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Later in the day a meeting took place
in the bare white-washed room of the Clud des Cordeliers between
three members of the National Convention - François Chabot,
Claude Bazire and Fabre d'Eglantine - and an obscure member of
the Committee of Public Safety named Armand Chauvelin. This man
had at one time been highly influential in the councils of the
revolutionary government; before the declaration of war he had
been sent to England as secret envoy of the Republic; but conspicuous
and repeated failures in various missions which had been entrusted
to him had hopelessly ruined his prestige and hurled him down
from his high position to one of almost ignoble dependence. Many
there were who marvelled how it had come to pass that Armand Chauvelin
had kept his head on his shoulders: "The Republic,"
Danton had thundered more than once from the tribune, "has
no use for failures." It is to be supposed, therefore, that
the man possessed certain qualities which made him useful to those
in power: perhaps he was in possession of secrets which would
have made his death undesirable. Be that as it may, Chauvelin,
dressed in seedy black, his pale face scored with lines of anxiety,
his appearance that of a humble servant of these popular Representatives
of the People, sat at one end of the deal table, listening with
almost obsequious deference to the words of command from the other
three.
He only put in a word now and again, for he had been summoned
in order to take orders, not to give advice.
"The girl," Chabot said to him, "lives at No.
43 in the Rue Picpus. She will leave Paris to-morrow. You will
shadow her from the moment that she leaves the house: never lose
sight of her as you value your life. She is going to England;
you will follow her. You have been in England before, Citizen
Chauvelin," he added with a sarcastic grin, "so I understand,
and are acquainted with the English tongue."
"That is so, Citizen Representative."
Chauvelin's eyes were downcast; not one of the three caught the
feline gleam of hate that shot through their pale depths.
"Your safe-conduct is all in order. The wench will probably
make for Tréport and take boat there for one of the English
ports. It is up to you to board the same ship as she does. You
must assume what disguise seems most suitable at the time. Our
friend here, Fabre d'Eglantine, has been the means of finding
you an English safe-conduct which was taken from one of that accursed
nation who was trying to cross over our frontier from Belgium:
he was an English spy. Our men caught and shot him; his papers
remained in their hands: one of these was a safe-conduct signed
by the English Minister of Foreign Affairs. Those stupid English
don't usually trouble about passports or safe-conducts. They welcome
the émigrés from France, and often among
those traitors one or other of our spies have got through. Still,
this document will probably serve you well, and you can easily
make up to appear like the description of the original holder.
Here are the two passports. Examine them carefully first, then
I or one of my friends will give you further instructions."
Chabot handed two papers to Chauvelin across the table. Chauvelin
took them, and for the next few minutes was absorbed in a minute
examination of them. One bore the signature of Fabre d'Eglantine,
who was representative for a section of Paris: it was counter-signed
by François Chabot (Seine et loire) and by Claud Bazire
(Côte d'Or). The second paper bore the seal of the English
Foreign Office and was signed by Lord Greville himself. It was
made out in the name of Malcolm Russel Stone, and described the
bearer of the safe-conduct as short and slight, with brown hair
and a pale face - a description, in fact, which could apply to
twenty men out of a hundred. It had the advantage of not being
a forgery, but was a genuine passport issued to an unfortunate
Secret Service man since dead. As Chabot had said, the English
authorities cared little, if anything, about passports; nevertheless,
the present one might prove useful.
Chauvelin folded the two papers and put them in the inside pocket
of his coat.
"So far, so good," he said drily. "I await your
further instructions, Citizen Representative."
Chabot was the spokesman of the party. He was, perhaps, sunk
more deeply than the other two in the morass of treachery and
veniality which threatened to engulf them all. He it was who had
summoned this conference and who had thought of Armand Chauvelin
as the man most likely to be useful in this terrible emergency.
"He has a character to redeem," he had said to his
friends when first the question was mooted of setting a sleuth-hound
on the girl's tracks: "he speaks English, he knows his way
about over there..."
"He failed signally," Bazire objected, "over that
affair of the English spies."
"You mean the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel?"
"Yes!"
"Chauvelin has sworn to lay him by the heels."
"But has never succeeded."
"No; but Robespierre tells me that he is the most tenacious
tracker of traitors they have on the Committees - a real bloodhound,
what!"
Thus it was that Chauvelin had been called in to confer on the
best means of circumventing a simple girl in the fateful undertaking
she had in view. Four men to defeat one woman in her purpose!
What chance would she have to accomplish it?
"It is on the return journey, my friend," Chabot was
saying, "that your work will effectually begin. This wench,
Josette Gravier, is going to England for the sole purpose of getting
hold of a certain packet of letters - seven in all - which are
now in the possession of a woman named Croissy, the widow of the
lawyer Croissy who - er - committed suicide a month or so ago.
You recollect?"
"I do recollect perfectly," Chauvelin remarked blandly.
Chabot cleared his throat, fidgeted in his usual nervous manner,
but took good care not to encounter Chauvelin's quizzical glance.
"Those letters," he said after a moment or two, "were
written by me and my two friends here in the strictest confidence
to Croissy, who was acting as our lawyer at the time. None of
us dreamed that he would turn traitor. Well, he did, and no doubt
was subsequently stricken either with remorse or fright, for after
threatening us all with the betrayal of our confidence he took
his own miserable life."
Chabot paused, apparently highly satisfied with his peroration.
Chauvelin, silent and with thin white hands folded in front of
him, waited calmly for him to continue. But his pale steely eyes
were no longer downcast: their glance, bitterly ironical, was
fixed on the speaker, and there was no mistaking the question
which that glance implied. "Why do you take the trouble to
tell me those lies?" those eyes seemed to ask. No wonder
that none of the three blackguards dared to look him straight
in the face!
"I think," Chabot resumed after a time with added pompousness,
"that I have told you enough to make you appreciate the importance
of the task which we propose to entrust to you. My friends and
I must regain possession of those confidential letters, but we
look to you, Citizen Chauvelin, to put us in possession of them
and not to the wench Gravier - you understand?"
"Perfectly."
"She is nothing but a trollop and a baggage who has shamelessly
resorted to blackmail in order to save her gallant from justice.
She has put a dagger at my throat - at the throat of my two friends
here - and her dagger is more deadly than the one with which the
traitor Charlotte Corday pierced the noble heart of Marat..."
He would have continued in this eloquent strain had not his brother-in-law,
Bazire, put a restraining hand on his shoulder. Armand Chauvelin,
with his arms tightly clasped over his chest, his thin legs crossed,
his pale eyes looking up at the ceiling, presented a perfect picture
of irony and contempt. The others dared not resent this attitude.
They had need of this man for the furtherance of their schemes.
Revenge was what they were looking for now. The wench had indeed
put a dagger to their throats, and for this they were determined
to make her suffer; and there was no man alive with such a marvellous
capacity for tracking an enemy and bringing him to book as Armand
Chauvelin, in spite of the fact that he had failed so signally
in bringing the greatest enemy of the revolutionary government
to the guillotine. In this he certainly had failed. Not one of
his colleagues, not one of the three who had need of his services
now, knew how the recollection of that failure galled him. He
was thankful for this mission which would take him to England
once more. He had heart-breaking ill luck over his adventures
with the Scarlet Pimpernel, but luck might take a turn at any
time, and, anyway, he was the only man in his own country who
had definitely identified the mysterious hero with that ballroom
exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney. Given a modicum of luck it was still
on the cards that he, Chauvelin, might yet be even with his arch-enemy
whilst he was engaged in dogging the footsteps of Josette Gravier.
That wench was just the type of "persecuted innocent"
that would appeal to the chivalrous nature of the elusive Sir
Percy.
Yes! on the whole Chauvelin felt satisfied with his immediate
prospects, and as soon as Chabot had ceased perorating he put
a few curt questions to him.
"When does the girl start?" he asked.
"To-morrow," Chabot replied. "I have told her
to call at my house this evening for her safe-conduct."
"It is made out in the name of...?'
"Josephine Gravier."
"Josephine Gravier," Chauvelin iterated slowly; "and
the safe-conduct is signed...?"
"By myself, by my friend Fabre and my brother-in-law Claude
Bazire."
Chauvelin then rose and said: "That is all I need know for
the moment." He paused a moment as if reflecting and then
added: "Oh! by the way, I may need a man by me whom I can
trust - a man who will give me a hand in an emergency, you understand;
who will be discreet and above all obedient."
"I see no objection to that," Chabot said and turned
to his colleagues: "do you?"
"No. None," they all agreed.
"Do you know the right sort of man?" one of them asked.
"Yes! Auguste Picard," was Chauvelin's reply: "a
sturdy fellow, ready for any adventure. He is attached to the
gendarmerie of the VIIIth section at the moment, but he can be
spared - Picard would suit me well: he is never troubled with
unnecessary scruples," he added with a curl of the lip.
"Auguste Picard. Why not?"
They all agreed as to the suitability of Auguste Picard as a
satellite to their friend Chauvelin.
"So long as he is told nothing," one of them remarked.
"Why, of course," Chauvelin hastened to reassure them
all. He then concluded with complacency: "You may rest assured,
my friends, that in less than a month the letters will be in your
hands."
Chabot and the others sighed in unison: "The devil speed
you, friend Chauvelin." One of them said: "Not one of
us will know a moment's peace until your return."
On which note of mutual confidence they parted. Chauvelin went
his way; the other three stayed talking for a little while at
the club; other members strolled in from time to time, Danton
among them. The great man himself was none too easy over this
affair of the letters which had been recounted to him by his satellite
Fabre d'Eglantine. He was not dead sure whether his own name was
mentioned or not in the correspondence between de Batz and Croissy.
He had at the time been unpleasantly mixed up in those Austrian
intrigues, and it was part of de Batz' game to compromise them
and thus bring about the downfall of the revolutionary Government
and the restoration of the King. Chabot, Fabre and Bazire were
in it up to the neck, but the moment mud-slinging began, any of
their friends might get spattered with the slime. Robespierre,
the wily jackal, was only waiting for an opportunity to be at
Danton's throat, to wrest from him that popularity which for the
time being made him the master of the Convention. It would indeed
be a strange freak of Destiny if the downfall of the great Danton
- the lion of the Revolution - were brought about through the
intervention of a woman, a chit of a girl more feeble even than
Charlotte Corday, whose dagger had put an end to Marat's career.
"But we can leave all that with safety in Armand Chauvelin's
hands," was the sum-total of the confabulation between the
four men before they bade one another good-night.
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