“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 round 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 satané 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 thin, claw-like 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, businesslike 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, émigrés on board on their way to join the army of the Princes. There will be no 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
