Lord Tony's Wife (5 page)

Without waiting to hear any further protests from the lout, he turned into the porch and with his riding whip gave three consecutive raps against the door of the inn, followed by two more. The next moment there was the sound of rattling of bolts and chains, the door was cautiously opened and a timid voice queried:

‘Is it Mounzeer?’

‘Pardieu! Who else?’ growled the stranger. ‘Open the door, woman. I am perished with cold.’

With an unceremonious kick he pushed the door further open and strode in. A woman was standing in the dimly lighted passage. As the stranger walked in she bobbed him a respectful curtsey.

‘It is all right, Mounzeer,’ she said; ‘the Captain’s in the coffee-room. He came over from Bristol early this afternoon.’

‘No one else here, I hope,’ he queried curtly.

‘No one, zir. It ain’t their hour not yet. You’ll ‘ave the ‘ouse to yourself till after midnight. After that there’ll be a bustle, I reckon. Two shiploads come into Watchet last night—brandy and cloth, Mounzeer, so the Captain says, and worth a mint o’ money. The pack ‘orzes will be through yere in the small hours.’

‘That’s all right, then. Send me in a bite and a mug of hot ale.’

‘I’ll see to it, Mounzeer.’

‘And stay—have you some sort of stabling where the man can put the two horses up for an hour’s rest?’

‘Aye, aye, zir.’

‘Very well then, see to that too: and see that the horses get a feed and a drink and give the man something to eat.’

‘Very good, Mounzeer. This way, zir. I’ll see the man presently. Straight down the passage, zir. The coffee-room is on the right. The Captain’s there, waiting for ye.’

She closed the front door carefully, then followed the stranger to the door of the coffee-room. Outside an anxious voice was heard muttering a string of inconsequent and wholly superfluous ‘Whoa’s!’ Of a truth the two wearied nags were only too anxious for a little rest.

A man was sitting, huddled up in the ingle-nook of the small coffee-room, sipping hot ale from a tankard which he had in his hand.

Anything less suggestive of a rough sea-faring life than his appearance it would be difficult to conceive; and how he came by the appellation ‘the Captain’ must for ever remain a mystery. He was small and spare, with thin delicate face and slender hands: though dressed in very rough garments, he was obviously ill at east in them; his narrow shoulders scarcely appeared able to bear the weight of the coarsely made coat and his thin legs did not begin to fill the big fisherman’s boots which reached midway up his lean thighs. His hair was lank and plentifully sprinkled with gray: he wore it tied at the nape of the neck with a silk bow which certainly did not harmonize with the rest of his clothing. A wide-brimmed felt hat something the shape of a sailor’s, but with higher crown—of the shape worn by the peasantry in Brittany–lay on the bench beside him.

When the stranger entered he had greeted him curtly, speaking in French.

The room was inexpressibly stuffy, and reeked of the fumes of stale tobacco, stale victuals and stale beer; but it was warm, and the stranger, stiff to the marrow and wet to the skin, uttered an exclamation of well-being as he turned to the hearth, wherein a bright fire burned cheerily. He had put his hat down when first he entered and had divested himself of his big coat: now he held one foot and then the other to the blaze and tried to infuse new life into his numbed hands.

‘The Captain’ took scant notice of his comings and goings. He did not attempt to help him off with his coat, nor did he make an effort to add another log to the fire. He sat silent and practically motionless, save when from time to time he took a sip out of his mug of ale. But whenever the new-comer came within his immediate circle of vision he shot a glance at the latter’s elegant attire—the well-cut coat, the striped waistcoat, the boots of fine leather–the glance was quick and comprehensive and full of scorn, a flash that lasted only an instant and was at once veiled again by the droop of the flaccid lids which hid the pale, keen eyes.

‘When the woman has brought me something to eat and drink,’ the stranger said after a while, ‘we can talk. I have a good hour to spare, as those miserable nags must have some rest.’

He too spoke in French and with an air of authority, not to say arrogance, which caused ‘the Captain’s’ glance of scorn to light up with an added gleam of hate and almost of cruelty. But he made no remark and continued to sip his ale in silence, and for the next half-hour the two men took no more notice of one another, just as if they had never travelled all those miles and come to this desolate spot for the sole purpose of speaking with one another. During the course of that half-hour the woman brought in a dish of mutton stew, a chunk of bread, a piece of cheese and a jug of spiced ale, and placed them on the table: all of these good things the stranger consumed with an obviously keen appetite. When he had eaten and drunk his fill, he rose from the table, drew a bench into the ingle-nook and sat down so that his profile only was visible to his friend ‘the Captain.’

‘Now, citizen Chauvelin,’ he said with an attempt at ease and familiarity not unmixed with condescension, ‘I am ready for your news.’

II

Chauvelin had winced perceptibly both at the condescension and the familiarity. It was such a very little while ago that men had trembled at a look, a word from him: his silence had been wont to strike terror in quaking hearts. It was such a very little while ago that he had been president of the Committee of Public Safety, all powerful, the right hand of citizen Robespierre, the master sleuth-hound who could track an unfortunate ‘suspect’ down to his most hidden lair, before whose keen, pale eyes the innermost secrets of a soul stood revealed, who guessed at treason ere it was wholly born, who scented treachery ere it was formulated. A year ago he had with a word sent scores of men, women and children to the guillotine—he had with a sign brought the whole machinery of the ruthless Committee to work against innocent of guilty alike on mere suspicion, or to gratify his own hatred against all those whom he considered to be the enemies of that bloody revolution which he had helped to make. Now his presence, his silence, had not even the power to ruffle the self-assurance of an upstart.

But in the hard school both of success and of failure through which he had passed during the last decade, there was one lesson which Armand once Marquis de Chauvelin had learned to the last letter, and that was the lesson of self-control. He had winced at the other’s familiarity, but neither by word nor gesture did he betray what he felt.

‘I can tell you,’ he merely said quite curtly, ‘all I have to say in far less time than it has taken you to eat and drink, citizen Adet…’

But suddenly, at sound of that name, the other had put a warning hand on Chauvelin’s arm, even as he cast a rapid, anxious look all around the narrow room.

‘Hush, man!’ he murmured hurriedly, ‘you know quite well that that name must never be pronounced here in England. I am Martin-Roget now,’ he added, as he shook off his momentary fright with equal suddenness, and once more resumed his tone of easy condescension, ‘and try not to forget it.’

Chauvelin without any haste quietly freed his arm from the other’s grasp. His pale face was quite expressionless, only the thin lips were drawn tightly over the teeth now, and a curious hissing sound escaped faintly from them as he said:

‘I’ll try and remember, citizen, that here in England you are an aristo, the same as all these confounded English whom may the devil sweep into a bottomless sea.’

Martin-Roget gave a short, complacent laugh.

‘Ah,’ he said lightly, ‘no wonder you hate them, citizen Chauvelin. You too were an aristo here in England once—not so very long ago, I am thinking–special envoy to His Majesty King George, what?—until failure to bring one of these satanι Britishers to book made you… er…well, made you what you are now.’

He drew up his tall, broad figure as he spoke and squared his massive shoulders as he looked down with a fatuous smile and no small measure of scorn on the hunched-up little figure beside him. It had seemed to him that something in the nature of a threat had crept into Chauvelin’s attitude, and he, still flushed with his own importance, his immeasurable belief in himself, at once chose to measure his strength against this man who was the personification of failure and disgrace–this man whom so many people had feared for so long and whom it might not be wise to defy even now.

‘No offence meant, citizen Chauvelin,’ he added with an air of patronage which once more made the other wince. ‘I had no wish to wound your susceptibilities. I only desired to give you timely warning that what I do here is no one’s concern, and that I will brook interference and criticism from no man.’

And Chauvelin, who in the past had oft with a nod sent a man to the guillotine, made no reply to this arrogant taunt. His small figure seemed to shrink still further within itself: and anon he passed his think, clawlike hand over his face as if to obliterate from its surface any expression which might war with the utter humility wherewith he now spoke.

‘Nor was there any offence meant on my part, citizen Martin-Roget,’ he said suavely. ‘Do we not both labour for the same end? The glory of the Republic and the destruction of her foes?’

Martin-Roget gave a sigh of satisfaction. The battle had been won: he felt himself strong again–stronger than before through that very act of deference paid to him by the once all-powerful Chauvelin. Now he was quite prepared to be condescending and jovial once again:

‘Of course, of course,’ he said pleasantly, as he once more bent his tall figure to the fire. ‘We are both servants of the Republic, and I may yet help you to retrieve your past failures, citizen, by giving you an active part in the work I have in hand. And now,’ he added in a calm, business-like manner, the manner of a master addressing a servant who has been found at fault and is taken into favour again, ‘let me hear your news.’

‘I have made all the arrangements about the ship,’ said Chauvelin quietly.

‘Ah! that is good news indeed. What is she?’

‘She is a Dutch ship. Her master and crew are all Dutch…’

‘That’s a pity. A Danish master and crew would have been safer.’

‘I could not come across any Danish ship willing to take the risks,’ said Chauvelin dryly.

‘Well! And what about this Dutch ship then?’

‘She is called the Hollandia and is habitually engaged in the sugar trade: but her master does a lot of contraband–more that than fair trading, I imagine: anyway, he is willing for the sum you originally named to take every risk and incidentally to hold his tongue about the whole business.’

‘For two thousand francs?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he will run the Hollandia into Le Croisic?’

‘When you command.’

‘And there is suitable accommodation on board her for a lady and her woman?’

‘I don’t know what you call suitable,’ said Chauvelin with a sarcastic tone, which the other failed or was unwilling to note, ‘and I don’t know what you call a lady. The accommodation available on board the Hollandia will be sufficient for two men and two women.’

‘And her master’s name?’ queried Martin-Roget.

‘Some outlandish Dutch name,’ replied Chauvelin. ‘It is spelt K U Y P E R. The devil only knows how it is pronounced.’

‘Well! And does Captain K U Y P E R understand exactly what I want?’

‘He says he does. The Hollandia will put into Portishead on the last day of this month. You and your guests can get aboard her any day after that you choose. She will be there at your disposal, and can start within an hour of your getting aboard. Her master will have all his papers ready. He will have a cargo of West Indian sugar on board—destination Amsterdam, consignee Mynheer van Smeer–everything perfectly straight and square. French aristos, ιmigrιs on board on their way to join the army of the Princes. There will be on difficulty in England.’

‘And none in Le Croisic. The man is running no risks.’

‘He thinks he is. France does not make Dutch ships and Dutch crews exactly welcome just now, does she?’

‘Certainly not. But in Le Croisic and with citizen Adet on board…’

‘I thought that name was not to be mentioned here,’ retorted Chauvelin dryly.

‘You are right, citizen,’ whispered the other, ‘it escaped me and…’

Already he had jumped to his feet: his face suddenly pale, his whole manner changed from easy, arrogant self-assurance to uncertainty and obvious dread. He moved to the window, trying to subdue the sound of his footsteps upon the uneven floor.

III

‘Are you afraid of eavesdroppers, citizen Roget?’ queried Chauvelin with a shrug of his narrow shoulders.

‘No. There is no one there. Only a lout from Chelwood who brought me here. The people of the house are safe enough. They have plenty of secrets of their own to keep.’

He was obviously saying all this in order to reassure himself, for there was no doubt that his fears were on the alert. With a febrile gesture he unfastened the shutters, and pushed them open, peering out into the night.

‘Hallo!’ he called.

But he received no answer.

‘It has started to rain,’ he said more calmly. ‘I imagine that lout has found shelter in an outhouse with the horses.’

‘Very likely,’ commented Chauvelin laconically.

‘Then if you have nothing more to tell me,’ quoth Martin-Roget, ‘I may as well think about getting back. Rain or no rain, I want to be in Bath before midnight.’

‘Ball or supper-party at one of your duchesses?’ queried the other with a sneer. ‘I know them.’

To this Martin-Roget vouchsafed no reply.

‘How are things at Nantes?’ he asked.

‘Splendid! Carrier is like a wild beast let loose. The prisons are overfull: the surplus of accused, condemned and suspect fills the cellars and warehouses along the wharf. Priests and such like trash are kept on disused galliots up stream. The guillotine is never idle, and friend Carrier fearing that she might give out–get tired, what?–or break down–has invented a wonderful way of getting rid of shoals of undesirable people at one magnificent swoop. You have heard tell of it no doubt.’