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They were so enthusiastic! so eager! Perhaps the secrecy and the excitement of it all appealed more to them than the actual ideals which they advocated. For they were all young men of the professional classes and of the lower bourgeoisie: men who, you would have thought, would have nothing to gain by political intrigue or the reëstablishment of the old monarchy, and who were risking their lives to overthrow a system that had not, in very truth, much interfered with the even tenor of their lives.
They held their meetings in the cellar of an old house at the bottom of the Rue de l'Odéon, which was decorated with a white flat that bore the emblem of the royal fleur-de-lys on it in gold, and was hung on the wall immediately behind the seat usually occupied by the chairman. Here the young hotheads would talk politics o'nights and swear allegiance to King Louis XVII, by the grace of God King of France: the poor mite who had been dispossessed of all save his precarious little life, and that too was at the mercy of the inhuman brutes who held him captive. An old wastrel, Servan by name, kept watch at the street door during the sittings and tidied up the place afterward. Strangely enough, no one knew much about Servan. He came and he went. Now and then he disappeared for days on end, when, at his earnest request, sittings would be suspended until his return. Servan was invaluable for ferreting out the plans of the committee of the section; invaluable in his position as watch-dog-in-chief of the Club des Fils du Royaume.
It was one night while Servan was absent that the inevitable catastrophe occurred. He had begged that the sittings of the club should be postponed for a few days. But the next day happened to be the 14th of October, and on that morning had begun the trial of Marie Antoinette --erstwhile Queen of France, now called the Widow Capet-- before the Revolutionary Tribunal, at the bar of Fouquier-Tinville, the public prosecutor. What could Les Fils du Royaume do but call a hurried meeting to discuss this portentous event?
Old Servan's warning was forgotten, and at eleven o'clock that same night eighteen or twenty young enthusiasts met to formulate plans for the liberation of their queen.
An hour later the blow had fallen. The ominous command: "Open in the name of the Republic!" came loudly and peremptorily from outside. "The police! Sauve qui peut!" in hurried, hoarse whispers from within. They were trapped like so many rats in a burrow. There was nothing for it but to make a fight for one's life first and make a rush for the open, if possible, when darkness might be of service.
But the revolutionaries were armed with bayonets, and the issue was never for a moment in doubt. The Sons of the Kingdom fought bravely and there were several broken heads among the guard. In the end, some fifteen of the young conspirators were overpowered. Bleeding from several wounds, they were tied together like so much cattle, with cords, and marched up the narrow dank stairs into the street, where the raiding party handed them over to a fresh body of soldiers. They were taken to the chief depôt of the section, whilst five others lay dead upon the floor of the cellar in the Rue de l'Odéon. The chief commissary of the section ordered the bodies to be left there.
"The garbage can be cleared away another time," he remarked spitefully.
Two days later the bodies were removed, but there were only four of them then. And on looking through his list of prisoners and comparing it with that of the dead, the chief commissary found that one name was missing from both. It was that of Félicien Lézennes, chairman of the Club des Fils du Royaume.
The news of the raid on the Club des Files du Royaume came as a thunderbolt upon the little household at Mon Abris. Little was known at first save the meagre announcement which appeared the following day in the Moniteur. Madame St. Luc, however, was at once filled with the gloomiest forebodings as to her son-in-law's fate. Adrienne Lézennes, always self-contained, didn't say much, but her father appeared distinctly resentful as well as anxious. The plight into which Félicien's hot-headedness had landed them all had a grating effect upon his nerves.
They might all of them have been so happy in their little home -- a detached, creeper-clad house, standing in an hectare of ground in the Batignolles quarter of Paris, not far from the Porte d'Asnières -- had it not been for Félicien's mania for running his head into a noose. Monsieur St. Luc himself had been a well-to-do attorney in his time, had retired at the outbreak of the Revolution, for he was a firm upholder of the monarchic system; but what was the use of airing one's views on so great a subject, when the guillotine loomed so large on the horizon of every bourgeois's life these days?
"That fool Félicien!" so his father-in-law invariably dubbed him. More so now than ever, since he had become a fugitive, hiding God alone knew where, starving probably. For five days after the raid his family did not know what had become of him. Adrienne haunted the purlieus of the prisons, trying to get some information as to her husband's fate, but she could glean none. Then, on the fifth day, when despair had wellnigh seized her, there came a message written in Félicien's own hand, assuring them all that he was safe and under the protection of a brave English milord, who had picked him up half-dead after the raid and brought him, at risk of his life, to a place of safety just outside Paris. How that note came to the house it was impossible to say. Marthe, the serving wench, found the scrap of paper lying on the mat in the small lobby when she came down in the morning. It had been pushed in under the door, and Marthe had hardly dared to touch it at first; it looked so weird and ghostlike, she said.
The note also contained an earnest warning that, the house being certainly now under observation by the spies of the Committee of Public Safety, the utmost discretion and circumspection were imperative; but that mother and father and Adrienne, and also Marthe, had best make quietly ready to leave Paris at an hour's notice. In the meanwhile, however, Félicien adjured them all not to be anxious, and on no account to make any move until they heard from him again. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel --a magnificent English organization-- had the welfare of the household in hand. All would be well if they would only act on instructions.
Unfortunately, Monsieur St. Luc, accustomed as he had been all his life to direct and regulate the affairs of his family, refused on so solemn an occasion to be dictated to by his son-in-law (that fool Félicien!). By his orders a few necessary effects were at once hastily put together. The whole family, he decided, had best leave Pariws that very day. He himself would see to passports. He had friends in several administrations who would help to get his family away, and they would all go to St.-Aubin by the Sea, where he owned a little house property, and where they could live in retirement until this cloud had blown over.
While the women packed St. Luc went to the local commissariat to see about the passports. His request was flatly refused. The Committee of Public Safety, so the chief commissary of the section told him, had an eye on Mon Abris. This sudden desire on the part of the household to leave Paris would certainly cause all their names to be placed upon the list of the "Suspect"; which meant that a domiciliary visit, a perquisition, and consequent arrest on some kind of trumped-up charge could now be considered imminent.
Monsieur St. Luc, by his obstinacy, had precipitated the crisis and hopelessly endangered his own life and that of all those he cared for. The situation, from being tense, had suddenly become tragic. There was nothing for it now but to act on Félicien's original advice, praying God in the meanwhile that this wiser course had not been taken too late.
Soon after Monsieur St. Luc's return from his unsuccessful errand another message came, exactly similar to the previous one -- a scrap of paper pushed mysteriously under the door and found by Marthe in the little lobby on the mat. But the writing this time was a strange one, and it bore no signature, only a small device in the left-hand corner, drawn in red, and representing a small five-petalled flower, in shape like a Scarlet Pimpernel. The message warned Monsieur St. Luc that a domiciliary visit at Mon Abris could be expected at about four o'clock; that the arrest of the entire household, on suspicion of conspiracy, had already been decided. The usual travesty of justice would inevitably follow, with condemnation, and probably the guillotine in the end. The message, however, went on to assure Monsieur St. Luc that measures were being taken for the immediate flight of himself and his household out of Paris, but that their very lives now depended on implicit obedience. The writer of this warning would himself be at Mon Abris within the hour, to give them final instructions.
The family had assembled in the little boudoir which gave on the left of the hall. The two old people were sitting, one on each side of the hearth. Between them, Adrienne Lézennes, kneeling in front of the fire, had the drawer of her husband's desk beside her. This she had filled with all his papers that she could find, and was systematically putting them, packet by packet, into the flames.
"Above all, Adrienne," Madame St. Luc insisted earnestly, "burn anything you can find that looks as if it related to the English milord. It would be an eternal shame on us all if those brutes came on his track while he is working for our salvation."
"Milord is too clever to allow a pack of loons to catch him," Monsieur St. Luc riposted dryly. "But, in any case, Adrienne had best destroy every scrap of paper that Félicien was fool enough to leave about for our undoing."
Neither his wife nor his daughter made further comment on the matter, and for a while no sound disturbed the quietude of the cosy-looking room, save the hissing of the flames licking the loose bundles of papers, and the monotonous ticking of the old clock standing against the wall.
"I wish they would come," Madame St. Luc said presently. "It will be best when it is all over."
"They won't be here for another hour at least," Adrienne rejoined. "And we don't know how bad the worse may be," she added under her breath.
"I wish milord were here," Madame sighed plaintively.
An hour later a detachment of the revolutionary guard, belonging to the Sectional Committee of Public Safety, had assembled in the garden in front of Mon Abris. There were a dozen or more of them, dressed in the usual haphazzard attire which, in these days of penury and of prolonged war, did duty for military uniform: ragged breeches, odd coats that more often than not hung loosely upon thin, narrow shoulders; feet thrust bare into sabots or any old boots that might have been picked up in the course of a foraging expedition. The men were under the command of a big, burly ruffian known as Citizen Captain Courtain, who was standing before the front door, vociferating lustily the habitual "Open, in the name of the Republic!" And since he did not obtain the prompt answer to his summons which he required, he proceeded to kick against the door with the point of his boot.
'Hé là!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Open there, I say! Do not waste the time of the loyal servants of the Republic, or you'll have your doors and windows presently smashed about your heads."
He was about to put his sturdy shoulder to the door when it was opened from within. Marthe, neatly dressed and prim, trying to look brave at sight of those awful soldiers whom every peace-loving citizen had learned to dread, stood by, while the men filed through into the square hall in the wake of their captain. The latter then turned to the wench and demanded curtly:
"The Citizen St. Luc, his wife, and daughter --where are they?"
"In the boudoir, Citizen Captain," the girl replied quite readily. She appeared self-possessed and spoke as if she were repeating a lesson. The captain gave her a quick, searching look.
"How many of you live in the house?" he queried.
"Four of us altogether. The Citizen St. Luc, with his wife and their daughter, Adrienne Lézennes. I do the service of the house."
"And what does Félicien Lézennes, the husband of Adrienne, do?" the captain broke in abruptly.
This time the girl did not answer so glibly. There was an instant's hesitation of her voice -- the mere fraction of a second, imperceptible no doubt to the bullying rascallion before here-- ere she gave reply.
"Félicien Lézennes," she said quite steadily after awhile, "has been gone for some days. You know that well enough, Citizen Captain."
"I know nothing," he retorted, "save that this house stinks of aristos, and that an accursed English spy, who goes by the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, is suspected of having been in and out of here."
The wench shrugged her shoulders.
"I know nothing about English spies," she riposted dryly. "Methinks you, Citizen Captain, have been led by the nose."
"We'll soon see about that," was the captain's curt rejoinder. "Now," he added peremptorily, "which is the room you call the boudoir?"
Marthe led the way to a door on the left of the hall and opened it without knocking.
"This way, Citizen Captain," she said simply, and was in the act of standing aside in order to let the soldiers file into the room, when she quickly put her hand up to her mouth as if to smother a sudden, involuntary cry.
In an instant, Courtain had her by the arm.
"What is it?" he queried roughly.
"The mutton stew!" she exclaimed glibly. "I have left it on the fire. It will burn for sure!"
She made as if to run out of the room, but Courtain held her tight.
"You stay here, Citizeness," he commanded. "Pierre Dumont there will see to yoru stew. His mother was an excellent cook and taught him all she knew."
He nodded to one of his men, who laughed and shrugged his shoulders, then went out of the room.
"Let go my arm, Citizen Captain," the girl said, apparently reassured as to the fate of her stew. "You are hurting me."
The incident was closed. Captain Courtain gave a comprehensive, searching look around. The two ladies had made no movement when first he had entered the room. The older one sat quite still in the high-backed armchair by the hearth, the younger one, on a low tabouret by her side, was busy with some sewing. Monsieur St. Luc rose to receive the soldiers of the Republic.
"Your name?" Courtain queried roughly.
"Adrien St. Luc, attorney-at-law," the old man replied with much dignity.
"Félicien Lézennes, where is he?"
"I do not know, Citizen Captain. We none of us have seen him this past week and more."
"You lie!" Courtain retorted. "He is a fugitive from justice. Where should he find shelter but with his relatives?"
"I know nothing of Félicien Lézennes's movements," Monsieur St. Luc reiterated firmly.
"Well for you if you do not! Give me your keys," the captain commanded.
"Nothing is locked," St. Luc replied. "We have nothing to hide."
Whereupon Courtain with a shrug of the shoulders turned to his men.
"You have heard me question the aristo," he said. "He denies everything. Now, there's a strong suspicion that a cursed traitor is in hiding in this house, as well as that abominable English spy who should have been hung on a lanthorn post long ago. Therefore, comrades, leave not a single piece of furniture in its place of a single door or drawer unopened. The house must be searched through and through; and there are outhouses and stables, too, in the ground. Understand?"
The men were ready enough to obey. There was a reward of forty sous for every man who brought an escaped suspect to justice; and there had been rumours of some English spies being about. Good reward was promised for their capture, too, whilst for the apprehension of the mysterious leader who was known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, a man might earn as much as ten thousand francs.
Courtain himself remained behind after his comrades had gone. He had apparently set himself the task of searching the boudoir and interrogating the inmates of the house.
"I always mistrust the place where women congregate," he had said in his own picturesque language, ere his men dispersed about the premises.
Indeed, no one understood that type of work better than did Captain Courtain. Not a cranny escaped his vigilant eye, not a nook where an aristo might lie concealed or compromising papers be stowed away. After he had been in the boudoir half an hour there was not one unbroken piece of furniture there. The upholstered chairs had been ripped and the carpets torn up from the floor; he had put his heel through every drawer of the desk, and his fist through every bit of panelling. He had even, in places, torn the paper from the walls.
The three women watched him, fascinated and motionless. Not a word of protest escaped them when they saw some of their most precious treasures ruthlessly destroyed. Monsieur St. Luc made no protest either. He had resumed his seat, was staring moodily before him, and replied in curt monosyllables whenever Courtain put a question to him. Anon the latter threw himself upon the sofa, which his rough handling had reduced to mere wreckage, and gave vent to his disappointment by a comprehensive curse. Then he curtly ordered Marthe to get him some wine. The girl turned to her master, asking for the key.
"I thought you said that nothing was locked in this house," Courtain remarked with a sneer. He was on his feet again in a moment, and turned to St. Luc. "Give me the cellar key," he commanded.
"It is at your service," St. Luc replied.
He took a key from his pocket and held it out to Courtain. "You are free to walk in, Citizen Captain," he said simply.
But Courtain would not take the key.
"Not without you, my friend," he riposted. "Do you take me for a nincompoop, ready to fall into a booby-trap? Allons!" he added roughly. "Marche!"
St. Luc obeyed without another word, walked out of the room in front of Courtain, who took the precaution of turning the key in the lock of the boudoir door behind him.
"We don't want our birds to fly away in our absence, eh?" he remarked with a leer.
The whole house appeared alive with noise: shouts and laughter, smashing of woodwork, and tramping of heavy feet. In the centre of the hall one of the men was brandishing a crowbar, whilst three or four others were apparently egging him on to some doughtly deed.
"What is that crowbar for?" Courtain queried curtly.
"The cellar door, Citizen Captain," one of the men replied. "We have searched every nook and corner of the house except the cellar, which is locked. The door has a deal of resistance in it. We thought this crowbar--"
"Throw it down, comrades," Courtain broke in jovially. "Citizen St. Luc will do the honours of his cellar for us in person."
There was no need to reiterate this order. In a moment the crowbar was thrown down and the little procession was formed, with St. Luc leading the way and Courtain treading hard on his heels. The citizen captain had quietly taken a pistol out of his breeches pocket.
"In case something happens that I don't like!" he remarked casually to St. Luc. "And remember that some of my men, if not all, have loaded pistols, too."
But St. Luc appeared quite placid, gave but a cursory glance at the pistol. He led the way across the hall, then down a flight of stairs which was faced at the bottom by a heavy oak door. St. Luc inserted the key in the lock and flung the door open.
"This is the cellar," he said curtly.
"Well!" riposted Courtain with affected jollity. "Go in, and we'll follow."
St. Luc, still placidly, led the way in. The cellar was vast and well ordered, with casks ranged around and an array of bottles and jars filled with the delicacies beloved of the French bourgeoisie. It derived some light from a small grated window set high in the wall. There were some empty wooden casks standing about, and a row of pewter mugs hung on hooks along the edge of a shelf.
"Quite cosy and inviting in here, eh, comrades?" Courtain remarked jauntily.
The soldiers were not long in getting to work. They helped themselves to the mugs, and one of them volunteered to draw the wine, as he had been a butler in an aristos house in pre-Revolution days. Soon each had a mugful of wine in his hand; one of them started to sing, the others joined in. The merry sound attracted their comrades, who were still busy in other parts of the house. They came helter-skelter, running down the stone staircase, and presently the vast cellar was filled with a merry-making throng, in the midst of which St. Luc's majestic figure in sober black, with stiff white stock and tie and iron-gray hair falling modishly down to his shoulders, had lost nothing of the dignity and sang-froid of the well-to-do attorney.
"You do not drink, Citizen St. Luc?" courtain asked him good-humouredly. Then, as the other made no reply, he added with stern significance: "If you are trying some hidden game, my friend, by making my men drunk, you will do yourself no good and aggravate your own case and that of the women upstairs. Drunk or sober, we stay in the house until we've found your precious son-in-law or that confounded Englishman, or both; and I may as well tell you that I have another eight or ten men outside in your garden. So even if these men do get drunk--"
"If they get drunk," broke in St. Luc impatiently, "they'll never rid me of that confounded Englishman or my daughter or that ne'er-do-well husband of hers."
"What?"
The shrill ejaculation had burst involuntarily from Courtain. He literally gave a jump as well as a gasp of astonishment at this wholly unexpected retort, and spilled a quarter of a litre of precious wine in the act. "What did you say?"
"I said that I wished to be rid of that confounded Englishman, a regular Fly-by-Night, who has led us into all this trouble," St. Luc rejoined, and a malicious, spiteful glitter lit up for a moment the even pallor of his face. "As for that fool Lézennes--!"
He paused and pressed his lips together, as if fearing to say too much.
Courtain gave a prolonged whistle.
"Oho!" he said, "so that's the way the wind blows, is it? Why did you not speak of this before?"
"How could I," retorted St. Luc sullenly, "in the presence of my daughter?"
"Then," Courtain went on significantly, "you are willing to--?"
He looked St. Luc straight in the eyes, and the latter nodded in response.
"Where are they?" the other continued. The, as the old attorney was about to reply, Courtain suddenly gripped his arm and dragged him to a corner of the cellar where they could talk without fear of being overheard. He had just remembered that a reward of ten thousand francs was due to the man who captured the Scarlet Pimpernel. "Where are they?" he reiterated eagerly, dropping his voice to a whisper.
But St. Luc's manner had already undergone a change. That strange, malicious glitter had died out of his eyes. He looked sheepish and ashamed.
"I-I don't know," he stammered, "just where they are . . . If the men kept sober the could. . . "
"None of that!" retorted Courtain roughly. "You have gone too far now, Citizen, to draw back without risking your neck. Where are they?" he reiterated for the third time, and gripped St. Luc so fiercely by the arm that the older man could scarce keep back a cry of pain. "Well, are you going to speak, or shall I have you and your womankind placed under arrest until you do?"
"No, no!" said St. Luc weakly. "I'll tell you. I meant to tell you, only--"
"Only what?"
"The Englishman is very powerful. He is not easily captured. Many have tried and all have failed, remember. And my son-in-law, too, is young and vigorous."
"So much the better," retorted Courtain. "It will be the greater glory for me. Are they in the house?"
"No," replied St. Luc.
"Where then?"
"Not very far from here. Through the barrier. The empty house at the junction of the Rue du Bois. You know it, Citizen Captain? It used to belong to Lézennes's aunt and uncle- aristos who have had to fly the country."
"No, I don't know the house. Is it Clinchy way?" Courtain asked.
"More on the Levallois-Perret side. You can't miss it. Go straight up the Route d'Asnières and take the third turning on the left; then go on till you come to a forked road, when you want to bear to your right. You'll see a white gate--"
"Never mind about that!" Courtain broke in impatiently. "You had best come and show us the way."
"No, no!" St. Luc protested, and his voice had a note of plaintive entreaty in it now. "I couldn't face Lézennes or the Englishman! It would kill me! And my daughter! My wife! They would know . . . Oh, my God!" he added, and covered his face with his hands as if in abject shame.
The situation seemed vastly to amuse Courtain.
"Many people like to say 'A,'" he remarked dryly, "but don't care to say 'B.' Well, I'll be a good dog, Citizen. The traitors shan't see you. You'll put us on our way, then I'll leave you in charge of two of my men, who will bring you back while we go search the place."
St. Luc still appeared to hesitated, but only for a moment. Obviously, as Courtain had tersely put it, he had gone too far now to draw back. Nor did the captain take any notice of his scruples. There were ten thousand francs waiting for him at the end of a more or less hazardous expedition, and he had plenty of stalwart fellows under his command. He was not likely to abandon so splendid a chance for reward and advancement. But he took the opportunity before starting of having St. Luc thoroughly searched for any weapons he might have concealed about his person.
"I am taking no risks," he said dryly, when the old attorney tried to protest.
Satisfied on that point, he quickly organized the expedition, turned the men out of the cellar, and locked the door behind them, putting the key in his pocket.
"Do not relax your vigilance for one instant, Citizen Lavérie," he said to the soldier whom he was leaving in command of the party. "The women are, of course, safe under lock and key in the boudoir. See that no one has access to them. I am taking the men with me whom I left on guard outside the house. They have no had the opportunity of visiting the cellar," continued Courtain dryly, "and I shall find them mroe reliable. St. Luc is coming with us part of the way, but I'll send him back here presently under escort, and then you had better lock him up with the women in the boudoir. Any further orders I may have to give you I will send through the men who will bring St. Luc along. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, Citizen Captain," Lavérie replied.
After which Courtain went toomuster the men whom he desired to accompany him to the empty house at Levallois-Perret. As he had remarked to Lavérie, they were men who had not tasted St. Luc's wines as yet. Besides taking on risks, he was leaving nothing to chance. He had heard tales of the marvellous prowess of that English spy who, from all accounts, was a kind of legendary athlete, endowed with supernatural cunning and strength. Well, this time he would have to reckon with Citizen Captain Courtain: a man whom nothing could daunt and whose courage was equal to his perspicacity.
His escort, too, looked fit and keen. It was then close on seven o'clock. The sun was slowly sinking down in the west behind a canopy of heavy clouds. Courtain placed himself at the head of his squad and ordered St. Luc to march by his side.
A quarter of an hour's brisk walk brought them to the Porte d'Asnières.
The gates were closed for the night, but Courtain and his escort,
besides being well known to the officer in command, had all the
necessary passes, and the party was let through without any hindrance.
Half an hour afterward, at the top of the Route d'Asnières and its junction with the Rue du Bois, where the roads fork, St. Luc came to a halt.
"There is the house," he said, and pointed up the road to where a small building gleamed white in the midst of a clump of old and twisted acacia trees. But, despite his protestations, Courtain would not release him.
"You are coming a bit further along with us, my man," he said curtly. "I told you I was taking no risks."
It was only when they came to a low, broken-down fence which appeared to mark the boundary of the grounds around the house that Courtain finally detailed two of his men to remain on guard over St. Luc.
"Wait for me here," he commanded. "If you hear any fracas inside the house, come to my assistance."
"But the aristo--" suggested one
of the men, nodding toward St. Luc.
"In case of trouble," retorted Courtain curtly, "stab
him in the legs with your bayonets. Then he can't run far."
He found a rickety gate in the fence and, followed by his escort, proceeded to march up to the house. It lay a hundred mètres, or perhaps less, farther on. The ground around it had no doubt once been a garden; it was now nothing but a mass of overgrown shrubs and a wilderness of nettles. Courtain and his men could be seen for a time ploughing their way through the weeds. Anon they reached the house. The captain's voice of command rang out through the fast-gathering dusk. No answer came from within. The house appeared indeed deserted. Courtain then pushed open the door, which yielded quite easily, and he and his men disappeared inside the house.
Those who had remained on guard over St. Luc settled down for a long wait, sat down on the sloping ground with their backs against the fence, taking care to keep the aristo between them and their bayonets close to their hands.
How it all happened they could not afterward have said. The attack came from behind the fence, they thought, and began with a stunning blow on their heads. Before they could recover from the violence of this assault, thick scarves were wound round their faces; they felt smothered, blinded, unable to call for help. Both tried to reach out for their bayonets, but were almost simultaneously thrown flat to the ground, more securely gagged, pinioned, their pockets ransacked, and finally left to lie there, not even knowing whence the swift and vigorous blow had come that had reduced them to such absolute helplessness. All that they could hear was St. Luc's voice, sometimes moaning, at others cursing violently. But what had become of him they neither of them could say.
Certain it is that less than ten minutes later, two soldiers of the revolutionary guard, with a tall civilian between them who appeared to be their prisoner, presented themselves at the Porte de Clichy, which is next to that of Asnières. They had the required passes such as are supplied to the revolutionary guard in the exercise of their duty. Their papers being all in order, they were allowed to pass through into the city without any delay.
Lavérie and the men left behind at Mon Abris ahd not forgotten
the crowbar which had been thrown down in the hall earlier in
the afternoon. And this was very fortunate as it happened, because
darkness soon began to draw in and at first no candles or lamps
could be found anywhere. The serving maid, summoned from the boudoir,
explained that lamps were always kept in the cellar on one of
the shelves. Whereupon, since the citizen captain had chosen to
lock the cellar door, there was nothing for it but to use the
crowbar in the manner in which it was originally intended.
There was no disobedience or defiance of discipline in that. To remain in darkness in a house which reeked of aristos was not to be thought of, and Lavérie himself gave the order to break open the cellar door.
Subsequently, when the whole matter was inquired into and punishment duly meted out to the guilty, it was never suggested that Lavérie did anything more reprehensible than just omitting to have the lamps lighted then and there. But it seems that when they were found, it was discovered that they needed filling. The oil drum could not at once be found, and in the meanwhile a couple of tallow candles were made to do duty instead, one being placed on the trestle table in the cellar and the other in the hall.
The semi-darkness certainly left the house rather gloomy; but the evening light had not wholly faded out of the sky, and a pale, grayish streak still came peeping in through the windows and the wide-open door of the hall.
It was close on half-past nine when a couple of men's voices, in conjuction with that of St. Luc, first reached Lavérie's ears. He was then in the cellar with half-a-dozen comrades, and--yes, well! they were haivng a drink whilst the others remained on guard about the house. There was no harm in that. The entire premises ahd been literally turned inside out more than once in the course of the afternoon; the women were safe under lock and key, and all the men were well armed. No one could say that any of them had had too much to drink, but they were tired as well as hot, for the evening had turned sultry, and there was thunder in the air.
"Which of you is Citizen Lavérie?" a voice shouted down from above.
"Here, in the cellar," Lavérie replied. "We are busy with the lamps. Who are you?"
"Guard from the Porte d'Asnières," the voice gave answer. "We have brought St. Luc back with us and have a message for you from Citizen Captain Courtain. He has got the aristos."
"Where?" queried Lavérie eagerly, and ran helterskelter up the stairs. The others remained down below, straining their ears to listen.
Two soldiers, in the same haphazard uniforms that they were all wearing these days, were standing in the hall. Lavérie saw them vaguely through the gloom, with St. Luc's tall, funereal-looking figure between them, and his own comrades crowding excitedly around the newcomers.
"Over in the house at Levallois-Perret," one of the latter replied. "Citizen Courtain wants you to bring the women along to him at once."
Lavérie groaned.
"What for?"
"An important confrontation. Citizen Courtain has sent for the chief commissary of the section, and we are to pick up a couple more aristos who are being detained in a house in teh Rue Legendre. It seems that the English spies have had their headquarters there recently. I tell you, comrade," continued the man, "there will be some fine doings at Levallois-Perret presently; and all of us who have had a share in the business are also to have a share in the reward."
But Lavérie was not to be cajoled with any promise of a reward. He gave another groan.
"We are dog-tired, all of us," he mumbled. "We've been on our feet since three o'clock this afternoon."
"And we've got a half-a-dozen horses outside," the newcomer riposted gilbly. "We borrowed them from the guard at the Porte d'Asnières. All we've got to do is to get some sort of vehicle from the neighbourhood for the aristos. By the way," he added, turning to his comrade, "did we unearth an old barouche when we were rummaging round the grounds this afternoon?"
"You did," assented Lavérie more cheerfully. "I saw it, too, and there were two horses and some harness in the stables. So, if we can have the mounts--"
"Four of you can have mounts," rejoined the other. "But two of the horses must be led, as they are for our two comrades who are guarding the aristos in the Rue Legendre. With them, and the two of us in the box of the barouche, we shall make an escort of eight: quite enough to be guard against any unpleasant surprise. You Citizen Lavérie," he concluded, "will, I presume, take command of the party?" Then he indicated St. Luc. "And in the meanwhile, perhaps you'll take charge of this old scarecrow, whilst I and my comrade here get out the barouche and put the horses to."
It all seemed so simple. There was really nothing to arouse any man's suspicions, however vigilant he might be. Perhaps, if there had been more light, Lavérie or one of the others would have noticed something strange about the newcomers. But they were in uniform and they had brought St. Luc back with them, together with a message from Courtain, just as Lavérie expected. Moreover, they themselves suggested that the latter should take command of the party. Anyone would have been deceived.
Be that as it may, the coach and pair were got ready in less than twenty minutes. Lavérie in the meanwhile had collected the three women and placed them with St. Luc in charge of some of the men. Now he ordered the aristos to be bundled into the barouche. They all obeyed with the same passive meekness which they had exhibited all along. The three women got in first, then the long-legged old attorney. The two soldiers were already on the box; but there was a little delay at the start, because some of the horses, notably the two in the carriage and a couple of saddled ones, were extremely restive. Lavérie and his men, feeling tired and not too sure of their seats after their prolonged visits to the cellar of Mon Abris, were at pains to select the four mounts that looked almost as sleepy as themselves.
However, the cavalcade was presently got into order. Lavérie gave the word of command, and the procession started at last on its way.
Midway down the Rue Legendre the man on the box drew rein, and Lavérie called a halt.
"This is where we pick up the aristos," the former said, and pointed to a house on his right.
"How shall we find them?" Lavérie asked.
"Two of our comrades are on guard right inside the door," the soldier replied. "Give the password," he added as Lavérie dismounted and called to one of his men to do likewise.
"What is it?" queried the latter.
"Fly-by-night," was the reply.
Everything still quite simple, Lavérie and his comrade found the door of the house wide open, and inside the dark and narrow passage two soldiers were on guard. Lavérie gave the password, whereupon one of them retired farther into the house and presently returned, pushing an elderly woman and an old man roughly before him.
"Are these the aristos?" Lavérie asked.
The soldier nodded.
"The citizen captain must be expecting them," he said.
At a command from Lavérie the two old people were now bundled into the barouche. But the women inside the carriage complained that there was no more room, whereupon St. Luc volunteered to get out and mount on the box. There was some argument over that; but Lavérie was really too sleepy to argue, nor did he protest when St. Luc took the reins in his hands. Perhaps he did not notice. The Rue Legendre was very dark.
Thus the procession was formed once more, the carriage leading the way this time and the mounted escort around.
"We'll go by the Porte de Clichy," the soldier on the box called out at last. "It is the better and quicker way, and the citizen captain will be getting impatient."
It was now quite dark. The party of horsemen, with the ponderous, lumbering vehicle, made a great clatter over the ill-paved streets. The Porte de Clichy was soon reached. There was no question of detaining a carriage escorted by a detachment of revolutionary guard. Lavérie, moreover, was a well-known figure in these parts, and he had all his passes in order.
"Aristos," he explained curtly to
the officer in command at the gate, who peeped curiously into
the carriage. "Orders of the Citizen Captain Courtain. Important
business with the chief commissary of the section at Levallois-Perret."
"Pass on, Citizen!" the officer replied, and stood watching
the barouche through the gate and until it was out of sight.
The first inkling that Lavérie had that something was wrong
was when the driver of the carriage deliberately turned his horses'
heads to the right after he had followed the Route de Clichy for
about ten minutes. He turned up the Route de Pouchet, whereas
Levallois-Perret was in just the opposite direction. Lavérie
called the driver's attention to what he thought was merely an
error, whereupon the latter whipped up his horses and literally
tore up the Route de Pouchet at breakneck speed.
Lavérie dug his knees into his horse and, calling loudly to his men, started in pursuit. But he and the men were tired, and the horses they were riding felt anything but fresh. After a minute or two the carriage gained ground visibly: only two of the mounted men seemed able to keep up with it. Lavérie shouted to them to keep up, but they apparently needed no spur to their efforts. It become a neck to neck race between these two and the barouche, Lavérie and the other three dropping more and more behind every moment. Their horses were obviously spent; they themselves could scarcely sit in their saddles.
"Draw your pistols!" Lavérie shouted to those in front. "Fire at the horses or at the driver. Fire, curse you!" he reiterated, as the soldiers paid no heed to his orders but merely continued to gallop one on each side of the carriage.
He pulled out his own pistol, fired once or twice; but his hand was unsteady, and his eyesight suffered from the effects of Monsieur St. Luc's excellent wines.
Up on the box, the long-legged attorney and the two soldiers were enjoying one of the finest runs they ever remembered in their adventurous careers.
"If," St. Luc presently said, with a light-hearted laugh, "you remembered to give those poor horses the draught I prescribed, they'll drop in a few minutes. They'll come to no harm afterward, but they won't stand a forced gallop for long."
An exclamation from the man next him caused him to look over his shoulder.
"Ah, I thought so!" he went on gaily, for just at that moment Lavérie rolled over and over with his mount on the dusty road. Two minutes later another man followed suit. "If this old barouche were not so confoundedly heavy!" he added, and encouraged his horses with whip and tongue.
"You can slacken, Blakeney," the other exclaimed after awhile. "We are safe from pursuit now."
Indeed, Lavérie's two last comrades had also fallen away. Their horses, covered with sweat and shaking at the knees, had quietly rolled over in the dusty road.
Lord Anthony Dewhurst, one of London's most exquisite dandies, dressed in the haphazard uniform of a revolutionary, was surveying the spectacle from the top of the barouche. Soon the gloom and the distance hid Lavérie and his comrades from view. Then Lord Tony turned back to his chief.
"It was a difficult business this time," he said lightly.
"Yes," Sir Percy replied. "Because we could not trust that obstinate St. Luc to act his part himself. He would have given it all away, so I conveyed him and his wife to the Rue Legendre first, and had some difficulty, I assure you, in persuading him to come. Then I assumed the rôle of the elderly attorney myself and my dear Marguerite made an excellent Madame St. Luc, who kept the other two women up to their task of silence and obedience. At one moment she thought that the waiting-wench would betray us all."
"And if Courtain or one of his men happened to have known the real St. Luc by sight--"
"Then we should have had to devise something else," Blakeney retorted carelessly. "Unlike our friend Courtain, I believe in taking every risk."
"By the way, I wonder what Courtain is doing at the present moment in the lonely house at Levallois-Perret."
"Still waiting for the English spies and the aristos to turn up. He won't leave the house for at least an hour. When I was there about midday, I left every possible indication that the English spies had their headquarters in the house and would surely return before evening. The worthy citizen captain, anxious for the reward, is still calmly waiting for the birds to fly into his trap."
"It was very well managed," Sir Andrew Ffoulkes continued.
"By you two," Blakeney retorted. "Your attack on my two guardians from behind the fence was a masterpiece, and, of course, you rifled their pockets for their passes, but I have yet to hear where you got the horses from."
"We picked up one here and there. That was not very difficult; and everything else was so splendidly thought of," Lord Tony mused, and cast a look of profound admiration for his chief. "The wine and the empty lamps; the carriage and the restive horses. It would have taken a sharper man than poor Lavérie to suspect a trap."
Inside the carriage, Adrienne Lézennes had put her arms round her mother; her hand was on her father's knee. But her eyes and those of her companions in this exciting adventure were fixed upon the false Madame St. Luc.
"And it is you, milady, and your brave husband who hae saved us all!" Monsieur St. Luc was saying ruefully.
"At peril of your lives," Adrienne added in a tear-choked voice.
"Ah! but you must not cry, little woman," Marguerite Blakeney said gaily. "We shall be meeting your Félicien at Pouchet, and he must not see you with red eyes!"
"And so we are going to England!" Madame St. Luc mused.
"A dull old country; but safe," Lady Blakeney replied.
