The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy [most popular novels .TXT] 📗

shaking, he held out before him, as if to ward off some horrible apparition.

This trance-like state made up of a ghastly fear and a sense of the most hideous, most unearthly impotence, lasted for several seconds. The men themselves were frightened. Unable to understand what had happened, they thought that citizen Chauvelin, whom they all knew by sight, had suddenly lost his reason or was possessed of a devil. For in truth there was nothing about poor old Rateau to frighten a child!

Fortunately the tension was over before real panic had seized on any of them. The next moment Chauvelin had pulled himself together with one of those mighty efforts of will of which strong natures are always capable. With an impatient gesture he passed his hand across his brow, then backwards and forwards in front of his face, as if to chase away the demon of terror that obsessed him. He gazed on Rateau for a moment or two, his eyes travelling over the uncouth, semiconscious figure of the coalheaver with a searching, undefinable glance. Then, as if suddenly struck with an idea, he spoke to the man nearest him:

“Sergeant Chazot? Is he at the Arsenal?”

“Yes, citizen,” the man replied.

“Run across quickly then,” Chauvelin continued; “and bring him hither at once.”

The soldier obeyed, and a few more minutes⁠—ten, perhaps⁠—went by in silence. Rateau, weary, cursing, not altogether in full possession of his faculties, sat huddled up on the barrel, his bleary eyes following every movement of citizen Chauvelin with an anxious, furtive gaze. The latter was pacing up and down the stone floor, like a caged, impatient animal. From time to time he paused, either to peer out into the open in the direction of the Arsenal, or to search the dark angles of the storeroom, kicking the piles of rubbish about with his foot.

IV

Anon he uttered a sigh of satisfaction. The soldier had returned, was even now in the doorway with a comrade⁠—a short, thickset, powerful-looking fellow⁠—beside him.

“Sergeant Chazot!” Chauvelin said abruptly.

“At your commands, citizen!” the sergeant replied, and at a sign from the other followed him to the most distant corner of the room.

“Bend your ear and listen,” Chauvelin murmured peremptorily. “I don’t want those fools to hear.” And, having assured himself that he and Chazot could speak without being overheard, he pointed to Rateau, then went on rapidly: “You will take this lout over to the cavalry barracks. See the veterinary. Tell him⁠—”

He paused, as if unable to proceed. His lips were trembling, his face, ashen-white, looked spectral in the gloom. Chazot, not understand, waited patiently.

“That lout,” Chauvelin resumed more steadily after a while, “is in collusion with a gang of dangerous English spies. One Englishman especially⁠—tall, and a master of histrionics⁠—uses this man as a kind of double. Perhaps you heard⁠ ⁠… ?”

Chazot nodded.

“I know, citizen,” he said sagely. “The Fraternal Supper in the Rue St. Honoré. Comrades have told me that no one could tell who was Rateau the coalheaver and who the English milor.”

“Exactly!” Chauvelin rejoined dryly, quite firmly now. “Therefore, I want to make sure. The veterinary, you understand? He brands the horses for the cavalry. I want a brand on this lout’s arm. Just a letter⁠ ⁠… a distinguishing mark⁠ ⁠…”

Chazot gave an involuntary gasp.

“But, citizen⁠—!” he exclaimed.

“Eh? What?” the other retorted sharply. “In the service of the Republic there is no ‘but,’ Sergeant Chazot.”

“I know that, citizen,” Chazot, abashed, murmured humbly. “I only meant⁠ ⁠… it seems so strange⁠ ⁠…”

“Stranger things than that occur every day in Paris, my friend,” Chauvelin said dryly. “We brand horses that are the property of the State; why not a man? Time may come,” he added with a vicious snarl, “when the Republic may demand that every local citizen carry⁠—indelibly branded in his flesh and by order of the State⁠—the sign of his own allegiance.”

“ ’Tis not for me to argue, citizen,” Chazot rejoined, with a careless shrug of the shoulders. “If you tell me to take citizen Rateau over to the veterinary at the cavalry barracks and have him branded like cattle, why⁠ ⁠…”

“Not like cattle, citizen,” Chauvelin broke in blandly. “You shall commence proceedings by administering to citizen Rateau a whole bottle of excellent eau-de-vie, at the Government’s expense. Then, when he is thoroughly and irretrievably drunk, the veterinary will put the brand upon his left forearm⁠ ⁠… just one letter⁠ ⁠… Why, the drunken reprobate will never feel it!”

“As you command, citizen,” Chazot assented with perfect indifference. “I am not responsible. I do as I’m told.”

“Like the fine soldier that you are, citizen Chazot!” Chauvelin concluded. “And I know that I can trust to your discretion.”

“Oh, as to that⁠—!”

“It would not serve you to be otherwise; that’s understood. So now, my friend, get you gone with the lout; and take these few words of instructions with you, for the citizen veterinary.”

He took tablet and point from his pocket and scribbled a few words; signed it “Chauvelin” with that elegant flourish which can be traced to this day on so many secret orders that emanated from the Committee of Public Safety during the two years of its existence.

Chazot took the written order and slipped it into his pocket. Then he turned on his heel and briefly gave the necessary orders to the men. Once more they hoisted the helpless giant up on his feet. Rateau was willing enough to go. He was willing to do anything so long as they took him away from here, away from the presence of that small devil with the haggard face and the pale, piercing eyes. He allowed himself to be conducted out of the building without a murmur.

Chauvelin watched the little party⁠—the six men, the asthmatic coalheaver and lastly the sergeant⁠—file out of the place, then cross the Rue de la Planchette and take the turning opposite, the one that led through the Porte and the Rue St. Antoine to the cavalry barracks in the Quartier Bastille. After which, he carefully closed the double outside doors and, guided by instinct since the place