Book I Chapter 7 The Marquis of Carabas by Rafael Sabatini
THE SAFE-CONDUCT
That night Quentin de Morlaix made an examination of conscience. "Suspicion," Puisaye had said, "is among the meanest traits. I am sorry to discover it in you." It was impressive because it followed upon Germaine de Chesnières' more veiled reproach: "The suspicious are seldom happy, for they are seldom at peace."
It was because he agreed so cordially that unwarranted suspicion is the fruit of a mean imagination that he now searched his soul. Of the suspicion with which Mademoiselle de Chesnières had reproached him he found ample justification in the irresistible explanation which Puisaye had given not only of their aims, but of the manner in which they might fulfil them. If he accepted this, he must accept the fact that such things as Puisaye suggested could be done. But that Puisaye, with such mighty interests to serve, moving in France at great risk and with a price upon his head, should volunteer to increase his jeopardy for the sake of a stranger became more and more incredible the more he considered it. Therefore he might acquit himself, he thought, of the odious charge of being too lightly moved to suspicion.
From pondering all this in detail, he came to reflect that what Puisaye had proposed to do for him, he could do for himself if only he could be sure of immunity in France whilst doing it. That, of course, was the difficulty, if it was true, as Puisaye said, that the bloody-minded scoundrels who governed France did violence to their own laws. A month's brooding on this begot at last an inspiration. He remembered the English Jacobins, the Society of the Friends of Man, whose aim was to establish the Tree of Liberty on English soil, the Lord Edward Fitzgeralds, the Horne Tookes, the Tom Paines. There were in England, as there had been in France before '89, many men of birth who had been seduced by those philosophies for the regeneration of mankind which, so philanthropic in theory, had proved in practice so abominable.
One of them, a young baronet, Sir George Lilburn, frequented Quentin's academy, finding it expedient, no doubt, to advertise a practised suppleness of wrist, so as to keep at bay the insults which his political creed might provoke among his peers.
With him Quentin took counsel, mentioned, without specifying it, that he had inherited a property in France and that so as to enter into possession, it was expedient that he should go to Angers. England being at war with France, there were obvious passport difficulties. Yet Quentin knew that members of the Society of the Friends of Man came and went in spite of them.
The young baronet needed no more spurring. He was willing and glad to be of assistance. The passport difficulty was easily overcome now that Prussia had left the coalition and made a separate peace with France. Monsieur de Morlaix must travel on a Prussian passport, readily obtainable from the Prussian Embassy. For his greater protection whilst in France, however--where Sir George euphemistically admitted that officialdom could be of a vexatious zeal--it would be desirable to procure him a safe-conduct, a laissez-passer, from the Committee of Public Safety. This was a service that Sir George could easily render him. He would give it his immediate attention.
By an odd coincidence this undertaking of Sir George's was given on 27 July, which in Paris, by the Calendar of Liberty, was the 9 Thermidor, the date of Robespierre's abrupt fall and extinction.
The news of it reached London a few days later, to be followed soon by reports of a reaction from the Terror that had brooded over France. To Quentin it seemed that this sudden turn of events must enormously simplify the course upon which he had decided. And not only to Quentin; for scarcely was the matter known in London than St. Gilles came seeking him.
He was suavely cousinly. He explained that his departure for Holland had been repeatedly postponed. But he was glad since it afforded him this opportunity of offering his felicitations. "Your apprehensions will have been removed with the removal of that monster Robespierre. There should be nothing to deter you now from claiming your possessions."
"I am considering it," Quentin told him, and saw the eyes of his cousin brighten with satisfaction.
"Decide it, my dear cousin. Lose no time. Although the law of suspects is suspended and the Terror has passed, still delays may be dangerous, and where so much is at stake you would do well to hasten to France. Already the time allowed by law for your repatriation has grown dangerously short."
"Your anxiety for my interests flatters me," said Quentin in that cold, emotionless voice of his.
"It is not only for your interests that I am anxious, but for those of the house of Chavaray, for which, next to yourself, it is my duty to care."
To be rid of him Quentin let him know that arrangements to enable him to cross to France were already afoot.
"You relieve me," St. Gilles professed. "Myself, on the eve of departure for Holland, at the call of duty to the King, I am glad to take with me the assurance that duty to our family will not be neglected. My farewells, dear cousin, and my good wishes."
He departed, leaving his dear cousin to smile over that final impertinence, and over the thought that St. Gilles might have been less satisfied had he known of the safe-conduct upon which Quentin was depending.
There were now delays in procuring it, since the Jacobin agents in London were left in uneasy doubt as to the consequences of the Thermidorean upheaval, and delays were not lightly to be borne when little more than a month remained for repatriation if he were to avoid being listed as an émigré; for in this legal respect the extinction of the Terror had brought as yet no change.
At last, towards the middle of August, he found himself, thanks to Sir George's good offices, in possession of a Prussian passport and a safe-conduct from the Committee of Public Safety, describing him and the purpose for which he re-entered France, and bearing the signatures of Barras, Tallien and Carnot. In addition he had armed himself, through Mr. Sharpe, with properly attested copies of all documents necessary fully to establish his birth and parentage.
The academy he placed in the care of O'Kelly, with authority at need to engage another assistant and to provide otherwise according to his judgment.
"Why will you be going at all?" wondered O'Kelly, who was imperfectly informed in the matter of the heritage. "Things being as they are in France, d'ye suppose now ye've inherited anything worth the risk of collecting, considering what you're leaving here?"
O'Kelly was by no means the only one to ask him that question, for news of his imminent departure was spreading from the school, through the émigré colony. But the only one that he took seriously was one that reached him at the eleventh hour.
On the very morning of his departure, when the travelling chaise that was to bear him to Southampton stood already at the door, his luggage in the boot, Barlow brought him word that Mademoiselle de Chesnières desired to see him.
He was in the white-panelled dining-room above stairs in which he had just breakfasted, saying a last word to O'Kelly, and Ramel. He dismissed them, so that he might receive her, a sudden tumult in his pulses.
It startled her to see him already booted for the journey. She betrayed it in her parted lips and widened eyes.
"I am no more than in time, it seems," she cried.
"To bid me God-speed. I take it very kindly, Mademoiselle, that you should . . ."
"Oh, no, no!" she cried, interrupting him, and stood before him for a moment twisting her gloves in agitated hands. "You'll account me of a monstrous presumption, Cousin Quentin. I've come . . . I've come to attempt even now, at this last moment, to dissuade you from this journey."
"To dissuade me?" It took his breath away. Yet he so controlled himself that she should not suspect it. "To dissuade me? But I thought you so fully in accord with your cousins that the honour of the name--was not that the phrase?--demands it."
"Never that. I was never in accord with them on that. And now less than ever."
"You reproached me, I thought, with suspicions of their disinterestedness in urging this course upon me."
"That is another matter. I could understand your hesitation, and see nothing cowardly in it, and yet deplore that you should harbour your suspicions. But now . . ." She broke off, to recommence. "You are deceived in your hopes that the death of Robespierre has brought changes which make it safe for you to go. The Terror may be diminishing; but the Republican laws remain, the hatred of our class remains, and between one and the other you will find yourself in great danger."
"Since I owe this sweet concern to it, I cannot but take satisfaction in it."
Her lovely eyes, of a deep gentian blue, dilated as she looked at him. Her face matched now in whiteness the graceful neck and almost the muslin fichu that crossed the gentle swell of her young breast. "Be this mockery or gallantry, monsieur my cousin, both are out of season. I have come only to warn you of the dangers into which you will be going."
He smiled. "Dare I ask what is the source of your information, of your knowledge of what is happening in France?"
"I have it from St. Gilles."
"You will not say that he has sent you here to tell me this?"
"If I told you that, you would not believe me?" she asked.
"I hope that I should never disbelieve whatever you might say."
"You never would have cause." She was recovering her imperious air. "St. Gilles did not send me. He did not even tell me these things. But if you must know my authority, I heard him saying them yesterday to Constant."
"I see. I see. And how did he say it? Something like this, I think: 'The fool will discover when he reaches France and they lay him by the heels, the blindness of trusting to the rumours of this change of spirit among the sansculottes.' It was so, was it not, Mademoiselle?"
She eyed him in a stupefaction that was blended with annoyance.
"And if it were? Oh, but don't trouble to answer that. It was just as you say. I will admit it."
"You see, I begin to know these cousins. And it would be said with a chuckle, not a doubt."
"Since you are so well informed, you will know, of course, just what that chuckle meant."
"It is not difficult to imagine."
"Not when one is by nature suspicious; then one imagines chuckles, too, and every conceivable kind of malice."
"Whereas, of course, you would have me imagine that St. Gilles is regretful that I should put my neck in danger."
"Why should you not imagine it? It is as easy to imagine as the opposite."
"Not in a man who some few days ago was here urging me to go because this change of spirit in France would make it safe for me."
The scorn which had been deepening about her was all suddenly cast aside. Impetuously she came close, and laid a hand upon his arm.
"St. Gilles did that?"
He smiled. "That it surprises you shows how little you understand your cousins' aims for me."
"Oh, I see what you think. But it is fantastic, revolting, something of which it is impossible to suspect them. After all, I know them, and you do not, and I know St. Gilles incapable of any baseness. If he came here to urge you as you say, it can only have been because he believed at the time what everyone believed. He had not yet learnt that the change of spirit was not so great, after all."
"Then why does he not come again, to warn me?"
She considered a moment, candidly eyeing him, a little frown between her eyes. "Was your last reception of him such as to encourage him?" she asked. "Or did you display again that offensive suspicion of his motives?"
"Faith, it's not impossible," he admitted, a little shaken in his convictions.
"And I take it that you did not even consent to go. For what I overheard from him was: 'If the fool goes . . .' You begin to see, I hope, the snares that too ready a suspiciousness can make for you. But let us leave that. You have my warning. You'll heed it?" The question came on a pleading note that thrilled him.
"I'll treasure it. But it comes too late. My plans are laid. My chaise is at the door. I must follow my destiny."
She was very grave. "It is not for me to be importunate. I tell you only this, that if you go I shall never look to see you again."
He was very close to her. He lowered his head, and sank his voice to a murmur. "Would that matter to you, Germaine?"
She drew away as if in sudden panic. Then recovering, she answered with admirable dignity. "It must naturally matter that any member of my family should put himself in peril."
"And that is all?" He spoke in infinite regret, then, too, recovered. "Of course. Of course. But let me reassure you. I go armed against the peril that you foresee. I shall travel in France under a safe-conduct from the Committee of Public Safety."
She showed him not relief, but blank surprise. "How can you have contrived it?"
He laughed. "I have good friends of every political colour."
"I see. And you look to your Republican friends to protect you." Once again her mood was scornful. "Why, then, of course, I have foolishly wasted my time and yours. Forgive these importunities. Adieu et bon voyage, Monsieur mon cousin." She sank to the very ground in an exaggerated curtsy, and with a swirl of petticoats was at the door.
He sprang after her. "But what is this, Germaine? In what have I offended now?"
"Offended? How can you suppose it? You are free to choose your friends, sir. I trust they will prove all you hope."
He understood that he had wounded the fierce Royalism in which she had been reared, a Royalism so intolerant that only under the stress of bitter necessity would it consent to link hands even with constitutional monarchists. To move in Republican favour was fantastically to these pure ones the unpardonable offence.
"You judge me harshly," he complained.
"Judge you, sir! I?" Her brows were raised. "I have neither right nor wish to judge you. Again, good-bye."
It was a command not to detain her. He yielded, a little out of temper; and if his soul ached as he followed her down the stairs, and handed her into her coach, yet his lips displayed a chill, formal smile to match her own.