The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini

      CHAPTER XXXIX

       EVIDENCE

       Table of Contents

      When the sounds of the protesting, threatening Thuillier's removal had at last faded, André-Louis, who had risen, addressed himself to Foulard.

      'What do you make of it, Citizen-Mayor?'

      The paunchy little man washed his unclean hands in the air and wagged his head in grave and sorrowful condemnation.

      'I do not like it. I tell you frankly, Citizen-Agent, I do not like it.'

      'What don't you like? Be clear, man.'

      The Mayor jumped. 'I don't like the conduct of Thuillier. It is not frank. It is not the conduct of a patriot.'

      'Ha! You perceive that, too. I was sure from the moment I saw you that I could count upon your intelligence. Though it isn't intelligence that is lacking in Blérancourt. It's loyalty, zeal, patriotism. You conspire here, and the President of your committee shelters the conspirators.'

      'You think that? You believe that?'

      'Don't you?' boomed Boissancourt.

      'I don't know what to think; what to believe.'

      André-Louis smiled unpleasantly.

      'We must find you something. We may find it among that rascal's papers. Come, citizen. Show me the way to Thuillier's house. You will come with us, Boissancourt.'

      Thuillier had his lodging at the end of the village in a house that was set back in a tangled, neglected garden, very desolate in its present December nakedness. It was a ramshackle place kept by the Widow Grasset and her maiden sister, both women in middle life. Thuillier occupied two rooms on the ground-floor. A brief survey of the bedroom justified André-Louis in dismissing it. He passed to the sitting-room, where evidently Thuillier despatched the matters concerned with his official position. There were some books on a shelf. André-Louis looked them over cursorily; a Contrat Social, some volumes of Voltaire's Siècle de Louis XIV, one or two works on philosophy, a translation of Ovid, a copy of the Roman de la Rose, and many others, making up a curious assortment.

      A writing-table stood in the window. There were some papers upon it. He looked through them. They were of no particular account. He opened the two drawers set in it. There was nothing in them of the least consequence.

      Then, the Mayor following him ever, and Boissancourt bringing up the rear, he passed to a mahogany bureau that stood in a recess of the wall. It was locked.

      Having broken it open, André-Louis sat down to go through its contents. The Mayor by his invitation pulled up a chair so as to sit beside him and participate in his investigation. Boissancourt, standing on his other side, assisted as directed.

      The December daylight had long since faded, and they had been working for three hours by candle-light in that chill, untidy room before they brought their labours to a close. From that rigorous sifting had resulted a little bundle of papers, which Boissancourt tied together. Then the bureau was closed again, and by André-Louis's orders the Mayor affixed his seals to it. Similarly they sealed up the two rooms, informing the startled Widow Grasset that they were not to be opened save upon an official order from the Committee of Public Safety or by its accredited representatives.

      Back in his room at the Bonnet Rouge, where meanwhile a fire had been kindled to thaw the august limbs of the Citizen-Agent, André-Louis went more closely over the appropriated documents with the Mayor, whilst Boissancourt in his capacity of secretary sat making such notes as were required by his master.

      The great prize was a letter from Saint-Just, which Thuillier had incautiously kept in spite of a note at foot enjoining him instantly to destroy it. It was a month old, its terms were deliberately vague, and it made no mention of Thorin by name. But they were not so vague that, when read in the light of subsequent events, they left very much doubt as to the charge upon which Thorin had been arrested.

      If this Pantaloon (Saint-Just wrote) continues to squeal as you now report, grave inconvenience may result to me. Purity of life is so popular at this present that I have embraced the advocacy of it. That should be enough for you. You will infer the rest, and understand the inconveniences. Something must be done. No use to write to me to order things differently here. Even if I were to do so, this man could still be mischievous. His silence must be ensured. I leave it to your wits to discover the way. Take counsel at need with B. S. J. You may both depend upon my gratitude.

      Greetings and fraternity.

      Your lifelong friend

      F. Saint-Just

      On matters hinted in this letter, André-Louis proceeded to an examination of the Mayor.

      'Pantaloon in the comedy is always a poor cuckold. That a cuckold is in question is confirmed by the next sentence. What cuckold here in Blérancourt could be inconvenient to the Representative Saint-Just?'

      This was putting a pistol to the Mayor's head. However fearful Foulard might be, he could not elude it.

      'There was Thorin.'

      'Thorin!' André-Louis affected astonishment. 'Thorin! But that is the name of this conspirator.'

      'Just so,' said the Mayor.

      'The man whose silence must be ensured. Do you know, Citizen-Mayor, that it begins to look as if there was here a conspiracy of quite another sort. Thuillier, who discovered it, cannot tell us what it was about, or who was in it, save this unfortunate Thorin. What is the truth about Thorin? What is his story?'

      Out it came. It was known in the village that Saint-Just had seduced Thorin's wife. Since his going to Paris, she had disappeared, and it was rumoured that she had followed him, and that he kept her there.

      Boissancourt wrote briskly, reducing the statement to writing.

      André-Louis offered a comment. 'A nice story concerning one who has "embraced the advocacy of purity, which is now so popular."' He passed on.

      'Then this B. S. J. There are two notes here signed with these initials. In one B. S. J. suggests that some person or other unnamed should be placed under arrest. In the other, as if answering a question, he writes: "How do I know what you should do with him? In your place I would send him to Soissons to be guillotined." That may allude to the unfortunate Thorin. Who is this B. S. J.? Do you surmise?'

      'It must be Bontemps; a fellow named Bontemps who lives in Chaume, who calls himself Bontemps Saint-Just.'

      'Calls himself? What do you mean?'

      'He is a relative of the Representative Saint-Just. It'll be his right to call himself that, no doubt. But he's more generally known as Bontemps.'

      'What's his station in life?'

      'He'll be a horse-leech by trade. But he's farming now. He's come by a deal of émigré property lately.' The Mayor seemed almost to sneer.

      André-Louis looked up, sharply alert. 'What do you mean with your "come-by"? He's bought it, I suppose.'

      'I suppose he has. But I never heard tell that he had any money.'

      Keener grew the eyes of André-Louis. 'This is interesting. The fellow has no money. Yet he buys land.'

      'Oh, a deal of land, all round La Beauce. A deal of land.'

      The