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

your sergeants, citizen?” queried Chauvelin tentatively. “They will have to keep very much on the alert, and will require constant prodding to their vigilance. If I can be of any service⁠ ⁠…”

“No,” retorted Fleury curtly, “you and citizen Martin-Roget had best try and see the proconsul and tell him what we have done.”

“He’ll be half wild with terror when he hears that the English spy is at large upon the island.”

“You must pacify him as best you can. Tell him I have a score of Marats at every bridge head and that I am looking personally to every arrangement. There is no escape for the devil possible save by drowning himself and the wench in the Loire.”

II

Chauvelin and Martin-Roget turned from the quay on to the Petite Hollande⁠—the great open ground with its converging row of trees which ends at the very apex of the Isle of Feydeau. Opposite to them at the further corner of the Place was the Hôtel de la Villestreux. One or two of the windows in the hotel were lighted from within. No doubt the proconsul was awake, trembling in the remotest angle of his lair, with the spectre of assassination rampant before him⁠—aroused by the continued disturbance of the night, by the feverishness of this manhunt carried on almost at his gates.

Even through the darkness it was easy to perceive groups of people either rushing backwards and forwards on the Place or congregating in groups under the trees. Excitement was in the air. It could be felt and heard right through the soughing of the northwesterly wind which caused the bare branches of the trees to groan and to crackle, and the dead leaves, which still hung on the twigs, to fly wildly through the night.

In the centre of the Place, two small lights, gleaming like eyes in the midst of the gloom, betrayed the presence of the proconsul’s coach, which stood there as always, ready to take him away to a place of safety⁠—away from this city where he was mortally hated and dreaded⁠—whenever the spectre of terror became more insistent than usual, and drove him hence out of his stronghold. The horses were pawing the frozen ground and champing their bits⁠—the steam from their nostrils caught the rays of the carriage lamps, which also lit up with a feeble flicker the vague outline of the coachman on his box and of the postilion rigid in his saddle.

The citizens of Nantes were never tired of gaping at the carriage⁠—a huge C-springed barouche⁠—at the coachman’s fine caped coat of bottle-green cloth and at the horses with their handsome harness set off with heavy brass bosses: they never tired of bandying words with the successive coachmen as they mounted their box and gathered up the reins, or with the postilions who loved to crack their whips and to appear smart and well-groomed, in the midst of the squalor which reigned in the terror-stricken city. They were the guardians of the mighty proconsul: on their skill, quickness and presence of mind might depend his precious life.

Even when the shadow of death hangs over an entire community, there will be some who will stand and gape and crack jokes at an uncommon sight.

And now when the pall of night hung over the abode of the man-tiger and his lair, and wrapped in its embrace the hunted and the hunters, there still was a knot of people standing round the carriage⁠—between it and the hotel⁠—gazing with lacklustre eyes on the costly appurtenances wherewith the representative of a wretched people loved to surround himself. They could only see the solid mass of the carriage and of the horses, but they could hear the coachman clicking with his tongue and the postilion cracking his whip, and these sights broke the absolute dreary monotony of their lives.

It was from behind this knot of gaffers that there rose gradually a tumult as of a man calling out in wrath and lashing himself into a fury. Chauvelin and Martin-Roget were just then crossing La Petite Hollande from one bank of the river to the other: they were walking rapidly towards the hotel, when they heard the tumult which presently culminated in a hoarse cry and a volley of oaths.

“My coach! my coach at once⁠ ⁠… Lalouët, don’t leave me⁠ ⁠… Curse you all for a set of cowardly oafs⁠ ⁠… My coach I say⁠ ⁠…”

“The proconsul,” murmured Chauvelin as he hastened forward, Martin-Roget following closely on his heels.

By the time that they had come near enough to the coach to distinguish vaguely in the gloom what was going on, people came rushing to the same spot from end to end of the Place. In a moment there was quite a crowd round the carriage, and the two men had much ado to push their way through by a vigorous play of their elbows.

“Citizen Carrier!” cried Chauvelin at the top of his voice, trying to dominate the hubbub, “one minute⁠ ⁠… I have excellent news for you⁠ ⁠… The English spy⁠ ⁠…”

“Curse you for a set of blundering fools,” came with a husky cry from out the darkness, “you have let that English devil escape⁠ ⁠… I knew it⁠ ⁠… I knew it⁠ ⁠… the assassin is at large⁠ ⁠… the murderer⁠ ⁠… my coach at once⁠ ⁠… my coach⁠ ⁠… Lalouët⁠—do not leave me.”

Chauvelin had by this time succeeded in pushing his way to the forefront of the crowd: Martin-Roget, tall and powerful, had effectually made a way for him. Through the dense gloom he could see the misshapen form of the proconsul, wildly gesticulating with one arm and with the other clinging convulsively to young Lalouët who already had his hand on the handle of the carriage door.

With a quick, resolute gesture Chauvelin stepped between the door and the advancing proconsul.

“Citizen Carrier,” he said with calm determination, “on my oath there is no cause for alarm. Your life is absolutely safe⁠ ⁠… I entreat you to return to your lodgings⁠ ⁠…”

To emphasise his words he had stretched out a hand and firmly grasped the proconsul’s