The Defeated Enemy

 The Defeated Enemy

    "I only regret one thing, my dear M. Chambertin, and that is, that you and I will never measure wits again after this. Your damnable revolution is dead... I am glad I was never tempted to kill you. I might have succumbed, and in very truth robbed the guillotine of an interesting prey. Without any doubt, they will guillotine the lot of you, my good M. Chambertin. Robespierre to-morrow; then his friends, his sycophants, his imitators - you amongst the rest... 'Tis a pity! You have so often amused me. Think it all out, my dear Monsieur Chambertin! You have plenty of time. Some one is sure to drift up here presently, and will free you and the two soldiers, whom I left out on the landing. But no one will free you from the guillotine when the time comes, unless I myself..." He did not finish; the rest of the sentence was merged in a merry laugh. "A pleasant conceit - what?" he said lightly. "I'll think on it, I promise you!" 

    It was over. The glorious revolution was dead. The flames that had fed the bloodthirsty, inhuman monster for so many years had finally sputtered out, trampled by those who had their fill of tyranny in the guise of liberty, fraternity, equality! Robespierre, the incorruptible, the idol of millions, bloodthirsty tyrant in thin disguise, was unceremoniously escorted up the steps of Madame la Guillotine, to die were he had caused so many thousands of innocents to perish. The same bedraggled, filthy crowd who had once cried "Ça ira! Ça ira! A la lanterne les aristos!" shouted for joy as the head of their leader fell. And yet, even Robespierre's blood would not atone for the immeasurable blood of innocents that had already been shed. The land had been purged already from aristocracy, now it must be purged from revolution. And then—what would remain of this weary, war-torn land of misery—once the abode of kings, the center of the fashionable world…?

    The tramp of feet echoed endlessly on the hard floor, down the long, dark corridors. From somewhere came the distant creak of rusty hinges, the clash of iron doors. Close by came the sounds of inconsolable weeping, on the other side, angry curses and blasphemy. Drops of water slid down the damp, mildewed walls, echoing ominously as they fell to the filthy floor. Only a few rays of sunlight pierced the iron grating of the tiny window high above the bench where the lone prisoner sat, head in hands. The cell in which he had remained for the past month, eking out his miserable, lonely, remorseful existence was—ironically—the cell to which the beautiful, dishonored queen of France had spent her last few miserable days. Even more recently had those same walls born silent witness to the inhumane torture that greedy, cruel, selfish tyrants had imposed upon the most noble and selfless hero that France had ever known—the now triumphant Scarlet Pimpernel. The prisoner knew this and at first he had clenched his teeth in hate, ground his nails into the palms of his hands until they bled. Who would have thought it would come to this? This was never the ending of which he had dreamed—the gratitude of millions, unquenchable power, the utter humiliation and defeat of his most deadly enemy. The shame! The inglorious shame! In a way, he welcomed the thought of death while at the same time—it frightened him.

    A cold, piercing wind seemed to sweep through the cell and the prisoner drew himself up, pulling his coat tighter around himself. He was a small man and slight, dressed in black from head to foot. His once-immaculate suit was now damp, stained, and torn—the narrow lace ruffles at his wrists bedraggled and filthy. His dark hair was streaked with tints of grey, the hard lines around his eyes had narrowed even more. At first when his captors had brought him to this miserable cell, he could think of nothing but his anger, his hatred, his shame. But now, after days and weeks in solitude, his anger was nearly spent. He was worn, tired, weary, his spirit broken. In his present state of physical weakness and exhaustion, he felt remorse—sudden, unexpected—sweep over him. The faces of the innocent, stained with tears, their eyes overflowing with sorrow and fear—haunted him. In vain he tried to shake the memory but it remained. He desperately tried to fix himself on distant shreds of memory from a far-ago, long-forgotten time and place. Sunny Dauphiné. The little white cottage with its green shutters and thatched roof. Little Marseillaise and her beautiful, brown eyes. He could see her eyes before him, shining with love and trust as they had that day when he last saw her. How she had clung to him in her pain, frightened yet happy as she knew he was by her side. And when her beautiful, tiny baby daughter had been laid in her frail arms, she had looked up at him, speaking in a whisper.

    "Oh, Armand—ours! Ours to love and to cherish." She had spoke with effort, pausing for breath as her precious life ebbed away. "So beautiful she is—like a flower. A tiny flower." She paused, smiling down on her little one, then up at her husband, her beautiful eyes filled with tears. "Little flower—Fleurette. Call her that. Take care of her for me, Armand. I will not be here to watch over her." In vain Armand had protested, ensuring her that she would live, urging, begging her to live—for him—and Fleurette. But his tears were of no avail. She was going and there was nothing he could do—but watch—in agony. Her last words still echoed in his ears, "She is so sweet, so innocent. Protect her, Armand, watch over her. Teach her to love the Lord, to be kind to others. I know you will and yet—promise me once again." And he had promised.

    Looking back on that bittersweet day, the lonely prisoner fell suddenly to his knees. He had failed—Oh! How he had failed. "love the Lord, be kind to others…I know you will." Burying his face in his hands, he wept, his thin shoulders shaking with sobs as he remembered those long-forgotten words.

~~~~~~~~~~~

    It was at noonday, when the prisoners where given their daily recreation, that the prisoner was called. The guard came out yet again to read the names of the condemned. On and on he read, droning tonelessly the names of those who had once been in power. The hunters had become the hunted, the captors the captives. And in the midst of those names, the prisoner heard his own.

    "Armand Chauvelin!"

    That was it. The end had finally come. As the former agent of the glorious Republic of France was escorted back to his dismal cell, he thought of one thing and one thing only—preparation for death. He tried to forget the massacre of innocents of which he had played such a part. He steeled his mind towards the thought of climbing those dreaded steps to the guillotine. And yet—Fleurette, little Fleurette was the one thing that caused him pain. Poor, sweet little flower, her heart would be broken. He struggled desperately with her memory, part of him wanting so badly to live for her, the other part of him calmly accepting his impending fate. And as he sat there, head in hands, his heart aching at the thought of his dear daughter, he heard it.

    A merry, inane laugh from somewhere in the depths of that dank and dismal prison echoed eerily down the corridor. The prisoner's head shot up in alarm, his old resentment and hatred swiftly filling his heart. Still that distant laugh seemed to reecho through the stone walls, seemingly mocking him. How often had he heard that laugh which set his heart quaking within him? More times than he could count. Calais, Boulogne, Nantes, Paris… and now it returned in its final triumph to mock him yet again. In anger, the prisoner shook his head. Wildly, defiantly, he covered his ears, trying in vain to block out that inane laugh that still rang in his head. How real it had seemed! And yet it was surely just a figment of his tortured imagination.

    Slowly the bloody work was ending. The guillotine would soon be set to rest. It needed only to destroy the last few instigators of the Reign of Terror and then—perhaps—peace would settle over the weary land.

    Chauvelin stood with the last few in the tumbril, his hands bound, his head hanging. Listlessly he allowed his eyes to wander over the noisy crowd beyond the gates of the Conciergie, listened to the clatter of the wheels of the tumbril over the rough, uneven cobblestones. How often he had heard the sound of the tumbrils' wheels, bearing innocent victims to Madame la Guillotine! How often had he seen the aristos in their tattered, bedraggled finery, proud heads held high, faces white with terror, eyes filled with tears! And now—he was the victim—though not innocent for his hands were stained with blood. Again visions of his native Dauphiné danced before his weary eyes. He seemed to see himself, wandering over the sunny fields, hand in hand with his mie Marseillaise. And little golden-haired Fleurette running to meet him with arms outstretched. His eyes filled with unwanted tears and he turned his head away from the vengeful crowd. This must have been what the aristos, the suspects he had sent to the guillotine felt. Somehow, he could not bear this misery. The cart rattled on, on towards the city square and Madame la Guillotine. There it stood, stark and grim, its evil blade stained red with blood.

The tumbril halted at the foot of the steps to the scaffold. The crowd pressed closer and closer, shouting out their excitement, their disdain for tyrants, for the evil Revolution and the Republic. As the people surrounded the last few victims, Chauvelin looked up, scanning the grimy faces. They looked much the same as they always had—dirty, ungainly masses of humanity. Suddenly he shivered involuntarily, shrinking within himself for, somewhere in that wild mob, he had met a pair of merry blue eyes. Those eyes held his gaze for only a moment, then vanished yet again in the fracas.

    What happened next, Chauvelin never could remember. The crowd seemed almost to swarm over the tumbril, seemingly determined to strangle the tyrants with their bare hands and cheat Madame la Guillotine of her prey. He knew only that he fell in the tumbril, feeling as if he would suffocate in the teeming mass of people. He could hear their cries, see their angry faces, yet they seemed to blur together in an indistinguishable mass of colors and shapes… he felt himself lifted to his feet, dragged from the tumbril by powerful arms… he could no longer keep consciousness… everything faded slowly into darkness and quiet.

    As Chauvelin regained consciousness, he became vaguely aware of a sweet, young voice close by him. Afraid to open his eyes, he lay still, listening.

"Oh, Monsieur, I know not what to say! After all he did to you… and yet you helped him!"

    "Lud, Madame Colombe, how could I leave my intriguing friend to be devoured by that wild mob? He and I have so often matched wits and I assure you, the contest is most invigorating. I hope for the honor of doing so again."

    Chauvelin stirred restlessly. He knew that voice—both of those voices. Opening his eyes, he struggled to sit. The room seemed to be swirling dizzily before his eyes… slowly it came into focus. His first sight was that of Fleurette—his little Fleurette—sitting by his side, looking down at him, her tender blue eyes filled with love and tears of happiness.

"Oh, Bibi! My cherie Bibi! Are you well?" she cried out happily. "See, Monsieur, he is waking up!"

    "Ah, m'dear M. Chambertin!" came that merry voice which once Chauvelin had hated so badly. "And how are you feeling? I must say you look a sorry object. For instance, that cravat…" Words seemed to fail Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. and he only shook his head sorrowfully.

    "You!" Chauvelin cried out in disbelief.

    "Aye, sir. Did I not tell you that when the time came nothing else could save you but our gallant league? I promised you I would think on it. And I never break a promise."