The prisoner sat upon his rough bunk as he had done every day of the five weeks of his imprisonment in the Temple. He stared up at the small window of his dank cell, a pitiful bit of light from outside barely penetrating the gloom. His musings were not interrupted by the sound of people moving down the hall, a noise he had heard far too often. He did not wish to contemplate their final walk to the tumbrels.
The scrape of the key in the lock caused him to turn. The door opened with a loud screech.
“Greetings, Lafarge! I have a guest for you!” cried the large, stinking turnkey. Into the small room he half-tossed a disheveled man who, tripping, fell hard against the wall.
“I present to you the mighty and feared Citoyen Armand Chauvelin! I know things are a bit cramped in here, but you will not have to suffer long, Lafarge. Citoyen Chauvelin, he has a rendezvous with Madame Guillotine in the morning!”
Lafarge helped the man to his feet as the jailor continued his taunting.
“First Robespierre, now you! Ah, but it is a wonderful day! I only regret I shall not see you shaved by the National Razor at the Place de la Revolution, Chauvelin, as I must be in Lyon tonight. So I will say au revoir, salaud!1 May you burn in hell!” Laughing, he slammed the door shut.
1 Bastard
Lafarge resumed his seat on the lone bunk, eying the newcomer. Of middling height, the man ran his long fingers through greasy hair. His torn clothes seemed out of place adorning such a prestigious personage. Either the guards had been rough with him or his rags had been a disguise.
“So, you are Citoyen Chauvelin?” Lafarge knew nothing else to say.
Chauvelin glared at him and then looked about the room, straightening to his full height. “I am. Your name, Citoyen?” He spoke with an authority his present situation belied.
The man’s abruptness did not bother Lafarge. He had heard such things many times before. “I am Lafarge. I work…I worked as a clerk in the city.”
“Your crime?”
“None, now.” As Chauvelin turned towards him, Lafarge continued. “I offended the wrong person down the street from my lodgings. I was denounced as an admirer of the ci-devant2 aristocrats. I was awaiting trial, but now they tell me I am to be freed. My denouncer was himself condemned in the wake of Citoyen Robespierre’s…fall. He went to the guillotine three days ago.”
2 French for “from before”; people or things dispossessed of their estate or quality; old-fashioned. In Revolutionary France it was a derogatory term for those who rejected Revolutionary ideals in favor of royalist sympathies
Chauvelin grunted and turned away towards the tiny, high window. “I knew how it would be. We are all turning on ourselves. First Hébert, then Danton, now Robespierre. Ah, well. Now Tallien is in control, and all of us who tried to defend la Révolution must pay the price.”
Lafarge shrugged.
“Are you a patriot, Lafarge?” Chauvelin demanded to know.
“Yes. I wore the tricolor proudly. I have no love for the aristos.” He paused. “Do…do you think they will come back?”
Chauvelin laughed without mirth. “They will try, but no one wants them. We are done with kings and courtiers. Tallien was as opposed to the aristos as any of us, no matter what he says now.” Chauvelin looked over his shoulder at Lafarge. “They are no threat to the Republic, Citoyen. No, the danger comes from the north!”
Lafarge thought about that. “You speak of the English?”
“Yes!” Eyes alight, Chauvelin crossed the small cell and sat next to Lafarge on the cot. “The English have always been our enemy. Jealous of our prestige and power — of our culture, of our genius — they are always plotting against us. They stole our colonies in the New World. They stand against us at every turn. We must not rest until they have been put in their proper place!”
“There is not much we can do. La Manche3 protects them.”
3 The English Channel.
“Yes, their accursed ships ply the waters of La Manche as though it belongs to them. But that will change. Even now, we are building the newest, fastest, most powerful ships in the world. Their time will come. But I speak of other threats.”
Lafarge was curious. “What are those?”
Chauvelin lowered his voice. “Have you heard of Le Mouron Rouge?”
Lafarge’s eyes grew wide. “The savior of the aristos? He is real?”
“Yes, I have fought him. I have seen him. He is as real as you and I.”
“But…but if La Terreur is over, why should we fear him?”
Chauvelin raised his chin. “Have you no love for justice, Lafarge? This foreign criminal has dared to flout the laws of the Republic, delivering the aristos from their just deserts, and we should do nothing? Do not think France will be safe. No, those hated aristos will breed traitors, and the English will send them back to attack us. And he will be with them!”
Lafarge considered Chauvelin’s words. Indeed, Lafarge considered himself a loyal supporter of the Revolution. Besides, those damned Englishmen had been France’s enemy for centuries. Now, was his country to be endangered by them yet again? The thought roiled in Lafarge’s empty belly.
“What can we do about it?” he asked his companion.
Chauvelin stared at the floor. “I can do nothing. My labors end tomorrow morning.” He shook his head. “I have no fear of death, Lafarge. It is easy — just eternal sleep. I only wish it were not…” He sighed. “The machine was designed for criminals, not patriots. If a firing squad awaited me in the morning, I would have no complaints. But to meet my end like a damned aristo? I am cursed.” He turned to Lafarge. “But, if I cannot continue the fight, you can! You will take up my banner! You will see to it that France is kept safe!”
“How can I do that?”
“You will become my instrument. Once you are freed, you must take a position in government, one that will allow you to keep an eye open for the enemies of France. We have tonight. I will tell you everything I know. But first, you must pledge to me you will do this. Swear!”
The flame of fanaticism was ignited in Lafarge’s heart. “I will do it. I swear on the grave of my mother.”
Chauvelin sighed in relief. “Good! First I must tell you of the most dangerous man in England. Of him, you must be ever vigilant! Remember this name: Sir Percy Blakeney. He is an English baronet — one of their damned aristos. Do not underestimate him! He is clever, very clever.” He laughed. “But he will not be looking for you. You will succeed where I have failed.”
“Sir Percy Blakeney. Who is he?”
“You know him as Le Mouron Rouge — the Scarlet Pimpernel.”