What occurred within the inner cell of the Conciergerie prison within the next half-hour of that 16th day of Pluviose in the year II of the Republic is, perhaps, too well known to history to need or bear overfull repetition.
Chroniclers intimate with the inner history of those infamous days have told us how the chief agent of the Committee of General Security gave orders one hour after midnight that hot soup, white bread and wine be served to the prisoner, who for close on fourteen days previously had been kept on short rations of black bread and water; the sergeant in charge of the guard-room watch for the night also received strict orders that that same prisoner was on no account to be disturbed until the hour of six in the morning, when he was to be served with anything in the way of breakfast that he might fancy.
All this we know, and also that citizen Heron, having given all necessary orders for the morning's expedition, returned to the Conciergerie, and found his colleague Chauvelin waiting for him in the guard-room.
"Well?" he asked with febrile impatience--" the prisoner?
"He seems better and stronger," replied Chauvelin. "Not too well, I hope?"
"No, no, only just well enough."
"You have seen him--since his supper?"
"Only from the doorway. It seems he ate and drank hardly at all, and the sergeant had some difficulty in keeping him awake until you tame."
"Well, now for the letter," concluded Heron with the same marked feverishness of manner which sat so curiously on his uncouth personality. "Pen, ink and paper, sergeant!" he commanded.
"On the table, in the prisoner's cell, citizen," replied the sergeant.
He preceded the two citizens across the guard-room to the doorway, and raised for them the iron bar, lowering it back after them.
The next moment Heron and Chauvelin were once more face to face with their prisoner.
Whether by accident or design the lamp had been so placed that as the two men approached its light fell full upon their faces, while that of the prisoner remained in shadow. He was leaning forward with both elbows on the table, his thin, tapering fingers toying with the pen and ink-horn which had been placed close to his hand.
"I trust that everything has been arranged for your comfort, Sir Percy?" Chauvelin asked with a sarcastic little smile.
"I thank you, sir," replied Blakeney politely.
"You feel refreshed, I hope?"
"Greatly so, I assure you. But I am still demmed sleepy; and if you would kindly be brief--"
"You have not changed your mind, sir?" queried Chauvelin, and a note of anxiety, which he vainly tried to conceal, quivered in his voice.
"No, my good M. Chambertin," replied Blakeney with the same urbane courtesy, "I have not changed my mind."
A sigh of relief escaped the lips of both the men. The prisoner certainly had spoken in a clearer and firmer voice; but whatever renewed strength wine and food had imparted to him he apparently did not mean to employ in renewed obstinacy. Chauvelin, after a moment's pause, resumed more calmly:
"You are prepared to direct us to the place where little Capet lies hidden?"
"I am prepared to do anything, sir, to get out of this d--d hole."
"Very well. My colleague, citizen Heron, has arranged for an escort of twenty men picked from the best regiment of the Garde de Paris to accompany us--yourself, him and me--to wherever you will direct us. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"You must not imagine for a moment that we, on the other hand, guarantee to give you your life and ******* even if this expedition prove unsuccessful."
"I would not venture on suggesting such a wild proposition, sir," said Blakeney placidly.
Chauvelin looked keenly on him. There was something in the tone of that voice that he did not altogether like--something that reminded him of an evening at Calais, and yet again of a day at Boulogne. He could not read the expression in the eyes, so with a quick gesture he pulled the lamp forward so that its light now fell full on the face of the prisoner.
"Ah! that is certainly better, is it not, my dear M. Chambertin?" said Sir Percy, beaming on his adversary with a pleasant smile.
His face, though still of the same ashen hue, looked serene if hopelessly wearied; the eyes seemed to mock. But this Chauvelin decided in himself must have been a trick of his own overwrought fancy. After a brief moment's pause he resumed dryly:
"If, however, the expedition turns out successful in every way--if little Capet, without much trouble to our escort, falls safe and sound into our hands--if certain contingencies which I am about to tell you all fall out as we wish--then, Sir Percy, I see no reason why the Government of this country should not exercise its prerogative of mercy towards you after all."
"An exercise, my dear M. Chambertin, which must have wearied through frequent repetition," retorted Blakeney with the same imperturbable smile.
"The contingency at present is somewhat remote; when the time comes we'll talk this matter over.... I will make no promise ... and, anyhow, we can discuss it later."
"At present we are but wasting our valuable time over so trifling a matter.... If you'll excuse me, sir ... I am so demmed fatigued--"
"Then you will be glad to have everything settled quickly, I am sure."
"Exactly, sir."
Heron was taking no part ill the present conversation. He knew that his temper was not likely to remain within bounds, and though he had nothing but contempt for his colleague's courtly manners, yet vaguely in his stupid, blundering way he grudgingly admitted that mayhap it was better to allow citizen Chauvelin to deal with the Englishman. There was always the danger that if his own violent temper got the better of him, he might even at this eleventh hour order this insolent prisoner to summary trial and the guillotine, and thus lose the final chance of the more important capture.
