Owing to the constant coming and going in the big hall, he attracted no attention when he came into it by one of its side entrances and took up a position near to a service door that gave on to the kitchen. In his hand he had, folded into a small thick triangle, the note he had written at the Drei Konige, and a twenty mark piece. As the waiter who. had been serving the General came by he plucked the man by the sleeve, gave him a quick glimpse of the coin and the note, and said in a low voice:
"I am a tradesman anxious to secure a share of the General's patronage. Do me the favour to give him this."
The man hesitated only a moment, then with a sudden grin he stuck the note in his cuff and pocketed the gold.
When he next emerged from the kitchen, carrying another load of platters, Roger followed his movements with a heavily pounding heart. He saw him place the note beside the General's plate, but for what seemed an eternity Pichegru did not appear to have even noticed it. At last he picked it up, opened it, and read the few lines that Roger had written, which ran:
Citizen General,
I am a partner in the firm of Fauche-Borel, booksellers and printers. I crave the distinction of being permitted to print such proclamations as Your Excellency may desire to issue to the people of Mannheim and its adjacent territories.
The die was cast. The name Fauche-Borel could not fail to register in the General's mind. In another minute he might order the arrest of the sender of the note or make an assignation with him.
As Roger watched he saw Citizen Representative Merlin lean towards Pichegru. There could be little doubt that he was enquiring the contents of the note, which, in his capacity as one of the Convention's watch-dogs, he was fully empowered to do.
It was at that moment that Roger saw Rewbell join the group. His heart seemed to jump into his throat, for Jean-Francois Rewbell was one of the old gang who had survived the fall of Robespierre. An Alsatian by birth, he had started life as a lawyer, had soon become a fanatical revolutionary, and had advocated many of the most ruthless measures of the Terror. He had already sent two Army Commanders back to Paris to be guillotined, and his shrewd, suspicious mind made him an expert at smelling out treachery.
To Roger's momentary relief the three men laughed at something one of them had said. Then Pichegru beckoned to the waiter who had brought the note. They both looked in Roger's direction, and the waiter began to walk towards him. His mouth went dry and again he was seized with near panic. Rewbell or Merlin might have found out that Fauche-Borel was a Royalist agent. If so Pichegru would have had no option but to save his own skin by sacrificing the bookseller's colleague. Perhaps they had laughed at the idea of his presenting himself there to be led out and shot There was still time to turn, slip through the nearest entrance and make a bolt for it Even with so short a lead, among the maze of staircases and corridors he might succeed in eluding pursuit and perhaps in the attics find a hiding-place until darkness increased his chance of getting away from the building unrecognized. His palms were moist and his feet itched to be on the move; but with a great effort of will he stood his ground until the waiter came up to him and said:
"The General says that if you'll wait in the outer hall, he'll try to find time to see you later."
Suppressing a gasp of relief, and still too internally wrought up to trust himself to speak, Roger nodded; then made his way out of the great noisy chamber.
When he reached a low archway that gave on to the hall, he looked anxiously through it; and was much relieved to see that the sergeant to whom he had told his story about the brothel had been relieved by another. Stationing himself in an out-of-the-way corner and taking out his handkerchief, he mopped his face with it. Gradually the beating of his heart eased and he tried to. persuade himself that his worst danger was over. But he could not be certain of that, as now that the offensive was going so well Pichegru might have decided against declaring for the Royalists, and, if he wished to strengthen his position with Rewball, the turning over of an émigré agent to a firing squad would be a cheap way of earning himself a good mark.
The time of waiting seemed to Roger interminable, and actually it was over two hours before a club-footed private came down the wide staircase opposite the main door, limped up to him, and asked;
"Are you the Citizen printer?"
On Roger replying that he was, the soldier took him upstairs to a suite of rooms on the second floor. The first was an ante-chamber and had the General's military equipment scattered about it. Pointing to a chair there, the soldier told him to sit down, and taking up a jackboot set to work polishing it.
Through an open doorway Roger could see the bedroom, which he guessed to be normally used by the Mayors of Mannheim when in residence at the Rathaus. It was furnished with a vast bed and other heavy, ugly pieces, and Roger could well imagine that many a fat German City Father had fallen into a drunken slumber there after doing the honours in the banqueting hall below.
Still racked with anxiety about what might follow his coming interview with Pichegru, Roger endured a further twenty minutes' wait; then, at last, the General strode into the room.
Charles Pichegru was the son of a labourer, but had been educated by the Church and sent to the military school at Brienne, after which he had become an artillery officer. The Revolution had given him his chance and he was one of the most brilliant Generals it had produced. After successful campaigns in '93 and '94 his conquest of Holland the preceding winter had made him the most outstanding of them all. He was a tail, fine looking man, possessed of enormous physical strength, and was now thirty-four.
Giving Roger a penetrating glance, he motioned him into the bedroom, followed him in, told his man that on no account was he to be disturbed, and swung the door shut.
"Now!’ he said without preamble. "Had your approach to me been only a little less subtle I would have had you taken straight out to a firing squad; and I may yet do so. Fauche-Borel has already endangered me more than enough by forcing himself upon me with wild-cat schemes that lack any concrete backing, and when last I saw him I told him if he pestered me again I would have him shot."
It was far from being a propitious opening, but Roger was on his mettle now and replied with a calmness that he was far from feeling: "Citizen General, 'tis because it has been realized in the highest quarters that Fauche-Borel was incompetent to handle such business lat I have been selected to replace him. I bring you a firm undertaking from His Royal Highness the Prince de Conde!'
The General's eyes narrowed slightly, and he asked: "Do you mean that the Prince has actually put his hand to the terms that I supposed Fauche-Borel to have invented in the hope of gulling me into declaring for the Royalists?"
"That I cannot say, but if these are they I scarcely think you can regard them as ungenerous." As Roger spoke he handed over the list of bribes that the Abbé Chenier had had signed by de Condé.
After reading slowly through them, Pichegru looked up and said: "These differ from those offered by Fauche-Borel only in that the sum to be paid in cash has been doubled."
Roger smiled. "Fauche-Borel acted only as the cat's-paw of a rogue named Montgalliard. It was he who inspired these negotiations, and as he handles many of de Condi's transactions, no doubt he counted on being nominated to make the payment, which would have enabled him to keep half the money for himself."
Sitting down in a huge arm-chair, Pichegru murmured: "The Prince's having sent me this document puts a very different complexion on matters."