discussing plans for surreptitiously entering a man’s room and committing larceny, which in normal times would entail, if discovered, a long term of imprisonment, but which, in these days, in Paris, and perpetrated against a member of the National Assembly, would certainly be punished by death.
IV
Citizen Rondeau, whose business it was to look after the creature comforts of deputy Heriot, was standing in the antichambre facing the two visitors whom he had just introduced into his master’s apartments, and idly turning a couple of gold coins over and over between his grimy fingers.
“And mind, you are to see nothing and hear nothing of what goes on in the next room,” said the taller of the two strangers; “and when we go there’ll be another couple of louis for you. Is that understood?”
“Yes! it’s understood,” grunted Rondeau sullenly; “but I am running great risks. The citizen-deputy sometimes returns at ten o’clock, but sometimes at nine…. I never know.”
“It is now seven,” rejoined the other; “we’ll be gone long before nine.”
“Well,” said Rondeau surlily, “I go out now for my supper. I’ll return in half an hour, but at half-past eight you must clear out.”
Then he added with a sneer:
“Citizens Legros and Desgas usually come back with deputy Heriot of nights, and citizens Jeanniot and Bompard come in from next door for a game of cards. You wouldn’t stand much chance if you were caught here.”
“Not with you to back up so formidable a quintette of stalwarts,” assented the tall visitor gaily. “But we won’t trouble about that just now. We have a couple of hours before us in which to do all that we want. So au revoir, friend Rondeau…two more louis for your complaisance, remember, when we have accomplished our purpose.”
Rondeau muttered something more, but the two strangers paid no further heed to him; they had already walked to the next room, leaving Rondeau in the antichambre.
Sir Percy Blakeney did not pause in the sitting-room where an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling threw a feeble circle of light above the centre table. He went straight through to the bedroom. Here, too, a small lamp was burning which only lit up a small portion of the room— the writing-desk and the oak chest—leaving the corners and the alcove, with its partially drawn curtains, in complete shadow.
Blakeney pointed to the oak chest and to the desk.
“You tackle the chest, Ffoulkes, and I will go for the desk,” he said quietly, as soon as he had taken a rapid survey of the room. “You have your tools?”
Ffoulkes nodded, and anon in this squalid room, ill-lit, ill-ventilated, barely furnished, was presented one of the most curious spectacles of these strange and troublous times: two English gentlemen, the acknowledged dandies of London drawing-rooms, busy picking locks and filing hinges like any common house-thieves.
Neither of them spoke, and a strange hush fell over the room—a hush only broken by the click of metal against metal, and the deep breathing of the two men bending to their task. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was working with a file on the padlocks of the oak chest, and Sir Percy Blakeney, with a bunch of skeleton keys, was opening the drawers of the writing-desk. These, when finally opened, revealed nothing of any importance; but when anon Sir Andrew was able to lift the lid of the oak chest, he disclosed an innumerable quantity of papers and documents tied up in neat bundles, docketed and piled up in rows and tiers to the very top of the chest.
“Quick to work, Ffoulkes,” said Blakeney, as in response to his friend’s call he drew a chair forward and, seating himself beside the chest, started on the task of looking through the hundreds of bundles which lay before him. “It will take us all our time to look through these.”
Together now the two men set to work—methodically and quietly—piling up on the floor beside them the bundles of papers which they had
IV
Citizen Rondeau, whose business it was to look after the creature comforts of deputy Heriot, was standing in the antichambre facing the two visitors whom he had just introduced into his master’s apartments, and idly turning a couple of gold coins over and over between his grimy fingers.
“And mind, you are to see nothing and hear nothing of what goes on in the next room,” said the taller of the two strangers; “and when we go there’ll be another couple of louis for you. Is that understood?”
“Yes! it’s understood,” grunted Rondeau sullenly; “but I am running great risks. The citizen-deputy sometimes returns at ten o’clock, but sometimes at nine…. I never know.”
“It is now seven,” rejoined the other; “we’ll be gone long before nine.”
“Well,” said Rondeau surlily, “I go out now for my supper. I’ll return in half an hour, but at half-past eight you must clear out.”
Then he added with a sneer:
“Citizens Legros and Desgas usually come back with deputy Heriot of nights, and citizens Jeanniot and Bompard come in from next door for a game of cards. You wouldn’t stand much chance if you were caught here.”
“Not with you to back up so formidable a quintette of stalwarts,” assented the tall visitor gaily. “But we won’t trouble about that just now. We have a couple of hours before us in which to do all that we want. So au revoir, friend Rondeau…two more louis for your complaisance, remember, when we have accomplished our purpose.”
Rondeau muttered something more, but the two strangers paid no further heed to him; they had already walked to the next room, leaving Rondeau in the antichambre.
Sir Percy Blakeney did not pause in the sitting-room where an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling threw a feeble circle of light above the centre table. He went straight through to the bedroom. Here, too, a small lamp was burning which only lit up a small portion of the room— the writing-desk and the oak chest—leaving the corners and the alcove, with its partially drawn curtains, in complete shadow.
Blakeney pointed to the oak chest and to the desk.
“You tackle the chest, Ffoulkes, and I will go for the desk,” he said quietly, as soon as he had taken a rapid survey of the room. “You have your tools?”
Ffoulkes nodded, and anon in this squalid room, ill-lit, ill-ventilated, barely furnished, was presented one of the most curious spectacles of these strange and troublous times: two English gentlemen, the acknowledged dandies of London drawing-rooms, busy picking locks and filing hinges like any common house-thieves.
Neither of them spoke, and a strange hush fell over the room—a hush only broken by the click of metal against metal, and the deep breathing of the two men bending to their task. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was working with a file on the padlocks of the oak chest, and Sir Percy Blakeney, with a bunch of skeleton keys, was opening the drawers of the writing-desk. These, when finally opened, revealed nothing of any importance; but when anon Sir Andrew was able to lift the lid of the oak chest, he disclosed an innumerable quantity of papers and documents tied up in neat bundles, docketed and piled up in rows and tiers to the very top of the chest.
“Quick to work, Ffoulkes,” said Blakeney, as in response to his friend’s call he drew a chair forward and, seating himself beside the chest, started on the task of looking through the hundreds of bundles which lay before him. “It will take us all our time to look through these.”
Together now the two men set to work—methodically and quietly—piling up on the floor beside them the bundles of papers which they had
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