El Dorado - Baroness Orczy (best ebook reader for surface pro TXT) 📗

you with the voluntary confession this young citizen desired to make to you. All I need tell you is that he is an adherent of the Scarlet Pimpernel⁠—I believe one of his most faithful, most trusted officers.”

Héron roused himself from the maze of gloomy thoughts that were again paralysing his tongue. He turned bleary, wild eyes on Armand.

“We have got one of them, then?” he murmured incoherently, babbling like a drunken man.

“M’yes!” replied Chauvelin lightly; “but it is too late now for a formal denunciation and arrest. He cannot leave Paris anyhow, and all that your men need to do is to keep a close lookout on him. But I should send him home tonight if I were you.”

Héron muttered something more, which, however, Armand did not understand. Chauvelin’s words were still ringing in his ear. Was he, then, to be set free tonight? Free in a measure, of course, since spies were to be set to watch him⁠—but free, nevertheless? He could not understand Chauvelin’s attitude, and his own self-love was not a little wounded at the thought that he was of such little account that these men could afford to give him even this provisional freedom. And, of course, there was still Jeanne.

“I must, therefore, bid you good night, citizen,” Chauvelin was saying in his bland, gently ironical manner. “You will be glad to return to your lodgings. As you see, the chief agent of the Committee of General Security is too much occupied just now to accept the sacrifice of your life which you were prepared so generously to offer him.”

“I do not understand you, citizen,” retorted Armand coldly, “nor do I desire indulgence at your hands. You have arrested an innocent woman on the trumped-up charge that she was harbouring me. I came here tonight to give myself up to justice so that she might be set free.”

“But the hour is somewhat late, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin urbanely. “The lady in whom you take so fervent an interest is no doubt asleep in her cell at this hour. It would not be fitting to disturb her now. She might not find shelter before morning, and the weather is quite exceptionally unpropitious.”

“Then, sir,” said Armand, a little bewildered, “am I to understand that if I hold myself at your disposition Mademoiselle Lange will be set free as early tomorrow morning as may be?”

“No doubt, sir⁠—no doubt,” replied Chauvelin with more than his accustomed blandness; “if you will hold yourself entirely at our disposition, Mademoiselle Lange will be set free tomorrow. I think that we can safely promise that, citizen Héron, can we not?” he added, turning to his colleague.

But Héron, overcome with the stress of emotions, could only murmur vague, unintelligible words.

“Your word on that, citizen Chauvelin?” asked Armand.

“My word on it an you will accept it.”

“No, I will not do that. Give me an unconditional certificate of safety and I will believe you.”

“Of what use were that to you?” asked Chauvelin.

“I believe my capture to be of more importance to you than that of Mademoiselle Lange,” said Armand quietly. “I will use the certificate of safety for myself or one of my friends if you break your word to me anent Mademoiselle Lange.”

“H’m! the reasoning is not illogical, citizen,” said Chauvelin, whilst a curious smile played round the corners of his thin lips. “You are quite right. You are a more valuable asset to us than the charming lady who, I hope, will for many a day and year to come delight pleasure-loving Paris with her talent and her grace.”

“Amen to that, citizen,” said Armand fervently.

“Well, it will all depend on you, sir! Here,” he added, coolly running over some papers on Héron’s desk until he found what he wanted, “is an absolutely unconditional certificate of safety. The Committee of General Security issue very few of these. It is worth the cost of a human life. At no barrier or gate of any city can such a certificate be disregarded, nor even can it be detained. Allow me to hand it to you, citizen, as a pledge of my own good faith.”

Smiling, urbane, with a curious look that almost expressed amusement lurking in his shrewd, pale eyes, Chauvelin handed the momentous document to Armand.

The young man studied it very carefully before he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.

“How soon shall I have news of Mademoiselle Lange?” he asked finally.

“In the course of tomorrow. I myself will call on you and redeem that precious document in person. You, on the other hand, will hold yourself at my disposition. That’s understood, is it not?”

“I shall not fail you. My lodgings are⁠—”

“Oh! do not trouble,” interposed Chauvelin, with a polite bow; “we can find that out for ourselves.”

Héron had taken no part in this colloquy. Now that Armand prepared to go he made no attempt to detain him, or to question his colleague’s actions. He sat by the table like a log; his mind was obviously a blank to all else save to his own terrors engendered by the events of this night.

With bleary, half-veiled eyes he followed Armand’s progress through the room, and seemed unaware of the loud slamming of the outside door. Chauvelin had escorted the young man past the first line of sentry, then he took cordial leave of him.

“Your certificate will, you will find, open every gate to you. Good night, citizen. A demain.”

“Good night.”

Armand’s slim figure disappeared in the gloom. Chauvelin watched him for a few moments until even his footsteps had died away in the distance; then he turned back towards Héron’s lodgings.

“À nous deux,” he muttered between tightly clenched teeth; “à nous deux once more, my enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel.”

XXI Back to Paris

It was an exceptionally dark night, and the rain was falling in torrents. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, wrapped in a piece of sacking, had taken shelter right underneath the coal-cart; even then he was getting wet through to the skin.

He