 Book 11, Chapter 2, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. But no feeling of discomfort ever lasted very long with Citizen Turniphor. He was a person of vast resource and great buoyancy of temperament. True, he had not apprehended two exceedingly noxious aristos as he had hoped to do, but he held the threads of an abominable conspiracy in his hands, and the question of catching both Burtine and Madame Lacombe Tess red-handed was only a question of time. But little time had been lost. There was always someone to be found at the offices of the Committee of Public Safety, which were open all night. It was possible that Citizen Chauva would be still there, for he often took on the night shift, or else Citizen Gordon. It was Gordon who greeted his subordinate, somewhat ill-humoredly, for he was indulging in a little sleep, with his toes turned to the fire, as the night was so damp and cold. But when he heard Turniphor's story, he was all eagerness and zeal. It is, of course, too late to do anything now, he said finally, after he had mastered every detail of the man's adventures in the Rue des Paradis. But get together half a dozen men upon whom you can rely, and by six o'clock in the morning, or even five, we'll be on our way to Gentilly. Citizen Chauva was only sane to-day that he strongly suspected the seat of encomptes de Susse of having left the bulk of her valuable jewellery at the château, and that she would make some effort to get possession of it. It would be rather fine, Citizen Turniphor, he added with a chuckle. If you and I could steal a march on Citizen Chauva after this affair, what? He has been extraordinarily arrogant of late and marvelously in favour, not only with the committee, but with Citizen Robespierre himself. They say, commented Turniphor, that he succeeded in getting hold of some papers which were of great value to the members of the committee. He never succeeded in getting hold of that meddlesome Englishman whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel, was Gordon's final dry comment. Thus was the matter decided on, and the following morning a daybreak, Gordon, who was only a subordinate officer on the Committee of Public Safety, took it upon himself to institute a perquisition in the château of Gentilly, which is situated close to the commune of that name. He was accompanied by his friend Turniphor, and a gang of half a dozen Ruffians recruited from the most disreputable cabarets of Paris. The intention had been to steal a march on Citizen Chauva, who had been over-arrogant of late, but the result did not come up to expectations. By midday the château had been ransacked from attic to cellar, every kind of valuable property had been destroyed, priceless works of art irretrievably damaged. But priceless works of art had no market in Paris these days, and the property of real value, the Susy Diamonds, namely, which had excited the cupidity or the patriotic wrath of Citizen's Gordon and Turniphor, could nowhere be found. To make this situation more deplorable still, the Committee of Public Safety had, in some unexplainable way, got wind of the affair, and the two worthys had the mortification of seeing Citizen Chauva presently appear upon the scene. It was then two o'clock in the afternoon. Gordon, after he had snatched a hasty dinner at a neighbouring cabaret, had returned to the task of pulling the château of Gentilly about his own ears if need be, with view to finding the concealed treasure. For the nonce he was standing in the centre of the finely proportioned hall. The rich ormleau and crystal chandelier lay in a tangled, broken heap of scraps at his feet, and all around there was a confused medley of pictures, statuettes, silver ornaments, tapestry and brocade hangings, all piled up in disorder, smashed, tattered, kicked at now and then by Gordon, to the accompaniment of a savage oath. The house itself was full of noises, heavy footsteps tramping up and down the stairs, furniture turned over, curtains torn from their poles, doors and windows battered in, and through it all the ceaseless hammering of pick and axe attacking these stately walls which had withstood the wars and sieges of centuries. Every now and then, Turniphor, his face perspiring in crimson with exertion, would present himself at the door of the hall. Gordon would query gruffly, Well? and the answer was invariably the same. Nothing. Then Gordon would swear again and send curt orders to continue the search relentlessly, ceaselessly. Leave no stone upon stone, he commanded. Those diamonds must be found. We know they are here and name of a dog I mean to have them. When Chauvois arrived at the chateau he made no attempt at first to interfere with Gordon's commands, only on one occasion he remarked curtly, I suppose, citizen Gordon, that you can trust your search-party? Absolutely, retorted Gordon. A finer patriot than Turniphor does not exist. Probably, rejoined the other dryly, but what about the men? Oh, they are only a set of barefooted ignorant louts. They do as they are told. Turniphor has an eye on them. I daresay they'll contrive to steal a few things, but they would never dare to lay hands on valuable jewellery. To begin with, they could never dispose of it. Imagine a vanupe, peddling a diamond tiara. There are always receivers prepared to take risks. Very few, Gordon assured him, since we decreed that trafficking with a risto property was a crime punishable by death. Chauvois said nothing for the moment. He appeared wrapped in his own thoughts, listened for a while to the confused hubbub about the house, then he resumed abruptly. Who are these men you are employing, citizen Gordon? A well-known gang, replied the other. I can give you their names. If you please. Gordon searched his pockets for a paper which he found presently and handed to his colleague. The latter perused it thoughtfully. Where did Turniphor find these men? he asked. For the most part, at the cabaret de la liberté, a place of very evil repute down in the rue Christine. I know it, rejoined the other. He was still studying the list of names which Gordon had given him. And, he added, I know most of these men. As thorough a set of ruffians as we need for some of our work, Mary, Guidole, Rato, Demond, Tiense, he exclaimed, Rato, is Rato here now? Why, of course, he was recruited like the rest of them for the day. He won't leave till he has been paid, you may be sure of that. Why do you ask? I will tell you presently, but I would wish to speak with Citizen Rato first. Just at this moment Turniphor paid his periodical visit to the hall. The usual words, still nothing, were on his lips, when Gordon curtly ordered him to go and fetch Citizen Rato. A minute or two later Turniphor returned with the news that Rato could nowhere be found. Chauvala received the news without any comment. He only ordered Turniphor, somewhat roughly, back to his work. Then, as soon as the latter had gone, Gordon turned upon his colleague. Will you explain? He began with a show of bluster. With pleasure, replied Chauvala bluntly. On my way hither, less than an hour ago, I met your man Rato, a leg or so from here. You met Rato? exclaimed Gordon impatiently. Impossible! He was here then, I feel sure. You must have been mistaken. I think not. I have only seen the man once, when I, too, went to recruit a band of ruffians at the Cabaret de la Liberté, in connection with some work I wanted doing. I did not employ him then, for he appeared to be both drink sodden and nothing but a miserable consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough you could hear half a league away, but I would know him anywhere. Besides which he stopped and wished me good morning. Now I come to think of it, added Chauvala thoughtfully. He was carrying what looked like a heavy bundle under his arm. A heavy bundle? cried Gordon with a forceful oath. And you did not stop him? I had no reason for suspecting him. I did not know until I arrived here what the whole affair was about, or whom you were employing. All that the committee knew for certain was that you and Ternophor and the number of men had arrived at Gentili before daybreak, and I was then instructed to follow you hither to see what mischief you were up to. You acted in complete secrecy, remember, citizen Gordon, and without first ascertaining the wishes of the committee of public safety, whose servant you are. If the Susie diamonds are not found, you alone will be held responsible for their loss to the government of the people. Chauvala's voice had now assumed a threatening tone, and Gordon felt all his audacity and self-assurance fall away from him, leaving him a prey to nameless terror. We must round up Ratau, he murmured hastily. He cannot have gone far. No, he cannot, rejoined Chauvala dryly. Though I was not specially thinking of Ratau or of diamonds when I started to come hither, I did send a general order forbidding any person on foot or horseback to enter or leave Paris by any of the southern gates. That order will serve us well now. Are you writing? Yes, I left my horse at the tavern just outside Gentili. I can get to horse within ten minutes. To horse, then, as quickly as you can. Pay off your men and dismiss them, all but Ternophor, who had best accompany us. Do not lose a single moment. I'll be ahead of you, and may come up with Ratau before you overtake me. And if I were you, citizen Gordon, he concluded with ominous emphasis. I would burn one or two candles to your compere the devil. You'll have need of his help if Ratau gives us the slip. End of Book 11, Chapter 2. Recording by Sarah Luann. Book 11, Chapter 3. of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sarah Luann. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Berenice Orksey. Book 11, A Battle of Whits, Chapter 3. The first part of the road from Gentili to Paris runs through the valley of the Biaire, and is densely wooded on either side. It winds in and out for the most part, ribbon-like, through thick coppice of chestnut and birch. It was impossible for Chauvelot to spy his quarry from afar, nor did he expect to do so this side of the hospital de la Sainte. Once past that point, he would find the road quite open and running almost straight, in the midst of an arid and only partially cultivated land. He rode at a sharp trot, with his caped coat wrapped tightly round his shoulders, for it was raining fast. At intervals, when he met an occasional wayfarer, he would ask questions about a tall man who had a consumptive cough, and who was carrying a cumbersome burden under his arm. Almost everyone whom he thus asked remembered seeing a personage who vaguely answered to the description. Tall and with a decided stoop, yes, and carrying a cumbersome looking bundle under his arm. Chauvelot was, undoubtedly, on the track of the thief. Just beyond Mouvez, he was overtaken by Gourdon and Tournefort. Here, too, the man-routeau's track had become more and more certain. At one place, he had stopped and had a glass of wine and a rest. At another, he had asked how close he was to the gates of Paris. The road was now quite open and level. The irregular buildings of the hospital appeared vague in the rain-sodden distance. Twenty minutes later, Tournefort, who was riding ahead of his companions, spied a tall, stooping figure at the spot where they shamed the gentilly forks, and where stands a group of isolated houses and bits of garden which belonged to Lausanne. Here, before the days when the glorious revolution swept aside all such outward signs of superstition, there had stood a calvary. It was now used as a signpost. The man stood before it, scanning the half-obliterated indications. At the moment that Tournefort first caught sight of him, he appeared uncertain of his way. Then, for a while, he watched Tournefort. He was coming at a sharp trot towards him. Finally, he seemed to make up his mind very suddenly, and, giving a last quick look round, he walked rapidly along the upper road. Tournefort drew rain and waited for his colleagues to come up with him. Then he told them what he had seen. It's Râteau, sure enough, he said. I saw his face quite distinctly and heard his abominable cough. He is trying to get into Paris. That road leads nowhere but to the barrier. There, of course, he will be stopped and— The other two had also brought their horses to a halt. The situation had become tense, and a plan for future action had at once to be decided on. Already Chauvelin, masterful and sure of himself, had assumed command of the little party. Now he broke in abruptly on Tournefort's vapid reflections. We don't want him stopped at the barrier, he said in his usual curt, authoritative manner. You, citizen Tournefort, he continued, will ride as fast as you can to the gate, making a detour by the lower road. You will immediately demand to speak with a sergeant who is in command, and you will give him a detailed description of the man Râteau. Then you will tell him, in my name, that should such a man present himself at the gate, he must be allowed to enter the city unmolested. Gordon gave a quick cry of protest. Let the man go unmolested, citizen Chauvelin, think what you are doing. I always think what I am doing, retorted Chauvelin curtly, and I have no need of outside guidance in the process. He then turned once more to Tournefort. You yourself, citizen, he continued, in sharp decisive tones which admitted of no argument. We'll dismount as soon as you are inside the city. You will keep the gate under observation. The moment you see the man Râteau you will shadow him and on no account lose sight of him. Understand? You may trust me, citizen Chauvelin, Tournefort replied, elated at the prospect of work which was so entirely congenial to him. But will you tell me, I will tell you this much, citizen Tournefort, broken Chauvelin, with some acerbity, that though we have traced the diamonds and the thief so far, we have, through your folly last night, lost complete track of the Sirevon Comtesse Soussi and of the man Bertine. We want Râteau to show us where they are. I understand, murmured the other meekly. That's a mercy, reposted Chauvelin dryly. Then quickly, man, lose no time. Try to get a few minutes advance on Râteau, then slip in to the guard room and change into less conspicuous clothes. Citizen Gordon and I will continue on the upper road and keep the man inside in case he should think of altering his course. In any event, we'll meet you just inside the barrier. But if, in the meanwhile, you have to get on Râteau's track before we have arrived on the scene, leave the usual indications as to the direction which you have taken. Having given his orders and satisfied himself that they were fully understood, he gave a curt command and avan and once more the three of them rode at a sharp trot down the road towards the city. End of Book 11, Chapter 3, Recording by Sarah Luann Book 11, Chapter 4, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsey Book 11, A Battle of Wits Chapter 4 Citizen Râteau, if he thought about the matter at all, must indeed have been vastly surprised at the unwanted amiability or indifference of Sergeant Rebeau, who was in command at the gate of Gentile. Rebeau only threw a very perfunctory glance at the greasy permit which Râteau presented to him, and when he put the usual query, what's in that parcel? And Râteau gave the reply, two heads of cabbage and a bunch of carrots. Rebeau merely poked one of his fingers into the bundle, felt that a cabbage leaf did effectually lie on the top, and thereupon gave the formal order, Passon Citizen, in the name of the Republic, without any hesitation. Tournefour, who had watched the brief little incident from behind the window of a neighboring cabaret, could not help but chuckle to himself. Never had he seen game walk more readily into a trap. Râteau, after he had passed the barrier, appeared undecided which way he would go. He looked with obvious longing toward the cabaret, behind which the keenest agent on the staff of the Committee of Public Safety was even now ensconced, but seemingly a halt within those hospitable doors did not form part of his program. In a moment or two later he turned sharply on his heel and strode rapidly down the rue de la Orsine. Tournefour allowed him a fair start and then made ready to follow. Just as he was stepping out of the cabaret, he spied chauvelin and gourdan coming through the gates. Râteau had apparently made a brief halt inside the guard room where, as at most of the gates, a store of various disguises was always kept ready for the use of the numerous sleuth hounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety. Here the two men had exchanged their official garments for suits of somber cloth, which gave them the appearance of a couple of humble bourgeois going quietly about their business. Tournefour had donned an old blouse, tattered stockings, and shoes down at heel. With his hands buried in his britches pockets, he too turned into the long narrow rue de la Orsine, which, after a sharp curve, abuts on the rue Moffatard. Râteau was walking rapidly, taking big strides with his long legs. Tournefour, now sauntering in the gutter in the middle of the road, now darting in and out of open doorways, kept his quarry well in sight. Chauvelin and gourdan lagged some little way behind. It was still raining, but not heavily, a thin drizzle, which penetrated almost to the marrow. Not many passers-by haunted this forlorn quarter of old Paris. To right and left, tall houses almost obscured the last, quickly fading light of the gray September day. At the bottom of the rue Moffatard, Râteau came once more to a halt. A network of narrow streets radiated from this center, he looked all around him and also behind. It was difficult to know whether he had a sudden suspicion that he was being followed. Certain it is that, after a very brief moment of hesitation, he plunged suddenly into the narrow rue Contrescarp and disappeared from view. Tournefour was after him in a trice. When he reached the corner of the street, he saw Râteau, at the further end of it, take a sudden sharp turn to the right, but not before he had very obviously spied his pursuer, for at that moment his entire demeanor changed. An air of furtive anxiety was expressed in his whole attitude. Even at that distance, Tournefour could see him clutching his bulky parcel close to his chest. After that, the pursuit became closer and hotter. Râteau was in and out of that tight network of streets, which clustered around the Place de Fourcy, intent apparently on throwing his pursuers off the scent. For after a while, he was running round and round in a circle, now up the rue de Poul, then to the right and to the right again, back in the Place de Fourcy, then straight across it once more to the rue Contrescarp, where he presently disappeared so completely from view that Tournefour thought that the earth must have swallowed him up. Tournefour was a man capable of great physical exertion. His calling often made heavy demands upon his powers of endurance, but never before had he grappled with so strenuous a task. Puffing and panting, now running at top speed, anon brought to a halt by the doubling-up tactics of his quarry, his great difficulty was the fact that Citizen Chauvelin did not wish the man Râteau to be apprehended, did not wish him to know that he was being pursued. And Tournefour had need of all his wits to keep well under the shadows of any projecting wall or under cover of open doorways, which were conveniently in the way, and all the while not to lose sight of that consumptive giant who seemed to be playing some intricate game which well nigh exhausted the strength of Citizen Tournefour. What he could not make out was what had happened to Chauvelin and to Gordon. They had been less than 300 meters behind him when first this wild chase in and out of the rue Contrescarp had begun. Now when their presence was most needed, they seemed to have lost track both of him, Tournefour, and of the very elusive quarry. To make matters more complicated, the shades of evening were drawing in very fast, and these narrow streets of the Falberg were very sparsely lighted. Just at this moment Tournefour had once more caught sight of Râteau, striding leisurely this time up the street. The worthy agent quickly took refuge under a doorway and was mopping his streaming forehead, glad of this brief respite in the mad chase. When that awful churchyard cough suddenly sounded so close to him that he gave a great jump and well nigh betrayed his presence then and there. He had only just time to withdraw further still into the angle of the doorway when Râteau passed by. Tournefour peeped out of his hiding place, and for the space of a dozen heartbeats or so remained there quite still, watching that broad back and those long limbs slowly moving through the gathering glue. The next instant he perceived Shovelin standing at the end of the street. Râteau saw him too, came face to face with him in fact, and must have known who he was for, without an instant's hesitation and just like a hunted creature at bay, he turned sharply on his heel and then ran back down the street as hard as he could tear. He passed close to within half a meter of Tournefour and as he flew past he hit out with his left fist so vigorously that the worthy agent of the Committee of Public Safety, caught on the nose by the blow, staggered and measured his length upon the flag floor below. The next moment Shovelin had come by. Tournefour, struggling to his feet, called to him panting. Did you see him? Which way did he go? Up the rue Borde, after him, citizen, replied Shovelin grimly between his teeth. Together the two men continued the chase, guided through the intricate mazes of the streets by their flinging quarry. They had Râteau well in sight and the latter could no longer continue his former tactics with success, now that two experienced sleuthhounds were on his track. At a given moment he was caught between the two of them. Tournefour was advancing cautiously up the rue Borde. Shovelin, equally stealthily, was coming down the same street, and Râteau, once more walking quite leisurely, was at an equal distance between the two. End of Book 11, Chapter 4. Book 11, Chapter 5 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsey Book 11, A Battle of Whits, Chapter 5 There are no side turnings out of the rue Borde, the total length of which is less than 50 meters. So Tournefour, feeling more at his ease, ensconced himself at one end of the street, behind a doorway, whilst Shovelin did the same at the other. Râteau, standing in the gutter, appeared once more in a state of hesitation. Immediately in front of him, the door of a small cabaret stood invitingly open. Its signboard, Le Bon Copain, promised rest and refreshment. He peered up and down the road, satisfied himself presumably that, for the moment his pursuers were out of sight, hugged his parcel to his chest, and then suddenly made a dart for the cabaret, and disappeared within its doors. Nothing could have been better, the quarry for the moment was safe, and if the sleuthhounds could not get refreshment, they could at least get a rest. Tournefour and Shovelin crept out of their hiding places, they met in the middle of the road, at the spot where Râteau had stood a while ago. It was then growing dark, and the street was innocent of lanterns, but the lights inside the cabaret gave a full view of the interior. The lower half of the wide shop window was curtained off, but above the curtains, the heads of the customers of Le Bon Copain, and the general comings and goings could very clearly be seen. Tournefour, never at a loss, had already climbed upon a low projection in the wall of one of the houses opposite. From this point of vantage, he could more easily observe what went on inside the cabaret, and in short jerky sentences he gave a description of what he saw to his chief. Râteau is sitting down. He has his back to the window. He has put his bundle down close beside him on the bench. He can't speak for a minute, for he is coughing and sputtering like an old walrus. A wench is bringing him a bottle of wine and a hunk of bread and cheese. He has started talking, is talking voluble. The people are laughing. Some are applauding. And here comes Jean Victor, the landlord. You know him, citizen. A big hunking fellow and as good a patriot as I ever wish to see. He too is laughing and talking to Râteau, who has doubled up with another fit of coughing. Shoveling uttered an exclamation of impatience. Enough of this, citizen Tournefour. Keep your eye on the man and hold your tongue. I am spent with fatigue. No wonder, murmured Tournefour. Then he added insinuatingly, why not let me go in there and apprehend Râteau now. We should have the diamonds end. And lose the cidevant, contestes Susie and the man Bertine, retorted Shoveling with sudden fierceness. Bertine, who can be none other than that cursed Englishman that He checked himself, seeing Tournefour was gazing down on him, with awe and bewilderment expressed in his lean, hatchet face. You are losing sight of Râteau, citizen. Shoveling continued calmly. What is he doing now? But Tournefour felt that his calmness was only on the surface. Something strange had stirred the depths of his chief's keen, masterful mind. He would have liked to ask a question or two, but knew from experience that it was neither wise nor profitable to try and probe citizen Shoveling's thoughts. So after a moment or two, he turned back obediently to his task. I can't see Râteau for the moment, he said. But there is much talking and merriment in there. Ah, there he is, I think. Yes, I see him. He is behind the counter, talking to Jean Victor. And he has just thrown some money down on the counter. Gold, too. Name of a dog. Then suddenly, without any warning, Tournefour jumped down from his post of observation. Shoveling uttered a brief. What the... are you doing, citizen? Râteau is going, replied Tournefour excitedly. He drank a mug of wine at a draft and has picked up his bundle, ready to go. Once more cowering in the dark angle of a doorway, the two men waited, their nerves on edge, for the reappearance of their quarry. I wished citizen Gordon was here, whispered Tournefour. In the darkness it is better to be three than two. I sent him back to the station in the Rue Montfortard, was Shoveling's curt reply. There to give notice that I might require a few armed men presently. But he should be somewhere about here by now, looking for us. Anyway, I have my whistle, and if... He said no more, for at that moment the door of the cabaret was open from within, and Râteau stepped out into the street to the accompaniment of loud laughter and clapping of hands, which came from the customers of the bon copain. This time he appeared neither in a hurry nor yet anxious. He did not pause in order to glance to right or left, but started to walk quite leisurely up the street. The two sleuth hounds quietly followed him. Through the darkness they could only vaguely see his silhouette, with the great bundle under his arm. Whatever may have been Râteau's fears of being shadowed a while ago, he certainly seemed free of them now. He sauntered along, whistling a tune, down the Montage Saint-Jean-Viev to the Place Mubère, and then straight towards the river. Having reached the bank he turned off to his left, sauntered past the Ecole des Medicines, and went across to the Petit Pont, and then through the new market, along le Croix des Aufortes. There he made a halt, and for a while looked over the embankment at the river, and then round about him, as if in search of something. But presently he appeared to make up his mind, and continued his leisurely walk, as far as the Pont Neuth, where he turned sharply off to his right, still whistling, 24 and Chauvelin, hard upon his heels. That whistling is getting on my nerves, muttered Chauvelin irritably, and I haven't heard the Ruffians' churchyard cough since he walked out of the Bon Couain. Strangely enough, it was this remark of Chauvelin's, which gave Chauvelin the first inkling of something strange, and to him, positively awesome. 24, who walked close behind him, heard him suddenly mutter a fierce exclamation. Name of a dog! What is it, citizen? queried 24, awed by this sudden outburst, on the part of a man whose icy calmness had become proverbial throughout the committee. Sound the alarm, citizen? cried Chauvelin in response. Or my Satan, he'll escape us again. But, stammered 24 and utter bewilderment, while with fingers that trembled somewhat, he fumbled for his whistle. We shall want all the help we can, retorted Chauvelin roughly, for unless I am much mistaken, there's more noble quarry here than even I could dare to hope. Roteau, in the meanwhile, had quietly lulled up to the parapet on the right hand side of the bridge, and 24, who was watching him with intense keenness, still marveled why citizen Chauvelin had suddenly become so strangely excited. Roteau was merely lulling against the parapet, like a man who has not a care in the world. He had placed his bundle on the stone ledge beside him. Here he waited a moment or two, until one of the small craft upon the river loomed out of the darkness immediately below the bridge. Then he picked up the bundle and threw it straight into the boat. At that same moment, 24 had a whistle to his lips. A shrill, sharp sound rang out through the gloom. The boat sensed in turn afford the boat, cried Chauvelin. There are plenty of us here to deal with the man. Immediately from the quays, the streets, the bridges, dark figures emerged out of the darkness and hurried to the spot. Some reached the bridgehead even as Roteau made a dart forward, and two men were upon him before he succeeded in running very far. Others had scrambled down the embankment, and were shouting to some unseen boatman to halt in the name of the people. But Roteau gave in without a struggle. He appeared more days than frightened, and quietly allowed the agents of the committee to lead him back to the bridge, where Chauvelin had paused waiting for him. End of Book 11, Chapter 5 Book 11, Chapter 6 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Ortsey Book 11, A Battle of Whits, Chapter 6 A minute or two later, Tornifor was once more beside his chief. He was carrying the precious bundle which, he explained, the boatman had given up without question. The man knew nothing about it, the agent said. No one, he says, could have been more surprised than he was, when this bundle was suddenly flung at him over the parapet of the bridge. Just then the small group, composed of two or three agents of the committee, holding their prisoner by the arms, came into view. One man was walking ahead, and was the first to approach Chauvelin. He had a small screw of paper in his hand, which he gave to his chief. Found inside the lining of the prisoner's hat, citizen, he reported curtly, and opened the shutter of a small dark lantern which he wore at his belt. Chauvelin took the paper from his subordinate. A weird, unexplainable foreknowledge of what was to come caused his hand to shake, and beads of perspiration to moisten his forehead. He looked up and saw the prisoner standing before him. Crushing the paper in his hand, he snatched the lantern from the agent's belt, and flashed it in the face of the quarry, who, at the last, had been so easily captured. Immediately a hoarse cry of disappointment and of rage escaped his throat. Who is this man, he cried. One of the agents gave reply. It is old Victor, the landlord of the Bone Copane. He was just a fool who has been playing a practical joke. 24, too, at the sight of the prisoner, had uttered a cry of dismay and of astonishment. Victor, he exclaimed. Name of a dog, citizen, what are you doing here? But Chauvelin had gripped the man by the arm so fiercely that the latter swore with the pain. What is the meaning of this, he queried, roughly. Only a bet, citizen, retorted Victor reproachfully. No reason to fall on an honest patriot for a bet, just as if he were a mad dog. A joke, a bet, murmured Chauvelin hoarsely, for his throat now felt hot and parched. What do you mean, who are you, man, speak or o? My name is Jean Victor, replied the other. I am the landlord of the Bone Copane. An hour ago a man came into my cabaret. He was a queer consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough that made you shiver. Some of my customers knew him by sight, told me that the man's name was Ratot, and that he was an abatou of the Liberté, and the Rue Christine. Well, he soon fell into conversation, first with me, then some of my customers, talked all sorts of silly nonsense, made absurd bets with everybody. Some of these he won, and others he lost. But I must say that when he lost, he always paid up most liberally. Then we all got excited, and soon bets flew all over the place. I don't rightly know how it happened at the last, but all at once he bet me that I would not dare to walk out, then and there, in the dark, as far as Pont Neuf, wearing his blouse and hat, and carrying a bundle the same as his under my arm. I, not dare, I, Jean Victor, who was a fine fighter in my day, I bet I'm a gold beast that I would, and he said that he would make it five if I came back without my bundle, having thrown it over the parapet into any passing boat. Well, citizen, continued Jean Victor with a laugh. I ask you, what would you have done? Five gold pieces means a fortune these hard times, and I tell you the man was quite honest, and always paid liberally when he lost. He slipped behind the counter, and took off his blouse and hat, which I put on, then we made up a bundle with some cabbage heads and a few carrots, and out I came. I didn't think there would be anything wrong in the whole affair, just the tomfoolery of a man who has got the bedding mania, and in whose pocket money is just burning a hole, and I have won my bet, concluded Jean Victor, still unabashed, and I want to go back and get my money. If you don't believe me, come with me to my cabaret. You will find the citizen ratot there for sure, and I know that I shall find my five gold pieces. Chauvelin had listened to the man as he would to some weird dream story, wherein ghouls and devils had played a part. Trunifor, who was watching him, was awed by the look of fierce rage and grim hopelessness, which shone from his chief's pale eyes. The other agents laughed, they were highly amused at the tale, but they would not let the prisoner go. If Jean Victor's story is true, citizen, the sergeant said, speaking to Chauvelin, there will be witnesses to it over a le bon copain. Shall we take the prisoner straight away there and await further orders? Chauvelin gave a curt acquiescence, nodding his head like some insentient wooden automaton. The screw of paper was still in his hand, it seemed to sear his palm. Trunifor even now broke into a grim laugh. He had just undone the bundle, which Jean Victor had thrown over the parapet of the bridge. It contained two heads of cabbage and a bunch of carrots. Then he ordered the agents to march on with their prisoner, and they, laughing and joking with Jean Victor, gave a quick turn, and soon their heavy footsteps were echoing down the flagstones of the bridge. Chauvelin waited, motionless and silent. The dark lantern still held in his shaking hand, until he was quite sure that he was alone. Then only did he unfold the screw of paper. It contained a few lines scribbled in pencil, just that foolish rhyme to which his fevered nerves was like a strong irritant, a poison which gave him an unendurable sensation of humiliation and impotence. We seek him here, we seek him there. Chauvelin seeks him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That dimmed elusive pimpinelle. He crushed the paper in his hand, and with a loud groan of misery, fled over the bridge like one possessed. End of book 11 chapter 6 Book 11 chapter 7 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpinelle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpinelle by Baroness Ortsy Book 11 A Battle of Whits Chapter 7 Madame Lacomtesse de Soussi never went to England. She was one of those French women who would sooner endure misery in her own beloved country than comfort anywhere else. She outlived the horrors of the revolution and speaks in her memoirs of the man-bear team. She never knew who he was nor when she came. All that she knew was that he came to her like some mysterious agent of God, bringing help, counsel, a semblance of happiness. And at the moment when she was at the end of all her resources, and saw grim starvation staring her and her children in the face, he appointed all sorts of strange places in Out of the Way Paris, where she was want to meet him. In one night she confided to him the history of her diamonds, and hardly dared to trust his promise, that he would get them for her. Less than twenty-four hours later he brought them to her, at the poor lodgings in the roue blanche, which she occupied with her children under an assumed name. That same night she begged him to dispose of them. This also he did, bringing her the money the next day. She never saw him again after that. But Citizen Tournefort never quite got over his disappointment of that night. Had he dared, he would have blamed Citizen Chauvelin for the discomforture. It would have been better to have apprehended the man-ratot, while there was still a chance of doing so with success. As it was, the impudent Ruffian slipped clean away, and was never heard of again, either at the Bon Copain, or at the Liberté. The customers at the cabaret certainly corroborated the story of Jean Victor. The man-ratot, they said, had been honest to the last. When time went on, and Jean Victor did not return, he said that he could no longer wait, had work to do for the government, over the other side of the water, and was afraid that he would get punished if he dallyed. But before leaving he laid the five gold pieces on the table. Everyone wondered that so humble a workman had so much money in his pocket, and was with all so lavish with it. But these were not the times when one inquired too closely into the presence of money in the pocket of a good patriot. And Citizen Ratot was a good patriot, for sure, and a good fellow to boot. They all drank his health in Jean Victor's sour wine, then each went his way. End of Chapter 7, End of Book 11, A Battle of Whits, and End of the League of the Scarlet Bimpernel by Baroness Ortzi.