“Possibly not,” Blakeney retorted lightly. “Nor for some unfortunate children of France, I am thinking.”
“Traitors and spies, you are right there, Sir Percy. We have no use for them in Orange—or elsewhere.”
“Or for honest men, eh, my friend? for chaste women and innocent children. That is why your humble servant and the league of which methinks you know a thing or two, propose to remove these from this polluted soil.”
Chauvelin had rested his elbow on the table. His hand shading his face against the glare of the lamp, effectually concealed its varying expressions from the keen eyes of his enemy.
“You have not told me yet, Sir Percy,” he said after a few seconds’ silence, “what procures me the honour of your visit at this hour.”
“Pure chance, my dear sir,” Blakeney replied, “though the honour is entirely mine. As a matter of fact I came to find one Armand.”
Twice did the pendulum of the white-faced clock tick the seconds before Chauvelin said quietly:
“My colleague? Have you business with him?”
“Yes,” Blakeney replied slowly. “I have a message for him.”
“I can deliver it.”
“Why not I? since I came on purpose.”
“My colleague is absent.”
“I can wait.”
“From whom then is the message?”
“From his daughter.”
“Ah!”
Once more there was a pause. The white-faced clock ticked on but the two men were silent. Chauvelin’s face was shaded by his hand, and it needed all the energy, all the strength of his will to keep that hand absolutely steady, not to allow a finger to tremble. In the other hand he held a long quill pen and with it he traced a geometrical pattern upon a blank sheet of paper. Sir Percy Blakeney, still sitting on the edge of the table watched him, motionless.
“Pretty drawing that,” he said abruptly. And with slender finger pointed to the design that grew in intricate lines under Chauvelin’s aimless pen.
The other gave a start, the pen spluttered, scattering the ink in spots all over the paper.
“There now, you have spoilt it,” Sir Percy continued lightly. “I had no idea you were such a master draughtsman.”
Chauvelin threw down his pen. He had his nerves under control at last, was able to drop his hand, to lean back in his chair, and with both hands buried in the pockets of his breeches, to throw back his head and look his enemy squarely in the face.
“About that message, Sir Percy,” he said with well-feigned indifference.
“What about it, my dear M. Chambertin?” Blakeney rejoined lightly.
“My colleague, Citizen Armand, has been called away—to Lyons on State business.”
“But how unfortunate!” Sir Percy exclaimed.
“I am sending a courier to Lyons this very night.”
“Too late, my dear M. Chambertin! Too late, I fear!”
Chauvelin frowned. “What mean you by too late, Sir Percy?” he asked slowly.
“Armand’s daughter is sick, my dear M. Chambertin,” Blakeney rejoined, speaking very slowly, as if to weigh his every word. “Before your courier can possibly reach Lyons, she will be dead.”
“My God!—”
It was the most heartrending cry that had ever come from a man’s throat. Chauvelin had jumped to his feet; his two hands, claw-like, as if carved in marble, gripped the arms of his chair; his knees were shaking, his pale eyes stared like those of a maniac, his cheeks were the colour of lead.
For the space of ten seconds he stood thus, with his whole body quivering, his senses reeling, his eyes fixed on those finely moulded lips that had dealt this appalling blow. Then slowly consciousness returned, a veil seemed to be lifted from before his eyes, knowledge had entered his brain. He knew that he had fallen into the trap set for him by this astute adventurer. He realized that he had betrayed the secret which he would have guarded with his life.
“So,” Sir Percy said at last very slowly, “ ’tis you are Citizen Armand, and the sweetest flower that ever bloomed in this putrid atmosphere has its roots in polluted soil?”
Still quite slowly and deliberately he drew Fleurette’s note out of the breast-pocket of his coat; for a second or two he held it lightly between slender finger and thumb, then laid it on the table in front of Chauvelin.
“She is not sick,” he said quietly, “nor yet dying. If you have not forgotten how to pray, man, pray to God now, pray with all your might, that the same power which enabled you to torture my wife and well-nigh to break her brave spirit, will aid you to save your daughter from those tigers whom you have called your friends.”
Chauvelin had sunk back in the chair. His head was buried in his hands. Tumultuous thoughts rushed through his brain until he felt that his reason must be tottering. A haze was before his eyes. Perhaps it was caused by tears. Who knows? Only the recording angel mayhap. Even wild beasts cry in agony when deprived of their young.
Only after a few minutes did he become aware of the note penned by his little Fleurette and laid in front of him by his bitterest foe. The Scarlet Pimpernel! The only man in all the world who might perhaps have saved Fleurette, who would have saved Fleurette, if he, Chauvelin, had not betrayed the secret of his heart.
Like one waking from a dream, Chauvelin picked up the note, and looked fearfully about him, dreading to meet those mocking lazy eyes, which, no doubt, at this hour gleamed with malicious triumph.
But Sir Blakeney was no longer there.
XXXIII
The stage was now set for the last act of the tragedy, which the chief actor himself knew could only end one way. He had schemed and planned until he felt that his reason would give way, until he feared that he would lose the nerve and the power of which he had such sore need. He had thought of everything, weighed every possibility from
