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

landscape. He had turned his head away in order to hide the sneer which curled his lips at the recollection of that “bargain” struck with the imperious proconsul. It was a matter of five thousand francs which had passed from one pocket to the other and had bound Carrier down to a definite promise.

After a brief while Carrier resumed: “At the same time,” he said, “my promise was conditional, remember. I want that cattle out of Nantes⁠—I want the bread they eat⁠—I want the room they occupy. I can’t allow you to play fast and loose with them indefinitely⁠—a week is quite long enough⁠—”

“Three days,” corrected Martin-Roget once more.

“Well! three days or eight,” rejoined the other roughly. “Too long in any case. I must be rid of them out of this city or I shall have all the spies of the Convention about mine ears. I am beset with spies, citizen Martin-Roget, yes, even I⁠—Jean Baptiste Carrier⁠—the most selfless the most devoted patriot the Republic has ever known! Mine enemies up in Paris send spies to dog my footsteps, to watch mine every action. They are ready to pounce upon me at the slightest slip, to denounce me, to drag me to their bar⁠—they have already whetted the knife of the guillotine which is to lay low the head of the finest patriot in France⁠—”

“Hold on! hold on, Jean Baptiste my friend,” here broke in young Lalouët with a sneer, “we don’t want protestations of your patriotism just now. It is nearly dinner time.”

Carrier had been carried away by his own eloquence. At Lalouët’s mocking words he pulled himself together: murmured: “You young viper!” in tones of tigerish affection, and then turned back to Martin-Roget and resumed more calmly:

“They’ll be saying that I harbour aristos in Nantes if I keep that Kernogan rabble here any longer. So I must be rid of them, citizen Martin-Roget⁠ ⁠… say within the next four-and-twenty hours.⁠ ⁠…” He paused for a moment or two, then added drily: “That is my last word, and you must see to it. What is it you do want to do with them enfin?”

“I want their death,” replied Martin-Roget with a curse, and he brought his heavy fist crashing down upon the arm of his chair, “but not a martyr’s death, understand? I don’t want the pathetic figure of Yvonne Kernogan and her father to remain as a picture of patient resignation in the hearts and minds of every other aristo in the land. I don’t want it to excite pity or admiration. Death is nothing for such as they! they glory in it! they are proud to die. The guillotine is their final triumph! What I want for them is shame⁠ ⁠… degradation⁠ ⁠… a sensational trial that will cover them with dishonour.⁠ ⁠… I want their name dragged in the mire⁠—themselves an object of derision or of loathing. I want articles in the Moniteur giving account of the trial of the ci-devant duc de Kernogan and his daughter for something that is ignominious and base. I want shame and mud slung at them⁠—noise and beating of drums to proclaim their dishonour. Noise! noise! that will reach every corner of the land, aye that will reach Coblentz and Germany and England. It is that which they would resent⁠—the shame of it⁠—the disgrace to their name!”

“Tshaw!” exclaimed Carrier. “Why don’t you marry the wench, citizen Martin-Roget? That would be disgrace enough for her, I’ll warrant,” he added with a loud laugh, enchanted at his witticism.

“I would tomorrow,” replied the other, who chose to ignore the coarse insult, “if she would consent. That is why I have kept her at my sister’s house these three days.”

“Bah! you have no need of a traitor’s consent. My consent is sufficient.⁠ ⁠… I’ll give it if you like. The laws of the Republic permit, nay desire every good patriot to ally himself with an aristo, if he have a mind. And the Kernogan wench face to face with the guillotine⁠—or worse⁠—would surely prefer your embraces, citizen, what?”

A deep frown settled between Martin-Roget’s glowering eyes, and gave his face a sinister expression.

“I wonder⁠ ⁠…” he muttered between his teeth.

“Then cease wondering, citizen,” retorted Carrier cynically, “and try our Republican marriage on your Kernogans⁠ ⁠… thief linked to aristo, cutthroat to a proud wench⁠ ⁠… and then the Loire! Shame? Dishonour? Fal lal I say! Death, swift and sure and unerring. Nothing better has yet been invented for traitors.”

Martin-Roget shrugged his shoulders.

“You have never known,” he said quietly, “what it is to hate.”

Carrier uttered an exclamation of impatience.

“Bah!” he said, “that is all talk and nonsense. Theories, what? Citizen Chauvelin is a living example of the futility of all that rubbish. He too has an enemy it seems whom he hates more thoroughly than any good patriot has ever hated the enemies of the Republic. And hath this deadly hatred availed him, forsooth? He too wanted the disgrace and dishonour of that confounded Englishman whom I would simply have tossed into the Loire long ago, without further process. What is the result? The Englishman is over in England, safe and sound, making long noses at citizen Chauvelin, who has much ado to keep his own head out of the guillotine.”

Martin-Roget once more was silent: a look of sullen obstinacy had settled upon his face.

“You may be right, citizen Carrier,” he muttered after awhile.

“I am always right,” broke in Carrier curtly.

“Exactly⁠ ⁠… but I have your promise.”

“And I’ll keep it, as I have said, for another four and twenty hours. Curse you for a mulish fool,” added the proconsul with a snarl, “what in the d⁠⸺⁠l’s name do you want to do? You have talked a vast deal of rubbish but you have told me nothing of your plans. Have you any⁠ ⁠… that are worthy of my attention?”

V

Martin-Roget rose from his seat and began pacing up and down the narrow room. His nerves were obviously on edge. It was difficult for any man⁠—let alone one of his temperament and half-tutored disposition⁠—to