The Sword of Islam

by Rafael Sabatini

  “Of what does he talk?” broke in the president, with a snarl of contempt. “What charge do you call unfounded? Tremble, fool, for the vengeance of the Nation is upon you. The man who came to you for bread was not the workman he seemed, but a spy sent out by this Committee. We heard of your refusal yesterday to accept an assig­nat, and mistrusting our informant — for how believe one whom was accounted a true patriot capable of so vile a conduct? — we sent an emissary of our own to-day to put you to the test.”

  Bonchatel smiled suavely, and suavely waved his hand, as if to put aside a trivial matter that vexed him not at all. “The falseness of the accusation you appear to have received against me is a matter which I shall have, I trust, no difficulty in making clear.”

  “Do so, then,” bellowed Scævola.

  “A moment, citizen. I would first have you appreciate the magnitude of the injustice whereof I am a victim, and I beseech you hear my complaint. Certain malevolent and slanderous persons of Rou­sil­lon have spread it abroad that the bread I sell is coarse, and my wines green and undrinkable. You may conceive, citizens, how distressing to me is this complaint, and how damaging to my trade, since my customers, having given ear to that slander, have conveyed their patronage elsewhere, and my trade is rapidly diminishing.”

  “How does this concern the assignat?” demanded Scævola im­patiently.

  “It does not; but it concerns me. It concerns a citizen of Rou­sillon, whom it is your sacred duty — as the trustees of the public safety and welfare — to protect. Now were I to have the voices of judges so impartial and honest as are you, and of so weighty an influence as is yours, citizens, to proclaim false those slanders, I should of a certainty confound my enemies and win back my customers.”

  “But the assignat?” roared Scævola.

  “Patience, Citizen President,” returned Bonchatel calmly; and the president, shrugging his shoulders in his despair, resigned himself to the baker’s irrepressible address.

  “Now, citizens,” pursued Bonchatel, “ere you can do me the justice I crave at your hands, you must satisfy yourselves that my complaint is not without grounds, and that my detractors have lied. For this there could be, citizens, no better occasion than the pre­sent, now that you are all here assembled. And to the end that you may pronounce judgment I invite you ail to sit down and taste my bread and my wine.”

  There was amongst that body of half-starved tatterdemalions a stir as of a breeze through a forest, and on more faces than one satisfaction was writ large. But Scævola had that vengeance of his too prominently in his mind to permit himself to be so readily allured — for all that his throat grew dry, no doubt, at the very name of wine.

  “This, citizen Bonchatel,” he announced with great firmness, “is a matter that we may pass on to discuss after we have settled the question of the assignat.”

  “Why, as for that trivial business,” rejoined the baker brazenly, “I had thought we might discuss it at table. Have no care, citizens; it is a slander I shall easily confute.”

  “But yes: at table,” cried one.

  “Assuredly these are things that may be best discussed over a meal,” protested another. And in the wake of these came other equally avid assents, born of their ill-fed condition and natural drought.

  Scævola swung round to face them with a snarl. “Name of a name, citizens,” he fumed, “are we to observe no rules of procedure? No, no —” (he waved his hands frantically in his search for the word), “no natural sequence?”

  “What need of it?” demanded one.

  “Why, yes,” put in another; “are we free men, or are we bound by the rules that bore the late tyrants to their destruction? The citizen desires our judgment upon his bread and wine; to refuse would be culpably to neglect our sacred duty to the Nation — it would be criminal, my friends. Why then delay it for the sake of a matter of twenty francs?”

  Bonchatel watched the struggle with eager eyes. A happy thought occurred to him to heighten the attractions of his board. “Amélie,” he called from the door leading to the interior, “bring that fine smoked ham from the kitchen, and the cold roast capon that was for our supper. Thus, citizens,” he said, turning to them again, “you will be better able to judge how my bread tastes and how my wine drinks when taken with proper viands.”

  For Scævola to rule them after that was an impossibility. He made the attempt, but at last tossed his arms to heaven in a gesture of helplessness and despair, as his committee tumbled pêle-mêle into the inner room, where a table was spread, bearing a dozen flasks of stout red wine, a basket of newly-baked bread, and an array of platters laden with pieces of capon and slices of succulent ham. Like a pack of famished wolves the Committee of Public Safety of Rousillon fell upon the fare provided, with never another thought for the business of the Republic and the rejected assignat which had been the cause of their coming.

  Scævola, however, as he passed in in the wake of his followers, found occasion to murmur through set teeth to Bonchatel, “For to-night you have tricked me, my friend, and you have gained a respite. To-morrow we will resume the matter of the assignat.”

  With a leer and a grim nod he passed on and took his place at table. And so, in the hour of his triumph, poor Bonchatel’s victory was dashed again with fear. In trepidation he approached me to whisper what had passed.

  It was half-past eight already. If by ten o’clock we could reduce that pack of sans-culottes — by my faith, the title applied to them almost literally — to a state of helpless intoxication, I had a notion that Bonchatel would be saved, not until the morrow only, but for all time.

  “Trust to me, Bonchatel,” said I, for I was sanguine of success, “and for your part see that they are well plied with wine — particularly our friend the president.”

  He looked at me inquiringly, but, taking my seat at table, I threw myself into the conversation, and saw to it that the president’s glass was ever at the brim. And so things fell out as I had hoped. The overfeeding of stomachs that were more accustomed to a mild starvation produced a torpor that was greatly aided by the wine. At half-past nine, when I rose from the table, I was — with the exception of Bonchatel himself — the only sober man present. Two members of the committee lay prone upon the board, snoring a hideous duet. Of the others, seven had slid from their chairs in quest of more ample quarters on the floor, whilst the eighth was still tippling bravely, and singing an old royalist song, for which he might have been guillotined had his companions been in a condition to have understood him. As for Scævola himself, his head was propped against the seat of his chair, and with legs thrust under the table he slept, peaceful as a babe.

  Enjoining Bonchatel on no account to disturb them till I should return, I repaired to the mairie. I roused the mayor and bade him hold himself in readiness to receive the Citizen-Deputy Robes­pierre, who might arrive at any moment.

  It was ten minutes after ten when a berline rattled down the street, pulling up at the mairie and depositing the slight, elegant figure of the great man of the Revolution — the incorruptible Maximilien Robespierre.

  “Captain Verignac?” he inquired; and when I had answered in the affirmative, he bade me follow him indoors.

  His letter had intimated to me that one of his motives for keeping secret the imminence of his visit was his desire to take the Committee of Public Safety by surprise. He was on a tour of inquiry, and by coming thus, unannounced, he was the better able to judge of the efficacy of the committees he inspected. It was upon his arrival at Rousillon that night that I had built, in suggesting to Bonchatel the plan he had adopted.

  “You are choicely arrived, citizen,” said I, with meaning em­phasis. He looked up, inquiry in his mild eyes. “If you are not fatigued, citizen, I would ask you to accompany me to a house close by. You will be able to see the Committee of Rousillon in a rather effective manner.”

  “Why, certainly I will go with you. I like taking these bodies unawares. Are they sitting?”

  “I left mo
st of them lying, citizen,” said I. “But you shall judge.”

  He took up the cloak he had doffed, and came with me, firing questions as we went, which I avoided, lest I should rob him of some of the shock that awaited him. I knocked softly on Bonchatel’s door, and the baker came, himself, to open.

  “Are they here?” I inquired.

  “Yes, and likely to be till morning,” he answered, as he admitted us, and never dreaming who it was came with me.

  By the door of the inner room I paused, and turning to Robes­pierre — “In there, citizen, you will find the Committee of Rou­sillon at the business of the Nation in the manner in which it understands this business. Behold these patriots!” And throwing wide the door, I stepped aside that he might enter.

  Amidst a chaos of empty bottles, fallen platters, broken glasses, and swinish sleepers, stood the Incorruptible in silence for some moments, his long, curious nose up-tilted, sniffing the air of that orgie chamber. Then he waved a daintily laced wrist towards those sans-culottes.

  “Is this — is this the Committee?”

  “It is, citizen — and I have the honour to present to you its president.”

  “This is no occasion for flippancy,” he said, in cold reproof.

  “I am not flippant,” I cried — “I am afire with indignation.”

  “Is this the wonted method of their meetings?” he inquired.

  “It would be a curious coincidence that it should be an exceptional one on the very night of your arrival at Rousillon, would it not?”

  My evasion convinced him.

  “Whose house is this?” he asked.

  “That of Citizen Bonchatel, a baker upon whom I am billeted — which is how I come to know of this affair.”

  He looked up in surprise. “But how come they here?”

  “Ah! that is the most outrageous characteristic of the whole affair. They came hither on a trumped-up matter of an assignat to institute an inquiry. This is how they discharge that duty. They have drunk an ocean of poor Bonchatel’s wine.”

  A gleam of indignation flashed from his eye. “So! A matter of pretext to plunder a peaceable citizen,” said he, catching at my insinuation. “Nothing less than tyranny.”

  “What else?” quoth I.

  “We will soon set matters right. It were a pity to rouse them now. Have the National Guard called, and let them wake in prison. The new president of the new committee can deal with them upon a charge of negligence to the sacred interests of the Republic, and abuse of the position they occupied under it. What manner of man is this Bonchatel?”

  I gave him a list of my host’s virtues which more than satisfied him.

  “I will see to it that he is appointed to the vacant presidency. It is well to have men of the people who are yet trustworthy. It emphasizes the new laws of equality, and shows also how virtue and merit may win any man promotion. To-morrow we will elect a fresh committee also.”

  When I returned from accompanying Robespierre back to the mairie, where he was to spend the night, I found that the National Guard had already executed his orders, and that the late Comité de Salut Public was sleeping itself sober in gaol. Bonchatel I found surveying the room wherein they had supped with sorrowful eyes.

  “By my faith, Captain,” he exclaimed, “I had been better ad­vised had I taken that assignat.”

  “What now?” I asked, surprised.

  “It would have been no more than a matter of twenty francs, whilst they have drunk more than I can reckon with dry eyes.”

  “But, sacré nom!” quoth I, “you forget that you are saved from Scævola’s toils and made President of the Committee of Rousillon in his place — practically you are the ruler of Rousillon.”

  “True,” said he whimsically; “which means that I must now become a true patriot and a true republican, no matter what my feelings. Soit!” he sighed. “I think we might make a fair beginning by sending Scævola to the national barber.”

  THE BLACKMAILER

  Boscawen, dressed for dinner, stood, a tall, graceful figure of a man, before the fire in his study, one foot resting upon the fender. The room was in darkness save for the glow of the fire, which played ruddily over the man’s clear-cut, resolute face and abundant, prematurely whitened hair.

  Somewhere in the flat an electric bell trilled briskly. He stirred at the sound, and looked at his watch, holding it to catch the firelight. Steps approached, muffled by the thick carpet in the corridor. He moved to the switch, and turned up the lights as the door opened.

  “Mr. Loane, Sir,” Smith announced. And — like the perfect servant that he was — observing, the surprised jerk of Boscawen’s head and the shade of annoyance that crossed his face, he was quick to add: “Mr. Loane, Sir, said that you were expecting him.”

  The visitor thrust past him into the room. “To be sure you were expecting me, weren’t you?” he blustered, to dissemble his doubts of the reception that might await him; and he proffered his hand to Boscawen.

  Boscawen looked at the hand, looked at the man’s coarse, bloated face under the opera-hat which he had not troubled to remove, and then looked at Smith, dismissing him with a glance. The servant vanished, considerably perturbed.

  Loane continued to proffer his hand. Boscawen looked at it again, critically. It was a fatter hand than one would have expected from the general build of the man. It was yellowish in tint, and the skin was slightly crinkled; there were diamonds on two of its fingers. It reminded Boscawen unpleasantly of a jeweled toad.

  “What do you expect me to do with that?” he inquired, coldly offensive.

  Loane flushed to his eyes, withdrew his hand at last, and ut­tered a sneering laugh to save his countenance.

  “So that’s your tone, then,” said he. “What do I expect you to do with it?” He laughed shortly. “Well, that’s for you to say. It can make or break you.”

  “Have you intruded here to tell me that?” wondered Boscawen, ice-cold in his anger. “Do you propose to recommence yesterday’s arguments? I thought that we understood each other.”

  “Now, that’s just what we don’t do,” said Loane; and, uninvited, dropped into an armchair.

  “As much as is necessary, at least,” Boscawen countered, and looked at his watch again. “I am afraid you are detaining me, Mr. Loane. I am dining out.”

  “Oh. Tosh!” said Loane elegantly. “That’s not the way to come to terms.”

  “I’m not concerned to come to terms. I imagined that I made myself perfectly plain to you yesterday. You are at liberty to proceed in any way that commends itself to you. I don’t see that there is anything to be gained by prolonging this interview.” And with that Boscawen moved towards the bell. Loane thrust out a hand precipitately to restrain him.

  “Now, don’t be hasty,” he implored. He considered Boscawen a moment with raised eyebrows, in a patient, tolerant fashion. “I am disposed to be more reasonable than I was yesterday — a deal more reasonable.”

  Despite himself, despite his nature and his resolve, Boscawen paused; nor could he entirely repress a gleam of interest from his eyes. Observing this, Loane followed up the advantage which he conceived that he had won. He threw back his dress overcoat, revealing a white expanse of shirt and pique waistcoat underneath, garlanded by a massive watch-chain.

  “Now, listen to me a moment. I’ve been looking into your affairs, and it has become plain to me now that you couldn’t afford the price I asked yesterday. If I’d known as much then, I shouldn’t have pressed you so hard. I don’t want to ruin you, you know. All I want is to — well to —”

  “To levy as much blackmail as you can,” Boscawen suggested evenly.

  The other scowled an instant, then smiled almost wistfully.

  “Ah, well, words break no bones, you know. But all the same, I don’t think there’s any call for you to be unpleasant.”

  “Oh, none at all,” Boscawen agreed. “When a perfect blackguard, such as yourself, who has served a term of imprisonment for fraud, and
who has been expelled from a third-rate London club for cheating at cards, attempts to blackmail me, there cannot of course be the least possible occasion for me to be unpleasant. I must apologise, Mr. Loane, if my reception of you appears to lack that warmth to which your social status and your lofty attainments entitle you.”

  “If you think sarcasm’s going to help you,” said Loane, flushing heavily, “you’re mistaken. I am a patient man. Mr. Boscawen, but you mustn’t suppose that there are no limits to my patience.”

  “Why not? Since you appear to suppose that there are no limits to mine!” flashed Boscawen. “Come, Mr. Loane, I think you might be better employed else where.”

  Loane rose heavily, his anger mastering him for a moment.

  “I think so myself,” said he shortly. “But don’t blame me afterwards.” Then he recovered his impermeability to insult, and checked in the act of buttoning his overcoat. “I wish you had been reasonable,” he said softly. “I want to behave well to you in this. It’s no pleasure to me to hurt your interests. I give you my word of honour it isn’t.”

  “With such security, who would not trust you?” wondered Boscawen.

  “Very well,” snapped Loane. “Since you are determined to be offensive, I’ll say no more.”

  He turned as if to go; Boscawen advanced another step towards the bell. Then Loane checked again.

  “Come now, Mr. Boscawen,” he resumed in a wheedling tone. “Say five thousand pounds, and the letters are yours. Five thousand pounds — a thousand pounds a letter. Now that’s reasonable, I’m sure.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Boscawen agreed with him. “You should know the value of the wares you trade in. But I am — not dealing with you, Mr. Loane.”

  “Why, it’s only half what I was asking yesterday. And I wouldn’t have come down a penny if it weren’t that I don’t want to go and break off this marriage of yours and spoil your chances in life.”