Lord Tony’s Wife by Baroness Orczy (13 ebook reader TXT) 📕

Martin-Roget had obviously winced, and Chauvelin had the satisfaction of seeing that his thrust had gone home: though Martin-Roget’s face was in shadow, there was something now in his whole attitude, in the clasping and unclasping of his large, square hands which indicated that the man was labouring under the stress of a violent emotion. In spite of this he managed to say quite coolly: “What do you mean exactly by that, citizen Chauvelin?”

“Oh!” replied the other, “you know well enough what I mean⁠—I am no fool, what?⁠ ⁠… or the Revolution would have no use for me. If after my many failures she still commands my services and employs me to keep my eyes and ears open, it is because she knows that she can count on me. I do keep my eyes and ears open, citizen Adet or Martin-Roget, whatever you like to call yourself, and also my mind⁠—and I have a way of putting two and two together to make four. There are few people in Nantes who do not know that old Jean Adet, the miller, was hanged four years ago, because his son Pierre had taken part in some kind of open revolt against the tyranny of the ci-devant duc de Kernogan, and was not there to take his punishment himself. I knew old Jean Adet.⁠ ⁠… I was on the Place du Bouffay at Nantes when he was hanged.⁠ ⁠…”

But already Martin-Roget had jumped to his feet with a muttered blasphemy.

“Have done, man,” he said roughly, “have done!” And he started pacing up and down the narrow room like a caged panther, snarling and showing his teeth, whilst his rough, toil-worn hands quivered with the desire to clutch an unseen enemy by the throat and to squeeze the life out of him. “Think you,” he added hoarsely, “that I need reminding of that?”

“No. I do not think that, citizen,” replied Chauvelin calmly, “I only desired to warn you.”

“Warn me? Of what?”

Nervous, agitated, restless, Martin-Roget had once more gone back to his seat: his hands were trembling as he held them up mechanically to the blaze and his face was the colour of lead. In contrast with his restlessness Chauvelin appeared the more calm and bland.

“Why should you wish to warn me?” asked the other querulously, but with an attempt at his former overbearing manner. “What are my affairs to you⁠—what do you know about them?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, citizen Martin-Roget,” replied Chauvelin pleasantly, “I was only indulging the fancy I spoke to you about just now of putting two and two together in order to make four. The chartering of a smuggler’s craft⁠—aristos on board her⁠—her ostensible destination Holland⁠—her real objective Le Croisic.⁠ ⁠… Le Croisic is now the port for Nantes and we don’t bring aristos into Nantes these days for the object of providing them with a featherbed and a competence, what?”

“And,” retorted Martin-Roget quietly, “if your surmises are correct, citizen Chauvelin, what then?”

“Oh, nothing!” replied the other indifferently. “Only⁠ ⁠… take care, citizen⁠ ⁠… that is all.”

“Take care of what?”

“Of the man who brought me, Chauvelin, to ruin and disgrace.”

“Oh! I have heard of that legend before now,” said Martin-Roget with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “The man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel you mean?”

“Why, yes!”

“What have I to do with him?”

“I don’t know. But remember that I myself have twice been after that man here in England; that twice he slipped through my fingers when I thought I held him so tightly that he could not possibly escape and that twice in consequence I was brought to humiliation and to shame. I am a marked man now⁠—the guillotine will soon claim me for her future use. Your affairs, citizen, are no concern of mine, but I have marked that Scarlet Pimpernel for mine own. I won’t have any blunderings on your part give him yet another triumph over us all.”

Once more Martin-Roget swore one of his favourite oaths.

“By Satan and all his brood, man,” he cried in a passion of fury, “have done with this interference. Have done, I say. I have nothing to do, I tell you, with your satané Scarlet Pimpernel. My concern is with⁠ ⁠…”

“With the duc de Kernogan,” broke in Chauvelin calmly, “and with his daughter; I know that well enough. You want to be even with them over the murder of your father. I know that too. All that is your affair. But beware, I tell you. To begin with, the secrecy of your identity is absolutely essential to the success of your plan. What?”

“Of course it is. But.⁠ ⁠…”

“But nevertheless, your identity is known to the most astute, the keenest enemy of the Republic.”

“Impossible,” asserted Martin-Roget hotly.

“The duc de Kernogan.⁠ ⁠…”

“Bah! He had never the slightest suspicion of me. Think you his High and Mightiness in those far-off days ever looked twice at a village lad so that he would know him again four years later? I came into this country as an émigré stowed away in a smuggler’s ship like a bundle of contraband goods. I have papers to prove that my name is Martin-Roget and that I am a banker from Brest. The worthy bishop of Brest⁠—denounced to the Committee of Public Safety for treason against the Republic⁠—was given his life and a safe conduct into Spain on the condition that he gave me⁠—Martin-Roget⁠—letters of personal introduction to various highborn émigrés in Holland, in Germany and in England. Armed with these I am invulnerable. I have been presented to His Royal Highness the Regent, and to the elite of English society in Bath. I am the friend of M. le duc de Kernogan now and the accredited suitor for his daughter’s hand.”

“His daughter!” broke in Chauvelin with a sneer, and his pale, keen eyes had in them a spark of malicious mockery.

Martin-Roget made no immediate retort to the sneer. A curious hot flush had spread over his forehead and his ears, leaving his cheeks wan and livid.

“What about the daughter?” reiterated Chauvelin.

“Yvonne de Kernogan has never seen Pierre Adet