CHAPTER XLII. THE GUARD-HOUSE OF THE RUE STE. ANNE
The little cortege was turning out of the great gates of the house ofJustice. It was intensely cold; a bitter north-easterly gale was blowingfrom across the heights of Montmartre, driving sleet and snow andhalf-frozen rain into the faces of the men, and finding its way up theirsleeves, down their collars and round the knees of their threadbarebreeches.
Armand, whose fingers were numb with the cold, could scarcely feel thereins in his hands. Chauvelin was riding close beside him, but the twomen had not exchanged one word since the moment when the small troopof some twenty mounted soldiers had filed up inside the courtyard, andChauvelin, with a curt word of command, had ordered one of the troopersto take Armand's horse on the lead.
A hackney coach brought up the rear of the cortege, with a man ridingat either door and two more following at a distance of twenty paces.Heron's gaunt, ugly face, crowned with a battered, sugar-loaf hat,appeared from time to time at the window of the coach. He was nohorseman, and, moreover, preferred to keep the prisoner closely underhis own eye. The corporal had told Armand that the prisoner was withcitizen Heron inside the coach--in irons. Beyond that the soldiers couldtell him nothing; they knew nothing of the object of this expedition.Vaguely they might have wondered in their dull minds why this particularprisoner was thus being escorted out of the Conciergerie prison with somuch paraphernalia and such an air of mystery, when there were thousandsof prisoners in the city and the provinces at the present moment whoanon would be bundled up wholesale into carts to be dragged to theguillotine like a flock of sheep to the butchers.
But even if they wondered they made no remarks among themselves.Their faces, blue with the cold, were the perfect mirrors of their ownunconquerable stolidity.
The tower clock of Notre Dame struck seven when the small cavalcadefinally moved slowly out of the monumental gates. In the east the wanlight of a February morning slowly struggled out of the surroundinggloom. Now the towers of many churches loomed ghostlike against the dullgrey sky, and down below, on the right, the frozen river, like a smoothsheet of steel, wound its graceful curves round the islands and past thefacade of the Louvres palace, whose walls looked grim and silent, likethe mausoleum of the dead giants of the past.
All around the great city gave signs of awakening; the business of theday renewed its course every twenty-four hours, despite the tragedies ofdeath and of dishonour that walked with it hand in hand. From the Placede La Revolution the intermittent roll of drums came from time to timewith its muffled sound striking the ear of the passer-by. Along the quayopposite an open-air camp was already astir; men, women, and childrenengaged in the great task of clothing and feeding the people of France,armed against tyranny, were bending to their task, even before thewintry dawn had spread its pale grey tints over the narrower streets ofthe city.
Armand shivered under his cloak. This silent ride beneath the laden sky,through the veil of half-frozen rain and snow, seemed like a dream tohim. And now, as the outriders of the little cavalcade turned to crossthe Pont au Change, he saw spread out on his left what appeared like theliving panorama of these three weeks that had just gone by. He couldsee the house of the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois where Percy had lodgedbefore he carried through the rescue of the little Dauphin. Armand couldeven see the window at which the dreamer had stood, weaving noble dreamsthat his brilliant daring had turned into realities, until the hand of atraitor had brought him down to--to what? Armand would not have dared atthis moment to look back at that hideous, vulgar hackney coach whereinthat proud, reckless adventurer, who had defied Fate and mocked Death,sat, in chains, beside a loathsome creature whose very propinquity wasan outrage.
Now they were passing under the very house on the Quai de La Ferraille,above the saddler's shop, the house where Marguerite had lodged ten daysago, whither Armand had come, trying to fool himself into the beliefthat the love of "little mother" could be deceived into blindnessagainst his own crime. He had tried to draw a veil before those eyeswhich he had scarcely dared encounter, but he knew that that veilmust lift one day, and then a curse would send him forth, outlawed andhomeless, a wanderer on the face of the earth.
Soon as the little cortege wended its way northwards it filed outbeneath the walls of the Temple prison; there was the main gate with itssentry standing at attention, there the archway with the guichet of theconcierge, and beyond it the paved courtyard. Armand closed his eyesdeliberately; he could not bear to look.
No wonder that he shivered and tried to draw his cloak closer aroundhim. Every stone, every street corner was full of memories. The chillthat struck to the very marrow of his bones came from no outward cause;it was the very hand of remorse that, as it passed over him, froze theblood in his veins and made the rattle of those wheels behind him soundlike a hellish knell.
At last the more closely populated quarters of the city were leftbehind. On ahead the first section of the guard had turned into the RueSt. Anne. The houses became more sparse, intersected by narrow pieces ofterrains vagues, or small weed-covered bits of kitchen garden.
Then a halt was called.
It was quite light now. As light as it would ever be beneath this leadensky. Rain and snow still fell in gusts, driven by the blast.
Some one ordered Armand to dismount. It was probably Chauvelin. He didas he was told, and a trooper led him to the door of an irregular brickbuilding that stood isolated on the right, extended on either side bya low wall, and surrounded by a patch of uncultivated land, which nowlooked like a sea of mud.
On ahead was the line of fortifications dimly outlined against the greyof the sky, and in between brown, sodden earth, with here and therea detached house, a cabbage patch, a couple of windmills deserted anddesolate.
The loneliness of an unpopulated outlying quarter of the great mothercity, a useless limb of her active body, an ostracised member of hervast family.
Mechanically Armand had followed the soldier to the door of thebuilding. Here Chauvelin was standing, and bade him follow. A smell ofhot coffee hung in the dark narrow passage in front. Chauvelin led theway to a room on the left.
Still that smell of hot coffee. Ever after it was associated in Armand'smind with this awful morning in the guard-house of the Rue Ste. Anne,when the rain and snow beat against the windows, and he stood there inthe low guard-room shivering and half-numbed with cold.
There was a table in the middle of the room, and on it stood cups ofhot coffee. Chauvelin bade him drink, suggesting, not unkindly, that thewarm beverage would do him good. Armand advanced further into the room,and saw that there were wooden benches all round against the wall. Onone of these sat his sister Marguerite.
When she saw him she made a sudden, instinctive movement to go to him,but Chauvelin interposed in his usual bland, quiet manner.
"Not just now, citizeness," he said.
She sat down again, and Armand noted how cold and stony seemed her eyes,as if life within her was at a stand-still, and a shadow that was almostlike death had atrophied every emotion in her.
"I trust you have not suffered too much from the cold, Lady Blakeney,"resumed Chauvelin politely; "we ought not to have kept you waiting herefor so long, but delay at departure is sometimes inevitable."
She made no reply, only acknowledging his reiterated inquiry as to hercomfort with an inclination of the head.
Armand had forced himself to swallow some coffee, and for the moment hefelt less chilled. He held the cup between his two hands, and graduallysome warmth crept into his bones.
"Little mother," he said in English, "try and drink some of this, itwill do you good."
"Thank you, dear," she replied. "I have had some. I am not cold."
Then a door at the end of the room was pushed open, and Heron stalkedin.
"Are we going to be all day in this confounded hole?" he queriedroughly.
Armand, who was watching his sister very closely, saw that she startedat the sight of the wretch, and seemed immediately to shrink
stillfurther within herself, whilst her eyes, suddenly luminous and dilated,rested on him like those of a captive bird upon an approaching cobra.
But Chauvelin was not to be shaken out of his suave manner.
"One moment, citizen Heron," he said; "this coffee is very comforting.Is the prisoner with you?" he added lightly.
Heron nodded in the direction of the other room.
"In there," he said curtly.
"Then, perhaps, if you will be so good, citizen, to invite him thither,I could explain to him his future position and our own."
Heron muttered something between his fleshy lips, then he turned backtowards the open door, solemnly spat twice on the threshold, and noddedhis gaunt head once or twice in a manner which apparently was understoodfrom within.
"No, sergeant, I don't want you," he said gruffly; "only the prisoner."
A second or two later Sir Percy Blakeney stood in the doorway; his handswere behind his back, obviously hand-cuffed, but he held himself veryerect, though it was clear that this caused him a mighty effort. As soonas he had crossed the threshold his quick glance had swept right roundthe room.
He saw Armand, and his eyes lit up almost imperceptibly.
Then he caught sight of Marguerite, and his pale face took on suddenly amore ashen hue.
Chauvelin was watching him with those keen, light-coloured eyes of his.Blakeney, conscious of this, made no movement, only his lips tightened,and the heavy lids fell over the hollow eyes, completely hiding theirglance.
But what even the most astute, most deadly enemy could not see was thatsubtle message of understanding that passed at once between Margueriteand the man she loved; it was a magnetic current, intangible, invisibleto all save to her and to him. She was prepared to see him, prepared tosee in him all that she had feared; the weakness, the mental exhaustion,the submission to the inevitable. Therefore she had also schooled herglance to express to him all that she knew she would not be allowed tosay--the reassurance that she had read his last letter, that she hadobeyed it to the last word, save where Fate and her enemy had interferedwith regard to herself.
With a slight, imperceptible movement--imperceptible to every one saveto him, she had seemed to handle a piece of paper in her kerchief, thenshe had nodded slowly, with her eyes--steadfast, reassuring--fixed uponhim, and his glance gave answer that he had understood.
But Chauvelin and Heron had seen nothing of this. They were satisfiedthat there had been no communication between the prisoner and his wifeand friend.
"You are no doubt surprised, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin after a while,"to see Lady Blakeney here. She, as well as citizen St. Just, willaccompany our expedition to the place where you will lead us. We noneof us know where that place is--citizen Heron and myself are entirely inyour hands--you might be leading us to certain death, or again to a spotwhere your own escape would be an easy matter to yourself. You willnot be surprised, therefore, that we have thought fit to take certainprecautions both against any little ambuscade which you may haveprepared for us, or against your making one of those daring attempts atescape for which the noted Scarlet Pimpernel is so justly famous."
He paused, and only Heron's low chuckle of satisfaction broke themomentary silence that followed. Blakeney made no reply. Obviously heknew exactly what was coming. He knew Chauvelin and his ways, knew thekind of tortuous conception that would find origin in his brain; themoment that he saw Marguerite sitting there he must have guessed thatChauvelin once more desired to put her precious life in the balance ofhis intrigues.
"Citizen Heron is impatient, Sir Percy," resumed Chauvelin after awhile, "so I must be brief. Lady Blakeney, as well as citizen St. Just,will accompany us on this expedition to whithersoever you may leadus. They will be the hostages which we will hold against your own goodfaith. At the slightest suspicion--a mere suspicion perhaps--that youhave played us false, at a hint that you have led us into an ambush, orthat the whole of this expedition has been but a trick on your part toeffect your own escape, or if merely our hope of finding Capet at theend of our journey is frustrated, the lives of our two hostages belongto us, and your friend and your wife will be summarily shot before youreyes."
Outside the rain pattered against the window-panes, the gale whistledmournfully among the stunted trees, but within this room not a soundstirred the deadly stillness of the air, and yet at this moment hatredand love, savage lust and sublime self-abnegation--the most power fullpassions the heart of man can know--held three men here enchained; eacha slave to his dominant passion, each ready to stake his all for thesatisfaction of his master. Heron was the first to speak.
"Well!" he said with a fierce oath, "what are we waiting for? Theprisoner knows how he stands. Now we can go."
"One moment, citizen," interposed Chauvelin, his quiet mannercontrasting strangely with his colleague's savage mood. "You have quiteunderstood, Sir Percy," he continued, directly addressing the prisoner,"the conditions under which we are all of us about to proceed on thisjourney?"
"All of us?" said Blakeney slowly. "Are you taking it for granted thenthat I accept your conditions and that I am prepared to proceed on thejourney?"
"If you do not proceed on the journey," cried Heron with savage fury,"I'll strangle that woman with my own hands--now!"
Blakeney looked at him for a moment or two through half-closed lids, andit seemed then to those who knew him well, to those who loved him andto the man who hated him, that the mighty sinews almost cracked withthe passionate desire to kill. Then the sunken eyes turned slowly toMarguerite, and she alone caught the look--it was a mere flash, of ahumble appeal for pardon.
It was all over in a second; almost immediately the tension on thepale face relaxed, and into the eyes there came that look ofacceptance--nearly akin to fatalism--an acceptance of which the strongalone are capable, for with them it only comes in the face of theinevitable.
Now he shrugged his broad shoulders, and once more turning to Heron hesaid quietly:
"You leave me no option in that case. As you have remarked before,citizen Heron, why should we wait any longer? Surely we can now go."