CHAPTER XXXIX. KILL HIM!
Two hours after midnight Armand St. Just was wakened from sleep by aperemptory pull at his bell. In these days in Paris but one meaningcould as a rule be attached to such a summons at this hour of the night,and Armand, though possessed of an unconditional certificate ofsafety, sat up in bed, quite convinced that for some reason which wouldpresently be explained to him he had once more been placed on the listof the "suspect," and that his trial and condemnation on a trumped-upcharge would follow in due course.
Truth to tell, he felt no fear at the prospect, and only a very littlesorrow. The sorrow was not for himself; he regretted neither life norhappiness. Life had become hateful to him since happiness had fled withit on the dark wings of dishonour; sorrow such as he felt was only forJeanne! She was very young, and would weep bitter tears. She would beunhappy, because she truly loved him, and because this would be thefirst cup of bitterness which life was holding out to her. But shewas very young, and sorrow would not be eternal. It was better so. He,Armand St. Just, though he loved her with an intensity of passion thathad been magnified and strengthened by his own overwhelming shame,had never really brought his beloved one single moment of unalloyedhappiness.
From the very first day when he sat beside her in the tiny boudoirof the Square du Roule, and the heavy foot fall of Heron and hisbloodhounds broke in on their first kiss, down to this hour which hebelieved struck his own death-knell, his love for her had brought moretears to her dear eyes than smiles to her exquisite mouth.
Her he had loved so dearly, that for her sweet sake he had sacrificedhonour, friendship and truth; to free her, as he believed, from thehands of impious brutes he had done a deed that cried Cain-like forvengeance to the very throne of God. For her he had sinned, and becauseof that sin, even before it was committed, their love had been blighted,and happiness had never been theirs.
Now it was all over. He would pass out of her life, up the steps of thescaffold, tasting as he mounted them the most entire happiness that hehad known since that awful day when he became a Judas.
The peremptory summons, once more repeated, roused him from hismeditations. He lit a candle, and without troubling to slip any of hisclothes on, he crossed the narrow ante-chamber, and opened the door thatgave on the landing.
"In the name of the people!"
He had expected to hear not only those words, but also the grounding ofarms and the brief command to halt. He had expected to see before himthe white facings of the uniform of the Garde de Paris, and to feelhimself roughly pushed back into his lodging preparatory to the searchbeing made of all his effects and the placing of irons on his wrists.
Instead of this, it was a quiet, dry voice that said without undueharshness:
"In the name of the people!"
And instead of the uniforms, the bayonets and the scarlet caps withtricolour cockades, he was confronted by a slight, sable-clad figure,whose face, lit by the flickering light of the tallow candle, lookedstrangely pale and earnest.
"Citizen Chauvelin!" gasped Armand, more surprised than frightened atthis unexpected apparition.
"Himself, citizen, at your service," replied Chauvelin with his quiet,ironical manner. "I am the bearer of a letter for you from Sir PercyBlakeney. Have I your permission to enter?"
Mechanically Armand stood aside, allowing the other man to pass in. Heclosed the door behind his nocturnal visitor, then, taper in hand, hepreceded him into the inner room.
It was the same one in which a fortnight ago a fighting lion had beenbrought to his knees. Now it lay wrapped in gloom, the feeble light ofthe candle only lighting Armand's face and the white frill of his shirt.The young man put the taper down on the table and turned to his visitor.
"Shall I light the lamp?" he asked.
"Quite unnecessary," replied Chauvelin curtly. "I have only a letter todeliver, and after that to ask you one brief question."
From the pocket of his coat he drew the letter which Blakeney hadwritten an hour ago.
"The prisoner wrote this in my presence," he said as he handed theletter over to Armand. "Will you read it?"
Armand took it from him, and sat down close to the table; leaningforward he held the paper near the light, and began to read. He readthe letter through very slowly to the end, then once again from thebeginning. He was trying to do that which Chauvelin had wished to doan hour ago; he was trying to find the inner meaning which he felt mustinevitably lie behind these words which Percy had written with his ownhand.
That these bare words were but a blind to deceive the enemy Armand neverdoubted for a moment. In this he was as loyal as Marguerite would havebeen herself. Never for a moment did the suspicion cross his mind thatBlakeney was about to play the part of a coward, but he, Armand, feltthat as a faithful friend and follower he ought by instinct to knowexactly what his chief intended, what he meant him to do.
Swiftly his thoughts flew back to that other letter, the one whichMarguerite had given him--the letter full of pity and of friendshipwhich had brought him hope and a joy and peace which he had thought atone time that he would never know again. And suddenly one sentence inthat letter stood out so clearly before his eyes that it blurred theactual, tangible ones on the paper which even now rustled in his hand.
But if at any time you receive another letter from me--be its contentswhat they may--act in accordance with the letter, but send a copy of itat once to Ffoulkes or to Marguerite.