Ffoulkes had to smother a cry of horror, which surely must have drawn the attention of that fiend on himself had he not been so engrossed in the enjoyment of his own devilry. As it is, he ran out of the stuffy eating-house, for he felt as if its fetid air must choke him.
For an hour after that he wandered about the streets, not daring to face Marguerite, lest his eyes betrayed some of the horror which was shaking his very soul.
That was twenty-four hours ago. To-day he had learnt little else. It was generally known that the Englishman was in the Conciergerie prison, that he was being closely watched, and that his trial would come on within the next few days; but no one seemed to know exactly when. The public was getting restive, demanding that trial and execution to which every one seemed to look forward as to a holiday. In the meanwhile the escape of the Dauphin had been kept from the knowledge of the public; Heron and his gang, fearing for their lives, had still hopes of extracting from the Englishman the secret of the lad"s hiding-place, and the means they employed for arriving at this end was worthy of Lucifer and his host of devils in h.e.l.l.
From other fragments of conversation which Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had gleaned that same evening, it seemed to him that in order to hide their defalcations Heron and the four commissaries in charge of little Capet had subst.i.tuted a deaf and dumb child for the escaped little prisoner.
This miserable small wreck of humanity was reputed to be sick and kept in a darkened room, in bed, and was in that condition exhibited to any member of the Convention who had the right to see him. A part.i.tion had been very hastily erected in the inner room once occupied by the Simons, and the child was kept behind that part.i.tion, and no one was allowed to come too near to him. Thus the fraud was succeeding fairly well. Heron and his accomplices only cared to save their skins, and the wretched little subst.i.tute being really ill, they firmly hoped that he would soon die, when no doubt they would bruit abroad the news of the death of Capet, which would relieve them of further responsibility.
That such ideas, such thoughts, such schemes should have engendered in human minds it is almost impossible to conceive, and yet we know from no less important a witness than Madame Simon herself that the child who died in the Temple a few weeks later was a poor little imbecile, a deaf and dumb child brought hither from one of the asylums and left to die in peace. There was n.o.body but kindly Death to take him out of his misery, for the giant intellect that had planned and carried out the rescue of the uncrowned King of France, and which alone might have had the power to save him too, was being broken on the rack of enforced sleeplessness.
CHAPTER XXVI. THE BITTEREST FOE
That same evening Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, having announced his intention of gleaning further news of Armand, if possible, went out shortly after seven o"clock, promising to be home again about nine.
Marguerite, on the other hand, had to make her friend a solemn promise that she would try and eat some supper which the landlady of these miserable apartments had agreed to prepare for her. So far they had been left in peaceful occupation of these squalid lodgings in a tumble-down house on the Quai de la Ferraille, facing the house of Justice, the grim walls of which Marguerite would watch with wide-open dry eyes for as long as the grey wintry light lingered over them.
Even now, though the darkness had set in, and snow, falling in close, small flakes, threw a thick white veil over the landscape, she sat at the open window long after Sir Andrew had gone out, watching the few small flicks of light that blinked across from the other side of the river, and which came from the windows of the Chatelet towers. The windows of the Conciergerie she could not see, for these gave on one of the inner courtyards; but there was a melancholy consolation even in the gazing on those walls that held in their cruel, grim embrace all that she loved in the world.
It seemed so impossible to think of Percy--the laughter-loving, irresponsible, light-hearted adventurer--as the prey of those fiends who would revel in their triumph, who would crush him, humiliate him, insult him--ye G.o.ds alive! even torture him, perhaps--that they might break the indomitable spirit that would mock them even on the threshold of death.
Surely, surely G.o.d would never allow such monstrous infamy as the deliverance of the n.o.ble soaring eagle into the hands of those preying jackals! Marguerite--though her heart ached beyond what human nature could endure, though her anguish on her husband"s account was doubled by that which she felt for her brother--could not bring herself to give up all hope. Sir Andrew said it rightly; while there was life there was hope. While there was life in those vigorous limbs, spirit in that daring mind, how could puny, rampant beasts gain the better of the immortal soul? As for Armand--why, if Percy were free she would have no cause to fear for Armand.
She sighed a sigh of deep, of pa.s.sionate regret and longing. If she could only see her husband; if she could only look for one second into those laughing, lazy eyes, wherein she alone knew how to fathom the infinity of pa.s.sion that lay within their depths; if she could but once feel his--ardent kiss on her lips, she could more easily endure this agonising suspense, and wait confidently and courageously for the issue.
She turned away from the window, for the night was getting bitterly cold. From the tower of St. Germain l"Auxerrois the clock slowly struck eight. Even as the last sound of the historic bell died away in the distance she heard a timid knocking at the door.
"Enter!" she called unthinkingly.
She thought it was her landlady, come up with more wood, mayhap, for the fire, so she did not turn to the door when she heard it being slowly opened, then closed again, and presently a soft tread on the threadbare carpet.
"May I crave your kind attention, Lady Blakeney?" said a harsh voice, subdued to tones of ordinary courtesy.
She quickly repressed a cry of terror. How well she knew that voice!
When last she heard it it was at Boulogne, dictating that infamous letter--the weapon wherewith Percy had so effectually foiled his enemy.
She turned and faced the man who was her bitterest foe--hers in the person of the man she loved.
"Chauvelin!" she gasped.
"Himself at your service, dear lady," he said simply.
He stood in the full light of the lamp, his trim, small figure boldly cut out against the dark wall beyond. He wore the usual sable-coloured clothes which he affected, with the primly-folded jabot and cuffs edged with narrow lace.
Without waiting for permission from her he quietly and deliberately placed his hat and cloak on a chair. Then he turned once more toward her, and made a movement as if to advance into the room; but instinctively she put up a hand as if to ward off the calamity of his approach.
He shrugged his shoulders, and the shadow of a smile, that had neither mirth nor kindliness in it, hovered round the corners of his thin lips.
"Have I your permission to sit?" he asked.
"As you will," she replied slowly, keeping her wide-open eyes fixed upon him as does a frightened bird upon the serpent whom it loathes and fears.
"And may I crave a few moments of your undivided attention, Lady Blakeney?" he continued, taking a chair, and so placing it beside the table that the light of the lamp when he sat remained behind him and his face was left in shadow.
"Is it necessary?" asked Marguerite.
"It is," he replied curtly, "if you desire to see and speak with your husband--to be of use to him before it is too late."
"Then, I pray you, speak, citizen, and I will listen."
She sank into a chair, not heeding whether the light of the lamp fell on her face or not, whether the lines in her haggard cheeks, or her tear-dimmed eyes showed plainly the sorrow and despair that had traced them. She had nothing to hide from this man, the cause of all the tortures which she endured. She knew that neither courage nor sorrow would move him, and that hatred for Percy--personal deadly hatred for the man who had twice foiled him--had long crushed the last spark of humanity in his heart.
"Perhaps, Lady Blakeney," he began after a slight pause and in his smooth, even voice, "it would interest you to hear how I succeeded in procuring for myself this pleasure of an interview with you?"
"Your spies did their usual work, I suppose," she said coldly.
"Exactly. We have been on your track for three days, and yesterday evening an unguarded movement on the part of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes gave us the final clue to your whereabouts."
"Of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes?" she asked, greatly puzzled.
"He was in an eating-house, cleverly disguised, I own, trying to glean information, no doubt as to the probable fate of Sir Percy Blakeney.
As chance would have it, my friend Heron, of the Committee of General Security, chanced to be discussing with reprehensible openness--er--certain--what shall I say?--certain measures which, at my advice, the Committee of Public Safety have been forced to adopt with a view to--"
"A truce on your smooth-tongued speeches, citizen Chauvelin," she interposed firmly. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes has told me naught of this--so I pray you speak plainly and to the point, if you can."
He bowed with marked irony.
"As you please," he said. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, hearing certain matters of which I will tell you anon, made a movement which betrayed him to one of our spies. At a word from citizen Heron this man followed on the heels of the young farrier who had shown such interest in the conversation of the Chief Agent. Sir Andrew, I imagine, burning with indignation at what he had heard, was perhaps not quite so cautious as he usually is. Anyway, the man on his track followed him to this door.
It was quite simple, as you see. As for me, I had guessed a week ago that we would see the beautiful Lady Blakeney in Paris before long. When I knew where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lodged, I had no difficulty in guessing that Lady Blakeney would not be far off."
"And what was there in citizen Heron"s conversation last night," she asked quietly, "that so aroused Sir Andrew"s indignation?"
"He has not told you?" "Oh! it is very simple. Let me tell you, Lady Blakeney, exactly how matters stand. Sir Percy Blakeney--before lucky chance at last delivered him into our hands--thought fit, as no doubt you know, to meddle with our most important prisoner of State."
"A child. I know it, sir--the son of a murdered father whom you and your friends were slowly doing to death."
"That is as it may be, Lady Blakeney," rejoined Chauvelin calmly; "but it was none of Sir Percy Blakeney"s business. This, however, he chose to disregard. He succeeded in carrying little Capet from the Temple, and two days later we had him under lock, and key."
"Through some infamous and treacherous trick, sir," she retorted.
Chauvelin made no immediate reply; his pale, inscrutable eyes were fixed upon her face, and the smile of irony round his mouth appeared more strongly marked than before.
"That, again, is as it may be," he said suavely; "but anyhow for the moment we have the upper hand. Sir Percy is in the Conciergerie, guarded day and night, more closely than Marie Antoinette even was guarded."
"And he laughs at your bolts and bars, sir," she rejoined proudly.
"Remember Calais, remember Boulogne. His laugh at your discomfiture, then, must resound in your ear even to-day."
"Yes; but for the moment laughter is on our side. Still we are willing to forego even that pleasure, if Sir Percy will but move a finger towards his own freedom."