Lord Tony’s Wife Baroness Orczy (story read aloud .TXT) 📖

that you and everyone here is heading straight for a trap arranged by the Committee of Public Safety, whose chief emissary came into Nantes awhile ago and is named Chauvelin. It is a trap which will land you all in the criminal dock first and on the way to Cayenne or the guillotine afterwards. This place is surrounded with Marats, and orders have been issued to them to make a descent on this place, as soon as papa Lemoine’s customers are assembled. There are two members of the accursed company amongst us at the present moment.⁠ ⁠…”

He was standing right in the middle of the room, immediately beneath the hanging lamp. At his words⁠—spoken with such firm confidence, as one who knows and is therefore empowered to speak⁠—a sudden change came over the spirit of the whole assembly. Everything was forgotten in the face of this new danger⁠—two Marats, the sleuthhounds of the proconsul⁠—here present, as spies and as informants! Every face became more haggard⁠—every cheek more livid. There was a quick and furtive scurrying toward the front door.

“Two Marats here?” shouted one man, who was bolder than the rest. “Where are they?”

Paul Friche, who towered above his friends, stood at this moment quite close to a small man, dressed like the others in ragged breeches and shirt, and wearing the broad-brimmed hat usually affected by the Breton peasantry.

“Two Marats? Two spies?” screeched a woman. “Where are they?”

“Here is one,” replied Paul Friche with a loud laugh: and with his large grimy hand he lifted the hat from his neighbour’s head and threw it on the ground; “and there,” he added as with long, bony finger he pointed to the front door, where another man⁠—a square-built youngster with tow-coloured hair somewhat resembling a shaggy dog⁠—was endeavouring to effect a surreptitious exit, “there is the other; and he is on the point of slipping quietly away in order to report to his captain what he has seen and heard at the Rat Mort. One moment, citizen,” he added, and with a couple of giant strides he too had reached the door; his large rough hand had come down heavily on the shoulder of the youth with the tow-coloured hair, and had forced him to veer round and to face the angry, gesticulating crowd.

“Two Marats! Two spies!” shouted the men. “Now we’ll soon settle their little business for them!”

“Marat yourself,” cried the small man who had first been denounced by Friche. “I am no Marat, as a good many of you here know. Maman Lemoine,” he added pleading, “you know me. Am I a Marat?”

But the Lemoines⁠—man and wife⁠—at the first suggestion of police had turned a deaf ear to all their customers. Their own safety being in jeopardy they cared little what happened to anybody else. They had retired behind their counter and were in close consultation together, no doubt as to the best means of escape if indeed the man Paul Friche spoke the truth.

“I know nothing about him,” the woman was saying, “but he certainly was right last night about those two men who came ferreting in here⁠—and last week too⁠ ⁠…”

“Am I a Marat, maman Lemoine?” shouted the small man as he hammered his fists upon the counter. “For ten years and more I have been a customer in this place and⁠ ⁠…”

“Am I a Marat?” shouted the youth with the tow-coloured hair addressing the assembly indiscriminately. “Some of you here know me well enough. Jean Paul, you know⁠—Ledouble, you too⁠ ⁠…”

“Of course! Of course I know you well enough, Jacques Leroux,” came with a loud laugh from one of the crowd. “Who said you were a Marat?”

“Am I a Marat, maman Lemoine?” reiterated the small man at the counter.

“Oh! leave me alone with your quarrels,” shouted the woman Lemoine in reply. “Settle them among yourselves.”

“Then if Jacques Leroux is not a Marat,” now came in a bibulous voice from a distant comer of the room, “and this compeer here is known to maman Lemoine, where are the real Marats who according to this fellow Friche, whom we none of us know, are spying upon us?”

“Yes! where are they?” suggested another. “Show ’em to us, Paul Friche, or whatever your accursed name happens to be.”

“Tell us where you come from yourself,” screamed the woman with the shrill treble, “it seems to me quite possible that you’re a Marat yourself.”

This suggestion was at once taken up.

“Marat yourself!” shouted the crowd, and the two men who a moment ago had been accused of being spies in disguise shouted louder than the rest: “Marat yourself!”

III

After that, pandemonium reigned.

The words “police” and “Marats” had aroused the terror of all these nighthawks, who were wont to think themselves immune inside their lair: and terror is at all times an evil counsellor. In the space of a few seconds confusion held undisputed sway. Everyone screamed, waved arms, stamped feet, struck out with heavy bare fists at his nearest neighbour. Everyone’s hand was against everyone else.

“Spy! Marat! Informer!” were the three words that detached themselves most clearly from out the babel of vituperations freely hurled from end to end of the room.

The children screamed, the women’s shrill or hoarse treble mingled with the cries and imprecations of the men.

Paul Friche had noted that the turn of the tide was against him, long before the first naked fist had been brandished in his face. Agile as a monkey he had pushed his way through to the bar, and placing his two hands upon it, with a swift leap he had taken up a sitting position in the very middle of the table amongst the jugs and bottles, which he promptly seized and used as missiles and weapons, whilst with his dangling feet encased in heavy sabots he kicked out vigorously and unceasingly against the shins of his foremost assailants.

He had the advantage of position and used it cleverly. In his right hand he held a pewter mug by the handle and used it as a swivel