We may take it that de Batz did not philosophise over-much on what wenton around him. He had walked swiftly up the Rue St. Martin, then turningsharply to his right he found himself beneath the tall, frowningwalls of the Temple prison, the grim guardian of so many secrets, suchterrible despair, such unspeakable tragedies.
Here, too, as in the Place de la Revolution, an intermittent roll ofmuffled drums proclaimed the ever-watchful presence of the NationalGuard. But with that exception not a sound stirred round the grim andstately edifice; there were no cries, no calls, no appeals around itswalls. All the crying and wailing was shut in by the massive stone thattold no tales.
Dim and flickering lights shone behind several of the small windows inthe facade of the huge labyrinthine building. Without any hesitation deBatz turned down the Rue du Temple, and soon found himself in frontof the main gates which gave on the courtyard beyond. The sentinelchallenged him, but he had the pass-word, and explained that he desiredto have speech with citizen Heron.
With a surly gesture the guard pointed to the heavy bell-pull up againstthe gate, and de Batz pulled it with all his might. The long clang ofthe brazen bell echoed and re-echoed round the solid stone walls. Anona tiny judas in the gate was cautiously pushed open, and a peremptoryvoice once again challenged the midnight intruder.
De Batz, more peremptorily this time, asked for citizen Heron, with whomhe had immediate and important business, and a glimmer of a piece ofsilver which he held up close to the judas secured him the necessaryadmittance.
The massive gates slowly swung open on their creaking hinges, and as deBatz passed beneath the archway they closed again behind him.
The concierge's lodge was immediately on his left. Again he waschallenged, and again gave the pass-word. But his face was apparentlyknown here, for no serious hindrance to proceed was put in his way.
A man, whose wide, lean frame was but ill-covered by a threadbare coatand ragged breeches, and with soleless shoes on his feet, was told offto direct the citoyen to citizen Heron's rooms. The man walked slowlyalong with bent knees and arched spine, and shuffled his feet as hewalked; the bunch of keys which he carried rattled ominously in hislong, grimy hands; the passages were badly lighted, and he also carrieda lanthorn to guide himself on the way.
Closely followed by de Batz, he soon turned into the central corridor,which is open to the sky above, and was spectrally alight now withflag-stones and walls gleaming beneath the silvery sheen of the moon,and throwing back the fantastic elongated shadows of the two men as theywalked.
On the left, heavily barred windows gave on the corridor, as did hereand there the massive oaken doors, with their gigantic hinges and bolts,on the steps of which squatted groups of soldiers wrapped in theircloaks, with wild, suspicious eyes beneath their capotes, peering at themidnight visitor as he passed.
There was no thought of silence here. The very walls seemed alive withsounds, groans and tears, loud wails and murmured prayers; they exudedfrom the stones and trembled on the frost-laden air.
Occasionally at one of the windows a pair of white hands would appear,grasping the heavy iron bar, trying to shake it in its socket, andmayhap, above the hands, the dim vision of a haggard face, a man's or awoman's, trying to get a glimpse of the outside world, a final look atthe sky, before the last journey to the place of death to-morrow. Thenone of the soldiers, with a loud, angry oath, would struggle to hisfeet, and with the butt-end of his gun strike at the thin, wan fingerstill their hold on the iron bar relaxed, and the pallid face beyondwould sink back into the darkness with a desperate cry of pain.
A quick, impatient sigh escaped de Batz' lips. He had skirted the widecourtyard in the wake of his guide, and from where he was he could seethe great central tower, with its tiny windows lighted from within, thegrim walls behind which the descendant of the world's conquerors, thebearer of the proudest name in Europe, and wearer of its most ancientcrown, had spent the last days of his brilliant life in abject shame,sorrow, and degradation. The memory had swiftly surged up before him ofthat night when he all but rescued King Louis and his family from thissame miserable prison: the guard had been bribed, the keeper corrupted,everything had been prepared, save the reckoning with the oneirresponsible factor--chance!
He had failed then and had tried again, and again had failed; a fortunehad been his reward if he had succeeded. He had failed, but even now,when his footsteps echoed along the flagged courtyard, over whichan unfortunate King and Queen had walked on their way to their lastignominious Calvary, he hugged himself with the satisfying thought thatwhere he had failed at least no one else had succeeded.
Whether that meddlesome English adventurer, who called himself theScarlet Pimpernel, had planned the rescue of King Louis or of QueenMarie Antoinette at any time or not--that he did not know; but on onepoint at least he was more than ever determined, and that was thatno power on earth should snatch from him the golden prize offered byAustria for the rescue of the little Dauphin.
"I would sooner see the child perish, if I cannot save him myself," wasthe burning thought in this man's tortuous brain. "And let that accursedEnglishman look to himself and to his d----d confederates," he added,muttering a fierce oath beneath his breath.
A winding, narrow stone stair, another length or two of corridor, andhis guide's shuffling footsteps paused beside a low iron-studded doorlet into the solid stone. De Batz dismissed his ill-clothed guide andpulled the iron bell-handle which hung beside the door.
The bell gave forth a dull and broken clang, which seemed like an echoof the wails of sorrow that peopled the huge building with their weirdand monotonous sounds.
De Batz--a thoroughly unimaginative person--waited patiently beside thedoor until it was opened from within, and he was confronted by a tallstooping figure, wearing a greasy coat of snuff-brown cloth, and holdinghigh above his head a lanthorn that threw its feeble light on de Batz'jovial face and form.
"It is even I, citizen Heron," he said, breaking in swiftly on theother's ejaculation of astonishment, which threatened to send his nameechoing the whole length of corridors and passages, until round everycorner of the labyrinthine house of sorrow the murmur would be borneon the wings of the cold night breeze: "Citizen Heron is in parley withci-devant Baron de Batz!"
A fact which would have been equally unpleasant for both these worthies.
"Enter!" said Heron curtly.
He banged the heavy door to behind his visitor; and de Batz, who seemedto know his way about the place, walked straight across the narrowlanding to where a smaller door stood invitingly open.
He stepped boldly in, the while citizen Heron put the lanthorn down onthe floor of the couloir, and then followed his nocturnal visitor intothe room.