Lord Tony's Wife (29 page)

V

The man who had so mysteriously led Yvonne de Kernogan from the house of Louis Adet to the Rat Mort, turned away from the door of the tavern as soon as it had closed on the young girl, and started to go back the way he came.

At the angle formed by the high wall of the tavern he paused; a moving form had detached itself form the surrounding gloom and hailed him with a cautious whisper:

“Hist! Citizen Martin-Roget, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Everything just as we anticipated?”

“Everything.”

“And the wench safely inside?”

“Quite safely.”

The other gave a low cackle, which might have been intended for a laugh.

“The simplest means,” he said, “are always the best.”

“She never suspected me. It was all perfectly simple. You are a magician, Citizen Chauvelin,” added Martin-Roget grudgingly. “I never would have thought of such a clever ruse.”

“You see,” rejoined Chauvelin dryly. “I graduated in the school of a master of all ruses—a master of daring and a past master in the art of mimicry. And hope was our great ally—the hope that never forsakes a prisoner—that of getting free. Your fair Yvonne had boundless faith in the power of her English friends, therefore she fell into our trap like a bird.”

“And like a bird she shall struggle in vain after this,” said Martin-Roget slowly. “Oh! that I could hasten the flight of time—the next few minutes will hang on me like hours. And I wish too it were not so bitterly cold,” he added with a curse; “this north-westerly wind has got into my bones.”

“On to your nerves, I imagine, Citizen,” retorted Chauvelin with a laugh; “for my part I feel as warm and comfortable as on a lovely day in June.”

“Hark! Who goes there? broke in the other man abruptly, as a solitary moving form detached itself form the surrounding inky blackness and the sound of measured footsteps broke the silence of the night.

“Quite in order, citizen!” was the prompt reply.

The shadowy form came a step of two farther forward.

“Is it you, Citizen Fleury?” queried Chauvelin.

“Himself, Citizen,” replied the other.

The men had spoken in a whisper. Fleury now placed his hand on Chauvelin’s arm.

“We had best not stand so close to the tavern,” he said, “the night hawks are already about and we don’t want to scare them.”

He led the others up the yard, then into a very narrow passage which lay between Louise Adet’s house and the Rat Mort and was bordered by the high walls of the houses on either side.

“This is a blind alley,” he whispered. “We have the wall of Le Bouffay in front of us: the wall of the Rat Mort is on one side and the house of the Citizeness Adet is on the other. We can talk here undisturbed.”

Overhead there was a tiny window dimly lighted from within. Chauvelin pointed up to it.

“What is that?” he asked.

“An aperture too small for any human being to pass through,” replied Fleury dryly. “It gives on a small landing at the foot of the stairs. I told Friche to try and maneuver so that the wench and her father are pushed in there out of the way while the worst of the fracas is going on. That was your suggestion, Citizen Chauvelin.”

“It was. I was afraid the two aristos might get spirited away while your men were tackling the crowd in the taproom. I wanted them put away in a safe place.”

“The staircase is safe enough,” rejoined Fleury, “it has no egress save that on the taproom and only leads to the upper story and the attic. The house has no back entrance—it is built against the wall of Le Bouffay.”

“And what about your Marats, Citizen Commandant?”

“Oh! I have them all along the street—entirely under cover but closely on the watch—half a company and all keen after the game. The thousand francs you promised them has stimulated their zeal most marvellously, and as soon as Paul Friche in there has whipped up the tempers of the frequenters of the Rat Mort, we shall be ready to rush the place, and I assure you, Citizen Chauvelin, that only a disembodied ghost—if there be one in the place—will succeed in evading arrest.”

“Is Paul Friche already at his post then?”

“And at work—or I’m much mistaken,” replied Fleury as he suddenly gripped Chauvelin by the arm.

For just at this moment the silence of the winter’s night was broken by loud cries which came from the interior of the Rat Mort—voices were raised to hoarse and raucous cries—men and women all appeared to be shrieking together, and presently there was a loud crash as of overturned furniture and broken glass.

“A few minutes longer, Citizen Fleury,” said Chauvelin, as the commandant of the Marats turned on his heel and started to go back to the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie.

“Oh yes!” whispered the latter, “We’ll wait awhile longer to give the Englishmen time to arrive on the scene. The coast is clear for them—my Marats are hidden from sight behind doorways and shop-fronts of the houses opposite. In about three minutes from now I’ll send them forward.”

“And good luck to your hunting, Citizen,” whispered Chauvelin in response.

Fleury very quickly disappeared in the darkness and the other two men followed in his wake. They hugged the wall of the Rat Mort as they went along and its shadow enveloped them completely: their shoes made no sound on the unpaved ground. Chauvelin’s nostrils quivered as he drew the keen, cold air into his lungs and faced the north-westerly blast which at this moment also lashed the face of his enemy. His keen eyes tried to pierce the gloom, his ears were strained to hear that merry peal of laughter which in the unforgettable past had been wont to proclaim the presence of the reckless adventurer. He knew—he felt—as certainly as he felt the air which he breathed, that the man whom he hated beyond everything on earth was somewhere close by, wrapped in the murkiness of the night—thinking, planning, intriguing, pitting his sharp wits, his indomitable pluck, his impudent dare-devilry against the sure and patient trap which had been set for him.

Half a company of Marats in front—the walls of Le Bouffay in the rear! Chauvelin rubbed his thin hands together!

“You are not a disembodied ghost, my fine Scarlet Pimpernel,” he murmured, “and this time I really think—”

Chapter Seven - The Fracas in the Tavern

I

Yvonne had settled herself in a corner of the taproom on a bench and had tried to lose consciousness of her surroundings.

It was not easy! Glances charged with rancour were levelled at her dainty appearance—dainty and refined despite the look of starvation and of weariness on her face and the miserable state of her clothing—and not a few muttered insults waited on those glances.

As soon as she was seated Yvonne noticed that the old man and the coarse, fat woman behind the bar started an animated conversation together, of which she was very obviously the object, for the two heads—the lean and the round—were jerked more than once in her direction. Presently the man—it was George Lemoine, the proprietor of the Rat Mort—came up to where she was sitting: his lank figure was bent so that his lean back formed the best part of an arc, and an expression of mock deference further distorted his ugly face.

He came up quite close to Yvonne and she found it passing difficult not to draw away from him, for the leer on his face was appalling: his eyes, which were set very near to his hooked nose, had a horrible squint, his lips were thick and moist, and his breath reeked of alcohol.

“What will the noble lady deign to drink?” he now asked in an oily, suave voice.

And Yvonne, remembering the guide’s admonitions, contrived to smile unconcernedly into the hideous face.

“I would very much like some wine,” she said cheerfully, “but I am afraid that I have no money wherewith to pay you for it.”

The creature with a gesture of abject humility rubbed his greasy hands together.

“And may I respectfully ask,” he queried blandly, “what are the intentions of the noble lady in coming to this humble abode, if she hath no desire to partake of refreshments?”

“I am expecting friends,” replied Yvonne bravely; “they will be here very soon, and will gladly repay you lavishly for all the kindness which you may be inclined to show to me the while.”

She was very brave indeed and looked this awful misshapen specimen of a man quite boldly in the face: she even contrived to smile, though she was well aware that a number of men and women—perhaps a dozen altogether—had congregated in front of her in a compact group around the landlord, that they were nudging one another and pointing derisively—malevolently—at her. It was impossible, despite all attempts at valour, to mistake the hostile attitude of these people. Some of the most obscene words, coined during these last horrible days of the Revolution, were freely hurled at her, and one woman suddenly cried out in a shrill treble:

“Throw her out, Citizen Lemoine! We don’t want spies in here!”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Yvonne as quietly as she could, “I am no spy. I am poor and wretched like yourselves! and desperately lonely, save for the kind friends who will meet me here anon.”

“Aristos like yourself!” growled one of the men. “This is no place for you or for them.”

“No! No! This is no place for aristos,” cried one of the women in a voice which many excesses and many vices had rendered hoarse and rough. “Spy or not, we don’t want you in here. Do we?” she added as with arms akimbo she turned to face those of her own sex, who behind the men had come up in order to see what was going on.

“Throw her out, Lemoine,” reiterated a man who appeared to be an oracle amongst the others.

“Please! please let me stop here!” pleaded Yvonne; “if you turn me out I shall not know what to do: I shall not know where to meet my friends

…”

“Pretty story about those friends,” broke in Lemoine roughly. “How do I know if you’re lying or not?”

From the opposite angle of the room, the woman behind the bar had been watching the little scene with eyes that glistened with cupidity. Now she emerged from behind her stronghold of bottles and mugs and slowly waddled across the room. She pushed her way unceremoniously past her customers, elbowing men, women and children vigorously aside with a deft play of her large, muscular arms. Having reached the forefront of the little group she came to a standstill immediately in front of Yvonne, and crossing her mighty arms over her ponderous chest she eyed the “aristo” with unconcealed malignity.

“We do know that the slut is lying—that is where you make the mistake, Lemoine. A slut, that’s what she is—and the friend whom she’s going to meet…? Well!” she added, turning with an ugly leer towards the other women, “we all know what sort of friend that one is likely to be, eh, mesdames? Bringing evil fame on this house, that’s what the wench is after…so as to bring the police about our ears…I wouldn’t trust her, not another minute. Out with you and at once—do you hear?…this instant…Lemoine has parleyed quite long enough with you already!”

Despite all her resolutions Yvonne was terribly frightened. While the hideous old hag talked and screamed and waved her coarse, red arms about, the unfortunate young girl with a great effort of will, kept repeating to herself: “I am not frightened—I must not be frightened. He assured me that these people would do me no harm…” But now when the woman had ceased speaking there was a general murmur of:

“Throw her out! Spy or aristo we don’t want her here!” whilst some of the men added significantly: “I am sure that she is one of Carrier’s spies and in league with his Marats! We shall have those devils in here in a moment if we don’t look out! Throw her out before she can signal to the Marats!”

Ugly faces charged with hatred and virulence were thrust threateningly forward—one or two of the women were obviously looking forward to joining in the scramble, when this “stuck-up wench” would presently be hurled out into the street.

“Now then, my girl, out you get,” concluded the woman Lemoine, as with an expressive gesture she proceeded to roll her sleeves higher up her arm. She was about to lay her dirty hands on Yvonne, and the poor girl was nearly sick with horror, when one of the men—a huge, coarse giant, whose muscular torso, covered with grease and grime showed almost naked through a ragged shirt which hung from his shoulders in strips—seized the woman Lemoine by the arm and dragged her back a step or two away from Yvonne.

“Don’t be a fool, petit mθre,” he said, accompanying this admonition with a blasphemous oath. “Slut or no, the wench may as well pay you something for the privilege of staying here. Look at that cloak she’s wearing—the shoe-leather on her feet. Aren’t they worth a bottle of your sour wine?”

“What’s that to you, Paul Friche?” retorted the woman roughly, as with a vigorous gesture she freed her arm from the man’s grasp. “Is this my house or yours?”

“Yours, of course,” replied the man with a coarse laugh and a still coarser jest, “but this won’t be the first time that I have saved you from impulsive folly. Yesterday you were for harbouring a couple of rogues who were Marats in disguise: if I hadn’t given you warning, you would now have swallowed more water from the Loire than you would care to hold. But for me two days ago you would have received the goods pinched by Fertι out of Balaze’s shop, and been thrown to the fishes in consequence for the entertainment of the proconsul and his friends. You must admit that I’ve been a good friend to you before now.”

“And if you have, Paul Friche,” retorted the hag obstinately, “I paid you well for your friendship, both yesterday and the day before, didn’t I?”

“You did,” assented Friche imperturbably. “That’s why I want to serve you again to-night.”

“Don’t listen to him, petit mθre,” interposed one or two out of the crowd. “He is a white-livered skunk to talk to you like that.”

“Very well! Very well!” quoth Paul Friche, and he spat vigorously on the ground in token that henceforth he divested himself from any responsibility in this matter, “don’t listen to me. Lose a benefit of twenty, perhaps forty francs for the sake of a bit of fun. Very well! Very well!” he continued as he turned and slouched out of the group to the farther end of the room, where he sat down on a barrel. He drew the stump of a clay pipe out of the pocket of his breeches, stuffed it into his mouth, stretched his long legs out before him and sucked away at his pipe with complacent detachment. “I didn’t know,” he added with biting sarcasm by way of a parting shot, “that you and Lemoine had come into a fortune recently and that forty or fifty francs are nothing to you now.”