Part 33

"My dearest. Important business, the details of which I have not time to enter into now, calls me immediately to London. I will explain on my return.

"Yours, Henri."

This letter he addressed to her and laid on the table, where it would be sure to catch her eye, when she should come down in the morning. While doing so, a grim smile flitted across his face; he was thinking of Halima's rage when she should find that he had gone without consulting her. How she would stamp about and storm; would vent her spleen on the unhappy servants; they would have but a sorry time of it.

He went to the mantelpiece and took down his sword. "This sword," he murmured, "was first drawn in his service, and, if he require it, it shall be again."

He took up the packet for the Emperor, and placed it in his pocket. Then he picked up the Empress's letter to himself and re-read it. This done, he raised it to his lips and kissed it passionately. "I long to keep it in remembrance of her," he murmured, "but it is not safe."

He stepped up to the fire and threw it on the flames, and followed it with Tremeau's confession. He waited till both were shriveled into blackness; then left the room.

Pausing in the hall outside, he unhooked from a peg a riding cloak and a three-cornered hat. From a cabinet he took a pair of strong warm gloves and a brace of pistols, which he carefully loaded and put into his pocket. Then, as noiselessly as possible, he quitted the house by a side-door in the study, and made his way to the stables, which were close at hand.

Here he selected from a stall a suitable roadster, and saddled him with his own hands, not choosing to wake the grooms, who were sleeping soundly in the loft above. Then, he left the stable and proceeded down the avenue, leading the horse.

He had just mounted and was about to turn into the high road, when he received a check he had not bargained for. Barring his way, was a party of mounted men. There was sufficient light--for it was a clear, starlight night--for him to see that they were soldiers, and, by their uniform, hussars. While he was wondering what their presence could portend, a voice called out in peremptory tones, "Halt."

Clearly the words were addressed to him, for the others were already stationary. Desirous of concealing his identity, on the chance that they might be coming to arrest him--not that he was aware of having done anything to warrant it, but that his experience had made him apprehensive--he decided to pretend to be a groom; so, to the challenge he replied in broad Sussex dialect, "Who be you, Sirs, and what be you adoin' here? This here ain't a public road. If you want Shoreham, it's straight on to the right. Let me pass, please, Masters. I've got to ride for all I know for the doctor. My mistress is lying near on death, and master is watching beside her bed. Let me pass, sirs; it is a case of life and death!"

But the men made no attempt to stir, and the voice that had before challenged him called out, "Is not your master named St. Just?"

"Aye, that be's name," rejoined the pseudo-countryman. "Let me get through. I tell you my mistress is mortal bad, and I cannot stop for naught."

"Harkee, sirrah,"--the words came from a fresh voice--"your master is accused of conspiring against the King, and we have a warrant for his arrest. Lead us to him instantly, or it will be the worse for you." And the speaker moved his horse close up to St. Just.

There was something in the man's tone that seemed familiar to St. Just; he was confident he had heard the voice before. And, now that its owner had come alongside of him, he recognized him in an instant. He was Sir Henry Emerson, the man whose despatches he had purloined in the character of the Comte St. Clair.

Taught by the many perils he had passed through, he was generally prepared for an emergency, and never lost his presence of mind. On the present occasion, while the colloquy had been proceeding, he had been casting about for a plan of escape; and had decided on his course of action. Convinced that it was useless to parley farther--more than ever now that he had recognized Sir Henry Emerson--he slashed, with his riding whip, the King's Messenger across the face; then, suddenly wheeling round, he struck his spurs into his horse and leaped the fence that bordered one side of the avenue.

In making his jump, St. Just had been careful to select his spot. It so happened that, for some distance along the other side of the hedge, right down to the high road, the ground had been excavated for sandstone, for which that part of Sussex was celebrated. It was, therefore, full of pits, and anyone, jumping into them in the dark, must sustain serious injury, if not death. St. Just, however, knew the bearings well, and he had chosen the only spot on which one could alight with safety. It gave on to a grassy track that threaded its way between the various quarries and, after a long detour, came out eventually on to the high road, nearer Brighton.

St. Just's action had been so sudden that his would-be captors were thoroughly bewildered and, at first, could not conceive what had become of him. A moment ago he had been there; now he had disappeared. That was all that they were certain of. Sir Henry Emerson gave a yell of mingled pain and rage, and the officer and his men came round him to learn the cause of it. With a volley of curses, he explained. Meanwhile, the sound of horse's hoofs could be heard upon the turf, gradually growing fainter, until they were no longer audible. They knew nothing of the country, so to pursue the fugitive would be useless. Besides, in their opinion, he was not the man they wanted, and he could be dealt with when he came back with the doctor. So they proceeded slowly up the avenue towards the house, Sir Henry Emerson, with a red wheal across his face, cursing and swearing at every step.

Meanwhile St. Just was cantering along the grassy track, and, in due course, gained the lane which led to the high road. Here he breathed his horse for a minute or two, listening the while with pained intentness for the first sound of approaching horsemen: but not a footfall, either of horse or man, was to be heard. The stillness was almost absolute; not a whisper of animated life, or a breath of wind to stir the leafless trees. Once more he gave his horse the rein and quickly urged him to a gallop. Though, for the moment, he had escaped, his pursuers would quickly discover that the man who had slipped through their fingers was the very one they wanted, and would soon be after him. On he sped, sweeping across Sayre's Common as though the devil were at his heels; then, continuing with unabated speed, he gained the foot of Dale Hill, leading to Rye Coombe. Here he dismounted and once more strained his ears for the slightest sound that should import pursuit; but still the silence was profound. He ascended the hill on foot, walking briskly and leading his horse. At the top of the hill he remounted. It was now a level stretch to Brighton, and he made the most of it, thundering along the road at topmost speed, until within half a mile of Brighton; then he moderated his pace. Slade's house was in the outskirts of the village, as Brighton then was, and he pulled up at the fisherman's door, just when the clock of St. Nicholas' Church, not far distant, was chiming half past four.

A sharp knock, a few hurried words, and a little money, and the business was arranged.

One of John Slade's sons, Tommy, a bright-looking lad of two and twenty, who loved anything that savored of adventure, entered heart and soul into the "lark," as he mentally phrased it, and hailed with delight the proposal that he should ride back St. Just's horse to the Plough Inn at Rye Coombe. He was to don the Frenchman's hat and cloak, and he guaranteed to lead his pursuers a pretty race, if they should sight him.

When this matter had been arranged, St. Just disguised himself as a fisherman, and then he and the elder Slade walked quickly up the hill, at whose foot the cottage stood, and struck out for St. Nicholas' Church. Here they turned to the right and, after continuing for a short distance, knocked at the door of one of an isolated group of cottages, where lived the mate of the John Edward, as Slade's sloop was named--after himself.

Roused from his slumbers, and grumbling considerably thereat, Harry Wingfield was quickly told the reason. The sloop was to start, as rapidly as she could be got off, with the French gentleman for Havre or Fecamp, whichever port would be the easier to make.

They made their way down West Street for the shore.

"How is it the sloop comes to be moored here, instead of at Shoreham?" asked St. Just.

"Well, Sir, since father died, I've lived here. Wingfield here," and he jerked his thumb towards the mate, "know'd I'd be wantin' him middlin' early this morning for I'd sent him word. That's why he was so slippy in comin' down when we knocked. I've only just got from Lewes--given 'em the slip, you know--and, if not off pretty sharp, they'll have me. I meant to sail at five this mornin' just on the turn of the tide; so you're only just in time; a little later and I should have flown."

St. Just made a suitable reply, and, by this time, they had reached the bottom of the street. They shaped their way to the "Blockhouse"--or rather, the remains of it--that had been erected by Henry VIII to defend the coast. Below this lay the sloop. Borrowing a boat, they rowed quickly to her. The crew were on board, so the anchor was weighed instantly, the sails were set and the John Edward was headed for the coast of France.

*CHAPTER III.*

The little sloop John Edward duly made the port of Havre.

Here Fortune smiled upon St. Just, for he learned that a ship was lying in the "roads" on the point of sailing for Naples, and that its captain was an old acquaintance, Captain Brenneau, aforetime commanding the La Fleche. So he started for the owner's office to engage a passage. He parted cordially from the smuggler-fisherman, for they had become very friendly on the passage, and St. Just had told him of his errand to Napoleon. Tremeau had said that Slade was to be trusted, and St. Just thought he would be interested in his movements. He had told him also of Tremeau's tragic end, at which the fisherman had been much affected; he and the French Colonel had seen much of one another in Lewes jail, and had escaped together.

In shaking hands with his late passenger and making him wince with the vigor of his grasp, Slade said heartily, "Good luck go with you, Sir; and, when you return to England, I hope you'll come and see me. No, no, Sir," when St. Just pressed money on him, "I won't take a penny off you. I didn't put to sea on your account, for I was bound to make myself scarce, till things had settled down a bit; and you're a friend of that there Tremeau, a decent chap I will say for a Frenchy."

And, with these farewell words ringing in his ears, and another grip of the honest fellow's hand, St. Just left him and went aboard L'aigle d'or (the Golden Eagle) where he found Captain Brenneau anxiously pacing the quarterdeck, watching the men hoisting in the stores.

He failed to recognize St. Just, dressed, as he was, like a fisherman, and roughly ordered him away. "I will have no loafers (faineants) about my ship;" for St. Just was hanging about, idly gazing at the workers.

St. Just broke into a laugh and recalled himself to the Captain's remembrance, and then proceeded to state the object of his voyage and to ask Brenneau whether he would drop him at Elba. To this the other at once agreed and, on the following day they sailed.

Now, had they proceeded thither direct, Elba should have been reached, ten or eleven days later; but Captain Brenneau had to call at Marseilles to see the owners, and here the vessel was detained for ten days loading further cargo; so that it was not until the first of February that they sighted the little island that now comprised all Napoleon's empire.

It was dark by the time they were near enough to lower a boat.

St. Just bid farewell to the Captain, and took his seat in it; the boat put off, and, in half an hour made the harbor and was brought up by a flight of steps in the harbor wall. Here St. Just got out, and the boat pushed off to make her way back to the ship.

He stood watching the departing boat for about five minutes; and he was on the point of ascending the steps, when he heard voices just above him. He paused to listen.

"I tell you," said one voice, "that to-night he is expected from the country. It is the best chance we have yet had."

"But," said another voice, "he is always guarded; it will be useless."

"Not to-night. He and Bertrand return alone to meet ----," St. Just could not catch the name--"who brings intelligence from Pauline."

"And where do you propose to stop him?"

"At the ----" again the word was inaudible to St. Just.

"You will take your stand, hat in hand, in the middle of the road; take this dog with you, leading it with a string, as though you were blind, and beg alms of the Emperor. Then, when the carriage has stopped to avoid running over you, lean forward and fire both pistols at him. He will be seated on the right side, remember."

"And what part do you take?"

"We cover your retreat."

"Is it certain that this man has promised us a ship?"

"Yes, yes; an hour ago, when the fog lifted, I saw her standing off the shore. And a boat to take us to her is at this moment waiting at the spot arranged."

St. Just was horrified at what he heard. Clearly there was on foot a plot to assassinate the Emperor. What could he do to circumvent it? Not knowing where to find Napoleon, he could not warn him. He was an absolute stranger in the place, too. And no time was to be lost; for, so far as he could tell, the attack might be made at any moment. Certainly it was to be to-night. His agitation became terrible, while he vainly tried to puzzle out some plan of saving Napoleon's life. He was in a trap, for his only means of getting away from where he was, was by the steps, and these men were at the top. For a certainty they would know that he had overheard their conversation, when he should show himself, and, for their own safety, would attack him, in the hope of silencing him for ever. Doubtless he could secure his own safety by remaining where he was, until they should have gone. But then, the Emperor? He had come all the way from England on what he regarded as a sacred trust from Josephine, to help the Emperor to the utmost of his power, and, come what might, this time he would not betray his trust. He was periling his life in appearing before the Emperor; by facing the conspirators above, he would be but anticipating danger. And this he made up his mind to do. He would steal noiselessly up the steps, and, the moment he gained the top, without a word, he would fall upon these men. Two circumstances were in his favor--the start they would receive when he suddenly burst upon them; and the advantages that lay in striking the first blow. Besides this, he was convinced, by what he had overheard, that they were cowards.

Silently he removed his cloak, lest it should impede his movements, and laid it on the steps. Then he examined his pistols--they were double-barreled--to see that they were duly primed. Satisfied on this point, he placed one in the right breast pocket of his coat, so that his left hand could grasp it readily; and the other in a pocket in the skirt. Next, slowly and with the utmost care, lest the clink of metal should be heard, he withdrew his sword from the scabbard. Then, step by step and bending low, he crept up the flight of stairs, pausing at each to steady himself. No Red Indian bent on falling upon his enemy in his sleep could have moved more stealthily. He could still hear the men above him talking, but their tones were lower than before, and his mind was so intent on his own movements that he caught only a word or two now and then. So far as he could judge from the different intonations, three men were talking. But he had no fear. He had many faults, but want of courage, when it came to fighting, was not one of them. Besides, in the present instance, his opponents might be accounted as only two, for he would cut down one almost before they would know that they were attacked.

On, like a tiger crouching and dragging himself slowly towards his unsuspecting prey, he glided, mounting ever higher; until, at last, he was within three steps of the top. The restraint he had placed upon himself in his efforts to make no noise, scarce even to breathe, had made him short of breath; so he paused for a moment to regain it, preparatory to the rush he meditated.

It was a minute before he could breathe easily. Then, with a dash, he was at the top of the steps and rushing at the men. There were three of them, as he had thought, and they were standing about two yards from where he had landed, all close together and talking in low tones. There was no one else in sight. They started apart, on seeing him, with an exclamation of alarm; but he was on them almost before it had left their lips. There was a cry of pain, then a groan, as St. Just's swift weapon was withdrawn, and the man nearest to him lay writhing on the ground. The other two, seeing their companion fall and realizing the imminent peril they were in, unsheathed their daggers, and, in an instant almost, had rolled their cloaks round their left arms--they were hanging over them at the time, and by a rapid whirling movement of the wearers' arms, they were coiled round--and prepared to defend their lives. They felt it would be useless to attempt to fly. St. Just saw that he had all his work to do. They dodged about him with the activity of cats, always keeping at a safe distance, but now and then making feints at advancing, and one or the other continually trying to attack him from behind. He had to keep turning round, whirling his sword about the while, with such velocity that sometimes it seemed to be multiplied by three or four. He began to be apprehensive of the result, for the men were young and agile, and seemed to be untiring. So active were they, that he feared to attempt to withdraw his pistol, lest at that moment they should take him unawares. The fight had now been going on for several minutes, and St. Just's breath was failing him. He had not bargained for so sharp a contest. He could not last much longer. Becoming desperate at this reflection, he rushed frantically, with sword uplifted, at the nearest of his assailants, regardless of himself. But luck befriended him. In his hurry to avoid the sudden onslaught, the man struck his foot against something and lost his balance. Before he could recover it, St. Just's sword had reached him and inflicted an awful gash in his neck, that brought him to the ground. At the same instant St. Just felt a sharp pain in his left arm. Aiming at his back in the hope of striking his heart, the other man had missed the spot, owing to a movement on St. Just's part, so that the blow had descended on his arm. Feeling the smart, St. Just turned quickly. His assailant was too close for him to cut or pierce him with his sword, but he raised his hand and brought the hilt down on the man's head, with all his force. The man dropped like a stone.

St. Just was laboring painfully with his efforts, and he rested on his sword to take his breath and to think things out.

"The Emperor is saved for to-night," he gasped, when he was able to speak; "but it was tough work, I was nearly done for; I could not have held out much longer."

When he had recovered himself he went down the steps to regain his cloak. He threw it over his shoulders and went up again. Then, without heeding the prostrate men, and caring little whether they were alive or dead, he set off at a brisk walk, intending to make inquiries how he was to reach the Emperor.

He had just got beyond the precincts of the harbor, when he heard a step and saw a light approaching. The man who bore it came quickly on, and, in another minute, was close to him. A lantern was held up to him, and a face peered into his.

St. Just was dumfounded; the man was his old comrade, Garraud.

"Garraud! don't you know me?" he exclaimed. "I'm St. Just."

From his action, Garraud might have seen a specter. He started so violently that he dropped the lantern. Then, "My God! St. Just, is it really you?" he said, "I thought you dead. And what brings you here?"

St. Just told him of his errand from the dead Empress, and then went on to speak about the plot he had overheard, and how he had dealt with the conspirators.

"Heavens! what a narrow escape," cried Garraud. "We must alarm the guard at once, and seek for the others. There must be more in this affair than the three you have disposed of. You seem to be continually in adventures, my friend."

They walked away together, and, ten minutes later, a dozen Polish lancers were trotting quickly down the road by which the Emperor was expected, carrying a message from St. Just, confirmed by Garraud.

Then the two reunited friends made their way to the Palace, as the tumbledown building the Emperor occupied was called, where there was as much ceremony as had been observed at the Tuileries and Fontainebleau in the olden days.

Two hours later, St. Just was summoned to the Emperor's presence, being ushered in by General Bertrand.

The apartment was poorly furnished; the contrast to Fontainebleau struck St. Just with amazement. A few gilt chairs from the Tuileries were scattered about the room, serving merely to emphasize its bareness; in the center was a long trestle table, on which was spread a large map of the island; a small writing table stood in one corner, and along the side of a wall an old chintz-covered sofa. These completed all the furniture.

The Emperor at the moment of St. Just's entrance was standing before the fire-place, pressing down the blazing logs in it with his foot, a trick of his.

He was wearing a very old uniform of the Guards, his only decoration being the cross of the Legion of Honor; his boots were dirty, and, altogether, there was a general appearance of slovenliness about him. He was even paler than when St. Just had last seen him, and he looked anxious and dissatisfied. He had grown stouter, too. He was wearing his cocked hat, but it was pushed off from his brow, and was balanced on the back of his head. But, despite the deterioration in his appearance, there was still an air of majesty, and he had not lost his commanding mien.

As it had ever been with him in Napoleon's presence, St. Just felt awed, and, when the Emperor turned round, he knelt at his feet and kissed his hand.

"Rise, Sir, rise," said the great man sharply. "We look not for the ceremonial here that was the rule in France."

St Just rose to his feet. "I have the honor, Sire," he said, with great respect, "to be the bearer of information for your private ear."

"Go, Bertrand," said the Emperor instantly, without replying to St. Just. "Leave me with this gentleman; but remain within call." Then, when the Marshal had left the room, he continued to St. Just, "Now Sir! Your message must needs be pressing when you dare to present yourself to me, after what occurred when last we met. I have not forgotten that I have an account to settle with you. Methinks your courage exceeds your judgment."

This was not an encouraging reception, and while St. Just hesitated, he went on speaking in still sharper tones, "Come Sir, explain why you are here."

He paused for St. Just's reply, and began to pace the room impatiently.