunted
look in his purple-rimmed eyes which spoke with pathetic eloquence
of sleepless nights and of a soul tortured with remorse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just for the moment no one took any notice
of him--every one was shrieking, every one was quarrelling, and
Monsieur le Duc, placing a finger to his lips, stole cautiously
round to his daughter. The next instant they were clinging to
one another, these two, who had endured so much together--he the
father who had wrought such an unspeakable wrong, and she the
child who was so lonely, so forlorn and almost happy in finding
some one who belonged to her, some one to whom she could cling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Father, dear! what shall we do?&quot;
Yvonne murmured, for she felt the last shred of her fictitious
courage oozing out of her, in face of this awful lawlessness which
literally paralysed her thinking faculties.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sh! dear!&quot; whispered Monsieur le
Duc in reply. &quot;We must get out of this loathsome place while
this hideous row is going on. I heard it all from the filthy garret
up above, where those devils have kept me these three days. The
door was not locked . . . I crept downstairs . . . No one is paying
heed to us . . . We can creep out. Come.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But at the suggestion, Yvonne's spirits, which
had been stunned by the events of the past few moments, revived
with truly mercurial rapidity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! no! dear,&quot; she urged. &quot;We
must stay here . . . You don't know . . . I have had a message--from
my own dear milor'--my husband . . . he sent a friend to take
me out of the hideous prison where that awful Pierre Adet was
keeping me--a friend who assured me that my dear milor' was watching
over me . . . he brought me to this place--and begged me not to
be frightened . . . but to wait patiently . . . and I must wait,
dear . . . I must wait!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She spoke rapidly in whispers and in short
jerky sentences. Monsieur le Duc listened to her wide-eyed, a
deep line of puzzlement between his brows. Sorrow, remorse, starvation,
misery had in a measure numbed his mind. The thought of help,
of hope, of friends could not penetrate into his brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A message,&quot; he murmured inanely,
&quot;a message. No! no! my girl, you must trust no one . . .
Pierre Adet. . . . Pierre Adet is full of evil tricks--he will
trap you . . . he means to destroy us both . . . he has brought
you here so that you should be murdered by these ferocious devils.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible, Father dear,&quot; she said,
still striving to speak bravely. &quot;We have both of us been
all this while in the power of Pierre Adet; he could have had
no object in bringing me here to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the father who had been an insentient tool
in the schemes of that miserable intriguer, who had been the means
of bringing his only child to this terrible and deadly pass--the
man who had listened to the lying counsels and proposals of his
own most bitter enemy, could only groan now in terror and in doubt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who can probe the depths of that abominable
villain's plans,&quot; he murmured vaguely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meanwhile the little group who had thought
prudence the better part of valour had reached the door. The foremost
man amongst them opened it and peered cautiously out into the
darkness. He turned back to those behind him, put a finger to
his lip and beckoned to them to follow him in silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yvonne, let us go!&quot; whispered the
Duc, who had seized his daughter by the hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, Father . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let us go!&quot; he reiterated pitiably.
&quot;I shall die if we stay here!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It won't be for long, Father dear,&quot;
she entreated; &quot;if milor' should come with his friend, and
find us gone, we should be endangering his life as well as our
own.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't believe it,&quot; he rejoined
with the obstinacy of weakness. &quot;I don't believe in your
message . . . how could milor' or any one come to your rescue,
my child? . . . No one knows that you are here, in this hell in
Nantes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne clung to him with the strength of despair.
She too was as terrified as any human creature could be and live,
but terror had not altogether swept away her belief in that mysterious
message, in that tall guide who had led her hither, in that scarlet
device--the five-petalled flower which stood for everything that
was most gallant and most brave.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She desired with all her might to remain here--despite
everything, despite the awful brawl that was raging round her
and which sickened her, despite the horror of the whole thing--to
remain here and to wait. She put her arms round her father: she
dragged him back every time that he tried to move. But a sort
of unnatural strength seemed to have conquered his former debility.
His attempts to get away became more and more determined and more
and more febrile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Come, Yvonne! we must go!&quot; he continued
to murmur intermittently and with ever-growing obstinacy. &quot;No
one will notice us . . . I heard the noise from my garret upstairs
. . . I crept down . . . I knew no one would notice me . . . Come--we
must go . . . now is our time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Father dear, whither could we go? Once
in the streets of Nantes what would happen to us?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We can find our way to the Loire!&quot;
he retorted almost brutally. He shook himself free from her restraining
arms and gripped her firmly by the hand. He tried to drag her
towards the door, whilst she still struggled to keep him back.
He had just caught sight of the group of men and women at the
front door: their leader was standing upon the threshold and was
still peering out into the darkness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the next moment they all came to a halt:
what their leader had perceived through the darkness did not evidently
quite satisfy him: he turned and held a whispered consultation
with the others. Monsieur le Duc strove with all his might to
join in with that group. He felt that in its wake would lie the
road to freedom. He would have struck Yvonne for standing in the
way of her own safety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Father dear,&quot; she contrived finally
to say to him, &quot;if you go hence, you will go alone. Nothing
will move me from here, because I know that milor' will come.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Curse you for your obstinacy,&quot; retorted
the Duc, &quot;you jeopardize my life and yours.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly from the angle of the room where
wrangling and fighting were at their fiercest, there came a loud
call:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Look out, P&egrave;re Lemoine, your <I>aristos</I>
are running away. You are losing your last chance of those fifty
francs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Paul Friche who had shouted. His position
on the table was giving him a commanding view over the heads of
the threatening, shouting, perspiring crowd, and he had just caught
sight of Monsieur le Duc dragging his daughter by force towards
the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The authors of all this pother,&quot;
he added with an oath, &quot;and they will get away whilst we
have the police about our ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Name of a name of a dog,&quot; swore
Lemoine from behind his bar, &quot;that shall not be. Come along,
Maman, let us bring those <I>aristos</I> along here. Quick now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was all done in a second. Lemoine and his
wife, with the weight and authority of the masters of the establishment,
contrived to elbow their way through the crowd. The next moment
Yvonne felt herself forcibly dragged away from her father.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This way, my girl, and no screaming,&quot;
a bibulous voice said in her ear, &quot;no screaming, or I'll
smash some of those front teeth of yours. You said some rich friends
were coming along for you presently. Well then! come and wait
for them out of the crowd.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed Yvonne had no desire to struggle or
to scream. Salvation she thought had come to her and to her father
in this rough guise. In another moment mayhap he would have forced
her to follow him, to leave milor' in the lurch, to jeopardize
for ever every chance of safety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is all for the best, Father dear,&quot;
she managed to cry out over her shoulder, for she had just caught
sight of him being seized round the shoulders by Lemoine and heard
him protesting loudly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll not go! I'll not go! Let me go!&quot;
he shouted hoarsely. &quot;My daughter! Yvonne! Let me go! You
devil!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Lemoine had twice the vigour of the Duc
de Kernogan, nor did he care one jot about the other's protests.
He hated all this row inside his house, but there had been rows
in it before and he was beginning to hope that nothing serious
would come of it. On the other hand, Paul Friche might be right
about these <I>aristos</I>; there might be forty or fifty francs
to be made out of them, and in any case they had one or two things
upon their persons which might be worth a few francs--and who
knows? they might even have something in their pockets worth taking.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This hope and thought gave Lemoine additional
strength, and seeing that the <I>aristo</I> struggled so desperately,
he thought to silence him by bringing his heavy fist with a crash
upon the old man's head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yvonne! <I>A moi!</I>&quot; shouted Monsieur
le Duc ere he fell back senseless.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That awful cry, Yvonne heard it as she was
being dragged through the noisome crowd. It mingled in her ear
with the other awful sounds--the oaths and blasphemies which filled
the air with their hideousness. It died away just as a formidable
crash against the entrance door suddenly silenced every cry within.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All hands up!&quot; came with a peremptory
word of command from the doorway.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mercy on us!&quot; murmured the woman
Lemoine, who still had Yvonne by the hand, &quot;we are undone
this time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a clatter and grounding of arms--a
scurrying of bare feet and sabots upon the floor, the mingled
sounds of men trying to fly and being caught in the act and hurled
back: screams of terror from the women, one or two pitiable calls,
a few shrill cries from frightened children, a few dull thuds
as of human bodies falling . . . It was all so confused, so unspeakably
horrible. Yvonne was hardly conscious. Near her some one whispered
hurriedly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Put the <I>aristos</I> away somewhere,
Maman Lemoine . . . the whole thing may only be a scare . . .
the Marats may only be here about the <I>aristos</I> . . . they
will probably leave you alone if you give them up . . . perhaps
you'll get a reward . . . Put them away till some of this row
subsides . . . I'll talk to Commandant Fleury if I can.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne felt her knees giving way under her.
There was nothing more to hope for now--nothing. She felt herself
lifted from the ground--she was too sick and faint to realize
what was happening: through the din which filled her ears she
vainly tried to distinguish her father's voice again.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A moment or two later she found herself squatting
somewhere on the ground. How she got here she did not know--where
she was she knew still less. She was in total darkness. A fusty,
close smell of food and wine gave her a wretched feeling of nausea--her
head ached intolerably, her eyes were hot, her throat dry: there
was a constant buzzing in her ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The terrible sounds of fighting and screaming
and cursing, the crash of broken glass and overturned benches
came to her as through a partition--close by but muffled.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the immediate nearness all was silence and
darkness.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter 8</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE ENGLISH
ADVENTURERS</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"></FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">I</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was with that muffled din still ringing
in her ear and with the conception of all that was going on, on
the other side of the partition, standing like an awesome spectre
of evil before her mind, that Yvonne woke to the consciousness
that her father was dead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He lay along the last half-dozen steps of a
narrow wooden staircase which had its base in the narrow, cupboard-like
landing on to which the Lemoines had just thrust them both. Through
a small heart-shaped hole cut in the door of the partition-wall,
a shaft of feeble light struck straight across to the foot of
the stairs: it lit up the recumbent figure of the last of the
Ducs de Kernogan, killed in a brawl in a house of evil fame.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Weakened by starvation, by the hardships of
the past few days, his constitution undermined by privations and
mayhap too by gnawing remorse, he had succumbed to the stunning
blow dealt to him by a half-drunken brute. His cry: &quot;Yvonne!
<I>A moi!</I>&quot; was the last despairing call of a soul racked
with remorse to the daughter whom he had so cruelly wronged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When first that feeble shaft of light had revealed
to her the presence of that inert form upon the steps, she had
struggled to her feet and--dazed--had tottered up to it. Even
before she had touched the face, the hands, before she had bent
her ear to the half-closed mouth and failed to catch the slightest
breath, she knew the full extent of her misery. The look in the
wide-open eyes did not terrify her, but they told her the truth,
and since then she had cowered beside her dead father on the bottom
step of the narrow stairs, her fingers tightly closed over that
one hand which never would be raised against her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An unspeakable sense of horror filled her soul.
The thought that he--the proud father, the haughty aristocrat,
should lie like this and in such a spot, dragged in and thrown
down--no doubt by Lemoine--like a parcel of rubbish and left here
to be dragged away again and thrown again like a dog into some
unhallowed ground--that thought was so horrible, so monstrous,
that at first it dominated even sorrow. Then came the heartrending
sense of loneliness. Yvonne Dewhurst had endured so much these
past few days that awhile ago she would have affirmed that nothing
could appall her in the future. But this was indeed the awful
and overwhelming climax to what had already been a surfeit of
misery.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This! she, Yvonne, cowering beside her dead
father, with no one to stand between her and any insult, any outrage
which might be put upon her, with nothing but a few laths between
her and that yelling, screeching mob outside.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh! the loneliness! the utter, utter loneliness!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She kissed the inert hand, the pale forehead:
with gentle, reverent fingers she tried to smoothe out those lines
of horror and of fear which gave such a pitiful expression to
the face. Of all the wrongs which her father had done her she
never thought for a moment. It was he who had brought her to this
terrible pass: he who had betrayed her into the hands of her deadliest
enemy: he who had torn her from the protecting arms of her dear
milor' and flung her and himself and the mercy of a set of inhuman
wretches who knew neither compunction nor pity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But all this she forgot, as she knelt beside
the lifeless form--the last thing on earth that belonged to her--the
last protection to which she might have clung.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Out of the confusion of sounds which came--deadened
by the intervening partition--to her ear, it was impossible to
distinguish anything very clearly. All that Yvonne could do, as
soon as she had in a measure collected her scattered senses, was
to try and piece together the events of the last few minutes--minutes
which indeed seemed like days and even years to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinctively she gave to the inert hand which
she held an additional tender touch. At any rate her father was
out of it all. He was at rest and at peace. As for the rest, it
was in God's hands. Having only herself to think of now, she ceased
to care what became of her. He was out of it all: and those wretches
after all could not do more than kill her. A complete numbness
of senses and of mind had succeeded the feverish excitement of
the past few hours: whether hope still survived at this moment
in Yvonne Dewhurst's mind it were impossible to say. Certain it
is that it lay dormant--buried beneath the overwhelming misery
of her loneliness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She took the fichu from her shoulders and laid
it reverently over the dead man's face: she folded the hands across
the breast. She could not cry: she could only pray, and that quite
mechanically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The thought of her dear milor', of his clever
friend, of the message which she had received in prison, of the
guide who had led her to this awful place, was relegated--almost
as a memory--in the farthermost cell of her brain.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But after awhile outraged nature, still full
of vitality and of youth, re-asserted itself. She felt numb and
cold and struggled to her feet. From somewhere close to her a
continuous current of air indicated the presence of some sort
of window. Yvonne, faint with the close and sickly smell, which
even that current failed to disperse, felt her way all round the
walls of the narrow landing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The window was in the wall between the partition
and the staircase, it was small and quite low down. It was crossed
with heavy iron bars. Yvonne leaned up against it, grateful for
the breath of pure air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For awhile yet she remained unconscious of
everything save the confused din which still went on inside the
tavern, and at first the sounds which came through the grated
window mingled with those on the other side of the partition.
But gradually as she contrived to fill her lungs with the cold
breath of heaven, it seemed as if a curtain was being slowly drawn
away from her atrophied senses.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just below the window two men were speaking.
She could hear them quite distinctly now--and soon one of the
voices--clearer than the other--struck her ear with unmistakable
familiarity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I told Paul Friche to come out here and
speak to me,&quot; Yvonne heard that same voice say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then he should be here,&quot; replied
the other, &quot;and if I am not mistaken . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a pause, and then the first voice
was raised again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Halt! Is that Paul Friche?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At your service, Citizen,&quot; came
in reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! Is everything working smoothly
inside?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite smoothly; but your Englishmen are
not there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do you know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah! I know most of the faces that are
to be found inside the Rat Mort at this hour: there are no strangers
among them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The voice that had sounded so familiar to Yvonne
was raised now in loud and coarse laughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Name of a dog! I never for a moment thought
that there were any Englishmen about. Citizen Chauvelin was suffering
from nightmare.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is early yet,&quot; came in response
from a gentle bland voice, &quot;you must have patience, Citizen.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Patience? Bah!&quot; ejaculated the other
roughly. &quot;As I told you before 'tis but little I care about
your English spies. 'Tis the Kernogans I am interested in. What
have you done with them, Citizen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I got that blundering fool Lemoine to
lock them up on the landing at the bottom of the stairs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is that safe?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Absolutely. It has no egress save into
the taproom and up the stairs, to the rooms above. Your English
spies if they came now would have to fly in and out of those top
windows ere they could get to the <I>aristos</I>.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then in Satan's name keep them there
awhile,&quot; urged the more gentle, insinuating voce, &quot;until
we can make sure of the English spies.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tshaw! What foolery!&quot; interjected
the other, who appeared to be in a towering passion. &quot;Bring
them out at once, Citizen Friche . . . bring them out . . . right
into the middle of the rabble in the taproom. . . . Commandant
Fleury is directing the perquisition--he is taking down the names
of all that cattle which he is arresting inside the premises--let
the ci-devant Duc de Kernogan and his exquisite daughter figure
among the vilest cut-throats of Nantes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen, let me urge on you once more
. . .&quot; came in earnest persuasive accents from that gentle
voice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing!&quot; broke in the other savagely.
&quot;To h--ll with your English spies. It is the Kernogans that
I want.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne, half-crazed with horror, had heard
the whole of this abominable conversation wherein she had not
failed to recognize the voice of Martin-Roget or Pierre Adet,
as she now knew him to be. Who the other two men were she could
easily conjecture. The soft bland voice she had heard twice during
these past few days, which had been so full of misery, of terror
and of surprise: once she had heard it on board the ship which
had taken her away form England and once again a few hours since,
inside the narrow room which had been her prison. The third man
who had subsequently arrived on the scene was that coarse and
grimy creature who had seemed to be the moving evil spirit of
that awful brawl in the tavern.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What the conversation meant to her she could
not fail to guess. Pierre Adet had by what he said made the whole
of his abominable intrigue against her palpably clear. Her father
had been right, after all. It was Pierre Adet who through some
clever trickery had lured her to this place of evil. How it was
all done she could not guess. The message . . . the device . .
. her walk across the street . . . the silence . . . the mysterious
guide . . . which of these had been the trickery? . . . which
had been concocted by her enemy? . . . which devised by her dear
milor'?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Enough that the whole thing was a trap, a trap
all the more hideous as she, Yvonne, who would have given her
heart's blood for her beloved, was obviously the bait wherewith
these friends meant to capture him and his noble chief. They knew
evidently of the presence of the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel and
his band of heroes here in Nantes--they seemed to expect their
appearance at this abominable place to-night. She, Yvonne, was
to be the decoy which was to lure to this hideous lair those noble
eagles who were still out of reach.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And if that was so--if indeed her beloved and
his valiant friends had followed her hither, then some part of
the message of hope must have come from them or from their chief
. . . and milor' and his friend must even now be somewhere close
by, watching their opportunity to come to her rescue . . . heedless
of the awful danger which lay in wait for them . . . ignorant
mayhap of the abominable trap which had been so cunningly set
for them by these astute and ferocious brutes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne a prisoner in this narrow space, clinging
to the bars of what was perhaps the most cruel prison in which
she had yet been confined, bruised her hands and arms against
those bars in a wild desire to get out. She longed with all her
might to utter one long, loud and piercing cry of warning to her
dear milor' not to come nigh her now, to fly, to run while there
was yet time; and all the while she knew that if she did utter
such a cry he would hurry hot-haste to her side. One moment she
would have had him near--another she wished him an hundred miles
away.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the tap-room a more ordered medley of sounds
had followed on the wild pandemonium of awhile ago. Brief, peremptory
words of command, steady tramping of feet, loud harsh questions
and subdued answers, occasionally a moan or a few words of protest
quickly suppressed, came through the partition to Yvonne's straining
ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where do you live?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your occupation?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's enough. Silence. The next.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where do you live?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Men, women and even children were being questioned,
classified, packed off, God knew whither. Sometimes a child would
cry, a man utter an oath, a woman shriek: then would come harsh
orders delivered in a gruff voice, more swearing, the grounding
of arms and more often than not a dull, flat sound like a blow
struck against human flesh, followed by a volley of curses or
a cry of pain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;George Am&eacute;d&eacute; Lemoine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where do you live?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In this house.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your occupation?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am the proprietor of the tavern, Citizen.
I am an honest man and a patriot. The Republic . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's enough.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But I protest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Silence. The next.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All with dreary, ceaseless monotony: and Yvonne
like a trapped bird was bruising her wings against the bars of
her cage. Outside the window Chauvelin and Martin-Roget were still
speaking in whispers: the fowlers were still watching for their
prey. The third man had apparently gone away. What went on beyond
the range of her prison window--out in the darkness of the night
which Yvonne's aching eyes could not pierce--she, the miserable
watcher, the bait set here to catch the noble game, could not
even conjecture. The window was small and her vision was further
obstructed by heavy bars. She could see nothing--hear nothing
save those two men talking in whispers. Now and again she caught
a few words.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A little while longer, Citizen . . .
you lose nothing by waiting. Your Kernogans are safe enough. Paul
Friche has assured you that the landing where they are now has
no egress save through the tap-room, and to the floor above. Wait
at least until Commandant Fleury has got the crowd together, after
which he will send his Marats to search the house. It won't be
too late then to lay hands on your <I>aristos</I>, if in the meanwhile
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;'Tis futile to wait,&quot; here interrupted
Martin-Roget roughly, &quot;and you are a fool, Citizen, if you
think that those Englishmen exist elsewhere than in your imagination.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hark!&quot; broke in the gentle voice
abruptly and with forceful command.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And as Yvonne too in instinctive response to
that peremptory call was further straining her every sense in
order to listen, there came from somewhere, not very far away,
right through the stillness of the night, a sound which caused
her pulses to still their beating and her throat to choke with
the cry which rose from her breast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was only the sound of a quaint and drawly
voice saying loudly and in English:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Egad, Tony! ain't you getting demmed
sleepy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just for the space of two or three seconds
Yvonne had remained quite still while this unexpected sound sent
its dulcet echo on the wings of the north-westerly blast. The
next--stumbling in the dark--she had run to the stairs even while
she heard Martin-Roget calling loudly and excitedly to Paul Friche.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One reverent pause beside her dead father,
one mute prayer commending his soul to the mercy of his Maker,
one agonized entreaty to God to protect her beloved and his friend,
and then she ran swiftly up the winding steps.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the top of the stairs, immediately in front
of her a door--slightly ajar--showed a feeble light through its
aperture. Yvonne pushed the door further open and slipped into
the room beyond. She did not pause to look round but went straight
to the window and throwing open the rickety sash she peeped out.
For the moment she felt that she would gladly have bartered away
twenty years of her life to know exactly whence had come that
quaint and drawling voice. She leaned far out of the window trying
to see. It gave on the side of the Rat Mort over against Louise
Adet's house--the space below seemed to her to be swarming with
men: there were hurried and whispered calls--orders were given
to stand at close attention, whilst Martin-Roget had apparently
been questioning Paul Friche, for Yvonne heard the latter declare
emphatically:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am certain that it came either from
inside the house or from the roof. And with your permission, Citizen,
I would like to make assurance doubly sure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then one of the men just suddenly have caught
sight of the vague silhouette leaning out of the window, for Martin-Roget
and Friche uttered a simultaneous cry, whilst Chauvelin said hurriedly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are right, Citizen, something is
going on inside the house.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What can we do?&quot; queried Martin-Roget
excitedly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing for the moment but wait. The
Englishmen are caught sure enough like rats in their holes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Wait!&quot; ejaculated Martin-Roget with
a savage oath, &quot;wait! always wait! while the quarry slips
through one's fingers.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It shall not slip through mine,&quot;
retorted Paul Friche. &quot;I was a steeple-jack by trade in my
day: it won't be the first time that I have climbed the side of
a house by the gutter-pipe. <I>A moi</I> Jean-Pierre,&quot; he
added, &quot;and may I be drowned in the Loire if between us two
we do not lay those cursed English spies low.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An hundred francs for each of you,&quot;
called Chauvelin lustily, &quot;if you succeed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne did not think to close the window again.
Vigorous shouting and laughter from below testified that that
hideous creature Friche and his mate had put their project in
immediate execution; she turned and ran down the stairs--feeling
now like an animal at bay; by the time that she had reached the
bottom, she heard a prolonged, hoarse cry of triumph from below
and guessed that Paul Friche and his mate had reached the window-sill:
the next moment there was a crash overhead of broken window-glass
and of furniture kicked from one end of the room to the other,
immediately followed by the sound of heavy footsteps running helter-skelter
down the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yvonne, half-crazed with terror, faint and
sick, fell unconscious over the body of her father.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Inside the tap-room Commandant Fleury was still
at work.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where do you live?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your occupation?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The low room was filled to suffocation: the
walls lined with Marats, the doors and windows which were wide
open were closely guarded, whilst in the corner of the room, huddled
together like bales of rubbish, was the human cattle that had
been driven together, preparatory to being sent for trial to Paris
in vindication of Carrier's brutalities against the city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury for form's sake made entries in a notebook--the
whole thing was a mere farce--these wretched people were not likely
to get a fair trial--what did the whole thing matter? Still! the
commandant of the Marats went solemnly through the farce which
Carrier had invented with a view to his own justification.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lemoine and his wife had protested and been
silenced: men had struggled and women had fought--some of them
like wild cats--in trying to get away. Now there were only half
a dozen or so more to docket. Fleury swore, for he was tired and
hot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This place is like a pest-house,&quot;
he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just then came the sound of that lusty cry
of triumph from outside, followed by all the clatter and the breaking
of window glass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's that?&quot; queried Fleury.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The heavy footsteps running down the stairs
caused him to look up from his work and to call briefly to a sergeant
of the Marats who stood beside his chair:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go and see what that <I>sacr&eacute;</I>
row is about,&quot; he commanded. &quot;In there,&quot; he added
as he indicated the door of the landing with a jerk of the head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But before the man could reach the door, it
was thrown open from within with a vigorous kick from the point
of a sabot, and Paul Friche appeared under the lintel with the
<I>aristo</I> wench thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes,
his thick, muscular arms encircling her knees. His scarlet bonnet
was cocked over one eye, his face was smeared with dirt, his breeches
were torn at the knees, his shirt hung in strips from his powerful
shoulders. Behind him his mate--who had climbed up the gutter-pipe
into the house in his wake--was tottering under the load of the
ci-devant Duc de Kernogan's body which he had slung across his
back and was holding on to by the wrists.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury jumped to his feet--the appearance of
these two men, each with his burden, caused him to frown with
anger and to demand peremptorily: &quot;What is the meaning of
this?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The <I>aristos</I>,&quot; said Paul Friche
curtly; &quot;they were trying to escape.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He strode into the room, carrying the unconscious
form of the girl as if it were a load of feathers. He was a huge
massive-looking giant: the girl's shoulders nearly touched the
low ceiling as he swung forward facing the angry commandant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How did you get into the house? and by
whose orders?&quot; demanded Fleury roughly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Climbed in by the window, <I>pardi</I>,&quot;
retorted the man, &quot;and by the orders of Citizen Martin-Roget.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A corporal of the Company Marat takes
orders only from me; you should know that, Citizen Friche.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay!&quot; interposed the sergeant quickly,
&quot;this man is not a corporal of the Company Marat, Citizen
Commandant. As for Corporal Friche, why! he was taken to the infirmary
some hours ago with a cracked skull, he . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not Corporal Friche,&quot; exclaimed
Fleury with an oath, &quot;then who in the devil's name is this
man?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel, at your service,
Citizen Commandant,&quot; came loudly and with a merry laugh from
the pseudo Friche.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And before either Fleury or the sergeant or
any of the Marats could even begin to realize what was happening,
he had literally bounded across the room, and as he did so he
knocked against the hanging lamp which fell with a crash to the
floor, scattering oil and broken glass in every direction and
by its fall plunging the place into total darkness. At once there
arose a confusion and medley of terrified screams, of piercing
shrieks from the women and the children, and of loud imprecations
from the men. These mingled with the hasty words of command, with
quick orders from Fleury and the sergeant, with the grounding
of arms and tramping of many feet, and with the fall of human
bodies that happened to be in the way of the reckless adventurer
and his flight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is through the door,&quot; cried the
men who had been there on guard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After him then!&quot; shouted Fleury.
&quot;Curse you all for cowards and for fools.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The order had no need to be repeated. The confusion,
though great, had only been momentary. Within a second or less,
Fleury and his sergeant had fought their way through to the door,
urging the men to follow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After him . . . quick! . . . he is heavily
loaded . . . he cannot have got far . . .&quot; commanded Fleury
as soon as he had crossed the threshold. &quot;Sergeant, keep
order within, and on your life see that no one else escapes.&quot;</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>9 THE PROCONSUL</TITLE>
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<DIR>
  <P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter 9</FONT></B></CENTER>
  <P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE PROCONSUL</FONT></B></CENTER>
  <P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></CENTER>
</DIR>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From round the angle of the house Martin-Roget
and Chauvelin were already speeding along at a rapid pace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What does it all mean?&quot; queried
the latter hastily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Englishman--with the wench on his
back? have you seen him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Malediction! what do you mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have you seen him?&quot; reiterated Fleury
hoarsely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He couldn't have passed you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then unless some of us here have eyes
like cats that limb of Satan will get away. On to him my men,&quot;
he called once more. &quot;Can you see him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The darkness outside was intense. The north-westerly
wind was whistling down the narrow street, drowning the sound
of every distant footfall: it tore mercilessly round the men's
heads, snatching those bonnets from off their heads, dragging
at their loose shirts and breeches, adding to the confusion which
already reigned.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He went this way . . .&quot; shouted
one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! that!&quot; cried another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There he is!&quot; came finally in chorus
from several lusty throats. &quot;Just crossing the bridge.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After him,&quot; cried Fleury, &quot;a
hundred francs to the man who first lays hands on that devil.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then the chase began. The Englishman on ahead
was unmistakable with that burden on his shoulder. He had just
reached the foot of the bridge where a street lanthorn fixed on
a tall bracket on the corner stone had suddenly thrown him into
bold relief. He had less than a hundred metres start of his pursuers
and with a wild cry of excitement they started in his wake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was now in the middle of the bridge--an
unmistakable figure of a giant vaguely silhouetted against the
light from the lanthorns on the further end of the bridge--seeming
preternaturally tall and misshapen with that hump upon his back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From right and left, from under the doorways
of the houses in the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie the Marats who
had been left on guard in the street now joined in the chase.
Overhead windows were thrown open--the good burghers of Nantes,
awakened from their sleep, forgetful for the nonce of all their
anxieties, their squalor and their miseries, leaned out to see
what this new kind of din might mean. From everywhere--it almost
seemed as if some sprang out of the earth--men, either of the
town guard or Marats on patrol duty, or merely idlers and night
hawks who happened to be about, yielded to that primeval instinct
of brutality which causes men as well as beasts to join in a pursuit
against a fellow creature.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury was in the rear of his posse, Martin-Roget
and Chauvelin, walking as rapidly as they could by his side, tried
to glean some information out of the commandant's breathless and
scrappy narrative:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What happened exactly?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was the man Paul Friche . . . with
the <I>aristo</I> wench on his back . . . and another man carrying
the ci-devant <I>aristo</I> . . . they were the English spies
. . . in disguise . . . they knocked over the lamp . . . and got
away . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Name of a . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No use swearing, Citizen Martin-Roget,&quot;
retorted Fleury as hotly as his agitated movements would allow.
&quot;You and Citizen Chauvelin are responsible for the affair.
It was you, Citizen Chauvelin who placed Paul Friche inside that
tavern in observation--you told him what to do . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Paul Friche--the real Paul Friche--was
taken to the infirmary some hours ago . . . with a cracked skull,
dealt him by your Englishman, I've no doubt . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible,&quot; reiterated Chauvelin
with a curse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible? why impossible?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The man I spoke to outside Le Bouffay
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Was not Paul Friche.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He was on guard in the Place with two
other Marats.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He was not Paul Friche--the others were
not Marats.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then the man who was inside the tavern?
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Was not Paul Friche.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;. . . who climbed the gutter pipe . .
. ?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Malediction!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the chase continued--waxing hotter every
minute. The hare had gained slightly on the hounds--there were
more than a hundred hot on the trail by now--having crossed the
bridge he was on the Isle Feydeau, and without hesitating a moment
he plunged at once into the network of narrow streets which cover
the island in the rear of La Petite Hollande and the H&ocirc;tel
de la Villestreux, where lodged Carrier, the representative of
the people. The hounds after him had lost some ground by halting--if
only for a second or two--first at the head of the bridge, then
at the corners of the various streets, while they peered into
the darkness to see which way had gone that fleet-footed hare.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Down this way!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! That!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There he goes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It always took a few seconds to decide, during
which the man on head with his burden on his shoulder had time
mayhap to reach the end of a street and to turn a corner and once
again to plunge into darkness and out of sight. The street lanthorns
were few in this squalid corner of the city, and it was only when
perforce the running hare had to cross a circle of light that
the hounds were able to keep hot on the trail.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To the bridges for your lives!&quot;
now shouted Fleury to the men nearest to him. &quot;Leave him
to wander on the island. He cannot come off it, unless he jumps
into the Loire.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Marats--intelligent and ferociously keen
on the chase--had already grasped the importance of this order:
with the bridges guarded that fleet-footed Englishman might run
as much as he liked, he was bound to be run to earth like a fox
in his burrow. In a moment they had dispersed along the quays,
some to one bridge-head, some to another--the Englishman could
not double back now, and if he had already crossed to the Isle
Gloriette, which was not joined to the left bank of the river
by any bridge, he would be equally caught like a rat in a trap.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Unless he jumps into the Loire,&quot;
reiterated Fleury triumphantly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The proconsul will have more excitement
than he hoped for,&quot; he added with a laugh. &quot;He was looking
forward to the capture of the English spy, and in deadly terror
lest he escaped. But now meseems that we shall run our fox down
in sight of the very gates of la Villestreux.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Martin-Roget's thoughts ran on Yvonne and the
Duc.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will remember, Citizen Commandant,&quot;
he contrived to say to Fleury, &quot;that the ci-devant Kernogans
were found inside the Rat Mort.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury uttered an exclamation of rough impatience.
What did he, what did any one care at this moment for a couple
of <I>aristos</I> more or less when the noblest game that had
ever fallen to the bag of any Terrorist was so near being run
to earth? But Chauvelin said nothing. He walked on at a brisk
pace, keeping close to commandant Fleury's side, in the immediate
wake of the pursuit. His lips were pressed tightly together and
a hissing breath came through his wide-open nostrils. His pale
eyes were fixed into the darkness and beyond it, where the most
bitter enemy of the cause which he loved was fighting his last
battle against Fate.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He cannot get off the island!&quot; Fleury
had said awhile ago. Well! there was of a truth little or nothing
now between the hunted hare and capture. The bridges were well
guarded: the island swarming with hounds, the Marats at their
posts and the Loire an impassable barrier all round.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Chauvelin, the most tenacious enemy man
ever had, Fleury keen on a reward and Martin-Roget with a private
grudge to pay off, all within two hundred yards behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">True, for the moment the Englishman had disappeared.
Burden and all, the gloom appeared to have swallowed him up. But
there was nowhere he could go; mayhap he had taken refuge under
a doorway in one of the narrow streets and hoped perhaps under
cover of the darkness to allow his pursuers to slip past him and
then to double back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fleury was laughing in the best of humours.
He was gradually collecting all the Marats together and sending
them to the bridge-heads under the command of their various sergeants.
Let the Englishman spend the night on the islands if he had a
mind. There was a full company of Marats here to account for him
as soon as he attempted to come out in the open.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The idlers and nighthawks as well as the municipal
town guard continued to run excitedly up and down the streets--sometimes
there would come a lusty cry from a knot of pursuers who thought
they spied the Englishman through the darkness, at others there
would be a call of halt, and feverish consultation held at a street
corner as to the best policy to adopt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The town guard, jealous of the Marats, were
pining to lay hands on the English spy for the sake of the reward.
Fleury, coming across their provost, called him a fool for his
pains.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My Marats will deal with the English
spies, Citizen,&quot; he said roughly; &quot;he is no concern
of yours.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The provost demurred: an altercation might
have ensued when Chauvelin's suave voice poured oil on the troubled
waters.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why not,&quot; he said, &quot;let the
town guard continue their search on the island, Citizen Commandant?
The men may succeed in digging our rat out of his hole and forcing
him out into the open all the sooner. Your Marats will have him
quickly enough after that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this suggestion the provost gave a grudging
assent. The reward when the English spy was caught could be fought
for later on. For the nonce he turned unceremoniously on his heel,
and left Fleury cursing him for a meddlesome busybody.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So long as he and his rabble does not
interfere with my Marats,&quot; growled the commandant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you see your sergeants, Citizen?&quot;
queried Chauvelin tentatively. &quot;They will have to keep very
much on the alert, and will require constant prodding to their
vigilance. If I can be of any service . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; retorted Fleury curtly, &quot;you
and Citizen Martin-Roget had best try and see the proconsul and
tell him what we have done.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He'll be half wild with terror when he
hears that the English spy is at large upon the island.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must pacify him as best you can.
Tell him I have a score of Marats at every bridge-head and that
I am looking personally to every arrangement. There is no escape
for the devil possible save by drowning himself and the wench
in the Loire.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">III</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin and Martin-Roget turned from the
quay on to the Petite Hollande--the great open ground with its
converging row of trees which ends at the very apex of the Isle
of Feydeau. Opposite to them at the further corner of the Place
was the H&ocirc;tel de la Villestreux. One or two of the windows
in the hotel were lighted from within. No doubt the proconsul
was awake, trembling in the remotest angle of his lair, with the
spectre of assassination rampant before him--aroused by the continued
disturbance of the night, by the feverishness of this man-hunt
carried on almost at his gates.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even through the darkness it was easy to perceive
groups of people either rushing backwards and forwards on the
Place or congregating in groups under the trees. Excitement was
in the air. It could be felt and heard right through the soughing
of the north-westerly wind which caused the bare branches of the
trees to groan and to crackle, and the dead leaves, which still
hung on the twigs, to fly wildly through the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the centre of the Place two small lights,
gleaming like eyes in the midst of the gloom, betrayed the presence
of the proconsul's coach, which stood there as always, ready to
take him away to a place of safety--away from this city where
he was mortally hated and dreaded--whenever the spectre of terror
became more insistent than usual, and drove him hence out of his
stronghold. The horses were pawing the frozen ground and champing
their bits--the steam from their nostrils caught the ray of the
carriage lamps, which also lit up with a feeble flicker the vague
outline of the coachman on his box and of the postilion rigid
in his saddle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The citizens of Nantes were never tired of
gaping at the carriage--a huge C-springed barouche--at the coachman's
fine caped coat of bottle-green cloth and at the horses with their
handsome harness set off with heavy brass bosses: they never tired
of bandying words with the successive coachmen as they mounted
their box and gathered up the reins or with the postilions who
loved to crack their whips and to appear smart and well-groomed,
in the midst of the squalor which reigned in the terror-stricken
city. They were the guardians of the mighty proconsul; on their
skill, quickness and presence of mind might depend his precious
life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even when the shadow of death hangs over an
entire community, there will be some who will stand and gape and
crack jokes at an uncommon sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now when the pall of night hung over the
abode of the man-tiger and his lair, and wrapped in its embrace
the hunted and the hunters, there still was a knot of people standing
round the carriage--between it and the hotel--gazing with lack-lustre
eyes on the costly appurtenances wherewith the representative
of a wretched people loved to surround himself. They could only
see the solid mass of the carriage and of the horses, but they
could hear the coachman clicking with his tongue and the postilion
cracking his whip, and these sights broke the absolute dreary
monotony of their lives.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was from behind this knot of gaffers that
there rose gradually a tumult as of a man calling out in wrath
and lashing himself into a fury. Chauvelin and Martin-Roget were
just then crossing La Petite Hollande from one bank of the river
to the other: they were walking rapidly towards the hotel, when
they heard the tumult which presently culminated in a hoarse cry
and a volley of oaths.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My coach! my coach at once . . . Lalou&euml;t,
don't leave me. . . . Curse you all for a set of cowardly oafs
. . . My coach, I say . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The proconsul,&quot; murmured Chauvelin
as he hastened forward, Martin-Roget following closely on his
heels.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By the time that they had come near enough
to the coach to distinguish vaguely in the gloom what was going
on, people came rushing to the same spot from end to end of the
Place. In a moment there was quite a crowd round the carriage,
and the two men had much ado to push their way through by a vigorous
play of their elbows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Carrier!&quot; cried Chauvelin
at the top of his voice, trying to dominate the hubbub, &quot;one
minute . . . I have excellent news for you . . . the English spy
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Curse you for a set of blundering fools,&quot;
came with a husky cry from out the darkness, &quot;you have let
that English devil escape . . . I knew it . . . I knew it . .
. the assassin is at large . . . the murderer . . . my coach at
once . . . my coach . . . Lalou&euml;t--do not leave me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had by this time succeeded in pushing
his way to the forefront of the crowd: Martin-Roget, tall and
powerful, had effectually made a way for him. Through the dense
gloom he could see the misshapen form of the proconsul, wildly
gesticulating with one arm and with the other clinging convulsively
to young Lalou&euml;t who already had his hand on the handle of
the carriage door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a quick, resolute gesture Chauvelin stepped
between the door and the advancing proconsul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Carrier,&quot; he said with calm
determination, on my oath there is no cause for alarm. Your life
is absolutely safe . . . I entreat you to return to your lodgings
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To emphasize his words he had stretched out
a hand and firmly grasped the proconsul's coat sleeve. This gesture,
however, instead of pacifying the apparently terror-stricken maniac,
seemed to have the effect of further exasperating his insensate
fear. With a loud oath he tore himself free from Chauvelin's grasp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ten thousand devils,&quot; he cried hoarsely,
&quot;who is this fool who dares to interfere with me? Stand aside
man . . . stand aside or . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And before Chauvelin could utter another word
or Martin-Roget come to his colleague's rescue, there came the
sudden sharp report of a pistol; the horses reared, the crowd
was scattered in every direction, Chauvelin was knocked over by
a smart blow on the head whilst a vigorous drag on his shoulder
alone saved him from falling under the wheels of the coach.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whilst confusion was at its highest, the carriage
door was closed to with a bang and there was a loud, commanding
cry hurled through the window at the coachman on his box.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>En avant,</I> Citizen Coachman! Drive
for your life! through the Savenay gate. The English assassins
are on our heels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The postilion cracked his whip. The horses,
maddened by the report, by the pushing, jostling crowd and the
confused cries and screams around, plunged forward, wild with
excitement. Their hoofs clattered on the hard road. Some of the
crowd ran after the coach across the Place, shouting lustily:
&quot;The Proconsul! the Proconsul!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin--dazed and bruised--was picked up
by Martin-Roget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The cowardly brute!&quot; was all that
he said between his teeth, &quot;he shall rue this outrage as
soon as I can give my mind to his affairs. In the meanwhile .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The clatter of the horses' hoofs was already
dying away in the distance. For a few seconds longer the rattle
of the coach was still accompanied by cries of &quot;The Proconsul!
the Proconsul!&quot; Fleury at the bridge-head, seeing and hearing
its approach, had only just time to order his Marats to stand
at attention. A salvo should have been fired when the representative
of the people, the high and mighty proconsul, was abroad, but
there was no time for that, and the coach clattered over the bridge
at breakneck speed, whilst Carrier with his head out of the window
was hurling anathemas and insults at Fleury for having allowed
the paid spies of that cursed British Government to threaten the
life of a representative of the people.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I go to Savenay,&quot; he shouted just
at the last, &quot;until that assassin has been thrown in the
Loire. But when I return . . . look to yourself, Commandant Fleury.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then the carriage turned down the Quai de la
Fosse and a few minutes later was swallowed up by the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">IV</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin, supported by Martin-Roget, was hobbling
back across the Place. The crowd was still standing about, vaguely
wondering why it had got so excited over the departure of the
proconsul and the rattle of a coach and pair across the bridge,
when on the island there was still an assassin at large--an English
spy, the capture of whom would be one of the great events in the
chronicles of the city of Nantes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think,&quot; said Martin-Roget, &quot;that
we may as well go to bed now, and leave the rest to Commandant
Fleury. The Englishman may not be captured for some hours, and
I for one am over-fatigued.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then go to bed an you desire, Citizen
Martin-Roget,&quot; retorted Chauvelin dryly, &quot;I for one
will stay here until I see the Englishman in the hands of Commandant
Fleury.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hark,&quot; interposed Martin-Roget abruptly.
&quot;What was that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had paused even before Martin-Roget's
restraining hand had rested on his arm. He stood still in the
middle of the Place and his knees shook under him so that he nearly
fell prone to the ground.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it?&quot; reiterated Martin-Roget
with vague puzzlement. &quot;It sounds like young Lalou&euml;t's
voice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin said nothing. He had forgotten his
bruises: he no longer hobbled--he ran across the Place to the
front of the hotel whence the voice had come which was so like
that of young Lalou&euml;t.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The youngster--it was undoubtedly he--was standing
at the angle of the hotel: above him a lanthorn threw a dim circle
of light on his bare head with its mass of dark curls, and on
a small knot of idlers with two or three of the town guard amongst
them. The first words spoken by him which Chauvelin distinguished
quite clearly were:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are all mad . . . or else drunk .
. . The citizen proconsul is upstairs in his room . . . He has
just sent me down to hear what news there is of the English spies
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">V</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No one made reply. It seemed as if some giant
and spectral hand had passed over this mass of people and with
its magic touch had stilled their turbulent passions, silenced
their imprecations and cooled their ardour--and left naught but
a vague fear, a subtle sense of awe as when something unexplainable
and supernatural has manifested itself before the eyes of men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From far away the roll of coach-wheels rapidly
disappearing in the distance alone broke the silence of the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is there no one here who will explain
what all this means?&quot; queried young Lalou&euml;t, who alone
had remained self-assured and calm, for he alone knew nothing
of what had happened. &quot;Citizen Fleury, are you there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then as once again he received no reply, he
added peremptorily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hey! some one there! Are you all louts
and oafs that not one of you can speak?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A timid voice from the rear ventured on explanation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The citizen proconsul was here a moment
ago . . . We all saw him, and you, Citizen Lalou&euml;t, were
with him . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An imprecation from young Lalou&euml;t silenced
the timid voice for the nonce . . . and then another resumed the
halting narrative:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We all could have sworn that we saw you,
Citizen Lalou&euml;t, also the citizen proconsul. . . . He got
into the coach with you . . . you . . . that is . . . they have
driven off. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This is some awful and treacherous hoax,&quot;
cried the youngster, now in a towering passion; &quot;the citizen
proconsul is upstairs in bed, I tell you . . . and I have only
just come out of the hotel . . . ! Name of a name of a dog! am
I standing here or am I not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly he bethought himself of the many
events of the day which had culminated in this gigantic feat of
legerdemain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Chauvelin!&quot; he exclaimed. &quot;Where
in the name of h--ll is Citizen Chauvelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Chauvelin for the moment could nowhere
be found. Dazed, half-unconscious, wholly distraught, he had fled
from the scene of his discomfiture as fast as his trembling knees
would allow. Carrier searched the city for him high and low, and
for days afterwards the soldiers of the Compagnie Marat gave <I>aristos</I>
and rebels a rest: they were on the look-out for a small, wizened
figure of a man--the man with the pale, keen eyes who had failed
to recognize in the pseudo Paul Friche, in the dirty, out-at-elbows
<I>sans-culotte</I>--the most exquisite dandy that had ever graced
the <I>salons</I> of Bath and of London: they were searching for
the man with the acute and sensitive brain who had failed to scent
in the pseudo-Carrier and the pseudo-Lalou&euml;t his old and
arch enemy Sir Percy Blakeney and the charming wife of my lord
Anthony Dewhurst.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter 10</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">LORD TONY</FONT></B><FONT
 SIZE="+1"></FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">I</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quarter of an hour later Citizen-Commandant
Fleury was at last ushered into the presence of the proconsul
and received upon his truly innocent head the full torrent of
the despot's wrath. But Martin-Roget had listened to the counsels
of prudence: for obvious reasons he desired to avoid any personal
contact for the moment with Carrier, whom fear of the English
spies had made into a more abject and more craven tyrant than
ever before. At the same time he thought it wisest to try and
pacify the brute by sending him the ten thousand francs--the bribe
agreed upon for his help in the undertaking which had culminated
in such a disastrous failure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the self-same hour whilst Carrier--fuming
and swearing--was for the hundredth time uttering that furious
&quot;How?&quot; which for the hundredth time had remained unanswered,
two men were taking leave of one another at the small postern
gate which gives on the cemetery of Ste-Anne. The taller and younger
of the two had just dropped a heavy purse into the hand of the
other. The latter stooped and kissed the kindly hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Milor',&quot; he said, &quot;I swear
to you most solemnly that Monsieur le Duc de Kernogan will rest
in peace in hallowed ground. Monsieur le Cur&eacute; de Vertou--ah!
he is a saint and a brave man, milor'--comes over whenever he
can prudently do so and reads the offices for the dead--over those
who have died as Christians, and there is a piece of consecrated
ground out here in the open which those fiends of Terrorists have
not discovered yet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you will bury Monsieur le Duc immediately,&quot;
admonished the younger man, &quot;and apprise Monsieur le Cur&eacute;
of what has happened.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! aye! I'll do that, milor', within
the hour. Though Monsieur le Duc was never a very kind master
to me in the past, I cannot forget that I served him and his family
for over thirty years as coachman. I drove Mademoiselle Yvonne
in the first pony-cart she ever possessed. I drove her--ah! that
was a bitter day!--her and Monsieur le Duc when they left Kernogan
never to return. I drove Mademoiselle Yvonne on that memorable
night when a crowd of miserable peasants attacked her coach, and
that brute Pierre Adet started to lead a rabble against the ch&acirc;teau.
That was the beginning of things, milor'. God alone knows what
has happened to Pierre Adet. His father Jean was hanged by order
of Monsieur le Duc. Now monsieur le Duc is destined to lie in
a forgotten grave. I serve this abominable Republic by digging
graves for her victims. I would be happier, I think, if I knew
what had become of Mademoiselle Yvonne.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mademoiselle Yvonne is my wife, old friend,&quot;
said the younger man softly. &quot;Please God she has years of
happiness before her, if I succeed in making her forget all that
she has suffered.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Amen to that, milor'!&quot; rejoined
the man fervently. &quot;Then I pray you tell the noble lady to
rest assured. Jean-Marie--her old coachman whom she used to trust
implicitly in the past--will see that Monsieur le Duc de Kernogan
is buried as a gentleman and a Christian should be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are not running too great a risk
by this, I hope, my good Jean-Marie,&quot; quoth Lord Tony gently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No greater risk, milor',&quot; replied
Jean-Marie earnestly, &quot;than the one which you ran by carrying
my old master's dead body on your shoulders through the streets
of Nantes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah! that was simple enough,&quot; said
the younger man, &quot;the hue and cry is after higher quarry
to-night. Pray God the hounds have not run the noble game to earth.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even as he spoke there came from far away through
the darkness the sound of a fast trotting pair of horses and the
rumble of coach-wheels on the unpaved road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There they are, thank God!&quot; exclaimed
Lord Tony, and the tremor in his voice alone betrayed the torturing
anxiety which he had been enduring, ever since he had seen the
last both of his adored young wife and of his gallant chief in
the squalid tap-room of the Rat Mort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With the dead body of Yvonne's father on his
back he had quietly worked his way out of the tavern in the wake
of his chief. He had his orders, and for the members of that gallant
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel there was no such word as &quot;disobedience&quot;
and no such word as &quot;fail.&quot; Through the darkness and
through the tortuous streets of Nantes Lord Anthony Dewhurst--the
young and wealthy exquisite, the hero of an hundred f&ecirc;tes
and galas in Bath, in London--staggered under the weight of a
burden imposed upon him only by his loyalty and a noble sense
of self-prescribed discipline--and that burden the dead body of
the man who had done him an unforgivable wrong. Without a thought
of revolt he had obeyed--and risked his life and worse in the
obedience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The darkness of the night was his faithful
handmaiden, and the excitement of the chase after the other quarry
had fortunately drawn every possible enemy from his track. He
had set his teeth and accomplished his task, and even the deathly
anxiety for the wife whom he idolized had been crushed, under
the iron heel of a grim resolve. Now his work was done, and from
far away he heard the rattle of the coach-wheels which were bringing
his beloved nearer and nearer to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Five minutes longer and the coach came to a
halt. A cheery voice called out gaily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tony! are you there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy!&quot; exclaimed the young man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already he knew that all was well. The gallant
leader, the loyal and loving friend, had taxed every resource
of a boundlessly fertile brain in order to win yet another wreath
of immortal laurels for the League which he commanded, and the
very tone of his merry voice proclaimed the triumph which had
crowned his daring scheme.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment Yvonne lay in the arms of her
dear milor'. He had stepped into the carriage, even while Sir
Percy climbed nimbly on the box and took the reins from the bewildered
coachman's hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Proconsul . . .&quot; murmured
the latter, who of a truth thought that he was dreaming.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Get off the box, you old noodle,&quot;
quoth the pseudo-proconsul peremptorily. &quot;Thou and thy friend
the postilion will remain here in the road, and on the morrow
you'll explain to whomsoever it may concern that the English spy
made a murderous attack on you both and left you half dead outside
the postern gate of the cemetery of Ste-Anne. Here,&quot; he added
as he threw a purse down to the two men--who, half-dazed and overcome
by superstitious fear, had indeed scrambled down, one from his
box, the other from his horse--&quot;there's a hundred francs
for each of you in there, and mind you drink to the health of
the English spy and the confusion of your brutish proconsul.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was no time to lose: the horses--still
very fresh--were fretting to start.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where do we pick up Hastings and Ffoulkes?&quot;
asked Sir Percy Blakeney finally as he turned toward the interior
of the barouche, the hood of which hid its occupants from view.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the corner of the Rue de Gigan,&quot; came
the quick answer. &quot;It is only two hundred metres from the
city gate. They are on the look out for you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ffoulkes shall be postilion,&quot; rejoined
Sir Percy with a laugh, &quot;and Hastings sit beside me on the
box. And you will see how at the city gate and all along the route
soldiers of the guard will salute the equipage of the all-powerful
proconsul of Nantes. By Gad!&quot; he added under his breath,
&quot;I've never had a merrier time in all my live--not even when
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He clicked his tongue and gave the horses their
heads--and soon the coachman and the postilion and Jean-Marie
the gravedigger of the cemetery of Ste-Anne were left gaping out
into the night in the direction where the barouche had so quickly
disappeared.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now for Le Croisic and the <I>Day-Dream</I>,&quot;
signed the daring adventurer contentedly,&quot; . . . and for
Marguerite!&quot; he added wistfully.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">II</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Under the hood of the barouche Yvonne, wearied
but immeasurably happy, was doing her best to answer all her dear
milor's impassioned questions and to give him a fairly clear account
of that terrible chase and flight through the streets of the Isle
Feydeau.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, milor', how can I tell you what I
felt when I realized that I was being carried along in the arms
of the valiant Scarlet Pimpernel? A word from him and I understood.
After that I tried to be both resourceful and brave. When the
chase after us was at its hottest we slipped into a ruined and
deserted house. In a room at the back there were several bundles
of what looked like old clothes. &quot;This is my store-house,&quot;
milor' said to me; &quot;now that we have reached it we can just
make long noses at the whole pack of bloodhounds.&quot; He made
me slip into some boy's clothes which he gave me, and whilst I
donned these he disappeared. When he returned I truly did not
recognize him. He looked horrible, and his voice . . .! After
a moment or two he laughed, and then I knew him. He explained
to me the r&ocirc;le which I was to play, and I did my best to
obey him in everything. But oh! I hardly lived while we once more
emerged into the open street and then turned into the great Place
which was full--oh full!--of people. I felt that at every moment
we might be suspected. Figure to yourself, my dear milor' . .
.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What Yvonne Dewhurst was about to say next
will never be recorded. My lord Tony had closed her lips with
a kiss.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1">The End</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

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