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Updated: May 18, 2025
Then she moved away to the music, an exquisite figure, the personification of all that was alluring in her sex. Violet leaned forward to watch her movements as she plunged into the first dance. Peter was occupied looking round the house. Monsieur Guillot was there, sitting insolently forward in his box, sleek and immaculate. He even waved his hand and bowed as he met Peter's eye.
The fact is that the great revolutionary geniuses, who were not malicious, that is incontestable, who were heroes, pardi! found that Andre Chenier embarrassed them somewhat, and they had him guillot . . . that is to say, those great men on the 7th of Thermidor, besought Andre Chenier, in the interests of public safety, to be so good as to go . . ."
Finally he saw the whole scheme complete, the bomb-shell thrown, France hysterically casting laurels upon the man who had brought her unexpected peace. The door-bell rang. He answered it a little impatiently. A slim, fashionably dressed young Frenchman stood there, whose face was vaguely familiar to him. "Monsieur Guillot?" the newcomer inquired politely. Guillot bowed.
"Five minutes to eleven, I believe, Monsieur Guillot," Peter declared. "I win by an hour and five minutes." Guillot said nothing for several seconds. After all, though, he had great gifts. He recovered alike his power of speech and his composure. "These gentlemen," he said, pointing with his left hand towards the inner room. "I do not understand their presence in my apartments."
Monsieur Guillot echoed incredulously. "But there is some mistake." "No mistake, I assure you," the young man insisted. Monsieur Guillot drew back a little into the room. "But what have I to do with the Ambassador, or with diplomatic matters of any sort?" he protested. "I am here on business, to see what can be saved from the wreck of my affairs.
If the Chief could find little to say to Monsieur Guillot of Lille, he will, I am sure, be very interested in a short conversation with Monsieur Henri Pailleton." There was a brief, tense silence. The man who had called himself Guillot was transformed. The dreams which had uplifted him a few minutes ago, had passed. He was living very much in the present an ugly and foreboding present.
"Really, you do seem to know a good deal," Peter confessed. "I find myself still fencing," Dory declared. "A matter of habit, I suppose. I didn't mean to when I came. I made up my mind to tell you simply that Guillot was in London, and to ask you if you could help me to get rid of him." Peter looked thoughtfully into his companion's face, but he did not speak.
With one word she made her donkey go faster, then turning to the left she inquired for the Guillot Field. If everyone knew where it was situated, no two were of the same opinion as to which road she should take to get there, and several times, in trying to follow the various directions which were given to her, she lost her way. At last she found the place for which she was looking.
Husband and wife are now watching at the window. The good Fieldens, with a coach full of children, are expected, every moment, on a week's visit at least. In the cafe in the Boulevard du Temple sit Pierre Guillot, the Chouan, and another of the old band of brigands whom George Cadoudal had mustered in Paris.
"The man who was at its head when it existed. The criminal department, as you know, has all been done away with. The Double-Four has now no more concern with those who break the law, save in those few instances where great issues demand it." "But Monsieur Guillot still exists?" "He not only exists," answered Peter, "but he is here in London, a rebel and a defiant one.
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