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François Chabot was at this
time about forty years of age. A small, thin, nervy-looking creature
with long nose, thick lips, arched eyebrows above light brown
eyes, and a quantity of curly hair which swept the top of his
high coat-collar at the back, covering it with grease. He was
dressed in the height of fashion, with a very short waist and
long tails to his coat. His neck was swathed in a high stock collar,
and his somewhat receding chin rested on a voluminous jabot of
muslin and lace.
Josette, who had been ushered into his presence with so much
ceremony, eyed him with curiosity, for she had heard it said of
Representative Chabot that he affected to attend the sittings
of the Convention in a tattered shirt, with bare legs and wearing
a scarlet cap. In fact, it was said of him that he owed most of
his popularity to this display of cynicism: also, that he, like
his brother-in-law Bazire, had before now paid a hired assassin
to dig a knife between his ribs in order to raise the cry among
his friends in the Convention: "See! the counter-revolutionists
are murdering the patriots. Marat first, now the incorruptible
Chabot. Whose turn will it be next?"
But Josette, though remembering all this, was in no mood to smile.
Did not this damnable hypocrite hold Maurice's life in his ugly
hands? Those same hands - large, bony, with greyish nails and
spatulated fingers - were toying with the written message which
Josette had sent in to him. They were perhaps the hands that had
dealt the fatal blow to Bastien de Croissy. Josette glanced on
them with horror and then quickly drew her eyes away.
The janitor had motioned her to a seat, then he retired, closing
the door behind him. Josette was alone with the Citizen Representative.
He was sitting at a large desk which was littered with papers,
and she sat opposite to him. He now raised his pale, shifty eyes
to her, and she returned his searching glance fearlessly. He was
obviously nervous; cleared his throat to give himself importance,
and shifted his position once or twice. The paper which he held
between two fingers and point towards Josette rustled audibly.
"Your name?" he asked curtly after a time.
"Josephine Gravier," she replied.
"And occupation?"
"Seamstress in the Government workshops. I was also companion
and housekeeper in the household of Maître Croissy..."
"Ah!"
"...until the day of his death."
There was a pause. The man was as nervous as a cat. He made great
efforts to appear at ease, and above all to control his voice,
which after that first "Ah!" had sounded hoarse and
choked.
The handsome Boule clock on the mantelpiece, obviously the spoils
of a raid on a confiscated château, struck the hour with
deliberate majesty. Chabot shifted his position again, crossed
and uncrossed his legs, pushed his chair father away from the
bureau, and went on fidgeting with Josette's written message,
crushing it between his fingers.
"Advocate Croissy," he said at last with an effort,
"committed suicide, I understand."
"I was said so, Citizen."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Nothing beyond what I said."
They were like duellists, these two, measuring their foils in
a preliminary passage of arms. Chabot's glance had in it now something
malevolent, cruel... the cruelty of a coward who is not sure yet
of what it is he has to fear.
Suddenly he said, holding up the crumpled bit of paper:
"Why did you send me this?"
"To warn you, Citizen," Josette replied quite quietly.
"Of what?"
"That certain letters of which you and others are cognisant
have not been destroyed."
"Letters?" Chabot demanded roughly. "What letters?"
"Letters written by you, Citizen Representative, to Maître
de Croissy, which prove you to be a shameless hypocrite and a
traitor to your country."
She had shot this arrow at random, but at once she had the satisfaction
of knowing that the shaft had gone home. Chabot's sallow cheeks
had become the colour of lead, his thick lips quivered visibly.
A slight scum appeared at the corner of his mouth.
"It's all a lie!" he protested, but his voice sounded
forced and hollow. "An invention of that traitor Croissy."
"You know best, Citizen Representative," Josette retorted
simply.
Chabot tried to put on an air of indifference.
"Croissy," he said as calmly as he could, "told
you a deliberate lie if he said that certain letters of mine were
anything but perfectly innocent. I personally should not care
if anybody read them..."
He paused, then added: "If that is all you wished to tell
me, my girl, the interview can end here."
"As you desire, Citizen," Josette said, and made as
if to rise.
"Stay a moment," Chabot commanded. "Merely from
idle curiosity I would like to know where those famous letters
are. Can you perchance tell me?"
"Oh, yes," she replied. "They are in England and
out of your reach, Citizen Representative."
"What do you mean by 'in England'?"
"Just what I say. When the widow of Maître de Croissy
went to England with her boy she took the packet of letters with
her."
"She fled from Paris, I know," Chabot retorted, still
trying to control his fury. "I know it. I had the report.
That cursed English spy...!" He checked himself; this girl's
slightly mocking glance was making a havoc of his nerves.
"The letters, such as they are, are probably destroyed by
now," he said as coolly as he could.
"They are not destroyed."
"How do you know?"
Josette shrugged. Would she be here if the letters had been destroyed?
"Why did the woman Croissy run away like a traitor?"
"Her child was sick. It was imperative he should leave Paris
for a healthier spot."
"I know. Croissy told me that tale. I didn't then believe
a word of it. It was just blackmail, nothing more." Then
as Josette was once more silent he reiterated roughly: "Why
did the woman Croissy leave Paris in such haste? Why should she
have taken the letters with her? You say she did, but I don't
believe it."
"Perhaps she was afraid, Citizen."
"Afraid of what? Only traitors need be afraid."
"Afraid of... committing suicide like her husband."
This shaft, too, went straight home. Every drop of blood seemed
to ebb from the man's face and left it ashen grey. His pale eyes
wandered all round in the room as if in search of a hiding-place
from that straight accusing glance. For the next minute or two
he affected to busy himself with the papers on his desk, whilst
the priceless Boule clock on the mantelshelf ticked away several
fateful seconds.
Then he said abruptly, with an attempt at unconcern:
"Ah, bah! little woman. You think yourself very shrewd,
what? No doubt you have some nice little project of blackmail
in that pretty head of yours. But if you really did know all about
the letters you speak of so glibly, you would also be away that
I am the man least concerned in them. There are others whose names
apparently are unknown to you and who..."
"Their names are not unknown to me, Citizen Representative,"
Josette broke in with unruffled calm.
"Then why the hell haven't you been to them! Is it because
you know less than you pretend?"
"If you, Citizen, do not choose to bargain with me, I will
certainly go to Citizen Bazire and Fabre d'Eglantine, but in that
case..."
At mention of the two names Chabot had given a visible start:
a nervous twitching of his lips showed how severely he had been
hit. He still tried to bluster by reiterating gruffly:
"In that case?"
"I am treating separately with the writers of each individual
letter," Josette said firmly. "Those who do not choose
to bargain with me must accept the consequences."
"Which are?"
"Publication of the letters in the Moniteur, in Père
Duchesne and other newspapers. They will make good reading,
Citizen Representative."
"You little devil!"
He had jumped to his feet, and with clenched fists resting upon
the bureau he leaned across, staring into her face. His pale brown
eyes had glints in them now of cold, calculating cruelty. Had
he dared he would have seized this weak woman by the throat and
torn the life out of her, slowly, brutally, with hellish cunning
until she begged for death.
"You devil!" he reiterated savagely. "You forget
that I can make you suffer for this."
Josette gave her habitual shrug.
"You certainly can," she said calmly. "You can
dot he same to me as you did to Maître de Croissy. But not
even a second murder will put you in possession of the letters."
Never for a moment had the girl lost her presence of mind. She
knew well enough what she risked when she came to beard this hyena
in his lair; but it was the only way to save Maurice. She had
thought it all out and had deliberately chosen it. Throughout
the interview she had remained perfectly calm and self-possessed;
and now, when for the first time she had the feeling that she
was winning the day, she still remained demure and apparently
unmoved. But Chabot was pacing up and down the room like a caged
beast, kicking savagely at anything that was in his way. At one
moment it seemed as if he was on the point of giving way to his
fury, of being willing to risk everything, even his own neck,
for the satisfaction of his revenge. During that fateful moment
Josette's life did indeed hang in the balance, for already the
man's hand was on the bell-pull. Another second and he was ready
to send for his stalwart and to order him to summon the men of
the National Guard who were always on duty in the streets outside
the dwellings of the Representatives of the People: to summon
the guard and order this woman to be thrown into the most noisome
prison of the city, where mental and physical torture would punish
her for her presumption.
With his hand on the bell-pull Chabot looked round and encountered
the cool, unconcerned glance of a pair of eyes as deeply blue
as the midnight sky in June, and other thoughts and desires, more
foul than the first, distorted his ugly face. Had he read aught
in those eyes but contempt and self-confidence the dark spirits
that haunted this house of evil would have had their way with
him. But it was the girl's evident complete sell-assurance that
made him pause... pause long enough to gauge the depth of the
abyss into which he would fall if those compromising letters were
by some chance given publicity.
He let go of the bell-pull and came back to his place by the
bureau. He sat down and, leaning back in his chair, he allowed
a minute or two to go by while he regained control over himself.
Knitting his bony hands together he twisted them until all the
finger-joints cracked. He took a handkerchief from his pocket
and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.
Then at last he spoke:
"You said just now, Citizeness," he rejoined with enforced
calm, trying to emulate the girl's sell-assurance and her show
of contempt, "that when the widow Croissy ran away to England
she took certain letters with her. Is that it?"
"Yes. She did."
"How do you know that?"
"She has told me so... in a letter."
"A letter from England?"
"Yes."
"And that's a lie! How could you get a letter from England?
We are at war with that accursed country, and..."
"Do not let us discuss the point, Citizen Representative.
Let me assure you that the letters in question are in England:
the Citizeness Croissy has not destroyed them - she has told me
so. If you agree to my terms I will bring you the letters, otherwise
they will be sent to the Moniteur and other newspapers
for publication. And that," Josette added firmly, "is
my last word."
"What are your terms?"
"First, a safe-conduct to enable me to travel to England
without molestation..."
Chabot gave a harsh, ironical laugh.
"To travel to England? Fine idea, in very truth! Go to England
and stay in England, what? And from thence make long noses at
François Chabot, what? who was fool enough to let you hoodwink
him!"
"Had you not best listen to me, Citizen Representative,
before you jump to conclusions?"
"I listen. Indeed, I am vastly interested in your naïve
project, my engaging young friend."
"My price for placing letters, which you would give your
fortune to possess, in your hands, Citizen, is the liberty and
life of one, Maurice Reversac, who was clerk to Maître de
Croissy."
Chabot sneered. "Your lover, I suppose."
"What you choose to suppose is nothing to me. I have named
my price for the letters."
Chabot, his elbow resting on the table, his chin cupped in his
hand, was apparently wrapped in thought. He was contemplating
that greatly daring woman who had delivered her ultimatum with
no apparent consciousness of her danger. He could silence her,
of course: send her to the guillotine, her and her lover, Reversac;
but she seemed so sure that he would not do this that her assurance
became disconcerting. The same reason which had stayed his and
his friends' hands when they discussed the advisability of having
Bastien de Croissy summarily arrested held good in this girl's
case also. There was always the possibility of her getting a word
in during her trial - a word which might prove the undoing of
them all. How far was she telling the truth at this moment? How
far was she lying in order to save her lover? These were the questions
which François Chabot was putting to himself while he contemplated
the beautiful woman before him.
And whilst he gazed on her she seemed slowly to vanish from his
vision, both she and his luxurious surroundings, the costly furniture,
the carpets, all the paraphernalia of his sybaritic life. Instead
of this there appeared to his mental consciousness the Place de
la Barrière du Trône, with the guillotine towering
above a sea of faces. He saw himself mounting the fatal steps;
he saw the executioner, the glint on the death-dealing knife,
the horrible basket into which great and noble heads had often
rolled at his, Chabot's, bidding. He heard the roll of drums ordered
by Sauterre, the cries of execration of the mob, the strident
laugh of those horrible hags who sat knitting and jabbering while
the knife worked up and down, up and down.... A hoarse cry nearly
escaped him. He passed his bony fingers under his choker for he
felt stifled and sick...
The vision vanished. The girl was still sitting opposite to him,
demure and silent - curse her! - waiting for him to speak. And
looking on her he knew that he must have those letters or he would
never know a moment's peace again. Once he had them, once he felt
entirely safe, he would have his revenge. Let her look to herself,
the miserable trollop! She will have brought her fate upon herself.
He said! "I'll give you the safe-conduct. You can start
for England to-day."
"I will start to-morrow," she rejoined coolly. "I
still must speak with Citizens Fabre and Bazire."
"I can make that right with them. You need not see them."
"I must have their signatures on the safe-conduct as well
as yours, Citizen Chabot."
"You shall have them."
He was searching among the litter on his desk for the paper which
he wanted. These men always had forms of safe-conduct made out
with blank spaces for the name of a relation or friend who happened
to be in trouble and hoped to leave the country before trouble
materialised. Chabot found what he wanted. The paper was headed:
"COMMISSARIAT DE POLICE DE LA VIIIieme
SECTION DE PARIS,"
and
"Laissez passer."
"Your name?" he asked once more.
"Josephine Madeleine Marie Gravier."
And Chabot, with a shaking hand, wrote these names in the blank
space left for the purpose.
"Your residence?"
"Forty-three Rue Picpus."
"Your age?"
"Twenty."
"The color of your eyes?"
She looked at him and in the blank space he wrote the word "Blue";
and farther on he made note that the hair was burnished copper,
her chin small, her teeth even.
When he had filled in all the blank spaces he stewed the writing
with sand; then he said, "You can come and fetch this this
evening."
"It will be signed?"
"By myself and by Citizens Fabre and Bazire."
"Then I will start to-morrow."
"You have money?"
"Yes, I thank you."
"When do you return?"
"It will take me a week probably to get to England and a
week or more to come back. it will be close on three weeks, Citizen
Representative, before your mind is set at rest."
He shrugged and sneered:
"And in the meanwhile, your lover..."
"In the meanwhile, Citizen," Josette broke in firmly,
"See to it that Maurice Reversac is safe and well. If on
my return he is not there to greet me, if, in fact, you play me
false in any way, it is the Moniteur who will have the
letters, not you."
Chabot rose slowly from his chair. He stood for a moment quite
still beside the desk, his spatulated fingers spread out upon
the table-top. All his nervousness, his fury, his excitement seemed
suddenly to drop away from him. His ugly face wore an air of cunning,
almost of triumph, and there was a hideous leer around his thick
lips. He appeared to be watching Josette intently while she rose,
shook out her kirtle, smoothed down her fichu and straightened
her cap. As she turned towards the door he said slowly:
"We shall see!" he added with mock courtesy, "Au
revoir, little Citizeness."
A few minutes later Josette was speeding up the street on her
way home.
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