CHAPTER XLI. WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD
In a small upstairs room in the Rue de Charonne, above the shop ofLucas the old-clothes dealer, Marguerite sat with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes.Armand's letter, with its message and its warning, lay open on the tablebetween them, and she had in her hand the sealed packet which Percy hadgiven her just ten days ago, and which she was only to open if all hopeseemed to be dead, if nothing appeared to stand any longer between thatone dear life and irretrievable shame.
A small lamp placed on the table threw a feeble yellow light on thesqualid, ill-furnished room, for it lacked still an hour or so beforedawn. Armand's concierge had brought her lodger's letter, and Margueritehad quickly despatched a brief reply to him, a reply that held love andalso encouragement.
Then she had summoned Sir Andrew. He never had a thought of leaving herduring these days of dire trouble, and he had lodged all this while in atiny room on the top-most floor of this house in the Rue de Charonne.
At her call he had come down very quickly, and now they sat together atthe table, with the oil-lamp illumining their pale, anxious faces; shethe wife and he the friend holding a consultation together in this mostmiserable hour that preceded the cold wintry dawn.
Outside a thin, persistent rain mixed with snow pattered against thesmall window panes, and an icy wind found out all the crevices inthe worm-eaten woodwork that would afford it ingress to the room. Butneither Marguerite nor Ffoulkes was conscious of the cold. They hadwrapped their cloaks round their shoulders, and did not feel the chillcurrents of air that caused the lamp to flicker and to smoke.
"I can see now," said Marguerite in that calm voice which comes sonaturally in moments of infinite despair--"I can see now exactly whatPercy meant when he made me promise not to open this packet until itseemed to me--to me and to you, Sir Andrew--that he was about to playthe part of a coward. A coward! Great God!" She checked the sob that hadrisen to her throat, and continued in the same calm manner and quiet,even voice:
"You do think with me, do you not, that the time has come, and that wemust open this packet?"
"Without a doubt, Lady Blakeney," replied Ffoulkes with equalearnestness. "I would stake my life that already a fortnight agoBlakeney had that same plan in his mind which he has now matured.Escape from that awful Conciergerie prison with all the precautions socarefully taken against it was impossible. I knew that alas! from thefirst. But in the open all might yet be different. I'll not believe itthat a man like Blakeney is destined to perish at the hands of thosecurs."
She looked on her loyal friend with tear-dimmed eyes through which shoneboundless gratitude and heart-broken sorrow.
He had spoken of a fortnight! It was ten days since she had seen Percy.It had then seemed as if death had already marked him with its grimsign. Since then she had tried to shut away from her mind the terriblevisions which her anguish constantly conjured up before her of hisgrowing weakness, of the gradual impairing of that brilliant intellect,the gradual exhaustion of that mighty physical strength.
"God bless you, Sir Andrew, for your enthusiasm and for your trust," shesaid with a sad little smile; "but for you I should long ago havelost all courage, and these last ten days--what a cycle of misery theyrepresent--would have been maddening but for your help and your loyalty.God knows I would have courage for everything in life, for everythingsave one, but just that, his death; that would be beyond mystrength--neither reason nor body could stand it. Therefore, I am soafraid, Sir Andrew," she added piteously.
"Of what, Lady Blakeney?"
"That when he knows that I too am to go as hostage, as Armand says inhis letter, that my life is to be guarantee his, I am afraid that hewill draw back--that he will--my God!" she cried with sudden fervour,"tell me what to do!"
"Shall we open the packet?" asked Ffoulkes gently, "and then just makeup our minds to act exactly as Blakeney has enjoined us to do, neithermore nor less, but just word for word, deed for deed, and I believe thatthat will be right--whatever may betide--in the end."
Once more his quiet strength, his earnestness and his faith comfortedher. She dried her eyes and broke open the seal. There were two separateletters in the packet, one unaddressed, obviously intended for her andFfoulkes, the other was addressed to M. le baron Jean de Batz, 15, RueSt. Jean de Latran a Paris.
"A letter addressed to that awful Baron de Batz," said Marguerite,looking with puzzled eyes on the paper as she turned it over and over inher hand, "to that bombastic windbag! I know him and his ways well! Whatcan Percy have to say to him?"
Sir Andrew too looked puzzled. But neither of them had the mind to wastetime in useless speculations. Marguerite unfolded the letter which wasintended for her, and after a final look on her friend, whose kind facewas quivering with excitement, she began slowly to read aloud: