He frowned, more puzzled then before, angered with himself for being so dull-witted, for not making a guess at what had brought the child along. His mind just before she came had been so completely absorbed in the latest adventure of his arch-enemy the Scarlet Pimpernel, that the presence of Fleurette, here and now, had been for him like a sudden stunning blow on the head. He felt dazed and stupid: unable to turn his thoughts into this fresh channel.
“Fleurette, my darling,” he pleaded, “try and tell me more clearly. I don’t understand. What do you mean by righting a wrong? What wrong?”
“Why,” she replied simply, “the arrest of M’sieu’ Amédé for a crime which he did not commit.”
“You knew M’sieu’ Amédé had been arrested?” she insisted.
Yes, he knew that. The mock arrest of young Colombe was one of the tricks played on that fool Godet by those impudent English spies. But what had Fleurette’s presence here to do with that?
She was trying to explain.
“Then you know, chéri Bibi,” she was saying in that sweet eager way of hers, “that some valuables belonging to Madame over at the château were found in the shed behind M’sieu’ Colombe’s shop?”
Yes, he knew that too. But what had she … ?
“And that the soldiers accused M’sieu’ Amédé of having stolen them?”
A sigh of relief escaped him. He was beginning to understand. Nothing to worry about apparently. Indeed he might have guessed. The child had come to plead for that young fool Amédé, and—
“And what I had come to tell you, chéri Bibi,” she went on glibly, “is that it is not Amédé who stole the things belonging to Madame.”
She paused for a second or two. What she was about to say required courage: and how Bibi would take it she did not know. But Fleurette had come all the way from Lou Mas, had journeyed three days, so that Bibi might right a great wrong, as only he could do, and, once more sinking on her knees beside her father’s chair, she added in a clear voice, rendered somewhat shrill with excitement:
“I stole the valuables out of Madame’s room, chéri Bibi.”
With a hoarse cry he clapped his hand against her mouth. My God, if someone had heard! The guard outside, or one of these innumerable spies whom he himself had set in motion, and whose ears were trained to penetrate through the most solid walls.
His pale eyes in which now lurked a kind of vague terror, wandered furtively round the room, whilst Louise, equally horrified and frightened, exclaimed almost involuntarily:
“The child is mad, M’sieu’, do not listen to her.”
Fleurette alone remained self-possessed: she was still on her knees, but at Bibi’s rough gesture she had fallen back steadying herself with one hand against the floor. Slowly, noiselessly, Chauvelin had risen and tiptoed across the room, Louise, wide-eyed and scared, following his every movement. They were furtive like those of a cat on the prowl, and his face was the colour of ashes. He went to the door and abruptly pulled it open. Outside the soldier on guard was quietly chatting with Lieutenant Godet; at sight of Citizen Chauvelin they stood at attention and saluted.
“Go and tell Captain Moisson over at the barracks,” Chauvelin said curtly, addressing Godet, “that I shall want to see him here at two o’clock.”
“Very good, citizen.”
Godet saluted again and turned on his heel. Chauvelin looked at him closely, but his face was expressionless. He watched him for a moment or two as he, Godet, strode along the corridor. Then he closed the door and went back to his seat behind the table.
He had made an almost superhuman effort to regain his composure. He wanted to hear more, and did not want to scare the child. The sight of Godet standing outside the door talking to the man on guard, had made him physically sick, raised that same terror in his heart which his presence and his glance were wont to raise in others. The expression of his face must at one moment have been absolutely terrifying, for Fleurette could hardly bear to look at him; but when he sat down again his face was just like a mask, waxen and grey. He turned to her, and rested his elbow on the table, shading his eyes with his long, thin hand. And Fleurette felt how dreadful it must be for him to think that his daughter was a thief.
So before he had time to ask her any questions she embarked on glib explanations.
“You must not think, chéri Bibi,” she said, “that I stole those things for a bad motive. I did it because—”
She checked herself, and went on after a second or two:
“You remember, chéri Bibi, that evening at the château when we met, you and I, by the stable door?”
Yes, he remembered. “But speak softly, child! these walls have ears!”
“I had taken the things out of Madame’s room then,” Fleurette continued speaking in an agitated whisper, “and hidden them under my shawl.” She gave a nervous little laugh: “Oh! I was terrified I can tell you,” she said, “that you would notice.”
He had his nerves under control by now. His mind keen, active, was concentrated on her story, his indomitable will was slowly mastering his terror. What had he to fear? Godet was out of the way, and the child’s whispers could not be heard outside these four walls. If only that fool Louise did not look so scared: the sight of her face, open-mouthed and with big, round eyes, got on his nerves. He tried not to look her way. While his glance was fixed on Fleurette he felt that he could think of her, scheme for her and above all protect her—he, so important in
