Chapter Seven

Dejection

I

As a soldier of the Republic pushed open the door of the cell Jeanne's courage was put to the cruelest test. Her smarting eyes, not used yet to the darkness of the dungeon, were met with a dark inner room, cold and unwelcoming, pitiably small and cold. Several wretched prisoners crouched in the corners, and did not even look up as the heavy door was opened. Jeanne, looking in, felt as though she could scream in anguish. Roughly she was pushed in and the heavy door slammed shut, making her start as if from a dream. Could she be alone in here, her plan failed? It could not be!

She had doomed her own father, as good as killed him with her own hands, because of her own selfish ambitions, her unreasonable, misguided determination to save her mother and sister—a goal, she now understood, which was futile in the extreme. Oh! How her shame made her face become as crimson as ever, her eyes fill rapidly with mortified tears, as the horrible reality dawned itself upon her. She tottered; fell to the ground, and on her knees, her hands covering her streaming face in utter remorse, she wept bitterly, caring not whether or not the soldiers or even Chauvelin heard her sorrow, her thorough, deep regret, at what she had done to lead her father at last to his grief-stricken grave.

In this state Jeanne remained for close on ten minutes. For half the time she had stopped her weeping, but for the whole sat oblivious to everything except to her sorrow. The prison was deadly still and quiet. Only the occasional sound of soldiers' feet on the stone floor disturbed the silence. At last, she turned her tear-stained face toward heaven.

For a few moments only the foot-fall and laughter of the jailers could be heard, joking and conversing to keep from utter boredom. But the room was silent to her senses. She could not hear the jailers, nor did she hear the even breathing of her fellow prisoners. Her eyes looked toward and beyond the stone, forbidding ceiling. Her lips moved as she murmured a silent prayer, asking for forgiveness. Tears began to drop onto her folded hands, but she did not notice, nor did she care.

She knelt there for many minutes more; during most of the time she said nothing, only looked upward, gazing intently as if she saw a vision. And perhaps she did.

II

The following morning Jeanne was awakened by a violent shove of the bayonet on her shoulder. She lay on the stone floor, for there was no cot left for her. She woke, thus startled, and looked up at the man looming above her.

"Citizen Chauvelin wishes for your presence," said that shabby-clothed jailer.

"Ye're to come with me. Up with you! We haven't got all day."

With his spare arm he lifted her, holding her as if she were an unclean thing. Jeanne all the while prayed fervently for help, though she did not think He could help her now. She found herself hoping for revenge on these men for their rough treatment of her.

The jailer, joined by two others, directed her through the evil-smelling hall and stopped at a piece of wood hung by two weak hinges, which could hardly be called a door. On this they rapped with their bayonets a trifle less violent than usual, and were, after some minutes, during which a commotion went on within, admitted.

At a desk scattered with papers sat Chauvelin. His mocking, cruel eyes pierced Jeanne through and through and she could hardly prevent herself from blushing crimson with embarrassment. As soon as the guards left the room he said,

"Pray sit down, citizeness."

Another man stood beside Chauvelin's chair, gloating over Jeanne as she sat down, wondering greatly why this cruel member of the Committee of Public Safety was so interested in her and her family's fate.

He seemed to guess her puzzlement for, regarding her with triumphant eyes, he began immedietly.

"You must wonder, citizeness," he said, "why, when other such pretty prisoners are now residing in this prison on which I could exercise my authority, I should choose you and your family. It is quite simple—so simple, that I would not wish you to be left in the dark on this matter of grave importance—a matter which, unfortunately, has doomed your family, unless you choose to save them."

The reader can only guess Jeanne's bewilderment. Watching her adversary as he spoke, she noted the quick, final tattoo he played with his fingers on the desk before him, and the evil, dominant look in both hi and his assistant's eyes. She only just refrained herself from asking him what he meant; she knew her anxiousness would only add to his triumph—which, she prayed fervently, would be only temporary.

Chauvelin fingered some of the scattered papers before him slowly. Then, looking up, as if just recollecting her presence, he spoke, letting out the words so that each held its full meaning.

"I have many duties here serving my country, citizeness. Many of them are rather tedious, so that when a diversion comes my way, --which is few and far between, I assure you—it eases the monotony of my work—though, because it is the work of serving my country and building our republic, I enjoy it all the same.

You will understand more fully, then, when I say that when such a diversion came my way, I siezed upon it most gladly, more so, as it involved my country's establishing a new republic."

He paused, scrutinizing her face; but she betrayed nothing. While he spoke she had regained composure, and now sat, silent and patiently listening.

"Every aristocrat and peasant alike we arrest, we do our best to preserve the republic by ridding it of those most dangerous to its constituting. Otherwise, 'beloved France' as some affectionately name it, is doomed. That is where your family comes in, citizeness…"

Just then the door opened behind her and a commanding figure entered the room.

"Citizen Robspierre has a desire to meet with you."

A moment, and he was gone, Chauvelin's spare figure walking ahead of him in seeming authority. She was taken back to the cell, where wild, confusing thoughts possessed her for many an hour.

III

In the cold cell things were more confused than ever. The words Chauvelin had spoken in triumph were jumbled up in Jeanne's mind so that, by next morning, she could not recollect what he had said. She knew this much: that something she or her family had done had fired up a more deadly hatred and want of revenge in Chauvelin. By the aid of her stupidity and ignorance, he tortured them and would continue to until, at last, they were wiped from the earth on the days he should choose.

She felt now more hopeless than ever. The plan that failed had left her in a state of dejection, with only a faint glimmer of hope for their salvation; this final doom to her family with no possible chance of escape, left her to feel God-forsaken and helpless—the world itself, with hospitable England and poor France, seemed to have vanished from her mind. Now only the fate of her family—whom she had hardly seen in two months— lay heavily on her mind—for they would all die separately; Chauvelin himself would see to that. He would not allow a single factor of his revenge—for whatever they had done, Jeanne racked her brain in vain to know—to go untasted by his victims. He was a cruel, evil man! She thought, vainly trying to refrain her anger and remorse to stay within her and not burst forth. She did not notice the fellow prisoner's inquiring, and unkind, eyes turned on her dejected, wholly pitiful figure, of which they had never seen much before. Her whole figure dropped, her eyes never left the ground.

One guard, a trifle less unkind than the rest, had, as he let her in, whispered a few rough words of grim comfort; which she, in her most deep sorrow, thought nothing of as she swam in tears of despair:

"Stranger things have happened, citizeness…"

Chapter 8

An "Either-Or"

I

As Jeanne lived in utter despair, her mother and sister awaited a final death, when, they knew not. Chauvelin still lingered with them, and they knew not when he would send them separately to their doom. But even in this utmost uncertainty and cruelty to their health and minds in his waiting, it could not rob them of their peace. Unlike Jeanne, her mother and sister had found peace in their awaiting fate. They had commended their souls to Hgim, and now they looked forwad to the day when they would leave all sorrow and tears behind. They did not know of their daughter and sister's arrest, nor opf the father's imp3ending, perhaps expired danger. But, mayhap if they had known it, they would have rejoiced all the more to meet with them in Heaven, rather than leaving them on earth to mourn their premature death.

Of the Scarlet Pimpernel perhaps saving them from their fate they had not a glimmer of hope. The stone walls and metal bars themselves, they knew, could not separate then from God; but how, short of a miracle directly from heaven, could they be saved now by that mysterious personage and his league? They were beyond help now. They had been suddenly taken from their innocent home, wrenched from the father and all they knew and loved well. Nearly two weeks they had remained here in a prison without setting eyes on a kindly human face. What now was left for them but to wait for that glorious day, when they would be free from all pain and heartache?

In England Lady Blakeney still awaited the return of Sir Percy—gone hunting wild game in the Netherlands, it was known. But his hunt must have been poor in the week he was gone, for he sent home a carrier apologizing for his delay, while begging permission to stay at least another three days to catch a particular species of an animal which he could not possible miss.

This information, his lady related to the public with half a sigh, a giggle, and a well-wishing for his safe return whenever he felt it convenient.

But we know better. Marguerite, in that tolerant half-sigh, felt she could have held it out its full length, so great was her longing for her husband's return. And benearth that well-bred giggle, her heart bled anew to know ought of his whereabouts and what dangers he faed daily while she played a part here in, to her aching heart, play-like England. His letter—or rather, notes—seemed as far away as France was to her—a word or two of his progress, and even less of his prospect of return. He was once again the huntsman, the adventurer set out to risk his life or the fun and thrill of it. She dare not write a letter of pleading, for she knew from experience its futileness. In France all ties and English duties were lost to him. All she could do was to pray fervently for his safety, and wait patiently for his return.—Nay! Would he return? Could France hold him any longer and let him go once more? She knew God's mercy and lovingkindess could not suffer her to be heart-broken, in the full sense of the word—surely, surley He would save her from such a tragedy!

But wait. She was getting ahead of herself—of God. Did He not know her heartache, her longing, her agony? Had He not suffered His only Son's death by a raging crowd much like that in France these days? Surely He knew her anxiety, which was little compared to His great sorrow.

Her aching heart at last rested in His knowing hands, and she surrendered her husband's soul to Him, though she did it not without many tears.

II

Jeanne id not know peace so soon. Her confusion was great on the subject of Chauvelin's desire of revenge on her and her family. Two days had passed since she had almost heard of it, and he had not returned to finish his story. She dreaded hearing his vent, and at the same time longed to find what had caused her family's being preyed upon ultimately captured by that human wolf. She must admit it—she hated Chauvelin. His face alone, shrinking, evil-looking, triumphant, turned her sick to the stomach. Whilst one part of her battled for peace and forgiveness, the other revolted against it, demanding to repay Chauvelin for his evil ways. Her family had done nothing to deserve this treatment. Why should they be singled out for his cruelty?

The loud clang of the heavy door suddenly woke Jeanne out of her confused reverie. Jeanne remained in her crouching position until a guard's overpowering figure stood above her.

"You are wanted," he said groughly, and taking her by the arm, led her out of the cell, many eyes turned toward her inquiringly.

She did not shudder as they thought she would upon entering the room and meeting her captor's triumphant eyes. For a moment she was back in the silence of the sitting room, the faint note of a minuet drifting toward it, soothing her ruffled spirites—and then the same evil eyes, taunting her, deceiving her into risking her life in a hopeless endeavor.

Was Sir Percy Blakeney really the Scarlet Pimpernel? She asked herself this question a thousand times, and always answered that Chauvelin, cruel and perverted as he was, would not tell such a ghastly lie. She had seen the genuine hate in his eyes as he repeated the name—"Sir Percy Blakeney"—the illustrious English fop and dandy—the richest man in that country. Yes, she could not convince herself otherwise—he was the Scarlet Pimpernel. Then why had not he saved her family? If he professed to hold such a name that promised such hope and security, why had he forfeited his promise?

The grating of a chair against the stone floor interrupted her tangled thoughts. She did not meet the steely grey eyes as she sat down, her heart beating wildly.

"Accept my most humble apolagies for the interruption at our last meeting," said Chauvelin.

"I fear you were left at quite an inconvenient part of my explanation. Pray make yourself comfortable." His keen eyes followed her every movement, however slight, as she accepted a tin cup of weak coffee from the assistant.

At last, fingering once more the papers on his desk, leaving his coffee to cool off as he spoke, he began.

"I am surprised, citizeness, that your father never told you. I have had the pleasure of looking through cetain documents in our possession… but I am too hasty.

As I stated at our last meeting, your family has become a vital factor in the preservation of our new republic. I know, when you hear its importance, you will readily agree to its necessity."

He stopped and looked keenly at her; greed and utter triumph shone plainly in his eyes, so that Jeanne turned away. Her temper was at its shortest, and in the coldest tones she could summon, betraying no anxiousness, she said:

"Pray come to the point, monsieur."

"Certainly, citizeness… I would not wish to take up your time… the point is, the family of Mange is one which is distantly—though closely enough—related to the late royal family of Louis XVI… you realize how dangerous it would be to the Republic to allow any of that family—especially if they are poor—to roam the country freely."

The words, individually spoken so that each echoed across the stone walls, pressed a cold clutch on Jeanne's beating heart. She did not have to look at Chauvelin to feel the icy glare of his eyes as he finished. She felt hot tears rising in her eyes; hate—fearing, absolute hate—swelled up within her, and, what with the tears blinding her eyes, she looked down stubbornly at the table.

She knew full well that an "either-or" was coming; for this she strove harder than ever to prepare herself, strove to keep back the angry tears which were fast in coming.

She did not recall for a long while after what happened then—did not remember how, after finally mastering her emtions, she heard his slow, methodical voice repeating his present "either-or".

"…if you refuse to aid us—France, you beloved country—you will be separately imprisoned in our worst prisons and in time put through a fair trial… your family will be shot first, before your eyes…"

It was too much. The evil, greedy, triumphant man had accomplished his purpose.

Jumping to her feet in sheer anger and despair, Jeanne screeched:

"Never! Never! Never!"

She was dragged, an emotional wreck, out of the room, and into a separate cell; where she sat, huddled up in a corner, crying her heart out toward the Heavens.

Chauvelin was satisfied. He remained at his desk, satisfaction written plainly over his features. Once again he would win; the Scarlet Pimpernel was gone off the stage long ago—ever since he imprisoned Jeanne and her family. For once he had defeated his arch enemy, and this one triumph would make him happy, whatever happened to him afterwards—whether or not that illustrious gentleman chose to take out his revenge on him. He cared not what death he died, after this.

Jeanne, he felt sure, would, after a day or two in isolation, consent at last, and the distant—not so distant—relatives of the King and Queen of France would become aids to the new Republic, conveying the foremost sense of patriotism to any who may be in doubt.

His colleagues had rarely seen him as placid and composed as when he retired that night. What he did not see was, as Jeanne was taken out of the room, one of the soldiers winked cheerily at him as they exited.

Chapter 9

The Mysterious Personage

I

"Fire!"

The word, spoken in a cruel, heartless voice, jerked Jeanne out of a restless sleep. The dream had made her toss and turn for five minutes, and now she woke to a silent, still reality.

There was no window in her cell, so that she did not know it was dawn; she sat up, a cold fear gripping her heart. She had broken into a hot sweat, and she wiped tears from her eyes while she told herself again and again that it was truly a dream.

It was too much. She knew there was a better way. She could not live in such a terrified state, fear gripping her every moment, hate preventing her from any contact with her only company now—her Lord.

She knelt, slowly, on the cold floor; tears began to stream anew down her cheeks. Since hse had been imprisoned she had slowly lost faith in her God, and now she asked for forgiveness, utter repentance and sorrow bringing the tears down in a torrent.

"Oh Father!" she cried, looking up toward the ceiling once more, though this time we can be more sure of what she saw. For what would seem five minutes she murmured "Father" in a repentant tone; but after a little she felt the peace of knowing she was forgiven.—utter, full peace, such as is only felt at those times. Her heart was wrapped in a warm embrace, as she sat there, her hands folded and wet, her hair covering her face. Then, and only then, did the grip of fear fade away, the sweat evaporate, and her tears of anguish, sorrow, fear and hate, became those of serenity, if not total peace, and she found herself calm to the notion of her fate and that of her family. She knew that, whatever became of them, whatever cruel devices Chauvelin thought of and played out, her Lord and God was never defeated; that, if He chose—which she hardly dared to hope for—He would rescue them all from defiled France.

It was certainly not peace in knowing He could rescue them; on the contrary, her heart became fixed in knowing more fully the knowledge she had possessed from the start—that, in the end, they all would meet in a perfect place, together, and with Him, without sorrow, or tears, or anguish. She felt confident in facing any cruelty or death in knowing this.