Needs Must

BY BARONESS ORCZY

HE children were all huddled up together in one corner of the room. Étienne and Valentine, the two eldest, had their arms round the little one. As for Lucile, she would have told you herself that she felt just like a bird between two snakes—terrified and fascinated—especially by that little man with the pale face and the light gray eyes and the slender white hands unstained by toil, one of which rested lightly upon the desk and was only clenched now and then at a word or a look from the other man or from Lucile herself.

As for that other, he just tried to browbeat her. It was not difficult, for in truth she felt frightened enough already with all this talk of traitors and that awful threat of the guillotine.

But Lucile Clamette would have remained splendidly loyal in spite of all those threats if it hadn't been for the children. She was little mother to them, for father was a cripple with speech and mind already impaired by creeping paralysis, and mama had died when little Josephine was born. And now those fiends threatened not only her but Étienne, who was not fourteen, and Valentine, who was not much more than ten, with death, unless she—Lucile—broke the solemn word which she had given to M. le Marquis. At first she had tried to deny all knowledge of M. le Marquis'  whereabouts.

"I can assure M. le Commissaire that I do not know," she had persisted quietly, even though her heart was beating so rapidly in her bosom that she felt as if she must choke.

"Call me Citizen Commissary," Lebel had riposted curtly. "I should take it as a proof that your aristocratic sentiments are not so deep-rooted as they appear to be."

"Yes, citizen!" murmured Lucile under her breath.

Then the other one, he with the pale eyes and the slender white hands, leaned forward over the desk, and the poor girl felt as if a mighty and unseen force were holding her tight, so tight that she could neither move nor breathe nor turn her gaze away from those pale, compelling eyes. In the remote corner little Josephine was whimpering, and Étienne's big, dark eyes were fixed bravely upon his eldest sister.

"There, there, little citizeness," the awful man said in a voice that sounded low and almost caressing. "There is nothing to be frightened of. No one is going to hurt you or your little family. We only want you to be reasonable. You have promised to your former employer that you would never tell any one of his whereabouts. Well, we don't ask you to tell us anything. All that we want you to do is to write a letter to M. le Marquis—one that I myself will dictate to you. You have written to M. le Marquis before now, on business matters, have you not?"

"Yes, monsieur. Yes, citizen," stammered Lucile through her tears. "Father was bailiff to M. le Marquis until he became a cripple, and now I"

"Do not write any letter, Lucile," Étienne suddenly broke in with forceful vehemence. "It is a trap set by these miscreants to entrap M. le Marquis."

There was a second's silence in the room after this sudden outburst on the part of the lad. Then the man with the pale face said quietly:

"Citizen Lebel, order the removal of that boy. Let him be kept in custody till he has learned to hold his tongue."

But, before Lebel could speak to the two soldiers who were standing on guard at the door, Lucile had uttered a loud cry of agonized protest.

"No! No! Monsieur! That is—citizen!" she implored. "Do not take Étienne away. He will be silent. I promise you that he will be silent. Only do not take him away! Étienne, my little one!" she added, turning her tear-filled eyes to her brother. "I entreat thee to hold thy tongue!"

The others, too, clung to Étienne, and the lad, awed and subdued, relapsed into silence.

"Now then," resumed Lebel roughly after a while. "Let us get on with this business. I am sick to death of it. It has lasted far too long already."

He fixed his bloodshot, protruding eyes upon Lucile and continued gruffly:

"Now listen to me, my wench, for this is going to be my last word. Citizen Chauvelin here has already been very lenient with you by allowing this letter business. If I had my way, I'd make you speak here and now. As it is, you either sit down and write the letter at Citizen Chauvelin's dictation at once, or I send you with that impudent brother of yours and your imbecile father to jail, on a charge of treason against the state, for aiding and abetting the enemies of the republic. And you know what the consequences of such a charge usually are. The other two brats will go to a House of Correction, there to be detained during the pleasure of the Committee of Public Safety. That is my last word," he reiterated fiercely. "Now, which is it to be?"

He paused, and the girl's wan cheeks turned the color of lead. She moistened her lips once or twice with her tongue; beads of perspiration appeared at the roots of her hair. She gazed helplessly at her tormentors, not daring to look on those three huddled-up little figures there in the corner.

A few seconds sped away in silence. The man with the pale eyes rose and pushed his chair away. He went to the window and stood there with his back to the room, those slender white hands of his clasped behind him. Neither the commissary nor the girl appeared to interest him further. He was just gazing out of the window.

The other was still sprawling beside the desk, his large, coarse hand—how different his hands were—was beating a devil's tatoo [sic] upon the arm of his chair.

FTER a few minutes Lucile made a violent effort to compose herself, wiped the moisture from her pallid forehead and dried the tears which still hung upon her lashes. Then she rose from her chair and walked resolutely up to the desk.

"I will write the letter," she said simply.

Lebel gave a snort of satisfaction, but the other did not move from his position near the window. The boy, Étienne, had uttered a cry of passionate protest.

"Do not give M. le Marquis away, Lucile!" he said hotly. "I am not afraid to die."

But Lucile had made up her mind. How could she do otherwise with these awful threats hanging over them all? She and Étienne and poor father gone, and the two young ones in one of those awful Houses of Correction, where children were taught to hate the Church, to shun the Sacraments and to blaspheme God!

"What am I to write?" she asked dully, resolutely closing her ears against her brother's protest.

Lebel pushed pen, ink and paper toward her, and she sal down ready to begin.

"Write!" now came in a curt command from the man at the window. And Lucile wrote at his dictation:

The pen dropped from the unfortunate girl's fingers. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed convulsively. The children were silent, awed and subdued—tired out, too. Only Étienne's dark eyes were fixed upon his sister with a look of mute reproach.

Lebel had made no attempt to interrupt the flow of his colleague's dictation. Only once or twice did a hastily smothered "What the !" of astonishment escape his lips. Now, when the letter was finished and duly signed, he drew it to him and strewed the sand over it. Chauvelin, more impassive than ever, was once more gazing out of the window.

""How are the  aristos to get this letter?" the commissary asked.

"It must be put in the hollow tree which stands by the side of the stable gate at Montorgueil," whispered Lucile.

"And the aristos will find it there?"

"Yes. M. le Vicomte goes there once or twice a week to see if there is anything there from one of us."

"They are in hiding somewhere close by, then?"

But to this the girl gave no reply. Indeed, she felt as if any word now might choke her.

"Well, no matter where they are," the inhuman wretch resumed with brutal cynicism, "we've got them now—both of them. Marquis? Vicomte?" he added and spat on the ground to express his contempt of such titles. "Citizen Montorgueil, lfather and son—that's all they are! And as such they'll walk up in state to make their bow to Mme. la Guillotine!"

"May we go now?" stammered Lucile through her tears.

Lebel nodded in assent, and the girl rose and turned to walk toward the door. She called to the children, and the little ones clustered round her skirts like chicks around the mother hen. Only Étienne remained aloof, wrathful against his sister for what he deemed her treachery.

"Women have no sense of honor!" he muttered to himself with all the pride of conscious manhood.

But Lucile felt more than ever like a bird who is vainly trying to evade the clutches of a fowler. She gathered the two little ones around her. Then, with a cry like a wounded doe, she ran quickly out of the room.

S SOON as the sound of the children's footsteps had died away down the corridor, Lebel turned with a grunt to his still silent companion.

"And now, Citizen Chauvelin," he said roughly, "perhaps you will be good enough to explain what is the meaning of all this tomfoolery."

"Tomfoolery, citizen?" queried the other blandly. "What tomfoolery, pray?"

"Why, about those papers!" growled Lebel savagely. "Curse you for an interfering busybody! It was I who got information that those pestilential aristos, the Montorgueils, far from having fled the country, are in hiding somewhere in my district. I could have made the girl give up their hiding-place pretty soon without any help from you. What right had you to interfere, I should like to know?"

"You know quite well what right I had. Citizen Lebel," replied Chauvelin with perfect composure. "The right conferred upon me by the Committee of Public Safety, of whom I am still an unworthy member. They sent me down here to lend you a hand in an investigation which is of grave importance to them."

"I know that!" retorted Lebel sulkily. "But why have you invented the story of the papers?"

"It is no invention, citizen." rejoined Chauvelin with slow emphasis. "The papers do exist. They are in the possession of the ci-devant Montorgueils, father and son. To capture the two aristos would be not only a blunder but also criminal folly, unless we can lay hands on the papers at the same time."

"But what in Satan's name are those papers?" ejaculated Lebel with a fierce oath.

"Think, Citizen Lebel! Think!" was Chauvelin's cool rejoinder. "Methinks you might arrive at a pretty shrewd guess."

Then, as the other's bluster and bounce suddenly collapsed under his colleague's calm, accusing gaze, the latter continued with impressive deliberation:

"The papers which the two aristos have in their possession, citizen, are receipts for money, for bribes paid to various members of the Committee of Public Safety by royalist agents for the overthrow of our glorious republic. You know all about them, do you not?"

While Chauvelin spoke, a look of furtive terror had crept into Lebel's eyes; his cheeks became the color of lead. But even so he tried to keep up an air of incredulity and of amazement.

"I?" he exclaimed. "What do you mean, Citizen Chauvelin? What should I know about it?"

"Some of those receipts are signed with your name, Citizen Lebel," riposted Chauvelin forcefully. "Bah!" he added, and a tone of savage contempt crept into his even, calm voice now. "Henriot, Foucquier, Ducros and the whole gang of you are in it up to the neck: trafficking with our enemies, trading with England, taking bribes from every quarter for working against the safety of the republic. Ah, if I had my way, I would let the hatred of those aristos take its course. I would let the Montorgueils and the whole pack of royalist agents publish those infamous proofs of your treachery and of your baseness to the entire world, and send the whole lot of you to the guillotine!"

He had spoken with so much concentrated fury and the hatred and contempt expressed in his pale eyes were so fierce, that an involuntary ice-cold shiver ran down the length of Lebel's spine. But even so he would not give in; he tried to sneer and to keep up something of his former surly defiance. "Bah!" he exclaimed, and with a lowering glance he gave hatred for hatred and contempt for contempt. "What can you do? An I am not mistaken, there is no more discredited man in France today than the unsuccessful tracker of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

The taunt went home. It was Chauvelin's turn now to lose countenance, to pale to the lips. The glow of virtuous indignation died out of his eyes; his look became furtive and shamed.

"You are right, Citizen Lebel," he said calmly after a while. "Recriminations between us are out of place. I am a discredited man, as you say. Perhaps it would have been better if the Committee had sent me long ago to expiate my failures on the guillotine. I should at least not have suffered, as I am suffering now, daily, hourly, humiliation at thought of the triumph of an enemy whom I hate with a passion that consumes my very soul. But do not let us speak of me," he went on quietly. "There are graver affairs at stake just now than mine own."

Lebel said nothing more for the moment. Perhaps he was satisfied at the success of his taunt, even though the terror within his craven soul still caused the cold shiver to course up and down his spine. Chauvelin had once more turned to the window: his gaze was fixed upon the distance far away.

The window gave on the north. That way, in a straight line, lay Calais, Boulogne, England—where he had been made to suffer such bitter humiliation at the hands of his elusive enemy. Far out to the west lay Nantes, the scene of his latest defeat, and immediately before him was Paris, where the very walls seemed to echo that mocking laugh of the daring Englishman which would haunt him even to his grave.

Lebel, unnerved by his colleague's silence, broke in gruffly at last:

"Well then, citizen," he said with a feeble attempt at another sneer, "if you are not thinking of sending us all to the guillotine just yet, perhaps you will be good enough to explain just how the matter stands?"

"Fairly simply, alas!" replied Chauvelin dryly. "The two Montorgueils, father and son, under assumed names, were the royalist agents who succeeded in suborning men such as you, citizen, and the whole gang of you. We have tracked them down to this district, have confiscated their lands and ransacked the old château for valuables and so on. Two days later the first of a series of pestilential anonymous letters reached the Committee of Public Safety, threatening the publication of a whole series of compromising documents if the Marquis and the Yicomte de Montorgueil were in any way molested and if all the Montorgueil property is not immediately restored."

"I suppose it is quite certain that those receipts and documents do exist?" suggested Lebel.

"Perfectly- certain. One of the receipts, signed by Henriot, was sent as a specimen."

"My !" ejaculated Lebel and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.

"Yes, you'll all want help from somewhere," retorted Chauvelin coolly. "From above or from below, if the people get to know what miscreants you are. I do believe," he added with a vicious snap of his thin lips, "that they would cheat the guillotine of you and in the end drag you out of the tumbrils and tear you to pieces limb from limb!"

Once more that look of furtive terror crept into the commissary's bloodshot eyes.

"Thank the Lord," he muttered, "that we were able to get hold of the wench Clamette!"

"At my suggestion," retorted Chauvelin curtly. "I always believe in threatening the weak if you want to coerce the strong. The Montorgueils can not resist the wench's appeal. Even if they do at first, we can apply the screw by clapping one of the young ones in jail. Within a week we shall have those papers, Citizen Lebel. And, if in the meanwhile no one commits a further blunder, we can close the trap on the Montorgueils without further trouble."

Lebel said nothing more, and after a while Chauvelin went back to the desk, picked up the letter which poor Lucile had written and watered with her tears, folded it deliberately and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.

"What are you going to do?" queried Lebel anxiously.

"Drop this letter into the hollow tree by the side of the stable gate at Montorgueil," replied Chauvelin simply.

"What?" exclaimed the other. "Yourself?"

"Why, of course! Think you I would entrust such an errand to another living soul?"

EVERAL hours later, when the two children had had their dinner and had settled down to play in the garden and father had been cozily tucked up for his afternoon sleep, Lucile called her brother Étienne to her. The boy had not spoken to her since that terrible time spent in the presence of those two awful men. He had eaten no dinner, only sat glowering, staring straight out before him, from time to time throwing a look of burning reproach upon his sister. Now, when she called to him, he tried to run away and was half-way up the stairs before she could seize hold of him.

"Étienne, mon petit!" she implored as her arms closed around his shrinking figure.

"Let me go, Lucile!" the boy pleaded obstinately.

"Mon petit, listen to me!" she pleaded. "All is not lost, if you will stand by me."

"All is lost, Lucile!" Étienne cried, striving to keep back a flood of passionate tears. "Honor is lost. Your treachery has disgraced us all. If M. le Marquis and M. le Vicomte are brought to the guillotine, their blood will be upon our heads."

"Upon mine alone, my little Étienne," she said sadly. "But God alone can judge me. It was a terrible alternative: M. le Marquis—or you and Valentine and little Josephine and poor father, who is so helpless! But don't let us talk of it all. All is not lost, I am sure. The last time that I spoke with M. le Marquis—it was in February; do you remember?—he was full of hope and, oh, so kind. Well, he told me then that, if ever I or any of us here were in such grave trouble that we did not know where to turn, one of us was to put on our very oldest clothes, look as like a barefooted beggar as we could and then go to Paris to a place called the Cabaret de la Liberté, in the Rue Christine. There we are to ask for the Citizen Rateau, and we are to tell him all our troubles, whatever they are. Well, we are in such trouble now, mon petit, that we don't know where to turn. Put on the very oldest clothes, little one, and run barefooted into Paris, find the Citizen Rateau and tell him just what has happened: the letter which they have forced me to write, the threats which they held over me if I did not write it—everything. Dost hear?"

Already the boy's eyes were glowing. The thought that he individually could do something to retrieve the awful shame of his sister's treachery spurred him to activity. It needed no persuasion on Lucile's part to induce him to go. She made him put on some old clothes and stuffed a piece of bread and cheese into his breeches pocket

It was close upon eight kilometers to Paris, but that run was one of the happiest which Étienne had ever made. And he did it barefooted, too, feeling neither fatigue nor soreness, despite the hardness of the road after a three weeks' drought which had turned mud into hard cakes and ruts into fissures which tore the lad's feet till they bled.

He did not reach the Cabaret de la Liberté till nightfall, and, when he got there, he hardly dared to enter. The filth, the squalor, the hoarse voices which rose from that cellar-like place below the level of the street repelled the country-bred lad. Were it not for the desperate urgency of his errand, he never would have dared to enter. As it was, the fumes of alcohol and steaming, dirty clothes nearly choked him, and he could scarcely stammer the name of Citizen Rateau when a gruff voice presently demanded his purpose.

He realized now how tired he was and how hungry. He had not thought to pause in order to consume the small provision of bread and cheese with which thoughtful Lucile had provided him. Now he was ready to faint when a loud guffaw, which echoed from one end of the horrible place to the other, greeted his timid request.

"Citizen Rateau!" the same gruff voice called out hilariously. "Why, there he is! Here, citizen! There's a blooming aristo to see you."

Étienne turned his weary eyes to the corner which was being indicated to him. There he saw a huge creature sprawling across a bench, his long, powerful limbs stretched out before him. Citizen Rateau was clothed rather than dressed in a soiled shirt, ragged breeches and tattered stockings, with shoes down at heel and a faded crimson cap. His face looked congested and sunken about the eyes; he appeared to be asleep, for stertorous breathing came at intervals from between his parted lips. Every now and then a racking cough seemed to tear at his broad chest.

Étienne gave him one look, shuddering with horror despite himself at the aspect of this bloated wretch from whom salvation was to come. The whole place seemed to him hideous and loathsome in the extreme. What it all meant he could not understand. All that he knew was that this seemed like another hideous trap into which he and Lucile had fallen and that he must fly from it—fly at all costs, before he betrayed M. le Marquis still further to these drink-sodden brutes. Another moment and he feared that he might faint. The din of a bibulous song rang in his ears; the reek of alcohol turned him giddy and sick. He had only just enough strength to turn and totter back into the open. There his senses reeled; the lights in the houses opposite began to dance wildly before his eyes—and he remembered nothing more.

HERE is nothing now in the whole countryside quite so desolate and forlorn as the château of Montorgueil, with its once magnificent park, now overgrown with weeds, its encircling walls broken down, its terraces devastated and its stately gates rusty and torn.

Just by the side of what was known in happier times as the stable gate there stands a hollow tree. It is not inside the park but just outside, and it shelters the narrow lane which skirts the park walls against the blaze of the afternoon sun.

Its beneficent shade is a favorite spot for an afternoon siesta, for there is a bit of green sward under the tree and all along the side of the road. But, as the shades of evening gather in, the lane is usually deserted, shunned by the neighboring peasantry on account of its eery loneliness, so different from the former bustle which used to reign around the park gates when M. le Marquis and his family were still in residence. Nor does the lane lead anywhere, for it is a mere loop which gives on the main road at either end.

Henri de Montorgueil chose a peculiarly dark night early in September for one of his periodical visits to the hollow tree. It was close on nine o'clock when he passed stealthily down the lane, keeping close to the park wall. A soft rain was falling, the first since the prolonged drought, and, though it made the road heavy and slippery in places, it helped to deaden the sound of the young man's furtive footsteps.

The air, except for the patter of the rain, was absolutely still. Henri de Montorgueil paused from time to time with neck craned forward, every sense on the alert, listening like any poor, hunted beast for the slightest sound which might betray the approach of danger.

As many a time before he reached the hollow tree in safety, felt for and found in the usual place the letter which the unfortunate girl, Lucile, had written to him. Then with it in his hand he turned to the stable gate. It had long since ceased to be kept locked and bared. Pillaged and ransacked by order of the Committee of Public Safely, there was nothing left inside the park walls worth keeping under lock and key.

Henri slipped stealthily through the gates and made his way along the drive. Every stone, every nook and cranny of his former home was familiar to him, and he turned into a shed where in former times wheelbarrows and garden tools were wont to be kept. Now it was full of débris, lumber of every sort. A more safe or secluded spot could not be imagined. Henri crouched in the farthermost corner of the shed Then from his belt he detached a small dark lantern, opened its shutter and with the aid of the tiny, dim light read the contents of the letter.

For a long while after that he remained quite still—as still as a man who has received a stunning blow. on the head and has partly lost consciousness. The blow was indeed a staggering one. Lucile Gamette, with the invincible power of her own helplessness, was demanding the surrender of a weapon which had been a safeguard for the Montorgueils all this white. The papers which compromised a number of influential members of the Committee of Public Safety had been the most perfect arms of defense against persecution and spoilation. And now these were to be given up. Oh, there could be no question of that! Even before consulting with his father, Henri knew that the papers would have to be given up. They were clever, those revolutionaries. The thought of holding innocent children as hostages could only have originated in minds attuned to the villainies of devils. But it was unthinkable that the children should suffer. After a while the young man roused himself from the torpor into which the suddenness of this awful blow had plunged him. By the light of the lantern he scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper torn from his pocketbook.

He signed the letter with his initials, H. de M. Then he crept back to the gate and dropped the message into the hollow of the tree.

A quarter of an hour later Henri de Montorgueil was wending his way back to the hiding-place which had sheltered him and his father for so long. Silence and darkness soon held undisputed sway once more around the hollow tree. Even the rain had ceased its gentle pattering. From far away came the sound of a church bell striking the hour of ten. Then nothing more.

A few more minutes of absolute silence; then something dark and furtive began to move out of the long grass which bordered the roadside—something that in movement was almost like a snake. It dragged itself along close to the ground, making no sound as it moved. Soon it reached the hollow tree, rose to the height of a man and flattened itself against the tree trunk. Then it put out a hand, felt for the hollow receptacle and groped for the missive which Henri de Montorgueil had dropped in there a while ago.

The next moment a tiny ray of light gleamed through the darkness like a star. A small, almost fragile figure of a man, dressed in the mud-stained clothes of a country yokel, had turned up the shutter of a small lantern. By its flickering light he deciphered the letter which Henri de Montorgueil had written to Lucile Clamette.

"One day before the term you name I myself will place the papers there for you."

A sigh of satisfaction, quickly suppressed, came through his thin, colorless lips, and the light of the lantern caught the flash of triumph in his pale, inscrutable eyes. Then the light was extinguished. Impenetrable darkness swallowed up that slender, mysterious figure again.

IX days had gone by since Chauvelin had delivered his cruel "either—or" to poor little Lucile Clamette; three since he had found Henri de Montorgueil's reply to the girl's appeal in the hollow of the tree. Since then he had made a careful investigation of the château, and soon he was able to settle it in his own mind as to which room had been the boudoir of Madame la Marquise in the past. It was a small apartment, having direct access to the first landing of the staircase, and the one window gave on the rose garden at the back of the house. Inside the monumental hearth, at an arm's length up the wide chimney, a receptacle had been contrived in the brickwork, with a small iron door which opened and closed with a secret spring. Chauvelin, whose nefarious calling had rendered him proficient in such matters, had soon mastered the workings of that spring. He could now open and close the iron door at will.

Up to a late hour on the sixth night of this weary waiting the receptacle inside the chimney was still empty. That night Chauvelin had determined to spend at the château. He could not have rested elsewhere.

Even his colleague, Lebel, could not know what the possession of those papers would mean to the discredited agent of the Committee of Public Safety. With them in his hands, he could demand rehabilitation; he could purchase immunity from those sneers which had been so galling to his arrogant soul—sneers which had become more and more marked, more and more unendurable, above all, more and more menacing as he piled up failure on failure with every encounter with the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Immunity and rehabilitation! This would mean that he could once more measure his wits and his power with that audacious enemy who had brought about his downfall.

"In the name of Satan, bring us those papers!" Robespierre himself had cried with unwonted passion ere he sent him out on this important mission. "None of us could stand the scandal of such disclosures. It would mean absolute ruin for us all."

And Chauvelin that night, as soon as the shades of evening had drawn in, took up his stand in the château in the small inner room which was contiguous to the boudoir.

Here he sat beside the open window for hour upon hour, his every sense on the alert, listening for the first footfall upon the gravel path below. Though the hours went by leaden-footed, he was neither excited nor anxious. The Clamette family was such a precious hostage that the Montorgueils were bound to comply with Lucile's demand for the papers by every dictate of honor and of humanity.

"While we have those people in our power," Chauvelin had reiterated to himself more than once during the course of his long vigil, "even that meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel can do nothing to save those cursed Montorgueils."

The night was dark and still. Not a breath of air stirred the branches of the trees or the shrubberies in the park; any footsteps, however wary, must echo through that perfect and absolute silence. Chauvelin's keen, pale eyes tried to pierce the gloom in the direction whence in all probability the aristo would come. Vaguely he wondered if it would be Henri de Montorgueil or the old marquis himself who would bring the papers.

"Bah! Whichever one it is," he muttered, "we can easily get the other, once those abominable papers are in our hands. And, even if both the aristos escape," he added mentally, " 'tis no matter, once we have the papers."

Far away a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. The stillness of the air had become oppressive. A kind of torpor born of intense fatigue lulled the Terrorist's senses to somnolence. His head fell forward on his breast.

UDDENLY a shiver of excitement went right through him. He was fully awake now, with glowing eyes wide open and the icy calm of perfect confidence ruling every nerve. The sound of stealthy footsteps had reached his ear.

He could see nothing, either outside or in, but his fingers felt for the pistol which he carried in his belt. The aristo was evidently alone; only one solitary footstep was approaching the château.

Chauvelin had left ajar the door which gave on the boudoir. The staircase was on the other side of that fateful room, and the door leading to that was closed. A few minutes of tense expectancy went by. Then through the silence there came the sound of furtive footsteps on the stairs, the creaking of a loose board and finally the stealthy opening of the door.

In all his adventurous career Chauvelin had never felt so calm. His heart beat quite evenly, and his senses were undisturbed by the slightest tingling of his nerves. The stealthy sounds in the next room brought the movements of the aristo perfectly clearly before his mental vision. The latter was carrying a small dark lantern. As soon as he entered, he flashed its light about the room. Then he deposited the lantern on the floor, close beside the hearth, and started to feel up the chimney for the hidden receptacle.

Chauvelin watched him now as a cat watches a mouse, savoring these few moments of anticipated triumph. Noiselessly he pushed open the door which gave on the boudoir. By the feeble light of the lantern on the ground he could only see the vague outline of the aristo's back, bending forward to his task, but a thrill went through him as he saw a bundle of papers lying on the ground close by.

Everything was ready; the trap was set. Here was a complete victory at last. It was obviously the young Vicomte de Montorgueil who had come to do the deed. His head was up the chimney even now. The old marquis's back would have looked narrower and more fragile. Chauvelin held his breath; then he gave a sharp little cough and took the pistol from his belt.

The sound caused the aristo to turn. The next moment a loud and merry laugh roused the dormant echoes of the old chateau, and a pleasant drawling voice said in English:

"I am demmed if this is not my dear old friend M. Chambertin! Zounds, sir! Who'd have thought of meeting you here!"

Had a cannon suddenly exploded at Chauvelin's feet, he would have felt less unnerved. For the space of two heartbeats he stood there, his eyes glued on his arch-enemy, that execrated Scarlet Pimpernel, whose mocking glance, even through the intervening gloom, seemed to have deprived him of consciousness. But that phase of helplessness only lasted for a moment; the next, all the marvelous possibilities of this encounter flashed through the Terrorist's keen mind.

Everything was ready. The trap was set. The unfortunate Clamettes were still the bait which now would bring a far more-noble quarry into the mesh than ever he—Chauvelin—had dared to hope.

He raised his pistol, ready to fire. But already Sir Percy Blakeney was on him, and, with a swift movement which the other was too weak to resist, he wrenched the weapon from his enemy's grasp.

"Why, how hasty you are, my dear M. Chambertin," he said lightly. "Surely you are not in such a hurry to put a bullet into me!"

The position now was one which would have made even a braver man than Chauvelin quake. He stood alone and unarmed in face of an enemy from whom he could expect no mercy. But, even so, his first thought was not of escape. He had not only appraised his own danger but also the immense power which he held while the Clamettes remained as hostages in the hands of his colleague, Lebel.

"You have me at a disadvantage, Sir Percy," he said, speaking every whit as coolly as his foe. "But only momentarily. You can kill me, of course, but, if I do not return from this expedition, not only safe and sound but with a certain packet of papers in my hands, my colleague, Lebel, has instructions to proceed at once against the girl, Gamette, and the whole family."

"I know that well enough." rejoined Sir Percy with a quaint laugh. "I know what venemous [sic] reptiles you and those of your kidney are. You certainly do owe your life at the present moment to the unfortunate girl whom you are persecuting with such infamous callousness. "

Chauvelin drew a sigh of relief. The situation was shaping itself more to his satisfaction already. Through the gloom he could vaguely discern the Englishman's massive form standing a few paces away, one hand buried in his breeches pocket, the other still holding the pistol. On the ground close by the hearth was the small lantern, and in its dim light the packet of papers gleamed white and tempting in the darkness. Chauvelin's keen eyes had fastened on it and saw the form of receipt for money with Henriot's signature, which he recognized, on the top.

He himself had never felt so calm. The only thing he could regret was that he was alone. Half a dozen men now, and this impudent foe could indeed be brought to his knees. And this time there would be no risks taken, no chances for escape. Somehow it seemed to Chauvelin as if something of the Scarlet Pimpernel's audacity and foresight had gone from him. As he stood there, looking broad and physically powerful, there was something wavering and undecided in his attitude, as if the edge had been taken off his former recklessness and enthusiasm. He had brought the compromising papers here and had no doubt helped the Montorgueils to escape. But, while Lucile Clamette and her family were under the eye of Lebel, no amount of impudence could force a successful bargaining.

T WAS Chauvelin now who appeared the more keen and the more alert. The Englishman seemed undecided what to do next and remained silent, toying with the pistol. He even smothered a yawn. Chauvelin saw his opportunity. With the quick movement of a cat pouncing upon a mouse, he stooped and seized that packet of papers and would then and there have made a dash for the door with them; only that, as he seized the packet, the string winch held it together gave way, and the papers were scattered all over the floor.

Receipts for money? Compromising letters? No! Blank sheets of paper, all of them—all except the one which had lain tantalizingly on the top—the one receipt signed by Citizen Henriot. Sir Percy laughed lightly.

"Did you really think, my good friend," he said, "that I would be such a demmed fool as to place my best weapon so readily to your hand?"

"Your best weapon, Sir Percy?" retorted Chauvelin with a sneer. "What use is it to you while we hold Lucile Clamette?"

"While I hold Lucile Clamette, you mean, my dear M. Chambertin," riposted Blakenev with elaborate blandness.

"You hold Lucile Clamette? Bah! I defy you to drag a whole family like that out of our clutches. The man a cripple, the children helpless! And you think they can escape our vigilance when all our men are warned! How do you think they are going to get across the river, Sir Percy, when every bridge is closely watched? How will they get across Paris when at every gate our men are on the lookout for them?"

"They can't do it, my dear M. Chambertin," rejoined Sir Percy blandly, "else I were not here."

Then, as Chauvelin—fuming, irritated despite himself as he always was when he encountered that impudent Englishman—shrugged his shoulders in token of contempt, Blakency's powerful grasp suddenly clutched his arm.

"Let us understand one another, my good M. Chambertin," he said coolly. "Those unfortunate Clamettes, as you say, are too helpless and too numerous to smuggle across Paris with any chance of success. Therefore I look to you to take them under your protection. They are all stowed away comfortably at this moment in a conveyance which I have provided for them. That conveyance is waiting at the bridge-head now. We could not cross without, your help; we could not get across Paris without your august presence and your tri-color scarf of office. So you are coming with us, my dear M. Chambertin," he continued, and, with force which was quite irresistible, he began to drag his enemy after him toward the door. "You are going to sit in that conveyance with the Clamettes, and I myself will have the honor to drive you. And at every bridge-head you will show your pleasing countenance and your scarf of office to the guard and demand free passage for yourself and your family, as a representative member of the Committee of Public Safety.

"And then we'll enter Paris by the Porte d'Ivry and leave it by the Batignolles, and everywhere your charming presence will lull the guards' suspicions to rest. I pray you, come! There is no time to consider! At noon tomorrow, without a moment's grace, my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who has the papers in his possession, will dispose of them as he thinks best unless I myself claim them from him."

While he spoke, he continued to drag his enemy along with him with an assurance and an impudence which was past belief. Chauvelin was trying to collect his thoughts, a whirl of conflicting plans were running riot in his mind. The Scarlet Pimpernel in his power! At any point on the road he could deliver him up to the nearest guard and then still hold the Clamettes and demand the papers ...

"Too late, my dear M. Chambertin!" Sir Percy's mocking voice broke in as if divining his thoughts. "You do not know where to find my friend, Ffoulkes, and at noon tomorrow, if I do not arrive to claim those papers, there will not be a single ragamuffin in Paris who will not be crying your shame and that of your precious colleagues upon the housetops."

Chauvelin's whole nervous system was writhing with the feeling of impotence. Mechanically, unresisting now, he followed his enemy down the main staircase of the château and out through the wide open gates. He could not bring himself to believe that he had been so completely foiled—that this impudent adventurer had him once more in the hollow of his hand.

"In the name of Satan, bring us back those papers!" Robespierre had commanded, and now he—Chauvelin—was left in a maze of doubt, and the vital alternative was hammering in his brain, "The Scarlet Pimpernel—or those papers." Which, in Satan's name, was the more important? Passion whispered, "The Scarlet Pimpernel!" But common sense and the future of his party, the whole future of the Revolution mayhap, demanded those compromising papers. And all the while he followed that relentless enemy through the avenues of the park and down the lonely lane. Overhead the trees of the forest of Sucy, nodding in a gentle breeze, seemed to mock his perplexity.

He had not arrived at a definite decision when the river came in sight and a carriage-lantern threw a shaft of dim light through the mist-laden air. Now he felt as if he were in a dream. He was thrust, unresisting into a closed chaise, wherein he felt the presence of several other people—children and an old man who was muttering ceaselessly. As in a dream he answered questions at the bridge to a guard whom he knew well.

"You know me: Armand Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety!"

As in a dream he heard the curt words of command—

"Pass on, in the name of the republic!" And all the while the thought hammered in his brain:

"Something mustbe done! This is impossible! This can not be! It is not I—Chauvelin—who am sitting here, helpless, unresisting. It is not that impudent Scarlet Pimpernel who is sitting there before me on the box, driving me to utter humiliation!"

And yet it was all true. All real. The Clamelte children were sitting in front of him, clinging to Lucile, terrified of him even now. The old man was beside him—imbecile and ununderstanding. The boy, Étienne, was up on the box next to that audacious adventurer, whose broad back appeared to Chauvelin like a rock on which all his hopes and dreams must forever be shattered.

The chaise rattled triumphantly through the Batignolles. It was then broad daylight. A brilliant early Autumn day after the rains. The sun, the keen air, all mocked Chauvelin's helplessness, his humiliation. Long before noon they passed St. Denis. Here the chaise turned off the main road, halted at a small wayside house—nothing more than a cottage. After which everything seemed more dreamlike than ever. All that Chauvelin remembered of it afterward was that he was once more alone in a room with his enemy, who had demanded his signature to a number of safe-conducts ere he finally handed over the packet of papers to him.

"How do I know that they are all here?" he heard himself vaguely muttering while his trembling fingers handled that precious packet.

"That's just it!" his tormentor retorted airily. "You don't know. I don't know myself," he added with a light laugh. "And personally I don't see how either of us can possibly ascertain. In the meanwhile I must bid you au revoir, my dear M. Chambertin. I am sorry that I cannot provide you with a conveyance, and you will have to walk several kilometers ere you meet one, I fear me. We, in the meanwhile, will be well on our way to Dieppe, where my yacht, the Day-Dream, lies at anchor, and I do not think that it will be worth your while to try to overtake us. I thank you for the safe-conducts. They will make our journey exceedingly pleasant. Shall I give your regards to M. le Marquis de Montorgueil or to M. le Vicomte? They are on board the Day-Dream, you know. Oh! I was forgetting! Lady Blakeney desired to be remembered to you."

The next moment he was gone. Chauvelin, standing at the window of the wayside house, saw Sir Percy Blakeney once more mount the box of the chaise. This time he had Sir Andrew Ffoulkes beside him. The Clamette family were huddled together—happy and free—inside the vehicle. After which there was the usual clatter of horses' hoofs, the creaking of wheels, the rattle of chains. Chauvelin saw and heard nothing of that. All that he saw at the last was Sir Percy's slender hand waving him a last adieu.

After which he was left alone with his thoughts. The packet of papers was in his hand. He fingered it, felt its crispness, clutched it with a fierce gesture, which was followed by a long-drawn-out sigh of intense bitterness. No one would ever know what it had cost him to obtain these papers. No one would ever know how much he had sacrificed of pride, revenge and hate in order to save a few shreds of his own party's honor.