CHAPTER XXII. OF THAT THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION
Blakeney had more than one pied-a-terre in Paris, and never stayedlonger than two or three days in any of these. It was not difficult fora single man, be he labourer or bourgeois, to obtain a night's lodging,even in these most troublous times, and in any quarter of Paris,provided the rent--out of all proportion to the comfort andaccommodation given--was paid ungrudgingly and in advance.
Emigration and, above all, the enormous death-roll of the past eighteenmonths, had emptied the apartment houses of the great city, and thosewho had rooms to let were only too glad of a lodger, always providingthey were not in danger of being worried by the committees of theirsection.
The laws framed by these same committees now demanded that all keepersof lodging or apartment houses should within twenty-four hours givenotice at the bureau of their individual sections of the advent of newlodgers, together with a description of the personal appearance ofsuch lodgers, and an indication of their presumed civil status andoccupation. But there was a margin of twenty-four hours, which couldon pressure be extended to forty-eight, and, therefore, any one couldobtain shelter for forty-eight hours, and have no questions asked,provided he or she was willing to pay the exorbitant sum usually askedunder the circumstances.
Thus Blakeney had no difficulty in securing what lodgings he wanted whenhe once more found himself inside Paris at somewhere about noon of thatsame Monday.
The thought of Hastings and Tony speeding on towards Mantes with theroyal child safely held in Hastings' arms had kept his spirits buoyantand caused him for a while to forget the terrible peril in which ArmandSt. Just's thoughtless egoism had placed them both.
Blakeney was a man of abnormal physique and iron nerve, else he couldnever have endured the fatigues of the past twenty-four hours, fromthe moment when on the Sunday afternoon he began to play his part offurniture-remover at the Temple, to that when at last on Monday at noonhe succeeded in persuading the sergeant at the Maillot gate that hewas an honest stonemason residing at Neuilly, who was come to Paris insearch of work.
After that matters became more simple. Terribly foot-sore, thoughhe would never have admitted it, hungry and weary, he turned into anunpretentious eating-house and ordered some dinner. The place when heentered was occupied mostly by labourers and workmen, dressed very muchas he was himself, and quite as grimy as he had become after havingdriven about for hours in a laundry-cart and in a coal-cart, and havingwalked twelve kilometres, some of which he had covered whilst carrying asleeping child in his arms.
Thus, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., the friend and companion of the Princeof Wales, the most fastidious fop the salons of London and Bath hadever seen, was in no way distinguishable outwardly from the tattered,half-starved, dirty, and out-at-elbows products of this fraternising andequalising Republic.
He was so hungry that the ill-cooked, badly-served meal tempted him toeat; and he ate on in silence, seemingly more interested in boiled beefthan in the conversation that went on around him. But he would not havebeen the keen and daring adventurer that he was if he did not all thewhile keep his ears open for any fragment of news that the desultorytalk of his fellow-diners was likely to yield to him.
Politics were, of course, discussed; the tyranny of the sections, theslavery that this free Republic had brought on its citizens. Thenames of the chief personages of the day were all mentioned in turnsFocquier-Tinville, Santerre, Danton, Robespierre. Heron and hissleuth-hounds were spoken of with execrations quickly suppressed, but oflittle Capet not one word.
Blakeney could not help but infer that Chauvelin, Heron and thecommissaries in charge were keeping the escape of the child a secret foras long as they could.
He could hear nothing of Armand's fate, of course. The arrest--if arrestthere had been--was not like to be bruited abroad just now. Blakeneyhaving last seen Armand in Chauvelin's company, whilst he himself wasmoving the Simons' furniture, could not for a moment doubt that theyoung man was imprisoned,--unless, indeed, he was being allowed acertain measure of freedom, whilst his every step was being spied on, sothat he might act as a decoy for his chief.
At thought of that all weariness seemed to vanish from Blakeney'spowerful frame. He set his lips firmly together, and once again thelight of irresponsible gaiety danced in his eyes.
He had been in as tight a corner as this before now; at Boulogne hisbeautiful Marguerite had been used as a decoy, and twenty-four hourslater he had held her in his arms on board his yacht the Day-Dream. Ashe would have put it in his own forcible language:
"Those d--d murderers have not got me yet."
The battle mayhap would this time be against greater odds than before,but Blakeney had no fear that they would prove overwhelming.
There was in life but one odd that was overwhelming, and that wastreachery.
But of that there could be no question.
In the afternoon Blakeney started off in search of lodgings for thenight. He found what would suit him in the Rue de l'Arcade, whichwas equally far from the House of Justice as it was from his formerlodgings. Here he would be safe for at least twenty-four hours, afterwhich he might have to shift again. But for the moment the landlordof the miserable apartment was over-willing to make no fuss and askno questions, for the sake of the money which this aristo in disguisedispensed with a lavish hand.
Having taken possession of his new quarters and snatched a few hours ofsound, well-deserved rest, until the time when the shades of eveningand the darkness of the streets would make progress through the citysomewhat more safe, Blakeney sallied forth at about six o'clock having athreefold object in view.
Primarily, of course, the threefold object was concentrated on Armand.There was the possibility of finding out at the young man's lodgings inMontmartre what had become of him; then there were the usual inquiriesthat could be made from the registers of the various prisons; and,thirdly, there was the chance that Armand had succeeded in sending somekind of message to Blakeney's former lodgings in the Rue St. Germainl'Auxerrois.
On the whole, Sir Percy decided to leave the prison registers alonefor the present. If Armand had been actually arrested, he would almostcertainly be confined in the Chatelet prison, where he would be closerto hand for all the interrogatories to which, no doubt, he would besubjected.
Blakeney set his teeth and murmured a good, sound, British oath whenhe thought of those interrogatories. Armand St. Just, highly strung,a dreamer and a bundle of nerves--how he would suffer under the mentalrack of questions and cross-questions, cleverly-laid traps to catchinformation from him unawares!
His next objective, then, was Armand's former lodging, and fromsix o'clock until close upon eight Sir Percy haunted the slopes ofMontmartre, and more especially the neighbourhood of the Rue de la CroixBlanche, where Armand had lodged these former days. At the house itselfhe could not inquire as yet; obviously it would not have been safe;tomorrow, perhaps, when he knew more, but not tonight. His keen eyes hadalready spied at least two figures clothed in the rags of out-of-worklabourers like himself, who had hung with suspicious persistence in thissame neighbourhood, and who during the two hours that he had been inobservation had never strayed out of sight of the house in the Rue de laCroix Blanche.
That these were two spies on the watch was, of course, obvious;but whether they were on the watch for St. Just or for some otherunfortunate wretch it was at this stage impossible to conjecture.
Then, as from the Tour des Dames close by the clock solemnly struck thehour of eight, and Blakeney prepared to wend his way back to anotherpart of the city, he suddenly saw Armand walking slowly up the street.
The young man did not look either to right or left; he held his headforward on his chest, and his hands were hidden underneath his cloak.When he passed immediately under one of the street lamps Blakeney caughtsight of his face; it was pale and drawn. Then he turned his head,and for the space of two seconds his eyes across the narrow streetencountered those of his chief. He had the presence of mind not
to makea sign or to utter a sound; he was obviously being followed, but inthat brief moment Sir Percy had seen in the young man's eyes a look thatreminded him of a hunted creature.
"What have those brutes been up to with him, I wonder?" he mutteredbetween clenched teeth.
Armand soon disappeared under the doorway of the same house where hehad been lodging all along. Even as he did so Blakeney saw the two spiesgather together like a pair of slimy lizards, and whisper excitedlyone to another. A third man, who obviously had been dogging Armand'sfootsteps, came up and joined them after a while.
Blakeney could have sworn loudly and lustily, had it been possible todo so without attracting attention. The whole of Armand's history inthe past twenty-four hours was perfectly clear to him. The young man hadbeen made free that he might prove a decoy for more important game.
His every step was being watched, and he still thought Jeanne Lange inimmediate danger of death. The look of despair in his face proclaimedthese two facts, and Blakeney's heart ached for the mental torture whichhis friend was enduring. He longed to let Armand know that the woman heloved was in comparative safety.
Jeanne Lange first, and then Armand himself; and the odds would be veryheavy against the Scarlet Pimpernel! But that Marguerite should not haveto mourn an only brother, of that Sir Percy made oath.
He now turned his steps towards his own former lodgings by St. Germainl'Auxerrois. It was just possible that Armand had succeeded in leaving amessage there for him. It was, of course, equally possible that when hedid so Heron's men had watched his movements, and that spies would bestationed there, too, on the watch.
But that risk must, of course, be run. Blakeney's former lodging was theone place that Armand would know of to which he could send a message tohis chief, if he wanted to do so. Of course, the unfortunate young mancould not have known until just now that Percy would come back to Paris,but he might guess it, or wish it, or only vaguely hope for it; hemight want to send a message, he might long to communicate with hisbrother-in-law, and, perhaps, feel sure that the latter would not leavehim in the lurch.
With that thought in his mind, Sir Percy was not likely to give up theattempt to ascertain for himself whether Armand had tried to communicatewith him or not. As for spies--well, he had dodged some of them oftenenough in his time--the risks that he ran to-night were no worse thanthe ones to which he had so successfully run counter in the Templeyesterday.
Still keeping up the slouchy gait peculiar to the out-at-elbows workingman of the day, hugging the houses as he walked along the streets,Blakeney made slow progress across the city. But at last he reached thefacade of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, and turning sharply to his right hesoon came in sight of the house which he had only quitted twenty-fourhours ago.
We all know that house--all of us who are familiar with the Paris ofthose terrible days. It stands quite detached--a vast quadrangle,facing the Quai de l'Ecole and the river, backing on the Rue St.Germain l'Auxerrois, and shouldering the Carrefour des Trois Manes.The porte-cochere, so-called, is but a narrow doorway, and is actuallysituated in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois.
Blakeney made his way cautiously right round the house; he peered up anddown the quay, and his keen eyes tried to pierce the dense gloom thathung at the corners of the Pont Neuf immediately opposite. Soon heassured himself that for the present, at any rate, the house was notbeing watched.
Armand presumably had not yet left a message for him here; but he mightdo so at any time now that he knew that his chief was in Paris and onthe look-out for him.
Blakeney made up his mind to keep this house in sight. This art ofwatching he had acquired to a masterly extent, and could have taughtHeron's watch-dogs a remarkable lesson in it. At night, of course, itwas a comparatively easy task. There were a good many unlighted doorwaysalong the quay, whilst a street lamp was fixed on a bracket in the wallof the very house which he kept in observation.
Finding temporary shelter under various doorways, or against the dankwalls of the houses, Blakeney set himself resolutely to a few hours'weary waiting. A thin, drizzly rain fell with unpleasant persistence,like a damp mist, and the thin blouse which he wore soon became wetthrough and clung hard and chilly to his shoulders.
It was close on midnight when at last he thought it best to give uphis watch and to go back to his lodgings for a few hours' sleep; but atseven o'clock the next morning he was back again at his post.
The porte-cochere of his former lodging-house was not yet open; hetook up his stand close beside it. His woollen cap pulled well over hisforehead, the grime cleverly plastered on his hair and face, his lowerjaw thrust forward, his eyes looking lifeless and bleary, all gave himan expression of sly villainy, whilst the short clay pipe struck ata sharp angle in his mouth, his hands thrust into the pockets of hisragged breeches, and his bare feet in the mud of the road, gave thefinal touch to his representation of an out-of-work, ill-conditioned,and supremely discontented loafer.
He had not very long to wait. Soon the porte-cochere of the house wasopened, and the concierge came out with his broom, making a show ofcleaning the pavement in front of the door. Five minutes later a lad,whose clothes consisted entirely of rags, and whose feet and head werebare, came rapidly up the street from the quay, and walked along lookingat the houses as he went, as if trying to decipher their number. Thecold grey dawn was just breaking, dreary and damp, as all the past dayshad been. Blakeney watched the lad as he approached, the small, nakedfeet falling noiselessly on the cobblestones of the road. When the boywas quite close to him and to the house, Blakeney shifted his positionand took the pipe out of his mouth.
"Up early, my son!" he said gruffly.
"Yes," said the pale-faced little creature; "I have a message to deliverat No. 9 Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois. It must be somewhere near here."
"It is. You can give me the message."
"Oh, no, citizen!" said the lad, into whose pale, circled eyes a look ofterror had quickly appeared. "It is for one of the lodgers in No. 9. Imust give it to him."
With an instinct which he somehow felt could not err at this moment,Blakeney knew that the message was one from Armand to himself; a writtenmessage, too, since--instinctively when he spoke--the boy clutched athis thin shirt, as if trying to guard something precious that had beenentrusted to him.
"I will deliver the message myself, sonny," said Blakeney gruffly."I know the citizen for whom it is intended. He would not like theconcierge to see it."
"Oh! I would not give it to the concierge," said the boy. "I would takeit upstairs myself."
"My son," retorted Blakeney, "let me tell you this. You are going togive that message up to me and I will put five whole livres into yourhand."
Blakeney, with all his sympathy aroused for this poor pale-faced lad,put on the airs of a ruffianly bully. He did not wish that message tobe taken indoors by the lad, for the concierge might get hold of it,despite the boy's protests and tears, and after that Blakeney wouldperforce have to disclose himself before it would be given up to him.During the past week the concierge had been very amenable to bribery.Whatever suspicions he had had about his lodger he had kept to himselffor the sake of the money which he received; but it was impossible togauge any man's trend of thought these days from one hour to the next.Something--for aught Blakeney knew--might have occurred in the pasttwenty-four hours to change an amiable and accommodating lodging-housekeeper into a surly or dangerous spy.
Fortunately, the concierge had once more gone within; there was no oneabroad, and if there were, no one probably would take any notice of aburly ruffian brow-beating a child.
"Allons!" he said gruffly, "give me the letter, or that five livres goesback into my pocket."
"Five livres!" exclaimed the child with pathetic eagerness. "Oh,citizen!"
The thin little hand fumbled under the rags, but it reappeared againempty, whilst a faint blush spread over the hollow cheeks.
"The other citizen also gave me five livres," he said humbly. "He lodgesin the house
where my mother is concierge. It is in the Rue de la CroixBlanche. He has been very kind to my mother. I would rather do as hebade me."
"Bless the lad," murmured Blakeney under his breath; "his loyaltyredeems many a crime of this God-forsaken city. Now I suppose I shallhave to bully him, after all."
He took his hand out of his breeches pocket; between two very dirtyfingers he held a piece of gold. The other hand he placed quite roughlyon the lad's chest.
"Give me the letter," he said harshly, "or--"
He pulled at the ragged blouse, and a scrap of soiled paper soon fellinto his hand. The lad began to cry.
"Here," said Blakeney, thrusting the piece of gold into the thin smallpalm, "take this home to your mother, and tell your lodger that a big,rough man took the letter away from you by force. Now run, before I kickyou out of the way."
The lad, terrified out of his poor wits, did not wait for furthercommands; he took to his heels and ran, his small hand clutching thepiece of gold. Soon he had disappeared round the corner of the street.
Blakeney did not at once read the paper; he thrust it quickly into hisbreeches pocket and slouched away slowly down the street, and thenceacross the Place du Carrousel, in the direction of his new lodgings inthe Rue de l'Arcade.
It was only when he found himself alone in the narrow, squalid roomwhich he was occupying that he took the scrap of paper from his pocketand read it slowly through. It said: