The Paris-Chartres road with its intermittent traffic provided the "Paradise" with a few customers—with some, at least, who were not to be scared by the uninviting appearance of the house and its not too enviable reputation. Wayfarers, coming from Houdan or from Dreux on their way to Chartres, were forced to halt here in order to pick up the diligence, and would sometimes turn into the squalid inn for a cup of that tepid, acid fluid which Alain Gorot, the landlord, so grandiloquently termed "steaming nectar." But during the greater part of the day the place appeared deserted. The light-fingered gentry—footpads and vagabonds—who were its chief customers, were wont to use it as a meeting-place at night, but during the day they preferred the shelter of the woods, for the police were mostly always at their heels.
On this cold winter's afternoon, however, quite a goodly company was gathered in the coffee-room. A log fire blazed in the open hearth and lent a semblance of cheeriness and comfort to the bare, ugly room, in which the fumes of rank tobacco and wet, steaming clothes vied with the odour of stale food and wine to create an almost insufferable atmosphere.
The Paris-Chartres diligence had gone by an hour ago, and had picked up one solitary passenger at the cross roads. Soon after that a hired chaise, coming from Dreux, had driven up to the "Farmers Paradise." A lady and a gentleman had alighted from it and gone into the house, while the driver sought shelter for his horse in the tumbledown barn at the back of the house and a warm corner for himself in the kitchen.
It was then three o'clock in the afternoon, and the roads and country around appeared desolate and still. M. le Marquis de Trévargan sat with his niece, Constance de Plélan, at a trestle-table in a corner of the coffee-room. It was they who had driven over from Dreux in the hired chaise. The landlord had served them with soup which, though unpalatable in other ways, was, at any rate, hot and therefore very welcome after the long, cold journey in the narrow, rickety chaise.
Three or four men—ill-clad, travel-stained and unwashed—were assembled in the opposite corner of the room, talking in whispers, and near the door a couple of farm labourers were settling accounts with mine host, whilst a third, seemingly overcome by papa Gorot's "nectar," was sprawling across the table with arms outstretched and face buried between them—fast asleep.
Gorot, having settled with the two labourers, shook this lout vigorously by the shoulder.
"Now, then," he shouted roughly. "Up you get! You cannot stay here all night, you know!"
The sleeper raised a puckered, imbecile face to the disturber of his peace.
"Can't I?" he said slowly with the deliberateness of the drunkard. And his head fell down again with a thud upon his arm.
Gorot swore lustily.
"Out you get!" he shouted into the man's ear. "You drunken oaf—I'll put you out if you don't go!"
Once more the sleeper raised his head and stared with dim, bleary eyes at his host.
"I am not drunk," he said thickly and with comical solemnity. "I am not nearly so drunk as you think I am."
"We'll soon see about that," retorted Gorot. "Here!" he added, turning to the three ruffians at the farther end of the room. "One of you give me a hand. We'll put this lout the other side of the door."
There was more than one volunteer for the diverting job. One of the men without more ado seized the sleeper under the armpits. Gorot took hold of his legs, and together they carried him out of the room and deposited him in the passage, where he rolled over contentedly and settled down to sleep in the angle of the door even whilst he continued to mutter thickly: "I am not nearly so drunk as you think I am."
When the landlord returned to the coffee-room he was summarily ordered out again by M. de Trévargan, and he, nothing loth, accustomed as he was to his house being used for every kind of secret machinations and nameless plottings, shuffled out complacently—unastonished and incurious—and retired to the purlieus of the kitchen, leaving his customers to settle their own affairs without interference from himself.
As soon as the door had closed on Alain Gorot, M. de Trévargan turned to the crowd of ill-clad loafers in the corner.
"Now that we are rid of that fellow at last," he said with marked impatience, "tell me just what you have done."
"We carried out your orders," replied one of the men, a grim-looking giant, bearded and shaggy like a frowsy cat. "We strewed more than a kilo of nails, bits of broken glass and pieces of flint across both the roads, at a distance of about a kilomètre from here, and then we covered up the lot with a thin layer of earth."
The others chuckled contentedly.
"When thesacréCorsican comes along in his fine chaise," said one of them with a coarse laugh, "he'll have two or three spanking bays dead lame as soon as they have pranced across our beautiful carpet."
M. de Trévargan turned to his niece.
"We couldn't think of a better plan," he said, "as we could only muster one musket among us, and that one we owe to your kindness and foresight."
Constance de Plélan did not reply at once. She took up an old and dilapidated musket from the nook behind her and examined it with deft fingers and a critical eye.
"It will serve," she said coldly after a while.
"Serve? Of course it will serve," rejoined M. de Trévargan lightly. "What say you, Blue-Heart?"
"That I wish you would let me have it, Monsieur le Marquis," answered the old Chouan. "I'd guarantee that I would not miss the accursed Corsican."
"And I'll not miss him either," said M. de Trévargan, as he rose from the table and stood before his ruffianly followers the very embodiment of power and determination. "And I myself desire to have the honour of ridding France of that pestilential vermin."
"And now 'tis time we went," he added authoritatively. "Two of you go up the Paris road—and two up the Dreux road. Take cover in the thicket, and as soon as one of you perceives the rumble of wheels in the distance, give the signal. We'll all be on the watch for it and hurry to the spot ere the first of the bays goes lame."
M. de Trévargan then once more turned to his niece.
"If we succeed, Constance," he said, and with sudden impulse he took her hand and kissed it almost reverently, "the glory of it will be yours."
"I only did my duty," she replied coldly. "I am thankful that I happened to be at Evreux, just when you wanted me most."
"Nay, dear child," he rejoined earnestly. "You must not belittle the services you have rendered to me and to the King. If you had not known how to bribe our warders at Evreux, and how to send us word and succour, we could not have effected our escape. If you had not given us shelter we must certainly have been recaptured. If you had not conveyed me hither, I—in my indifferent state of health—could never have followed the others across country; and if you had not found that old musket for us, we could not have done for the Corsican at this hour, when God Himself is delivering him into our hands. That is so, is it not, my men?" he concluded, turning to his followers.
"Ay! Ay!" they replied unanimously.
"God grant you may succeed!" said Constance de Plélan, as she gently disengaged her hand from his.
"We cannot fail," he declared firmly. "One or more of the Corsican's horses must go dead lame over the carpet of nails and broken glass and flint. The carriage must then halt, and the coachman and postilion will get down to see to the injured beasts. That will be our opportunity. Blue-Heart and the others will fall on the men and I shall hold Napoleon at the end of my musket, and though it may be old, I know how to shoot straight and my aim is not likely to err. And now let us get on," he added peremptorily. "The Corsican's carriage cannot be far off."
Constance, without another word, handed him his hat and mantle. The latter he fastened securely round his shoulders, leaving his arms free for action. Then he turned to pick up the musket Blue-Heart and White-Beak were ready to follow. They and the two others strode towards the door, with backs bent and an eager, furtive look on their bearded faces, like feline creatures on the hunt. Constance de Plélan was standing in the middle of the room and her eyes were on the door, when it was suddenly thrown open. The figure of the drunken labourer appeared, clear-cut against the dark passage beyond. In an instant he had stepped into the room, closed the door to behind him, and was now standing with his back to it and holding a loaded pistol in his right hand.
It all happened so quickly that neither M. de Trévargan nor any of the others had time to realise what had occurred; and for an instant they stood as if rooted to the spot, staring at the unexpected apparition. Only Constance de Plélan understood what the presence of this man, here and at this hour, portended. She was gazing at him with fixed, dilated pupils, and her cheeks had become livid.
"You!" came in a hoarse murmur through her bloodless lips.
Next moment, however, M. de Trévargan had recovered his presence of mind.
"Out of the way, you lout!" he cried roughly.
And he stretched out his hand to grasp the musket, still believing that this was merely a drunken boor who was feeling quarrelsome and who could easily be scared away.
"If you touch that musket, Monsieur le Marquis," said the man at the door quietly, "I fire."
Then only did de Trévargan, in his turn, look steadily at him. As in a flash, remembrance came to him. He recognised that pale, colourless face, those deep-set grey eyes which once before—at the Château de Trévargan—had probed his very soul and wrested from him the secret of Darnier's assassination.
"That accursed police agent!" he muttered between his teeth. "A moi, Blue-Heart. Let him fire and be damned to him!"
But even Blue-Heart and White-Beak, those desperate and reckless Chouans, who were always prepared to take any and every risk, and who counted life more cheaply than they did the toss of a coin, paused, awestruck, ere they obeyed; for the Man in Grey, with one of those swift and sudden movements which were peculiar to him, had taken one step forward, seized Constance de Plélan by the wrist, dragged her to him against the door, and was even now holding the pistol to her side.
"One movement from any of you," he said with the same icy calm; "one word, one step, one gesture, and by the living God, I swear that I will kill her before your eyes!"
Absolute, death-like silence ensued. M. de Trévargan and the four Chouans stood there, paralysed and rigid. To say that they did not stir, that they did not breathe one word or utter as much as a sigh, would but ill express the complete stillness which fell upon them, as if some hidden and awful petrifying hand had suddenly turned them into stone. Constance de Plélan had not stirred either. She also stood, motionless as a statue, her hand held firmly in a steel-like grasp, the muzzle of the pistol against her breast. Fearlessly, almost defiantly, she gazed straight into the eyes of this man who had so reverently worshipped her and whom she had so nearly learned to love.
"From my soul," he whispered, so low that even she could scarcely hear, "I crave your pardon. From my soul I worship you still. But I would not love you half so dearly, Constance, did I not love my Emperor and France more dearly still."
"You coward!" came after a moment or two of tense suspense, from the parched lips of M. de Trévargan. "Would you seize upon a woman——?"
"The Emperor's life or hers," broke in the Man in Grey coldly. "You give me no other choice. What I do, I do, and am answerable for my actions to God alone. So down on your knees every one of you!" he added firmly. "Now! At once! Another movement, another word, and I fire!"
"Fire then, in the name of Satan, your friend!" cried Constance de Plélan loudly. "Oncle Armand, do not hesitate. Blue-Heart, seize this miscreant! Let him kill me first; but after that you will be five against one, and you can at last rid us of this deadly foe!"
"Down on your knees!" came in a tone of frigid calm from the police agent. "If, ere I count three, I do not see you kneel—I fire!"
And even before the words were out of his mouth, the five Chouans dropped on their knees, helpless before this relentless threat which deprived them of every vestige of will-power.
"Oh, that I had not stayed Blue-Heart's hand that day in the woods!" cried Constance de Plélan with a sigh of fierce regret. "He had you then, as you have us now——"
"As he and the others would have the Emperor," rejoined the Man in Grey. "If I allowed my heart to stay my hand."
And that relentless hand of his tightened its grip on Constance de Plélan's wrist, till she felt sick and faint and fell back against the door. She felt the muzzle of the pistol against her side: the hand which held it neither swerved nor quaked. The keen, grey eyes which had once radiated the light of his ineffable love for her held no pity or remorse in them now: they were watching for the slightest movement on the part of the five Chouans.
Slowly the afternoon light faded into dusk. The figures of the Chouans now appeared like dark and rigid ghosts in the twilight. The ticking of the old clock in the ingle-nook alone broke the deathlike silence of the room. Minute sped after minute while the conspirators remained as if under the ban of some evil fairy, who was keeping them in an enchanted castle in a dreamless trance from which perhaps they would never wake again. Minute sped after minute, and they lost count of time, of place, of very existence. They only appeared alive through the one sense of hearing, which had for them become preternaturally acute. In the house, too, every sound was hushed. The landlord and his servants had received their orders from the accredited agent of His Majesty's Minister of Police, and they were not likely to risk life and liberty by disobedience.
Outside, the air was damp and still, so still that through the open casement there could be heard—very far away—the rumble of carriage wheels and the patter of horses' hoofs on the muddy road.
It seemed as if an electrical wave went right through the room at the sound, and the police agent's grip tightened on Constance's wrist. A slight tremor appeared to animate those five marble-like statues who were kneeling on the floor.
The carriage was drawing nearer: it was less than a hundred mètres away. The clang of hoofs upon the road, the rattle of metal chains, the shouts of the postilion, could already be distinctly heard. Then suddenly the carriage had come to stop.
A bitter groan went right through the room, like the wail of condemned spirits in torment. But not one of the Chouans moved. How could they when a woman's life was the price that would have to be paid now for the success of their scheme.
Only a heartrending cry rose from Constance de Plélan's lips:
"In Heaven's name, Oncle Armand," she entreated, "let the man fire! Think you I should not be glad to die? Blue-Heart, has your courage forsaken you? What is one life when there is so much at stake? O God!" she added in a fervent prayer, "give them the strength to forget everything save their duty to our King!"
But not a sound—not a movement came in response to her passionate appeal. Through the open casement a confused murmur of voices could be distinctly heard some distance away, up the side-road which ran from Dreux. The Emperor's carriage was obviously being held up. One, if not more, of the spanking bays had gone dead lame while trotting across Blue-Heart's well-laid carpet. The rough, stained hands of the Chouans opened and closed till their thick knuckles cracked in an agony of impotence.
How long the torture of this well-nigh intolerable suspense lasted not one of those present could have told. The twilight gradually faded into gloom; darkness like a huge mantle slowly enveloped those motionless, kneeling figures in the coffee-room of "The Farmer's Paradise."
But if some semblance of hope had crept into the hearts of the Chouans at sight of the beneficent darkness, it was soon dispelled by the trenchant warning which came like a blow from a steel-hammer from the police agent's lips:
"If I hear the slightest movement through the darkness, one flutter, one creak, even a sigh—I shall fire," he had said, as soon as the gloom of the night had begun to creep into the more remote corners of the room. And even through the darkness the over-strained ears of the kneeling Chouans caught the sound of a metallic click—the cocking of the pistol which threatened Constance de Plélan's life. And so they remained still—held more securely on their knees by that one threat than by the pressure of giant hands.
An hour went by. Through the open window the sound of the murmur of voices had given place to renewed clanking of metal chains, to pawing of the ground by high-mettled horses, to champing of bits, to snorting, groaning and creaking, as the heavy travelling chaise once more started on its way.
After that it seemed like eternity.
When once again the silent roads gave forth signs of life and movement; when, from the direction of Paris there came the sound of a cavalcade, of a number of horses galloping along at breakneck speed; when after a while it dawned upon these enchanted statues here that a posse of police had arrived at "The Farmer's Paradise," and the men were even now dismounting, almost a sigh of relief rose from five oppressed breasts.
They knew the game was up; they knew that all that they had staked had been swept aside by the ruthless, unerring hand of the man who had terrorised and cowed and bent them to his will.
Constance de Plélan was resting against the door in a state of semi-consciousness. Two or three minutes later the landlord, who, acting under the orders given him by the secret agent, had gone to meet the posse of police on the road and guided them to his house, now led them to the back entrance of the coffee-room. The arrest of M. de Trévargan and the Chouans was an easy matter. They were, in fact, too numb and dazed to resist.
All five were tried for the murder of Hector Duroy, the police messenger, and for an attempted outrage against the person of the Emperor, and all five were condemned to penal servitude for life. At the Restoration, however, M. de Trévargan was publicly absolved of participation in the murder, and honoured by the King for having made such a bold, if unsuccessful, attempt to "remove" the Corsican usurper.
But Constance de Plélan was never brought to trial. Powerful influences were said to have saved her.