The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini
of Public Safety under guard.
'It is an arrest, then?' cried the dismayed municipal. 'Your order says nothing of that.'
'Not an arrest,' he was answered with a close-lipped smile. 'Just a precaution.'
Michonis displayed anger. 'Your warrant for this?'
'My common-sense. You may leave me to account for my actions.'
And so Michonis, in fear and suppressed fury, departed from the Temple under the escort of two municipals, leaving Simon in charge there in his place.
The other municipals, who had looked forward to a night of ease over their cards, to which Michonis had educated them by now, were ordered by Simon to those various posts of duty on the staircase and elsewhere, which it had long since been regarded as superfluous to guard.
When the false patrol arrived at a few minutes before midnight, the diligent Simon was in the courtyard.
A lieutenant marched in his men—a dozen of them—and in their wake, before the gates could be closed, came a civilian, plainly dressed and brisk of step, whose face was lost in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat.
Challenged by the guard, this civilian presented a sheet of paper. The sentry was unable to read; but the official aspect of the paper was unmistakable, and the round seal of the Convention at the head of it was an ideograph with which he was familiar.
Simon strolled forward. His own bodyguard of patriots was at hand for any emergency such as the suspected treason of Cortey might provide.
'Who's this?' he asked.
A trim, stiffly built figure stood unmoved before him, making no attempt to answer. The sentry handed the paper to Simon, and held up his lantern, so that the light fell on the sheet.
It was an order from the Committee of Public Safety to the Citizen Dumont, whom it described as a medical practitioner, to visit the Dauphin in his prison at the Temple and report at once upon his health.
Simon read the paper a second time, scanning it closely. Undoubtedly it was in order; seal and signature were all as they should be. But Simon was by no means satisfied. With an exaggerated sense of the authority in which he had so lately been vested, he accounted it odd that he should not have been informed by the Committee of the existence of this order.
'This is a strange hour for such a visit,' he growled, mistrustfully, as he handed back the paper.
The civilian's answer was prompt. 'It should have been paid some hours ago. But I have other patients as important as this Capet brat. My report must be made by morning.'
'It is odd! Cursedly odd!' Muttering, Simon took the lantern from the hands of the sentry and held it up so that the light dissipated the shadows under that round, black hat. He recoiled at sight of the man of medicine's face.
'De Batz!' he ejaculated. Then, with an unclean oath, almost in a breath, he added: 'Arrest that man.'
Even as he spoke, he sprang forward, himself to seize the pseudo-doctor. He was met by a kick in the stomach that sent him sprawling. The lantern was shivered on the cobbles, and before the winded Simon could pick himself up, the Baron had vanished. The men of the patrol, who helped him to rise, detained him with a solicitude for his injuries, for which he cursed them furiously whilst struggling to deliver himself from their arms. At last he broke away. 'After him!' he screamed. 'Follow me!' And he dashed through the gateway, his own myrmidons at his heels.
The false lieutenant, a big fellow named Boissancourt, judged that he had ensured for de Batz a sufficient start to enable him to reach the neighbouring shelter of No. 12 in the Rue Charlot. As the alarm now brought the whole guard of municipals streaming into the courtyard, Boissancourt coolly marched out his patrol, and left the porter to explain. To have followed Simon would have led to meeting him on his return. Explanations must have ensued, with incalculable consequences to themselves and also perhaps to Cortey. Boissancourt judged it best in all the circumstances to march his patrol away in the opposite direction, and then disperse it. For tonight the blow had failed.
So far as de Batz was concerned, Boissancourt's assumptions were exact. The Baron made for the Rue Charlot. He obeyed instinct rather than reasoned thought. He was as yet too confused to think. All that he realized was that, either by accident or betrayal, the carefully prepared plot was ruined, and he himself in the tightest corner he had yet known, not even excepting his adventure on the morning of the King's execution. If he were caught tonight, whilst still, as it were, red-handed, it would certainly be the end of him. Not all the influence he could command would suffice to save him from the tale of his attempt to gain access to the royal prisoners.
He must trust, therefore, to speed; and so he ran as he had never run before; and already the feet of his pursuers came clattering after him.
To the six who waited at the corner this patter of running feet was the first intimation at once that the moment for action had arrived and that this action was other than that for which they were prepared. Their uneasiness swiftly mounted to alarm at the sounds which followed: a shout, an explosion of vociferations, and the rapidly approaching clatter that told of flight and pursuit. No sooner had André-Louis realized it than the pursued was amongst them, revealing himself for de Batz in a half-dozen imprecatory words which announced the failure, and bade them save themselves.
He scarcely paused to utter them, before plunging on down the Rue Charlot.
Instinctively the others would have followed him in his flight had not André-Louis arrested them.
'Turn about, and hold them,' he commanded crisply. 'We must cover his retreat.'
It needed no more to remind them that this was, indeed, their duty. At whatever cost to themselves, the Baron's valuable life must be preserved.
A moment later, the pursuers were upon them, a half-dozen lads led by the bow-legged Simon. It was a relief to discover that they had to deal with civilians, for André-Louis had entertained an unpleasant fear that bayonets were about to make short work of them.
Simon hailed them with confidence and authority. 'To us, citizens! After that fellow who passed you. He's a traitor scoundrel.'
He and his followers pressed forward looking for nothing here but compliance and reënforcement. To their surprise they found themselves flung back by the six who held the street. The Citizen Simon raged furiously.
'In the name of the law! Out of the way! We are agents of the Committee of Public Safety.'
André-Louis derided them. 'Agents of the Committee of Public Safety! Any gang of footpads can call itself that.' He stood forward, his manner peremptory, addressing Simon. 'Your card, citizen? It happens that I am an agent of the Committee, myself.'
As a ruse to gain time, nothing could have been better. Some precious moments were wasted in sheer surprise. Then Simon grew frenzied by the need for haste if the fugitive Baron was not to escape him.
'I summon you to help me overtake that runagate scoundrel. We'll make each other's better acquaintance afterwards. Come on!'
Again he attempted to advance, and again he was flung rudely back.
'Not so fast! I'll make your acquaintance now, if you please. Where is this card of yours, citizen? Out with it, or we'll march you to the post of the section.'
Simon swore foully, and suspicions awoke in him. 'By God! I believe you all belong to this same gang of damned traitors! Where's your own card?'
André-Louis's hand went to the pocket of his riding coat. 'It's here.' He fumbled for a moment, adding this to the wasted time. When at last he brought forth his hand again, it grasped a pistol by the barrel. The butt of it crashed upon the Citizen Simon's brow, and sent him reeling back to tumble in a heap.
'Sweep them out of the way!' cried André-Louis, plunging forward.
In an instant battle was joined and eleven men were a writhing, thrusting, stabbing human clot. Hoarse voices blended discordantly; a pistol-shot went off. The street was awakening. Windows were being thrown up and even