Politics were, of course, discussed; the tyranny of the sections,
the slavery that this free Republic had brought on its citizens.
The names of the chief personages of the day were all mentioned in
turns Focquier-Tinville, Santerre, Danton, Robespierre. Heron and
his sleuth-hounds were spoken of with execrations quickly
suppressed, but of little Capet not one word.
Blakeney could not help but infer that Chauvelin, Heron and the
commissaries in charge were keeping the escape of the child a
secret for as long as they could.
He could hear nothing of Armand's fate, of course. The arrest--if
arrest there had been--was not like to be bruited abroad just now.
Blakeney having last seen Armand in Chauvelin's company, whilst he
himself was moving the Simons' furniture, could not for a moment
doubt that the young man was imprisoned,--unless, indeed, he was
being allowed a certain measure of freedom, whilst his every step
was being spied on, so that he might act as a decoy for his chief.
At thought of that all weariness seemed to vanish from Blakeney's
powerful frame. He set his lips firmly together, and once again
the light of irresponsible gaiety danced in his eyes.
He had been in as tight a corner as this before now; at Boulogne
his beautiful Marguerite had been used as a decoy, and twenty-four
hours later he had held her in his arms on board his yacht the
Day-Dream. As he would have put it in his own forcible
language:
"Those d--d murderers have not got me yet."
The battle mayhap would this time be against greater odds than
before, but Blakeney had no fear that they would prove
overwhelming.
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