Sir Percy Hits Back

to hit at him, through the one vulnerable spot in his armour of callousness and of cruelty. How dared they stand up to him, these miserable creatures whose existence was of less account than that of a buzzing fly? And throwing back his head he gazed upon them all, one after the other, meeting their sneering glance with a bold challenge. How dared they defy him? Him, Chauvelin? The trusted friend of Robespierre, one of the makers of this glorious revolution; one of its most firm props? Now a representative of the National Convention on special mission? There stood the child, his daughter, his little Fleurette, silent, wide-eyed, obviously not fully aware of the terrible position in which she stood: and they dared to hit at her, to accuse her, without rhyme or reason, just in order to hit at him through her. It was Godet, of course, that vile, incompetent brute: savage and cruel like the fool he was: vengeful for the bad half-hour he had been made to spend in this very room. He must have heard something of what the child had said. At one moment her sweet voice had risen to shrill tones. Oh! what a senseless, mad confession! and he had seized upon it so that he might hit back: have his revenge. But he could prove nothing. It would be one man’s word against another, and he, Chauvelin, representative on special mission, with the ear of all the great men up in Paris, would see to it, that his word carried all the weight. He would deny everything, swear that Godet lied. His was the power, he was more influential, more unscrupulous than most.

If only the child held her tongue! She would if she was assured that her Amédé was in no danger. How thankful he, Chauvelin, was that he had told her the truth this morning. He couldn’t bear to look at her just at this moment, she looking so innocent, so unconscious of danger, but nevertheless he tried to convey to her with eyes and lips the warning to hold her tongue.

Chauvelin had been silent for quite a little while; the others thought that they had cowed him. In their hearts Pochart and Danou were not a little afraid of him. A representative on special mission had unlimited power and this Chauvelin was always a crouching beast, ready to snarl and to spring, and they knew well enough how influential he was. But here was a double chance to show their zeal, and to get even with the man whom they had always feared. As for Godet, he had obviously staked everything on this throw. His life was anyhow forfeit; Chauvelin’s threats yesterday had left him no loophole for hope. But here was revenge to his hand, and at worst a powerful lever wherewith to force his enemy’s hand.

Chauvelin’s mind had been so busily at work that for a while he lost consciousness of these men. After his rage against them he forgot their very presence. Nothing mattered⁠—no one⁠—except the child, and his own power to save her. Through that semi-consciousness he only heard vague words. Snatches of phrases that passed rapidly between those two men and Godet. “Proofs⁠—” “Witnesses⁠—” And then Danou’s voice soft and unctuous as usual:

“Of course the more solid your proofs⁠—”

And Pochart’s rough and determined:

“Why should we not hear that witness now?”

Godet replied lightly: “I have her here. Perhaps it would be best.”

It seemed as if they were determined to ignore him, Chauvelin; to shut him out of their counsels. He was so silent, so self-absorbed; they thought that he was cowed, and dared not raise his voice in defence of his daughter. They were all alike these men⁠—these masters of France as they liked to be called⁠—overbearing, arrogant, always menacing, until you hit back, when all the starch would go out of them, and they would cringe, or else become surly and defiant like any aristo.

“Go and fetch your witness, citizen lieutenant,” Pochart said in the end.

Then Chauvelin woke, like a tiger out of his sleep.

“What?” he queried abruptly, “what is this?”

“A witness, citizen representative,” came in unctuous tones from Danou. “It will be more satisfactory in this case⁠—the Law does not demand witnesses⁠—suspicion is enough⁠—but⁠—”

“Out of deference to your position, citizen,” Pochart broke in with a short laugh. “Go and fetch your witness, Citizen Godet,” he added dryly.

Chauvelin brought his clenched fist down with a crash on the table.

“I’ll not allow you⁠—” he began in thundering accents, and met Danou’s sneering, inquiring gaze.

“Allow what, citizen representative?” Pochart asked roughly.

“Refuse to hear witnesses? On what grounds?” Danou put in in smooth, velvety accents.

Godet said nothing. It was not for him to speak; but he met Chauvelin’s glance just then, and almost drained his cup of revenge to its dreg.

“No one,” now put in Pochart significantly, “has more respect for family ties than I have. But I am first of all a patriot, and then only a family man. I happen to be a single man, but if I were married and discovered my wife to be a traitor to the State, and an enemy of the people, I would with my own hand adjust the guillotine which would end such a worthless and miserable life.”

“Now you, Citizen Chauvelin,” Danou said, taking up his colleague’s point, “are doing your daughter no good by trying to shield her from punishment if she be guilty.”

“You would not dare⁠—”

“Dare what, Citizen Chauvelin? Act up to the principles which you yourself have helped to promulgate in France? Indeed we dare! We dare strike at the enemies of the State whoever they may be. That woman,” he added, indicating Fleurette, “is suspect; the Law of the Suspect gives our Committee power to arrest her. If she be proved innocent she shall go free. If she be guilty, you, by defending her, cannot save her and do but condemn yourself.”

And that was true! No one knew it better than Chauvelin, who but a few