El Dorado, Baroness Orczy [read the beginning after the end novel .TXT] 📗

his wont⁠—close to the table, with one arm leaning on it, the other, tightly clenched, resting upon his knee. A ghost of a smile hovered round his lips.

“Not in an hour, citizen Héron,” he said, and his voice flow was scarce above a whisper, “nor yet in two.”

“You are a fool, man,” said Héron roughly. “You have had seventeen days of this. Are you not sick of it?”

“Heartily, my dear friend,” replied Blakeney a little more firmly.

“Seventeen days,” reiterated the other, nodding his shaggy head; “you came here on the 2nd of Pluviôse, today is the 19th.”

“The 19th Pluviôse?” interposed Sir Percy, and a strange gleam suddenly flashed in his eyes. “Demn it, sir, and in Christian parlance what may that day be?”

“The 7th of February at your service, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin quietly.

“I thank you, sir. In this d⁠⸺⁠d hole I had lost count of time.”

Chauvelin, unlike his rough and blundering colleague, had been watching the prisoner very closely for the last moment or two, conscious of a subtle, undefinable change that had come over the man during those few seconds while he, Chauvelin, had thought him dying. The pose was certainly the old familiar one, the head erect, the hand clenched, the eyes looking through and beyond the stone walls; but there was an air of listlessness in the stoop of the shoulders, and⁠—except for that one brief gleam just now⁠—a look of more complete weariness round the hollow eyes! To the keen watcher it appeared as if that sense of living power, of unconquered will and defiant mind was no longer there, and as if he himself need no longer fear that almost supersensual thrill which had a while ago kindled in him a vague sense of admiration⁠—almost of remorse.

Even as he gazed, Blakeney slowly turned his eyes full upon him. Chauvelin’s heart gave a triumphant bound.

With a mocking smile he met the wearied look, the pitiable appeal. His turn had come at last⁠—his turn to mock and to exult. He knew that what he was watching now was no longer the last phase of a long and noble martyrdom; it was the end⁠—the inevitable end⁠—that for which he had schemed and striven, for which he had schooled his heart to ferocity and callousness that were devilish in their intensity. It was the end indeed, the slow descent of a soul from the giddy heights of attempted self-sacrifice, where it had striven to soar for a time, until the body and the will both succumbed together and dragged it down with them into the abyss of submission and of irreparable shame.

XXXVI Submission

Silence reigned in the narrow cell for a few moments, whilst two human jackals stood motionless over their captured prey.

A savage triumph gleamed in Chauvelin’s eyes, and even Héron, dull and brutal though he was, had become vaguely conscious of the great change that had come over the prisoner.

Blakeney, with a gesture and a sigh of hopeless exhaustion had once more rested both his elbows on the table; his head fell heavy and almost lifeless downward in his arms.

“Curse you, man!” cried Héron almost involuntarily. “Why in the name of hell did you wait so long?”

Then, as the prisoner made no reply, but only raised his head slightly, and looked on the other two men with dulled, wearied eyes, Chauvelin interposed calmly:

“More than a fortnight has been wasted in useless obstinacy, Sir Percy. Fortunately it is not too late.”

“Capet?” said Héron hoarsely, “tell us, where is Capet?”

He leaned across the table, his eyes were bloodshot with the keenness of his excitement, his voice shook with the passionate desire for the crowning triumph.

“If you’ll only not worry me,” murmured the prisoner; and the whisper came so laboriously and so low that both men were forced to bend their ears close to the scarcely moving lips; “if you will let me sleep and rest, and leave me in peace⁠—”

“The peace of the grave, man,” retorted Chauvelin roughly; “if you will only speak. Where is Capet?”

“I cannot tell you; the way is long, the road⁠—intricate.”

“Bah!”

“I’ll lead you to him, if you will give me rest.”

“We don’t want you to lead us anywhere,” growled Héron with a smothered curse; “tell us where Capet is; we’ll find him right enough.”

“I cannot explain; the way is intricate; the place off the beaten track, unknown except to me and my friends.”

Once more that shadow, which was so like the passing of the hand of Death, overspread the prisoner’s face; his head rolled back against the chair.

“He’ll die before he can speak,” muttered Chauvelin under his breath. “You usually are well provided with brandy, citizen Héron.”

The latter no longer demurred. He saw the danger as clearly as did his colleague. It had been hell’s own luck if the prisoner were to die now when he seemed ready to give in. He produced a flask from the pocket of his coat, and this he held to Blakeney’s lips.

“Beastly stuff,” murmured the latter feebly. “I think I’d sooner faint⁠—than drink.”

“Capet? where is Capet?” reiterated Héron impatiently.

“One⁠—two⁠—three hundred leagues from here. I must let one of my friends know; he’ll communicate with the others; they must be prepared,” replied the prisoner slowly.

Héron uttered a blasphemous oath.

“Where is Capet? Tell us where Capet is, or⁠—”

He was like a raging tiger that had thought to hold its prey and suddenly realised that it was being snatched from him. He raised his fist, and without doubt the next moment he would have silenced forever the lips that held the precious secret, but Chauvelin fortunately was quick enough to seize his wrist.

“Have a care, citizen,” he said peremptorily; “have a care! You called me a fool just now when you thought I had killed the prisoner. It is his secret we want first; his death can follow afterwards.”

“Yes, but not in this d⁠⸺⁠d hole,” murmured Blakeney.

“On the guillotine if you’ll speak,” cried Héron, whose exasperation was getting the better of his self-interest, “but if you’ll not speak