have restrained me, it must have been the thought of what this would mean to you. But it did not occur to me at the time. We have been good comrades, Jean. I am sorry it should end thus.'
'You may take your regrets to Hell,' said de Batz. 'And that is where I wish you.' He paused merely so as to brace himself to continue: 'This is what comes of putting faith in a man who is without loyalties to any but himself, a man who is now a royalist, now a revolutionary, now a royalist again, as suits his own personal ends; just consistent only in that all the time he is Scaramouche. As God's my witness, I marvel that I don't kill you for what you have done.' With infinite contempt he repeated: 'Scaramouche!' And on the word, he struck André-Louis hard across the face with his open hand.
Instantly La Guiche was at his side, seizing his arm, restraining him, interposing himself between them.
André-Louis, his breathing quickened, the impression of the Baron's fingers showing faintly red upon the livid pallor of his face, smiled faintly.
'It is no matter, La Guiche. No doubt he is as right by his own lights as I am by mine.'
But this only served to feed the Gascon's furious temper.
'You'll turn the other cheek, will you? You mealy-mouthed moralist! You cheap-jack philosopher. Get you back to your theatre, you clown. Go!'
'I go, de Batz. I could have wished that we had parted otherwise. But it's no matter. I'll keep the blow, in memory of you.' He stepped past him, to the door. 'Good-bye, La Guiche.'
'A moment, Moreau,' the Marquis cried. 'Where are you going?'
But André-Louis did not answer him, the truth being that he did not know. He stumbled out, and closed the door. From a peg in the passage he took down his cloak and hat and sword, and with these passed out, and descended the stairs.
In the courtyard below he was arrested. As he issued from the house, a man in a heavy coat and a round hat was entering by the porte-cochère, followed by two municipals. It hardly required that escort to announce the police spy. He stood in the path of André-Louis, scrutinizing him.
'You lodge here, citizen? What is your name?'
'André-Louis Moreau, agent of the Committee of Public Safety.'
This man, however, was not intimidated by the description. 'Your card?'
André-Louis produced it. The fellow looked at it, and nodded to his municipals. 'You are my man. Order for your arrest.' He waved a paper under André-Louis's nose.
'The charge?' inquired André-Louis, momentarily taken aback.
The man turned on his heel contemptuously. Over his shoulder, as he retreated, he spoke to his men. 'Fetch him along.'
André-Louis asked no further questions, offered no protest. He had no doubt of the explanation. News had come to Saint-Just from Blérancourt, and the representative had been quick to act. And the papers which by now should have been in the hands of Desmoulins, the papers with which he could have paralyzed all action on the part of Saint-Just, and by the production of which he could have justified his unauthorized activities at Blérancourt, were just a heap of ashes over which de Batz was no doubt still raging above-stairs.
If it was matter for anything, thought André-Louis, it was matter for laughter. And he laughed. His world had crumbled about him.
They marched him across the Tuileries Gardens, along the quay, over the Pont Neuf to the Conciergerie. In the porter's lodge they searched him. They found upon him besides a watch and some assignats, to the value of perhaps a thousand livres, nothing of worth or consequence. These effects were restored to him, and he was marched away by dark-vaulted, stone-flagged passages below-stairs to a solitary cell, where they left him to meditate upon the imminent and abrupt ending of his odd career.
If he meditated upon it, he did so without dismay. There was such pain in his heart, such numbness in his mind, that he could contemplate his end with complete indifference. He seemed dead already.
In a curious detachment he reviewed now the work he had done in Paris since that June morning which had seen the fall of the Girondins. It was not nice. It was all rather sordid. In his king-making he had pursued the tactics of the agent provocateur. It was ignoble. But at least it was appropriate in that it was done in the service of an ignoble prince. It would be best to end it all, to sleep, and to be free at last. Of Aline he sternly endeavoured not to think at all, since he could not bear the image which the thought of her brought to stand before his mental eyes.
Late that night as he sat in the dark the key grated in his door. It opened, and in the yellow light of a lantern, two men stood framed in the doorway. One took the lantern from the other, spoke some words, entered, and closed the door. He came forward, and set the lantern on the soiled deal table. He was a slender, elegant young man with the face of an Antinous under a cluster of golden hair. His eyes were large, liquid and tender, but as they looked upon André-Louis, who sat unmoved, the lines of the handsome face were stern. It was Saint-Just.
'So you are the rogue who went to play comedy at Blérancourt?' He spoke on a note of quiet derision.
Something of the old spirit of Scaramouche flared up from that dejected soul.
'I am rather a good comedian, don't you think, my dear Chevalier.'
Saint-Just frowned, annoyed by the title. Then he faintly smiled as he shook his golden head. 'Not good enough for comedy. I hope you'll play tragedy better. The stage is set for you on the Place de la Révolution. The play is "The National Barber."'
'And you are the author, I suppose. But there may be a part there for you, too, before very long, in a play called "Poetic Justice" or "The Biter Bit."'
Saint-Just continued to regard him steadily. 'You are possibly under the delusion that you will be given an opportunity to talk when you come to trial? That you will be able to tell the world of certain things you ferreted out at Blérancourt?'
'Is it a delusion?'
'Entirely. For there will be no trial. I have given my instructions. There will be a mistake. A mistake for reasons of State. You will be included, entirely by accident, in the next batch sent to execution. The mistake—the so regrettable mistake—will be discovered afterwards.'
He ceased speaking and waited.
André-Louis shrugged indifferently. 'Who cares?'
'You think that I am bluffing you?'
'I see no other object in your coming here to tell me this.'
'Ah! It does not occur to you that I might wish to give you a chance.'
'I thought that would follow. After the bluff, the bargain.'
'A bargain, yes; if you choose. But bluff there is none. You stole certain papers from Thuillier at Blérancourt.'
'Yes, and others from Bontemps. Hadn't you heard?'
'Where are they now?'
'Do you mean to say you haven't found them? Yet you'll have searched my lodgings, I suppose.'
'Don't play the fool, Moreau.' The gentle voice acquired a rasp. 'Of course I have had your lodgings searched: searched under my own supervision.'
'And you haven't found the letters? But how vexatious for you! I wonder where they can have got to.'
'So do I,' snapped Saint-Just. 'My curiosity is so lively that I'll give you your life and a safe-conduct in exchange for the information.'
'In exchange for the information?'
'In exchange for the letters, that is to say.'
André-Louis took his time, regarding him. Under his admirable self-control, an anxiety was to be guessed in Saint-Just. 'Ah! That's different. I am afraid it's beyond my power to give you the letters.'
'Your head will fall if you don't, and that tomorrow.'
'Then my head must fall. For I can't give you the letters.'
'What