After crossing a wide vestibule and turning on the right into a long paved corridor, Lieutenant Godet came to a halt before a door which bore the legend: “Committee of Public Safety, Section III.” Beside the door another soldier, also in very shabby uniform, stood leaning upon his bayonet. Fleurette, overawed by the vastness and silence of the place, gazed with vague terror at this man who without uttering a word had put his bayonet athwart the door and held it there, barring the way, motionless as a statue. Lieutenant Godet then spoke to him:
“The citizeness,” he said, “is the daughter of Citizen Chauvelin. She desires to speak with him!”
The daughter of Citizen Chauvelin? What did the man mean? Fleurette, puzzled and frowning, pulled him by the sleeve. She was the daughter of Citizen Armand: she’d never heard the name of Chauvelin before. Nevertheless the soldier on guard lowered his bayonet. Godet pushed open the door and the next moment Fleurette found herself facing a large desk which was covered with papers, and behind which Bibi was sitting, writing. A voice said loudly:
“Citizen Chauvelin, here’s your daughter come to see you.”
Whereupon Bibi raised his head and looked at her, staring as if he had seen a ghost.
Forgetting everything save the joy of seeing chéri Bibi at last, Fleurette gave a glad little cry, ran round the table, and came to halt on her knees beside Bibi’s chair, with her arms round his neck.
She felt so glad, so glad, that she was ready to cry.
“Bibi,” she said softly, whispering in his ear, “chéri Bibi, are you not glad to see me?”
XIX
At sight of Fleurette, Chauvelin had stared as if he had seen a ghost. He did not trust his eyes: they were obviously playing him a trick. It was only a second or two later that he realized it was indeed the child, come, heaven only knew why and how, but here in this awful city where treachery, hatred and cruelty were holding sway under his own command.
Half-dazed, he yielded to the caresses of this one being in the whole wide world whom his tigerish heart had ever loved. His arms closed round her beloved form, whose sweet breath as of thyme and violets filled his soul with joy. Then, looking up he saw Louise standing there: silent, stolid, mutely accusing, and he asked roughly:
“How the hell did you both get here?”
Louise shrugged her shoulders.
“By the coche,” she said, “from Sisteron.”
“I know,” he rejoined. “But why did you come?”
“Ask her,” Louise replied curtly. “She would come. I could not let her travel alone.”
Bibi’s two hands were clasped round Fleurette’s head, his fingers were buried in her hair: he pressed that dearly beloved head closer and closer to his breast; joy at sight of her had already given place to terror. What was the child doing here? How and why had she come? He had kept her so completely aloof from his real life, that it seemed to him that some awful cataclysm must have occurred over in that peaceful home in Dauphiné, else she were not here.
His pale, restless eyes searched Louise’s impassive face:
“Who brought you here?” he reiterated roughly.
“An officer in a draggle-tailed uniform,” Louise replied, still speaking curtly, whilst with a glance that was distinctly hostile her eyes swept round the room. “I thought,” she added, “that he followed us into the room.”
“What was he like?”
She described him as closely as she could, and then added: “I don’t remember his name.”
She too had heard the name “Chauvelin” spoken by the soldier and for a moment had pondered. Marvelled. In her downright peasant mind, vague doubts, doubts that were eighteen years old now, turned to more definite suspicions. She knew well enough that some kind of mystery hung around the personality of Fleurette’s father; she knew for instance that he was really a wealthy and highborn gentleman; but eighteen years ago, in the days of the old regime, the fact that a highborn gentleman chose to hide a love-romance from the eyes of his equally highborn friends was not an infrequent occurrence. If at any time during the past eighteen years she had learned that M’sieu’ Armand was really a great Duke or Prince or Ambassador, she would have been neither surprised nor suspicious. But Chauvelin!!! For the past three years whenever rumours of cruelty or ruthless persecution of innocent men and women had penetrated to these distant corners of Dauphiné or Provence, the name of Armand Chauvelin had stood out as the protagonist of these terrible tragedies; people spoke of Danton the lion of the revolution, and also of Marat its tiger, of Robespierre and of Chauvelin.
Chauvelin!!!
And he, meeting her glance, understood what went on in her mind. As to this he was indifferent. What Louise thought of him was less than nothing. It was the child that mattered now: the child who clung to him quivering with excitement. The terror in his heart grew in intensity: it gripped him till he felt physically sick. The mad dogs of hatred and cruelty, which he himself had helped to unchain, seemed to be snarling at him and threatening his Fleurette. With a hand that trembled visibly, he stroked the pretty golden hair.
“Now, little one,” he said, steadying his voice as much as he could, “are you going to tell me why you’ve come?”
Fleurette struggled to her feet. Self-possessed she stood before her father and said firmly:
“Chéri
