Chapter 19 Scaramouche The Kingmaker by Rafael Sabatini
REPAYMENT
Monsieur de Langéac's story that André-Louis Moreau had been killed in the Rue Charlot, which he and those who charitably bade him tell it as charitably hoped might be true, was entirely false.
André-Louis recovered consciousness long before they brought him to the headquarters of the Section. In fact, he made most of the journey thither upon his own feet. By the time his senses cleared and coherent thought was added once more to mere physical impressions, he came to the opinion subsequently expressed by Monsieur de Langéac that it would have been a better thing for him if he had been finished outright in that rough-and-tumble. In that case his dying would have been completely done by now; whereas at present it still lay before him; and he would have to travel to it by the unpleasant way of the Place de la Revolution and the National Barber. Of this there was in his mind no shadow of doubt. Not even the far-reaching influence wielded by de Batz could accomplish the miracle of delivering a man taken red-handed in the business with which André-Louis would be charged.
It was long after midnight when they reached the headquarters of the Section and at that hour there was no one there before whom he could be brought for examination. Simon, himself, however, formally demanded his name, age and place of abode so that he might enter them upon the register. But André-Louis could not suffer Simon to go beyond these matters.
"You may be a police agent. But you are not a judge. And you have no authority to question me. Therefore, I shall not answer you."
They deprived him of his pistols, money, watch and papers. They thrust him into a small, almost windowless room in a cellar, whose only furniture was a three-legged stool and a pile of unclean straw to serve for a bed, and there they left him for the night to reflect upon the abrupt and unpleasant end to his kingmaking.
At eight o'clock in the morning they haled him from his cell, and despite his demands for food, he was marched away with his fast unbroken. Six National Guards of the Section formed his escort, and Simon accompanied them.
They crossed the river by the Bridge of the Louvre and came to the Tuileries before nine. There, in the spacious entrance hall, the Citizen Simon was informed that the Committee of Public Safety would not be in session until noon, as its members were in the Convention. But the president was in his office, and would deal with the matter if it was urgent. Simon, whose sense of his own consequence was hourly increasing, noisily proclaimed it of the greatest national urgency. The usher led the way up the great staircase. Simon stepped beside him. André-Louis followed between two guards, the other four remained below.
They came by the wide gallery to a lofty chamber with gilded furnishings and damask panels which still showed signs of the damage suffered in the assault upon the Palace nearly a year ago.
Here the usher left them, whilst he passed beyond a tall, ornate door to announce the Citizen Simon's business to the president.
They were kept waiting some time. The grimy, bow-legged agent began to grumble. Pacing the polished floor, he demanded to be informed by no one in particular whether they had returned to the days of the Capets and the manners of the despots that a patriot should be left cooling his heels in an ante-chamber which the Citizen Simon qualified by unprintable adjectives.
The two National Guards enjoyed his picturesque invective. André-Louis scarcely heard and certainly did not heed it. His thoughts were leagues away, in the Bear Inn at Hamm, with his Aline. How would she take the news of his end when it was borne to her? She would suffer. That was inevitable. But he prayed that she might not suffer too acutely, and that resignation and consolation would follow soon. Later, perhaps, love might come to her again. She might marry and be the happy mother of children. It was what he must desire for her since he loved her. And yet the thought of it seared his soul. She was so much his own that the contemplation of her possible possession by another was intolerable. But for this he might now be confronting his fate with a greater resignation.
His spirit sought to bridge the distance between them, to reach her and make her aware of him. If only he could write to her: pack into one final glowing letter all the passion and worship which he had never yet expressed! But how was he from a revolutionary prison to dispatch a letter to an aristocrat in exile? Even this little consolation would be denied him. He must die without having told her the half of his devotion.
He was roused from the anguish of these reflections by the return of the usher.
With the opening of the door the Citizen Simon's grumblings instantly ceased. This champion of equality shed the last vestige of his magnificent independence when they entered the presence of the president of the dread committee. Cringing a little, he waited with exemplary patience while the neat, powdered head presented to them continued bowed over the writing upon which its owner was engaged.
In a silence broken only by the swift scratching of the writer's pen, and the ticking of the Ormolu timepiece on the tall fluted overmantel, they continued to wait. Even when the writing ceased, and the president spoke at last, he did not look up. He continued bowed over his table, which was covered by a claret-coloured serge cloth reaching to the ground, and his eyes remained engaged upon what he had written.
"What is this story of an attempt to procure the escape of the Widow Capet from the Temple?"
The Citizen Simon began to speak. "May it please you, Citizen-President," was the deferential opening with which he introduced a tale in which he assigned himself a very noble part. No false sense of modesty prevented him from making the fullest parade of his acumen, intrepidity and burning patriotism. He was still at the shrewdness of the inferences which had led to his denunciation of Michonis when the president interrupted him.
"Yes, yes. I am informed of all that. Come to the business at the Temple."
The Citizen Simon, flung out of balance by that hectoring interruption, silently sought a fresh starting point. At last the Citizen-President raised his head and confirmed the assumptions André-Louis had already formed from the voice, by disclosing the narrow swarthy face and impertinent nose of Le Chapelier. But it was a countenance oddly changed in the few months since André-Louis had last beheld it. It had lost flesh. The bone structures were more prominent. A grey pallor overspread it. Lines of care were deeply carved between the brows, and the eyes were the eyes of a haunted man, strained and anxious. André-Louis, with pulses suddenly quickened, awaited an explosion. None came. Beyond a momentary lift of his fine brows, so momentary that only André-Louis perceived it, Le Chapelier gave no sign of recognition. Deliberately he levelled a gold-rimmed quizzing glass, the better to survey the prisoner, and again his dry voice spoke.
"Whom have you there?"
"But as I am telling you, Citizen-President, this is one of the men who made possible the escape of that aristocrat scoundrel de Batz. He had the impudence to declare himself an agent of the Committee of Public Safety." And Simon pursued his tale of the encounter in the Rue Charlot. But when it was done there was no such panegyric as he was expecting and believed that he had earned; there was not even a single word of commendation.
Instead, the president, ever impassive, asked a question, a question that further quickened the prisoner's pulses.
"You say that this man proclaimed himself an agent of the Committee of Public Safety. Did you take steps to verify that this was not true?"
The Citizen Simon's mouth fell open. He stared foolishly. The question was coldly repeated.
"Did you take steps to verify that the Citizen Moreau is not one of our agents?"
Higher mounted the zealous patriot's amazement.
"You know his name, Citizen-President?"
"Answer my question."
"But...But..." The Citizen Simon was bewildered. He sensed here something that was entirely wrong. He stammered, paused, then plunged precipitatedly. "Why, this man is known to be a constant associate of the ci-devant Baron de Batz, whom I have told you that I surprised in the act of attempting to enter the Temple."
"That is not what I asked you," Le Chapelier's voice became of an increasing asperity. "Do you know, citizen, that you do not impress me very favourably. I have a low opinion of men who cannot answer questions. It argues something amiss either with their sagacity or their honesty."
"But, Citizen-President——"
"Silence! You will withdraw, and wait in the antechamber until I send for you again. Take your men with you. Citizen Moreau, you will remain." He tinkled a bell on his table.
Simon's ugly mouth was twisted in angry astonishment. But he dared offer no answer to so definite an order from a despot invested with the authority of that sacred trinity, liberty, equality and fraternity.
The usher appeared, and Simon, scowling his chagrin, marched out of the presence followed by his guards. The tall door closed again, leaving André-Louis and Le Chapelier alone together.
The deputy regarded the prisoner solemnly for some moments. Then the thin lips smiled curiously.
"I heard some days ago that you were in Paris, André. I was wondering when you would have the politeness to pay me a visit."
André-Louis met dryness with dryness.
"Acquit me of impoliteness, Isaac. I feared to intrude upon so busy a man."
"I see. Well, you are here at last."
They continued to look at each other. André-Louis found the situation almost droll, but not very hopeful.
"Tell me," said Le Chapelier presently. "To what extent are you involved with this de Batz?"
"He is a friend of mine."
"Not a very desirable friend in these days, especially for a man of your history."
"Considering my history I am not perhaps a very desirable friend for him."
"Perhaps not. But my concern is with you, now that you have had the clumsiness to allow yourself to be taken. What the devil am I to do with you?"
"I appreciate the concern, my dear Isaac. You will believe, I am sure, that I am desolated to be the cause of it."
The president's myopic eyes considered him grimly.
"I have no difficulty in believing it. Fate, it seems, is determined to fling us across each other's paths however we may strive to travel in opposite directions. Tell me frankly, André. What is the truth of this business at the Temple last night?"
"But how should I know? If you choose to believe the ridiculous story of that foul dog who brought me here..."
"My difficulty is that belief in his story is not to be avoided. And we want to avoid it; not only I, myself, but my colleagues on the Committee of Public Safety. Your arrest gives it an awkward measure of confirmation. You are extraordinarily inopportune, André."
"I make you my apologies, Isaac."
"Of course, I could have you quietly guillotined."
"I should prefer it to be done quietly if it must be done. I have always deprecated ostentation."
"Unfortunately there's a debt between us."
"My dear Isaac! What is a debt between friends?"
"Shall we be serious?"
"If you can tell me of a more serious situation than mine you will astonish me."
Le Chapelier made a movement of impatience. "You cannot suppose, as you seem to be pretending, that I do not desire to help you?"
"I have already perceived with gratitude indications of it. But there must be a limit to your power in a State in which any ragamuffin may dictate to a minister."
"One of these days, Scaramouche, you'll sacrifice your head for a retort. At the moment you are luckier than you know. Probably luckier than you deserve, not only in that chance brings you before me instead of before the assembled committee, but because the general situation demands that Simon's story should not be believed. If you and your friends have been trying to rescue the heretofore Queen, you have been uselessly endangering your necks. I'll tell you a secret. Negotiations with Vienna are well advanced to put her across the frontier in exchange for Bournonville and the other deputies now in Austrian hands. Knowledge that an attempt has been made to rescue her might inflame the populace and raise obstacles to a desirable political measure. The tale of this attempt to enter the Temple we could brush aside. But your arrest creates a difficulty. There must be awkward disclosures when we put you on your trial."
"I am desolated to prove so inconvenient."
Le Chapelier ignored the interruption. "On the other hand, if I set you at liberty, we shall have that fellow Simon stirring up trouble and denouncing us all as having been bought by Pitt and Coburg."
"My poor Isaac! You appear to be upon the horns of a dilemma. Your perplexities appropriate the sympathy I was reserving for myself."
"Devil take you, André!" Le Chapelier slapped the table with his hand. "Will you cease to play Scaramouche, and show me what I am to do?" He got up. "It is anything but easy. I am not the committee, after all; and I shall have to render some account to my colleagues. On what grounds can I let you go?"
He came forward and set a hand on André-Louis' shoulder. "Short of mounting the scaffold in your place, there is nothing I will not do to save you."
"My dear Isaac!" This time there was no lightness in André-Louis' tone.
"You don't flatter me if it surprises you. There was that affair at Coblentz."
"The cases are not by any means parallel. There I had no duty to anyone, and I was consequently free to assist you. You, unfortunately, are saddled with a duty to your office, which will hardly—"
Le Chapelier interrupted him. "My office! Ha! My duty to that wears thin, André. Our revolution has taken a queer twist. There are few of its original architects left. I might easily have gone with the Girondins—the last of those who stood for order."
André-Louis thought that he held the explanation of that strained, haunted look which he had discovered on Le Chapelier's face. The man must be sorely ridden indeed by misgivings and fears to permit himself these expressions.
He took his hand from André-Louis' shoulder, and paced away, again to the table and back, his chin in his neckcloth, his pallid brow furrowed by thought. Suddenly he checked to ask a question.
"Will you accept service if I offer it to you?"
"Service?"
"It is at least to the good that you announced yourself to this fellow Simon as an agent of the Committee of Public Safety."
"As an agent?" There was repudiation in the very tone of the question.
"Does it shock you? Are you not already an agent of the Bourbons? Is it unusual for agents to accept service from both sides at once?" Le Chapelier spoke contemptuously. "I could explain that I am setting you to watch the counter-revolutionaries, who believe you to be one of themselves. Your service to me at Coblentz was really a service to the revolutionary party. I published it in committee on my return, and it will serve now as a guarantee of your good faith. It would be readily believed that your presence here, your association with certain counter-revolutionaries, results from an arrangement made between us at Coblentz. Do you understand?"
"Oh, perfectly. And I thank you." André-Louis was ironical. "But on the whole I think the guillotine will be cleaner."
"I see that you don't understand at all. I am not asking you to do anything more than accept enrolment. It is merely so as to enable you to get away."
André-Louis frowned as he stared in surprise at the other. "But you, Isaac? What then of you? If you sponsor me, and I fail to perform the duties of the office; if I use it to make my escape? What, then, of you?"
"Do not let that concern you."
"But it must. You will endanger your own neck."
Slowly Le Chapelier shook his head. He smiled with tight lips. "I shall not be here to answer. I shall have ceased to count." Instinctively he lowered his voice. "I am about to start for England on a secret mission to Pitt, in an endeavour to detach the English from the coalition. It is the last reputable service which in the present pass a man of decency may render this unfortunate country. When it is done, whether it succeeds or not, I do not think that I shall return. For here," he added bitterly, "there will be nothing more that an honest man can do. That is another secret, André. I disclose it, so that you may know precisely what I offer."
André-Louis took only a moment to consider.
"In the circumstances, I should be worse than a fool if I refused, or if I forgot to count myself lucky in your friendship, Isaac."
Le Chapelier shrugged aside the commendation. "I pay my debts where I can." He returned to his writing-table. "I have here your civic card. I'll prepare your commission as an agent of the Public Safety, and have it countersigned as soon as the committee sits, which will be within the next two hours. You will wait in the antechamber until I send it to you. Armed with it, you must protect yourself." He held out his hand. "This time, André, it is good-bye, I think."
Their handclasp was firm, and it endured for a long moment, during which they looked into each other's eyes. Then Le Chapelier took up a bell from the table and tinkled it.
The usher came in. Le Chapelier, calm and dry of manner, gave his instructions.
"The Citizen Moreau will await my orders in the antechambers. Reconduct him, and send the Citizen Simon to me at once."
The bowlegged Simon, still deep in bewilderment, entered to receive the belated thanks of the president of the Committee of Public Safety for his diligence in the service of the Nation. Instead he was offered a cold lecture upon the errors into which a man may be led by acting with excessive zeal upon unreliable information. He was assured that he had perpetrated a series of blunders in the course of discovering a conspiracy which had never existed, and in the pursuit of a conspirator who had never been present, and he was warned that any further scaremongering on the subject would be attended by the gravest consequences to himself.
The Citizen Simon, going red and white by turns under that incisive admonition, demanded at the end of it to know if he were to reject the evidence of his own senses. There was a certain feeble attempt at truculence in the posing of the question.
"Undoubtedly," the president answered him without hesitation, "since those senses have proved so entirely unreliable. You have maligned two valued servants of the Nation in the persons of Michonis and Cortey, against whom you are unable to make good your accusations, and you have assaulted yet another in the person of the Citizen Moreau. These are grave matters, Citizen Simon. I will remind you that we are no longer in the days of the despots when the lives and liberties of men were at the mercy of any functionary, and I recommend you in future to exercise more circumspection. You are fortunate to be at liberty to go, Citizen Simon."
The ardent champion of liberty, equality and fraternity stumbled out of the room as if he had been bludgeoned.