Page 64 of The Count’s Charade

“Yes, I believe! I believe that you find yourself at point non plus, that you must take either the dangerous procedure to kill me in this room, or make me this farce of an offer that you may kill me at your leisure. No, Jean-Marc, I do not take one step in the company of a man who betrays his own kind.”

The face of his enemy changed, his lip curling upwards in a species of snarl. “And your hands are clean, I suppose?”

“In this regard, yes. If I have dirtied them, it was not to turn upon my own.”

“Your own, let us say, Citizen Rousselle. I have disowned them.”

Despite everything, the avowal shocked Henri. “Bon dieu, but if your father could hear you!”

Jean-Marc spat comprehensively, a purely republican gesture. “He was of the old regime. They are gone, and not to be regretted.”

Disgust began to erode the last seeds of this erstwhile friendship. Henri desired only to terminate all contact with this man. But there was still question.

“How have you persuaded Etienne and Augustin to dance to your tune? By the same form of blackmail? Or will you tell me they also have had a change of heart? Is it to them I am indebted for those failures in our schemes, where we all four rack our brains to find out how our plans have become known?”

A derisive laugh this time. “Ah, you have worked that out? No, citizen. I take to myself each little success in foiling such plans.” A glance to the door, and Jean-Marc lowered his voice as he turned back, triumph within it. “But our compatriots very soon discovered where lay their interests, when they understood I had obeyed Citizen Robespierre’s instructions and meant to indict you for a royalist.”

Henri could not withstand a sickness at heart. Fine friends he had! Worse than Jean-Marc. They had not turned their coats for a reversal of political belief, but to save their own skins. Even this paled beside the crowning insult of Jean-Marc’s betrayal. If Henri was to die, let him do so having made it clear to this fiend that he knew him for what he was.

“Let us be frank, Jean-Marc. Robespierre had not a thought to investigate me until you put it into his head. You have told me your motive, but I have a brain, mon brave.”

“Ah, yes?” Loriot was mocking now. “Say on, citizen.”

Henri took a step into the room and faced him. “You talk of sacrifices. I am one, am I not? We all have been royalists, Jean-Marc, faithful to the Bourbon cause, working from within to save those we could from the threat of the guillotine.”

The pistol was lifted, and hardness sounded in the man’s tone. “I have no memory of this.”

“Do not play games! Remember that I know you of old. We were boys together, Jean-Marc.”

“I repeat,” stated Loriot, with arrogance, “I have no memory of this.”

“No, for you dare not remember.” The fury ripped out, scorching Henri’s veins. “You made of me your scapegoat, Jean-Marc. To Robespierre you indicted me as a royalist, for only by this could you save yourself. So live on, mon ami, at my expense, and may your conscience plague you!”

On the words, Henri threw himself suddenly forward, plunging into Jean-Marc’s body so that they fell together, thumping loudly to the bedchamber floor. His enemy’s shocked grunt gave Henri intense satisfaction, despite the instant ache set up in his shoulder. He ignored it, feeling for Jean-Marc’s pistol hand and grabbing it at the wrist. Pushing the man’s arm upwards, he banged the hand on the floor. A howl of pain and rage erupted. Jean-Marc’s fingers opened and the pistol flew away across the bare boards.

Henri knew he had insufficient strength to win, and already the enemy’s free hand was clawing at his hair, seizing a hank in a strong fist. Retaining a desperate hold upon Jean-Marc’s flailing wrist, knowing his injured arm must give way too quickly, Henri grappled towards the man’s face, shoving his chin back with all his might.

Jean-Marc bucked violently at the hip, throwing Henri off so that his grip slackened. Bringing his other hand across, Henri grabbed the man’s arm, tugging him two-handed in a direction away from where the pistol had clattered across the floor, trying at the same time to ignore the painful wrenching at his hair.

Loriot threw back his head and yelled out. “À moi! Augustin, à moi!”

Feeling time slipping away, Henri knew thunder in his mind. Letting go suddenly of Jean-Marc’s arm, he seized instead his head between both hands and brought it down on the wooden floor with a crack. Henri knew the man was dazed, although he could feel Jean-Marc’s hands weakly pushing at his wrists.

The sound of the opening door drove Henri to struggle up, scrambling over the man on the floor and flinging himself towards the corner where he thought the pistol had fallen. Hunting desperately, he threw a frantic glance towards the clatter of feet and the grunting protests in the voices of men. Someone was moving towards him. Henri struggled up, flattening himself against the wall, and lifted his clenched fists. They would not take him down without a fight!

“Now there ain’t no need to go a-fighting o’ me, sir,” protested an English voice he recognised.

Panting, Henri stared at the tall figure, taking in its hawk-like expression. The excise officer! How had he come here? Henri lowered his fists, but kept them curled into makeshift weapons.

“That’s better, sir. Easy does it. Don’t you fret none, for Mayberry has got t’other overpowered.”

Looking past him, Henri saw Jean-Marc — chagrin in his face and one hand held to his head — captive in the hands of the burly parish officer. Relief swamped him, and he staggered to the bed, falling on it in a state of semi-collapse. For several sickening moments, he could do nothing but lie there, recovering his breath, vaguely aware of voices in the room. He felt bruised and battered, and his shoulder was aching badly.

Someone was moving his legs, shifting him on to the bed. He settled back with a sigh and opened his eyes. “Merci.”

Wooferton was standing above him, a frown in his face. There was no sign of Mayberry or Jean-Marc.

“I should’ve come in earlier, sir,” came from the man apologetically, “only I didn’t know as the fellow would start a mill in here.”