Lord Tony's Wife Part 34

The shadowy form came a step or two further forward.

"Is it you, citizen Fleury?" queried Chauvelin.

"Himself, citizen," replied the other.

The men had spoken in a whisper. Fleury now placed his hand on Chauvelin's arm.

"We had best not stand so close to the tavern," he said, "the night hawks are already about and we don't want to scare them."

He led the others up the yard, then into a very narrow pa.s.sage which lay between Louise Adet's house and the Rat Mort and was bordered by the high walls of the houses on either side.

"This is a blind alley," he whispered. "We have the wall of Le Bouffay in front of us: the wall of the Rat Mort is on one side and the house of the citizeness Adet on the other. We can talk here undisturbed."

Overhead there was a tiny window dimly lighted from within. Chauvelin pointed up to it.

"What is that?" he asked.

"An aperture too small for any human being to pa.s.s through," replied Fleury drily. "It gives on a small landing at the foot of the stairs. I told Friche to try and manoeuvre so that the wench and her father are pushed in there out of the way while the worst of the fracas is going on. That was your suggestion, citizen Chauvelin."

"It was. I was afraid the two aristos might get spirited away while your men were tackling the crowd in the tap-room. I wanted them put away in a safe place."

"The staircase is safe enough," rejoined Fleury; "it has no egress save that on the tap-room and only leads to the upper story and the attic.

The house has no back entrance--it is built against the wall of Le Bouffay."

"And what about your Marats, citizen commandant?"

"Oh! I have them all along the street--entirely under cover but closely on the watch--half a company and all keen after the game. The thousand francs you promised them has stimulated their zeal most marvellously, and as soon as Paul Friche in there has whipped up the tempers of the frequenters of the Rat Mort, we shall be ready to rush the place and I a.s.sure you, citizen Chauvelin, that only a disembodied ghost--if there be one in the place--will succeed in evading arrest."

"Is Paul Friche already at his post then?"

"And at work--or I'm much mistaken," replied Fleury as he suddenly gripped Chauvelin by the arm.

For just at this moment the silence of the winter's night was broken by loud cries which came from the interior of the Rat Mort--voices were raised to hoa.r.s.e and raucous cries--men and women all appeared to be shrieking together, and presently there was a loud crash as of overturned furniture and broken gla.s.s.

"A few minutes longer, citizen Fleury," said Chauvelin, as the commandant of the Marats turned on his heel and started to go back to the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie.

"Oh yes!" whispered the latter, "we'll wait awhile longer to give the Englishmen time to arrive on the scene. The coast is clear for them--my Marats are hidden from sight behind the doorways and shop-fronts of the houses opposite. In about three minutes from now I'll send them forward."

"And good luck to your hunting, citizen," whispered Chauvelin in response.

Fleury very quickly disappeared in the darkness and the other two men followed in his wake. They hugged the wall of the Rat Mort as they went along and its shadow enveloped them completely: their shoes made no sound on the unpaved ground. Chauvelin's nostrils quivered as he drew the keen, cold air into his lungs and faced the north-westerly blast which at this moment also lashed the face of his enemy. His keen eyes tried to pierce the gloom, his ears were strained to hear that merry peal of laughter which in the unforgettable past had been wont to proclaim the presence of the reckless adventurer. He knew--he felt--as certainly as he felt the air which he breathed, that the man whom he hated beyond everything on earth was somewhere close by, wrapped in the murkiness of the night--thinking, planning, intriguing, pitting his sharp wits, his indomitable pluck, his impudent dare-devilry against the sure and patient trap which had been set for him.

Half a company of Marats in front--the walls of Le Bouffay in the rear!

Chauvelin rubbed his thin hands together!

"You are not a disembodied ghost, my fine Scarlet Pimpernel," he murmured, "and this time I really think----"

CHAPTER VII

THE FRACAS IN THE TAVERN

I

Yvonne had settled herself in a corner of the tap-room on a bench and had tried to lose consciousness of her surroundings.

It was not easy! Glances charged with rancour were levelled at her dainty appearance--dainty and refined despite the look of starvation and of weariness on her face and the miserable state of her clothing--and not a few muttered insults waited on those glances.

As soon as she was seated Yvonne noticed that the old man and the coa.r.s.e, fat woman behind the bar started an animated conversation together, of which she was very obviously the object, for the two heads--the lean and the round--were jerked more than once in her direction. Presently the man--it was George Lemoine, the proprietor of the Rat Mort--came up to where she was sitting: his lank figure was bent so that his lean back formed the best part of an arc, and an expression of mock deference further distorted his ugly face.

He came up quite close to Yvonne and she found it pa.s.sing difficult not to draw away from him, for the leer on his face was appalling: his eyes, which were set very near to his hooked nose, had a horrible squint, his lips were thick and moist, and his breath reeked of alcohol.

"What will the n.o.ble lady deign to drink?" he now asked in an oily, suave voice.

And Yvonne, remembering the guide's admonitions, contrived to smile unconcernedly into the hideous face.

"I would very much like some wine," she said cheerfully, "but I am afraid that I have no money wherewith to pay you for it."

The creature with a gesture of abject humility rubbed his greasy hands together.

"And may I respectfully ask," he queried blandly, "what are the intentions of the n.o.ble lady in coming to this humble abode, if she hath no desire to partake of refreshments?"

"I am expecting friends," replied Yvonne bravely; "they will be here very soon, and will gladly repay you lavishly for all the kindness which you may be inclined to show to me the while."

She was very brave indeed and looked this awful misshapen specimen of a man quite boldly in the face: she even contrived to smile, though she was well aware that a number of men and women--perhaps a dozen altogether--had congregated in front of her in a compact group around the landlord, that they were nudging one another and pointing derisively--malevolently--at her. It was impossible, despite all attempts at valour, to mistake the hostile att.i.tude of these people.

Some of the most obscene words, coined during these last horrible days of the Revolution, were freely hurled at her, and one woman suddenly cried out in a shrill treble:

"Throw her out, citizen Lemoine! We don't want spies in here!"

"Indeed, indeed," said Yvonne as quietly as she could, "I am no spy. I am poor and wreched like yourselves! and desperately lonely, save for the kind friends who will meet me here anon."

"Aristos like yourself!" growled one of the men. "This is no place for you or for them."

"No! No! This is no place for aristos," cried one of the women in a voice which many excesses and many vices had rendered hoa.r.s.e and rough.

"Spy or not, we don't want you in here. Do we?" she added as with arms akimbo she turned to face those of her own s.e.x, who behind the men had come up in order to see what was going on.

"Throw her out, Lemoine," reiterated a man who appeared to be an oracle amongst the others.

"Please! please let me stop here!" pleaded Yvonne; "if you turn me out I shall not know what to do: I shall not know where to meet my friends...."

"Pretty story about those friends," broke in Lemoine roughly. "How do I know if you're lying or not?"

From the opposite angle of the room, the woman behind the bar had been watching the little scene with eyes that glistened with cupidity. Now she emerged from behind her stronghold of bottles and mugs and slowly waddled across the room. She pushed her way unceremoniously past her customers, elbowing men, women and children vigorously aside with a deft play of her large, muscular arms. Having reached the forefront of the little group she came to a standstill immediately in front of Yvonne, and crossing her mighty arms over her ponderous chest she eyed the "aristo" with unconcealed malignity.

"We do know that the s.l.u.t is lying--that is where you make the mistake, Lemoine. A s.l.u.t, that's what she is--and the friend whom she's going to meet ...? Well!" she added, turning with an ugly leer toward the other women, "we all know what sort of friend that one is likely to be, eh, mesdames? Bringing evil fame on this house, that's what the wench is after ... so as to bring the police about our ears ... I wouldn't trust her, not another minute. Out with you and at once--do you hear?... this instant ... Lemoine has parleyed quite long enough with you already!"