He carefully locked the outer door. Then he lit the lamp, for the
candle gave but a flickering light, and he had some important work
to do.
Firstly, he picked up the charred fragment of the letter, and
smoothed it out carefully and reverently as he would a relic.
Tears had gathered in his eyes, but he was not ashamed of them,
for no one saw them; but they eased his heart, and helped to
strengthen his resolve. It was a mere fragment that had been
spared by the flame, but Armand knew every word of the letter by
heart.
He had pen, ink and paper ready to his band, and from memory wrote
out a copy of it. To this he added a covering letter from himself
to Marguerite:
This--which I had from Percy through the hands of Chauvelin--I
neither question nor understand.... He wrote the letter, and I
have no thought but to obey. In his previous letter to me he
enjoined me, if ever he wrote to me again, to obey him implicitly,
and to communicate with you. To both these commands do I submit
with a glad heart. But of this must I give you warning, little
mother--Chauvelin desires you also to accompany us to-morrow....
Percy does not know this yet, else he would never start. But
those fiends fear that his readiness is a blind ... and that he
has some plan in his head for his own escape and the continued
safety of the Dauphin.... This plan they hope to frustrate
through holding you and me as hostages for his good faith. God
only knows how gladly I would give my life for my chief ... but
your life, dear little mother ... is sacred above all.... I think
that I do right in warning you. God help us all.
Having written the letter, he sealed it, together with the copy of
Percy's letter which he had made. Then he took up the candle and
went downstairs.
There was no longer any light in the concierge's lodge, and Armand
had some difficulty in making himself heard. At last the woman
came to the door. She was tired and cross after two interruptions
of her night's rest, but she had a partiality for her young
lodger, whose pleasant ways and easy liberality had been like a
pale ray of sunshine through the squalor of every-day misery.
"It is a letter, citoyenne," said Armand, with earnest entreaty,
"for my sister. She lives in the Rue de Charonne, near the
fortifications, and must have it within an hour; it is a matter of
life and death to her, to me, and to another who is very dear to
us both."
"Rue de Charonne, near the fortifications," she exclaimed, "and
within an hour! By the Holy Virgin, citizen, that is impossible.
Who will take it? There is no way."
"A way must be found, citoyenne," said Armand firmly, "and at
once; it is not far, and there are five golden louis waiting for
the messenger!"
Five golden louis! The poor, hardworking woman's eyes gleamed at
the thought. Five louis meant food for at least two months if one
was careful, and--
"Give me the letter, citizen," she said, "time to slip on a warm
petticoat and a shawl, and I'll go myself. It's not fit for the
boy to go at this hour."
"You will bring me back a line from my sister in reply to this,"
said Armand, whom circumstances had at last rendered cautious.
"Bring it up to my rooms that I may give you the five louis in
exchange."
He waited while the woman slipped back into her room. She heard
him speaking to her boy; the same lad who a fortnight ago had
taken the treacherous letter which had lured Blakeney to the house
into the fatal ambuscade that had been prepared for him.
Everything reminded Armand of that awful night, every hour that he
had since spent in the house had been racking torture to him. Now
at last he was to leave it, and on an errand which might help to
ease the load of remorse from his heart.
The woman was soon ready. Armand gave her final directions as to
how to find the house ; then she took the letter and promised to
be very quick, and to bring back a reply from the lady.
Armand accompanied her to the door. The night was dark, a thin
drizzle was falling; he stood and watched until the woman's
rapidly walking figure was lost in the misty gloom.