The Greatest Historical Novels. Rafael Sabatini

      CHAPTER XLIII

       ON THE BRIDGE

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      De Batz spent the morning at the Tuileries with the Citizen Sévignon, as La Guiche was known to those with whom he had any acquaintance there. They employed the time in doing what was possible to influence the release of the Chevalier de Pomelles. But their efforts promised little success. Lavicomterie, upon whom de Batz was chiefly depending, pronounced the case a dangerous one in which to meddle. The evidence before the Committee of Public Safety was, he understood, of an overwhelming nature, and it had been examined by Saint-Just whose blood-thirst would hardly suffer the unfortunate agent's escape. Still, cautiously, Lavicomterie would see what could be done.

      Sénard, the secretary of the Committee, that other valuable secret associate of the Baron's, also promised to do anything that might be safely possible. But in his view, as in Lavicomterie's, Saint-Just was the insurmountable obstacle.

      'Well, well!' said de Batz. 'At least delay Pomelles's trial. We shall see what the next few days will bring forth.'

      To La Guiche, as they stepped down into the chill damp of the gardens, he was more explicit. 'If we can gain a few days, all should be well, for in a few days the obstacle will have been removed.'

      Nevertheless, it was in no state of elation that the two came back to the Rue de Ménars for the midday meal. They found André-Louis seated before the fire, which was now burning low, his foot upon the brass fender, his elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand. He turned his head, and showed them a face that was grey and drawn with pain, the face of a man who had suddenly aged. Having seen who came, he resumed his contemplation of the fire.

      De Batz went to set a hand upon his shoulder. 'Come, André. Leave brooding. I know it hurts. But you must take heart. There are things to do that will shift your thoughts from your own wrongs. That will help.'

      'There is nothing more for me to do. I have finished.'

      'That is what you feel now. The blow is heavy. But your youth will lend you the strength to bear it. Turn your mind to other things. Oh, I know my world, André. I am a deal older than you, and I have not lived quite in vain, or without coming into some knowledge of the human heart. Distraction is what you need, and there is no distraction like work.'

      André-Louis stared up at him and laughed. It was an expression of pain. 'Work? What work?'

      'Why, the work that lies before us. I have sent for Desmoulins, he should have been here by now. When he comes ...'

      André-Louis interrupted him.

      'I have finished, I tell you. Finished with king-making.'

      'Faith,' said La Guiche, 'I should feel the same in his case.'

      De Batz moved slowly away, his chin on his breast. At the window he turned. He sighed. 'If this infernal news had reached us before his work was done at Blérancourt ...' He spread his hands, his face expressive.

      'It would have been disastrous to the cause of his Highness the Regent, would it not?' said André-Louis.

      'Naturally,' said the Marquis. 'And I should not have blamed you.'

      André-Louis took his foot from the fender, and slewed round in his chair.

      'I am glad to hear you say that, La Guiche.'

      'Glad?' quoth de Batz, who did not like either the young man's tone, or his expression. 'Do you mean something, André?'

      'If I ever meant anything.' He paused, then added: 'Desmoulins has been here in your absence, Jean, and he has gone again.'

      'You gave him the documents. Good. No time need be lost. What did he say? Wasn't he elated?'

      'I did not mention the matter.'

      'But then ...' de Batz checked, frowning. 'You didn't give him the documents? But don't you realize the danger of keeping them? At any moment Saint-Just may hear from Blérancourt.'

      André-Louis laughed again, that odd, hard, mirthless laugh. 'On that score at least you need have no anxiety. He will find nothing. There are the documents, Jean.' And he pointed to a heap of black ashes that lay on the narrow hearth, half-concealed by the fender.

      The Baron came forward, staring as if the eyes would drop from his head. He fetched out a rough oath in a voice suddenly hoarse. 'Do you mean that you have burnt them? That you have burnt the proofs? The fruit of all that labour?'

      'It surprises you?' André-Louis rose, thrusting back his chair.

      'Not me!' said La Guiche.

      De Batz swung upon the Marquis, his face purple.

      'But—my God!—do you realize what he has burnt? He has burnt the evidence that would have sent Saint-Just to the guillotine and brought down the Robespierrists in execration. He has burnt the cause. That is what he has burnt. He has destroyed the labour of months; rendered fruitless everything that we have done.' He checked, and turned again, raging, to André-Louis. 'Oh, it is impossible! You couldn't have done it! You dared not do it! You are fooling me! You thought of it, perhaps, and you are making me realize the vengeance that you might have taken.'

      Coldly André-Louis answered him. 'I am telling you what I have done.'

      De Batz was trembling from head to foot in his anger. He raised his clenched fist, and held it poised a moment, as if about to strike André-Louis. Then he let it fall heavily to his side again.

      'You scoundrel! Those papers were not yours to destroy. They belonged to the cause.'

      'My betrothed was not his to destroy. She belonged to me.'

      'God of Heaven! You'll drive me mad! Your betrothed! Your betrothed and the Regent! What is either of them when the fate of a nation is at issue? Is only the Regent concerned in this!'

      'The Regent or his family,' said André-Louis. 'It is all one to me.'

      'All one to you, you fool! Is it all one to you that the monarchy itself was at stake?'

      'The monarchy means the House of Bourbon. I have not served the House of Bourbon one half so vilely as the House of Bourbon has served me. The harm that I have done to the House of Bourbon may be repaired. The harm that a member of it, the very one for whom I laboured and risked my life, has done to me can never be repaired. Could I continue in his service after this?'

      'To leave his service was your right,' said La Guiche quietly, sadly. 'But not to destroy that which was not strictly yours.'

      'Not strictly mine? Did I not discover and collect those documents? Did I not hourly risk detection and imperil my neck in doing it, so that I might make kings for France out of such base scoundrels as this Comte de Provence? And you say they are not strictly mine? Mine or not, they are destroyed. It is finished.'

      Stricken by anger and despair, de Batz could only inveigh.

      'And so, in a fit of spite, you villain, you wreck all our hopes in the very moment of success. You render vain all that has been done, wasted all the lives that have been sacrificed: Chabot, Delaunay, Julien, and the rest. The Freys, and even little Léopoldine. The little Léopoldine about whom you were so tender. All just waste. Oh, my God! Everything sacrificed on the altar of your damned resentment. All because ...'

      'Oh, have done!' rasped André-Louis. 'I've heard enough! When you are calmer, perhaps you will understand.'

      'What will I understand? Your villainy?'

      'The agony that inspired me.' He passed a hand wearily across his brow. 'Jean,' he said hoarsely, 'if