 Chapter 27 The Decision Once more the two men were alone. As far as Chauvelin was concerned, he felt that everything was not yet settled, and until a moment ago he had been in doubt as to whether Sir Percy would accept the infamous conditions which had been put before him, or allow his pride and temper to get the better of him, and throw the deadly insults back into his adversary's teeth. But now a new secret had been revealed to the astute diplomatist. A name, softly murmured by a broken-hearted woman, had told him a tale of love and passion which he had not even suspected before. Since he had made this discovery, he knew that the ultimate issue was no longer in doubt. Sir Percy Blakeney, the bold adventurer, ever ready for a gamble where lives were at stake, might have demurred before he subscribed to his own dishonour in order to save his wife from humiliation and the shame of the terrible fate that had been mapped out for her. But the same man, passionately in love with such a woman as Marguerite Blakeney, could count the world well lost for her sake. One sudden fear alone had shot through Chauvelin's heart when he stood face to face with the two people whom he had so deeply and cruelly wronged, and that was that Blakeney, throwing aside all thought of the scores of innocent lives that were at stake, might forget everything, risk everything, dare everything, in order to get his wife away there and then. For the space of a few seconds Chauvelin had felt that his own life was in jeopardy, and that the scarlet pimpinel would indeed make a desperate effort to save himself and his wife. But the fear was short-lived. Marguerite, as he had well foreseen, would never save herself at the expense of others, and she was tied, tied, tied. That was his triumph and his joy. When Marguerite finally left the room, Sir Percy made no motion to follow her, but turned once more quietly to his antagonist. As he was saying, monsieur, he queried lightly. Oh! there is nothing more to say, Sir Percy, would join Chauvelin. My conditions are clear to you, are they not? Lady Blakeney's and your own immediate release in exchange for a letter written to me by your own hand, and signed here by you, in this room, in my presence, and that of sundry other persons whom I need not name just now. So certain money passing from my hand to yours, failing the letter, a long, hideously humiliating sojourn in the temple-prison for your wife, a prolonged trial and the guillotine as a happy release. I would add the same thing for yourself, only that I will do you the justice to admit that you probably do not care. Nay, a grave mistake, monsieur. I do care, vastly care, I assure you, and would seriously object to ending my life on your damned guillotine—a nasty uncomfortable thing, I should say—and I am told that an inexperienced barber is deputed to cut one's hair. Ugh! Now, on the other hand, I like the idea of national fate. That pretty wench candé, dressed as a goddess, the boom of the canon, when your amnesty comes into force, you will boom the canon, will you not, monsieur? Canon are damned noisy, but they are effective sometimes, do you not think so, monsieur? Very effective, certainly, Sir Percy, sneered Chauvelin, and we will certainly boom the canon from this very fort, and it so please you. At what hour, monsieur, is my letter to be ready? Why, at any hour, you please, Sir Percy? The day-dream could weigh anchor at eight o'clock. Would an hour before that be convenient to yourself? Certainly, Sir Percy. If you will honour me by accepting my hospitality in these uncomfortable quarters until seven o'clock tomorrow eve, I thank you, monsieur. Then am I to understand, Sir Percy, that a loud and ringing laugh broke from Blakeney's lips? That I accept your bargain-man. Zounds. I tell you I accept. I'll write the letter. I'll sign it. And you have our free passes ready for us in exchange. At seven o'clock tomorrow eve, did you say? Man, do not look so astonished. The letter, the signature, the money, all your witnesses? Have everything ready. I accept, I say. And now, in the name of all the evil spirits in hell, let me have some supper and a bed, for I vow that I am damned fatigued. And without more ado, Sir Percy once more rang the hand-bell, laughing boisterously the while. Then suddenly, with quick transition of mood, his laugh was lost in a gigantic yawn, and throwing his long body into a chair, he stretched out his legs, buried his hands in his pockets, and the next moment was peacefully asleep. CHAPTER XXVIII. The Midnight Watch. Boulogne had gone through many phases in its own languid and sleepy way, whilst the great upheaval of a gigantic revolution shook other cities of France to their very foundations. At first the little town had held somnolently aloof, and whilst Lyon and Tours conspired and rebelled, whilst Marseille and Toulon opened their ports to the English, and Dunkirk was ready to surrender to the Allied forces, she had gazed through half-closed eyes at all the turmoil, and then quietly turned over and gone to sleep again. Boulogne fished in mended nets, built boats and manufactured boots with placid content, whilst France murdered her king and butchered her citizens. The initial noise of the great revolution was only wafted on the southerly breezes from Paris to the little seaport towns of northern France, and lost much of its volume and power in this aerial transit. The fisherfolk were too poor to worry about the dethronement of kings. The struggle for daily existence, the perils and hardships of deep sea-fishing engrossed all the faculties they possessed. As for the burgers and merchants of the town, they were at first content with reading an occasional article in the Gazette de Paris, or the Gazette de Tribunot, brought hither by one or other of the many travellers who crossed the city on their way to the harbor. They were interested in these articles, at times even comfortably horrified at the doings in Paris, the executions and the tumbrels, but on the whole they liked the idea that the country was in future to be governed by duly chosen representatives of the people, rather than be a prey to the despotism of kings. And they were really quite pleased to see the tricolour flag hoisted on the old befoir, there where the snow-white standard of the bourbons had erstwhile flaunted its golden fleur-de-lis in the glare of the midday sun. The worthy burgesses of Boulogne were ready to shout, Vive la République, with the same cheerful and rocker snorbandy accent as they had lately shouted, Dieu protège le roi. The first awakening from this happy torpe came when that tent was put up on the landing-stage in the harbor. Officials, dressed in shabby uniforms and wearing tricolour cacades and scarves, were now quartered in town hall, and repaired daily to that roughly erected tent, accompanied by so many soldiers from the garrison. There, installed, they busied themselves with examining carefully the passports of all those who desired to leave or enter Boulogne. Fisher folk who had dwelt in the city, father and son and grandfather in many generations before that, and had come and gone in and out of their own boats as they pleased, were now stopped as they beached their craft and made to give an account of themselves to these officials from Paris. It was of a truth, more than ridiculous, that these strangers should ask of Jean-Marie who he was, or of Pierre what was his business, or of Desy-Rais-François whether he was going, when Jean-Marie and Pierre and Desy-Rais-François had plied their nets in the roads outside Boulogne harbor for more years than they would care to count. It also caused no small measure of annoyance that fishermen were ordered to wear tricolor cacades on their caps. They had no special ill feeling against tricolor cacades, but they did not care about them. Jean-Marie flatly refused to have one pinned on, and being admonished somewhat severely by one of the Paris officials, he became obstinate about the whole thing and threw the cacade violently on the ground and spat upon it, not from any sentiment of anti-Republicanism, but just from a feeling of Norman doggedness. He was arrested, shut up in Fort Gaillol, tried as a traitor and publicly guillotined. The consternation in Boulogne was appalling. The one little spark had found its way to a barrel of blasting powder, and caused a terrible explosion. Within twenty-four hours of Jean-Marie's execution the whole town was in the throes of the revolution. What the death of King Louis, the arrest of Marie-Antoinette, the massacres of September had failed to do, that the arrest and execution of an elderly fisherman accomplished in a trice. People began to take sides in politics. Some families realized that they came from ancient lineage, and that their ancestors had helped to build up the throne of the Bourbons. Others looked up ancient archives and remembered past oppressions at the hands of the aristocrats. Thus some burgers of Boulogne became ardent reactionaries, whilst others secretly nursed enthusiastic royalist convictions. Some were ready to throw in their lot with the anarchists, to deny the religion of their fathers, to scorn the priests and close the places of worship. Others had heared strictly still to the usages and practices of the church. Arrest became frequent. The guillotine erected in the Place de la Cine-sur-Se had plenty of work to do. Soon the cathedral was closed. The priests thrown into prison, whilst scores of families hoped to escape a similar fate by summery flight. Vague rumours of a band of English adventurers soon reached the little seaport town. The scarlet Pimpanel, English spy or hero, as he was alternately called, had helped many a family with pronounced royalist tendencies to escape the fury of the bloodthirsty terrorists. Thus gradually the anti-revolutionaries had been weeded out of the city. Some by death and imprisonment, others by flight. Boulogne became the hot bit of anarchism. The idlers and loafers, inseparable from any town where there is a garrison and a harbour, practically ruled the city now. Denunciations were the order of the day. Every one who owed any money or lived with any comfort was accused of being a traitor and suspected of conspiracy. The fisherfolk wondered about the city surly and discontented. Their trade was at a standstill, but there was a trifle to be earned by giving information. Information which meant the arrest, of times the death, of men, women and even children who had tried to seek safety in flight, and to denounce whom, as they were trying to hire a boat anywhere along the coast, meant a good square meal for a starving family. Then came the awful cataclysm. A woman, a stranger, had been arrested and imprisoned in the Fort Gayole, and the town crier publicly proclaimed that if she escaped from jail, one member of every family in the town, rich or poor, republican or royalist, Catholic or free thinker, would be summarily guillotined. That member, the breadwinner. Why then, with the Duvales, it would be young François Auguste. He keeps his old mother with his boot-making. And it would be Marie-Lébonne. She has a blind father dependent on her net mending. And old mother Laferrière, whose grandchildren were left penniless, she keeps them from starvation by her wash-tub. With François Auguste as a real republican, he belongs to the Jacobin Club. And look at Pierre, who never meets a calotin, but he must need spit on him. Is there no safety anywhere? Are we to be butchered like so many cattle? Somebody makes the suggestion. It is a threat. They would not dare. Would not dare? It is old André Le Moine who has spoken, and he spits vigorously on the ground. André Le Moine has been a soldier. He was in Lavendée. He was wounded at tour, and he knows. Would not dare, he says in a whisper. I tell you, friends, that there's nothing the present government would not dare. There was the Blanc-Saint-Mauve. Did you ever hear about that? Little children fusilladed by the score, little ones I say, and women with babies at their breasts. Weren't they innocent? Five hundred innocent people butchered in Lavendée, until the headsmen sank, worn out. I could tell worse than that, for I know. There's nothing they would not dare. Constellation was so great that the matter could not even be discussed. We'll go to Gaillol and see this woman at any rate. Angry, sullen crowds assembled in the streets. The proclamation had been read just as the men were leaving the public houses, preparing to go home for the night. They brought the news to the women, who, at home, were setting the soup and bread on the table for their husband's supper. There was no thought of going to bed or of sleeping that night. The breadwinner in every family and all those dependent on him for daily sustenance were trembling for their lives. Resistance to the barbarous order would have been worse than useless, nor did the thought of it enter the heads of these humble and ignorant fisherfolk, weary doubt with the miserable struggle for existence. There was not sufficient spirit left in this half-staffed population of a small provincial city to suggest open rebellion. A regiment of soldiers come up from the south were quartered in the chateau, and the natives of Boulogne could not have mustered more than a score of disused blunderbusses between them. Then they remembered tales which André Le Moin had told, the fate of Lyon, raised to the ground, of Toulon, burnt to ashes, and they did not dare rebel. But brothers, fathers, sons, trooped out towards Gaillot in order to have a good look at the frowning pile which held the hostage for their safety. It looked dark and gloomy enough, save for one window which gave on the southern ramparts. This window was wide open, and a feeble light flickered from the room beyond, and as the men stood about, gazing at the walls and sulky silence, they suddenly caught the sound of a loud laugh proceeding from within, and of a pleasant voice speaking quite gaily in a language which they did not understand, but which sounded like English. Against the heavy, oaken gateway leading to the courtyard of the prison, the proclamation written on stout parchment had been pinned up. Beside it hung a tiny lantern, the dim light of which flickered in the evening breeze, and brought at times into sudden relief the bold writing and heavy signature which stood out, stern and grim, against the yellowish background of the paper, like black signs of approaching death. Facing the gateway and the proclamation, the crowd of men took its stand. The moon from behind them cast fitful silvery glances at the weary heads bent in anxiety and watchful expectancy. On old heads and young heads, dark, curly heads and heads grizzled with age, on backs bent with toil and hands rough and gnarled like seasoned timber. All night the men stood and watched. Sentinels from the town guard were stationed at the gates, but these might prove inattentive or insufficient. They had not the same price at stake, so the entire able-bodied population of Boulogne watched the gloomy prison that night lest anyone escaped by wall or window. They were guarding the precious hostage whose safety was the stipulation for their own. There was dead silence among them, and dead silence all around, save for that monotonous tock, tock, tock of the parchment flapping in the breeze. The moon, who all along had been capricious and cherry of her light, made a final retreat behind a gathering bank of clouds, and the crowd, the soldiers and the great grim walls were all equally wrapped in gloom. Only the little lantern on the gateway now made a ruddy patch of light, and tinged that fluttering parchment with the colour of blood. Every now and then an isolated figure would detach itself from out the watching throng, and go up to the heavy, oaken door in order to gaze at the proclamation. Then the light of the lantern illumined a dark head or a grey one, for a moment or two. Black or white locks were stirred gently in the wind, and a sigh of puzzlement and disappointment would be distinctly heard. At times a group of three or four would stand there for a while, not speaking, only sighing and casting eager, questioning glances at one another, whilst trying vainly to find some hopeful word, some turn of phrase or meaning that would be less direful in that grim and ferocious proclamation. Then a rough word from the sentinel, a push from the butt end of a bayonet, would disperse the little group and send the men, sullen and silent, back into the crowd. Thus they watched for hours whilst the bell of the Befroy told all the hours of that tedious night. A thin rain began to fall in the small hours of the morning, a wetting, soaking drizzle which chilled the weary watchers to the bone. But they did not care. We must not sleep, for the woman might escape. Some of them squattered down in the muddy road. The luckier ones managed to lean their backs against the slimy walls. Twice before the hour of midnight they heard that same quaint and merry laugh proceeding from the lighted room through the open window. Once it sounded very low and very prolonged, as if in response to a delightful joke. Anon, the heavy gateway of the gallole, was opened from within, and half a dozen soldiers came walking out of the courtyard. They were dressed in the uniform of the town guard, but had evidently been picked out of the rank and file, for all six were exceptionally tall and stalwart, and towered above the sentinel who saluted and presented arms as they marched out of the gate. In the midst of them walked a slight, dark figure, clad entirely in black, save for the tri-colour scarf round his waist. The crowd of watchers gazed on the little party with suddenly awakened interest. Who is it? whispered some of the men. The citizen governor suggested one. The new public executioner ventured another. No, no, quote Pierre Maxime, the douayenne of Boulogne Fisherman, and a great authority on every matter, public or private, with the town. No, no, he is the man who has come down from Paris, the friend of Robespierre. He makes the laws now. The citizen governor even must obey him. It is he who made that law that if the woman up yonder should escape, hush, came in frightened accents from the crowd. Hush, Pierre Maxime, the citizen might hear thee! whispered the man who stood closest to the old fisherman. The citizen might hear thee and think that we rebelled. What are these people doing here? queried Chauvelin as he passed out into the street. They are watching the prison citizen, replied the sentinel whom he had thus addressed, lest the female prisoner should attempt to escape. With a satisfied smile, Chauvelin turned towards the town hall, closely surrounded by his escort. The crowd watched him and the soldiers as they quickly disappeared in the gloom. Then they resumed the stolid, wearisome vigil of the night. The old befoir now told the midnight hour. The one solitary light in the old fort was extinguished, and after that the frowning pile remained dark and still. CHAPTER XXVIII Citizens of Boulogne, awake! They had not slept. Only some of them had fallen into drowsy somnolence, heavy and nerve-wracking, worse indeed than any wakefulness. Within the houses the women, too, had kept the tedious vigil, listening for every sound, dreading every bit of news which the wind might waft in through the small, open windows. If one prisoner escaped, every family in Boulogne would be deprived of the breadwinner. Therefore the women wept and tried to remember those pâtres and arves which the tyranny of liberty, fraternity, and equality had ordered them to forget. Broken rosaries were fetched out from neglected corners, and knees stiff with endless, thankless toil were bent once more in prayer. Oh God! Good God! Do not allow that woman to flee! Holy Virgin, Mother of God! Make that she should not escape! Some of the women went out in the early dawn to take hot soup and coffee to their men who were watching outside the prison. Has anything been seen? Have you seen the woman? Which room is she in? Why would they let us see her? Are you sure she have not already escaped? Questions and surmises went round and muffled whispers as the steaming cans were passed round. No one had a definite answer to give, though Desiret Melan declared that he had once during the night caught sight of a woman's face at one of the windows above. But as he could not describe the woman's face, nor locate with any degree of precision the particular window at which she was supposed to have appeared, it was unanimously decided that Desiret must have been dreaming. Citizens of Boulogne, awake! The cry came first from the town hall, and therefore from behind the crowd of men and women, whose faces had been so resolutely set for all these past hours towards the Gaïol prison. They were all awake, but too tired and cramped to move as yet, and to turn in the direction whence a rose that cry. Citizens of Boulogne, awake! It was just the voice of Auguste Molleur, the town cryer of Boulogne, who, bell in hand, was trudging his way along the Rue d'Aumont, closely followed by two fellows of the municipal guard. Auguste was in the very midst of the sullen crowd, before the men even troubled about his presence here, but now with many of vigorous allons donc, and voyez-moi ça, finant place, voyons!" he elbowed his way through the throng. He was neither tired nor cramped. He served the Republic in comfort and ease, and had slept soundly on his paliaise in the little garret allotted to him in the town hall. The crowd parted in silence to allow him to pass. Auguste was lean and powerful, and scanty and meagre food, doled out to him by a paternal government, had increased his muscular strength whilst reducing his fat. He had very hard elbows, and soon he managed by dint of pushing and cursing to reach the gateway of Gaïol. —Voyons! Enlevez-moi ça!—he commanded instantorian tones, pointing to the proclamation. The fellows of the municipal guard fell to and tore the parchment away from the door, whilst the crowd looked on with stupid amazement. What did it all mean? Then Auguste Molleur turned and faced the men. —Mes enfants!—he said. My little cabbages! Wake up! The government of the Republic has decreed that today is to be a day of gaiety and public rejoicings. Gaiety! Public rejoicings force sooth when the breadwinner of every family hush-hush be silent, all of you. Quote Auguste impatiently. You do not understand. All that is at an end. There is no fear that the woman shall escape. You are all to dance and rejoice. The Scarlet Pimpenel has been captured in Boulogne last night. —Qu'est-ce que ça, the Scarlet Pimpenel?—Mait is that mysterious English adventurer who rescued people from the guillotine. —A hero, quoi?—No, no, only an English spy, a friend of aristocrats. He would have cared nothing for the breadwinners of Boulogne. He would not have raised a finger to save them. —Who knows? sighed a feminine voice. Perhaps he came to Boulogne to help them. —And he has been caught, anyway, concluded Auguste Molleur sententiously. And, my little cabbages, remember this, that so great is the pleasure of the all-powerful Committee of Public Safety at this capture, that because he has been caught in Boulogne, therefore Boulogne is to be specially rewarded. —Holy Virgin, who'd have thought it?—Sht, Jeanette! Does not know that there's no Holy Virgin now? And thus know, Auguste, how we are to be rewarded? It is a difficult matter for the human mind to turn very quickly from despair to hope, and the fishermen of Boulogne had not yet grasped the fact that they were to make merry, and that thoughts of anxiety must be abandoned for those of gaiety. Auguste Molleur took out a parchment from the capacious pocket of his coat. He put on his most solemn era of officialdom, and pointing with extended forefinger to the parchment, he said, a general amnesty to all natives of Boulogne who were under arrest at the present moment, a free pardon to all natives of Boulogne who were under sentence of death, permission to all natives of Boulogne to quit the town with their families, to embark on any vessel they please, in or out of the harbour, and to go with or so ever they choose without passports, formalities or question of any kind. Red silence followed this announcement. Hope was just beginning to crowd anxiety and sullenness out of the way. Then poor André le Grand will be pardoned, whispered a voice suddenly, he was to have been guillotined to-day, and Denise Latour, she was innocent enough, the gentle pigeon, and they'll let poor Abbe Fouquet out of prison too, and François, and poor Felicité who was blind. Monsieur Labbe would be wise to leave Boulogne with the children. He will too, thou canst be sure of that. It is not good to be a priest just now. Bah! Gallaudin are best dead than alive. But some in the crowd were silent, others whispered eagerly. Thinks thou it would be safer for us to get out of the country whilst we can, said one of the men in a muffled tone and clutching nervously at a woman's wrist. Aye, aye, it might leak out about that boat we procured for—shh! I was thinking of that. We can go to my aunt Lebrun in Belgium. Others talked and whispers of England, or the new land across the seas. They were those who had something to hide, money received from refugee aristocrats, boats sold to would-be emigres, information withheld, denunciations shirked. The amnesty would not last long, to us best to be safely out of the way. In the meanwhile, my acabages, quoth Auguste sententiously, are you not grateful to Citizen Robespierre who has sent this order specially down from Paris? Aye, aye, assented the crowd cheerfully. Hurrah for Citizen Robespierre! Vive la République! And you will enjoy yourselves to-day. That we will, processions. Aye, with music and dancing! Out there, far away beyond the harbour, the grey light of dawn was yielding to the crimson glow of morning. The rain had ceased, and heavy, slaty clouds parted here and there, displaying glints of delicate turquoise sky, and tiny ethereal vapours in the dim and remote distance of infinity, flecked with touches of rose and gold. The towers and pinnacles of old Boulogne detached themselves one by one from the misty gloom of night. The old bell of the Befroy told the hour of six. Soon the massive cubula of Notre-Dame was clothed in purple hues, and the gilt cross and St. Joseph threw back across the square a blinding ray of gold. The town's sparrows began to twitter, and from far out at sea in the direction of Dunkirk, there came the muffled boom of cannon. And remember my pigeons, admonished Auguste Molleur solemnly, that in this order which Robespierre has sent from Paris, it also says that from to-day onwards Le Bon Dieu has ceased to be. Many faces were turned towards the east just then, for the rising sun, tearing with one gigantic sweep the banks of cloud asunder, now displayed his magnificence in a gorgeous immensity of flaming crimson. The sea in response turned to liquid fire beneath the glow, whilst the whole sky was irradiated with the first blush of morning. Le Bon Dieu has ceased to be. There is only one religion in France now, explained Auguste Molleur, the religion of reason. We are all citizens. We are all free and all able to think for ourselves. Citizen Robespierre has decreed that there is no good God. Le Bon Dieu was a tyrant and an aristocrat, and like all tyrants and aristocrats he has been deposed. There is no good God. There is no holy virgin and no saints, only reason, who is a goddess and whom we all honor. In the townsfolk of Boulogne, with eyes still fixed on the gorgeous east, shouted with sullen obedience, Hurrah for the goddess of reason! Hurrah for Robespierre! Only the women, trying to escape the town crier's prying eyes or the soldier's stern gaze, hastily crossed themselves behind their husbands' backs, terrified Le Bon Dieu had, after all, not altogether ceased to exist at the bidding of Citizen Robespierre. Thus the worthy natives of Boulogne, forgetting their anxieties and fears, were ready enough to enjoy the national fit, ordained for them by the Committee of Public Safety, in honor of the capture of the Scarlet Pimpanel. They were even willing to accept this new religion which Robespierre had invented, a religion which was only a mockery, with an actress to represent its supreme deity. Mais que voulez-vous? Boulogne had long ago ceased to have faith in God. The terrors of the revolution which culminated in that agonizing watch of last night had smothered all thoughts of worship and of prayer. The Scarlet Pimpanel must indeed be a dangerous spy that his arrest should cause so much joy in Paris. Even Boulogne had learned by experience that a Committee of Public Safety did not readily give up a prey once its vulture-like claws had closed upon it. The proportion of condemnations against acquittals was as a hundred to one. But because this one man was taken, scores to-day were to be set free. In the evening at a given hour, seven o'clock had Auguste Moller, the town crier, understood. The boom of the cannon would be heard. The gates of the town would be opened. The harbour would become a free port. The inhabitants of Boulogne were ready to shout, leave the Scarlet Pimpanel! Whatever he was—hero or spy—he was undoubtedly the primary cause of all their joy. By the time Auguste Moller had cried out the news throughout the town, and pinned the new proclamation of mercy up on every public building, all traces of fatigue and anxiety had vanished. In spite of the fact that wearisome vigils had been kept in every home that night, and that hundreds of men and women had stood about for hours in the vicinity of the guy old Fort, no sooner was the joyful news known than all lassitude was forgotten, and every one set to with a right merry will to make the great fake-day a complete success. There is in every native of Normandy, be he peasant or gentleman, an infinite capacity for enjoyment, and at the same time a marvellous faculty for coordinating and systematizing his pleasures. In a trice the surly crowds had vanished. Instead of these there were groups of gaily visaged men pleasantly chattering outside every eating and drinking place in the town. The national holiday had come upon these people quite unawares, so the early part of it had to be spent in thinking out a satisfactory programme for it. Sipping their beer or coffee or munching their cherries à l'eau de vie, the townsfolk of Boulogne, so lately threatened with death, were quietly organizing processions. There was to be a grand muster on the Place in Echaussée, then a torch-light and lantern-light march, right around the ramparts, culminating in a gigantic assembly outside the town hall, where the citizen chauvelin, representing the Committee of Public Safety, would receive an address of welcome from the entire population of Boulogne. The procession was to be in costume. There were to be pierreaux and pierrettes, harlequins and English clowns, aristocrats and goddesses. All day the women and girls were busy contriving travesties of all sorts, and the little tumble-down shops in the Rue de Château, and the Rue Frédéric Sauvage, kept chiefly by Jews and English traders, were ransacked for old bits of finery and for remnants of costumes worn in the days when Boulogne was still a gay city, and carnivals were held every year. And then, of course, there would be the goddess of reason in her triumphal car, the apotheosis of the new religion which was to make everybody happy, rich and free. Forgotten were the anxieties of the night, the fears of death, the great and glorious revolution which for this one day would cease her perpetual demand for the toll of blood. Nothing was remembered save the pleasures and joys of the moment, and at times the name of that Englishman, spy, hero, or adventurer—the cause of all this bounty—the Scarlet Pimpernel. CHAPTER XXIX The Grand Fathers of the present generation of Boulogneers remembered the great day of the national fate when all Boulogne, for twenty-four hours, went crazy with joy. So many families had fathers, brothers, sons, languishing in prison under some charge of treason, real or imaginary. So many had dear ones for whom already the guillotine loomed ahead, that the feast on this memorable day of September 1793 was one of never-to-be-forgotten relief and thanksgiving. The weather all day had been exceptionally fine. After that glorious sunrise the sky had remained all day clad in its gorgeous mantle of blue, and the sun had continued to smile benignly on the many varied doings of this gay little seaport town. When it began to sink slowly towards the west a few little fluffy clouds appeared on the horizon, and from a distance, although the sky remained clear and blue, the sea looked quite dark and slaty against the brilliance of the firmament. Gradually as the splendour of the sunset gave place to the delicate purple and grey tints of evening, the little fluffy clouds merged themselves into denser masses, and these too soon became absorbed in the great billowy banks which the southwesterly wind was blowing seawards. By the time that the last grey streak of dusk vanished in the west the whole sky looked heavy with clouds, and the evenings set in, threatening and dark. But this by no means mitigated the anticipation of pleasure to come. On the contrary, the fast gathering gloom was hailed with delight, since it would surely help to show off the coloured lights of the lanterns and give additional value to the glow of the torches. Of a truth was a motley throng which began to assemble on the Place de la Séné-Josée, just as the old bell of the Béphroix told the hour of six. Men, women and children in ragged finery, pierreur with neck frills and flowered faces, hideous masks of impossible beasts roughly besmeared in crude colours. There were gaily coloured dominoes, blue, green, pink and purple, harlequins combining all the colours of the rainbow in one tight-fitting garment, and columbines with short, tarlet and skirts beneath which peeped bare feet and ankles. There were judges Béphroix and soldiers' helmets of past generations, tall Normandy caps adorned with hundreds of streaming ribbons, and powdered headgear which recalled the glories of their sigh. Everything was torn and dirty. The dominoes were in rags, the pierreur frills mostly made up of paper, already hung in strips over the wearer's shoulders. But what mattered that? The crowd pushed and jolted, shouted and laughed, the girls screamed as the men snatched a kiss here and there from willing or unwilling lips, or stole an arm round a gaily accoutred waist. The spirit of old King Carnival was in the evening air, a spirit just awakened from a long rib-van-winkel-like sleep. In the centre of the plaza stood the guillotine, grim and gaunt, with long, thin arms stretched out towards the sky, the last glimmer of waning light striking the triangular knife, there, where it was not rusty with stains of blood. For weeks now Madame Guillotine had been much occupied plying her gruesome trade. She now stood there in the gloom, passive and immovable, seeming to wait placidly for the end of this holiday, ready to begin her work again on the morrow. She towered above these merry-makers, hoisted up on the platform whereon many an innocent foot had trodden, the tattered basket beside her, into which many an innocent head had rolled. What cared they to night for Madame Guillotine and the horrors of which she told? A crowd of pierrot with floured faces and tattered neck frills had just swarmed up the wooden steps, shouting and laughing, chasing each other round and round on the platform, until one of them lost his footing and fell into the basket, covering himself with bran and staining his clothes with blood. Ah, vogue la galère, we must be merry to-night! And all these people, who for weeks past had been staring death and the guillotine in the face, had denounced each other with savage callousness in order to save themselves, or hidden for days in dark cellars to escape apprehension, now laughed and danced and shrieked with gladness and a sudden hysterical outburst of joy. Close beside the guillotine stood the triumphal car of the goddess of reason, the special feature of this great national fate. It was only a rough market cart, painted by an unpractised hand with bright crimson paint, and adorned with huge clusters of autumn tinted leaves and the scarlet berries of mountain ash and rowan culled from the town gardens or the countryside outside the city walls. In the cart the goddess reclined on a crimson draped seat, she herself swaved in white and wearing a gorgeous necklace around her neck. Desirée Gandet, a little pale, a little apprehensive of all this noise, had obeyed the final dictates of her task-master. She had been the means of bringing the scarlet pimpinel to France and vengeance. She was to be honoured there for above every other woman in France. She sat in the car vaguely thinking over the events of the past few days, whilst watching the throng of rowdy merry-makers seething around her. She thought of the noble-hearted proud woman whom she had helped to bring from her beautiful English home to sorrow and humiliation in a dank French prison. She thought of the gallant English gentleman with his pleasant voice and courtly debonair manners. Chauvelin had roughly told her, only this morning, that both were now under arrest as English spies, and that their fate no longer concerned her. Later on the governor of the city had come to tell her that Citizen Chauvelin desired her to take part in the procession in the national fate as the goddess of reason, and that the people of Boulogne were ready to welcome her as such. This had pleased Gandet's vanity, and all day whilst arranging the finery which she meant to wear for the occasion, she had ceased to think of England and of Lady Blakeney. But now, when she arrived on the Place de la Cine Chaussée, and mounting her car found herself on a level with the platform of the guillotine, her memory flew back to England, to the lavish hospitality of Blakeney Manor, Marguerite's gentle voice, the pleasing grace of Supercy's manners, and she shuddered a little when that cruel glint of evening light caused the knife of the guillotine to glisten from out the gloom. But anon her reflections were suddenly interrupted by loud and prolonged shouts of joy. A whole throng of pierrot had swarmed into the blasts from every side carrying lighted torches and tall staves, on which were hung lanterns with many coloured lights. The procession was ready to start. A stentorian voice shouted out in resonant accents, Aravain la grosse caisse! A man now, portly and gorgeous in scarlet and blue, detached himself from out the crowd. His head was hidden beneath the monstrous mask of a cardboard lion, roughly painted in brown and yellow, with crimson for the widely open jaws, and the corners of the eyes to make them seem ferocious and bloodshot. His coat was of bright crimson cloth, with cuts and slashings in it, through which bunches of bright blue paper were made to protrude, in imitation of the costume of medieval times. He had blue stockings on and bright scarlet slippers, and behind him floated a large strip of scarlet flannel, on which moons and suns and stars of gold had been showered in plenty. Upon his portly figure in front he was supporting the big drum which was securely strapped around his shoulders with tarred cordages, the spoil of some fishing-vessel. There was a merciful slit in the jaw of the cardboard lion, through which the portly drummer puffed and spluttered as he shouted lustily, Aravain! And wielding the heavy drumstick with a powerful arm, he brought it crashing down against the side of the mighty instrument. Ha-ra! Ha-ra! Aravain le trompet! A fanfare of brass instruments followed, lustily blown by twelve young men in motley coats of green, and tall peaked hats adorned with feathers. The drummer had begun to march, closely followed by the trumpeters. Behind them a bevy of columbines and many-coloured tarlet and skirts, and hair flying wildly in the breeze, giggling, pushing, exchanging ribbed jokes with the men behind, and getting kissed or slapped for their pains. Then the triumphal car of the goddess, with Dimoiselle Candet standing upright in it, a tall gold wand in one hand, the other resting in a mass of scarlet berries. All round the car, helter-skelter, tumbling, pushing, came Piero and Piero carrying lanterns and harlequins bearing the torches. And after the car, the long line of more sober folk, the older fishermen, the women in caps and many huge skirts, the serious townfolk who had scorned the travesty, yet would not be left out of the procession. They all began to march to the tune of those noisy brass trumpets which were thundering forth snatches from the newly composed Marseillais. Above the sky became more heavy with clouds. A none a few drops of rain began to fall, making the torches sizzle and splutter and scatter grease and tar around, and wetting the lightly covered shoulders of tarlet and clad columbines. But no one cared. The glow of so much merry-making kept the blood warm and the skin dry. The flower all came off the Piero's faces, the blue paper slashings of the drummer in chief hung in pulpy lumps against his gorgeous scarlet cloak. The trumpeter's feathers became streaky and bedraggled. But in the name of that good God who had ceased to exist, who in the world or out of it cared if it rained or thundered and stormed? This was a national holiday, for an English spy was captured, and all the natives of Boulogne were free from the guillotine to-night. The revelers were making the circuit of the town, with lanterns fluttering in the wind, and flickering torches held up a loft, illuminating laughing faces red with the glow of a drunken joy, young faces that only enjoyed the moment's pleasure, serious ones that withheld a frown at thought of the morrow. The fitful light played on the grotesque masks of beasts and reptiles, on the diamond necklace of a very earthly goddess, on God's glorious spoils from gardens and countryside, on smothered anxiety and repressed cruelty. The crowd had turned its back on the guillotine, and the trumpets now changed the inspiring tune of the Marseillais to the ribbled vulgarity of the Saïra. Everyone yelled and shouted, girls with flowing hair produced broomsticks, and astride on these, broke from the ranks and danced a mad and obscene sarabande, a dance of witches and the weird glow of sizzling torches, to the accompaniment of raucous laughter and, of course, jokes. Thus the procession passed on, a sight to gladden the eyes of those who had desired to smother all thought of the infinite, of eternity and of God in the minds of those to whom they had nothing to offer in return. A threat of death yesterday, misery, starvation and squalor, all the hideousness of a destroying anarchy that had nothing to give save a national fit, a tinsel goddess, some shallow laughter and momentary intoxication, a travesty of clothes and of religion, and a dance on the ashes of the past. And there along the ramparts, where the massive walls of the city encircled the frowning prisons of Gaïol and the old Chateau, dark groups were crouching, huddled together in compact masses, which in the gloom seemed to vibrate with fear. Like hunted quarries seeking for shelter, somber figures flattened themselves in the angles of the dank walls, as the noisy carousers drew nigh. Then as the torches and lanterns detached themselves from out the evening shadows, hand would clutch hand and hearts would beat with agonised suspense, whilst the dark and shapeless forms would try to appear smaller, flatter, less noticeable than before. And when the crowd had passed noisily along, leaving behind it a trail of torn finery, of glittering tinsel and of scarlet berries, when the boom of the big drum and the grating noise of the brass trumpets had somewhat died away, one faces, pale with anxiety, would peer from out the darkness, and nervous hands would grasp with trembling fingers the small bundles of poor belongings tied up hastily in view of flight. At seven o'clock, so to has said, the cannon would boom from the old Befroy. The guard would throw open the prison gates, and those who had something or somebody to hide, and those who had a great deal to fear, would be free to go with the so-ever they chose. And mothers, sisters, sweethearts, stood watching by the gates, for loved ones to-night would be set free, all along of the capture of that English spy, the scarlet pimpenel. CHAPTER XXXI T'Chauvelin the day had been one of restless inquiritude and nervous apprehension. Golo de Roi harassed him with questions and complaints intermixed with threats but thinly veiled. At his suggestion Gaïol had been transformed into a fully manned, well garrisoned fortress. Troops were to be seen everywhere, on the stairs and in the passages, the guard rooms and offices. Picked men from the municipal guard and the company which had been sent down from Paris some time ago. Chauvelin had not resisted these orders given by his colleague. He knew quite well that Marguerite would make no attempt at escape, but he had long ago given up all hope of persuading a man of the type of Golo de Roi that a woman of her temperament would never think of saving her own life at the expense of others, and that Sir Percy Blakeney, in spite of his adoration for his wife, would sooner see her die before him than allow the lives of innocent men and women to be the price of hers. Golo was one of those brutish sorts, not by any means infrequent among the terrorists of that time, who, born in the gutter, still loved to wallow in his native element, and who measured all his fellow-creatures by the same standard which he had always found good enough for himself. In this man there was neither the enthusiastic patriotism of a Chauvelin nor the ardent selflessness of a Danton. He served the revolution and fostered the anarchical spirit of the times only because those brought him a competence and a notoriety which an orderly and fastidious government would obviously have never offered him. History shows no more despicable personality than that of Golo de Roi, one of the most hideous products of that utopian revolution, whose grandly conceived theories of a universal levelling of mankind only succeeded in dragging into prominence a number of half-brutish creatures who, reveling in their own abasement, would otherwise have remained content in inglorious obscurity. Chauvelin tolerated in half-feared Golo, knowing full well that if now the Scarlet Pimpinel escaped from his hands he could expect no mercy from his colleagues. The scheme by which he hoped to destroy not only the heroic leader, but the entire league, by bringing a probium and ridicule upon them, was wonderfully subtle in its refined cruelty, and Chauvelin, knowing by now something of Supercy Blakemy's curiously blended character, was never for a moment in doubt, but that he would write the infamous letter, save his wife by sacrificing his honour, and then seek oblivion and peace and suicide. With so much disgrace, so much mud cast upon their chief, the league of the Scarlet Pimpinel would cease to be. That had been Chauvelin's plan all along. For the end he had schemed and thought and planned from the moment that Rob Speer had given him the opportunity of redeeming his failure of last year. He had built up the edifice of his intrigue bit by bit, from the introduction of his tulle candée, to marguerite at the Richmond Gala, to the arrest of Lady Blakemy in Boulogne. All that remained for him to see now would be the attitude of Supercy Blakemy to-night, when in exchange for the stipulated letter he would see his wife set free. All day Chauvelin had wondered how it would all go off. He had stage-managed everything, but he did not know how the chief actor would play his part. From time to time, when his feeling of restlessness became quite unendurable, the ex-ambassador would wander round Fort Gaillol and on some pretext or other demand to see one or the other of his prisoners. Marguerite, however, observed complete silence in his presence. She acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of the head, and in reply to certain perfunctory queries of his, which he put to her in order to justify his appearance, she either nodded or gave curt monosyllabic answers through partially closed lips. I trust that everything has arranged for your comfort, Lady Blakemy. I thank you, sir. You will be rejoining the daydream to-night. Can I send a messenger over to the yacht for you? I thank you. No. Supercy is well. He is fast asleep and hath not asked for your ladyship. Shall I let him know that you are well? A nod of acquiescence from Marguerite and Chauvelin's string of queries was at an end. He marvelled at her quietude, and thought that she should have been as restless as himself. Later on in the day, and egged on by Golo de Roi and by his own fears, he had caused Marguerite to be removed from number six. This change he heralded by another brief visit to her, and his attitude this time was one of deferential apology. A matter of expediency, Lady Blakemy, he explained, and I trust that the change will be for your comfort. Again the same curt nod of acquiescence on her part, and a brief as you command, monsieur. But when he had gone, she turned with a sudden, passionate outburst towards the Abbe Fouquet, her faithful companion through the past long, weary hours. She fell on her knees beside him and sobbed in an agony of grief. Oh, if I could only know, if I could only see him for a minute, a second, if I could only know! She felt as if the awful uncertainty would drive her mad. If she could only know, if she could only know what he meant to do. The good God knows, said the old man with his usual simple philosophy, and perhaps it is all for the best. The room which Chauvelin had now destined for Marguerite was one which gave from the larger one, wherein last night he had had his momentous interview with her and with Sir Percy. It was small, square, and dark, with no window in it, only a small, ventilating hole, high up in the wall, and heavily grated. Chauvelin, who desired to prove to her that there was no wish on his part to add physical discomfort to her mental tortures, had given orders that the little place should be made as habitable as possible. A thick, soft carpet had been laid on the ground. There was an easy chair and a comfortable-looking couch with a couple of pillows and rug on it, and, oh, Marvel, on the round central table, a vase with a huge bunch of many-coloured dahlias which seemed to throw a note as if of gladness into the strange and gloomy little room. At the furthest corner, too, a construction of iron uprights in crossway bars had been hastily contrived and fitted with curtains, forming a small recess, behind which was a tidy washstand, fine, clean towels, and plenty of fresh water. Evidently the shops of Boulogne had been commandeered in order to render Marguerite's sojourn here outwardly agreeable. But as the place was innocent of window, so was it innocent of doors. The one that gave into the large room had been taken out of his hinges, leaving only the frame on each side of which stood a man from the municipal guard with fixed bayonet. Chauvelin himself had conducted Marguerite to her new prison. She followed him, silent and apathetic, with not a trace of that awful torrent of emotion which had overwhelmed her but half an hour ago when she had fallen on her knees beside the old priest and sobbed her heart out in a passionate fit of weeping. Even the sight of the soldiers left her outwardly indifferent. As she stepped across the threshold she noticed that the door itself had been taken away. Then she gave another quick glance at the soldiers, whose presence there would control her every movement. The thought of Queen Marie Antoinette in the Conciergerie prison with the daily, hourly humiliation and shame which this constant watch imposed upon her womanly pride and modesty flashed suddenly across Marguerite's mind, and a deep blush of horror rapidly suffused her pale cheeks, whilst an almost imperceptible shudder shook her delicate frame. Perhaps, as in a flash, she had at this moment received an inkling of what the nature of that terrible either-or might be, with which Chauvelin was trying to force an English gentleman to dishonour. Her Percy Blakeney's wife had been threatened with Marie Antoinette's fate. "'You see, madame,' said her cruel enemy's unctuous voice close to her ear, "'that we have tried our humble best to make your brief sojourn here as agreeable as possible. May I express her hope that you will be quite comfortable in this room until the time when Sir Percy will be ready to accompany you to the daydream.' "'I thank you, sir,' she replied quietly. "'And if there is anything you require, I pray you to call. I shall be in the next room all day and entirely at your service.' A young orderly now entered, bearing a small collation, eggs, bread, milk, and wine, which he set on the central table. Chauvelin bowed low before Marguerite and withdrew. Anon he ordered the two sentinels to stand the other side of the doorway against the wall of his own room, and well out of sight of Marguerite, so that as she moved about her own narrow prison, if she ate or slept, she might have the illusion that she was unwatched. The sight of the soldiers that had the desired effect on her. Chauvelin had seen her shudder, and knew that she understood of that she guessed. He was now satisfied, and really had no wish to harass her beyond endurance. Moreover, there was always the proclamation which threatened the breadwinners of Boulogne with death if Marguerite Blakeney escaped, and which would be in full force until Sir Percy had written, signed, and delivered into Chauvelin's hands the letter which was to be the signal for the general amnesty. Chauvelin had indeed caused to be satisfied with his measures. There was no fear that his prisoners would attempt to escape. Even que l'Oderois had to admit everything was well done. He had read the draft of the proposed letter, and was satisfied with its contents. Gradually now into his lautish brain there had full-traded the conviction that Citizen Chauvelin was right, that that a cursed scarlet pimpinel and his brood of English spies would be more effectually annihilated by all the dishonor and ridicule which such a letter written by the mysterious hero would heap upon them all, than they could ever be through the relentless work of the guillotine. His only anxiety now was whether the Englishman would write that letter. Ah, he'll do it, he would say, whenever he thought the whole matter over, sacre tonnerre, but it is an easy means to save his own skin. You would sign such a letter without hesitation, eh, Citizen Chauvelin, with well-concealed sarcasm, on one occasion when his colleague discussed the all-absorbing topic with him. You would show no hesitation if your life were at stake, and you were given the choice between writing that letter and the guillotine. Barble, responded Colo with conviction. More especially, continued Chauvelin dryly, if a million francs were promised you as well. Sacre anglais, swore Colo angrily, you don't propose giving him that money, do you? We'll place it ready to his hand at any rate so that it should appear as if he had actually taken it. Colo looked up at his colleague in ungrudging admiration. Chauvelin had indeed left nothing undone, had thought everything out in this strangely conceived scheme for the distraction of the enemy of France. But in the name of all the dwellers in hell, Citizen, admonished Colo, guard that letter well once it is in your hands. I'll do better than that, said Chauvelin, I will hand it over to you, Citizen Colo, and you shall ride with it to Paris at once. Tonight, assented Colo with a shout of triumph, as he brought his grimy fist crashing down on the table, I'll have a horse ready-saddled at this very gate and an escort of mounted men will ride like hell's own furries and not pause to breathe until that letter is in Citizen Roque-Spierre's hands. Well thought of, Citizen, said Chauvelin approvingly. I pray you give the necessary orders that the horses be ready-saddled, and the men booted and spurred and waiting at the Gaillot gate at seven o'clock this evening. I wish the letter were written and safely in our hands by now. Nay, the Englishman will have it ready by this evening, never fear. The tide is high at half past seven, and he will be in haste for his wife to be aboard his yacht ere the turn, even if he— He paused, savoring the thoughts which had suddenly flashed across his mind, and a look of intense hatred and cruel satisfaction for a moment chased away the studied impassiveness of his face. What do you mean, Citizen? Quote Colo anxiously. Even if he—what? Oh! Nothing. Nothing. I was only trying to make vague guesses as to what the Englishman will do after he has written the letter. Quote Chauvelin reflectively. Morble! He'll return to his own accursed country, glad enough to have escaped with his skin. I suppose, added Colo with sudden anxiety, you have no fear that he will refuse at the last moment to write that letter. The two men were sitting in the large room, out of which opened the one which was now occupied by Marguerite. They were talking at the further end of it, close to the window, and though Chauvelin had mostly spoken in a whisper, Colo had oftimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador was wondering how much Marguerite had heard. Now at Colo's anxious query he gave a quick, furtive glance in the direction of the further room wherein she sat, so silent and so still, that it seemed almost as if she must be sleeping. You don't think that the Englishman will refuse to write the letter? insisted Colo with angry impatience. No. replied Chauvelin quietly. But if he does—persisted the other. If he does, I send the woman to Paris to-night, and have him hanged as a spy in this prison-yard without further formality or trial, replied Chauvelin firmly. So either way you see, citizen," he added in a whisper, the scarlet Pimpanel is done for. But I think that he will write the letter. Pah! Bleh! So do I! rejoined Colo with a coarse laugh. CHAPTER XXXII of the elusive Pimpanel by Baron S. Horsey, read for LibriVox.org by Karen Savage in March 2008. CHAPTER XXXII THE LETTER Later on, when his colleague left him in order to see to the horses and to his escort for to-night, Chauvelin called Sergeant Abert, his old and trusted familiar to him, and gave him some final orders. The Angelus must be rung at the proper hour, friend Abert. He began with a grim smile. The Angelus citizen, quote the sergeant with complete stupefaction, to his months now since it has been rung, it was forbidden by a degree of the convention, and I doubt me if any of our men would know how to set about it. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed before him in apparent vacancy, while the same grim smile still hovered round his thin lips. Something of that irresponsible spirit of adventure which was the mainspring of all Supercie Blakeney's actions, must for the moment have pervaded the mind of his deadly enemy. Chauvelin had thought out this idea of having the Angelus rung to-night, and was thoroughly pleased with the notion. This was the day when the duel was to have been fought. Seven o'clock would have been the very hour, and the sound of the Angelus to have been the signal for combat, and there was something very satisfying in the thought that that same Angelus should be rung, as a signal that the Scarlet Pimpernel was withered and broken at last. In answer to her bear's look of bewilderment, Chauvelin said quietly, We must have some signal between ourselves and the guard at the different gates, also with the harbour officials. At a given moment the general amnesty must take effect, and the harbour become a free port. I have a fancy that the signal shall be the ringing of the Angelus. The cannons at the gate and the harbour can boom in place. Then the prisons can be thrown open, and prisoners can either participate in the evening fate, or leave the city immediately as they choose. The Committee of Public Safety has promised the amnesty. It will carry out its promise to the full, and when Citizen Collo der Bois arrives in Paris with the joyful news, all natives of Boulogne in the prisons there will participate in the free pardon, too. I understand all that, Citizen, said a bear, still somewhat bewildered, but not the Angelus. A fancy friend, a bear, and I mean to have it. But who is to ring it, Citizen? Or, bluh, haven't you one Callotin left in Boulogne, whom you can press into doing the service? Aye, Callotin enough. There is the Abbe Fouquet in this very building, in number six cell. Sacre tonnerre, ejaculate his chauvelin exultingly. The very man, I know his dossier well. Once he is free, he will make straightaway for England, he and his family, and will help to spread the glorious news of the dishonor and disgrace of the much-vaunted Scarlet Pimpanel. The very man, friendé bear, let him be stationed here, to see the letter written, to see the money handed over, for we will go through with that farce, and make him understand that the moment I give him the order he can run over to his old church Saint Joseph and ring the Angelus. That old fool will be delighted, more especially when he knows that he will thereby be giving the very signal which will set his own sisters children free. You understand? I understand, Citizen. And you can make the old Callotin understand? I think so, Citizen. You want him in this room, at what time? A quarter before seven. Yes, I'll bring him along myself, and stand over him, lest he play any pranks. Oh, he'll not trouble you," sneered Chauvelin. He'll be deeply interested in the proceedings. The woman will be here, too, remember. He added with a jerky movement of the hand in the direction of Marguerite's room. The two might be made to stand together, with four of your fellows round them. I understand, Citizen. Are any of us to escort the Citizen Frouquet when he goes to Saint Joseph? I. Two men had best go with him. There will be a crowd in the streets by then. How far is it from here to the church? Less than five minutes. Good. See to it that the doors are opened and the bell ropes easy of access. It shall be seen, too, Citizen. How many men would you have inside this room to-night? Let the walls be lined with men whom you can trust. I anticipate neither trouble nor resistance. The whole thing is a simple formality to which the Englishman has already intimated his readiness to submit. If he changes his mind at the last moment, there will be no Angelus rung, no booming of the cannons or opening of the prison doors. There will be no amnesty and no free pardon. The woman will be at once conveyed to Paris, and— But he'll not change his mind, Frendez-Bair. He concluded in suddenly altered tones, and speaking quite lightly. He'll not change his mind. The conversation between Chauvelin and his familiar had been carried on in whispers. Not that the terrorist cared whether Marguerite overheard or not, but whispering had become a habit with this man whose torturous ways and subtle intrigues did not lend themselves to discussion in a loud voice. Chauvelin was sitting at the central table, just where he had been last night when Sir Percy Blakeney's sudden advent broke in on his meditations. The table had been cleared of the litter of multitudinous papers which had encumbered it before. On it now there were only a couple of heavy pewter candlesticks with the tallow candles fixed ready in them, a leather pad, an inkwell, a sandbox, and two or three quill pens—everything disposed, in fact, for the writing and signing of the letter. Already in imagination, Chauvelin saw his impudent enemy, the bold and daring adventurer, standing there beside that table and putting his name to the consummation of his own infamy. The mental picture thus evoked brought a gleam of cruel satisfaction and of satisfied lust into the keen, ferret-like face, and a smile of intense joy lit up the narrow, pale-coloured eyes. He looked round the room where the great scene would be enacted. Two soldiers were standing guard outside Marguerite's prison, two more at attention near the door which gave on the passage. His own half-dozen-picked men were waiting his commands in the corridor. Presently the whole room would be lined with troops, himself and Collors standing with eyes fixed on the principal actor of the drama, a bear with specially selected troopers standing guard over Marguerite. No, no, he had left nothing to chance this time, and down below the horses would be ready-sattled that were to convey Collors in the precious document to Paris. No, nothing was left to chance, and in either case he was bound to win. Sir Percy Blapney would either write the letter in order to save his wife and heap dishonour on himself, or he would shrink from the terrible ordeal at the last moment, and let Chauvelin and the Committee of Public Safety work their will with her and him. In that case the pillory as a spy in summary hanging for you, my friend, concluded Chauvelin in his mind, and for your wife? Bah! Once you are out of the way even she will cease to matter. He left a bear on guard in the room, and a resistable desire seized him to go and have a look at his discomforted enemy, and from the latter's attitude make a shrewd guess as to what he meant to do to-night. Sir Percy had been given a room on one of the upper floors of the old prison. He had in no way been closely guarded, and the room itself had been made as comfortable as may be. He had seemed quite happy and contented when he had been conducted hither by Chauvelin the evening before. I hope you quite understand, Sir Percy, that you are my guest here to-night, Chauvelin had said, suavely, and that you are free to come and go just as you please. Not love you, sir! Sir Percy had replied gaily, but I verily believe that I am. It is only Lady Blapney whom we have caused to watch until to-morrow. Added Chauvelin with quiet significance. Is that not so, Sir Percy? But Sir Percy seemed, whenever his wife's name was mentioned, to lapse into irresistible somnolence. He yawned now with his usual affectation, and asked at what hour gentlemen in France were want to breakfast. Since then Chauvelin had not seen him. He had repeatedly asked how the English prisoner was faring, and whether he seemed to be sleeping and eating heartily. The orderly in charge invariably reported that the Englishman seemed well, but did not eat much. On the other hand, he had ordered, and lavishly paid for, measure after measure of brandy, and bottle after bottle of wine. Hmm! How strange these Englishmen are, mused Chauvelin. This so-called hero is nothing but a wine-sodden brute who seeks to nerve himself for a trying ordeal by drowning his faculties in brandy. Perhaps after all, he doesn't care. But the wish to have a look at that strangely complex creature, hero, adventurer, or mere lucky fool, was irresistible. And Chauvelin, the latter part of the afternoon, went up to the room which had been allotted to Sir Percy Blakeney. He never moved now without his escort, and this time also two of his favourite bodyguard accompanied him to the upper floor. He knocked at the door, but received no answer, and after a second or two he bade his men wait in the corridor, and, gently turning the latch, walked in. There was an odour of brandy in the air. On the table two or three empty bottles of wine and a glass half filled with cognac testified to the truth of what the orderly had said, whilst sprawling across the camp Bedstead, which obviously was too small for his long limbs, his head thrown back, his mouth open for a vigorous snore, lay the imperturbable Sir Percy fast asleep. Chauvelin went up to the Bedstead and looked down upon the reclining figure of the man who had often been called the most dangerous enemy of Republic in France. Of a truth a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin was ready enough to admit that. The long, hard limbs, the wide chest, and slender white hands, all bespoke the man of birth, breeding, and energy. The face looked too strong and clearly cut and repose, now that the perpetually inane smile did not play around the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression while the seriousness of the straight brow. For one moment, it was a mere flash, Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career should be thus ignominiously brought to a close. The terrorist felt that if his own future, his own honour and integrity were about to be so hopelessly crushed, he would have wandered up and down this narrow room like a caged beast, eating out his heart with self-reproach and remorse, and racking his nerves and brain for an issue out of the terrible alternative which meant dishonour or death. But this man drank and slept. Perhaps he doesn't care. And as if in answer to Chauvelin's puzzled musing, a deep snore escaped the sleeping adventurer's parted lips. Chauvelin sighed, perplexed, and troubled. He looked around the little room, then went up to a small side-taper which stood against the wall, and on which were two or three quill-pens and an inkwell, also some loosely scattered sheets of paper. These he turned over with a careless hand, and presently came across a closely written page. Citizen Chauvelin, in consideration of a further sum of one million francs, it was the beginning of a letter. Only a few words so far, with several corrections of misspelled words and a line left out here and there which confused the meaning, a beginning made by the unsteady hand of that drunken fool, an attempt only at present, but still a beginning. Close by was the draft of it as written out by Chauvelin, and which the Percy had evidently begun to copy. He had made up his mind, then. He meant to subscribe with his own hand to his lasting dishonor, and meaning it, he slept. Chauvelin felt the paper trembling in his hand. He felt strangely agitated and nervous now that the issue was so near. So sure. There's no damned hurry for that, is there, Mr. Chauvelin? Came for the slowly wakening supercy in somewhat thick, heavy accents, accompanied by a prolonged yawn. I haven't got the damned thing quite ready. Chauvelin had been so startled that the paper dropped from his hand. He stooped to pick it up. Nay, why should you be so scared, sir? continued supercy lazily. Did you think I was drunk? I assure you, sir, on my honour. I am not so drunk as you think I am." I have no doubt, supercy, replied Chauvelin ironically, that you have all your marvellous faculties entirely at your command. I must apologise for disturbing your papers, he added, replacing the half-fritten page on the table. I thought perhaps that if the letter was ready, it will be, sir, it will be, for I am not drunk, I assure you, and can write with a steady hand, and do honour to my signature. When will you have the letter ready, supercy? The daidry must leave the harbour at the turn of the tide, quotes supercy thickly. It will be damned well timed by then, won't it, sir? About sundown, supercy, not later. About sundown. Not later. muttered Blakeney as he once more stretched his long limbs along the narrow bed. He gave a long and hearty yawn. Oh, not fail you, he murmured, as he closed his eyes, and gave a final struggle to get his head at a comfortable angle. The letter will be ridden in my best culli—cullig—lut, but I'm not so drunk as you think I am. But as if to belie his own oft-repeated assertion, hardly was the last word out of his mouth, then hysterious and even breathing proclaimed the fact that he was once more fast asleep. With the shrug of the shoulders and a look of unutterable contempt at his broken-down enemy, Chauvelin turned on his heels and went out of the room. But outside in the corridor he called the orderly to him and gave strict commands that no more wine or brandy was to be served to the Englishman under any circumstances whatever. He has two hours in which to sleep off the effects of all that brandy he had consumed. He mused as he finally went back to his own quarters, and by that time he will be able to write with a steady hand. CHAPTER 33 The English Spy And now at last the shades of evening were drawing in thick and fast. Within the walls of Fort Gaillol the last rays of the setting sun had long ago ceased to shed their dying radiance, and through the thick stone embrasures and the dusty panes of glass the grey light of dusk soon failed to penetrate. In the large ground-floor room with its window opened upon the wide promenade of the southern ramparts a silence reigned which was oppressive. The air was heavy with the fumes of the two tallow candles on the table which smoked persistently. Against the walls a row of figures in dark blue uniforms with scarlet facings, drab bridges and heavy riding-boots, silent and immovable, with fixed bayonets, like so many automatons lining the room all around. At some little distance from the central table and out of the immediate circle of the light a small group composed of five soldiers in the same blue and scarlet uniforms. One of these was Sergeant Ebert. In the centre of this group two persons were sitting—a woman and an old man. The Abbe Fouquet had been brought down from his prison cell a few minutes ago, and told to watch what would go on round him, after which he would be allowed to go to his old church of St. Joseph and ring the Angelus once more before he and his family left Boulogne for ever. The Angelus would be the signal for the opening of all the prison gates in the town. Every one to-night would come and go as they pleased, and having wrung the Angelus the Abbe would be at liberty to join François and Felicité and their old mother, his sister, outside the Perleus of the town. The Abbe Fouquet did not quite understand all this, which was very rapidly and roughly explained to him. It was such a very little while ago that he had expected to see the innocent children mounting up those awful steps which led to the guillotine, whilst he himself was looking death quite near in the face, that all this talk of amnesty and of pardon had not quite fully reached his brain. But he was quite content that it had all been ordained by Le Bon Dieu, and very happier the thought of ringing the dearly loved Angelus in his own old church once again. So when he was peremptorily pushed into the room and found himself close to Marguerite, with four or five soldiers standing round them, he quietly pulled his old rosary from his pocket and began murmuring gentle patas and avais under his breath. Beside him sat Marguerite, rigid as a statue, her cloak thrown over her shoulder so that its hood might hide her face. She could not now have said how that awful day had passed, how she had managed to survive the terrible, nerve-wracking suspense, the agonizing doubt as to what was going to happen. But above all, what she had found most unendurable was the torturing thought that in this same grim and frowning building her husband was there, somewhere, how far or how near she could not say, but she knew that she was parted from him, and perhaps would not see him again, not even at the hour of death. That Percy would never write that infamous letter and live, she knew, that he might write it in order to save her, she feared was possible, whilst the look of triumph on Chauvelin's face had aroused her most agonizing terrors. When she was summarily ordered to go into the next room, she realized at once that all hope was now more than futile. The walls lined with troops, the attitude of her enemies, and above all that table with paper, ink, and pens ready, as it were, for the accomplishment of that hideous and monstrous deed, all made her very heart numb, as if it were held within the chill embrace of death. If the woman moves, speaks or screams, gag her at once, said Colo, roughly, the moment she sat down, and Sergeant Abert stood over her, gag and cloth in hand, whilst two soldiers placed heavy hands on her shoulders. But she neither moved nor spoke, not even presently when a loud and cheerful voice came echoing from a distant corridor, and an arm the door opened, and her husband came in, accompanied by Chauvelin. The ex-ambassador was very obviously in a state of acute nervous tension. His hands were tightly clasped behind his back, and his movements were curiously irresponsible and jerky. But Supercy Blakeney looked a picture of calm and concern. The lace bow at his throat was tied with scrupulous care, his eyeglass upheld at quite the correct angle, and his delicate-colored caped coat was thrown back just sufficiently to afford a glimpse of the dainty cloth suit and exquisitely embroidered waistcoat beneath. He was the perfect presentation of a London dandy, and might have been entering a royal drawing-rooming company with an honoured guest. Margaret's eyes were riveted on him as he came well within the circle of light projected by the candles. But not even with that acute sixth sense of a passionate and loving woman could she detect the slightest tremor in the aristocratic hands which held the gold-rimmed eyeglass nor the faintest quiver of the firmly moulded lips. This had occurred just as the bell of the old befoir chimed three-quarters after six. Now it was close on seven, and in the centre of the room and with his face and figure well lighted up by the candles, at the table, pen in hand, set Supercy writing. At his elbow, just behind him, stood Chauvelin on the one side, and Colo de Rois on the other, both watching, with fixed and burning eyes, the writing of that letter. Supercy seemed in no hurry. He wrote slowly and deliberately, carefully copying the draft of the letter which was propped up in front of him. The spelling of some of the French words seemed to have troubled him at first, for when he began he made many facetious and self-deprecatory remarks and end his own want of education and carelessness in youth in acquiring the gentle art of speaking so elegant a language. Presently, however, he appeared more at his ease, or perhaps less inclined to talk, since he only received curt, monosyllabic answers to his pleasant sallies. Five minutes had gone by without any other sound, save the spasmodic creak of Supercy's pen upon the paper, the while Chauvelin Colo watched every word he wrote. But gradually from afar they had risen in the stillness of the evening, a distant rolling noise like that of surf breaking against the cliffs. Nearer and louder it grew, and as it increased in volume, so it gained now in diversity. The monotonous roll like far-off thunder was just as continuous as before, but now shriller notes broke out from amongst the more remote sounds. A loud laugh seemed ever and on to pierce the distance and to rise above the persistent hubbub, which became the mere accompaniment to these isolated tones. The merry-makers of Boulogne, having started from the Blast de la Selle Chaussée, were making the round of the town by the wide avenue which tops the ramparts. They were coming past the Fort Gaillol, shouting, singing, brass trumpets in the front, big drama-head, drenched, hot and hoarse, but supremely happy. Supercy looked up for a moment as the noise drew nearer, then turned to Chauvelin and pointing to the letter he said, I have nearly finished. The suspense in the smoke-laden atmosphere of this room was becoming unendurable, and four hearts at least were beating wildly with overpowering anxiety. Marguerite's eyes were fixed with tender intensity on the man she so passionately loved. She did not understand his actions or his motives, but she felt a wild longing in her to drink in every line of that loved face, as if with this last long look she was bidding an eternal farewell to all hopes of future earthly happiness. The old priest had ceased to tell his beads. Being in his kindly heart the echo of the appalling tragedy which was being enacted before him, he had put out a fatherly tentative hand towards Marguerite, and given her icy fingers a comforting pressure. And in the hearts of Chauvelin and his colleague there was satisfied revenge, eager, exultant triumph, and that terrible nerve tension which immediately precedes the long-expected climax. But who can say what went on within the heart of that bold adventurer about to be brought to the lowest depths of humiliation which it is in the power of man to endure? What behind that smooth, unruffled brow still bent laboriously over the page of writing? The crowd was now on the Place du Monde. Some of the foremost in the ranks were ascending the stone steps which led to the southern ramparts. The noise had become incessant. Piero, Empiorets, Harlequins, and Columbines had worked themselves up into a veritable intoxication of shouts and laughter. Now as they all swarmed up the steps and caught sight of the open window almost on a level with the ground, and of the large, dimly-lighted room, they gave forth one terrific and voluminous hurrah for the paternal government in Paris, who had given them cause for all this joy. Then they recollected how the amnesty, the pardon, the national fate, this brilliant procession had come about, and somebody in the crowd shouted, Alon, let us have a look at that English spy! Let us see the scarlet pimpinale! Yes! Yes! Let us see what he is like! They shouted, and stamped, and swarmed round the open window, ringing their lanterns, and demanding in a loud tone of voice that the English spy be shown to them. Faces wet with rain and perspiration tried to peep in at the window. Kolor gave brief orders to the soldiers to close the shutters at once, and to push away the crowd, but the crowd would not be pushed, it would not be gainsen, and when the soldiers tried to close the window, twenty angry fists broke the panes of glass. I can't finish this writing in your lingo, sir, whilst this damned row is going on," said Sapercee placidly. You have not much more to write, Sapercee, urged Chauvelin with nervous impatience. I pray you finish the matter now, and get you gone from out this city. Send that damned lot away, then, rejoined Sapercee calmly. They won't go, they want to see you. Sapercee paused a moment, pen in hand, as if in deep reflection. They want to see me," he said with a laugh. Why dem it all, then why not let him? And with a few rapid strokes of the pen he quickly finished the letter, adding his signature with a bold flourish, whilst the crowd, pushing, jostling, shouting, and cursing the soldiers, still loudly demanded to see the scarlet pimpenel. Chauvelin felt as if his heart would veritably burst with the wildness of its beating. Then Sapercee, with one hand lightly pressed on the letter, pushed his chair away, and with his pleasant ringing voice said once again, Well, dem it! Let him see me! With that he sprang to his feet, and up to his full height, and as he did so he seized the two massive pewter candlesticks, one in each hand, and with powerful arms well outstretched he held them high above his head. The letter! murmured Chauvelin in a hoarse whisper. But even as he was quickly reaching out a hand, which shook with the intensity of his excitement, towards the letter on the table, Blakeney with one loud and sudden shout threw the heavy candlesticks onto the floor. They rattled down with a terrific crash, the lights were extinguished, and the whole room was immediately plunged in utter darkness. The crowd gave a wild yell of fear. They had only caught sight for one instant of that gigantic figure, which, with arms outstretched, had seemed supernaturally tall, weirdly illumined by the flickering light of the tallow candles, and the next moment disappearing into utter darkness before their very gaze. Overcome with sudden superstitious fear, Pierrot and Pierrette's drummer and trumpeter's turned and fled in every direction. Within the room all was wild confusion. The soldiers heard a cry, La fenêtre, la fenêtre! Who gave it no one knew? No one could afterwards recollect. Then it is that with one accord the majority of the men made a rush for the open window, driven thither partly by the wild instinct of the chase after an escaping enemy, and partly by the same superstitious terror which had caused the crowd to flee. They clambered over the sill, and dropped down onto the ramparts below, then started in wild pursuit. But when the crash came, Chauvelin had given one frantic shout, the letter! Colour! A moi in his hand! The letter! There was the sound of a heavy thud, of a terrible scuffle there on the floor in the darkness, and then a yell of victory from Colo d'Herbois. I have the letter! A Paris! Victory! Echoed Chauvelin, exultant and panting. Victory! The Angelus, Fendébert, take the calotin to ring the Angelus. It was instinct which caused Colo d'Herbois to find the door. He tore it open, letting in a feeble ray of light from the corridor. He stood in the doorway one moment, his slouchy ungainly form distinctly outlined against the lighter background beyond. A look of exultant and malicious triumph of deadly hate and cruelty distinctly imprinted on his face, and with upraised hand wildly flourishing the precious document, the brand of dishonour for the enemy of France. A Paris! shouted Chauvelin to him excitedly, into Robespierre's hands, the letter! Then he fell back panting, exhausted on the nearest chair. Colo d'Herbois, without looking again behind him, called wildly for the men who were to escort him to Paris. They were picked troopers, stalwart veterans from the old municipal guard. They had not broken their ranks throughout the turmoil, and fell into line in perfect order as they followed citizen Colo out of the room. Less than five minutes later there was the noise of stamping and champing of bits in the courtyard below, a shout from Colo, and the sound of a cavalcade galloping at breakneck speed towards the distant Paris gate. CHAPTER XXXIV The Angelus And gradually all noises died away around the old Fort Gaillot. The shouts and laughter of the merry-makers who had quickly recovered from their fright, now came only as the muffled rumble of a distant storm, broken here and there by the shrill note of a girl's loud laughter or a vigorous fanfare from the brass trumpets. The room where so much turmoil had taken place, where so many hearts had beaten with torrent-like emotions, where the awesome tragedy of revenge and hate, of love and passion had been consummated, was now silent and at peace. The soldiers had gone, some in pursuit of the revelers, some with Colo d'Herbois, others with Airbert and the Calotin who was to ring the Angelus. Chauvelin overcome with the intensity of his exaltation and the agony of the suspense which he had endured, sat vaguely dreaming, hardly conscious, but wholly happy and content. Fearless, too, for his triumph was complete, and he cared not now if he lived or died. He had lived long enough to see the complete annihilation and dishonour of his enemy. What had happened to Supercibly now, what to Marguerite, he neither knew nor cared. No doubt the Englishman had picked himself up and got away through the window or the door. He would be anxious to get his wife out of the town as quickly as possible. The Angelus would ring directly, the gates would be opened, the harbour made free to every one, and Colo was a league outside Boulogne by now, a league nearer to Paris. So what mattered the humbled wayside English flower that damaged and withered Scarlett Pimpinel? A slight noise suddenly caused him to start. He had been dreaming, no doubt, having fallen into some kind of torpor akin to sleep after the deadly and restless fatigue of the past four days. He certainly had been unconscious of everything around him, of time and of place. But now he felt fully awake, and again he heard that slight noise as if something or someone was moving in the room. He tried to peer into the darkness but could distinguish nothing. He rose and went to the door. It was still open, and close behind it, against the wall, a small oil lamp was fixed which lit up the corridor. Chauvelin detached the lamp and came back with it into the room. Just as he did so, there came to his ears the first sound of the little church bell ringing the Angelus. He stepped into the room holding the lamp high above his head. Its feeble rays fell full upon the brilliant figure of Saperce Blakeney. He was smiling pleasantly, bowing slightly towards Chauvelin, and in his hand he held the sheathed sword, the blade of which had been fashioned in Toledo for Lorenzo Cenci, and the fellow of which was lying now, Chauvelin himself knew not where. "'The day and hour, monsieur, I think,' said Saperce with courtly grace, "'when you and I are to cross swords together. "'Those are the Southern Ramparts, my seams. Will you proceed, sir, and I will follow.'" At sight of this man, of his impudence and of his daring, Chauvelin felt an icy grip on his heart. His cheeks became ashen-white, his thin lips closed with a snap, and the hand which held the lamp aloft trembled visibly. Saperce stood before him, still smiling, and with a graceful gesture pointing towards the Ramparts. From the church of St. Joseph the gentle melancholy tones of the Angelus sounding the second Ave Maria came faintly echoing in the evening air. With a violent effort Chauvelin forced himself to self-control, and tried to shake off the strange feeling of obsession which had overwhelmed him in the presence of this extraordinary man. He walked quite quietly up to the table, and placed the lamp upon it, as in a flash of recollection had come back to him the past few minutes, the letter, and go l'or well on his way to Paris. Bah! He had nothing to fear now, save perhaps death at the hand of this adventurer turned assassin in his misery and humiliation. A truce on this folly, Saperce, he said roughly, as you well know I had never any intention of fighting you with these poisoned swords of yours, and I knew that, Monsieur Chauvelin, but do you know that I have the intention of killing you now, as you stand, like a dog? And throwing down the sword with one of those uncontrolled outbursts of almost animal passion which for one instant revealed the real inner man, he went up to Chauvelin and towering above him like a great avenging giant, he savored for one second the joy of looking down on that puny slender figure which he could crush with sheer brute force, with one blow from his powerful hands. But Chauvelin, at this moment, was beyond fear. And if you killed me now, Saperce, he said quietly and looking at the man whom he so hated fully in the eyes, you could not destroy that letter which my colleague is taking to Paris at this very moment. As he had anticipated, his words seemed to change Saperce's mood in an instant. The passion in the handsome aristocratic face faded in a trice. The hard lines around the jaw and lips relaxed. The fire of revenge died out from the lazy blue eyes, and the next moment a long, loud, merry laugh raised the dormant echoes of the old fort. "'Nay, Monsieur Chauvelin,' said Saperce Gaeli, "'but this is marvellous, damned marvellous, do you hear that, my dear? God's zooks, but it is the best joke I have heard this past twelve months. Monsieur here thinks, "'Lud, but I shall die of laughing! Monsieur here thinks, that was that damned letter which went to Paris, and that an English gentleman lay scuffling on the floor, and allowed a letter to be fooched from him.' "'Saperce,' gasped Chauvelin, as an awful thought seemed suddenly to flash across his fevered brain. "'Lud, sir, you are astonishing,' said Saperce, taking a very much crumpled sheet of paper from the capacious pocket of his elegant caped coat, and holding it close to Chauvelin's horror-stricken gaze. "'This is the letter which I wrote at that table yonder in order to gain time, and in order to fool you. But by the Lord you are a bigger, damned fool than I ever took you to be, if you thought it would serve any other purpose than that of my hitting you in the face with it, and with a quick and violent gesture he struck Chauvelin full in the face with the paper.' "'You would like to know, Monsieur Chauvelin, would you not?' he added pleasantly. "'What letter it is that your friend, Citizen Collo, is taking in such hot haste to Paris for you?' "'Well, the letter is not long, and is written in verse. I wrote it myself upstairs to-day, whilst you thought me sodden with Brandy in three parts asleep. But Brandy is easily flung out of the window. Did you think I drank it all? Nay, as you remember, I told you that I was not so drunk as you thought. I—the letter is written English verse, Monsieur, and it reads thus. We seek him here, we seek him there. Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? Is he in hell? That damned elusive pimpin'l!' "'A neat rhyme, I fancy, Monsieur, and one which will, if rightly translated, greatly please your friend and ruler, Citizen Robespierre. Your colleague, Citizen Collo, is well on his way to Paris with it by now. No, no, Monsieur. As you rightly said just now, I really could not kill you, God having blessed me with the saving sense of humour. Even as he spoke, the third avid Maria of the Angelus died away on the morning air. From the harbour, the old chateau, there came the loud boom of cannon. The hour of the opening of the gates, of the general amnesty and free harbour, was announced throughout Boulogne. Chauvelin was livid with rage, fear, and baffled revenge. He made a sudden rush for the door and a blind desire to call for help, but suppose he had toyed long enough with his prey. The hour was speeding on. He bear and some of the soldiers might return, and it was time to think of safety and of flight. Quick as a hunted panther, he head into post his tall figure between his enemy and the latter's chance of calling for aid. Then seizing the little man by the shoulders, he pushed him back into that portion of the room where Marguerite and the Abbe-Fouquet had lately been sitting. The gag, with cloth and cord, which had been intended for a woman, were lying on the ground close by, just where a bear had dropped them when he marched the old abbey off to the church. With quick and dexterous hands, suppose he soon reduced Chauvelin to an impotent and silent bundle. The ex-ambassador, after four days of harrowing nerve tension, followed by so awful a climax, was weakened physically and mentally, whilst Blakeney, powerful, athletic, and always absolutely unperturbed, was fresh in body and spirit. He had slept calmly all the afternoon, having quietly thought out all his plans, left nothing to chance, and acted methodically and quickly and invariably with perfect repose. Having fully assured himself that the cords were well fastened, the gag secure, and Chauvelin completely helpless, he took the now inert mass up in his arms and carried it into the adjoining room where Marguerite for twelve hours had endured a terrible martyrdom. He laid his enemy's helpless form upon the couch, and for one moment looked down on it with a strange feeling of pity, quite unmixed with contempt. The light from the lamp in the further room struck vaguely upon the prostrate figure of Chauvelin. He seemed to have lost consciousness, for the eyes were closed. Only the hands, which were tied securely to his body, had a spasmodic nervous twitch in them. With a good-natured shrug of the shoulders, the imperturbable supercy turned to go, but just before he did so, he took a scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket, and slipped it between Chauvelin's trembling fingers. On the paper was scribbled the four lines of verse which in the next four and twenty hours Robespierre himself and his colleagues would read. Then Blakeney finally went out of the room. CHAPTER XXV. As he re-entered the large room she was standing beside the table, with one dainty hand resting against the back of the chair, her whole graceful figure bent forward as if in an agony of ardent expectation. Never for an instant, in that supreme moment when his precious life was at stake, did she waver in courage or presence of mind. From the moment that he jumped up and took the candlesticks in his hands, her sixth sense showed her as in a flash what he meant to do, and how he would wish her to act. When the room was plunged in darkness she stood absolutely still. When she heard the scuffle on the floor she never trembled, for her passionate heart had already told her that he never meant to deliver that infamous letter into his enemy's hands. Then when there was the general scramble, when the soldiers rushed away, when the room became empty and Chauvelin alone remained, she shrank quietly into the darkest corner of the room, hardly breathing, only waiting, waiting for a sign from him. She could not see him, but she felt the beloved presence there, somewhere close to her, and she knew that he would wish her to wait. She watched him silently, ready to help if he called, equally ready to remain still and to wait. Only when the helpless body of her deadly enemy was well out of the way did she come out from the darkness, and now she stood with the full light of the lamp illuminating her ruddy golden hair, the delicate blush on her cheek, the flame of love dancing in her glorious eyes. Thus he saw her as he re-entered the room, and for one second he paused at the door, for the joy of seeing her there seemed greater than he could bear. Forgotten was the agony of mind which he had endured, the humiliations and the dangers which still threatened. He only remembered that she loved him, and that he worshipped her. The next moment she lay clasped in his arms, all was still around them, save for the general patter-patter of the rain on the trees of the ramparts, and from very far away the echo of laughter and music from the distant revelers, and then the cry of the seamew thrice repeated from just beneath the window. Blakene and Marguerite awoke from their brief dream. Once more the passionate lover gave place to the man of action. "'Tis Tony and I mistake not,' he said hurriedly, as with loving fingers still slightly trembling with suppressed passion, he readjusted the hood over her head. "'Lord Tony,' she murmured, "'I, with hastings and one or two others. "'I told them to be ready for us to-night as soon as the place was quiet.' "'You were so sure of success, then, Percy?' she asked in wonderment. "'So sure,' he replied simply. Then he led her to the window and lifted her onto the sill. It was not high from the ground, and two pairs of willing arms were there ready to help her down. Then he, too, followed, and quietly the little party turned to walk toward the gate. The ramparts themselves now looked strangely still and silent. The merry-makers were far away, only one or two passers by hurried swiftly past, here and there, carrying bundles, evidently bent on making use of that welcome permission to leave this dangerous soil. The little party walked on in silence, margarite small hand resting on her husband's arm, and on they came upon a group of soldiers who were standing somewhat perfunctrally and irresolutely close by the open gate of the fort. "'Tiens, c'est l'anglais,' said one. "'Mort bleu,' he is on his way back to England,' commented another lazily. The gates of Boulogne had been thrown open to everyone when the antelos was wrung, and the cannon boomed. The general amnesty had been proclaimed. Everyone had the right to come and go as they pleased. The sentinels had been ordered to challenge no one, and to let everyone pass. No one knew that the great and glorious plans for the complete annihilation of the scarlet Pimpernel and his leak had come to naught, that Gollor was taking a mighty hoax to Paris, and that the man who had thought out and nearly carried through the most fiendishly cruel plan ever conceived for the destruction of an country lay helpless, bound and gagged within his own stronghold. And so the little party, consisting of subpersonant Marguerite, Lord Antony Dewhurst and My Lord Hastings, passed unchallenged through the gates of Boulogne. Outside the precincts of the town they met My Lord Ebringham, and Sir Philip Glind, who had met the Abbe Fouquet outside his little church, and escorted him safely out of the city, whilst François and Felicite with their old mother had been under the charge of other members of the league. We were all in the procession, dressed up in all sorts of ragged finery until the last moment, explained Lord Tony to Marguerite as the entire party now quickly made its way to the harbour. We did not know what was going to happen. All we knew was that we should be wanted about this time, the hour when the duel was to have been fought, and somewhere near here on the southern ramparts, and we always have strict orders to mix with the crowd if there happens to be one. When we saw Blakeney raise the candlesticks, we guessed what was coming, and we each went to our respective posts. It was all quite simple. The young man spoke gaily and lightly, but through the easy banter of his tone there pierced the enthusiasm and pride of the soldier in the glory and daring of his chief. Between the city walls and the harbour, there was much bustle and agitation. The English packet-boat would lift anchor at the turn of the tide, and as every one was free to get aboard without leave or passport, there was a very large number of passengers bound for the land of freedom. Two boats from the daydream were waiting in readiness for Supercy and My Lady and those whom they would bring with them. Silently the party embarked, and as the boats pushed off and the sailors from Supercy's yacht bent to their oars, the old Abe Fouquet began gently droning a parter and Ave to the accompaniment of his beads. He accepted joy, happiness, and safety with the same gentle philosophy as he would have accepted death. But Marguerite's keen and loving ears caught at the end of each parter a gently murmured request to Le Bon Dieu to bless and protect our English rescuer. Only once did Marguerite make allusion to that terrible time which had become the past. They were wandering together down the chestnut alley in the beautiful garden at Richmond. It was evening, and the air was heavy with the rich odour of wet earth, of belated roses, and dying minionette. She had paused in the alley and placed a trembling hand upon his arm, whilst raising her eyes filled with tears of tender passion up to his face. "'Percy,' she murmured, "'have you forgiven me?' "'What, my dear?' "'That awful evening in Boulogne, what that fiend demanded, his awful either-or. "'I brought it all upon you, it was all my fault. "'Nay, my dear, for that his eye should thank you.' "'Thank me?' "'Aye,' he said, whilst in the fast-gathering dusk she could only just perceive the sudden hardening of his face, the look of wild passion in his eyes. But for that evening in Boulogne, but for that alternative which that devil placed before me, I might never have known how much you meant to me.' Even the recollection of all the sorrow, the anxiety, the torturing humiliations of that night seemed completely to change him. The voice became trenchant, the hands were tightly clenched, but Marguerite drew nearer to him. Her two hands were on his breast. She murmured gently, "'And now?' He folded her in his arms, with an agony of joy, and said earnestly, "'Now, I know.'" End of CHAPTER XXV. End of THE ELUSIVE PIMPANEL.