IV
After the departure of Fleury, Carrier suddenly turned to a slender youth, who was standing close by the window, gazing out through the folds of the curtain on the fine vista of the Loire and the quays which stretched out before him.
"Introduce citizen Martin-Roget into the ante-room 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 dinner-time 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 ante-room 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 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 to-morrow," 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, cut-throat 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?"