Lord Tony’s Wife - Baroness Orczy (red novels txt) 📗

“Introduce citizen Martin-Roget into the anteroom now, Lalouët,” he said loftily. “I will hear what he has to say, and citizen Chauvelin may present himself at the same time.”

Young Lalouët lolled across the room, smothering a yawn.

“Why should you trouble about all that rabble?” he said roughly, “it is nearly dinnertime and you know that the chef hates the soup to be kept waiting.”

“I shall not trouble about them very long,” replied Carrier, who had just started picking his teeth with a tiny gold tool. “Open the door, boy, and let the two men come.”

Lalouët did as he was told. The door through which he passed he left wide open, he then crossed the anteroom to a further door, threw it open and called in a loud voice:

“Citizen Chauvelin! Citizen Martin-Roget!”

For all the world like the ceremonious audiences at Versailles in the days of the great Louis.

There was sound of eager whisperings, of shuffling of feet, of chairs dragged across the polished floor. Young Lalouët had already and quite unconcernedly turned his back on the two men who, at his call, had entered the room.

Two chairs were placed in front of the door which led to the private sanctuary⁠—still wrapped in religious obscurity⁠—where Carrier sat enthroned. The youth curtly pointed to the two chairs, then went back to the inner room. The two men advanced. The full light of midday fell upon them from the tall window on their right⁠—the pale, grey, colourless light of December. They bowed slightly in the direction of the audience chamber where the vague silhouette of the proconsul was alone visible.

The whole thing was a farce. Martin-Roget held his lips tightly closed together lest a curse or a sneer escaped them. Chauvelin’s face was impenetrable⁠—but it is worthy of note that just one year later when the half-demented tyrant was in his turn brought before the bar of the Convention and sentenced to the guillotine, it was citizen Chauvelin’s testimony which weighed most heavily against him.

There was silence for a time: Martin-Roget and Chauvelin were waiting for the dictator’s word. He sat at his desk with the scanty light, which filtrated between the curtains, immediately behind him, his ungainly form with the high shoulders and mop-like, shaggy hair half swallowed up by the surrounding gloom. He was deliberately keeping the other two men waiting and busied himself with turning over desultorily the papers and writing tools upon his desk, in the intervals of picking at his teeth and muttering to himself all the time as was his wont. Young Lalouët had resumed his post beside the curtained window and he was giving sundry signs of his growing impatience.

At last Carrier spoke:

“And now, citizen Martin-Roget,” he said in tones of that lofty condescension which he loved to affect, “I am prepared to hear what you have to tell me with regard to the cattle which you brought into our city the other day. Where are the aristos now? and why have they not been handed over to commandant Fleury?”

“The girl,” replied Martin-Roget, who had much ado to keep his vehement temper in check, and who chose for the moment to ignore the second of Carrier’s peremptory queries, “the girl is in lodgings in the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie. The house is kept by my sister, whose lover was hanged four years ago by the ci-devant duc de Kernogan for trapping two pigeons. A dozen or so lads from our old village⁠—men who worked with my father and others who were my friends⁠—lodge in my sister’s house. They keep a watchful eye over the wench for the sake of the past, for my sake and for the sake of my sister Louise. The ci-devant Kernogan woman is well-guarded. I am satisfied as to that.”

“And where is the ci-devant duc?”

“In the house next door⁠—a tavern at the sign of the Rat Mort⁠—a place which is none too reputable, but the landlord⁠—Lemoine⁠—is a good patriot and he is keeping a close eye on the aristo for me.”

“And now will you tell me, citizen,” rejoined Carrier with that unctuous suavity which always veiled a threat, “will you tell me how it comes that you are keeping a couple of traitors alive all this while at the country’s expense?”

“At mine,” broke in Martin-Roget curtly.

“At the country’s expense,” reiterated the proconsul inflexibly. “Bread is scarce in Nantes. What traitors eat is stolen from good patriots. If you can afford to fill two mouths at your expense, I can supply you with some that have never done aught but proclaim their adherence to the Republic. You have had those two aristos inside the city nearly a week and⁠—”

“Only three days,” interposed Martin-Roget, “and you must have patience with me, citizen Carrier. Remember I have done well by you, by bringing such high game to your bag⁠—”

“Your high game will be no use to me,” retorted the other with a harsh laugh, “if I am not to have the cooking of it. You have talked of disgrace for the rabble and of your own desire for vengeance over them, but⁠—”

“Wait, citizen,” broke in Martin-Roget firmly, “let us understand one another. Before I embarked on this business you gave me your promise that no one⁠—not even you⁠—would interfere between me and my booty.”

“And no one has done so hitherto to my knowledge, citizen,” rejoined Carrier blandly. “The Kernogan rabble has been yours to do with what you like⁠—er⁠—so far,” he added significantly. “I said that I would not interfere and I have not done so up to now, even though the pestilential crowd stinks in the nostrils of every good patriot in Nantes. But I don’t deny that it was a bargain that you should have a free hand with them⁠ ⁠… for a time, and Jean Baptiste Carrier has never yet gone back on a given word.”

Martin-Roget made no comment on this peroration. He shrugged his broad shoulders and suddenly fell to contemplating the distant