Meanwhile, blow after blow resounded on the door. The bolt and hinges held, out the upper panels began to splinter. One of the men out mere had found the chopper Lucette had dropped and was hacking at them with it; another was battering at them with a musket butt. Desperately, Roger's eyes roved round the moonlit room seeking for something he could use to prise the end of one of the bars from its socket. Floor, walls, and rafters were bare, but at one side of the room there was a narrow chimney piece and small grate. Running to it he strove to wrench the grate out in the hope that he might smash the bars loose with it. Again he met with disappointment; it was built into the fireplace.
The upper part of the door was now smashed in. Beyond it, a suggestion of yellow light showed that when removing the man whom Roger had kicked under the chin, his comrades had found and relit the candles down in the studio. As Roger stared apprehensively at the great jagged hole in the door the muzzle of a musket was thrust through it, and Peltier's hoarse voice ordered him to stand back. He retreated to the partly-open window. Alongside the musket appeared an arm, then the head of the ginger-haired soldier. Leaning through the opening he found the bolt and drew it back. The wrecked door, now loose on its hinges, was forced open. Peltier and his two remaining men came clumping into the room, followed by Fouchg.
"Nah we got 'im!" the Corporal, still wheezing from his exertions against the door, gasped exultantly. "An' I'm fer makin' short work of 'im. 'E's near killed one of our chaps; an' we didn't stand fer that from aristos in the good days."
Real fear suddenly gripped Roger's heart. Peltier's harsh voice held a ring that recalled to him some of the worst scenes that he had been compelled to witness during the Terror. Its fierce, breathless note was that of the born sans-culotte wrought up to fever pitch by a man hunt; and lusting for blood.
"What d'yer say, Citizen?" Peltier looked eagerly across at Fouché. "Shall I put a bullet in 'im?"
Roger's glance, too, switched to Fouché. In the lean corpse-like face, now more pallid than ever in the moonlight, there was no trace of mercy; only apparent indifference. He meant to take no responsibility for the deed, but would be glad to see it done. To the Corporal's question he returned only a faint smile and a just perceptible shrug of le shoulders.
That was enough for Peltier. With deliberate care he cocked his musket.
"Stop him!" shouted Roger. "Stop him." But Fouché made no move to do so, and the two guardsmen stood looking on as though hypnotized.
Roger had dropped the broken haft of his sword-cane a second before he had grasped and overturned the table, but it suddenly flashed into his mind that he still had Lucette's stiletto stuck in the top of his jack-boot. Stooping, as Peltier raised his musket to take aim, he whipped the long thin dagger out. He was no practised knife thrower, but he hurled it with all his force at the Corporal's head.
In its swift flight the weight of the stiletto's hilt caused it to turn over one and a half times. Too late Peltier attempted to duck it. He was handicapped by having his musket held up against his bristly chin. And luck aided Roger's aim. The blunt-pointed hilt of the dagger struck him full in the left eye, smashing it to a pulp.
With a screech of agony he dropped his musket. It went off with a shattering bang. Its bullet thudded harmlessly into the peeling plaster of the wall. Through the acrid smoke of the discharge Roger saw the Corporal clap his hands to his bleeding face and stagger back. Next moment he lurched and sank, a whimpering, gibbering bundle against the smashed door.
Fouché's face fell, showing his disappointment that the blood lust of the ex sans-culotte had not, once and for all, made an end of Roger for him. But he still had complete control of the situation. Turning swiftly to the nearer of the two guardsmen he asked:
"Is your musket loaded and primed?"
"Yes, Citizen," came the quick reply. "I saw to it after we had carried our injured comrade out to the coach."
"Then give it to me." Fouché took the weapon as he spoke, and added: "Now pick up the Corporal's musket. Both of you; get him downstairs and out to the coach with the other man. You are then to return and guard the front door. Should the Englishman get past me and endeavour to escape, you are to shoot him on sight."
With a muttered acknowledgment of the order, the nearest man picked up the musket; then together they took the moaning Corporal by the arms, pulled him to his feet, and half-led, half-dragged him to the stairs. As they struggled down with him, Fouché, now holding the musket at the ready, said to Roger in a voice that was all the more menacing from its complete lack of emotion:
"I would have preferred to have seen you shot, rather than shoot you. It seems though that I am left with no option but to put a bullet into you myself."
Seized anew with fear of the fate he thought he had just escaped, Roger cried: "You'll have to answer for it if you do."
"Oh no! You are quite wrong about that." A mocking smile twitched at Fouché's pale lips. "Had I killed you in my house I might have had some explaining to do; but that does not apply here. There has been a melee. Two of the Directory's Guard have been seriously injured. One musket has been fired already, another might easily go off in a moment of excitement. You are an English spy. After being arrested, you attempted to escape. What could be more simple. And think of the trouble it will save me."
A cold sweat had broken out on Roger's forehead. His hands were clenched so that the nails bit into his palms. Fouché's voice came again. Raising the musket to breast level he asked with cynical politeness:
"Would you prefer that I should shoot you through the head, or through the heart?"
He was standing against the opposite wall, ten paces away from Roger. Any attempt to rush him would have been hopeless. But Roger's wits were working overtime, and he still had a dice in the box that gave him a sporting chance. Pulling Josephine's diary from his pocket, and clutching it tightly, he thrust his arm out of the open window behind him. Then he said:
"Shoot me if you will, but I can't believe that you are quite such a fool. As I drop to the floor the diary will drop into the river and be lost forever. Downstairs, a few minutes back, you were cursing Madame Remy for having surrendered it to me. You said that had she kept it hidden it might yet have meant big money for you both; and I know what you were thinking. It was that being a mulatto she would survive transportation; and that with her and yourself both put out of the way on the orders of Barras, Madame de Beauharnais would believe herself safe to marry her General. And you were right. Barras is anxious for the match to take place; so he will not undeceive her. Neither will I. That must be obvious to you from the fact that I have been working to bring the marriage about. If, then, you still have the diary, you have only to be patient The marriage will take place. Later you can inform General Buonaparte of the diary's contents and threaten him with its publication. To prevent that he will pay you practically anything you like to ask."