CHAPTER XXXV. THE LAST PHASE
"Well? How is it now?"
"The last phase, I think."
"He will yield?"
"He must."
"Bah! you have said it yourself often enough; those English are tough."
"It takes time to hack them to pieces, perhaps. In this case even you,citizen Chauvelin, said that it would take time. Well, it has taken justseventeen days, and now the end is in sight."
It was close on midnight in the guard-room which gave on the innermostcell of the Conciergerie. Heron had just visited the prisoner as washis wont at this hour of the night. He had watched the changing of theguard, inspected the night-watch, questioned the sergeant in charge, andfinally he had been on the point of retiring to his own new quartersin the house of Justice, in the near vicinity of the Conciergerie, whencitizen Chauvelin entered the guard-room unexpectedly and detained hiscolleague with the peremptory question:
"How is it now?"
"If you are so near the end, citizen Heron," he now said, sinking hisvoice to a whisper, "why not make a final effort and end it to-night?"
"I wish I could; the anxiety is wearing me out more'n him," added with ajerky movement of the head in direction of the inner cell.
"Shall I try?" rejoined Chauvelin grimly.
"Yes, an you wish."
Citizen Heron's long limbs were sprawling on a guard-room chair. In thislow narrow room he looked like some giant whose body had been carelesslyand loosely put together by a 'prentice hand in the art of manufacture.His broad shoulders were bent, probably under the weight of anxietyto which he had referred, and his head, with the lank, shaggy hairovershadowing the brow, was sunk deep down on his chest.
Chauvelin looked on his friend and associate with no small measureof contempt. He would no doubt have preferred to conclude the presentdifficult transaction entirely in his own way and alone; but equallythere was no doubt that the Committee of Public Safety did not trusthim quite so fully as it used to do before the fiasco at Calais and theblunders of Boulogne. Heron, on the other hand, enjoyed to its outermostthe confidence of his colleagues; his ferocious cruelty and hiscallousness were well known, whilst physically, owing to his greatheight and bulky if loosely knit frame, he had a decided advantage overhis trim and slender friend.
As far as the bringing of prisoners to trial was concerned, the chiefagent of the Committee of General Security had been given a perfectlyfree hand by the decree of the 27th Nivose. At first, therefore, hehad experienced no difficulty when he desired to keep the Englishman inclose confinement for a time without hurrying on that summary trial andcondemnation which the populace had loudly demanded, and to which theyfelt that they were entitled to as a public holiday. The death of theScarlet Pimpernel on the guillotine had been a spectacle promised byevery demagogue who desired to purchase a few votes by holding outvisions of pleasant doings to come; and during the first few days themob of Paris was content to enjoy the delights of expectation.
But now seventeen days had gone by and still the Englishman was notbeing brought to trial. The pleasure-loving public was waxing impatient,and earlier this evening, when citizen Heron had shown himself in thestalls of the national theatre, he was greeted by a crowded audiencewith decided expressions of disapproval and open mutterings of:
"What of the Scarlet Pimpernel?"
It almost looked as if he would have to bring that accursed Englishmanto the guillotine without having wrested from him the secret which hewould have given a fortune to possess. Chauvelin, who had also beenpresent at the theatre, had heard the expressions of discontent; hencehis visit to his colleague at this late hour of the night.
"Shall I try?" he had queried with some impatience, and a deep sigh ofsatisfaction escaped his thin lips when the chief agent, wearied anddiscouraged, had reluctantly agreed.
"Let the men make as much noise as they like," he added with anenigmatical smile. "The Englishman and I will want an accompaniment toour pleasant conversation."
Heron growled a surly assent, and without another word Chauvelin turnedtowards the inner cell. As he stepped in he allowed the iron bar to fallinto its socket behind him. Then he went farther into the room until thedistant recess was fully revealed to him. His tread had been furtive andalmost noiseless. Now he paused, for he had caught sight the prisoner.For a moment he stood quite still, with hands clasped behind his back inhis wonted attitude--still save for a strange, involuntary twitchingof his mouth, and the nervous clasping and interlocking of his fingersbehind his back. He was savouring to its utmost fulsomeness thesupremest joy which animal man can ever know--the joy of looking on afallen enemy.
Blakeney sat at the table with one arm resting on it, the emaciatedhand tightly clutched, the body leaning forward, the eyes looking intonothingness.
For the moment he was unconscious of Chauvelin's presence, and thelatter could gaze on him to the full content of his heart.
Indeed, to all outward appearances there sat a man whom privations ofevery sort and kind, the want of fresh air, of proper food, above all,of rest, had worn down physically to a shadow. There was not a particleof colour in cheeks or lips, the skin was grey in hue, the eyes lookedlike deep caverns, wherein the glow of fever was all that was left oflife.
Chauvelin looked on in silence, vaguely stirred by something thathe could not define, something that right through his triumphantsatisfaction, his hatred and final certainty of revenge, had roused inhim a sense almost of admiration.
He gazed on the noiseless figure of the man who had endured so much foran ideal, and as he gazed it seemed to him as if the spirit no longerdwelt in the body, but hovered round in the dank, stuffy air of thenarrow cell above the head of the lonely prisoner, crowning it withglory that was no longer of this earth.
Of this the looker-on was conscious despite himself, of that and of thefact that stare as he might, and with perception rendered doubly keenby hate, he could not, in spite of all, find the least trace of mentalweakness in that far-seeing gaze which seemed to pierce the prisonwalls, nor could he see that bodily weakness had tended to subdue theruling passions.
Sir Percy Blakeney--a prisoner since seventeen days in close, solitaryconfinement, half-starved, deprived of rest, and of that mental andphysical activity which had been the very essence of life to himhitherto--might be outwardly but a shadow of his former brilliant self,but nevertheless he was still that same elegant English gentleman, thatprince of dandies whom Chauvelin had first met eighteen months ago atthe most courtly Court in Europe. His clothes, despite constant wearand the want of attention from a scrupulous valet, still betrayed theperfection of London tailoring; he had put them on with meticulous care,they were free from the slightest particle of dust, and the filmy foldsof priceless Mechlin still half-veiled the delicate whiteness of hisshapely hands.
And in the pale, haggard face, in the whole pose of body and of arm,there was still the expression of that indomitable strength of will,that reckless daring, that almost insolent challenge to Fate; it wasthere untamed, uncrushed. Chauvelin himself could not deny to himselfits presence or its force. He felt that behind that smooth brow, whichlooked waxlike now, the mind was still alert, scheming, plotting,striving for freedom, for conquest and for power, and rendered evendoubly keen and virile by the ardour of supreme self-sacrifice.
Chauvelin now made a slight movement and suddenly Blakeney becameconscious of his presence, and swift as a flash a smile lit up his wanface.
"Why! if it is not my engaging friend Monsieur Chambertin," he saidgaily.
He rose and stepped forward in the most approved fashion prescribed bythe elaborate etiquette of the time. But Chauvelin smiled grimly and alook of almost animal lust gleamed in his pale eyes, for he had notedthat as he rose Sir Percy had to seek the support of the table, evenwhilst a dull film appeared to gather over his eyes.
The gesture had been quick and cleverly disguised, but it had been therenevertheless--that and the livid hue that overspread the face as ifconsciousness
was threatening to go. All of which was sufficient stillfurther to assure the looker-on that that mighty physical strength wasgiving way at last, that strength which he had hated in his enemy almostas much as he had hated the thinly veiled insolence of his manner.
"And what procures me, sir, the honour of your visit?" continuedBlakeney, who had--at any rate, outwardly soon recovered himself, andwhose voice, though distinctly hoarse and spent, rang quite cheerfullyacross the dank narrow cell.
"My desire for your welfare, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin with equalpleasantry.
"La, sir; but have you not gratified that desire already, to an extentwhich leaves no room for further solicitude? But I pray you, will younot sit down?" he continued, turning back toward the table. "I was aboutto partake of the lavish supper which your friends have provided for me.Will you not share it, sir? You are most royally welcome, and it willmayhap remind you of that supper we shared together in Calais, eh? whenyou, Monsieur Chambertin, were temporarily in holy orders."
He laughed, offering his enemy a chair, and pointed with invitinggesture to the hunk of brown bread and the mug of water which stood onthe table.
"Such as it is, sir," he said with a pleasant smile, "it is yours tocommand."
Chauvelin sat down. He held his lower lip tightly between his teeth, sotightly that a few drops of blood appeared upon its narrow surface. Hewas making vigorous efforts to keep his temper under control, for hewould not give his enemy the satisfaction of seeing him resent hisinsolence. He could afford to keep calm now that victory was at lastin sight, now that he knew that he had but to raise a finger, and thosesmiling, impudent lips would be closed forever at last.
"Sir Percy," he resumed quietly, "no doubt it affords you a certainamount of pleasure to aim your sarcastic shafts at me. I will notbegrudge you that pleasure; in your present position, sir, your shaftshave little or no sting."
"And I shall have but few chances left to aim them at your charmingself," interposed Blakeney, who had drawn another chair close to thetable and was now sitting opposite his enemy, with the light of the lampfalling full on his own face, as if he wished his enemy to know that hehad nothing to hide, no thought, no hope, no fear.
"Exactly," said Chauvelin dryly. "That being the case, Sir Percy, whatsay you to no longer wasting the few chances which are left to you forsafety? The time is getting on. You are not, I imagine, quite as hopefulas you were even a week ago,... you have never been over-comfortable inthis cell, why not end this unpleasant state of affairs now--once andfor all? You'll not have cause to regret it. My word on it."
Sir Percy leaned back in his chair. He yawned loudly and ostentatiously.
"I pray you, sir, forgive me," he said. "Never have I been so d--dfatigued. I have not slept for more than a fortnight."
"Exactly, Sir Percy. A night's rest would do you a world of good."
"A night, sir?" exclaimed Blakeney with what seemed like an echo of hisformer inimitable laugh. "La! I should want a week."
"I am afraid we could not arrange for that, but one night would greatlyrefresh you."
"You are right, sir, you are right; but those d--d fellows in the nextroom make so much noise."
"I would give strict orders that perfect quietude reigned in theguard-room this night," said Chauvelin, murmuring softly, and therewas a gentle purr in his voice, "and that you were left undisturbed forseveral hours. I would give orders that a comforting supper be served toyou at once, and that everything be done to minister to your wants."
"That sounds d--d alluring, sir. Why did you not suggest this before?"
"You were so--what shall I say--so obstinate, Sir Percy?"
"Call it pig-headed, my dear Monsieur Chambertin," retorted Blakeneygaily, "truly you would oblige me."
"In any case you, sir, were acting in direct opposition to your owninterests."
"Therefore you came," concluded Blakeney airily, "like the goodSamaritan to take compassion on me and my troubles, and to lead mestraight away to comfort, a good supper and a downy bed."
"Admirably put, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin blandly; "that is exactly mymission."
"How will you set to work, Monsieur Chambertin?"
"Quite easily, if you, Sir Percy, will yield to the persuasion of myfriend citizen Heron."
"Ah!"
"Why, yes! He is anxious to know where little Capet is. A reasonablewhim, you will own, considering that the disappearance of the child iscausing him grave anxiety."
"And you, Monsieur Chambertin?" queried Sir Percy with that suspicion ofinsolence in his manner which had the power to irritate his enemy evennow. "And yourself, sir; what are your wishes in the matter?"
"Mine, Sir Percy?" retorted Chauvelin. "Mine? Why, to tell you thetruth, the fate of little Capet interests me but little. Let him rot inAustria or in our prisons, I care not which. He'll never trouble Franceovermuch, I imagine. The teachings of old Simon will not tend to make aleader or a king out of the puny brat whom you chose to drag out of ourkeeping. My wishes, sir, are the annihilation of your accursed League,and the lasting disgrace, if not the death, of its chief."
He had spoken more hotly than he had intended, but all the pent-uprage of the past eighteen months, the recollections of Calais and ofBoulogne, had all surged up again in his mind, because despite thecloseness of these prison walls, despite the grim shadow of starvationand of death that beckoned so close at hand, he still encountered a pairof mocking eyes, fixed with relentless insolence upon him.
Whilst he spoke Blakeney had once more leaned forward, resting hiselbows upon the table. Now he drew nearer to him the wooden platteron which reposed that very uninviting piece of dry bread. With solemnintentness he proceeded to break the bread into pieces; then he offeredthe platter to Chauvelin.
"I am sorry," he said pleasantly, "that I cannot offer you more dainty fare,sir, but this is all that your friends have supplied me with to-day."
He crumbled some of the dry bread in his slender fingers, then startedmunching the crumbs with apparent relish. He poured out some water intothe mug and drank it. Then he said with a light laugh:
"Even the vinegar which that ruffian Brogard served us at Calais waspreferable to this, do you not imagine so, my good Monsieur Chambertin?"
Chauvelin made no reply. Like a feline creature on the prowl, he waswatching the prey that had so nearly succumbed to his talons. Blakeney'sface now was positively ghastly. The effort to speak, to laugh, toappear unconcerned, was apparently beyond his strength. His cheeks andlips were livid in hue, the skin clung like a thin layer of wax to thebones of cheek and jaw, and the heavy lids that fell over the eyes hadpurple patches on them like lead.
To a system in such an advanced state of exhaustion the stale water anddusty bread must have been terribly nauseating, and Chauvelin himselfcallous and thirsting for vengeance though he was, could hardly bear tolook calmly on the martyrdom of this man whom he and his colleagues weretorturing in order to gain their own ends.
An ashen hue, which seemed like the shadow of the hand of death, passedover the prisoner's face. Chauvelin felt compelled to avert his gaze. Afeeling that was almost akin to remorse had stirred a hidden chord in hisheart. The feeling did not last--the heart had been too long atrophiedby the constantly recurring spectacles of cruelties, massacres, andwholesale hecatombs perpetrated in the past eighteen months in the nameof liberty and fraternity to be capable of a sustained effort inthe direction of gentleness or of pity. Any noble instinct in theserevolutionaries had long ago been drowned in a whirlpool of exploitsthat would forever sully the records of humanity; and this keeping ofa fellow-creature on the rack in order to wring from him a Judas-likebetrayal was but a complement to a record of infamy that had ceased byits very magnitude to weigh upon their souls.
Chauvelin was in no way different from his colleagues; the crimes inwhich he had had no hand he had condoned by continuing to serve theGovernment that had committed them, and his ferocity in the present casewas increased a thousandfold by his personal
hatred for the man who hadso often fooled and baffled him.
When he looked round a second or two later that ephemeral fit of remorsedid its final vanishing; he had once more encountered the pleasantsmile, the laughing if ashen-pale face of his unconquered foe.
"Only a passing giddiness, my dear sir," said Sir Percy lightly. "As youwere saying--"
At the airily-spoken words, at the smile that accompanied them,Chauvelin had jumped to his feet. There was something almostsupernatural, weird, and impish about the present situation, about thisdying man who, like an impudent schoolboy, seemed to be mocking Deathwith his tongue in his cheek, about his laugh that appeared to find itsecho in a widely yawning grave.
"In the name of God, Sir Percy," he said roughly, as he broughthis clenched fist crashing down upon the table, "this situation isintolerable. Bring it to an end to-night!"
"Why, sir?" retorted Blakeney, "methought you and your kind did notbelieve in God."
"No. But you English do."
"We do. But we do not care to hear His name on your lips."
"Then in the name of the wife whom you love--"
But even before the words had died upon his lips, Sir Percy, too, hadrisen to his feet.
"Have done, man--have done," he broke in hoarsely, and despite weakness,despite exhaustion and weariness, there was such a dangerous look inhis hollow eyes as he leaned across the table that Chauvelin drew back astep or two, and--vaguely fearful--looked furtively towards the openinginto the guard-room. "Have done," he reiterated for the third time; "donot name her, or by the living God whom you dared to invoke I'll findstrength yet to smite you in the face."
But Chauvelin, after that first moment of almost superstitious fear, hadquickly recovered his sang-froid.
"Little Capet, Sir Percy," he said, meeting the other's threateningglance with an imperturbable smile, "tell me where to find him, andyou may yet live to savour the caresses of the most beautiful woman inEngland."
He had meant it as a taunt, the final turn of the thumb-screw applied toa dying man, and he had in that watchful, keen mind of his well weighedthe full consequences of the taunt.
The next moment he had paid to the full the anticipated price. Sir Percyhad picked up the pewter mug from the table--it was half-filled withbrackish water--and with a hand that trembled but slightly he hurled itstraight at his opponent's face.
The heavy mug did not hit citizen Chauvelin; it went crashing againstthe stone wall opposite. But the water was trickling from the top of hishead all down his eyes and cheeks. He shrugged his shoulders with a lookof benign indulgence directed at his enemy, who had fallen back into hischair exhausted with the effort.
Then he took out his handkerchief and calmly wiped the water from hisface.
"Not quite so straight a shot as you used to be, Sir Percy," he saidmockingly.
"No, sir--apparently--not."
The words came out in gasps. He was like a man only partly conscious.The lips were parted, the eyes closed, the head leaning against the highback of the chair. For the space of one second Chauvelin feared that hiszeal had outrun his prudence, that he had dealt a death-blow to a manin the last stage of exhaustion, where he had only wished to fan theflickering flame of life. Hastily--for the seconds seemed precious--heran to the opening that led into the guard-room.
"Brandy--quick!" he cried.
Heron looked up, roused from the semi-somnolence in which he had lainfor the past half-hour. He disentangled his long limbs from out theguard-room chair.
"Eh?" he queried. "What is it?"
"Brandy," reiterated Chauvelin impatiently; "the prisoner has fainted."
"Bah!" retorted the other with a callous shrug of the shoulders, "youare not going to revive him with brandy, I imagine."
"No. But you will, citizen Heron," rejoined the other dryly, "for if youdo not he'll be dead in an hour!"
"Devils in hell!" exclaimed Heron, "you have not killed him? You--youd--d fool!"
He was wide awake enough now; wide awake and shaking with fury. Almostfoaming at the mouth and uttering volleys of the choicest oaths, heelbowed his way roughly through the groups of soldiers who were crowdinground the centre table of the guard-room, smoking and throwing dice orplaying cards. They made way for him as hurriedly as they could, for itwas not safe to thwart the citizen agent when he was in a rage.
Heron walked across to the opening and lifted the iron bar. With scantceremony he pushed his colleague aside and strode into the cell, whilstChauvelin, seemingly not resenting the other's ruffianly manners andviolent language, followed close upon his heel.
In the centre of the room both men paused, and Heron turned with a surlygrowl to his friend.
"You vowed he would be dead in an hour," he said reproachfully.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"It does not look like it now certainly," he said dryly.
Blakeney was sitting--as was his wont--close to the table, with one armleaning on it, the other, tightly clenched, resting upon his knee. Aghost of a smile hovered round his lips.
"Not in an hour, citizen Heron," he said, and his voice flow was scarceabove a whisper, "nor yet in two."
"You are a fool, man," said Heron roughly. "You have had seventeen daysof this. Are you not sick of it?"
"Heartily, my dear friend," replied Blakeney a little more firmly.
"Seventeen days," reiterated the other, nodding his shaggy head; "youcame here on the 2nd of Pluviose, today is the 19th."
"The 19th Pluviose?" interposed Sir Percy, and a strange gleam suddenlyflashed in his eyes. "Demn it, sir, and in Christian parlance what maythat day be?"
"The 7th of February at your service, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelinquietly.
"I thank you, sir. In this d--d hole I had lost count of time."
Chauvelin, unlike his rough and blundering colleague, had been watchingthe prisoner very closely for the last moment or two, conscious of asubtle, undefinable change that had come over the man during thosefew seconds while he, Chauvelin, had thought him dying. The pose wascertainly the old familiar one, the head erect, the hand clenched, theeyes looking through and beyond the stone walls; but there was an airof listlessness in the stoop of the shoulders, and--except for that onebrief gleam just now--a look of more complete weariness round the holloweyes! To the keen watcher it appeared as if that sense of living power,of unconquered will and defiant mind was no longer there, and as if hehimself need no longer fear that almost supersensual thrill which had awhile ago kindled in him a vague sense of admiration--almost of remorse.
Even as he gazed, Blakeney slowly turned his eyes full upon him.Chauvelin's heart gave a triumphant bound.
With a mocking smile he met the wearied look, the pitiable appeal. Histurn had come at last--his turn to mock and to exult. He knew that whathe was watching now was no longer the last phase of a long and noblemartyrdom; it was the end--the inevitable end--that for which he hadschemed and striven, for which he had schooled his heart to ferocityand callousness that were devilish in their intensity. It was the endindeed, the slow descent of a soul from the giddy heights of attemptedself-sacrifice, where it had striven to soar for a time, until the bodyand the will both succumbed together and dragged it down with them intothe abyss of submission and of irreparable shame.