“Mercy! I’ve done nothing!” he babbled almost incoherently.
“I dare say not,” Chauvelin said drily, “but it will be to thine advantage if thou’lt come along quietly with me.”
He seized the man by the arm and dragged him up from his knees. The poor wretch tried to wriggle himself free, but Chauvelin held him tightly, and without another word drew him within the shelter of the nearest doorway. Fortunately, though the man kept up a ceaseless litany of lamentations and cries for mercy, he did so under his breath, thus creating no disturbance nor exciting the attention of the few passersby who were hurrying homewards through the rain-swept streets.
“Are you willing, citizen,” Chauvelin began abruptly, as soon as he had assured himself that the doorway was deserted and no eavesdropper nigh, “are you willing to earn fifty livres tournoi?”
The man gave no immediate reply, it seemed as if he was shaking himself free from his first terror and pondering over this extraordinary proposal, so different to what he had anticipated. Then he cleared his throat, expectorated, slowly repeated the magic words: “Fifty livres tournoi!” and finally added in an awed whisper:
“I have not seen five livres tournoi for months.”
“Fifty are yours, citizen, if you’ll render me a service.”
“What is it?”
“That friend of yours, to whom you spoke just now—outside the café de la Lune—”
“Citizen Rémi?”
“He works in the Caristie House?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
“Cleaner,” the man replied laconically. “Rémi hung about for days trying to earn a bit of money. He hasn’t a sou, you understand? Same as me. A few days ago one of the inside men fell sick. Rémi presented himself and got the work. I know him well.”
“He has access to the prisoners?” Chauvelin asked.
“I suppose so.”
“Then tell him that there will be fifty livres for him too if he will convey a written message to number 142 in room 12.”
Again the man seemed to ponder: weighing the risks probably, and also the gain. Fifty livres tournoi! Immense. He had forgotten that there was such a sum of money left in the world: and then for him to have the handling of it! This led him once more to expectorate, which action apparently had the effect of stimulating his brainpower.
“It could be done,” he murmured at last.
“It can be done,” Chauvelin asserted emphatically, “but must be done quickly, or—”
“Rémi will be back at the Café de la Lune soon after eight o’clock. He always goes there for a sip of something after supper.”
“Good! Then you can meet him at that hour and tell him to wait for you, then come at once and find me here, under this doorway. I’ll have the letter ready—”
“The whole thing is very risky, citizen,” the man demurred.
“If it were not,” Chauvelin rejoined drily, “I would not spend one hundred livres tournoi in the attempt.”
“Fifty livres is not over much, when one risks one’s neck.”
“You are not risking your neck,” Chauvelin retorted, “as you well know. And you’ll not get more from me than fifty livres each. Take it or leave it.”
He knew how to deal with these mudlarks, apparently, for the man after he had spat once more once or twice, seemed satisfied.
“I’ll be back here,” he said laconically, “after I have seen Rémi again.”
Then Chauvelin let him go. The darkness and the rain soon swallowed him up: but Chauvelin himself remained for quite a while standing motionless under the doorway. He had not yet burnt his boats, was still free, if he thought the risk too great, to fail in his appointment. The man did not know who he was, had not seen him in the darkness and under the wide brim of his hat: but there was the risk that this Rémi might be a spy, who would take the letter intended for Fleurette straightway to Pochart or Danou. The letter might thus betray him and so minimize his power of saving Fleurette. He had to safeguard himself against the merest breath of suspicion in order to keep his power. The more irreproachable, detached, incorruptible he appeared before the populace, the more Spartan in his attitude towards his own child until the day of her trial, the greater his chance of saving her at the last. But his desire to warn her against unconsidered words or any kind of admissions outweighed for the moment every other consideration. He hurried back to his lodgings through the rain, and at once sat down to pen his letter to the child.
“My beloved one,” he began, “at last I am able to send a word to you, which I hope and trust will reach your darling little hands. Child of my heart, this is to entreat you to continue in your trust of me, for I swear to you by the memory of your dead mother, that while you trust me I can save you. I can save the man you love. Moreover, I entreat you, beloved child of my soul, do not make any admission when brought before the tribunal, as you must be shortly, alas! If witnesses testify against you, just hold your peace; if others question you, deny everything. This I entreat you to do for the sake of the
