To Chauvelin the day had been one of restless inquietude and nervousapprehension.
Collot d'Herbois harassed him with questions and complaints intermixedwith threats but thinly veiled. At his suggestion Gayole had beentransformed into a fully-manned, well-garrisoned fortress. Troopswere to be seen everywhere, on the stairs and in the passages, theguard-rooms and offices: picked men from the municipal guard, and thecompany which had been sent down from Paris some time ago.
Chauvelin had not resisted these orders given by his colleague. He knewquite well that Marguerite would make no attempt at escape, but he hadlong ago given up all hope of persuading a man of the type of Collotd'Herbois that a woman of her temperament would never think of savingher own life at the expense of others, and that Sir Percy Blakeney, inspite of his adoration for his wife, would sooner see her die beforehim, than allow the lives of innocent men and women to be the price ofhers.
Collot was one of those brutish sots--not by any means infrequent amongthe Terrorists of that time--who, born in the gutter, still loved towallow in his native element, and who measured all his fellow-creaturesby the same standard which he had always found good enough forhimself. In this man there was neither the enthusiastic patriotism ofa Chauvelin, nor the ardent selflessness of a Danton. He served therevolution and fostered the anarchical spirit of the times only becausethese brought him a competence and a notoriety, which an orderly andfastidious government would obviously have never offered him.
History shows no more despicable personality than that of Collotd'Herbois, one of the most hideous products of that utopian Revolution,whose grandly conceived theories of a universal levelling of mankindonly succeeded in dragging into prominence a number of half-brutishcreatures who, revelling in their own abasement, would otherwise haveremained content in inglorious obscurity.
Chauvelin tolerated and half feared Collot, knowing full well that ifnow the Scarlet Pimpernel escaped from his hands, he could expect nomercy from his colleagues.
The scheme by which he hoped to destroy not only the heroic leader butthe entire League by bringing opprobrium and ridicule upon them, waswonderfully subtle in its refined cruelty, and Chauvelin, knowing by nowsomething of Sir Percy Blakeney's curiously blended character, was neverfor a moment in doubt but that he would write the infamous letter, savehis wife by sacrificing his honour, and then seek oblivion and peace insuicide.
With so much disgrace, so much mud cast upon their chief, the League ofthe Scarlet Pimpernel would cease to be. THAT had been Chauvelin's planall along. For the end he had schemed and thought and planned, from themoment that Robespierre had given him the opportunity of redeeming hisfailure of last year. He had built up the edifice of his intrigue, bitby bit, from the introduction of his tool, Candeille, to Marguerite atthe Richmond gala, to the arrest of Lady Blakeney in Boulogne. All thatremained for him to see now, would be the attitude of Sir Percy Blakeneyto-night, when, in exchange for the stipulated letter, he would see hiswife set free.
All day Chauvelin had wondered how it would all go off. He hadstage-managed everything, but he did not know how the chief actor wouldplay his part.
From time to time, when his feeling of restlessness became quiteunendurable, the ex-ambassador would wander round Fort Gayole and onsome pretext or other demand to see one or the other of his prisoners.Marguerite, however, observed complete silence in his presence: sheacknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of the head, andin reply to certain perfunctory queries of his--which he put to herin order to justify his appearance--she either nodded or gave curtmonosyllabic answers through partially closed lips.
"I trust that everything is arranged for your comfort, Lady Blakeney."
"I thank you, sir."
"You will be rejoining the 'Day-Dream' to-night. Can I send a messengerover to the yacht for you?"
"I thank you. No."
"Sir Percy is well. He is fast asleep, and hath not asked for yourladyship. Shall I let him know that you are well?"
A nod of acquiescence from Marguerite and Chauvelin's string of querieswas at an end. He marvelled at her quietude and thought that she shouldhave been as restless as himself.
Later on in the day, and egged on by Collot d'Herbois and by his ownfears, he had caused Marguerite to be removed from No. 6.
This change he heralded by another brief visit to her, and his attitudethis time was one of deferential apology.
"A matter of expediency, Lady Blakeney," he explained, "and I trust thatthe change will be for your comfort."
Again the same curt nod of acquiescence on her part, and a brief:
"As you command, Monsieur!"
But when he had gone, she turned with a sudden passionate outbursttowards the Abbe Foucquet, her faithful companion through the past long,weary hours. She fell on her knees beside him and sobbed in an agony ofgrief.
"Oh! if I could only know... if I could only see him!... for a minute...a second!... if I could only know!..."
She felt as if the awful uncertainty would drive her mad.
If she could only know! If she could only know what he meant to do.
"The good God knows!" said the old man, with his usual simplephilosophy, "and perhaps it is all for the best."
The room which Chauvelin had now destined for Marguerite was one whichgave from the larger one, wherein last night he had had his momentousinterview with her and with Sir Percy.
It was small, square and dark, with no window in it: only a smallventilating hole high up in the wall and heavily grated. Chauvelin,who desired to prove to her that there was no wish on his part to addphysical discomfort to her mental tortures, had given orders that thelittle place should be made as habitable as possible. A thick, softcarpet had been laid on the ground; there was an easy chair and acomfortable-looking couch with a couple of pillows and a rug upon it,and oh, marvel! on the round central table, a vase with a huge bunchof many-coloured dahlias which seemed to throw a note as if of gladnessinto this strange and gloomy little room.
At the furthest corner, too, a construction of iron uprights andcrossway bars had been hastily contrived and fitted with curtains,forming a small recess, behind which was a tidy washstand, fine cleantowels and plenty of fresh water. Evidently the shops of Boulogne hadbeen commandeered in order to render Marguerite's sojourn here outwardlyagreeable.
But as the place was innocent of window, so was it innocent of doors.The one that gave into the large room had been taken out of its hinges,leaving only the frame, on each side of which stood a man from themunicipal guard with fixed bayonet.
Chauvelin himself had conducted Marguerite to her new prison. Shefollowed him--silent and apathetic--with not a trace of that awfultorrent of emotion which had overwhelmed her but half-an-hour ago whenshe had fallen on her knees beside the old priest and sobbed her heartout in a passionate fit of weeping. Even the sight of the soldiersleft her outwardly indifferent. As she stepped across the threshold shenoticed that the door itself had been taken away: then she gave anotherquick glance at the soldiers, whose presence there would control herevery movement.
The thought of Queen Marie Antoinette in the Conciergerie prison withthe daily, hourly humiliation and shame which this constant watchimposed upon her womanly pride and modesty, flashed suddenly acrossMarguerite's mind, and a deep blush of horror rapidly suffused her palecheeks, whilst an almost imperceptible shudder shook her delicate frame.
Perhaps, as in a flash, she had at this moment received an inklingof what the nature of that terrible "either--or" might be, with whichChauvelin was trying to force an English gentleman to dishonour. SirPercy Blakeney's wife had been threatened with Marie Antoinette's fate.
"You see, Madame," said her cruel enemy's unctuous voice close to herear, "that we have tried our humble best to make your brief sojourn hereas agreeable as possible. May I express a hope that you will be quitecomfortable in this room, until the time when Sir Percy will be ready toaccompany you to the 'Day-Dream.'"
"I thank you, sir," she r
eplied quietly.
"And if there is anything you require, I pray you to call. I shall be inthe next room all day and entirely at your service."
A young orderly now entered bearing a small collation--eggs, bread, milkand wine--which he set on the central table. Chauvelin bowed low beforeMarguerite and withdrew. Anon he ordered the two sentinels to stand theother side of the doorway, against the wall of his own room, and wellout of sight of Marguerite, so that, as she moved about her own narrowprison, if she ate or slept, she might have the illusion that she wasunwatched.
The sight of the soldiers had had the desired effect on her. Chauvelinhad seen her shudder and knew that she understood of that she guessed.He was now satisfied and really had no wish to harass her beyondendurance.
Moreover, there was always the proclamation which threatened thebread-winners of Boulogne with death if Marguerite Blakeney escaped,and which would be in full force until Sir Percy had written, signed anddelivered into Chauvelin's hands the letter which was to be the signalfor the general amnesty.
Chauvelin had indeed cause to be satisfied with his measures. There wasno fear that his prisoners would attempt to escape.
Even Collot d'Herbois had to admit everything was well done. He had readthe draft of the proposed letter and was satisfied with its contents.Gradually now into his loutish brain there had filtrated the convictionthat Citizen Chauvelin was right, that that accursed Scarlet Pimperneland his brood of English spies would be more effectually annihilatedby all the dishonour and ridicule which such a letter written by themysterious hero would heap upon them all, than they could ever bethrough the relentless work of the guillotine. His only anxiety now waswhether the Englishman would write that letter.
"Bah! he'll do it," he would say whenever he thought the whole matterover: "Sacre tonnerre! but 'tis an easy means to save his own skin."
"You would sign such a letter without hesitation, eh, Citizen Collot,"said Chauvelin, with well-concealed sarcasm, on one occasion when hiscolleague discussed the all-absorbing topic with him; "you would showno hesitation, if your life were at stake, and you were given the choicebetween writing that letter and... the guillotine?"
"Parbleu!" responded Collot with conviction.
"More especially," continued Chauvelin drily, "if a million francs werepromised you as well?"
"Sacre Anglais!" swore Collot angrily, "you don't propose giving him thatmoney, do you?"
"We'll place it ready to his hand, at any rate, so that it should appearas if he had actually taken it."
Collot looked up at his colleague in ungrudging admiration. Chauvelinhad indeed left nothing undone, had thought everything out in thisstrangely conceived scheme for the destruction of the enemy of France.
"But in the name of all the dwellers in hell, Citizen," admonishedCollot, "guard that letter well, once it is in your hands."
"I'll do better than that," said Chauvelin, "I will hand it over to you,Citizen Collot, and you shall ride with it to Paris at once."
"To-night!" assented Collot with a shout of triumph, as he brought hisgrimy fist crashing down on the table, "I'll have a horse ready saddledat this very gate, and an escort of mounted men... we'll ride likehell's own furies and not pause to breathe until that letter is inCitizen Robespierre's hands."
"Well thought of, Citizen," said Chauvelin approvingly. "I pray yougive the necessary orders, that the horses be ready saddled, and themen booted and spurred, and waiting at the Gayole gate, at seven o'clockthis evening."
"I wish the letter were written and safely in our hands by now."
"Nay! the Englishman will have it ready by this evening, never fear. Thetide is high at half-past seven, and he will be in haste for his wife tobe aboard his yacht, ere the turn, even if he..."
He paused, savouring the thoughts which had suddenly flashed across hismind, and a look of intense hatred and cruel satisfaction for a momentchased away the studied impassiveness of his face.
"What do you mean, Citizen?" queried Collot anxiously, "even if he...what?..."
"Oh! nothing, nothing! I was only trying to make vague guesses as towhat the Englishman will do AFTER he has written the letter," quothChauvelin reflectively.
"Morbleu! he'll return to his own accursed country... glad enough tohave escaped with his skin.... I suppose," added Collot with suddenanxiety, "you have no fear that he will refuse at the last moment towrite that letter?"
The two men were sitting in the large room, out of which opened the onewhich was now occupied by Marguerite. They were talking at the furtherend of it, close to the window, and though Chauvelin had mostly spokenin a whisper, Collot had ofttimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador waswondering how much Marguerite had heard.
Now at Collot's anxious query he gave a quick furtive glance in thedirection of the further room wherein she sat, so silent and so still,that it seemed almost as if she must be sleeping.
"You don't think that the Englishman will refuse to write the letter?"insisted Collot with angry impatience.
"No!" replied Chauvelin quietly.
"But if he does?" persisted the other.
"If he does, I send the woman to Paris to-night and have him hanged asa spy in this prison yard without further formality or trial..." repliedChauvelin firmly; "so either way, you see, Citizen," he added in awhisper, "the Scarlet Pimpernel is done for.... But I think that he willwrite the letter."
"Parbleu! so do I!..." rejoined Collot with a coarse laugh.
Chapter XXXII: The Letter