The League Of the Scarlet Pimpernel

I

What had happened was this:

Tournefort, one of the ablest of the many sleuthhounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety, was out during that awful storm on the night of the twenty-fifth. The rain came down as if it had been poured out of buckets, and Tournefort took shelter under the portico of a tall, dilapidated-looking house somewhere at the back of St. Lazare. The night was, of course, pitch dark, and the howling of the wind and beating of the rain effectually drowned every other sound.

Tournefort, chilled to the marrow, had at first cowered in the angle of the door, as far away from the draught as he could. But presently he spied the glimmer of a tiny light some little way up on his left, and taking this to come from the concierge’s lodge, he went cautiously along the passage intending to ask for better shelter against the fury of the elements than the rickety front door afforded.

Tournefort, you must remember, was always on the best terms with every concierge in Paris. They were, as it were, his subordinates; without their help he never could have carried on his unavowable profession quite so successfully. And they, in their turn, found it to their advantage to earn the goodwill of that army of spies, which the Revolutionary Government kept in its service, for the tracking down of all those unfortunates who had not given complete adhesion to their tyrannical and murderous policy.

Therefore, in this instance, Tournefort felt no hesitation in claiming the hospitality of the concierge of the squalid house wherein he found himself. He went boldly up to the lodge. His hand was already on the latch, when certain sounds which proceeded from the interior of the lodge caused him to pause and to bend his ear in order to listen. It was Tournefort’s métier to listen. What had arrested his attention was the sound of a man’s voice, saying in a tone of deep respect:

“Bien, Madame la Comtesse, we’ll do our best.”

No wonder that the servant of the Committee of Public Safety remained at attention, no longer thought of the storm or felt the cold blast chilling him to the marrow. Here was a wholly unexpected piece of good luck. “Madame la Comtesse!” Peste! There were not many such left in Paris these days. Unfortunately, the tempest of the wind and the rain made such a din that it was difficult to catch every sound which came from the interior of the lodge. All that Tournefort caught definitely were a few fragments of conversation.

“My good M. Bertin⁠ ⁠…” came at one time from a woman’s voice. “Truly I do not know why you should do all this for me.”

And then again: “All I possess in the world now are my diamonds. They alone stand between my children and utter destitution.”

The man’s voice seemed all the time to be saying something that sounded cheerful and encouraging. But his voice came only as a vague murmur to the listener’s ears. Presently, however, there came a word which set his pulses tingling. Madame said something about “Gentilly,” and directly afterwards: “You will have to be very careful, my dear M. Bertin. The château, I feel sure, is being watched.”

Tournefort could scarce repress a cry of joy. “Gentilly? Madame la Comtesse? The château?” Why, of course, he held all the necessary threads already. The ci-devant Comte de Sucy⁠—a pestilential aristo if ever there was one!⁠—had been sent to the guillotine less than a fortnight ago. His château, situated just outside Gentilly, stood empty, it having been given out that the widow Sucy and her two children had escaped to England. Well! she had not gone apparently, for here she was, in the lodge of the concierge of a mean house in one of the desolate quarters of Paris, begging some traitor to find her diamonds for her, which she had obviously left concealed inside the château. What a haul for Tournefort! What commendation from his superiors! The chances of a speedy promotion were indeed glorious now! He blessed the storm and the rain which had driven him for shelter to this house, where a poisonous plot was being hatched to rob the people of valuable property, and to aid a few more of those abominable aristos in cheating the guillotine of their traitorous heads.

He listened for a while longer, in order to get all the information that he could on the subject of the diamonds, because he knew by experience that those perfidious aristos, once they were under arrest, would sooner bite out their tongues than reveal anything that might be of service to the Government of the people. But he learned little else. Nothing was revealed of where Madame la Comtesse was in hiding, or how the diamonds were to be disposed of once they were found. Tournefort would have given much to have at least one of his colleagues with him. As it was, he would be forced to act single-handed and on his own initiative. In his own mind he had already decided that he would wait until Madame la Comtesse came out of the concierge’s lodge, and that he would follow her and apprehend her somewhere out in the open streets, rather than here where her friend Bertin might prove to be a stalwart as well as a desperate man, ready with a pistol, whilst he⁠—Tournefort⁠—was unarmed. Bertin, who had, it seemed, been entrusted with the task of finding the diamonds, could then be shadowed and arrested in the very act of filching property which by decree of the State belonged to the people.

So he waited patiently for a while. No doubt the aristo would remain here under shelter until the storm had abated. Soon the sound of voices died down, and an extraordinary silence descended on this miserable, abandoned corner of old Paris. The silence became all the more marked after a while, because the rain ceased its monotonous pattering and the soughing of the wind was stilled. It was, in fact, this amazing stillness which set citizen Tournefort thinking. Evidently the aristo did not intend to come out of the lodge tonight. Well! Tournefort had not meant to make himself unpleasant inside the house, or to have a quarrel just yet with the traitor Bertin, whoever he was; but his hand was forced and he had no option.

The door of the lodge was locked. He tugged vigorously at the bell again and again, for at first he got no answer. A few minutes later he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps upon creaking boards. The door was opened, and a man in night attire, with bare, thin legs and tattered carpet slippers on his feet, confronted an exceedingly astonished servant of the Committee of Public Safety. Indeed, Tournefort thought that he must have been dreaming, or that he was dreaming now. For the man who opened the door to him was well known to every agent of the Committee. He was an ex-soldier who had been crippled years ago by the loss of one arm, and had held the post of concierge in a house in the Ruelle du Paradis ever since. His name was Grosjean. He was very old, and nearly doubled up with rheumatism, had scarcely any hair on his head or flesh on his bones. At this moment he appeared to be suffering from a cold in the head, for his eyes were streaming and his narrow, hooked nose was adorned by a drop of moisture at its tip. In fact, poor old Grosjean looked more like a dilapidated scarecrow than a dangerous conspirator. Tournefort literally gasped at sight of him, and Grosjean uttered a kind of croak, intended, no doubt, for complete surprise.

“Citizen Tournefort!” he exclaimed. “Name of a dog! What are you doing here at this hour and in this abominable weather? Come in! Come in!” he added, and, turning on his heel, he shuffled back into the inner room, and then returned carrying a lighted lamp, which he set upon the table. “Amélie left a sup of hot coffee on the hob in the kitchen before she went to bed. You must have a drop of that.”

He was about to shuffle off again when Tournefort broke in roughly:

“None of that nonsense, Grosjean! Where are the aristos?”

“The aristos, citizen?” queried Grosjean, and nothing could have looked more utterly, more ludicrously bewildered than did the old concierge at this moment. “What aristos?”

“Bertin and Madame la Comtesse,” retorted Tournefort gruffly. “I heard them talking.”

“You have been dreaming, citizen Tournefort,” the old man said, with a husky little laugh. “Sit down, and let me get you some coffee⁠—”

“Don’t try and hoodwink me, Grosjean!” Tournefort cried now in a sudden access of rage. “I tell you that I saw the light. I heard the aristos talking. There was a man named Bertin, and a woman he called ‘Madame la Comtesse,’ and I say that some devilish royalist plot is being hatched here, and that you, Grosjean, will suffer for it if you try and shield those aristos.”

“But, citizen Tournefort,” replied the concierge meekly, “I assure you that I have seen no aristos. The door of my bedroom was open, and the lamp was by my bedside. Amélie, too, has only been in bed a few minutes. You ask her! There has been no one, I tell you⁠—no one! I should have seen and heard them⁠—the door was open,” he reiterated pathetically.

“We’ll soon see about that!” was Tournefort’s curt comment.

But it was his turn indeed to be utterly bewildered. He searched⁠—none too gently⁠—the squalid little lodge through and through, turned the paltry sticks of furniture over, hauled little Amélie, Grosjean’s granddaughter, out of bed, searched under the mattresses, and even poked his head up the chimney.

Grosjean watched him wholly unperturbed. These were strange times, and friend Tournefort had obviously gone a little off his head. The worthy old concierge calmly went on getting the coffee ready. Only when presently Tournefort, worn out with anger and futile exertion, threw himself, with many an oath, into the one armchair, Grosjean remarked coolly:

“I tell you what I think it is, citizen. If you were standing just by the door of the lodge you had the back staircase of the house immediately behind you. The partition wall is very thin, and there is a disused door just there also. No doubt the voices came from there. You see, if there had been any aristos here,” he added naively, “they could not have flown up the chimney, could they?”

That argument was certainly unanswerable. But Tournefort was out of temper. He roughly ordered Grosjean to bring the lamp and show him the back staircase and the disused door. The concierge obeyed without a murmur. He was not in the least disturbed or frightened by all this blustering. He was only afraid that getting out of bed had made his cold worse. But he knew Tournefort of old. A good fellow, but inclined to be noisy and arrogant since he was in the employ of the Government. Grosjean took the precaution of putting on his trousers and wrapping an old shawl round his shoulders. Then he had a final sip of hot coffee; after which he picked up the lamp and guided Tournefort out of the lodge.

The wind had quite gone down by now. The lamp scarcely flickered as Grosjean held it above his head.

“Just here, citizen Tournefort,” he said, and turned sharply to his left. But the next sound which he uttered was a loud croak of astonishment.

“That door has been out of use ever since I’ve been here,” he muttered.

“And it certainly was closed when I stood up against it,” rejoined Tournefort, with a savage oath, “or, of course, I should have noticed it.”

Close to the lodge, at right angles to it, a door stood partially open. Tournefort went through it, closely followed by Grosjean. He found himself in a passage which ended in a cul de sac on his right; on the left was the foot of the stairs. The whole place was pitch dark save for the feeble light of the lamp. The cul de sac itself reeked of dirt and fustiness, as if it had not been cleaned or ventilated for years.

“When did you last notice that this door was closed?” queried Tournefort, furious with the sense of discomfiture, which he would have liked to vent on the unfortunate concierge.

“I have not noticed it for some days, citizen,” replied Grosjean meekly. “I have had a severe cold, and have not been outside my lodge since Monday last. But we’ll ask Amélie!” he added more hopefully.

Amélie, however, could throw no light upon the subject. She certainly kept the back stairs cleaned and swept, but it was not part of her duties to extend her sweeping operations as far as the cul de sac. She had quite enough to do as it was, with grandfather now practically helpless. This morning, when she went out to do her shopping, she had not noticed whether the disused door did or did not look the same as usual.

Grosjean was very sorry for his friend Tournefort, who appeared vastly upset, but still more sorry for himself, for he knew what endless trouble this would entail upon him.

Nor was the trouble slow in coming, not only on Grosjean, but on every lodger inside the house; for before half an hour had gone by Tournefort had gone and come back, this time with the local commissary of police and a couple of agents, who had every man, woman and child in that house out of bed and examined at great length, their identity books searchingly overhauled, their rooms turned topsy-turvy and their furniture knocked about.

It was past midnight before all these perquisitions were completed. No one dared to complain at these indignities put upon peaceable citizens on the mere denunciation of an obscure police agent. These were times when every regulation, every command, had to be accepted without a murmur. At one o’clock in the morning, Grosjean himself was thankful to get back to bed, having satisfied the commissary that he was not a dangerous conspirator.

But of anyone even remotely approaching the description of the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy, or of any man called Bertin, there was not the faintest trace.

II

But no feeling of discomfort ever lasted very long with citizen Tournefort. He was a person of vast resource and great buoyancy of temperament.

True, he had not apprehended two exceedingly noxious aristos, as he had hoped to do; but he held the threads of an abominable conspiracy in his hands, and the question of catching both Bertin and Madame la Comtesse red-handed was only a question of time. But little time had been lost. There was always someone to be found at the offices of the Committee of Public Safety, which were open all night. It was possible that citizen Chauvelin would be still there, for he often took on the night shift, or else citizen Gourdon.

It was Gourdon who greeted his subordinate, somewhat ill-humouredly, for he was indulging in a little sleep, with his toes turned to the fire, as the night was so damp and cold. But when he heard Tournefort’s story, he was all eagerness and zeal.

“It is, of course, too late to do anything now,” he said finally, after he had mastered every detail of the man’s adventures in the Ruelle du Paradis; “but get together half a dozen men upon whom you can rely, and by six o’clock in the morning, or even five, we’ll be on our way to Gentilly. Citizen Chauvelin was only saying today that he strongly suspected the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy of having left the bulk of her valuable jewellery at the château, and that she would make some effort to get possession of it. It would be rather fine, citizen Tournefort,” he added with a chuckle, “if you and I could steal a march on citizen Chauvelin over this affair, what? He has been extraordinarily arrogant of late and marvellously in favour, not only with the Committee, but with citizen Robespierre himself.”

“They say,” commented Tournefort, “that he succeeded in getting hold of some papers which were of great value to the members of the Committee.”

“He never succeeded in getting hold of that meddlesome Englishman whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel,” was Gourdon’s final dry comment.

Thus was the matter decided on. And the following morning at daybreak, Gourdon, who was only a subordinate officer on the Committee of Public Safety, took it upon himself to institute a perquisition in the château of Gentilly, which is situated close to the commune of that name. He was accompanied by his friend Tournefort and a gang of half a dozen ruffians recruited from the most disreputable cabarets of Paris.

The intention had been to steal a march on citizen Chauvelin, who had been over arrogant of late; but the result did not come up to expectations. By midday the château had been ransacked from attic to cellar; every kind of valuable property had been destroyed, priceless works of art irretrievably damaged. But priceless works of art had no market in Paris these days; and the property of real value⁠—the Sucy diamonds namely⁠—which had excited the cupidity or the patriotic wrath of citizens Gourdon and Tournefort could nowhere be found.

To make the situation more deplorable still, the Committee of Public Safety had in some unexplainable way got wind of the affair, and the two worthies had the mortification of seeing citizen Chauvelin presently appear upon the scene.

It was then two o’clock in the afternoon. Gourdon, after he had snatched a hasty dinner at a neighbouring cabaret, had returned to the task of pulling the château of Gentilly about his own ears if need be, with a view to finding the concealed treasure.

For the nonce he was standing in the centre of the finely proportioned hall. The rich ormolu and crystal chandelier lay in a tangled, broken heap of scraps at his feet, and all around there was a confused medley of pictures, statuettes, silver ornaments, tapestry and brocade hangings, all piled up in disorder, smashed, tattered, kicked at now and again by Gourdon, to the accompaniment of a savage oath.

The house itself was full of noises; heavy footsteps tramping up and down the stairs, furniture turned over, curtains torn from their poles, doors and windows battered in. And through it all the ceaseless hammering of pick and axe, attacking these stately walls which had withstood the wars and sieges of centuries.

Every now and then Tournefort, his face perspiring and crimson with exertion, would present himself at the door of the hall. Gourdon would query gruffly: “Well?”

And the answer was invariably the same: “Nothing!”

Then Gourdon would swear again and send curt orders to continue the search, relentlessly, ceaselessly.

“Leave no stone upon stone,” he commanded. “Those diamonds must be found. We know they are here, and, name of a dog! I mean to have them.”

When Chauvelin arrived at the château he made no attempt at first to interfere with Gourdon’s commands. Only on one occasion he remarked curtly:

“I suppose, citizen Gourdon, that you can trust your search party?”

“Absolutely,” retorted Gourdon. “A finer patriot than Tournefort does not exist.”

“Probably,” rejoined the other dryly. “But what about the men?”

“Oh! they are only a set of barefooted, ignorant louts. They do as they are told, and Tournefort has his eye on them. I dare say they’ll contrive to steal a few things, but they would never dare lay hands on valuable jewellery. To begin with, they could never dispose of it. Imagine a va-nu-pieds peddling a diamond tiara!”

“There are always receivers prepared to take risks.”

“Very few,” Gourdon assured him, “since we decreed that trafficking with aristo property was a crime punishable by death.”

Chauvelin said nothing for the moment. He appeared wrapped in his own thoughts, listened for a while to the confused hubbub about the house, then he resumed abruptly:

“Who are these men whom you are employing, citizen Gourdon?”

“A well-known gang,” replied the other. “I can give you their names.”

“If you please.”

Gourdon searched his pockets for a paper which he found presently and handed to his colleague. The latter perused it thoughtfully.

“Where did Tournefort find these men?” he asked.

“For the most part at the Cabaret de la Liberté⁠—a place of very evil repute down in the Rue Christine.”

“I know it,” rejoined the other. He was still studying the list of names which Gourdon had given him. “And,” he added, “I know most of these men. As thorough a set of ruffians as we need for some of our work. Merri, Guidal, Rateau, Desmonds. Tiens!” he exclaimed. “Rateau! Is Rateau here now?”

“Why, of course! He was recruited, like the rest of them, for the day. He won’t leave till he has been paid, you may be sure of that. Why do you ask?”

“I will tell you presently. But I would wish to speak with citizen Rateau first.”

Just at this moment Tournefort paid his periodical visit to the hall. The usual words, “Still nothing,” were on his lips, when Gourdon curtly ordered him to go and fetch the citizen Rateau.

A minute or two later Tournefort returned with the news that Rateau could nowhere be found. Chauvelin received the news without any comment; he only ordered Tournefort, somewhat roughly, back to his work. Then, as soon as the latter had gone, Gourdon turned upon his colleague.

“Will you explain⁠—” he began with a show of bluster.

“With pleasure,” replied Chauvelin blandly. “On my way hither, less than an hour ago, I met your man Rateau, a league or so from here.”

“You met Rateau!” exclaimed Gourdon impatiently. “Impossible! He was here then, I feel sure. You must have been mistaken.”

“I think not. I have only seen the man once, when I, too, went to recruit a band of ruffians at the Cabaret de la Liberté, in connection with some work I wanted doing. I did not employ him then, for he appeared to me both drink-sodden and nothing but a miserable, consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough you can hear half a league away. But I would know him anywhere. Besides which, he stopped and wished me good morning. Now I come to think of it,” added Chauvelin thoughtfully, “he was carrying what looked like a heavy bundle under his arm.”

“A heavy bundle!” cried Gourdon, with a forceful oath. “And you did not stop him!”

“I had no reason for suspecting him. I did not know until I arrived here what the whole affair was about, or whom you were employing. All that the Committee knew for certain was that you and Tournefort and a number of men had arrived at Gentilly before daybreak, and I was then instructed to follow you hither to see what mischief you were up to. You acted in complete secrecy, remember, citizen Gourdon, and without first ascertaining the wishes of the Committee of Public Safety, whose servant you are. If the Sucy diamonds are not found, you alone will be held responsible for their loss to the Government of the People.”

Chauvelin’s voice had now assumed a threatening tone, and Gourdon felt all his audacity and self-assurance fall away from him, leaving him a prey to nameless terror.

“We must round up Rateau,” he murmured hastily. “He cannot have gone far.”

“No, he cannot,” rejoined Chauvelin dryly. “Though I was not specially thinking of Rateau or of diamonds when I started to come hither. I did send a general order forbidding any person on foot or horseback to enter or leave Paris by any of the southern gates. That order will serve us well now. Are you riding?”

“Yes. I left my horse at the tavern just outside Gentilly. I can get to horse within ten minutes.”

“To horse, then, as quickly as you can. Pay off your men and dismiss them⁠—all but Tournefort, who had best accompany us. Do not lose a single moment. I’ll be ahead of you and may come up with Rateau before you overtake me. And if I were you, citizen Gourdon,” he concluded, with ominous emphasis, “I would burn one or two candles to your compeer the devil. You’ll have need of his help if Rateau gives us the slip.”

III

The first part of the road from Gentilly to Paris runs through the valley of the Biere, and is densely wooded on either side. It winds in and out for the most part, ribbon-like, through thick coppice of chestnut and birch. Thus it was impossible for Chauvelin to spy his quarry from afar; nor did he expect to do so this side of the Hôpital de la Santé. Once past that point, he would find the road quite open and running almost straight, in the midst of arid and only partially cultivated land.

He rode at a sharp trot, with his caped coat wrapped tightly round his shoulders, for it was raining fast. At intervals, when he met an occasional wayfarer, he would ask questions about a tall man who had a consumptive cough, and who was carrying a cumbersome burden under his arm.

Almost everyone whom he thus asked remembered seeing a personage who vaguely answered to the description: tall and with a decided stoop⁠—yes, and carrying a cumbersome-looking bundle under his arm. Chauvelin was undoubtedly on the track of the thief.

Just beyond Meuves he was overtaken by Gourdon and Tournefort. Here, too, the man Rateau’s track became more and more certain. At one place he had stopped and had a glass of wine and a rest, at another he had asked how close he was to the gates of Paris.

The road was now quite open and level; the irregular buildings of the hospital appeared vague in the rain-sodden distance. Twenty minutes later Tournefort, who was riding ahead of his companions, spied a tall, stooping figure at the spot where the Chemin de Gentilly forks, and where stands a group of isolated houses and bits of garden, which belong to la Sante. Here, before the days when the glorious Revolution swept aside all such outward signs of superstition, there had stood a Calvary. It was now used as a signpost. The man stood before it, scanning the half-obliterated indications.

At the moment that Tournefort first caught sight of him he appeared uncertain of his way. Then for a while he watched Tournefort, who was coming at a sharp trot towards him. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind very suddenly and, giving a last, quick look round, he walked rapidly along the upper road. Tournefort drew rein, waited for his colleagues to come up with him. Then he told them what he had seen.

“It is Rateau, sure enough,” he said. “I saw his face quite distinctly and heard his abominable cough. He is trying to get into Paris. That road leads nowhere but to the barrier. There, of course, he will be stopped, and⁠—”

The other two had also brought their horses to a halt. The situation had become tense, and a plan for future action had at once to be decided on. Already Chauvelin, masterful and sure of himself, had assumed command of the little party. Now he broke in abruptly on Tournefort’s vapid reflections.

“We don’t want him stopped at the barrier,” he said in his usual curt, authoritative manner. “You, citizen Tournefort,” he continued, “will ride as fast as you can to the gate, making a detour by the lower road. You will immediately demand to speak with the sergeant who is in command, and you will give him a detailed description of the man Rateau. Then you will tell him in my name that, should such a man present himself at the gate, he must be allowed to enter the city unmolested.”

Gourdon gave a quick cry of protest.

“Let the man go unmolested? Citizen Chauvelin, think what you are doing!”

“I always think of what I am doing,” retorted Chauvelin curtly, “and have no need of outside guidance in the process.” Then he turned once more to Tournefort. “You yourself, citizen,” he continued, in sharp, decisive tones which admitted of no argument, “will dismount as soon as you are inside the city. You will keep the gate under observation. The moment you see the man Rateau, you will shadow him, and on no account lose sight of him. Understand?”

“You may trust me, citizen Chauvelin,” Tournefort replied, elated at the prospect of work which was so entirely congenial to him. “But will you tell me⁠—”

“I will tell you this much, citizen Tournefort,” broke in Chauvelin with some acerbity, “that though we have traced the diamonds and the thief so far, we have, through your folly last night, lost complete track of the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and of the man Bertin. We want Rateau to show us where they are.”

“I understand,” murmured the other meekly.

“That’s a mercy!” riposted Chauvelin dryly. “Then quickly man. Lose no time! Try to get a few minutes’ advance on Rateau; then slip in to the guardroom to change into less conspicuous clothes. Citizen Gourdon and I will continue on the upper road and keep the man in sight in case he should think of altering his course. In any event, we’ll meet you just inside the barrier. But if, in the meanwhile, you have to get on Rateau’s track before we have arrived on the scene, leave the usual indications as to the direction which you have taken.”

Having given his orders and satisfied himself that they were fully understood, he gave a curt command, “En avant,” and once more the three of them rode at a sharp trot down the road towards the city.

IV

Citizen Rateau, if he thought about the matter at all, must indeed have been vastly surprised at the unwonted amiability or indifference of sergeant Ribot, who was in command at the gate of Gentilly. Ribot only threw a very perfunctory glance at the greasy permit which Rateau presented to him, and when he put the usual query, “What’s in that parcel?” and Rateau gave the reply: “Two heads of cabbage and a bunch of carrots,” Ribot merely poked one of his fingers into the bundle, felt that a cabbage leaf did effectually lie on the top, and thereupon gave the formal order: “Pass on, citizen, in the name of the Republic!” without any hesitation.

Tournefort, who had watched the brief little incident from behind the window of a neighbouring cabaret, could not help but chuckle to himself. Never had he seen game walk more readily into a trap. Rateau, after he had passed the barrier, appeared undecided which way he would go. He looked with obvious longing towards the cabaret, behind which the keenest agent on the staff of the Committee of Public Safety was even now ensconced. But seemingly a halt within those hospitable doors did not form part of his programme, and a moment or two later he turned sharply on his heel and strode rapidly down the Rue de l’Oursine.

Tournefort allowed him a fair start, and then made ready to follow.

Just as he was stepping out of the cabaret he spied Chauvelin and Gourdon coming through the gates. They, too, had apparently made a brief halt inside the guardroom, where⁠—as at most of the gates⁠—a store of various disguises was always kept ready for the use of the numerous sleuthhounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety. Here the two men had exchanged their official garments for suits of sombre cloth, which gave them the appearance of a couple of humble bourgeois going quietly about their business. Tournefort had donned an old blouse, tattered stockings, and shoes down at heel. With his hands buried in his breeches’ pockets, he, too, turned into the long narrow Rue de l’Oursine, which, after a sharp curve, abuts on the Rue Mouffetard.

Rateau was walking rapidly, taking big strides with his long legs. Tournefort, now sauntering in the gutter in the middle of the road, now darting in and out of open doorways, kept his quarry well in sight. Chauvelin and Gourdon lagged some little way behind. It was still raining, but not heavily⁠—a thin drizzle, which penetrated almost to the marrow. Not many passersby haunted this forlorn quarter of old Paris. To right and left tall houses almost obscured the last, quickly-fading light of the grey September day.

At the bottom of the Rue Mouffetard, Rateau came once more to a halt. A network of narrow streets radiated from this centre. He looked all round him and also behind. It was difficult to know whether he had a sudden suspicion that he was being followed; certain it is that, after a very brief moment of hesitation, he plunged suddenly into the narrow Rue Contrescarpe and disappeared from view.

Tournefort was after him in a trice. When he reached the corner of the street he saw Rateau, at the further end of it, take a sudden sharp turn to the right. But not before he had very obviously spied his pursuer, for at that moment his entire demeanour changed. An air of furtive anxiety was expressed in his whole attitude. Even at that distance Tournefort could see him clutching his bulky parcel close to his chest.

After that the pursuit became closer and hotter. Rateau was in and out of that tight network of streets which cluster around the Place de Fourci, intent, apparently, on throwing his pursuers off the scent, for after a while he was running round and round in a circle. Now up the Rue des Poules, then to the right and to the right again; back in the Place de Fourci. Then straight across it once more to the Rue Contrescarpe, where he presently disappeared so completely from view that Tournefort thought that the earth must have swallowed him up.

Tournefort was a man capable of great physical exertion. His calling often made heavy demands upon his powers of endurance; but never before had he grappled with so strenuous a task. Puffing and panting, now running at top speed, anon brought to a halt by the doubling-up tactics of his quarry, his great difficulty was the fact that citizen Chauvelin did not wish the man Rateau to be apprehended; did not wish him to know that he was being pursued. And Tournefort had need of all his wits to keep well under the shadow of any projecting wall or under cover of open doorways which were conveniently in the way, and all the while not to lose sight of that consumptive giant, who seemed to be playing some intricate game which well-nigh exhausted the strength of citizen Tournefort.

What he could not make out was what had happened to Chauvelin and to Gourdon. They had been less than three hundred metres behind him when first this wild chase in and out of the Rue Contrescarpe had begun. Now, when their presence was most needed, they seemed to have lost track both of him⁠—Tournefort⁠—and of the very elusive quarry. To make matters more complicated, the shades of evening were drawing in very fast, and these narrow streets of the Faubourg were very sparsely lighted.

Just at this moment Tournefort had once more caught sight of Rateau, striding leisurely this time up the street. The worthy agent quickly took refuge under a doorway and was mopping his streaming forehead, glad of this brief respite in the mad chase, when that awful churchyard cough suddenly sounded so close to him that he gave a great jump and well-nigh betrayed his presence then and there. He had only just time to withdraw further still into the angle of the doorway, when Rateau passed by.

Tournefort peeped out of his hiding-place, and for the space of a dozen heart beats or so, remained there quite still, watching that broad back and those long limbs slowly moving through the gathering gloom. The next instant he perceived Chauvelin standing at the end of the street.

Rateau saw him too⁠—came face to face with him, in fact, and must have known who he was for, without an instant’s hesitation and just like a hunted creature at bay, he turned sharply on his heel and then ran back down the street as hard as he could tear. He passed close to within half a metre of Tournefort, and as he flew past he hit out with his left fist so vigorously that the worthy agent of the Committee of Public Safety, caught on the nose by the blow, staggered and measured his length upon the flagged floor below.

The next moment Chauvelin had come by. Tournefort, struggling to his feet, called to him, panting:

“Did you see him? Which way did he go?”

“Up the Rue Bordet. After him, citizen!” replied Chauvelin grimly, between his teeth.

Together the two men continued the chase, guided through the intricate mazes of the streets by their fleeing quarry. They had Rateau well in sight, and the latter could no longer continue his former tactics with success now that two experienced sleuthhounds were on his track.

At a given moment he was caught between the two of them. Tournefort was advancing cautiously up the Rue Bordet; Chauvelin, equally stealthily, was coming down the same street, and Rateau, once more walking quite leisurely, was at equal distance between the two.

V

There are no side turnings out of the Rue Bordet, the total length of which is less than fifty metres; so Tournefort, feeling more at his ease, ensconced himself at one end of the street, behind a doorway, whilst Chauvelin did the same at the other. Rateau, standing in the gutter, appeared once more in a state of hesitation. Immediately in front of him the door of a small cabaret stood invitingly open; its signboard, “Le Bon Copain,” promised rest and refreshment. He peered up and down the road, satisfied himself presumably that, for the moment, his pursuers were out of sight, hugged his parcel to his chest, and then suddenly made a dart for the cabaret and disappeared within its doors.

Nothing could have been better. The quarry, for the moment, was safe, and if the sleuthhounds could not get refreshment, they could at least get a rest. Tournefort and Chauvelin crept out of their hiding-places. They met in the middle of the road, at the spot where Rateau had stood a while ago. It was then growing dark and the street was innocent of lanterns, but the lights inside the cabaret gave a full view of the interior. The lower half of the wide shopwindow was curtained off, but above the curtain the heads of the customers of Le Bon Copain, and the general comings and goings, could very clearly be seen.

Tournefort, never at a loss, had already climbed upon a low projection in the wall of one of the houses opposite. From this point of vantage he could more easily observe what went on inside the cabaret, and in short, jerky sentences he gave a description of what he saw to his chief.

“Rateau is sitting down⁠ ⁠… he has his back to the window⁠ ⁠… he has put his bundle down close beside him on the bench⁠ ⁠… he can’t speak for a minute, for he is coughing and spluttering like an old walrus.⁠ ⁠… A wench is bringing him a bottle of wine and a hunk of bread and cheese.⁠ ⁠… He has started talking⁠ ⁠… is talking volubly⁠ ⁠… the people are laughing⁠ ⁠… some are applauding.⁠ ⁠… And here comes Jean Victor, the landlord⁠ ⁠… you know him, citizen⁠ ⁠… a big, hulking fellow, and as good a patriot as I ever wish to see.⁠ ⁠… He, too, is laughing and talking to Rateau, who is doubled up with another fit of coughing⁠—”

Chauvelin uttered an exclamation of impatience:

“Enough of this, citizen Tournefort. Keep your eye on the man and hold your tongue. I am spent with fatigue.”

“No wonder,” murmured Tournefort. Then he added insinuatingly: “Why not let me go in there and apprehend Rateau now? We should have the diamonds and⁠—”

“And lose the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and the man Bertin,” retorted Chauvelin with sudden fierceness. “Bertin, who can be none other than that cursed Englishman, the⁠—”

He checked himself, seeing Tournefort was gazing down on him, with awe and bewilderment expressed in his lean, hatchet face.

“You are losing sight of Rateau, citizen,” Chauvelin continued calmly. “What is he doing now?”

But Tournefort felt that this calmness was only on the surface; something strange had stirred the depths of his chief’s keen, masterful mind. He would have liked to ask a question or two, but knew from experience that it was neither wise nor profitable to try and probe citizen Chauvelin’s thoughts. So after a moment or two he turned back obediently to his task.

“I can’t see Rateau for the moment,” he said, “but there is much talking and merriment in there. Ah! there he is, I think. Yes, I see him!⁠ ⁠… He is behind the counter, talking to Jean Victor⁠ ⁠… and he has just thrown some money down upon the counter⁠ ⁠… gold too! name of a dog.⁠ ⁠…”

Then suddenly, without any warning, Tournefort jumped down from his post of observation. Chauvelin uttered a brief:

“What the ⸻ are you doing, citizen?”

“Rateau is going,” replied Tournefort excitedly. “He drank a mug of wine at a draught and has picked up his bundle, ready to go.”

Once more cowering in the dark angle of a doorway, the two men waited, their nerves on edge, for the reappearance of their quarry.

“I wish citizen Gourdon were here,” whispered Tournefort. “In the darkness it is better to be three than two.”

“I sent him back to the Station in the Rue Mouffetard,” was Chauvelin’s curt retort; “there to give notice that I might require a few armed men presently. But he should be somewhere about here by now, looking for us. Anyway, I have my whistle, and if⁠—”

He said no more, for at that moment the door of the cabaret was opened from within and Rateau stepped out into the street, to the accompaniment of loud laughter and clapping of hands which came from the customers of the Bon Copain.

This time he appeared neither in a hurry nor yet anxious. He did not pause in order to glance to right or left, but started to walk quite leisurely up the street. The two sleuthhounds quietly followed him. Through the darkness they could only vaguely see his silhouette, with the great bundle under his arm. Whatever may have been Rateau’s fears of being shadowed awhile ago, he certainly seemed free of them now. He sauntered along, whistling a tune, down the Montagne Ste. Geneviève to the Place Maubert, and thence straight towards the river.

Having reached the bank, he turned off to his left, sauntered past the Ecole de Médecine and went across the Petit Pont, then through the New Market, along the Quai des Orfèvres. Here he made a halt, and for awhile looked over the embankment at the river and then round about him, as if in search of something. But presently he appeared to make up his mind, and continued his leisurely walk as far as the Pont Neuf, where he turned sharply off to his right, still whistling, Tournefort and Chauvelin hard upon his heels.

“That whistling is getting on my nerves,” muttered Tournefort irritably; “and I haven’t heard the ruffian’s churchyard cough since he walked out of the Bon Copain.”

Strangely enough, it was this remark of Tournefort’s which gave Chauvelin the first inkling of something strange and, to him, positively awesome. Tournefort, who walked close beside him, heard him suddenly mutter a fierce exclamation.

“Name of a dog!”

“What is it, citizen?” queried Tournefort, awed by this sudden outburst on the part of a man whose icy calmness had become proverbial throughout the Committee.

“Sound the alarm, citizen!” cried Chauvelin in response. “Or, by Satan, he’ll escape us again!”

“But⁠—” stammered Tournefort in utter bewilderment, while, with fingers that trembled somewhat, he fumbled for his whistle.

“We shall want all the help we can,” retorted Chauvelin roughly. “For, unless I am much mistaken, there’s more noble quarry here than even I could dare to hope!”

Rateau in the meanwhile had quietly lolled up to the parapet on the right-hand side of the bridge, and Tournefort, who was watching him with intense keenness, still marvelled why citizen Chauvelin had suddenly become so strangely excited. Rateau was merely lolling against the parapet, like a man who has not a care in the world. He had placed his bundle on the stone ledge beside him. Here he waited a moment or two, until one of the small craft upon the river loomed out of the darkness immediately below the bridge. Then he picked up the bundle and threw it straight into the boat. At that same moment Tournefort had the whistle to his lips. A shrill, sharp sound rang out through the gloom.

“The boat, citizen Tournefort, the boat!” cried Chauvelin. “There are plenty of us here to deal with the man.”

Immediately, from the quays, the streets, the bridges, dark figures emerged out of the darkness and hurried to the spot. Some reached the bridgehead even as Rateau made a dart forward, and two men were upon him before he succeeded in running very far. Others had scrambled down the embankment and were shouting to some unseen boatman to “halt, in the name of the people!”

But Rateau gave in without a struggle. He appeared more dazed than frightened, and quietly allowed the agents of the Committee to lead him back to the bridge, where Chauvelin had paused, waiting for him.

VI

A minute or two later Tournefort was once more beside his chief. He was carrying the precious bundle, which, he explained, the boatman had given up without question.

“The man knew nothing about it,” the agent said. “No one, he says, could have been more surprised than he was when this bundle was suddenly flung at him over the parapet of the bridge.”

Just then the small group, composed of two or three agents of the Committee, holding their prisoner by the arms, came into view. One man was walking ahead and was the first to approach Chauvelin. He had a small screw of paper in his hand, which he gave to his chief.

“Found inside the lining of the prisoner’s hat, citizen,” he reported curtly, and opened the shutter of a small, dark lantern which he wore at his belt.

Chauvelin took the paper from his subordinate. A weird, unexplainable foreknowledge of what was to come caused his hand to shake and beads of perspiration to moisten his forehead. He looked up and saw the prisoner standing before him. Crushing the paper in his hand he snatched the lantern from the agent’s belt and flashed it in the face of the quarry who, at the last, had been so easily captured.

Immediately a hoarse cry of disappointment and of rage escaped his throat.

“Who is this man?” he cried.

One of the agents gave reply:

“It is old Victor, the landlord of the Bon Copain. He is just a fool, who has been playing a practical joke.”

Tournefort, too, at sight of the prisoner had uttered a cry of dismay and of astonishment.

“Victor!” he exclaimed. “Name of a dog, citizen, what are you doing here?”

But Chauvelin had gripped the man by the arm so fiercely that the latter swore with the pain.

“What is the meaning of this?” he queried roughly.

“Only a bet, citizen,” retorted Victor reproachfully. “No reason to fall on an honest patriot for a bet, just as if he were a mad dog.”

“A joke? A bet?” murmured Chauvelin hoarsely, for his throat now felt hot and parched. “What do you mean? Who are you, man? Speak, or I’ll⁠—”

“My name is Jean Victor,” replied the other. “I am the landlord of the Bon Copain. An hour ago a man came into my cabaret. He was a queer, consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough that made you shiver. Some of my customers knew him by sight, told me that the man’s name was Rateau, and that he was an habitué of the Liberté, in the Rue Christine. Well; he soon fell into conversation, first with me, then with some of my customers⁠—talked all sorts of silly nonsense, made absurd bets with everybody. Some of these he won, and others he lost; but I must say that when he lost he always paid up most liberally. Then we all got excited, and soon bets flew all over the place. I don’t rightly know how it happened at the last, but all at once he bet me that I would not dare to walk out then and there in the dark, as far as the Pont Neuf, wearing his blouse and hat and carrying a bundle the same as his under my arm. I not dare?⁠ ⁠… I, Jean Victor, who was a fine fighter in my day! I bet him a gold piece that I would and he said that he would make it five if I came back without my bundle, having thrown it over the parapet into any passing boat. Well, citizen!” continued Jean Victor with a laugh, “I ask you, what would you have done? Five gold pieces means a fortune these hard times, and I tell you the man was quite honest and always paid liberally when he lost. He slipped behind the counter and took off his blouse and hat, which I put on. Then we made up a bundle with some cabbage heads and a few carrots, and out I came. I didn’t think there could be anything wrong in the whole affair⁠—just the tomfoolery of a man who has got the betting mania and in whose pocket money is just burning a hole. And I have won my bet,” concluded Jean Victor, still unabashed, “and I want to go back and get my money. If you don’t believe me, come with me to my cabaret. You will find the citizen Rateau there, for sure; and I know that I shall find my five gold pieces.”

Chauvelin had listened to the man as he would to some weird dream-story, wherein ghouls and devils had played a part. Tournefort, who was watching him, was awed by the look of fierce rage and grim hopelessness which shone from his chief’s pale eyes. The other agents laughed. They were highly amused at the tale, but they would not let the prisoner go.

“If Jean Victor’s story is true, citizen,” their sergeant said, speaking to Chauvelin, “there will be witnesses to it over at Le Bon Copain. Shall we take the prisoner straightway there and await further orders?”

Chauvelin gave a curt acquiescence, nodding his head like some insentient wooden automaton. The screw of paper was still in his hand; it seemed to sear his palm. Tournefort even now broke into a grim laugh. He had just undone the bundle which Jean Victor had thrown over the parapet of the bridge. It contained two heads of cabbage and a bunch of carrots. Then he ordered the agents to march on with their prisoner, and they, laughing and joking with Jean Victor, gave a quick turn, and soon their heavy footsteps were echoing down the flagstones of the bridge.

Chauvelin waited, motionless and silent, the dark lantern still held in his shaking hand, until he was quite sure that he was alone. Then only did he unfold the screw of paper.

It contained a few lines scribbled in pencil⁠—just that foolish rhyme which to his fevered nerves was like a strong irritant, a poison which gave him an unendurable sensation of humiliation and impotence:

“We seek him here, we seek him there!
Chauvelin seeks him everywhere!
Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel!”

He crushed the paper in his hand and, with a loud groan, of misery, fled over the bridge like one possessed.

VII

Madame la Comtesse de Sucy never went to England. She was one of those French women who would sooner endure misery in their own beloved country than comfort anywhere else. She outlived the horrors of the Revolution and speaks in her memoirs of the man Bertin. She never knew who he was nor whence he came. All that she knew was that he came to her like some mysterious agent of God, bringing help, counsel, a semblance of happiness, at the moment when she was at the end of all her resources and saw grim starvation staring her and her children in the face. He appointed all sorts of strange places in out-of-the-way Paris where she was wont to meet him, and one night she confided to him the history of her diamonds, and hardly dared to trust his promise that he would get them for her.

Less than twenty-four hours later he brought them to her, at the poor lodgings in the Rue Blanche which she occupied with her children under an assumed name. That same night she begged him to dispose of them. This also he did, bringing her the money the next day.

She never saw him again after that.

But citizen Tournefort never quite got over his disappointment of that night. Had he dared, he would have blamed citizen Chauvelin for the discomfiture. It would have been better to have apprehended the man Rateau while there was a chance of doing so with success.

As it was, the impudent ruffian slipped clean away, and was never heard of again either at the Bon Copain or at the Liberté. The customers at the cabaret certainly corroborated the story of Jean Victor. The man Rateau, they said, had been honest to the last. When time went on and Jean Victor did not return, he said that he could no longer wait, had work to do for the Government over the other side of the water and was afraid he would get punished if he dallied. But, before leaving, he laid the five gold pieces on the table. Everyone wondered that so humble a workman had so much money in his pocket, and was withal so lavish with it. But these were not the times when one inquired too closely into the presence of money in the pocket of a good patriot.

And citizen Rateau was a good patriot, for sure.

And a good fellow to boot!

They all drank his health in Jean Victor’s sour wine; then each went his way.