Lacaune held the missive out to his friend, the lawyer. His hand was shaking with excitement. His face was beaming both with joy and with triumph. There was not a word of threat or warning in the letter. It was quite simple, official, almost friendly; it showed, in fact, that he had not forfeited the confidence of his superiors since it left it to his direction to send along "any other prisoner or suspect in his district." Here was relief indeed after the torturing fears of the past twelve hours.
"My friend! my friend!" he cried, and rubbed his hands gleefully together. "I feel a new man for all is well."
He took pen and paper and wrote a few words rapidly.
"What are you going to do?" Maurin asked.
"Send that damned Canadian too before the Committee of Public Safety for special inquiry."
He tinkled his bell, and on the entrance of the clerk, handed him the paper he had just written.
"Here," he said, "is an order for the arrest of the man, Collin. See it carried out, then send the messenger from Sceaux in to me."
The lawyer now finally took his leave. The matter of the Canadian and the pseudo Scarlet Pimpernel did not interest him in the least. With Pradel out of the way he cared about nothing else. Left to himself, Commissary Lacaune strode up and down the room, unable for sheer excitement to sit still. At one moment he pricked up his ears when he heard a tumult and some shouting outside his door. "The Canadian is giving trouble," he muttered complacently to himself.
Presently the messenger was ushered in. He was a sober, fine-looking official dressed in dark clothes. He wore a hat of the new sugar-loaf shape which he took off when he entered. He also turned back the lapel of his coat to show the badge which he wore indicative of his status as representative or employee of the government. Lacaune addressed him curtly:
"Who gave you this letter?"
"Citizen Chauvelin."
"You know its contents."
"Yes, Citizen."
"Your orders are to convey a certain prisoner to Sceaux."
"That is so."
"Are you riding or driving?"
"Driving, Citizen Commissary. I have requisitioned a cart with a hood and a couple of good horses from a guard just outside this city. Citizen Chauvelin said he did not wish the prisoner to be seen."
"A very wise precaution. Now listen. One prisoner will be handed over to you here. Keep a special eye on him, he is dangerous. There is another whom you will go and fetch at the Old Castle. One of my men will accompany you as far as there with an order from me that the prisoner be delivered over to you."
"I understand, Citizen."
"Would you like an escort as far as Sceaux?"
"Not unless you desire to send one, Citizen Commissary. But it is not necessary. I am well armed and so is the driver."
"Very good, then. You can go."
The man saluted, turned on his heel and went out. The Commissary wrote out the order to be taken to the Old Castle, gave it to his clerk and then went to the window from which he had a view of the street. He saw a cart with hood up, standing outside the gates. A pair of horses were harnessed to the cart, they looked strong and fresh. After a moment or two he saw the Canadian being brought across the courtyard by two soldiers. He was in chains, wrist to ankle both sides of him, and was apparently only just able to walk. Obviously he had given trouble. His clothes were torn, his hair dishevelled, and his knuckles stained with blood. The soldiers did not deal any too gently with him, and bundled him like a bale of goods into the cart. The government representative watched the proceedings with an official eye. When had had satisfied himself that the prisoner was safely out of mischief, he beckoned to one of the soldiers to sit on the tailboard of the cart while he himself took his seat beside the driver. The latter flicked his whip and away they went down the Rue Haute.
Chief Commissary Lacaune watched all these doings with utmost satisfaction. He strode back to his desk, turned a few papers over, but he felt too excited to settle down to business. He thought a glass of wine would do him good; he picked up his hat and coat and went out, telling his clerk that he would be back in an hour.
He didn't go straight to Tyson's for his glass of wine, being tempted to stroll down as far as the Old Castle and see that miserable ruffian who had hood-winked him take his place, also in chains, by the side of that cursed Canadian. He was just in time to see this pleasing spectacle; there is always something very soothing to the nerves to witness the discomfiture of one's enemies. Citizen Lacaune exchanged a few affable words with the government official, gave orders that the two prisoners be chained one to the other for additional safety, and when this was done, he went with a light, springy step to enjoy a quiet half-hour with a glass of wine at the Café Tison.
40 REMORSE
Under the hood of the cart, St. John Devinne gradually came to the consciousness that this was in very truth the end of his inglorious life. Shame and remorse both held him in their grip, and not only because he had staked his honour on a despicable gamble and lost, but also because he had at last realized the utter baseness of what he had done. Visions of happy days under the leadership of a man who was the bravest of the brave, who sacrificed his comfort, his happiness, even his love, in order to succour the helpless and the innocent, to follow whom was in itself a glory, tortured him with the knowledge that they could never come again. They were past for ever because of his own black treachery and there was nothing now ahead of him save darkness, and in the end a shameful death.
It was not of death itself that he was afraid, but of the awful, awful shame of it all, and of this racking remorse which might unnerve him when the end came. That Chief Commissary had played him false, trapped him like a noxious feline, and here he was now lying like a captive beast driven to the slaughter-house, chained to a malodorous mudlark-he, St. John Devinne, Earl Welhaven, son and heir of the Duke of Rudford! Oh, the shame, the shame of it all! He ached in every limb, his ankles and wrists were bleeding under the weight of the irons. The close proximity of his grimy companion made him feel sick. The cold was intense. Devinne trembled under a thick cloak that had been thrown over him at one time, he did not recollect when. The day wore on with agonizing slowness. At first Devinne had wondered whither he was being driven, but soon he knew that he really didn't care. The ultimate end of his journey would anyhow be the guillotine, so what did the halts on the way matter? There were one or two halts, probably in order to give the horses a drink and a rest. Several villages were passed on the way, and at one time the cart rattled over what obviously was a cobbled street, at the end of which the driver pulled up. There was a good deal of talking and shouting. Apparently fresh horses were being put to. Presently Devinne heard subdued voices quite close to him in a rapid colloquy:
"You know the way, Citizen?"
"Quite well. I thank you."
"You will find good accommodation there for the night. Tell landlord Freson I sent you. Henri Gros, that's my name. He will do the best for you."
"And what do I owe you, Citizen Gros?"
"Twenty gold louis, Citizen. That will be for the two horses and the cart. And if you ever bring them back this way and the horses are in good condition, I will buy the lot back from you."
There followed obsequious thanks, from which Devinne gathered that the bargain had been concluded. Vaguely he wondered why it had been made. A change of driver apparently as well as of horses, but what did it all matter to him?" Somewhere in the town a clock struck three. The shades of evening were beginning to draw in and through a chink in the hood Devinne saw that snow was falling.