Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini

by Rafael Sabatini

  It now became necessary to explain the circumstances to his companions, and in explaining them the whole affair, from Robespierre’s refusal to grant him the life of the Vicomte down to the means to which he had had recourse, could not be kept from transpiring. As she listened, Suzanne’s expression changed into one of ineffable wonder.

  “And you have done this for me?” she cried, when at last he paused, “you have ruined your career and endangered your life?”

  La Boulaye shrugged his shoulders.

  “I spoke over-confidently when I said that I could obtain you the Vicomte’s pardon. There proved to be a factor on which I had not counted. Nevertheless, what I had promised I must fulfil. I was by honour bound to leave nothing undone that might result in the Vicomte’s enlargement.”

  Ornbreval laughed softly, but with consummate amusement.

  “A sans-culotte with a sense of honour is such an anomaly—” he began, when Mademoiselle interposed, a note of anger sounding in her voice.

  “M. d’Ombreval means to pay you a compliment,” she informed La Boulaye, “but he has such an odd way of choosing his expressions that I feared you might misunderstand him.”

  La Boulaye signified his indifference by a smile.

  “I am afraid the ci-devant Vicomte has not yet learnt his lesson,” said he; “or else he is like the sinner who upon recovering health forgot the penitence that had come to him in the days of sickness. But we have other matters to deal with, Citoyenne, and, in particular, the matter of the passport. Fool that I am!” he cried bitterly.

  “I must return to Paris at once,” he announced briskly. “There is no help for it. We will hope that as yet the way is open to me, and that I shall be permitted to go and to return unmolested. In such a case the rest is easy — except that you will have to suffer my company as far as the frontier.”

  It was Mademoiselle who accompanied him to the door.

  “Monsieur,” she said, in a voice that shook with the sincere intensity of her feelings, “think me not ungrateful that I have said so little. But your act has overwhelmed me. It is so truly noble, that to offer you thanks that are but words, seems tome little short of a banality.”

  “Tut!” he laughed. “I have not yet done half. It will be time to thank me when we are out of France.”

  “And you speak so lightly of leaving France?” she cried. “But what is to become of you? What of your career?”

  “Other careers are possible in other countries,” he answered, with a lightness he did not feel. “Who knows perhaps the English or the Prussians might be amenable to a change of government. I shall seek to induce one or the other of them to became a republic, and then I shall become once more a legislator.”

  With that, and vowing that every moment he remained their chances of leaving France grew more slender, he took his leave of her, expressing the hope that he might be back within a couple of hours. Mademoiselle watched him to the garden gate, then closing the door she returned within.

  She discovered her betrothed — he whom La Boulaye had called her lover — standing with his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him, the very picture of surliness. He made none of the advances that one might look for in a man placed as he was at that moment. He greeted her, instead, with a complaint.

  “Will you permit me, Mademoiselle, to say that in this matter you have hardly chosen the wiser course?”

  “In what matter?” quoth she, at a loss to understand him.

  “In the matter of my release. I advised you in my letter to purchase my freedom. Had you done so, we should now be in a position to start for the frontier — for you would have made a passport a part of your bargain. Instead of this, not only are we obliged to run the risk of waiting, but even if this fellow should return, we shall be affronted by his company for some days to come.” And the Vicomte sniffed the air in token of disgust.

  Suzanne looked at him in an amazement that left her speechless for a moment. At last:

  “And this is your gratitude?” she demanded. “This is all that you have to say in thanks for the discomfort and danger that I have suffered on your behalf? Your tone is oddly changed since you wrote me that piteous, pitiable letter from Belgium, M. le Vicomte.”

  He reddened slightly.

  “I am afraid that I have been clumsy in my expressions,” he apologised. “But never doubt my gratitude, Mademoiselle. I am more grateful to you than words can tell. You have done your duty to me as few women could.”

  The word “duty” offended her, yet she let it pass. In his monstrous vanity it was often hopeless to make him appreciate the importance of anything or anybody outside of himself. Of this the present occasion was an instance.

  “You must forgive me my seeming thanklessness, Mademoiselle,” he pursued. “It was the company of that sans-culotte rascal that soured me. I had enough of him a month ago, when he brought me to Paris. It offended me to have him stand here again in the same room with me, and insolently refer to his pledged word as though he were a gentleman born.”

  “To whom do you refer?” quoth she.

  “Ma foi! How many of them are there? Why, to this fellow, La Boulaye?”

  “So it seemed, and yet I could not believe it of you. Do you not realise that your ingratitude approaches the base?”

  He vouchsafed her a long, cold stare of amazement.

  “Mordieu!” he ejaculated at last. “I am afraid that your reason has been affected by your troubles. You seem, Mademoiselle, to be unmindful of the station into which you have had the honour to be born.”

  “If your bearing is to be accepted as a sign that you remember it, I will pray God that I may, indeed, forget it — completely and for all time.”

  And then the door opened to admit the good Henriette, who came to announce that she had contrived a hasty meal, and that it was served and awaiting them.

  “Diable!” he laughed. “Those are the first words of true wit that I have heard these many days. I swear,” he added, with a pleasantness that was oddly at variance with his sullen humour of a moment back, “that I have not tasted human food these four weeks, and as for my appetite — it is capable of consuming the whole patrimony of St. Peter. Lead the way, my good Henriette. Come, Mademoiselle.”

  CHAPTER XXI. THE ARREST

  Facts proved how correct had been La Boulaye’s anticipations of the course that Cecile would adopt, Within a half-hour of his having quitted the house of Billaud Varennes, she presented herself there, and demanded to see the Deputy. Upon being told that he was absent she determined to await his return.

  And so, for the matter of an hour, she remained in the room where the porter had offered her accommodation, fretting at the delay, and only restrained from repairing to some other member of the Convention by the expectation that the next moment would see Varennes arrive. Arrive he did at last, when her patience was all but exhausted, and excitedly she told her tale of what had taken place. Varennes listened gravely, and cross-questioned her in his unbelief — for it seemed, indeed, monstrous that a man of La Boulaye’s position should ruin so promising a future as was his by an act for which Varennes could not so much as divine a motive. But her story hung together so faithfully, and was so far borne out by the fact that Varennes himself had indeed signed such a document as she described, that in the end the Deputy determined to take some steps to neutralise the harm that might have been done.

  Dismissing the girl with the assurance that the matter should have his attention, he began by despatching a courier to Robespierre at Chartres — where he knew the Incorruptible to be. That done, he resorted to measures for La Boulaye’s detention. But this proved a grave matter. What if, after all, that half-hysterical girl’s story should be inaccurate? In what case would he find himself if, acting upon it in the meantime, he should order Caron’s arrest? The person of a Deputy was not one to be so lightly treated, and he might find himself constrained to answer a serious charge in consequence. Thus partly actuated by patriotism and the fear of
Robespierre, and partly restrained by patriotism and the fear of La Boulaye, he decided upon a middle course: that of simply detaining La Boulaye at his lodging until Robespierre should either return or send an answer to his message. Thus, whilst leaving him perfect freedom of movement within his own apartments, he would yet ensure against his escape so that should Robespierre demand him he could without difficulty be produced.

  To this end he repaired with a sous-lieutenant and six men to La Boulaye’s house in the Rue Nationale, intending to station the soldiers there with orders not to allow the Deputy to go out, and to detain and question all who sought admittance to him. He nourished the hope that the ci-devant Vicomte might still be with La Boulaye. At the Rue Nationale, however, he was to discover that neither Deputy nor aristocrat was to be found. Brutus informed him that he was expecting the Citizen La Boulaye, but beyond that he would say nothing, and he wisely determined to hold his peace touching the valise that he had been ordered to pack and the fact that he knew the Deputy meditated leaving Paris. Brutus had learnt the value of silence, especially when those who sought information were members of the Convention.

  Alarmed at this further corroboration of Cecile’s story of treachery Varennes left the military at Caron’s house, with orders not to allow the Deputy to again depart if in the meantime he should happen to return, whilst to every barrier of Paris he sent instructions to have La Boulaye detained if he should present himself. By these measures he hoped still to be able to provide against the possibility of Caron’s seeking to leave Paris.

  But Caron had been gone over an hour, and as a matter of fact, he was back again in Paris within a very little time of these orders having been issued. At the Barriere d’Enfer, although recognised, he was not molested, since the orders only, and distinctly, concerned his departure and nowise his arrival.

  Thus, not until he had reached his lodgings did he realise that all was not as he had hoped. And even then it was only within doors that he made the discovery, when he found himself suddenly confronted by the sous-lieutenant, who was idling in the passage. The officer saluted him respectfully, and no less respectfully, though firmly, informed him that, by order of the Citizen-deputy Billaud Varennes, he must ask him to confine himself to his own apartments until further orders.

  “But why, Citizen-officer?” La Boulaye demanded, striving to exclude from his voice any shade of the chagrin that was besetting him. “What do these orders mean?”

  The officer was courtesy personified, but explanations he had none to give, for the excellent reason, he urged that he was possessed of none. He was a soldier, and he had received orders which he must obey, without questioning either their wisdom or their justice. Appreciating the futility of bearing himself otherwise, since his retreat was already blocked by a couple of gendarmes, Caron submitted to the inevitable.

  He mounted leisurely to his study, and the ruin that stared him in the eyes was enough to have daunted the boldest of men. Yet, to do him justice, he was more concerned at the moment with the consequences this turn of affairs might have for Mademoiselle than with his own impending downfall. That he had Cecile to thank for his apprehension he never doubted. Yet it was a reflection that he readily dismissed from his mind. In such a pass as he now found himself none but a weakling could waste time and energy in bewailing the circumstances that had conspired to it. In a man of La Boulaye’s calibre and mettle it was more befitting to seek a means to neutralise as much as possible the evil done.

  He called Brutus and cross-questioned him regarding the attitude and behaviour of the soldiery since their coming. He learnt that nothing had been touched by them, and that they were acting with the utmost discreetness, taking scrupulous care not to exceed the orders they had received, which amounted to detaining La Boulaye and nothing more.

  “You think, then, that you might come and go unmolested?” he asked.

  “I think that I might certainly go. But whether they would permit me to return once I had left, I cannot say. So that they will let you pass out, that is all that signifies at the moment,” said Caron. “Should they question you, you can tell them that you are going to dine and to fetch me my dinner from Berthon’s. As a matter of fact, I shall want you to go to Choisy with a letter, which you must see does not fall into the hands of any of these people of the Convention.”

  “Give me the letter, Citizen, and trust me to do the rest,” answered the faithful Brutus.

  La Boulaye searched a drawer of his writing-table for the blank passport he required. Having found it, he hesitated for a moment how to fill it in. At last he decided, and set down three names — Pierre, Francois, and Julie Michael, players, going to Strasbourg — to which he added descriptions of himself, the Vicomte, and Mademoiselle. He reasoned that in case it should ultimately prove impossible for him to accompany them, the passport, thus indited, would still do duty for the other two. They could easily advance some excuse why the third person mentioned was not accompanying them. From this it will be seen that La Boulaye was far from having abandoned hope of effecting his escape, either by his own resourcefulness or by the favour of Robespierre himself, whose kindness for him, after all, was a factor worth reckoning upon.

  To Mademoiselle he now wrote as follows:

  I am sending you the laissez-passer filled in for the three of

  us. I am unfortunately unable to bring it myself as my

  abstraction of the order of release has already been discovered,

  and I am being detained pending the arrival of Robespierre. But

  I am at my own lodging, and I have every hope that, either by

  the use of my own wit, or else by the favour of my friend

  Robespierre, I shall shortly be able to join you. I would

  therefore ask you to wait a few days. But should I presently

  send you word not to do so any longer, or should you hear of

  events which will render it impossible for me to accompany you,

  you can then set out with Ombreval, travelling under the guise

  described in the passport, and informing any questioners that

  the other person mentioned has been forced by ill health to

  interrupt his journey. As I have said, I have every hope of

  winning through my present difficulties; but should I fail to

  do so, my most earnest prayer will be that you may make your

  way out of France in safety, and that lasting happiness may be

  your lot in whatever country you may elect to settle. You may

  trust the bearer implicitly, patriotic though he may appear.

  He subscribed the letter with his initials, and, having enclosed the passport and sealed the package, he gave it to Brutus, with the most minute instructions touching its delivery.

  These instructions Brutus carried out with speed and fidelity. He was allowed to quit the house without so much as a question, which left his plan for readmittance the greater likelihood of succeeding. In something less than an hour — for he hired himself a horse at the nearest post-house — he had delivered his letter to Mademoiselle at Choisy.

  Its contents sowed in her heart the very deepest consternation — a consternation very fully shared by the Vicomte.

  “Tenez!” he exclaimed, when he had read it. “Perhaps now you will admit the justice of my plaint that you did not make a simple purchase of my liberty, as I counselled you, instead of entering into this idiotic compact with that sans-culotte.”

  She looked at him a moment in silence. She was suffering as it was at the very thought that La Boulaye’s life might be in danger in consequence of what he had done for her. With reluctance had she accepted the sacrifice of his career which he had made to serve her. Now that it became the question of a sacrifice of life as well she was dismayed. All the wrongs that she and hers had done that man seemed to rise up and reproach her now. And so, when presently she answered the Vicomte, it was no more than natural that she should answer him impatiently.

  “
I thought, Monsieur, that we had already discussed and settled that?”

  “Settled it?” he echoed, with a sneer. “It seems none so easy to settle. Do you think that words will settle it.”

  “By no means,” she answered, her voice quivering. “It seems as if a man’s life will be required for that.”

  He shrugged his shoulders, and his face put on a look of annoyance.

  “I hope, Mademoiselle, that you are not proposing to introduce sentimentality. I think you would be better advised to leave that vulgarity to the vulgar.”

  “I do not propose to pursue the discussion at all, Monsieur,” was her chilly answer.

  “The way of woman,” he reflected aloud. “Let her find that she is being worsted in argument, and she calmly tells you that she has no mind to pursue it. But, Mademoiselle, will you tell me at least what you intend?”

  “What do I intend?” she questioned. “What choice have we?”

  “Whenever we are asked to follow a given course, we have always the choice between two alternatives,” he theorised. “We can comply, or not comply.”

  “In the present instance I am afraid your rule is inapplicable. There is no room for any alternative. We can do nothing but wait.”

  She looked at him impatiently, and wearily she sank on to a chair.

  “Monsieur,” she said, as calmly as might be, “I am almost distracted by my thoughts as it is. I don’t know whether you are seeking to complete the rout of my senses. Let me beg of you at least not to deal in riddles with me. The time is ill-chosen. Tell me bluntly what is in your mind, if, indeed, anything.”

  He turned from her peevishly, and crossed to the window. The twilight was descending, and the little garden was looking grey in the now pallid light. Her seeming obtuseness was irritating him.

  “Surely, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed at last, “it is not necessary that I should tell you what other course is open to us? It is a matter for our choice whether we depart at once. We have a passport, and — and, enfin, every hour that we remain here our danger is increased, and our chances of escape are lessened.”