“Ten thousand devils,” he cried hoarsely, “who is this fool who dares to interfere with me? Stand aside man … stand aside or …”
And before Chauvelin could utter another word or Martin-Roget come to his colleague’s rescue, there came the sudden sharp report of a pistol; the horses reared, the crowd was scattered in every direction, Chauvelin was knocked over by a smart blow on the head whilst a vigorous drag on his shoulder alone saved him from falling under the wheels of the coach.
Whilst confusion was at its highest, the carriage door was closed to with a bang and there was a loud, commanding cry hurled through the window at the coachman on his box.
“En avant, citizen coachman! Drive for your life! through the Savenay gate. The English assassins are on our heels.”
The postilion cracked his whip. The horses, maddened by the report, by the pushing, jostling crowd and the confused cries and screams around, plunged forward, wild with excitement. Their hoofs clattered on the hard road. Some of the crowd ran after the coach across the Place, shouting lustily: “The proconsul! the proconsul!”
Chauvelin—dazed and bruised—was picked up by Martin-Roget.
“The cowardly brute!” was all that he said between his teeth, “he shall rue this outrage as soon as I can give my mind to his affairs. In the meanwhile …”
The clatter of the horses’ hoofs was already dying away in the distance. For a few seconds longer the rattle of the coach was still accompanied by cries of “The proconsul! the proconsul!” Fleury at the bridge head, seeing and hearing its approach, had only just time to order his Marats to stand at attention. A salvo should have been fired when the representative of the people, the high and mighty proconsul, was abroad, but there was no time for that, and the coach clattered over the bridge at breakneck speed, whilst Carrier with his head out of the window was hurling anathemas and insults at Fleury for having allowed the paid spies of that cursed British Government to threaten the life of a representative of the people.
“I go to Savenay,” he shouted just at the last, “until that assassin has been thrown in the Loire. But when I return … look to yourself commandant Fleury.”
Then the carriage turned down the Quai de la Fosse and a few minutes later was swallowed up by the gloom.
IV
Chauvelin, supported by Martin-Roget, was hobbling back across the Place. The crowd was still standing about, vaguely wondering why it had got so excited over the departure of the proconsul and the rattle of a coach and pair across the bridge, when on the island there was still an assassin at large—an English spy, the capture of whom would be one of the great events in the chronicles of the city of Nantes.
“I think,” said Martin-Roget, “that we may as well go to bed now, and leave the rest to commandant Fleury. The Englishman may not be captured for some hours, and I for one am overfatigued.”
“Then go to bed an you desire, citizen Martin-Roget,” retorted Chauvelin drily, “I for one will stay here until I see the Englishman in the hands of commandant Fleury.”
“Hark,” interposed Martin-Roget abruptly. “What was that?”
Chauvelin had paused even before Martin-Roget’s restraining hand had rested on his arm. He stood still in the middle of the Place and his knees shook under him so that he nearly fell prone to the ground.
“What is it?” reiterated Martin-Roget with vague puzzlement. “It sounds like young Lalouët’s voice.”
Chauvelin said nothing. He had forgotten his bruises: he no longer hobbled—he ran across the Place to the front of the hotel whence the voice had come which was so like that of young Lalouët.
The youngster—it was undoubtedly he—was standing at the angle of the hotel: above him a lantern threw a dim circle of light on his bare head with its mass of dark curls, and on a small knot of idlers with two or three of the town guard amongst them. The first words spoken by him which Chauvelin distinguished quite clearly were:
“You are all mad … or else drunk. … The citizen proconsul is upstairs in his room … He has just sent me down to hear what news there is of the English spies …”
V
No one made reply. It seemed as if some giant and spectral hand had passed over this mass of people and with its magic touch had stilled their turbulent passions, silenced their imprecations and cooled their ardour—and left naught but a vague fear, a subtle sense of awe as when something unexplainable and supernatural has manifested itself before the eyes of men.
From far away the roll of coach wheels rapidly disappearing in the distance alone broke the silence of the night.
“Is there no one here who will explain what all this means?” queried young Lalouët, who alone had remained self-assured and calm, for he alone knew nothing of what had happened. “Citizen Fleury, are you there?”
Then as once again he received no reply, he added peremptorily:
“Hey! someone there! Are you all louts and oafs that not one of you can speak?”
A timid voice from the rear ventured on explanation.
“The citizen proconsul was here a moment ago … We all saw him, and you citizen Lalouët were with him …”
An imprecation from young Lalouët silenced the timid voice for the nonce … and then another resumed the halting narrative.
“We all could have sworn that we saw you, citizen Lalouët, also the citizen proconsul. … He got into his coach with you … you … that is … they have driven off …”
“This is some awful and treacherous hoax,” cried the youngster now in a towering passion; “the citizen proconsul is upstairs in bed, I tell you … and I have only just come out of the hotel … ! Name of a name of a dog! am
