"Again some infamous letter?" she asked with bitter contempt; "some attempt against his honour?"
"No, no, Lady Blakeney," he interposed with perfect blandness. "Matters are so much simpler now, you see. We hold Sir Percy at our mercy.
We could send him to the guillotine to-morrow, but we might be willing--remember, I only say we might--to exercise our prerogative of mercy if Sir Percy Blakeney will on his side accede to a request from us."
"And that request?"
"Is a very natural one. He took Capet away from us, and it is but credible that he knows at the present moment exactly where the child is.
Let him instruct his followers--and I mistake not, Lady Blakeney, there are several of them not very far from Paris just now--let him, I say, instruct these followers of his to return the person of young Capet to us, and not only will we undertake to give these same gentlemen a safe conduct back to England, but we even might be inclined to deal somewhat less harshly with the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel himself."
She laughed a harsh, mirthless, contemptuous laugh.
"I don"t think that I quite understand," she said after a moment or two, whilst he waited calmly until her out-break of hysterical mirth had subsided. "You want my husband--the Scarlet Pimpernel, citizen--to deliver the little King of France to you after he has risked his life to save the child out of your clutches? Is that what you are trying to say?"
"It is," rejoined Chauvelin complacently, "just what we have been saying to Sir Percy Blakeney for the past six days, madame."
"Well! then you have had your answer, have you not?"
"Yes," he replied slowly; "but the answer has become weaker day by day."
"Weaker? I don"t understand."
"Let me explain, Lady Blakeney," said Chauvelin, now with measured emphasis. He put both elbows on the table and leaned well forward, peering into her face, lest one of its varied expressions escaped him. "Just now you taunted me with my failure in Calais, and again at Boulogne, with a proud toss of the head, which I own is excessive becoming; you threw the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel in my face like a challenge which I no longer dare to accept. "The Scarlet Pimpernel," you would say to me, "stands for loyalty, for honour, and for indomitable courage. Think you he would sacrifice his honour to obtain your mercy?
Remember Boulogne and your discomfiture!" All of which, dear lady, is perfectly charming and womanly and enthusiastic, and I, bowing my humble head, must own that I was fooled in Calais and baffled in Boulogne.
But in Boulogne I made a grave mistake, and one from which I learned a lesson, which I am putting into practice now."
He paused a while as if waiting for her reply. His pale, keen eyes had already noted that with every phrase he uttered the lines in her beautiful face became more hard and set. A look of horror was gradually spreading over it, as if the icy-cold hand of death had pa.s.sed over her eyes and cheeks, leaving them rigid like stone.
"In Boulogne," resumed Chauvelin quietly, satisfied that his words were hitting steadily at her heart--"in Boulogne Sir Percy and I did not fight an equal fight. Fresh from a pleasant sojourn in his own magnificent home, full of the spirit of adventure which puts the essence of life into a man"s veins, Sir Percy Blakeney"s splendid physique was pitted against my feeble powers. Of course I lost the battle. I made the mistake of trying to subdue a man who was in the zenith of his strength, whereas now--"
"Yes, citizen Chauvelin," she said, "whereas now--"
"Sir Percy Blakeney has been in the prison of the Conciergerie for exactly one week, Lady Blakeney," he replied, speaking very slowly, and letting every one of his words sink individually into her mind. "Even before he had time to take the bearings of his cell or to plan on his own behalf one of those remarkable escapes for which he is so justly famous, our men began to work on a scheme which I am proud to say originated with myself. A week has gone by since then, Lady Blakeney, and during that time a special company of prison guard, acting under the orders of the Committee of General Security and of Public Safety, have questioned the prisoner unremittingly--unremittingly, remember--day and night. Two by two these men take it in turns to enter the prisoner"s cell every quarter of an hour--lately it has had to be more often--and ask him the one question, "Where is little Capet?" Up to now we have received no satisfactory reply, although we have explained to Sir Percy that many of his followers are honouring the neighbourhood of Paris with their visit, and that all we ask for from him are instructions to those gallant gentlemen to bring young Capet back to us. It is all very simple, unfortunately the prisoner is somewhat obstinate. At first, even, the idea seemed to amuse him; he used to laugh and say that he always had the faculty of sleeping with his eyes open. But our soldiers are untiring in their efforts, and the want of sleep as well as of a sufficiency of food and of fresh air is certainly beginning to tell on Sir Percy Blakeney"s magnificent physique. I don"t think that it will be very long before he gives way to our gentle persuasions; and in any case now, I a.s.sure you, dear lady, that we need not fear any attempt on his part to escape. I doubt if he could walk very steadily across this room--"
Marguerite had sat quite silent and apparently impa.s.sive all the while that Chauvelin had been speaking; even now she scarcely stirred. Her face expressed absolutely nothing but deep puzzlement. There was a frown between her brows, and her eyes, which were always of such liquid blue, now looked almost black. She was trying to visualise that which Chauvelin had put before her: a man hara.s.sed day and night, unceasingly, unremittingly, with one question allowed neither respite nor sleep--his brain, soul, and body f.a.gged out at every hour, every moment of the day and night, until mind and body and soul must inevitably give way under anguish ten thousand times more unendurable than any physical torment invented by monsters in barbaric times.
That man thus hara.s.sed, thus f.a.gged out, thus martyrised at all hours of the day and night, was her husband, whom she loved with every fibre of her being, with every throb of her heart.
Torture? Oh, no! these were advanced and civilised times that could afford to look with horror on the excesses of medieval days. This was a revolution that made for progress, and challenged the opinion of the world. The cells of the Temple of La Force or the Conciergerie held no secret inquisition with iron maidens and racks and thumbscrews; but a few men had put their tortuous brains together, and had said one to another: "We want to find out from that man where we can lay our hands on little Capet, so we won"t let him sleep until he has told us. It is not torture--oh, no! Who would dare to say that we torture our prisoners? It is only a little horseplay, worrying to the prisoner, no doubt; but, after all, he can end the unpleasantness at any moment. He need but to answer our question, and he can go to sleep as comfortably as a little child. The want of sleep is very trying, the want of proper food and of fresh air is very weakening; the prisoner must give way sooner or later--"
So these fiends had decided it between them, and they had put their idea into execution for one whole week. Marguerite looked at Chauvelin as she would on some monstrous, inscrutable Sphinx, marveling if G.o.d--even in His anger--could really have created such a fiendish brain, or, having created it, could allow it to wreak such devilry unpunished.
Even now she felt that he was enjoying the mental anguish which he had put upon her, and she saw his thin, evil lips curled into a smile.
"So you came to-night to tell me all this?" she asked as soon as she could trust herself to speak. Her impulse was to shriek out her indignation, her horror of him, into his face. She longed to call down G.o.d"s eternal curse upon this fiend; but instinctively she held herself in check. Her indignation, her words of loathing would only have added to his delight.
"You have had your wish," she added coldly; "now, I pray you, go."
"Your pardon, Lady Blakeney," he said with all his habitual blandness; "my object in coming to see you tonight was twofold. Methought that I was acting as your friend in giving you authentic news of Sir Percy, and in suggesting the possibility of your adding your persuasion to ours."
"My persuasion? You mean that I--"
"You would wish to see your husband, would you not, Lady Blakeney?"
"Yes."
"Then I pray you command me. I will grant you the permission whenever you wish to go."
"You are in the hope, citizen," she said, "that I will do my best to break my husband"s spirit by my tears or my prayers--is that it?"
"Not necessarily," he replied pleasantly. "I a.s.sure you that we can manage to do that ourselves, in time."
"You devil!" The cry of pain and of horror was involuntarily wrung from the depths of her soul. "Are you not afraid that G.o.d"s hand will strike you where you stand?"
"No," he said lightly; "I am not afraid, Lady Blakeney. You see, I do not happen to believe in G.o.d. Come!" he added more seriously, "have I not proved to you that my offer is disinterested? Yet I repeat it even now. If you desire to see Sir Percy in prison, command me, and the doors shall be open to you."
She waited a moment, looking him straight and quite dispa.s.sionately in the face; then she said coldly:
"Very well! I will go."
"When?" he asked.
"This evening."
"Just as you wish. I would have to go and see my friend Heron first, and arrange with him for your visit."
"Then go. I will follow in half an hour."
"C"est entendu. Will you be at the main entrance of the Conciergerie at half-past nine? You know it, perhaps--no? It is in the Rue de la Barillerie, immediately on the right at the foot of the great staircase of the house of Justice."
"Of the house of Justice!" she exclaimed involuntarily, a world of bitter contempt in her cry. Then she added in her former matter-of-fact tones:
"Very good, citizen. At half-past nine I will be at the entrance you name."
"And I will be at the door prepared to escort you."
He took up his hat and coat and bowed ceremoniously to her. Then he turned to go. At the door a cry from her--involuntarily enough, G.o.d knows!--made him pause.
"My interview with the prisoner," she said, vainly trying, poor soul! to repress that quiver of anxiety in her voice, "it will be private?"
"Oh, yes! Of course," he replied with a rea.s.suring smile. "Au revoir, Lady Blakeney! Half-past nine, remember--"
She could no longer trust herself to look on him as he finally took his departure. She was afraid--yes, absolutely afraid that her fort.i.tude would give way--meanly, despicably, uselessly give way; that she would suddenly fling herself at the feet of that sneering, inhuman wretch, that she would pray, implore--Heaven above! what might she not do in the face of this awful reality, if the last lingering shred of vanishing reason, of pride, and of courage did not hold her in check?
Therefore she forced herself not to look on that departing, sable-clad figure, on that evil face, and those hands that held Percy"s fate in their cruel grip; but her ears caught the welcome sound of his departure--the opening and shutting of the door, his light footstep echoing down the stone stairs.
When at last she felt that she was really alone she uttered a loud cry like a wounded doe, and falling on her knees she buried her face in her hands in a pa.s.sionate fit of weeping. Violent sobs shook her entire frame; it seemed as if an overwhelming anguish was tearing at her heart--the physical pain of it was almost unendurable. And yet even through this paroxysm of tears her mind clung to one root idea: when she saw Percy she must be brave and calm, be able to help him if he wanted her, to do his bidding if there was anything that she could do, or any message that she could take to the others. Of hope she had none. The last lingering ray of it had been extinguished by that fiend when he said, "We need not fear that he will escape. I doubt if he could walk very steadily across this room now."