Chapter 11

CHAPTER V.His captors marched St. Just along at a brisk pace and in a short time, they reached the Place de la Bastille, whose name achieved the double purpose of keeping alive the memories of the horrors that had been perpetrated within the grim fortress that had stood there, and of signalizing the triumph of democracy.Continuing their way, they gained the prison that had been the last abiding place of the ill-fated Louis Capet. St. Just had often passed it, but had little thought he should ever find himself a prisoner within its walls; but that had been in the days when his honor was unsullied and he was glowing with the ardor of a young soldier, confident in his ability to cut his way to fortune with his sword. Alas how utterly had his hopes been falsified!Vipont pulled vigorously at the bell, which answered his appeal with a strident clangor that made St. Just's heart thrill. It seemed to ring out the death-knell of his freedom, if not indeed his life. A wicket in the heavy gates was opened, and a man in uniform appeared behind it."A prisoner," said Vipont curtly. Then the party stepped inside and the little door was closed behind them.They crossed the court—it had been the garden during the imprisonment of the Royal family—and the moon was shedding her rays upon the very tree under which the hapless monarch had been wont to take his daily exercise; causing the leaves to shimmer with a silver light as they were stirred by the gentle breeze. St. Just glanced up at the black facade, now dimly outlined against the dark wintry sky, and the gruesome thought flashed on him that, perhaps, he too was doomed to pace each day up and down, up and down, beneath that selfsame tree until that morning when he should be told that his last hour had come, and be hurried to the scaffold.Vipont's party marched on with him and halted at a door, which, at the summons of the warder who had admitted them to the prison, was opened.They entered the building, and then St. Just was escorted down a narrow passage to a flight of steps. These the man descended, and the others followed, emerging at the bottom on another passage, along which the jailer led the way, the rest of the party keeping close behind him, their footsteps echoing along the sunken corridor with thuds that reminded the prisoner of the blows he had heard at nights when the executioner and his assistants were setting up the scaffold, from which in the cold, gray morning some poor devil was to take his last look on the world. This reflection and the searching cold and damp, that seemed to pierce his very bones, and the mouldy smell that permeated the place, sent a shiver through St. Just that, despite his efforts to repress it, was visible to all.Presently another iron door was reached, and, being opened, revealed a room about five yards by four in area. High up in one wall was a narrow, strongly barred window, that was little more than a slit, and communicated to the outer air by a sort of funnel, for even the cell's vaulted roof was below the surface of the ground. A small fireplace faced this window, and, to prevent the possibility of a prisoner's escape that way, a strong iron grating was fixed in the lower part of the chimney.A low wooden bedstead a yard in width, a small deal table and a wooden stool comprised the furniture of this inhospitable apartment. At the sight of it St. Just's heart sank.When the door of what was to be St. Just's home until he should be otherwise disposed of, had been thrown open, Vipont stood aside, and, bending before the prisoner in mock courtesy, motioned him to pass inside."I regret, Mons. le docteur," he said, "that we cannot offer you a more luxurious apartment; for this, I admit, is scarcely fitting for a member of the learned profession, I doubt not, you adorn. But, at any rate, you will be safe from thieves, and your scientific meditations will not be interrupted."He wound up with a self-sufficient chuckle. St. Just made no reply, but crossed the threshold of his cell, into which the jailer had preceded him with a lantern. Then Vipont and his myrmidons withdrew. But, in a few minutes, he returned, as though he had forgotten something. He stepped quickly to the jailer's side and whispered something in his ear. Now that St. Just had had time to look at him, he saw that the jailer was a hard-featured, impassive, honest-looking fellow, with nothing in his countenance that augured cruelty or ill-nature, for the mere love of it. Whatever Vipont had said to him, the jailer raised the lantern and turned its light upon St. Just at the same time bestowing a keen glance on him. It will be borne in mind that St. Just was got up to pass for a serious, middle-aged member of a learned profession. The result of the jailer's scrutiny, which was made with much deliberation, was the muttered reply to his companion, "I am of your opinion."Then he placed the lantern on the table and moved round behind St. Just, who, though suspicious of the glances cast at him, had no idea what they portended; but he was soon to know, for the man suddenly threw himself upon him, pinioning his arms behind him, so that he could not move.Indeed St. Just made no attempt to do so, for the whole movement had been so rapid that he was taken quite aback. Before he had recovered his composure, Vipont had made a dash at his beard and plucked it off; when, instead of a middle-aged doctor, there stood before them a man clean-shaven and with youthful lineaments. The change it made in him was wonderful; even his frame seemed to have become more upright and muscular, so powerful is the influence of association.Retaining in his grasp the beard, Vipont stepped back a pace and, advancing the lantern towards the prisoner's face, seemed to be diving into his memory for a clue that should enable him to fix the personality of the man in front of him; for the latter could see by the police agent's expression that he was convinced that they had met before.Vipont looked long and earnestly at the captive, but to little purpose; he could not put a name to him.All at once he in the book of memory found the page that contained the name he was in search of. A smile formed itself upon his face, the prelude to a mocking laugh, that rang loudly through the cell. He removed his hat and bent in mock courtesy before St. Just."Mons. St. Just," he said, "late lieutenant of the Guard at the Luxembourg Palace, we meet again. On the occasion that I have in mind, I have a fancy that I owe to you the failure of—well, an affair I need not specify. Now I have an opportunity of satisfying the debt; and be assured you shall be paid in full."St. Just laughed scoffingly. "We shall see, my friend, I fear you not; the less so after the reminder you have given me of our first meeting, the circumstances of which had escaped my memory. I wonder whether the First Consul knows the part you played. For myself, I will not attempt to deny that I am St. Just—though, I think you would be put to it to prove it.""Oh, no, I shouldn't," retorted Vipont, with a sneering laugh.Just then the sound of a distant clock, which was striking ten; was borne across the frosty air, and penetrated to the prison. It checked the agent in the middle of his laugh."So late!" he exclaimed. "I have dallied here too long, and must be going."Then he continued mockingly, "Do me the favor, my good Desmartins, to show this gentleman, in whom I take the deepest interest, every attention; treat him with the greatest deference; load his table with the daintiest viands; bring out for him your choicest wines; prepare for him your downiest bed; find him amusement, that he may not know a moment's weariness; guard him from every danger. In a word, do everything to keep him safe and happy, treating him as an honored guest, extending to him cheerfully the hospitality for which the genial custodian of the Temple is so famed." Then he turned to St. Just and, in the same mocking tone continued, "Can I add anything further, Sir, to ensure your comfort? I regret that I can no longer avail myself of the pleasure of your company; but I am already due at the Opera, where I have to report to the First Consul. I am desolated that I cannot have the honor of your company thither, but I shall be pleased to bear him any message you may charge me with."There was a mocking smile on Vipont's lips, when he finished speaking, and, with pretended deference, he once more bent low before St. Just.The latter glared savagely at the police agent, but, when he spoke, there was no passion in his voice, only a cold incisiveness in every word that fell upon the mocker's ears and, despite his well-assumed impassiveness, caused him some uneasiness."Yes, go, Sir," said St. Just. "Go, by all means, to the First Consul, and tell him from me, if you have the honesty and courage to keep your promise, that, on the night to which you have alluded, you and the rascal Sotin, were the men who tried to murder him by Mons. Barras' orders. I think, when he knows this, for all your activity in his behalf to-night, you will not be long in paying another visit to the Temple, but in a somewhat different capacity from that you occupy at present. You will have an opportunity of testing the hospitality of our good friend here; of participating in the luxuries you suggested he should heap on me."Vipont turned pale and trembled with mingled rage and dread."You lie, coquin," he yelled, "you vile traducer of a trusted servant of the State. I know not what you mean. But I will soon silence your perjured tongue."And he laid his hand upon his sword and half drew it from its sheath, at the same time taking a step forward. But Desmartins interposed, and laid his hand on the police agent's arm."No violence, Monsieur, I beg," he said. "It is not to be permitted. I am responsible for the prisoner's safety, and you shall not do him hurt." And he placed himself between the men.The sword dropped back into its scabbard, and Vipont, scowling, removed his grasp from it. He glared furiously at St. Just."Why does he insult me, then," he snarled, "the gredin? But let him wait, the coward, till I have the opportunity of chastising him. Then we shall see.""As you say," St. Just calmly interposed, "we shall see. But I care not to bandy further words with you; and surely you are forgetting your appointment." And, to show that conversation on his part was at an end, he turned his back on Vipont and took a step or two away.The police spy shook his fist in menace at St. Just; then, with the words, "Au revoir, coquin," he turned on his heel and quitted the cell, followed by the jailer, who took with him the lantern, leaving St. Just to darkness and his thoughts.For a while, he remained motionless where he stood, listening to the retreating footsteps of his late companions. At last, they died away, and the silence that ensued was deathlike."Will Halima hear what has befallen me?" he mused. "And how will she act if she do hear it? Will she leave me to my fate? No, no, she could not be so cruel!"He paced restlessly about, tortured by the reflections that assailed him. Beneath his conviction of her love for him there always lurked a doubt of her fidelity. He did not forget that, on their meeting after nearly four years' separation, she had looked more radiantly beautiful than ever; there had been no evidence in her appearance that she had bewailed his loss; and he did not doubt that, in his absence, she had consoled herself with other lovers, and, in like circumstances, would do so again. She had frankly admitted that the indulgence of her passions was a necessity of her life. The thought threw him into a fever of impatience and rebellion at his helplessness, and he began to cast about for a means of informing her of his predicament.Suddenly he halted in his aimless tramp about his cell. The blind beggar—who was not really blind—had seen his capture, and, if himself unknown to Halima, would know those who were acquainted with her, and so the news would reach her. St. Just had not had time to recognize the man, even if he had ever seen him before; but he was convinced that he was in the plot.His wife would not be long in hearing what had happened; perhaps she had heard already. And she could save him, if she would, for she had in her possession the charm that Josephine had given him, the talisman that Buonaparte had promised should three times be effective in protecting him, should the need arise and Buonaparte have the power; and surely, surely Halima would use it in his behalf.This hope, nay, this certainty—for, after all her protestations of undying love, she would never be so base as to desert him—brought with it comparative relief, and he was able to look his position in the face, without the dread that had but now oppressed him.Then, with reawakened confidence, he threw himself upon his narrow pallet and, worn out by the excitement he had undergone, soon dropped off into a slumber in which all his troubles were forgotten; he even dreamed that he was with Halima.A week passed by, and gradually the captive's spirits sank, for not a whisper from the outer world had come to him, and the dreadful thought was gaining on him that, after all, he was to be abandoned to his fate. The hours dragged on in horrible monotony, his only visitor being his jailer, who came at stated intervals to supply him with the sorry food that was his fare. But, though the man was rough and almost surly, and could with difficulty be got to speak—and, when he did, it was only in monosyllables—St. Just looked forward to his visits with positive delight, parting from him with regret and counting the hours, by the chimes of distant clocks, until he should be due again. He was the captive's sole link with humanity.St. Just made various attempts to sound him, asked him whether anyone had called at the prison in reference to his case; whether he was being talked about outside; whether he had heard again from Vipont; but he said not a word of Halima.But he could extract nothing from Desmartins; the man was as close as a mouse trap that has just achieved its purpose. All that could be got from him was that he knew nothing. Then St. Just tried to inveigle him into talk on general topics; he was so loth to lose the sight of a human face, the sound of a human voice. But his jailer discouraged conversation and would have none of it.However, on the evening of the seventh day of his incarceration, and without any previous intimation, the door of his cell was opened, and—not Desmartins, as he had at first assumed—but a file of soldiers entered. They were followed by their officer. He bowed to the prisoner and then told him that he had orders to remove him, and that it would be necessary to blindfold him."Whither do you take me?" asked St. Just."That I am not at liberty to say," replied the officer; "but you will learn anon."Then they blindfolded him, and two of the men placed themselves one on each side of him, and each took an arm to guide him; thus they led him from the room, and along the narrow passage, the jailer going in advance to show the way, and taking the same route as on St. Just's arrival.Presently, by the change in the sounds above him, and the freshness of the atmosphere, St. Just knew that he was in the open air; in another minute he heard the prison gate clang to behind him. Then he was guided into a carriage, which was quickly driven away.He was scarcely seated, when a voice muttered in a loud whisper in his ear, "Make no rash effort to escape, and do not speak, or attempt to remove your bandage, or you will suffer for it."At the same time, to lend significance to the speaker's words, something cold and hard was pressed against the hearer's temple. St. Just knew it for the muzzle of a pistol, and, for a moment, shivered. But only for a moment; it needed little wit to know that, for the present at any rate, his life was safe. For all that, he deemed it prudent to obey the injunctions of his companion; so sat motionless and silent. He tried at first to follow in his mind the turns the carriage took, but, blindfold as he was, he found it hopeless, so gave it up, resigning himself with such patience as he could command to whatever was to follow. But his mind was in a fever of inquiry. Was he being conveyed to Halima's house, or to some place of safety at her instance; or were his captors taking him to some other prison, where the discipline was harsher, and the prisoners had less chance of making their escape?The carriage creaked and rumbled on, with frequent jolts, for the roads, at all times, at that period, bad, were now, by the mingled action of frost and slush, a succession of alternate holes and hillocks. But, at last, when it seemed to St. Just that they had been traveling for hours, the carriage halted, and he was bidden to descend. Then he was again taken by the arm and guided up a narrow staircase. Arrived at the top, his conductor whispered a few words to some one there. A door was opened, and he was led into a room and halted. Then the same voice that had addressed him in the carriage spoke again."You are at your journey's end, and your bandage will now be removed. Light, you see, like everything else, comes to him who waits." He laughed pleasantly.When the bandage had been removed, St. Just found himself in a moderate-sized apartment, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. He was standing before an open hearth, in which, burned a cheerful fire of wood, whose flames diffused a ruddy glow throughout the room, and a genial warmth that was more than grateful to a man who had been enduring for a week the chill, damp air of a prison cell. On one side of the room were two long windows, now closed with shutters and hung with dark red curtains. A large oil lamp, its brilliance tempered by a deep green shade, was burning on a table in the center of the room. On the side that faced the fire was a pair of folding doors, now closed. These details St. Just took in unconsciously, for what fixed his glance, immediately that his bandage was removed, was the figure of a man who was a stranger to him. He was standing by the fire and partially supporting himself on a stick. An elderly man, thin in figure, somewhat below the average height, and of shrivelled aspect. His face was long and lean and absolutely colorless; only redeemed from lifelessness by the piercing eyes, which were ever shifting restlessly, as though trying to find an entrance into the weak places of an opponent. He was dressed from head to foot in black.Hard by St. Just there stood another man, whose green uniform with red facings proclaimed him to be an officer of Chasseurs. He had been St. Just's companion in his drive, and he it was who had removed the handkerchief from his eyes, for he still held it in his hand.The elder man fixed his keen glance upon St. Just for several moments, without speaking. Then suddenly he addressed him in a high-pitched voice."Well Mons. St. Just, what have you to say for yourself for mixing in plots against the First Consul?"Then, before his hearer could reply, he continued to the officer in attendance: "You can withdraw, Beaumont. Wait in the anteroom, in case you should be wanted—but not within earshot of this room." And he raised his finger meaningly at the young officer, who, coloring to the roots of his hair, stammered at the slur cast on him."Mons. de Talleyrand, I am a soldier and a man of honor. It is an insult to suggest—""Go, Sir," interrupted the other sternly. "I have not time to pick and choose my words, except when matters of State demand it."And, without further parley, the officer retired.Then the man who had been addressed as Talleyrand resumed his conversation with St. Just; but first he moved to a chair, halting slightly in his walk."Well, Sir," he said, "you find my question difficult to answer. But I will spare you the dishonor of inventing denials that would be unavailing; for the information at my command is unimpeachable. But one thing I should like to know, that you alone can tell me; and that is how it happens that you, who were reported dead in Egypt more than three years ago, have now turned up alive in Paris?"This was a much easier question to reply to than the other, and St. Just detailed, shortly, the particulars—garbled for the occasion—of his capture in the desert and subsequent adventures, up to his landing and accident at Margala, explaining his strange loss of memory, that had extended even to his ignorance of his own identity; and how that memory had only recently been restored.The story seemed plausible to Talleyrand, for it appeared incredible that a soldier with St. Just's prospects of advancement would willingly sacrifice his career."That seems reasonable," was his comment, "but what I can not understand is why, on your return to Paris, you did not at once report yourself. I should have thought that, having lost so much valuable time, you would not have wasted a moment in seeking reinstatement. How was that? You must have had some overpowering reason, and I am curious to know it?"And he shot a searching glance at his hearer's face, as though he thought thereby to wrench the truth from him.St. Just quailed beneath it. He knew, by hearsay, the character of the man before him, and, while anxious to conceal his conjugal relations, he recognized the risk he ran, should Talleyrand convict him of an attempt to palm off a lie on him. His difficulty was that he was in the dark as to how much his cross-questioner knew. But Talleyrand was noted for his gallantries; so St. Just thought he might look more leniently on his dereliction, if he assigned a woman as its cause. All this passed rapidly through his mind during the few seconds that elapsed before his answer. With some hesitation, and the color mounting to his face, he said:—"I fully intended to report myself, as was my duty; but—""The woman tempted me," interrupted Talleyrand with a sneer, and a smile that had more of triumph than good-nature in it.St. Just started. Oh that he could fathom the depth of the knowledge that Talleyrand possessed of him! However, the wily statesman had given him his cue."Scarcely that," he answered, "for it would be base to charge a woman with what was the outcome solely of my own infatuation. For I was infatuated, infatuated to the verge of madness; my passion robbed me of my judgment; so that I lived only in the present, with no thought of consequences.""And yet you were not content to bask in the Egyptian beauty's smiles, but must needs associate yourself with plotters against the State. 'Twas there your madness really lay—not in your infatuation for Madame de Moncourt. That I readily excuse; nay more, I can applaud; your preference does you credit, Sir; I can scarcely pay her the same compliment for the interest she takes in you."The speaker seemed to delight in saying things that made his hearers wince, and the coarse slight in his last words had that effect upon the man before him.A momentary flash of anger gleamed in his eyes; then surprise showed on his face. Talleyrand knew the woman for whom he had forsaken honor; and she was interesting herself on his behalf, if the statesmen's words meant anything. Probably his presence there was due to that. The thought brought much relief. But Talleyrand had made no reference to his marriage; most likely then, he was unaware of it!"I see you have guessed my secret," he replied. "I adore the lady to whom you have just referred, and she has accorded me the privilege of a visitor. I met her first in Egypt, where I was so fortunate as to save her life.""Indeed! And now she is using her influence to save yours. Do you know this trinket?"He held up the charm Josephine had given to St. Just."I do; it belongs to me. It was given me some years ago by Madame Buonaparte, in the presence of her husband, the night I saved him from assassination.""Dear me, you seem to have a trick of saving life," sneered Talleyrand."Say rather, the good Fortune. But to continue; on that occasion, the General attached a promise to the gift.""Which he has fulfilled, and not for the first time, I understand. This is the key that has unlocked your prison cell. Madame de Moncourt, by some means,"—and he looked meaningly at St. Just—"got news of your predicament and, having this talisman of yours in her possession, entrusted it to me to pass on to the First Consul, with the reminder of his pledge to you. I have fulfilled my errand, and, on certain conditions, you are free."St. Just could not repress a sigh of relief, for, though from the commencement of his interview he had thought that he was safe, now he was assured of it."I am deeply grateful to you, Sir," he said, "for your efforts on my behalf; also to Madame de Moncourt, to whom, if I may take the liberty, I will ask you to convey my heartfelt thanks."Ignoring St. Just's request, which he had wit enough to know was not made seriously, and, in consequence, resented, Talleyrand answered sharply."Then show your gratitude, Sir, by abstaining in the future from dabbling in conspiracies, and by devoting yourself faithfully to your country's interests. Are you ready to act thus?"To this St. Just answered that he was; and, at the time he really meant it."See that you keep your word," rejoined the other; "your honor requires much cleansing ere it will be bright. Here is your trinket, which I trust you will never again prostitute to such vile purpose as that to which it has just been put. But now, as to the conditions of your liberty. It is thought a change of air would be beneficial to you. Are you willing to leave France forthwith, for as long or as short a period as may be ordered?"St. Just's face fell; absence from France meant also absence from Halima; but he was in no position to make terms; he had no choice but to submit; still his distaste to the position was apparent in his answer."If my sole choice lies between captivity in France, and liberty abroad," he said despondently, "I must fain choose the latter, though life lived out of France will be mere existence. Is my place of banishment yet decided?"Talleyrand smiled sourly. "Things need not be quite so bad for you as your forecast; if so you will it. The First Consul is disposed to give you a chance of regaining your lost honor, but it will be your last. He is in contemplation to send you to England on a mission of some importance. To ensure success, tact, courage, secrecy and adaptability will be required; and, above all—fidelity." And he fixed his eyes significantly on his hearer. "On your conduct of the affair will depend your future. The business will not occupy you long. Your answer?"By the time the speaker had concluded, St. Just had brightened up considerably. He hastened to reply with energy, "I accept without a moment's hesitation. Sir, I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the kindness shown me; and I pledge my honor—"Talleyrand looked up with a curious, amused expression. "Your what, Sir?" he asked cynically.St. Just colored with shame. For a moment he was discomposed. Then he replied, "I deserve your reprimand, Monsieur. I should have said, I give my solemn word—I swear—that I will do my utmost to assure the success of the mission to be entrusted to me. If earnestness of purpose, unwearying labor, fearlessness of danger and unswerving fidelity can secure it, I shall not fail. If needs be, I am ready to sacrifice my life, in the cause committed to me."Talleyrand's nature was too cold, and he had too full a knowledge of the workings of the human heart for such "high falutin" to make much impression on him: indeed, he rather despised enthusiasm; in his eyes it showed want of self-control. But, in the present instance, he was satisfied that St. Just meant all he said; whether his sentiments would be enduring, was another thing."Your words are fair enough, Sir," he said coldly; "see that your deeds lag not behind them."The words had scarcely left his lips, when the folding doors at the end of the room were opened, and the First Consul entered.He paused for a moment in the doorway and then came forward. The light from the lamp, modified, as it was, by the green shade, made his countenance, always pale and passionless, look almost death-like now, and emphasized by contrast the wondrous eyes which flashed and glistened with vitality and movement. He wore the uniform of an officer of Artillery, and with scarce a decoration. His nether limbs were encased in white breeches and silk stockings; a sash of tricolor completed his costume.His eyes fixed the two men in the room; both felt their magnetic force, and one seemed almost turned to stone. But almost instantly, both bent before him."So!" he began, in a hard, dry voice, "Mons. St. Just, you have come to life again. I will inquire into that anon. Meantime, perhaps you, Mons. de Talleyrand, will explain the meaning of this—gentleman's presence here." He stamped his foot impatiently."Sir," began Talleyrand, in his icy tones, "I ventured to send for Mons. St. Just with a view to his being despatched to England on the mission we have discussed together. You left in my hands the selection of the agent, and, for several reasons which I shall be happy to give you when we are alone, I deemed him suitable.""An assassin, a prisoner from the Temple! I congratulate you on the felicity of your selection," was the ironical rejoinder."A prisoner whom your clemency has freed. You cannot, General, have forgotten the token from Mons. St. Just I handed you."Buonaparte had not forgotten, but for a purpose he affected to have done so. The Man of Destiny forgot nothing. "Token, what token?" he asked sharply. He dropped into a chair, then leisurely took snuff."This charm, Sir," said St. Just respectfully. He stepped forward and held out the trinket. "This jewel given to me by Madame Buonaparte in your presence, one memorable night, when you attached a promise to it.""I now remember, Sir," answered the First Consul sternly, "and the pledge I gave you, but I little guessed that I should be reminded of it in such circumstances as the present. I did not expect that, in the fulfillment of my promise, I should be called upon to save a would-be assassin, and a deserter from his colors from the penalty of his crimes. But I will respect my word, Sir; your life is spared. See that you make a worthier use of it in the future." Then, in a voice of thunder, he concluded, "But have a care, Sir, have a care, lest you try my patience and forbearance beyond their limits. Never again put that trinket to so vile a use, or I fear me you will find that it has lost its virtue. Nay, I marvel that, on this occasion, you should have shielded yourself with its protection. A brave man dishonored, is glad to hide his dishonor in the grave."The countenance he turned upon St. Just was awful in its sternness and contempt, and the confusion and abasement of the wretched man were piteous to behold. He bent his head to his chest, and trembled in every limb, and his face rivaled in its pallor even Buonaparte's. The scathing words of the First Consul had so affected him that, for the moment, he felt that death itself would have been preferable, and regretted that the talisman had been employed to save his life. His breath came hard and fast, and he made several ineffectual attempts to speak; at last he gasped out:"Sir I thank you for your clemency. I am so bewildered, so abashed, I despise myself so much, that I can scarce find words. I can only say—you have spared my life, do with it what you will."Buonaparte eyed him searchingly. From his inscrutable expression it was impossible to judge whether St. Just's words and manner had affected him."And what guarantee have I of your future behavior?" he replied. "Wait here."He signed to Talleyrand, and they left the room together.Ten minutes passed, during which St. Just, in some measure, recovered his composure. At the end of that time, they returned, and Buonaparte, without referring to his last question and without noticing St. Just walked across the room and placed his back against the marble mantelpiece. Then he began to kick with his heel the smouldering embers in the grate.Meanwhile Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "You will proceed to England with the utmost speed, and there make it your business to become acquainted with a certain Sir Henry Emerson. He is a King's Messenger, and we have information that he will be setting out next week for Holland with dispatches. It is of vital importance that we should know their purport. It will be for you, when on the spot, to devise the best means of bringing this about. Take copies of them, if you can, and restore them without his knowledge; but, if this should be impossible, secure the papers, and let me have them without a moment's loss of time. You may not be able to achieve your purpose before Sir Henry Emerson has set cut; if so, you must dog his footsteps until you do succeed. Don't be too nice about the methods you employ: use bribery, violence, anything so that you do not fail."On reaching London, you will go instantly to the house of one Perry, a hosier at this address"—he handed it to St. Just—"and ask 'where you can get the best bees.' If the man laughs at you, go away, for he is not the right person; but try again later. If to your inquiry he reply that he is a large bee farmer himself, you may state your business freely, and he will give you every assistance. He is keeping a watch on the movements of this King's Messenger."Here are ten thousand francs." He handed him a bundle of notes. "You can change them, according to your requirements into English money at a money changer's. Perry will see to that for you. Should you require more, apply to him, and he will give it to you."A clock on the mantelpiece struck two. St. Just was surprised to find it was so late; his drive to this house must have taken hours. It puzzled him to know where he was; not in Paris, clearly."You have had your instructions, Sir," said the First Consul, speaking for the first time, since his second entrance into the room, "and will start at once; and, as you value your life, be true. Another act of treachery, and nothing shall protect you."St. Just stepped forward, and was beginning to renew his protestations of fidelity and gratitude, when Buonaparte waved him back and, with a frown, walked rapidly from the room.Then Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "To-morrow, at eleven, you will start for Boulogne. There you will embark on the La Flèche. You have a fair knowledge of English, I understand. You will pass as the Comte St. Clair. Live as the others do—not ostentatiously, but don't grudge expenditure, when needful. Return the moment you have achieved the object of your mission."One last injunction; don't go to Auteuil, before you start."He looked meaningly at St. Just. "Ah, you meant to; don't."He touched a bell and an attendant entered."Captain Beaumont," he said.The man withdrew and, in a few seconds, that officer stood before him."You will escort Mons. St. Just in a carriage to his apartment."He bowed to both men and they left the room. Five minutes afterwards they quitted Malmaison and took the road to Paris.CHAPTER VI.It was hard on daybreak when St. Just reached his lodging in the Rue de Dauphin, and the people in the house were not yet up; but the summons at the door soon aroused them. His landlord was at first disposed to be unfriendly, but when he saw the handsome carriage and horses, the liveries of the coachman and footman, and the officer in uniform who had accompanied his lodger, he made no ado about admitting him, and became almost fulsome in his words of welcome. The belief of the worthy couple had been that St. Just had been spending his week's absence in the country; and they had been confirmed in it by a beautiful lady who had driven up in a carriage and told them that it was so. She had also interviewed his servant Mahmoud, whom it appeared, she knew, and had taken him away with her.Before going she had left a note for St. Just; and this was all they had to tell him.Halima's note contained but these few words:—"Am quite well. We shall meet again soon. I have taken Mahmoud with me. I know you will not want him for the present.Then, Halima guessed, if she did not positively know, of his coming journey to England.His preparations did not take him long, and he left Paris at the time Talleyrand had ordered him to start, and reached Boulogne on the evening of the following day. He soon found the La Flèche, a small vessel, at anchor in the harbor. He presented himself to the captain as the Comte St. Clair, according to instructions, and handed him papers authorizing his passage to England.The next morning, so soon as it was light, they moved out of the harbor, but the breeze was so light, and what there was of it, so unfavorable to their course, that they had to keep continually tacking; thus it was night before they sighted the shores of England. As it was, they were taken somewhat out of their course, and the nearest port was Shoreham; this they made. St. Just was landed in a sir all boat a short distance from the port itself, which, indeed, at that time, was little more than a cluster of cottages—a hamlet; though now a town of some importance.Taking his small bag in his hand—for he had not cared to encumber himself with luggage, intending to supply himself in London with such clothing as he required—he began to make his way across the sandy flats that intervened between the shore and the high road, meaning, on gaining Shoreham, to obtain some means of conveyance to Brighton, and thence to take the coach to London. He was told that, by bearing direct northwards from the sea, he would soon hit the road.The night was dark, for there was no moon, and but a few stars were to be seen; but that his way was so direct, he would not have attempted it without a guide. Not a sound was to be heard, not even the fall of his own feet, for the sand and the tufts of coarse grass that dotted it formed a soft carpet that made his footsteps noiseless. But walking was somewhat arduous; the more so that he had to feel his way, or he would have fallen, for the ground was full of little mounds and hollows. His progress, accordingly, was slow.He went stumbling along, but never actually falling and had made about half the distance to the road, when, all at once, close by his ear, he heard the words shouted in a strident voice, "Here he is, lads!" and, the next moment, received a violent blow on the head that felled him to the ground, and, before he had so much as seen his assailant, he was stretched insensible on the sand.When he recovered consciousness, he found himself in a low, scantily and rudely furnished room, which, from the nets and ropes that hung against the walls and lay in heaps upon the floor, proclaimed its owner to be a fisherman. With the feeling, so common to us all when sleeping, and some one is approaching us, he felt that he was being watched, and he opened his eyes. A rough-looking, middle-aged man was bending over him, scrutinizing him intently, with an expression of mingled anxiety and alarm. But, when the Frenchman opened his eyes, that were now lighted with intelligence, the fisherman's strained look relaxed, and a smile of satisfaction took its place."Glad to see you coming round, Sir," he said cheerily. "You'll soon be all right now; but I was mortal feared once; I began to think you were going to turn it up. How are you feeling, Sir?"St. Just looked at him inquiringly, and with some alarm, as one does at unexpectedly finding oneself in an unknown place and in the presence of a stranger; but the man, though rough, looked kindly and good-natured; so that St. Just's anxiety was but brief."My head aches badly here," he answered; and he put his hand at the back part of his crown. The action made him wince; the place felt so tender."I must have fallen, or been struck. What has happened? Where am I? Who are you?" Then before the other could reply, he resumed, "Ah, I remember now; I was crossing the sands and some one knocked me down. Was it you, and if so, why?""No, it wasn't me, Sir," replied the man, "and it was all a mistake." He went on to explain that, in the dark, St. Just had been mistaken for some one against whom his son had a grudge, and been knocked down in consequence. On discovering the mistake, he and his son had brought him to their cabin. He now expressed his sorrow and asked how he could serve St. Just."I am much obliged to you," replied St. Just dryly. "Suppose you lend me a hand to help me up, for I am still weak and dizzy."The man gave him his hand willingly, and raised his visitor to a sitting posture on the bed. St. Just rubbed his eyes, then let them wander round the room. From the appearance of the roof and walls, and from the thunder of the waves, which he could hear against the sides of where he was, he was satisfied that he was in a cavern on the shore."This is not a house," he said, "we are underground; do you live here?""Well, it's all the house I have, when I'm at home, but I'm mostly out.""And what's your name, and what are you?""John Slade, fisherman."St. Just turned his eyes keenly on him and smiled faintly. "And you do a little foreign trade as well, eh? Brandy, cigars, silks and lace?"John Slade started and scowled at the injured man, who continued with a laugh, "You needn't be alarmed, my friend, the secret of your retreat is safe with me; I've nothing to do with the coastguard. Besides, as you must have discovered, I am a foreigner, a Frenchman, and I know no one in this country. But I have business in London and must be there as soon as possible. How long have I been here?""Since the night afore yesterday. You'll soon be all right now, and I'll see you to the coach for London. I daresay you'll be well enough to start to-morrow. But now, Master, couldn't you take something to eat and drink?"St. Just thought he could. As a fact, he was feeling very hungry; he had had nothing for two days.A good night's rest made him another man, and, the next morning, he got into John Slade's boat, and the smuggler rowed him to Brighton. The boat was moored, and his companion went ashore with him and carried his bag to the starting place of the London coach. Then they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill—for St. Just had quite forgiven the mistake that had laid him prostrate—and the young Frenchman was soon rattling along the road to London.As yet, he had formulated no plan of action; he deferred that, until he should have seen the hosier in the Strand. So he hailed a hackney coach and told the driver to take him to the address Mons. de Talleyrand had given.Fortunately Mr. Perry was in his shop and, on St. Just's putting the question to him about the bees, he gave the expected answer; then he asked his visitor into his parlor at the back of the shop, and inquired in what way he could serve him.The latter, having been told that he might speak to the hosier without restraint, at once explained his errand, and asked his hearer the best way to set about it.Perry was a man of much better social standing and education than the generality of London tradesmen of a hundred years ago. He had not been born in the ranks of shopkeepers, but in his early days had fallen desperately in love with the pretty daughter of the former proprietor of this shop. The girl's virtue being every whit on a level with her beauty, despite his efforts to deprave it, he had been compelled either to marry her, or give up her pursuit; unable to do the latter, he had done the former, and her father dying shortly afterwards, he had found himself in possession of the business, which was too good to be relinquished, the more so that he was without means or occupation.Chance had thrown him into the way of many of the French émigrés at that time in London. He had traveled in France and could speak the language. There was a good deal of the mole in him, and he was fond of burrowing into secrets. Gradually he had strengthened his relations with these emigrants, so that he had wormed himself into their confidence, and there were few of their plots for the restoration of the French king with which he was unacquainted. Believing in his sympathies, they spoke openly before him and even consulted him about their schemes; almost he had become their trusted agent. And while all this fed his appetite for excitement and his love for plotting, it, at the same time, put money in his pocket, for any services he rendered were well paid for. As a matter of fact, his sympathies were not with the French King's party, for, while filled with horror at the bloodshed of the "Terror," he considered that the French people were quite right in rising against the oppressors—king, nobles and priests—who had ground them down for centuries.The Revolutionists had their spies in England, and they were not long in discovering Perry's intimacy with the Monarchists. By judicious soundings, they found that he had no real love for these. He could, therefore, knowing so many of their secrets, render them important services. So overtures were made to him, which he accepted, and, at the time of St. Just's visit, he was a recognized agent of the French Republic, while all the time affecting Monarchist proclivities. He was well paid by the Republic, so that now he was receiving money from both sides. But he was careful not to give himself away, keeping the secrets of each party inviolate from the other. Thus he performed with satisfaction to himself the formidable feat of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds.Such was the man with whom St. Just now found himself in counsel.It appeared that Perry knew Sir Henry Emerson well; this was doubtless known in Paris and was why St. Just had been instructed to apply to him. Sir Henry had called at the shop only a day or two before and, when ordering certain articles of hosiery, had mentioned casually that he was expecting every day to be ordered to the Continent with dispatches.Perry told him that Sir Henry was in the habit almost nightly of visiting a certain gambling hell near the Haymarket, at which the hosier had the entrée and occasionally tempted Fortune. He advised that his visitor should accompany him there that night for the double purpose of familiarizing himself with Sir Henry Emerson's appearance and ascertaining, if possible, whether the date of his departure for Holland was yet fixed.This being settled, Perry took him to a costumier, where he fitted himself with fashionable attire of English cut, he, Perry, supplying him with such hosiery and under-linen as he required. Then, having engaged a room for him at the Golden Cross Hotel, at Charing Cross, he left him, with the promise that he would call for him at a late hour that night, when they would proceed together to the gaming house.In due course, they made their way thither. At the moment of their arrival at the door, a close carriage, with no armorial bearings on the panels, and drawn by a well-matched pair of horses, pulled up before it. St. Just and his companion drew back to let the occupants precede them.A well-built man, above the middle height and inclined to stoutness, alighted from the carriage. His features were handsome, but inclined to puffiness. Perry nudged his companion slightly and whispered, "The Prince Regent."The prince was followed by another man, and the two disappeared within the house, the door having been already opened in answer to the summons of a footman.Perry waited a few minutes, so as not to follow too closely on the Prince's heels, and then knocked at the same door. It was opened by a man in livery, who greeted Perry respectfully, and then pulled a bell, that tinkled in the distance, and they moved down the passage, at the end of which was a green baize door, that opened noiselessly at their approach, and then closed behind them. They found themselves in a hall that blazed with light. A gorgeously clad, powdered footman stepped forward and relieved them of their roquelaures—they retained their hats—then preceded them up a broad staircase, so softly carpeted that their footfalls could not be heard. At the head of it was another green baize door, before which stood a negro of Herculean proportions, gorgeously arrayed. The footman murmured something and the door swung open.The scene presented to St. Just's view was as startling as it was novel to him. Proceeding, as he had, direct from the military school to the battle field, he had little personal knowledge of the vices and amusements of Society, and was proportionately astonished. In a large room, furnished luxuriously, and, withal, somewhat meretriciously, the walls lined with long mirrors and pictures suggesting that the persons there delineated were the denizens of countries whose climate was more than temperate—to judge from their costume, or the absence of it; ottomans and lounges, heavily gilt and silk upholstered, dotted about; and the whole brilliantly illuminated by the soft light of innumerable wax candles;—were about sixty persons of both sexes—the men predominating—in evening dress of the very latest fashion, some of the ladies being conspicuous more by the audacity than the elegance of their attire. Some were walking about the room talking and laughing, occasionally pausing at the different tables to watch the progress of the game. But most of them were either seated at the tables, or standing behind the sitters engaged at play. Faro, hazard and other convenient modes for winning and losing money rapidly were going on.Perry cast his eye carefully round the room, and nodded to several persons whom he knew. "The man we want is not here yet," he whispered to St. Just. "I think we had better join in the play, if we can find a table where it is not too high. For a stranger to come here and refrain from doing so would look singular."St. Just at once assented, and they strolled about the room in search of a table.Presently a man called out, "Come and try your luck, Perry; you won't be ruined, we are only small fry here.""Yes," replied the hosier, "my friend and I will join you;" and he introduced St. Just—as the Comte St. Clair, of course.They had been seated at the table but a few minutes, when Sir Henry Emerson entered the room, and Perry pointed him out to St. Just, and, during the evening, took an opportunity of introducing them to one another. Sir Henry, who took the so-called Comte St. Clair to be an émigré, and was a strong Royalist, received him in a friendly manner and offered to present him to the Prince at a Levee to be held next day. He added that he would not have another opportunity for some time, for that, at the conclusion of the function, he would have to start for Holland with dispatches.This was the very information St. Just desired. If the documents were to be in his hands before Sir Henry left England, he had little time to lose. He thanked the speaker for his courtesy, of which he said he would avail himself, and would present himself for the purpose at the house of the King's Messenger at the time appointed. Then, the hour being late, he shook hands with him, and he and Perry took their leave. A modus operandi had to be decided on, and there was little time to do it in.However, before they turned in for the night, they had evolved a scheme they thought would work, if Fortune should prove kind. There was this about it, that, if that on which they counted for success were absent, they would be no worse off than they were before, and no one would know of their conspiracy. Since Sir Henry Emerson was to set out so soon as the Levee should be over, they hoped to see the coveted dispatch lying in some conspicuous position in his room—if it was not already in his dispatch box—lest, by any chance he should forget it.And the next day, when St. Just called, according to appointment, clad in a levee uniform procured from a costumier, he found that they had not miscalculated; for there, on a sideboard, in Sir Henry's room—he occupied a suite of chambers in King Street, St. James—lay a packet addressed to "——, His Majesty's Minister Plenipotentiary at The Hague."Perry had accompanied St. Just, making as his excuse a little present he had brought from his shop for the unsuspecting King's Messenger.A look of intelligence passed between the two conspirators when they saw the packet on the sideboard, which stood close to the door.Sir Henry Emerson greeted St. Just courteously and then looked inquiringly at Perry, at the same time saying, "Ah, Perry, my friend, what's brought you? Did you think the Count couldn't be trusted to find his way here alone in a hackney coach?""Not that, Sir Henry," replied the hosier, "But the air is sharp in Holland at this time of year, and I have just got in some woolen jackets—quite a new article—to wear under the coat; and I have ventured to ask your acceptance of one; you are one of my oldest customers, and your approval will be of service to me." He held a fiat brown paper parcel in his hand."Upon my word, Perry, you're a good fellow," said Sir Henry. "Egad, it was very thoughtful of you and I am much obliged to you. I've no doubt I shall find it very comforting, for, as you say, Holland is deuced cold in January. I am afraid I have scarcely time to try it on just now, for the Count and I must be off to the Levee; but when I come back.""No need for that, Sir," answered Perry; "it is sure to fit. These things are knitted and, within certain limits, will fit any one. I will leave it on the sideboard." He walked up to it, stood his stick in a corner made by it, and put his parcel on the top of the dispatch for Holland, at the same time dexterously slipping the packet from underneath it and transferring it to his breast pocket, his back being turned to the other two.This done, he faced about, wished the two gentlemen good day and took his leave."It is time for us to be going too, Count," said Sir Henry, so soon as Perry had taken his departure, "and I think our coach is at the door."St. Just rose with alacrity. He was only too anxious to be gone, before his host should have discovered that the dispatch was missing."I am at your service, Sir Henry," he replied."Hulloa!" cried Sir Henry on their way out, "Perry has left his stick behind," and he pointed to a walking stick in the angle the wall made with the sideboard. "Well, it will be safe enough here; no doubt he will remember where he left it, when he misses it, and will call for it."Then they stepped into the coach and were driven to St. James's Palace to pay their respects to "the first gentleman in Europe."Three hours later they returned, St. Just accompanying the King's Messenger to his chambers. He came in merely to thank him for the attention he had received and to wish him "bon voyage," and was in the act of leaving, when Perry was announced."I stupidly forgot my stick, Sir Henry," he began at once, "when I was here three hours ago. Ah, there it is;" espying it in the corner. It was a handsome stick with a heavy embossed gold knob; such a stick as one would not like to lose; so that he might be well excused for calling for it. He walked quickly to it, placing one hand in his breast pocket at the same time. Then, as though a sudden thought had struck him, he said, "Oh, if you have now the time, Sir Henry, you might try on the jacket." At the same time he took up the brown paper parcel from the sideboard and brought it towards Sir Henry. On the spot that it had covered lay the dispatch once more."By all means," replied Sir Henry, "if it will not take long; for I am due to leave in half an hour."Perry quickly undid the parcel, the jacket was brought out, admired, tried on and pronounced an excellent fit, all in the course of a couple of minutes. Then St. Just and Perry took their leave, the latter, this time not forgetting to take his walking stick.Not a word passed between them on the subject of their visit to Sir Henry Emerson, until they were closeted in Perry's parlor. Then St. Just, who had been itching all the way to learn what Perry had done, burst out, "I suppose you managed to take a copy of the dispatch, since I saw what looked like the original lying on the sideboard, when you took up the parcel.""I did," was the reply, "but it took me all my time; there was so much of it."He went to a drawer, unlocked it, took out some papers and handed them to St. Just. "This is the copy."St. Just's eyes sparkled with satisfaction."Bravo, my friend," he said, "you have done well. I don't know what I should have done without you. This is much better than the original, for the English Government will not know what has occurred; whereas, if the original had been missed, it would have aroused suspicion, and a fresh dispatch of different import might have been substituted for it. Is there any chance of their discovering that the envelope has been tampered with? But perhaps you used a fresh one. But how about the Foreign Office seal?"Perry laughed. "Those are some of my little secrets," he replied; "but it was the same envelope I replaced, and you may rest assured, my friend, that it will not be guessed that it has been tampered with. It was fortunate that everything favored us. I expected much more manoeuvring would have been required to get the packet."All that remained now, was to remunerate Perry for his services. St. Just gave him notes for five thousand francs, with which the hosier seemed well satisfied.Later in the evening, they visited several places of amusement, and, the next morning, St. Just took leave of Perry, and started on his return for France. Three days later he presented himself before Mons. de Talleyrand.

CHAPTER V.

His captors marched St. Just along at a brisk pace and in a short time, they reached the Place de la Bastille, whose name achieved the double purpose of keeping alive the memories of the horrors that had been perpetrated within the grim fortress that had stood there, and of signalizing the triumph of democracy.

Continuing their way, they gained the prison that had been the last abiding place of the ill-fated Louis Capet. St. Just had often passed it, but had little thought he should ever find himself a prisoner within its walls; but that had been in the days when his honor was unsullied and he was glowing with the ardor of a young soldier, confident in his ability to cut his way to fortune with his sword. Alas how utterly had his hopes been falsified!

Vipont pulled vigorously at the bell, which answered his appeal with a strident clangor that made St. Just's heart thrill. It seemed to ring out the death-knell of his freedom, if not indeed his life. A wicket in the heavy gates was opened, and a man in uniform appeared behind it.

"A prisoner," said Vipont curtly. Then the party stepped inside and the little door was closed behind them.

They crossed the court—it had been the garden during the imprisonment of the Royal family—and the moon was shedding her rays upon the very tree under which the hapless monarch had been wont to take his daily exercise; causing the leaves to shimmer with a silver light as they were stirred by the gentle breeze. St. Just glanced up at the black facade, now dimly outlined against the dark wintry sky, and the gruesome thought flashed on him that, perhaps, he too was doomed to pace each day up and down, up and down, beneath that selfsame tree until that morning when he should be told that his last hour had come, and be hurried to the scaffold.

Vipont's party marched on with him and halted at a door, which, at the summons of the warder who had admitted them to the prison, was opened.

They entered the building, and then St. Just was escorted down a narrow passage to a flight of steps. These the man descended, and the others followed, emerging at the bottom on another passage, along which the jailer led the way, the rest of the party keeping close behind him, their footsteps echoing along the sunken corridor with thuds that reminded the prisoner of the blows he had heard at nights when the executioner and his assistants were setting up the scaffold, from which in the cold, gray morning some poor devil was to take his last look on the world. This reflection and the searching cold and damp, that seemed to pierce his very bones, and the mouldy smell that permeated the place, sent a shiver through St. Just that, despite his efforts to repress it, was visible to all.

Presently another iron door was reached, and, being opened, revealed a room about five yards by four in area. High up in one wall was a narrow, strongly barred window, that was little more than a slit, and communicated to the outer air by a sort of funnel, for even the cell's vaulted roof was below the surface of the ground. A small fireplace faced this window, and, to prevent the possibility of a prisoner's escape that way, a strong iron grating was fixed in the lower part of the chimney.

A low wooden bedstead a yard in width, a small deal table and a wooden stool comprised the furniture of this inhospitable apartment. At the sight of it St. Just's heart sank.

When the door of what was to be St. Just's home until he should be otherwise disposed of, had been thrown open, Vipont stood aside, and, bending before the prisoner in mock courtesy, motioned him to pass inside.

"I regret, Mons. le docteur," he said, "that we cannot offer you a more luxurious apartment; for this, I admit, is scarcely fitting for a member of the learned profession, I doubt not, you adorn. But, at any rate, you will be safe from thieves, and your scientific meditations will not be interrupted."

He wound up with a self-sufficient chuckle. St. Just made no reply, but crossed the threshold of his cell, into which the jailer had preceded him with a lantern. Then Vipont and his myrmidons withdrew. But, in a few minutes, he returned, as though he had forgotten something. He stepped quickly to the jailer's side and whispered something in his ear. Now that St. Just had had time to look at him, he saw that the jailer was a hard-featured, impassive, honest-looking fellow, with nothing in his countenance that augured cruelty or ill-nature, for the mere love of it. Whatever Vipont had said to him, the jailer raised the lantern and turned its light upon St. Just at the same time bestowing a keen glance on him. It will be borne in mind that St. Just was got up to pass for a serious, middle-aged member of a learned profession. The result of the jailer's scrutiny, which was made with much deliberation, was the muttered reply to his companion, "I am of your opinion."

Then he placed the lantern on the table and moved round behind St. Just, who, though suspicious of the glances cast at him, had no idea what they portended; but he was soon to know, for the man suddenly threw himself upon him, pinioning his arms behind him, so that he could not move.

Indeed St. Just made no attempt to do so, for the whole movement had been so rapid that he was taken quite aback. Before he had recovered his composure, Vipont had made a dash at his beard and plucked it off; when, instead of a middle-aged doctor, there stood before them a man clean-shaven and with youthful lineaments. The change it made in him was wonderful; even his frame seemed to have become more upright and muscular, so powerful is the influence of association.

Retaining in his grasp the beard, Vipont stepped back a pace and, advancing the lantern towards the prisoner's face, seemed to be diving into his memory for a clue that should enable him to fix the personality of the man in front of him; for the latter could see by the police agent's expression that he was convinced that they had met before.

Vipont looked long and earnestly at the captive, but to little purpose; he could not put a name to him.

All at once he in the book of memory found the page that contained the name he was in search of. A smile formed itself upon his face, the prelude to a mocking laugh, that rang loudly through the cell. He removed his hat and bent in mock courtesy before St. Just.

"Mons. St. Just," he said, "late lieutenant of the Guard at the Luxembourg Palace, we meet again. On the occasion that I have in mind, I have a fancy that I owe to you the failure of—well, an affair I need not specify. Now I have an opportunity of satisfying the debt; and be assured you shall be paid in full."

St. Just laughed scoffingly. "We shall see, my friend, I fear you not; the less so after the reminder you have given me of our first meeting, the circumstances of which had escaped my memory. I wonder whether the First Consul knows the part you played. For myself, I will not attempt to deny that I am St. Just—though, I think you would be put to it to prove it."

"Oh, no, I shouldn't," retorted Vipont, with a sneering laugh.

Just then the sound of a distant clock, which was striking ten; was borne across the frosty air, and penetrated to the prison. It checked the agent in the middle of his laugh.

"So late!" he exclaimed. "I have dallied here too long, and must be going."

Then he continued mockingly, "Do me the favor, my good Desmartins, to show this gentleman, in whom I take the deepest interest, every attention; treat him with the greatest deference; load his table with the daintiest viands; bring out for him your choicest wines; prepare for him your downiest bed; find him amusement, that he may not know a moment's weariness; guard him from every danger. In a word, do everything to keep him safe and happy, treating him as an honored guest, extending to him cheerfully the hospitality for which the genial custodian of the Temple is so famed." Then he turned to St. Just and, in the same mocking tone continued, "Can I add anything further, Sir, to ensure your comfort? I regret that I can no longer avail myself of the pleasure of your company; but I am already due at the Opera, where I have to report to the First Consul. I am desolated that I cannot have the honor of your company thither, but I shall be pleased to bear him any message you may charge me with."

There was a mocking smile on Vipont's lips, when he finished speaking, and, with pretended deference, he once more bent low before St. Just.

The latter glared savagely at the police agent, but, when he spoke, there was no passion in his voice, only a cold incisiveness in every word that fell upon the mocker's ears and, despite his well-assumed impassiveness, caused him some uneasiness.

"Yes, go, Sir," said St. Just. "Go, by all means, to the First Consul, and tell him from me, if you have the honesty and courage to keep your promise, that, on the night to which you have alluded, you and the rascal Sotin, were the men who tried to murder him by Mons. Barras' orders. I think, when he knows this, for all your activity in his behalf to-night, you will not be long in paying another visit to the Temple, but in a somewhat different capacity from that you occupy at present. You will have an opportunity of testing the hospitality of our good friend here; of participating in the luxuries you suggested he should heap on me."

Vipont turned pale and trembled with mingled rage and dread.

"You lie, coquin," he yelled, "you vile traducer of a trusted servant of the State. I know not what you mean. But I will soon silence your perjured tongue."

And he laid his hand upon his sword and half drew it from its sheath, at the same time taking a step forward. But Desmartins interposed, and laid his hand on the police agent's arm.

"No violence, Monsieur, I beg," he said. "It is not to be permitted. I am responsible for the prisoner's safety, and you shall not do him hurt." And he placed himself between the men.

The sword dropped back into its scabbard, and Vipont, scowling, removed his grasp from it. He glared furiously at St. Just.

"Why does he insult me, then," he snarled, "the gredin? But let him wait, the coward, till I have the opportunity of chastising him. Then we shall see."

"As you say," St. Just calmly interposed, "we shall see. But I care not to bandy further words with you; and surely you are forgetting your appointment." And, to show that conversation on his part was at an end, he turned his back on Vipont and took a step or two away.

The police spy shook his fist in menace at St. Just; then, with the words, "Au revoir, coquin," he turned on his heel and quitted the cell, followed by the jailer, who took with him the lantern, leaving St. Just to darkness and his thoughts.

For a while, he remained motionless where he stood, listening to the retreating footsteps of his late companions. At last, they died away, and the silence that ensued was deathlike.

"Will Halima hear what has befallen me?" he mused. "And how will she act if she do hear it? Will she leave me to my fate? No, no, she could not be so cruel!"

He paced restlessly about, tortured by the reflections that assailed him. Beneath his conviction of her love for him there always lurked a doubt of her fidelity. He did not forget that, on their meeting after nearly four years' separation, she had looked more radiantly beautiful than ever; there had been no evidence in her appearance that she had bewailed his loss; and he did not doubt that, in his absence, she had consoled herself with other lovers, and, in like circumstances, would do so again. She had frankly admitted that the indulgence of her passions was a necessity of her life. The thought threw him into a fever of impatience and rebellion at his helplessness, and he began to cast about for a means of informing her of his predicament.

Suddenly he halted in his aimless tramp about his cell. The blind beggar—who was not really blind—had seen his capture, and, if himself unknown to Halima, would know those who were acquainted with her, and so the news would reach her. St. Just had not had time to recognize the man, even if he had ever seen him before; but he was convinced that he was in the plot.

His wife would not be long in hearing what had happened; perhaps she had heard already. And she could save him, if she would, for she had in her possession the charm that Josephine had given him, the talisman that Buonaparte had promised should three times be effective in protecting him, should the need arise and Buonaparte have the power; and surely, surely Halima would use it in his behalf.

This hope, nay, this certainty—for, after all her protestations of undying love, she would never be so base as to desert him—brought with it comparative relief, and he was able to look his position in the face, without the dread that had but now oppressed him.

Then, with reawakened confidence, he threw himself upon his narrow pallet and, worn out by the excitement he had undergone, soon dropped off into a slumber in which all his troubles were forgotten; he even dreamed that he was with Halima.

A week passed by, and gradually the captive's spirits sank, for not a whisper from the outer world had come to him, and the dreadful thought was gaining on him that, after all, he was to be abandoned to his fate. The hours dragged on in horrible monotony, his only visitor being his jailer, who came at stated intervals to supply him with the sorry food that was his fare. But, though the man was rough and almost surly, and could with difficulty be got to speak—and, when he did, it was only in monosyllables—St. Just looked forward to his visits with positive delight, parting from him with regret and counting the hours, by the chimes of distant clocks, until he should be due again. He was the captive's sole link with humanity.

St. Just made various attempts to sound him, asked him whether anyone had called at the prison in reference to his case; whether he was being talked about outside; whether he had heard again from Vipont; but he said not a word of Halima.

But he could extract nothing from Desmartins; the man was as close as a mouse trap that has just achieved its purpose. All that could be got from him was that he knew nothing. Then St. Just tried to inveigle him into talk on general topics; he was so loth to lose the sight of a human face, the sound of a human voice. But his jailer discouraged conversation and would have none of it.

However, on the evening of the seventh day of his incarceration, and without any previous intimation, the door of his cell was opened, and—not Desmartins, as he had at first assumed—but a file of soldiers entered. They were followed by their officer. He bowed to the prisoner and then told him that he had orders to remove him, and that it would be necessary to blindfold him.

"Whither do you take me?" asked St. Just.

"That I am not at liberty to say," replied the officer; "but you will learn anon."

Then they blindfolded him, and two of the men placed themselves one on each side of him, and each took an arm to guide him; thus they led him from the room, and along the narrow passage, the jailer going in advance to show the way, and taking the same route as on St. Just's arrival.

Presently, by the change in the sounds above him, and the freshness of the atmosphere, St. Just knew that he was in the open air; in another minute he heard the prison gate clang to behind him. Then he was guided into a carriage, which was quickly driven away.

He was scarcely seated, when a voice muttered in a loud whisper in his ear, "Make no rash effort to escape, and do not speak, or attempt to remove your bandage, or you will suffer for it."

At the same time, to lend significance to the speaker's words, something cold and hard was pressed against the hearer's temple. St. Just knew it for the muzzle of a pistol, and, for a moment, shivered. But only for a moment; it needed little wit to know that, for the present at any rate, his life was safe. For all that, he deemed it prudent to obey the injunctions of his companion; so sat motionless and silent. He tried at first to follow in his mind the turns the carriage took, but, blindfold as he was, he found it hopeless, so gave it up, resigning himself with such patience as he could command to whatever was to follow. But his mind was in a fever of inquiry. Was he being conveyed to Halima's house, or to some place of safety at her instance; or were his captors taking him to some other prison, where the discipline was harsher, and the prisoners had less chance of making their escape?

The carriage creaked and rumbled on, with frequent jolts, for the roads, at all times, at that period, bad, were now, by the mingled action of frost and slush, a succession of alternate holes and hillocks. But, at last, when it seemed to St. Just that they had been traveling for hours, the carriage halted, and he was bidden to descend. Then he was again taken by the arm and guided up a narrow staircase. Arrived at the top, his conductor whispered a few words to some one there. A door was opened, and he was led into a room and halted. Then the same voice that had addressed him in the carriage spoke again.

"You are at your journey's end, and your bandage will now be removed. Light, you see, like everything else, comes to him who waits." He laughed pleasantly.

When the bandage had been removed, St. Just found himself in a moderate-sized apartment, whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with books. He was standing before an open hearth, in which, burned a cheerful fire of wood, whose flames diffused a ruddy glow throughout the room, and a genial warmth that was more than grateful to a man who had been enduring for a week the chill, damp air of a prison cell. On one side of the room were two long windows, now closed with shutters and hung with dark red curtains. A large oil lamp, its brilliance tempered by a deep green shade, was burning on a table in the center of the room. On the side that faced the fire was a pair of folding doors, now closed. These details St. Just took in unconsciously, for what fixed his glance, immediately that his bandage was removed, was the figure of a man who was a stranger to him. He was standing by the fire and partially supporting himself on a stick. An elderly man, thin in figure, somewhat below the average height, and of shrivelled aspect. His face was long and lean and absolutely colorless; only redeemed from lifelessness by the piercing eyes, which were ever shifting restlessly, as though trying to find an entrance into the weak places of an opponent. He was dressed from head to foot in black.

Hard by St. Just there stood another man, whose green uniform with red facings proclaimed him to be an officer of Chasseurs. He had been St. Just's companion in his drive, and he it was who had removed the handkerchief from his eyes, for he still held it in his hand.

The elder man fixed his keen glance upon St. Just for several moments, without speaking. Then suddenly he addressed him in a high-pitched voice.

"Well Mons. St. Just, what have you to say for yourself for mixing in plots against the First Consul?"

Then, before his hearer could reply, he continued to the officer in attendance: "You can withdraw, Beaumont. Wait in the anteroom, in case you should be wanted—but not within earshot of this room." And he raised his finger meaningly at the young officer, who, coloring to the roots of his hair, stammered at the slur cast on him.

"Mons. de Talleyrand, I am a soldier and a man of honor. It is an insult to suggest—"

"Go, Sir," interrupted the other sternly. "I have not time to pick and choose my words, except when matters of State demand it."

And, without further parley, the officer retired.

Then the man who had been addressed as Talleyrand resumed his conversation with St. Just; but first he moved to a chair, halting slightly in his walk.

"Well, Sir," he said, "you find my question difficult to answer. But I will spare you the dishonor of inventing denials that would be unavailing; for the information at my command is unimpeachable. But one thing I should like to know, that you alone can tell me; and that is how it happens that you, who were reported dead in Egypt more than three years ago, have now turned up alive in Paris?"

This was a much easier question to reply to than the other, and St. Just detailed, shortly, the particulars—garbled for the occasion—of his capture in the desert and subsequent adventures, up to his landing and accident at Margala, explaining his strange loss of memory, that had extended even to his ignorance of his own identity; and how that memory had only recently been restored.

The story seemed plausible to Talleyrand, for it appeared incredible that a soldier with St. Just's prospects of advancement would willingly sacrifice his career.

"That seems reasonable," was his comment, "but what I can not understand is why, on your return to Paris, you did not at once report yourself. I should have thought that, having lost so much valuable time, you would not have wasted a moment in seeking reinstatement. How was that? You must have had some overpowering reason, and I am curious to know it?"

And he shot a searching glance at his hearer's face, as though he thought thereby to wrench the truth from him.

St. Just quailed beneath it. He knew, by hearsay, the character of the man before him, and, while anxious to conceal his conjugal relations, he recognized the risk he ran, should Talleyrand convict him of an attempt to palm off a lie on him. His difficulty was that he was in the dark as to how much his cross-questioner knew. But Talleyrand was noted for his gallantries; so St. Just thought he might look more leniently on his dereliction, if he assigned a woman as its cause. All this passed rapidly through his mind during the few seconds that elapsed before his answer. With some hesitation, and the color mounting to his face, he said:—

"I fully intended to report myself, as was my duty; but—"

"The woman tempted me," interrupted Talleyrand with a sneer, and a smile that had more of triumph than good-nature in it.

St. Just started. Oh that he could fathom the depth of the knowledge that Talleyrand possessed of him! However, the wily statesman had given him his cue.

"Scarcely that," he answered, "for it would be base to charge a woman with what was the outcome solely of my own infatuation. For I was infatuated, infatuated to the verge of madness; my passion robbed me of my judgment; so that I lived only in the present, with no thought of consequences."

"And yet you were not content to bask in the Egyptian beauty's smiles, but must needs associate yourself with plotters against the State. 'Twas there your madness really lay—not in your infatuation for Madame de Moncourt. That I readily excuse; nay more, I can applaud; your preference does you credit, Sir; I can scarcely pay her the same compliment for the interest she takes in you."

The speaker seemed to delight in saying things that made his hearers wince, and the coarse slight in his last words had that effect upon the man before him.

A momentary flash of anger gleamed in his eyes; then surprise showed on his face. Talleyrand knew the woman for whom he had forsaken honor; and she was interesting herself on his behalf, if the statesmen's words meant anything. Probably his presence there was due to that. The thought brought much relief. But Talleyrand had made no reference to his marriage; most likely then, he was unaware of it!

"I see you have guessed my secret," he replied. "I adore the lady to whom you have just referred, and she has accorded me the privilege of a visitor. I met her first in Egypt, where I was so fortunate as to save her life."

"Indeed! And now she is using her influence to save yours. Do you know this trinket?"

He held up the charm Josephine had given to St. Just.

"I do; it belongs to me. It was given me some years ago by Madame Buonaparte, in the presence of her husband, the night I saved him from assassination."

"Dear me, you seem to have a trick of saving life," sneered Talleyrand.

"Say rather, the good Fortune. But to continue; on that occasion, the General attached a promise to the gift."

"Which he has fulfilled, and not for the first time, I understand. This is the key that has unlocked your prison cell. Madame de Moncourt, by some means,"—and he looked meaningly at St. Just—"got news of your predicament and, having this talisman of yours in her possession, entrusted it to me to pass on to the First Consul, with the reminder of his pledge to you. I have fulfilled my errand, and, on certain conditions, you are free."

St. Just could not repress a sigh of relief, for, though from the commencement of his interview he had thought that he was safe, now he was assured of it.

"I am deeply grateful to you, Sir," he said, "for your efforts on my behalf; also to Madame de Moncourt, to whom, if I may take the liberty, I will ask you to convey my heartfelt thanks."

Ignoring St. Just's request, which he had wit enough to know was not made seriously, and, in consequence, resented, Talleyrand answered sharply.

"Then show your gratitude, Sir, by abstaining in the future from dabbling in conspiracies, and by devoting yourself faithfully to your country's interests. Are you ready to act thus?"

To this St. Just answered that he was; and, at the time he really meant it.

"See that you keep your word," rejoined the other; "your honor requires much cleansing ere it will be bright. Here is your trinket, which I trust you will never again prostitute to such vile purpose as that to which it has just been put. But now, as to the conditions of your liberty. It is thought a change of air would be beneficial to you. Are you willing to leave France forthwith, for as long or as short a period as may be ordered?"

St. Just's face fell; absence from France meant also absence from Halima; but he was in no position to make terms; he had no choice but to submit; still his distaste to the position was apparent in his answer.

"If my sole choice lies between captivity in France, and liberty abroad," he said despondently, "I must fain choose the latter, though life lived out of France will be mere existence. Is my place of banishment yet decided?"

Talleyrand smiled sourly. "Things need not be quite so bad for you as your forecast; if so you will it. The First Consul is disposed to give you a chance of regaining your lost honor, but it will be your last. He is in contemplation to send you to England on a mission of some importance. To ensure success, tact, courage, secrecy and adaptability will be required; and, above all—fidelity." And he fixed his eyes significantly on his hearer. "On your conduct of the affair will depend your future. The business will not occupy you long. Your answer?"

By the time the speaker had concluded, St. Just had brightened up considerably. He hastened to reply with energy, "I accept without a moment's hesitation. Sir, I am overwhelmed with gratitude at the kindness shown me; and I pledge my honor—"

Talleyrand looked up with a curious, amused expression. "Your what, Sir?" he asked cynically.

St. Just colored with shame. For a moment he was discomposed. Then he replied, "I deserve your reprimand, Monsieur. I should have said, I give my solemn word—I swear—that I will do my utmost to assure the success of the mission to be entrusted to me. If earnestness of purpose, unwearying labor, fearlessness of danger and unswerving fidelity can secure it, I shall not fail. If needs be, I am ready to sacrifice my life, in the cause committed to me."

Talleyrand's nature was too cold, and he had too full a knowledge of the workings of the human heart for such "high falutin" to make much impression on him: indeed, he rather despised enthusiasm; in his eyes it showed want of self-control. But, in the present instance, he was satisfied that St. Just meant all he said; whether his sentiments would be enduring, was another thing.

"Your words are fair enough, Sir," he said coldly; "see that your deeds lag not behind them."

The words had scarcely left his lips, when the folding doors at the end of the room were opened, and the First Consul entered.

He paused for a moment in the doorway and then came forward. The light from the lamp, modified, as it was, by the green shade, made his countenance, always pale and passionless, look almost death-like now, and emphasized by contrast the wondrous eyes which flashed and glistened with vitality and movement. He wore the uniform of an officer of Artillery, and with scarce a decoration. His nether limbs were encased in white breeches and silk stockings; a sash of tricolor completed his costume.

His eyes fixed the two men in the room; both felt their magnetic force, and one seemed almost turned to stone. But almost instantly, both bent before him.

"So!" he began, in a hard, dry voice, "Mons. St. Just, you have come to life again. I will inquire into that anon. Meantime, perhaps you, Mons. de Talleyrand, will explain the meaning of this—gentleman's presence here." He stamped his foot impatiently.

"Sir," began Talleyrand, in his icy tones, "I ventured to send for Mons. St. Just with a view to his being despatched to England on the mission we have discussed together. You left in my hands the selection of the agent, and, for several reasons which I shall be happy to give you when we are alone, I deemed him suitable."

"An assassin, a prisoner from the Temple! I congratulate you on the felicity of your selection," was the ironical rejoinder.

"A prisoner whom your clemency has freed. You cannot, General, have forgotten the token from Mons. St. Just I handed you."

Buonaparte had not forgotten, but for a purpose he affected to have done so. The Man of Destiny forgot nothing. "Token, what token?" he asked sharply. He dropped into a chair, then leisurely took snuff.

"This charm, Sir," said St. Just respectfully. He stepped forward and held out the trinket. "This jewel given to me by Madame Buonaparte in your presence, one memorable night, when you attached a promise to it."

"I now remember, Sir," answered the First Consul sternly, "and the pledge I gave you, but I little guessed that I should be reminded of it in such circumstances as the present. I did not expect that, in the fulfillment of my promise, I should be called upon to save a would-be assassin, and a deserter from his colors from the penalty of his crimes. But I will respect my word, Sir; your life is spared. See that you make a worthier use of it in the future." Then, in a voice of thunder, he concluded, "But have a care, Sir, have a care, lest you try my patience and forbearance beyond their limits. Never again put that trinket to so vile a use, or I fear me you will find that it has lost its virtue. Nay, I marvel that, on this occasion, you should have shielded yourself with its protection. A brave man dishonored, is glad to hide his dishonor in the grave."

The countenance he turned upon St. Just was awful in its sternness and contempt, and the confusion and abasement of the wretched man were piteous to behold. He bent his head to his chest, and trembled in every limb, and his face rivaled in its pallor even Buonaparte's. The scathing words of the First Consul had so affected him that, for the moment, he felt that death itself would have been preferable, and regretted that the talisman had been employed to save his life. His breath came hard and fast, and he made several ineffectual attempts to speak; at last he gasped out:

"Sir I thank you for your clemency. I am so bewildered, so abashed, I despise myself so much, that I can scarce find words. I can only say—you have spared my life, do with it what you will."

Buonaparte eyed him searchingly. From his inscrutable expression it was impossible to judge whether St. Just's words and manner had affected him.

"And what guarantee have I of your future behavior?" he replied. "Wait here."

He signed to Talleyrand, and they left the room together.

Ten minutes passed, during which St. Just, in some measure, recovered his composure. At the end of that time, they returned, and Buonaparte, without referring to his last question and without noticing St. Just walked across the room and placed his back against the marble mantelpiece. Then he began to kick with his heel the smouldering embers in the grate.

Meanwhile Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "You will proceed to England with the utmost speed, and there make it your business to become acquainted with a certain Sir Henry Emerson. He is a King's Messenger, and we have information that he will be setting out next week for Holland with dispatches. It is of vital importance that we should know their purport. It will be for you, when on the spot, to devise the best means of bringing this about. Take copies of them, if you can, and restore them without his knowledge; but, if this should be impossible, secure the papers, and let me have them without a moment's loss of time. You may not be able to achieve your purpose before Sir Henry Emerson has set cut; if so, you must dog his footsteps until you do succeed. Don't be too nice about the methods you employ: use bribery, violence, anything so that you do not fail.

"On reaching London, you will go instantly to the house of one Perry, a hosier at this address"—he handed it to St. Just—"and ask 'where you can get the best bees.' If the man laughs at you, go away, for he is not the right person; but try again later. If to your inquiry he reply that he is a large bee farmer himself, you may state your business freely, and he will give you every assistance. He is keeping a watch on the movements of this King's Messenger.

"Here are ten thousand francs." He handed him a bundle of notes. "You can change them, according to your requirements into English money at a money changer's. Perry will see to that for you. Should you require more, apply to him, and he will give it to you."

A clock on the mantelpiece struck two. St. Just was surprised to find it was so late; his drive to this house must have taken hours. It puzzled him to know where he was; not in Paris, clearly.

"You have had your instructions, Sir," said the First Consul, speaking for the first time, since his second entrance into the room, "and will start at once; and, as you value your life, be true. Another act of treachery, and nothing shall protect you."

St. Just stepped forward, and was beginning to renew his protestations of fidelity and gratitude, when Buonaparte waved him back and, with a frown, walked rapidly from the room.

Then Talleyrand addressed St. Just. "To-morrow, at eleven, you will start for Boulogne. There you will embark on the La Flèche. You have a fair knowledge of English, I understand. You will pass as the Comte St. Clair. Live as the others do—not ostentatiously, but don't grudge expenditure, when needful. Return the moment you have achieved the object of your mission.

"One last injunction; don't go to Auteuil, before you start."

He looked meaningly at St. Just. "Ah, you meant to; don't."

He touched a bell and an attendant entered.

"Captain Beaumont," he said.

The man withdrew and, in a few seconds, that officer stood before him.

"You will escort Mons. St. Just in a carriage to his apartment."

He bowed to both men and they left the room. Five minutes afterwards they quitted Malmaison and took the road to Paris.

CHAPTER VI.

It was hard on daybreak when St. Just reached his lodging in the Rue de Dauphin, and the people in the house were not yet up; but the summons at the door soon aroused them. His landlord was at first disposed to be unfriendly, but when he saw the handsome carriage and horses, the liveries of the coachman and footman, and the officer in uniform who had accompanied his lodger, he made no ado about admitting him, and became almost fulsome in his words of welcome. The belief of the worthy couple had been that St. Just had been spending his week's absence in the country; and they had been confirmed in it by a beautiful lady who had driven up in a carriage and told them that it was so. She had also interviewed his servant Mahmoud, whom it appeared, she knew, and had taken him away with her.

Before going she had left a note for St. Just; and this was all they had to tell him.

Halima's note contained but these few words:—

"Am quite well. We shall meet again soon. I have taken Mahmoud with me. I know you will not want him for the present.

Then, Halima guessed, if she did not positively know, of his coming journey to England.

His preparations did not take him long, and he left Paris at the time Talleyrand had ordered him to start, and reached Boulogne on the evening of the following day. He soon found the La Flèche, a small vessel, at anchor in the harbor. He presented himself to the captain as the Comte St. Clair, according to instructions, and handed him papers authorizing his passage to England.

The next morning, so soon as it was light, they moved out of the harbor, but the breeze was so light, and what there was of it, so unfavorable to their course, that they had to keep continually tacking; thus it was night before they sighted the shores of England. As it was, they were taken somewhat out of their course, and the nearest port was Shoreham; this they made. St. Just was landed in a sir all boat a short distance from the port itself, which, indeed, at that time, was little more than a cluster of cottages—a hamlet; though now a town of some importance.

Taking his small bag in his hand—for he had not cared to encumber himself with luggage, intending to supply himself in London with such clothing as he required—he began to make his way across the sandy flats that intervened between the shore and the high road, meaning, on gaining Shoreham, to obtain some means of conveyance to Brighton, and thence to take the coach to London. He was told that, by bearing direct northwards from the sea, he would soon hit the road.

The night was dark, for there was no moon, and but a few stars were to be seen; but that his way was so direct, he would not have attempted it without a guide. Not a sound was to be heard, not even the fall of his own feet, for the sand and the tufts of coarse grass that dotted it formed a soft carpet that made his footsteps noiseless. But walking was somewhat arduous; the more so that he had to feel his way, or he would have fallen, for the ground was full of little mounds and hollows. His progress, accordingly, was slow.

He went stumbling along, but never actually falling and had made about half the distance to the road, when, all at once, close by his ear, he heard the words shouted in a strident voice, "Here he is, lads!" and, the next moment, received a violent blow on the head that felled him to the ground, and, before he had so much as seen his assailant, he was stretched insensible on the sand.

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself in a low, scantily and rudely furnished room, which, from the nets and ropes that hung against the walls and lay in heaps upon the floor, proclaimed its owner to be a fisherman. With the feeling, so common to us all when sleeping, and some one is approaching us, he felt that he was being watched, and he opened his eyes. A rough-looking, middle-aged man was bending over him, scrutinizing him intently, with an expression of mingled anxiety and alarm. But, when the Frenchman opened his eyes, that were now lighted with intelligence, the fisherman's strained look relaxed, and a smile of satisfaction took its place.

"Glad to see you coming round, Sir," he said cheerily. "You'll soon be all right now; but I was mortal feared once; I began to think you were going to turn it up. How are you feeling, Sir?"

St. Just looked at him inquiringly, and with some alarm, as one does at unexpectedly finding oneself in an unknown place and in the presence of a stranger; but the man, though rough, looked kindly and good-natured; so that St. Just's anxiety was but brief.

"My head aches badly here," he answered; and he put his hand at the back part of his crown. The action made him wince; the place felt so tender.

"I must have fallen, or been struck. What has happened? Where am I? Who are you?" Then before the other could reply, he resumed, "Ah, I remember now; I was crossing the sands and some one knocked me down. Was it you, and if so, why?"

"No, it wasn't me, Sir," replied the man, "and it was all a mistake." He went on to explain that, in the dark, St. Just had been mistaken for some one against whom his son had a grudge, and been knocked down in consequence. On discovering the mistake, he and his son had brought him to their cabin. He now expressed his sorrow and asked how he could serve St. Just.

"I am much obliged to you," replied St. Just dryly. "Suppose you lend me a hand to help me up, for I am still weak and dizzy."

The man gave him his hand willingly, and raised his visitor to a sitting posture on the bed. St. Just rubbed his eyes, then let them wander round the room. From the appearance of the roof and walls, and from the thunder of the waves, which he could hear against the sides of where he was, he was satisfied that he was in a cavern on the shore.

"This is not a house," he said, "we are underground; do you live here?"

"Well, it's all the house I have, when I'm at home, but I'm mostly out."

"And what's your name, and what are you?"

"John Slade, fisherman."

St. Just turned his eyes keenly on him and smiled faintly. "And you do a little foreign trade as well, eh? Brandy, cigars, silks and lace?"

John Slade started and scowled at the injured man, who continued with a laugh, "You needn't be alarmed, my friend, the secret of your retreat is safe with me; I've nothing to do with the coastguard. Besides, as you must have discovered, I am a foreigner, a Frenchman, and I know no one in this country. But I have business in London and must be there as soon as possible. How long have I been here?"

"Since the night afore yesterday. You'll soon be all right now, and I'll see you to the coach for London. I daresay you'll be well enough to start to-morrow. But now, Master, couldn't you take something to eat and drink?"

St. Just thought he could. As a fact, he was feeling very hungry; he had had nothing for two days.

A good night's rest made him another man, and, the next morning, he got into John Slade's boat, and the smuggler rowed him to Brighton. The boat was moored, and his companion went ashore with him and carried his bag to the starting place of the London coach. Then they parted with mutual expressions of goodwill—for St. Just had quite forgiven the mistake that had laid him prostrate—and the young Frenchman was soon rattling along the road to London.

As yet, he had formulated no plan of action; he deferred that, until he should have seen the hosier in the Strand. So he hailed a hackney coach and told the driver to take him to the address Mons. de Talleyrand had given.

Fortunately Mr. Perry was in his shop and, on St. Just's putting the question to him about the bees, he gave the expected answer; then he asked his visitor into his parlor at the back of the shop, and inquired in what way he could serve him.

The latter, having been told that he might speak to the hosier without restraint, at once explained his errand, and asked his hearer the best way to set about it.

Perry was a man of much better social standing and education than the generality of London tradesmen of a hundred years ago. He had not been born in the ranks of shopkeepers, but in his early days had fallen desperately in love with the pretty daughter of the former proprietor of this shop. The girl's virtue being every whit on a level with her beauty, despite his efforts to deprave it, he had been compelled either to marry her, or give up her pursuit; unable to do the latter, he had done the former, and her father dying shortly afterwards, he had found himself in possession of the business, which was too good to be relinquished, the more so that he was without means or occupation.

Chance had thrown him into the way of many of the French émigrés at that time in London. He had traveled in France and could speak the language. There was a good deal of the mole in him, and he was fond of burrowing into secrets. Gradually he had strengthened his relations with these emigrants, so that he had wormed himself into their confidence, and there were few of their plots for the restoration of the French king with which he was unacquainted. Believing in his sympathies, they spoke openly before him and even consulted him about their schemes; almost he had become their trusted agent. And while all this fed his appetite for excitement and his love for plotting, it, at the same time, put money in his pocket, for any services he rendered were well paid for. As a matter of fact, his sympathies were not with the French King's party, for, while filled with horror at the bloodshed of the "Terror," he considered that the French people were quite right in rising against the oppressors—king, nobles and priests—who had ground them down for centuries.

The Revolutionists had their spies in England, and they were not long in discovering Perry's intimacy with the Monarchists. By judicious soundings, they found that he had no real love for these. He could, therefore, knowing so many of their secrets, render them important services. So overtures were made to him, which he accepted, and, at the time of St. Just's visit, he was a recognized agent of the French Republic, while all the time affecting Monarchist proclivities. He was well paid by the Republic, so that now he was receiving money from both sides. But he was careful not to give himself away, keeping the secrets of each party inviolate from the other. Thus he performed with satisfaction to himself the formidable feat of running with the hare and hunting with the hounds.

Such was the man with whom St. Just now found himself in counsel.

It appeared that Perry knew Sir Henry Emerson well; this was doubtless known in Paris and was why St. Just had been instructed to apply to him. Sir Henry had called at the shop only a day or two before and, when ordering certain articles of hosiery, had mentioned casually that he was expecting every day to be ordered to the Continent with dispatches.

Perry told him that Sir Henry was in the habit almost nightly of visiting a certain gambling hell near the Haymarket, at which the hosier had the entrée and occasionally tempted Fortune. He advised that his visitor should accompany him there that night for the double purpose of familiarizing himself with Sir Henry Emerson's appearance and ascertaining, if possible, whether the date of his departure for Holland was yet fixed.

This being settled, Perry took him to a costumier, where he fitted himself with fashionable attire of English cut, he, Perry, supplying him with such hosiery and under-linen as he required. Then, having engaged a room for him at the Golden Cross Hotel, at Charing Cross, he left him, with the promise that he would call for him at a late hour that night, when they would proceed together to the gaming house.

In due course, they made their way thither. At the moment of their arrival at the door, a close carriage, with no armorial bearings on the panels, and drawn by a well-matched pair of horses, pulled up before it. St. Just and his companion drew back to let the occupants precede them.

A well-built man, above the middle height and inclined to stoutness, alighted from the carriage. His features were handsome, but inclined to puffiness. Perry nudged his companion slightly and whispered, "The Prince Regent."

The prince was followed by another man, and the two disappeared within the house, the door having been already opened in answer to the summons of a footman.

Perry waited a few minutes, so as not to follow too closely on the Prince's heels, and then knocked at the same door. It was opened by a man in livery, who greeted Perry respectfully, and then pulled a bell, that tinkled in the distance, and they moved down the passage, at the end of which was a green baize door, that opened noiselessly at their approach, and then closed behind them. They found themselves in a hall that blazed with light. A gorgeously clad, powdered footman stepped forward and relieved them of their roquelaures—they retained their hats—then preceded them up a broad staircase, so softly carpeted that their footfalls could not be heard. At the head of it was another green baize door, before which stood a negro of Herculean proportions, gorgeously arrayed. The footman murmured something and the door swung open.

The scene presented to St. Just's view was as startling as it was novel to him. Proceeding, as he had, direct from the military school to the battle field, he had little personal knowledge of the vices and amusements of Society, and was proportionately astonished. In a large room, furnished luxuriously, and, withal, somewhat meretriciously, the walls lined with long mirrors and pictures suggesting that the persons there delineated were the denizens of countries whose climate was more than temperate—to judge from their costume, or the absence of it; ottomans and lounges, heavily gilt and silk upholstered, dotted about; and the whole brilliantly illuminated by the soft light of innumerable wax candles;—were about sixty persons of both sexes—the men predominating—in evening dress of the very latest fashion, some of the ladies being conspicuous more by the audacity than the elegance of their attire. Some were walking about the room talking and laughing, occasionally pausing at the different tables to watch the progress of the game. But most of them were either seated at the tables, or standing behind the sitters engaged at play. Faro, hazard and other convenient modes for winning and losing money rapidly were going on.

Perry cast his eye carefully round the room, and nodded to several persons whom he knew. "The man we want is not here yet," he whispered to St. Just. "I think we had better join in the play, if we can find a table where it is not too high. For a stranger to come here and refrain from doing so would look singular."

St. Just at once assented, and they strolled about the room in search of a table.

Presently a man called out, "Come and try your luck, Perry; you won't be ruined, we are only small fry here."

"Yes," replied the hosier, "my friend and I will join you;" and he introduced St. Just—as the Comte St. Clair, of course.

They had been seated at the table but a few minutes, when Sir Henry Emerson entered the room, and Perry pointed him out to St. Just, and, during the evening, took an opportunity of introducing them to one another. Sir Henry, who took the so-called Comte St. Clair to be an émigré, and was a strong Royalist, received him in a friendly manner and offered to present him to the Prince at a Levee to be held next day. He added that he would not have another opportunity for some time, for that, at the conclusion of the function, he would have to start for Holland with dispatches.

This was the very information St. Just desired. If the documents were to be in his hands before Sir Henry left England, he had little time to lose. He thanked the speaker for his courtesy, of which he said he would avail himself, and would present himself for the purpose at the house of the King's Messenger at the time appointed. Then, the hour being late, he shook hands with him, and he and Perry took their leave. A modus operandi had to be decided on, and there was little time to do it in.

However, before they turned in for the night, they had evolved a scheme they thought would work, if Fortune should prove kind. There was this about it, that, if that on which they counted for success were absent, they would be no worse off than they were before, and no one would know of their conspiracy. Since Sir Henry Emerson was to set out so soon as the Levee should be over, they hoped to see the coveted dispatch lying in some conspicuous position in his room—if it was not already in his dispatch box—lest, by any chance he should forget it.

And the next day, when St. Just called, according to appointment, clad in a levee uniform procured from a costumier, he found that they had not miscalculated; for there, on a sideboard, in Sir Henry's room—he occupied a suite of chambers in King Street, St. James—lay a packet addressed to "——, His Majesty's Minister Plenipotentiary at The Hague."

Perry had accompanied St. Just, making as his excuse a little present he had brought from his shop for the unsuspecting King's Messenger.

A look of intelligence passed between the two conspirators when they saw the packet on the sideboard, which stood close to the door.

Sir Henry Emerson greeted St. Just courteously and then looked inquiringly at Perry, at the same time saying, "Ah, Perry, my friend, what's brought you? Did you think the Count couldn't be trusted to find his way here alone in a hackney coach?"

"Not that, Sir Henry," replied the hosier, "But the air is sharp in Holland at this time of year, and I have just got in some woolen jackets—quite a new article—to wear under the coat; and I have ventured to ask your acceptance of one; you are one of my oldest customers, and your approval will be of service to me." He held a fiat brown paper parcel in his hand.

"Upon my word, Perry, you're a good fellow," said Sir Henry. "Egad, it was very thoughtful of you and I am much obliged to you. I've no doubt I shall find it very comforting, for, as you say, Holland is deuced cold in January. I am afraid I have scarcely time to try it on just now, for the Count and I must be off to the Levee; but when I come back."

"No need for that, Sir," answered Perry; "it is sure to fit. These things are knitted and, within certain limits, will fit any one. I will leave it on the sideboard." He walked up to it, stood his stick in a corner made by it, and put his parcel on the top of the dispatch for Holland, at the same time dexterously slipping the packet from underneath it and transferring it to his breast pocket, his back being turned to the other two.

This done, he faced about, wished the two gentlemen good day and took his leave.

"It is time for us to be going too, Count," said Sir Henry, so soon as Perry had taken his departure, "and I think our coach is at the door."

St. Just rose with alacrity. He was only too anxious to be gone, before his host should have discovered that the dispatch was missing.

"I am at your service, Sir Henry," he replied.

"Hulloa!" cried Sir Henry on their way out, "Perry has left his stick behind," and he pointed to a walking stick in the angle the wall made with the sideboard. "Well, it will be safe enough here; no doubt he will remember where he left it, when he misses it, and will call for it."

Then they stepped into the coach and were driven to St. James's Palace to pay their respects to "the first gentleman in Europe."

Three hours later they returned, St. Just accompanying the King's Messenger to his chambers. He came in merely to thank him for the attention he had received and to wish him "bon voyage," and was in the act of leaving, when Perry was announced.

"I stupidly forgot my stick, Sir Henry," he began at once, "when I was here three hours ago. Ah, there it is;" espying it in the corner. It was a handsome stick with a heavy embossed gold knob; such a stick as one would not like to lose; so that he might be well excused for calling for it. He walked quickly to it, placing one hand in his breast pocket at the same time. Then, as though a sudden thought had struck him, he said, "Oh, if you have now the time, Sir Henry, you might try on the jacket." At the same time he took up the brown paper parcel from the sideboard and brought it towards Sir Henry. On the spot that it had covered lay the dispatch once more.

"By all means," replied Sir Henry, "if it will not take long; for I am due to leave in half an hour."

Perry quickly undid the parcel, the jacket was brought out, admired, tried on and pronounced an excellent fit, all in the course of a couple of minutes. Then St. Just and Perry took their leave, the latter, this time not forgetting to take his walking stick.

Not a word passed between them on the subject of their visit to Sir Henry Emerson, until they were closeted in Perry's parlor. Then St. Just, who had been itching all the way to learn what Perry had done, burst out, "I suppose you managed to take a copy of the dispatch, since I saw what looked like the original lying on the sideboard, when you took up the parcel."

"I did," was the reply, "but it took me all my time; there was so much of it."

He went to a drawer, unlocked it, took out some papers and handed them to St. Just. "This is the copy."

St. Just's eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

"Bravo, my friend," he said, "you have done well. I don't know what I should have done without you. This is much better than the original, for the English Government will not know what has occurred; whereas, if the original had been missed, it would have aroused suspicion, and a fresh dispatch of different import might have been substituted for it. Is there any chance of their discovering that the envelope has been tampered with? But perhaps you used a fresh one. But how about the Foreign Office seal?"

Perry laughed. "Those are some of my little secrets," he replied; "but it was the same envelope I replaced, and you may rest assured, my friend, that it will not be guessed that it has been tampered with. It was fortunate that everything favored us. I expected much more manoeuvring would have been required to get the packet."

All that remained now, was to remunerate Perry for his services. St. Just gave him notes for five thousand francs, with which the hosier seemed well satisfied.

Later in the evening, they visited several places of amusement, and, the next morning, St. Just took leave of Perry, and started on his return for France. Three days later he presented himself before Mons. de Talleyrand.

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