Presently Adèle and Godet were dismissed. Adèle swept past her with her shawl once more over her head hiding the expression of her face. Her eyes did not meet Fleurette’s as she glided past like a little rat seeking its burrow. Perhaps she was ashamed. Godet was ordered to send two men along—they would be wanted to take the citoyenne to the house of detention. Godet gave the salute and followed Adèle out of the room.
Fleurette’s feet were aching. She had been standing quite still for over half an hour, and was longing to sit down. Bibi’s eyes were upon her now, and his long thin hands were fidgeting nervously with a paper-knife. At one time he clutched it so tightly, and half raised it, as if he meant to strike one or the other of his colleagues. Fleurette, tired and a little dizzy, only caught snatches of their conversation. At one time Bibi said very quietly:
“You are very bold, Citizen Danou, to measure your influence against mine.”
And the man on Bibi’s left retorted very suavely:
“If I have transgressed, citizen representative, I’ll answer for it.”
“You will,” Bibi rejoined, and his words came through his thin, compressed lips, harsh and dry like blows from a wooden mallet against a metal plate. “And with your head, probably.”
“Is that a threat, Citizen Chauvelin?” the other asked with a sneer.
“You may take it so if you wish.”
The man on Chauvelin’s right, Citizen Pochart, had in the meanwhile been writing assiduously on a large piece of paper. Now he pushed the paper in front of Chauvelin and said curtly:
“Will you sign this, citizen representative?”
“What is it?” Chauvelin asked.
“Order for the provisional arrest of one Fleur Chauvelin, suspect of treasonable connections with the enemies of France, pending her appearance before the Revolutionary Tribunal.”
Chauvelin raised the paper and read it through carefully. His hand that held the paper was perfectly steady.
“Your signature,” Pochart went on, and held out the quill pen invitingly toward Chauvelin, “as Representative of the National Convention on special mission is necessary on this order.”
“You may take that as a threat too, Citizen Chauvelin,” Danou added with a sly wink directed at his colleague Pochart, “for if you do not sign, there’s others that will, and sign one too that will be even more unpleasant for you.”
Chauvelin took the pen, and the two men, Pochart and Danou, sprawling over the table, had the satisfaction of seeing him sign the order for the arrest of his own child—her death probably. Not the first time either that something of the sort had occurred, that a man put his seal on the death-warrant of his kith or kin. Had not Philippe d’Orléans voted for the death of his cousin the King? Chauvelin signed with a steady hand, his lips tightly pressed one against the other. They should not see, these fiends, what torture he was enduring; they should not see that at this moment he felt just like a brute beast writhing in agony. Not that he had abandoned hope with regard to Fleurette. He felt confident that he could turn the order into a mere scrap of paper presently, and see those two snarling dogs fawning at his feet once more, kicked with the toe of his boot and howling in vain for mercy.
It was only from humiliation that, conscious of his power, he had decided that silence and outward acquiescence were his best policy. He had certain cards up his sleeve which the others wot not of, but he could only play them if he succeeded in lulling them into a sense of security by his obvious indifference. Fortunately his reputation stood him in good stead. He was known by his enemies to be so ruthless and so unscrupulous—such an ardent patriot, declared his friends—that his indifference now where his own daughter was concerned, did not even astonish Pochart and Danou. It was just like Citizen Chauvelin to send his own daughter to the guillotine. And this estimate of his character helped him to play the role that would mean life to Fleurette.
So there he sat for a few minutes, perfectly impassive, his face a mask, his hand perfectly steady, perusing the paper, and then deliberately drawing his pen through one of the words and substituting another.
“We’ll say the house of Caristie,” he said dryly, “the other is already full.”
Pochart shrugged his shoulders. Why not concede this point? It was so fine to have the citizen representative under one’s thumb. What matter if his daughter was thrust into one prison rather than another?
“Is the guard there?” Danou asked. “We have plenty of business to see to. This one has lasted quite long enough.”
“There is still that report from Avignon to look through,” Pochart added. “It will need your attention, citizen representative.”
“I’ll be with you in one moment,” Chauvelin replied calmly.
He rose and went to the door. Opened it. Yes! there was the guard sent hither by Godet, two men to escort his Fleurette to the house of Caristie the architect, now transformed into a house of detention. Chauvelin did not even wince at sight of them. He closed the door quietly and then approached Fleurette. He took hold of her hand and drew her to the furthest corner of the room, out of earshot.
“You are not frightened, little one?” he whispered to her.
“No, Bibi chéri,” she replied simply. “If you tell me not to be.”
“There is nothing to be frightened at, Fleurette. These brutes wish you ill; but—”
“Why should they?”
“But I can protect you.”
“I know you can, chéri Bibi.”
“And
