 Book 9, Chapter 3, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortzi. Book 9, the Cabaret de la Liberté. Chapter 3. For the persistent and optimistic Romanticists, there were still one or two idols to be discovered flourishing under the shadow of the grim and relentless revolution. One such was that which had Esther Vincent and Jack Conard for hero and heroine. Esther, the orphan daughter of one of the richest bankers of pre-revolution days, now a daily governess and household drudge at ten francs a week in the house of a retired butcher in the Rue Richelieu, and Jack Conard, formerly the representative of a big English firm of woolen manufacturers, who had thrown up his employment and prospects in England in order to watch over the girl whom he loved. He himself an alien enemy, an Englishman, in deadly danger of his life every hour that he remained in France, and she unwilling at the time to leave the horrors of revolutionary Paris while her father was lingering at the Conciery, waiting condemnation as such forbidden to leave the city. So Conard stayed on, unable to tear himself away from her, and obtained an un-lucrative post as accountant in a small wine shop over by Montmartre. His life, like hers, was hanging by a thread. Any day, any hour now, some malevolent denunciation might in the sight of the committee of public safety turn the eighteen years old suspect into a living peril to the state or the alien enemy into a dangerous spy. Some of the happiest hours these two spent in one another's company were embittered by that ever-present dread of the peremptory knock at the door, the portentous open in the name of the law, the perquisition, the arrest, to which the only issue these days was the guillotine. But the girl was only just eighteen, and he not many years older, and at that age, in spite of misery, sorrow, and dread, life always has its compensations. Youth cries out to happiness so insistently that happiness is forced to hear, and for a few moments, at the least, drives care and even the bitterest anxiety away. For Esther Vincent and her English lover, there were moments when they believed themselves to be almost happy. It was in the evenings mostly, when she came home from her work, and he was free to spend an hour or two with her. Then old Lucian, who had been Esther's nurse in the happy olden days, and was an unpaid, maid of all work and a loved and trusted friend now, would bring in the lamp and pull the well-darn curtains over the windows. She would spread a clean cloth upon the table and bring in a meager supper of coffee and black bread, perhaps a little butter or a tiny square of cheese. And the two young people would talk of the future, of the time when they would settle down in Canard's old home over in England, where his mother and sister, even now, were eating out their hearts with anxiety for him. Tell me all about the South Downs, Esther was very fond of saying, and your village, and your house, and the rambler roses, and the climatis arbor. She never tired of hearing, or he of telling. The old manor house bought with his father's savings. The garden which was his mother's hobby. The cricket pitch on the village green. Oh, the cricket! She thought that so funny. The men in high, sugar-loafed hats, grown-up men, spending hours and hours, day after day, in banging at a ball with a wooden bat. Oh, Jack, the English are a funny, nice, dear, kind lot of people. I remember—she remembered so well that happy summer which she had spent with her father in England four years ago. It was after the Bastille had been stormed and taken, and the banker had journeyed to England with his daughter in something of a hurry. Then her father had talked of returning to France and leaving her behind with friends in England. But Esther would not be left. Oh, no. Even now she glowed with pride at the thought of her firmness in the matter. If she had remained in England, she would never have seen her dear father again. Here, rememberance as grew bitter and sad, until Jack's hand reached soothingly, consolingly out to her, and she brushed away her tears, so as not to sadden him still more. Then she would ask more questions about his home and his garden, about his mother and the dogs and the flowers, and once more they would forget that hatred and envy and death were already stalking their door. End of Book 9, Chapter 3. Book 9, Chapter 4 of the League of the Scarlet Pempernel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pempernel by Baroness Ortsey. Book 9, The Cabaret de la Liberté, Chapter 4. Open in the name of the law! It had come at last. A bolt from out of the serene blue of their happiness. A rough, dirty, angry cursing crowd who burst through the heavy door even before they had time to open it. Lucienne collapsed into a chair weeping and lamenting with her apron thrown over her head. But Esther and Canard stood quite still and calm, holding one another by the hand just to give one another courage. Some half dozen men stalked into the little room. Men, they looked like ravenous beasts and were unspeakably dirty, wore soiled tricolor scarves above their tattered breeches in token of their official status. Two of them fell on the remnants of the meagre supper and devoured everything that remained on the table, bread, cheese, a piece of homemade sausage. The others ransacked the two attic rooms which had been home for Esther and Lucienne, the little living room under the sloping roof with the small hearth on which very scanty meals were want to be cooked, and the bare narrow room beyond with the iron bedstead and the palier on the floor for Lucienne. The men poked about everywhere, struck great, spiked sticks through the poor bits of bedding and ripped up the palier. They tore open the drawers of the rickety chest and of the broken down wardrobe and did not spare the unfortunate girl a single humiliation or a single indignity. Canard burning with wrath tried to protest. Hold that cub commanded the leader of the party almost as soon as the young Englishman's hot, indignant words had resounded above the den of overturned furniture. And if he opens his mouth again, throw him into the street, and Canard, terrified lest he should be parted from Esther, thought it wiser to hold his peace. They looked at one another like two young trapped beasts, not despairing, but trying to infuse courage one into the other by a look of confidence and of love. Esther, in fact, kept her eyes fixed on her good-looking English lover, firmly keeping down the shutter of loathing which went right through her when she saw those awful men coming nigh her. There was one especially whom she abominated worse than the others, a bandy-legged gruffian, who regarded her with a leer that caused her an almost physical nausea. He did not take part in the perquisition, but sat down in the center of the room and sprawled over the table with the air of one who was in authority. The others addressed him as citizen Marie, and alternately ridiculed and deferred to him. And there was another equally hateful, a horrible cadaverous creature with huge bare feet thrust into sebos, and lank hair thick with grime. He did most of the talking, even though his locacity occasionally broke down into a racking cough which literally seemed to tear at his chest, and left him panting, force, and with beads of moisture upon his low-pallet forehead. Of course the men found nothing that could even remotely be termed compromising. Esther had been very prudent, in deference to Canard's advice. She also had very few possessions. Nevertheless, when the wretches had turned every article of furniture inside out, one of them asked curtly, what do we do next, citizen Marie? Do broke in the cadaverous creature, even before Marie had time to reply. Do? Why, take the winch too, too. He got no further, became helpless with coughing. Esther quite instinctively pushed the carafe of water towards him. Nothing of the sort, I posted Marie sententiously. The winch stays here. Both Esther and Jack had much adieu to suppress an involuntary cry of relief, which at this unexpected pronouncement had risen to their lips. The man with the cough tried to protest. But he began hoarsely. I said the winch stays here, broke in Marie peremptorily, a cah he added with a savage implication. Do you command here, citizen Rato, or do I? The other at once became humble, even cringing. You, of course, citizen, he rejoined in his hollow voice. I would only remark, remark nothing, retorted the other curtly. See to it that the cub is out of the house. And after that, put a sentry outside the winch's door. No one to go in and out of here under any pretext whatever, understand? Canard this time uttered a cry of protest. The helplessness of his position exasperated him almost to madness. Two men were holding him tightly by his sinewy arms. With an Englishman's instinct for a fight, he would not only have tried, but also succeeded in knocking these two down and taking the other four on after that, with quite a reasonable chance of success. That tuberculous creature now, and that bandied-legged ruffy. Jack Canard had been an amateur middleweight champion in his day, and these brutes had no more science than an enraged bull. And even as he fought against that instinct, he realized the futility of a struggle. The danger of it, too, not for himself, but for her. After all, they were not going to take her away to one of those awful places from which the only egress was the way to the guillotine. And if there was that amount of freedom, there was bound to be some hope. At twenty, there is always hope. So when, in obedience to Marie's orders, the two ruffians began to drag him towards the door, he said firmly, Leave me alone. I'll go without this unnecessary struggling. Then before the wretches realized his intention, he had jerked himself free from them and run to Esther. Have no fear, he said to her in English and in a rapid whisper. I'll watch over you, the house opposite. I know the people. I'll manage it somehow. Be on the lookout. They would not let him say more, and she only had the chance of responding firmly. I am not afraid, and I'll be on the lookout. The next moment Marie's peers seized him from behind, four of them this time. Then of course, Prudence went to the winds. He hit out to the right and left, knocked two of those recruits down, and already was prepared to seize Esther in his arms, make a wild dash for the door, and run with her, with her only God knew. When Ratau, that awful consumptive reprobate, crept slyly up behind him and dealt him a swift and heavy blow on the skull with his weighted stick. Canard staggered, and the bandits closed upon him. Those on the floor had time to regain their feet, to make assurance doubly sure one of them emulated Ratau's tactic, and hit the Englishman once more on the head from behind. After that, Canard became inert. He had partly lost consciousness. His head ached viruously. Esther, numb with horror, saw him bundled out of the room. Ratau, coughing and sputtering, finally closed the door upon the unfortunate, and the four brigands who had hold of him. Only Marie and that awful Ratau had remained in the room. The latter, gasping for breath now, poured himself out a mug full of water and drank it down at one draught. Then he swore because he wanted rum, or brandy, or even wine. Esther watched him and Marie, fascinated. Poor old Lucian was quietly weeping behind her apron. Now then, my winch, Marie began abruptly, suppose you sit down here and listen to what I have to say. He pulled a chair close to him, and with one of those hideous leers, which had already caused her to shudder, he beckoned her to sit. Esther obeyed as if in a dream. Her eyes were dilated like those of one in a waking trance. She moved mechanically, like a bird attracted by a serpent, terrified yet unresisting. She felt utterly helpless between these two villainous brutes, and anxiety for her English lover seemed further to numb her senses. When she was sitting, she turned her gaze with an involuntary appeal for pity, upon the bandy leg gruffian beside her. He laughed, No, I'm not going to hurt you, he said, with smooth condescension, which was far more loathsome to Esther's ears than his comrades' savage oaths had been. You are pretty, and you have pleased me. It is no small matter, for sooth he added with loud-voiced bombast, to have earned the good will of citizen Marie. You, my winch, are in luck's way. You realize what has occurred just now. You are amenable to the law, which has decreed you to be suspect. I hold an order for your arrest. I can have you seized at once by my men, dragged to the concierge, and from thence nothing can save you, neither your good looks, nor the protection of citizen Marie. It means the guillotine, you understand that, don't you? She sat quite still, only her hands were clutched convulsively together. But she contrived to say quite firmly, I do and I am not afraid. Marie waved a huge and very dirty hand with a careless gesture. I know, he said with a harsh laugh. They all say that, don't they, citizen Rato? Until the time comes, assented that worthy dryly. Until the time comes, reiterated the other. Now my winch, he added, once more turning to Esther. I don't want that time to come. I don't want your pretty head to go rolling down into the basket, and to receive the slap on the face which the citizen executioner has of late, taken to bestowing on those aristocratic cheeks which Madame La Guillotine has finally blanched forever, like this you see. And the inhuman wretch took up one of the round cushions from the nearest chair, held it up at arm's length as if it were a head which he held by the hair, and then slapped it twice with the palm of his left hand. The gesture was so horrible and with all so grotesque that Esther closed her eyes with a shudder, and her pale cheeks took on a leaden hue. Murray laughed aloud and threw the cushion down again. Unpleasant, what, my pretty winch? Well, you know what to expect, unless, he added significantly, you are reasonable and will listen to what I am about to tell you. Esther was no fool, nor was she unsophisticated. These were not times when it was possible for any girl, however carefully nurtured and tenderly brought up, to remain ignorant of the realities and the brutalities of life. Even before Murray had put his abominable proposition before her, she knew what he was driving at, marriage, marriage to him, that ignoble wretch more vile than any dumb creature in exchange for her life. It was her turn now to laugh. The very thought of it was farcical in its very odiousness. Murray, who had embarked on his proposal with grand eloquent phraseology, suddenly paused, almost awed by that strange hysterical laughter. By Satan and all his ghouls he cried and jumped to his feet, his cheeks paling beneath the grime. Then rage seized him at his own cowardice. His egregious vanity, wounded by that laughter, egged him on. He tried to seize Esther by the waist. But she, quick as some panther on the defense, had jumped up too, and pounced upon a knife. The very one she had been using for that happy little supper with her lover a brief half hour ago, unguarded, unthinking, acting just with a blind instinct. She raised it and cried hoarsely, If you dare touch me, I'll kill you. It was ludicrous, of course, a mouse threatening a tiger. The very next moment Rato had seized her hand and quietly taken away the knife. Murray shook himself like a frowsy dog. Phew, he ejaculated. What a vixen. But he added lightly, I like her all the better for that, eh, Rato? Give me a winch with a temperment, I say. But Esther too had recovered herself. She realized her helplessness, and gathered courage from the consciousness of it. Now she faced the infamous villain more calmly. I will never marry you, she said loudly and firmly, never. I am not afraid to die. I am not afraid of the guillotine. There is no shame attached to death, so now you may do as you please. Denounce me, and send me to follow in the footsteps of my dear father, if you wish. But whilst I am alive, you will never come nigh me. If you ever do but lay a finger on me, it will be because I am dead and beyond the reach of your polluting touch. And now I have said all that I will ever say to you in this life. If you have a spark of humanity left in you, you will at least let me prepare for death in peace. She went round to where poor old Lucienne still sat, like an incent log, panic-stricken. She knelt down on the floor and rested her arm on old woman's knees. The light of the lamp fell full upon her, her pale face and massive chestnut-brown hair. There was nothing about her at this moment to inflame a man's desire. She looked pathetic in her helplessness, and nearly lifeless through the intensity of her pallor, whilst the look in her eyes was almost maniacal. Marie cursed and swore. He tried to hearten himself by turning on his friend, but Rato had collapsed. Whether with excitement or the ravages of disease, it were impossible to say. He sat upon a low chair, his long legs, his violet-circled eyes, staring out with a look of attitude and overwhelming fatigue. Marie looked about him and shuddered. The atmosphere of the place had become strangely weird and uncanny. Even the tablecloth, dragged half across the table, looked somehow like a shroud. What shall we do, Rato, he asked, tremulously, at last. Get out of this infernal place, replied the other huskily. I feel as if I were in my grave clothes already. Hold your tongue, you miserable coward. You'll make the aristocrat think that we are afraid. Well, queried Rato blandly, aren't you? No replied Marie fiercely. I'll go now because… because… well, because I have had enough today, and the winch sickens me. I wish to serve the Republic by marrying her, but just now I feel as if I should never really want her. So I'll go. But understand, he added, and turned once more to Esther, even though he could not bring himself to go nigh her again. Understand that tomorrow I'll come again for my answer. In the meanwhile you may think matters over, and maybe you'll arrive at a more reasonable frame of mind. You will not leave these rooms until I set you free. My men will remain as sentinels at your door. He beckoned to Rato, and the two men went out of the room without another word. End of Book 9, Chapter 4. Book 9, Chapter 5 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsey. Book 9, The Cabaret de la Liberté, Chapter 5. The whole of that night Esther remained shut up in her apartment in the petite brew-to-run. All night she heard the measured tramp, the movements, the laughter and loud talking of men outside her door. Once or twice she tried to listen to what they said. But the doors and walls in these houses of old Paris were too stout to allow voices to filter through, saving the guys of a confused murmur. She would have felt horribly lonely and frightened, but for the fact that in one window on the third floor in the house opposite, the light of a lamp appeared like a glimmer of hope. Jack Canard was there, on the watch. He had the window open and sat beside it until a very late hour, and after that he kept the light in, as a beacon, to bid her be of good cheer. In the middle of the night he made an attempt to see her, hoping to catch the sentinels of sleep or absent. But having climbed the five stories of the house wherein she dwelt, he arrived on the landing outside her door, and found there half a dozen ruffians squatting on the stone floor, and engaged in playing hazard with a pack of greasy carts. That wretched consumptive ratot was with him, and made a facetious remark as Canard, pale and haggard, almost ghostlike, with a white bandage around his head, appeared upon the landing. Go back to bed, citizen, the odious creature said, with a raucous laugh. We are taking care of your sweetheart for you. Never in all his life had Jack Canard felt so abjectly wretched as he did then. So miserably helpless. There was nothing he could do save to return to the lodging, which a kind friend had lent to him for the occasion, and from whence he could, at any rate, see the windows behind which his beloved was watching and suffering. When he went a few moments ago he had left the port co-shared Hajar. Now he pushed it open and stepped into the dark passage beyond. A tiny streak of light filtrated through a small curtain window in the concierge's lodge. It served to guide Canard to the foot of the narrow stone staircase which led to the floors above. Just at the foot of the stairs, on the mat, a white paper glimmered in the dim shaft of light. He paused, puzzled, quite certain that the paper was not there five minutes ago when he went out. Oh, it may have fluttered in from the courtyard beyond, or from anywhere, driven by the draft. But even so, with that mechanical action peculiar to most people under like circumstances, he stood and picked up the paper, turned it over between his fingers, and saw that a few words were scribbled on it in pencil. The light was too dim to read by, so Canard, still quite mechanically, kept the paper in his hand and went up to his room. There, by the light of the lamp, he read the few words scribbled in pencil. Wait in the street outside. Nothing more. The message was obviously not intended for him, and yet a strange excitement possessed him. If it should be, if he had heard, everyone had, of the mysterious agencies that were at work under cover of darkness to aid the unfortunate, the innocent, the helpless. He had heard of that legendary English gentleman who had before now defied the closest vigilance of the committees, and snatched their intended victims out of their murderous clutches, at times under their very eyes. If this should be, he scarce dared put his hope into words. He could not bring himself really to believe, but he went. He ran downstairs and out into the street, took his stand under a projecting doorway, nearly opposite the house which held the woman he loved, and leaning against the wall, he waited. After many hours, it was then past three o'clock in the morning, in the sky of an inky blackness, he felt so numb that, despite his will, a kind of trans-like drowsiness overcame him. He could no longer stand on his feet. His knees were shaking. His head felt so heavy that he could not keep it up. It rolled round from shoulder to shoulder, as if his will no longer controlled it. And it ached furiously. Everything around him was very still. Even Paris by night, that grim and lurid giant, was for the moment at rest. A warm summer rain was falling, its gentle pattering murmur into the gutter helped to lull Canard's senses into somnolence. He was on the point of dropping off to sleep when something suddenly roused him, a noise of men shouting and laughing. Familiar sounds enough in these squalid Paris streets, but Canard was wide awake now. The numbness had given place to intense quivering of all his muscles and super keenness of his every sense. He peered into the darkness and strained his ears to hear. The sound certainly appeared to come from the house opposite, and there, too, it seemed as if something or things were moving. Men, more than one or two, surely, Canard thought that he could distinguish at least three distinct voices, and there was that weird racking cough which proclaimed the presence of Ratau. Now the men were quite close to where he, Canard, still stood cowering. A minute or two later, they had passed down the street. Their hoarse voices soon died away in the distance. Canard crept cautiously out of his hiding place. Message or mere coincidence, he now blessed that mysterious scrap of paper. Had he remained in his room, he might really have dropped off to sleep and not heard these men going away. There were three of them, at least. I thought four. But anyway, the number of watchdogs outside the door of his beloved had considerably diminished. He felt that he had strength to grapple with them, even if there were still three of them left. He, an athlete, English and master of the art of self-defense, and they, a mere pack of drink-sudden brutes. Yes, he was quite sure he could do it. Quite sure that he could force his way into Esther's room and carry her off in his arms. Wither, God alone knew, and God alone would provide. Just for a moment, he wondered if, while he was in that state of somnolence, other bandits had come to take the place of those that were going. But this thought he quickly dismissed. In any case, he felt the giant strength in himself, and could not rest now till he had tried once more to see her. He crept very cautiously along and was satisfied that the street was deserted. Already he had reached the house opposite, had pushed open the port-cochère, which was on the latch, when, without the slightest warning, he was suddenly attacked from behind. His arms seized and held behind his back with a vise-like grip, whilst a vigorous kick against the calves of his legs caused him to lose his footing and suddenly brought him down, sprawling and helpless in the gutter. While in his ear there rang the hideous sound of the consumptive ruffian's racking cough. What shall we do with the cub now? A raucous voice came out of the darkness. Let him lie there was the quick response. It'll teach him to interfere with the work of honest patriots. Canard, lying somewhat bruised and stunned, heard this decree with thankfulness. The bandits obviously thought him more hurt than he was, and if only they would leave him lying here, he would soon pick himself up and renew his attempt to go to Esther. He did not move, feigning unconsciousness. Even though he felt, rather than saw that hideous grottoes stooping over him, heard his turtaurus breathing, the wheezing in his throat. Run and fetch a bit of cord, Citizen des Mons, the wretch said presently. A trust cub is safer than a loose one. This dashed Canard's hope to a great extent. He felt that he must act quickly before those brigands returned and rendered him completely helpless. He made a movement to rise, a movement so swift and sudden as only a trained athlete can make. Quick as he was, that odious wheezing creature was quicker still, and now, when Canard had turned on his back, Reto promptly sat on his chest, a dead weight with long legs stretched out before him, coughing and sputtering, yet wholly at his ease. Oh, the humiliating position for an amateur middleweight champion to find himself in with that drink sodden. Canard was sure that he was drink sodden, consumptive, sprawling on top of him. Don't trouble, Citizen des Mons. The wretch cried out after his retreating companions. I have what I want by me. Very leisurely he pulled a coil of rope out of the capacious pocket of his tattered coat. Canard could not see what he was doing, but felt it was super-sensitive instinct all the time. He lay quite still beneath the weight of that miscreant, feigning unconsciousness, yet hardly able to breathe. That tuberculous cadence was such a towering weight, but he tried to keep his faculties on the alert, ready for that surprise spring which would turn the tables at the slightest false move on the part of Reto. But, as luck would have it, Reto did not make a single false move. It was amazing with what dexterity he kept Canard down, even while he contrived to pinion him with cords. An old sailor, probably, he seemed so dexterous with knots. My God, the humiliation of it all. An ester, a helpless prisoner inside that house, not five paces away. Canard's heavy weary dyes could perceive the light in her window, five stories above where he lay in the gutter, a helpless log. Even now, he gave a last desperate shriek. Ester! But in a second, the abominable Brigham's hand came down heavily upon his mouth whilst the raucous voice fluttered rather than said right through the awful fit of coughing. Another sound in all gaggy, as well as bind you, you young fool. After which, Canard remained quite still. Into Book Nine, Chapter Five Book Nine, Chapter Six of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on what to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baron S. Quartzi Book Nine The Cabaret de la Liberté Chapter Six Ester, up in her little attic, knew nothing of what her English lover was even then suffering for her sake. She herself had passed during the night through every stage of horror and of fear. Soon after midnight, that excruble brigand reto had poked his ugly cadaverous face in at the door and peremptorily called for Lucien. The woman, more dead than alive now with terror, had answered with mechanical obedience. I and my friends are thirsty, the man had commanded. Go and fetch us a leader of Po de Ville. For Lucien stammered a pitiable. Where shall I go? To the house at the sign of Lefort-Sampson in the Rue de Sain, replied Reto Kurtley. They'll serve you well, if you mention my name. Of course Lucien protested. She was a decent woman who had never been inside a cabaret in her life. Then at its time you began was Reto's dry comment, which was greeted with much laughter from his abominable companions. Lucien was forced to go. It would, of course, have been futile and madness to resist. This had occurred three hours since. The Rue de Sain was not far, but the poor woman had not returned. Esther was left with this additional horror weighing upon her soul. What had happened to her unfortunate servant? Visions of outrage and murder floated before the poor girl's tortured brain. At best Lucien was being kept out of the way in order to make her, Esther, feel more lonely and desperate. She remained at the window after that, watching that light in the house opposite and fingering her prayer book. The only solace which she had. Her attic was so high up and the street so narrow that she could not see what went on in the street below. At one time she heard a great to-do outside her door. It seemed as if some of the bloodhounds that were set to watch her had gone, or that others came. She really hardly cared which it was. Then she heard a great commotion coming from the street immediately beneath her. Men shouting and laughing, and that awful creature's rasping cough. At one moment she felt sure that Canard had called to her by name. She heard his voice distinctly, raised as if in a despairing cry. After that all was still. So still that she could hear her heart beating furiously, and then a tear falling from her eyes upon her open book. So still that the gentle patter of rain sounded like a soothing lullaby. She was very young and was very tired. Out, above the line of sloping roofs and chimney pots, the darkness of the sky was yielding to the first touch of dawn. The rain ceased. Everything became deathly still. Esther's head fell, wearied upon her bolded arms. Then suddenly she was wide awake. Something had roused her. A noise. At first she could not tell what it was, but now she knew. It was the opening and shedding of the door behind her, and then a quick stealthy footstep across the room. The horror of it all was unspeakable. Esther remained as she had been, on her knees, mechanically fingering her prayer book, unable to move, unable to utter a sound as if paralyzed. She knew that one of those abominable creatures had entered her room, was coming near her even now. She did not know who it was, only guessed it was Rato, for she heard a raucous, sturtorous wheeze. Yet she could not have then turned to look if her life had depended upon her doing so. The whole thing had occurred in less than half a dozen heartbeats. The next moment the wretch was close to her. Mercifully she felt that her senses were leaving her. Even so she felt that a handkerchief was being bound over her mouth to prevent her screaming. Holy unnecessary this, for she could not have uttered a sound. Then she was lifted off the ground and carried across the room. Then over the threshold, a vague subconscious effort of will helped her to keep her head averted from that wheezing wretch who was carrying her. Thus she could see the landing and two of those abominable watchdogs who had been set to guard her. A ghostly gray light of dawn came peeping in through the narrow dormer window in the sloping roof, and faintly eliminated their sprawling forms, stretched out at full length, with their heads buried in their folded arms and their naked legs, looking pallid and weird in the dim light. Their statorious breathing woke the echoes of the bare stone walls. Esther shuddered and closed her eyes. She was now like an insentient lug, without power, or thought, or will, almost without fee. Then all at once the coolness of the morning air caught her full in the face. She opened her eyes and tried to move, but those powerful arms held her more closely than before. Now she could have shrieked with horror, with returning consciousness the sense of her desperate position came on her with its full and ghastly significance, its awe-inspiring details. The gray dawn, the abandoned rat who held her, and the stillness of this early morning hour when not one pitying soul would be a stir to lend her a helping hand, or give her the solace of mute sympathy. So great indeed was this stillness that the click of the man's sabose upon the uneven pavement reverberated ghoul-like and weird. And it was through that awesome stillness that a sound suddenly struck her ear, which in the instant made her feel that she was not really alive, or, if alive, was sleeping and dreaming strange and impossible dreams. It was the sound of a voice clear and firm, and with a wonderful ring of merriment in its tones, calling out just above a whisper, and in English, if you please. Look out, folks. That young cub is strong as a horse, and he will give us all away if you are not careful. A dream? Of course it was a dream, for the voice had sounded very close to her ear, so close, in fact, that, well, Esther was quite sure that her face still rested against the hideous, tattered and grimy coat which that repulsive rato had been wearing all along. And there was the click of his sabose upon the pavement all the time. So, then, the voice and the merry suppressed laughter which accompanied it must all have been a part of her dream. How long this lasted, she could not have told you, an hour or more, she thought, while the grey dawn yielded to the roseate hue of morning. Somehow she no longer suffered either terror or foreboding. A subtle atmosphere of strength and of security seemed to encompass her. At one time she felt as if she were driven along in a car that jolted horribly. And when she moved her face and hands, they came in contact with things that were fresh and green and smelt of the country. She was in darkness then, and more than three parts unconscious. But the handkerchief had been removed from her mouth. It seemed to her as if she could hear the voice of her jack, but far away and indistinct. Also the tramp of horses hoos, and the creaking of cartwheels, and at times that awful rasping cough which reminded her of the presence of a loathsome wretch who should not have had a part in her soothing dream. Thus many hours must have gone by. Then all at once she was inside a house, a room, and she felt that she was being lowered very gently to the ground. She was on her feet, but she could not see where she was. There was furniture, a carpet, a ceiling, the man reto with the sabose and the dirty coat and the merry English voice, and a pair of deep-set blue eyes, thoughtful and lazy and infinitely kind. But before she could properly focus what she saw, everything began to whirl and to spin around her to dance a wild and idiotic Sarabande, which caused her to laugh and to laugh until her throat choked and her eyes hot, after which she remembered nothing more. End of Book 9, Chapter 6 Book 9, Chapter 7 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsy Book 9, the Cabaret de la Liberté, Chapter 7 The first thing of which Esther Vincent was conscious when she returned to her senses was of her English lover kneeling beside her. She was lying on some kind of couch and she could see his face and profile, for he had turned and was speaking to someone at the far end of the room. And was it you who knocked me down, he was saying, and sat on my chest and trust me like a fowl? La, my dear sir, a lazy, pleasant voice where I posted. What else could I do? There was no time for explanations and you were half-crazed and would have not understood and you were ready to bring all the night watchmen about our ears. I am sorry, Canard said simply, but how could I guess? You couldn't rejoin the other. That is why I had to deal so summarily with you and mademoiselle Esther, not to speak of good old Lucienne who had never in her life been inside a cabaret. You must all forgive me, Air, you start upon your journey. You are not out of the wood yet, remember, though Paris is a long way behind. France itself is no longer a healthy place for any of you. But how did we ever get out of Paris? I was smothered under a pile of cabbages with Lucienne on one side of me and Esther unconscious on the other. I could see nothing. I know we halted at the barrier. I thought we would be recognized, turned back. My God, how I trembled. Ba, broke in the other with a careless laugh. It is not so difficult as it seems. We have done it before, eh, folks? A market gardener's cart, a villainous wretch like myself to drive it. Another hideous object like Sir Andrew Folk's. Bart, to lead the scraggie nag. A couple of forged her soul in passports. Plenty of English gold, and the deed is done. Esther's eyes were fixed upon the speaker. She marveled now at how she could have been so blind. The cadaverous face was nothing but a splendid use of grease paint. The rags, the dirt, the whole assumption of a hideous character was mastered. But there were the eyes, deep-set and thoughtful and kind. How did she fail to guess? You are known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, she said suddenly. Suzanne de Torneille was my friend. She told me, you saved her and her family. And now, oh my God, she explained. How shall we ever repay you? By placing yourselves unreservedly in my friend Folk's hands, he replied gently. We will lead you to safety and, if you wish it, to England. If we wish it, canard sighed, permanently. You are not coming with us, Blakeney? queried Sir Andrew Folk's. And it seemed to Esther's sensitive ears as if a tone of real anxiety and also of entreaty rang in the young man's voice. No, not this time, replied Sir Percy lightly. I like my character of Ratau, and I don't want to give it up just yet. I have done nothing to arouse suspicion in the minds of my savory computers up at the Cabaret de la Liberté. I can easily keep this up for some time to come, and frankly I admire myself as citizen Ratau. I don't know when I have enjoyed a character so much. You mean to return to the Cabaret de la Liberté? exclaimed Sir Andrew. Why not? You will be recognized. Not before I have been of service to a good many unfortunates, I hope. But that awful cough of yours, Percy, you'll do yourself an injury with it one day. Not I. I like that cough. I practiced it for a long time before I did it to perfection. Such a splendid wheeze. I must teach Tony to do it someday. Would you like to hear it now? He laughed, that perfect delightful lazy laugh of his, which carried every hair with it along the path of light-hearted merriment. Then he broke into the awful cough of the consumptive Ratau, and Esther Vincent instinctively closed her eyes and shuddered. End of Chapter 7. End of Book 9. The Cabaret de la Liberté. Book 10, Chapter 1 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernow. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information on how to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernow by Baroness Ortsey. Book 10, Needs Must. Chapter 1. The children were all huddled up together in one corner of the room. Etienne and Valentine, the two eldest, had their arms around the little one. As for Lucille, she would have told you herself that she felt just like a bird between two snakes. Terrified and fascinated. Oh, especially by that little man with the pale face and the light gray eyes and the slender white hands unstained by toil, one of which rested lightly upon the desk, and was only clenched now and then at a word or a look from the other man or from Lucille herself. But Commissari Lebel just tried to browbeat her. It was not difficult, for in truth she felt frightened enough already, with all this talk of traitors and that awful threat of the guillotine. Lucille Clement, however, would have remained splendidly loyal in spite of all these threats, if it had not been for the children. She was little mother to them, for father was a cripple, with speech and mind already impaired by creeping paralysis. And Mammon had died when little Josephine was born. And now those fiends threaten not only her, but Etienne, who was not 14, and Valentine, who was not much more than 10, with death, unless she, Lucille, broke the solemn word which she had given to Monsieur Le Marquis. At first she had tried to deny all knowledge of Monsieur Le Marquis's whereabouts. I can assure Monsieur Le Commissari that I do not know she had persisted quietly, even though her heart was beating so rapidly in her bosom that she felt as if she must choke. Call me Citizen Commissari, Lebel had riposted curtly. I should take it as a proof that your aristocratic sentiments are not so deep-rooted as they appear to be. Yes, Citizen, murmured Lucille under her breath. Then the other one, he, with the pale eyes and the slender white hands, leaned forward over the desk, and the poor girl felt as if a mighty and unseen force was holding her tight, so tight that she could neither move nor breathe, nor turn her gaze away from those pale, compelling eyes. In the remote corner, little Josephine was whimpering, and Etienne's big, dark eyes were fixed bravely upon his eldest sister. They're there, little Citizen S, the awful man said, in a voice that sounded low and almost caressing. There's nothing to be frightened of. No one is going to hurt you or your little family. We only want you to be reasonable. You have promised to your former employer that you would never tell anyone of his whereabouts. Well, we don't ask you to tell us anything. All that we want you to do is to write a letter to Monsieur Le Marquis, one that I myself will dictate to you. You have written to Monsieur Le Marquis before now, on business matters, have you not? Yes, Monsieur. Yes, Citizen, stammered Lucille through her tears. Father was bailiffed to Monsieur Le Marquis until he became a cripple, and now I do not write any letter, Lucille. Etienne suddenly broke in with forceful vehemence. It is a trap set by these miscreants to entrap Monsieur Le Marquis. There was a second silence in the room after this sudden outburst on the part of the lad. Then the man with a pale face said quietly, Citizen Lebel, order the removal of that boy. Let him be kept in custody till he has learned to hold his tongue. But before Lebel could speak to the two soldiers who were standing on guard at the door, Lucille had uttered a loud cry of agonized protest. No, no, Monsieur. That is Citizen, she implored. Do not take Etienne away. He will be silent. I promise you that he will be silent. Only do not take him away. Etienne, my little one, she added, turning her tear-filled eyes to her brother. I entreat thee to hold thy tongue. The others, too, clung to Etienne, and the lad, odd and subdued, relapsed into silence. Now then resumed Lebel roughly after a while. Let us get on with this business. I am sick to death of it. It has lasted far too long already. He fixed his bloodshot eyes upon Lucille and continued roughly. Now listen to me, my winch, for this is going to be my last word. Citizen Chauvelin here has been very lenient with you by allowing you this letter business. If I had my way, I'd make you speak here and now. As it is, you either sit down and write the letter at Citizen Chauvelin's dictation at once, or I send you with that impotent brother of yours and your imbecile father to jail, on the charge of treason against the state, for aiding and abetting the enemies of the Republic. And you know what the consequences of such a charge usually are. The other two brats will go to a House of Correction, there to be detained during the pleasure of the Committee of Public Safety. That is my last word, he reiterated fiercely. Now, which is it to be? He paused. The girl's wan cheeks turned the color of lead. She moistened her lips once or twice with her tongue. Beads of perspiration appeared at the roots of her hair. She gazed helplessly at her tormentors, not daring to look on those three huddled up little figures there in the corner. A few seconds sped away in silence. The man with the pale eyes rose and pushed his chair away. He went to the window, stood there with his back to the room, those slender white hands of his clasped behind him. Neither the commissary nor the girl appeared to interest him further. He was just gazing out of the window. The other was still sprawling beside the desk. His large coarse hand, how different his hands were, was beating a devil's tattoo upon the arm of his chair. After a few minutes Lucille made a violent effort to compose herself, wiped the moisture from her pallid forehead and dried the tears which still hung upon her lashes. Then she rose from her chair, walked resolutely to the desk. I will write the letter, she said simply. Lebel gave a snort of satisfaction, but the other did not move from his position near the window. The boy, Etienne, had uttered a cry of passionate protest. Do not give miss early Marquia away Lucille, he said hotly. I am not afraid to die. But Lucille had made up her mind. How could she do otherwise, with these awful threats hanging over them all? She and Etienne and poor father gone, and the two young ones in one of those awful houses of correction, where children were taught to hate the church, to shun the sacraments, and to blaspheme God. What am I to write, she asked Dolly, resolutely closing her ears against her brother's protest. Lebel pushed pen, ink and paper towards her, and she sat down ready to begin. Right, now came in a curt command from the man at the window, and Lucille wrote at his dictation, Monsieur Le Marquis, we are in grave trouble. My brother Etienne and I have been arrested on a charge of treason. This means the guillotine for us and for poor father, who can no longer speak. And the two little ones are to be sent to one of those dreadful houses of correction, where children are taught to deny God and to blaspheme. You alone can save us, Monsieur Le Marquis, and I beg you on my knees to do it. The citizen commissary here says that you have in your possession certain papers, which are of great value to the state, and that if I can persuade you to give these up, Etienne, father and I and the little ones will be left unmolested. Monsieur Le Marquis, you once said that you could never adequately repay my poor father for all his devotion in your service. You can do it now, Monsieur Le Marquis, by saving us all. I will be at the chateau a week from today. I entreat you, Monsieur Le Marquis, to come to me then and to bring the papers with you. Or if you can devise some other means of sending the papers to me, I will obey your behests. I am, Monsieur Le Marquis, faithful and devoted servant, Lucille Clement, the pin drop from the unfortunate girl's fingers. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed convulsively. The children were silent, odd and subdued, tired out too. Only Etienne's dark eyes were fixed upon his sister with a look of mute reproach. Le Bell had made no attempt to interrupt the flow of his colleague's dictation. Only once or twice did a hastily smothered what the of astonishment escape his lips. Now, when the letter was finished and duly signed, he drew it to him and strewed the sand over it. Chauvelin, more impassive than ever, was once more gazing out of the window. How are the cedivant aristos to get this letter, the commissary asked? It must be put in the hollow tree, which stands by the side of the stable gate at Montargill, whispered Lucille. Any heuristos will find it there? Yes. Monsieur Lévi-Conne goes there once or twice a week to see if there is anything there from one of us. They are in hiding somewhere close by then, but to this the girl gave no reply. Indeed, she felt as if any word now might choke her. Well, no matter where they are, the inhuman wretch resumed with brutal cynicism. We've got them now, both of them, marquis, vicante, he added, and spat on the ground to express his contempt of such titles. Citizens Montargill, father and son, that's all they are, and as such they'll walk up in state to make their bow to Madame L'Aguillotine. May we go now, stammered Lucille, through her tears. Lebel nodded innocent, and the girl rose and turned to walk towards the door. She called to the children, and the little ones clustered around her skirts like chicks around the mother hen. Only Etienne remained aloof, wrathful against his sister for what he deemed her treachery. Women have no sense of honor, he muttered to himself, with all the pride of conscious manhood. But Lucille felt more than ever like a bird who was vainly trying to evade the clutches of a fowler. She gathered the two little ones around her, then with a cry like a wounded doe, she ran quickly out of the room. End of Book 10, Chapter 1. Book 10, Chapter 2 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsey. Book 10, Needs Must. Chapter 2. As soon as the sound of the children's footsteps had died away down the corridor, Labelle turned with a grunt to his still silent companion. And now, citizen Chauvelin, he said roughly, perhaps you will be good enough to explain what is the meaning of all this tomfoolery. Tomfoolery, citizen, queried the other blindly. What tomfoolery, pray? Why, about those papers, growled Labelle savagely. Curse you for an interfering busybody. It was I who got information that those pestilental aristos, the Monterey Geals, far from having fled the country, are in hiding somewhere in my district. I could have made the girl give up their hiding place pretty soon, without any help from you. What right had you to interfere, I should like to know. You know quite well what right I had, citizen Labelle, replied Chauvelin with perfect composure. The right conferred upon me by the Committee of Public Safety, of who I am still an unworthy member. They sent me down here to lend you a hand in an investigation which is of grave importance to them. I know that, retorted Labelle savagely, but why have invented the story of the papers? It is no invention, citizen, rejoined Chauvelin with slow emphasis. The papers do exist. They are actually in the possession of the Monterey Geals, father and son. To capture the two aristos would not only be a blunder, but criminal folly, unless we can lay hands on the papers at the same time. But what in Satan's name are those papers ejaculated Labelle with a fierce oath? Think, citizen Labelle, think, was Chauvelin's cool rejoinder. He thinks you might arrive at a pretty sure guess. Then, as the others bluster and bounce suddenly collapsed upon his colleagues calm, accusing gaze, the latter continued with impressive deliberation. The papers which the two aristos have in their possession, citizen, are receipts for money, for bribes paid to various members of the Committee of Public Safety by royalist agents for the overthrow of our glorious Republic. You know all about them, do you not? While Chauvelin spoke, a look of further terror had crept into Labelle's eyes. His cheeks became the color of lead, but even so he tried to keep up an air of incredulity and amazement. I, he explained, what do you mean, citizen Chauvelin? What should I know about it? Some of those receipts are signed with your name, citizen Labelle, retorted Chauvelin forcefully. Bah, he added, and a tone of savage contempt crept into his even calm voice now. Are you okay? You crows and the whole gang of you are in it up to the neck, trafficking with our enemies, trading with England, taking bribes from every quarter for working against the safety of the Republic. Ah, if I had my way, I would let the hatred of those aristos take its course. I would let the monitor of Gilles and the whole pack of royalist agents publish those infamous proofs of your treachery and of your baseness to the entire world and send the whole lot of you to the guillotine. He had spoken with so much concentrated fury and the hatred and contempt expressed in his pale eyes was so fierce that an involuntary ice cold shiver ran down the length of Labelle's spine. But even so, he would not give in. He tried to sneer and to keep up something of his former surly defiance. Bah, he explained, and with a lowering glance gave hatred for hatred and contempt for contempt. What can you do? And I am not mistaken. There is no more discredited man in France today than the unsuccessful tracker of the scarlet Pimpernel. The taunt went home. It was Chauvelin's turn now to lose countenance, to pale to the lips. The glow of virtuous indignation died out of his eyes and his look became furtive and shamed. You were right, citizen Labelle, he said calmly after a while. Recriminations between us are out of place. I am a discredited man, as you say. Perhaps it would have been better if the committee had sent me long ago to expiate my failures on the guillotine. I should at least not have suffered as I am suffering now, daily, hourly humiliation, at the thought of the triumph of an enemy, whom I hate with a passion which consumes my very soul. But do not let us speak of me, he went on quietly. There are graver affairs at stake just now than mine own. Labelle said nothing more for the moment. Perhaps he was satisfied at the success of his taunt, even though the terror within his craven soul still caused the cold shiver to course up and down his spine. Chauvelin had once more turned to the window, his gaze was fixed upon the distance far away. The window gave on the north, that way in a straight line lay Calais, Bologna, England, where he had been made to suffer such bitter humiliation at the hands of his elusive enemy. And immediately before him was Paris, where the very walls seemed to echo that mocking laugh of the daring Englishman which would haunt him even to his grave. Labelle, unnerved by his colleague's silence, broke in gruffly at last. Well then, citizen, he said with a feeble attempt at a notice near, if you were not thinking of sending us all to the guillotine just yet, perhaps you will be good enough to explain just how the matter stands. Fairly simple, alas, replied Chauvelin dryly, the two Montagueels, father and son, under assumed names, were the royalist agents who succeeded in suborning men such as you, citizen, the whole gang of you. We have tracked them down to this district, have confiscated their lands, and ransacked the old chateau for valuables and so on. Two days later, the first of a series of pestilental anonymous letters reached the Committee of Public Safety, threatening the publication of a whole series of compromising documents, if the Marquis and the Vicente de Montagueel were in any way molested, and if all the Montagueel property is not immediately restored. I suppose it is quite certain that those receipts and documents do exist, suggested Labelle. Perfectly certain, one of the receipts, signed by Heriot, was sent as a specimen. My God, ejaculated Labelle, and wiped the cold sweat from his brow. Yes, you'll all want help from somewhere retorted chauvelin coolly, from above or from below, what if the people get to know what misgrants you are? I do believe he added with a vicious snap of his thin lips, that they would cheat the guillotine of you and, in the end, drag you out of the tumbrels and tear you to pieces limb from limb. Once more that look of furtive terror crept into the commissary's bloodshot eyes. Thank the Lord, he muttered, that we were able to get hold of the winch clement. At my suggestion, retorted chauvelin coolly, I always believe in threatening the weak if you want to coerce the strong. The Montagueels cannot resist the winch's appeal. Even if they do at first, we can apply the screw by clapping one of the young ones in gull. Within a week we shall have those papers, citizen Labelle, and if, in the meanwhile, no one commits a further blunder, we can close the trap on the Montagueels without further trouble. Labelle said nothing more, and after a while chauvelin went back to the desk, picked up the letter which poor Lucille had written and watered with her tears, folded it deliberately and slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat. What are you going to do, queried Labelle anxiously? Drop this letter into the hollow tree by the side of the stable gate at Montagueel, replied chauvelin simply. What? explained the other yourself. Why, of course. Thank you, I would entrust such an errand to another living soul. End of Book 10, Chapter 2, Book 10, Chapter 3 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernail. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernail by Baroness Ortsey. Book 10, Needs Must, Chapter 3. A couple of hours later, when the two children had to have their dinner and had settled down to play in the garden, and father had been causally tucked up for his afternoon sleep, Lucille called her brother Etienne to her. The boy had not spoken to her since that terrible time spent in the presence of those two awful men. He had eaten no dinner, only sat glowering, staring straight out before him, from time to time throwing a look of burning reproach upon his sister. Now, when she called to him, he tried to run away, was halfway up the stairs before she could seize hold of him. Etienne, Montpatite, she implored as her arms closed around his shrinking figure. Let me go, Lucille, the boy pleaded obstinately. Montpatite, listen to me, she pleaded. All is not lost if you will stand by me. All is lost, Lucille, Etienne cried, striving to keep back a flood of passionate tears. Honor is lost. Your treachery has disgraced us all. If Monsieur Le Marquis and Monsieur Le Vicon are brought to the guillotine, their blood will be upon our heads. Upon mine alone, my little Etienne, she said sadly, but God alone can judge me. It was a terrible alternative. Monsieur Le Marquis or you and Valentin and little Josephine and poor father, who is so helpless. But don't let us talk of it. All is not lost, I am sure. The last time that I spoke with Monsieur Le Marquis, it was in February. Do you remember? He was full of hope and oh, so kind. Well, he told me then that if ever I or any of us here were in such grave trouble that we did not know where to turn, one of us was to put on our very oldest clothes, look as like a barefooted beggar as we could, and then go to Paris to a place called the Cabaret de la Liberté in the rue Christine. There we were to ask for the citizen riteau and we were to tell him all our troubles. Whatever they might be. Well, we are in such trouble now, Montpetit, that we don't know where to turn. Put on my very oldest clothes, little one, and run barefooted into Paris. Find the citizen riteau and tell him just what has happened. The letter which they have forced me to write, the threads which they held over me if I did not write it, everything. Dostier? Already, the boy's eyes were glowing, the thought that he individually could do something to retrieve the awful shame of his sister's treachery spurred him to activity. It needed no persuasion on Lucille's part to induce him to go. She made him put on some old clothes and stuffed a piece of bread and cheese into his breaches pocket. It was close upon a couple of leagues to Paris, but that run was one of the happiest which Etienne had ever made, and he did it barefooted too, feeling neither fatigued nor soreness, despite the hardness of the road after two weeks drought, which had turned mud into hard cakes and ruts into fissures, which tore the lads' feet till they bled. He did not reach the cabaret de la liberté till nightfall, and when he got there, he hardly dared to enter. The filth, the squalor, the hoarse voices which rose from that cellar-like place below the level of the street, repelled the country-bred lad. Were it not for the desperate urgency of his errand, he never would have dared to enter. As it was, the fumes of alcohol and steaming dirty clothes nearly choked him, and he could scare-stammer the name of the citizen ratot when a gruff voice presently demanded his purpose. He realized now how tired he was and how hungry. He had not thought to pause in order to consume the small provision of bread and cheese, wherewith thoughtful Lucille had provided him. Now he was ready to faint when a loud guffar, which echoed from one end of the horrible place to the other, greeted his timid request. Citizen ratot, the same gruff voice called out hilariously. Why, there he is! Here, citizen, there is a blooming aristot to see you. Etienne turned his weary eyes to the corner which was being indicated to him. There he saw a huge creature sprawling across a bench, with long, powerful limbs stretched out before him. Citizen ratot was clothed, rather than dressed, in a soiled shirt, ragged breeches and tattered stockings, with shoes down at heel and faded crimson cap. His face looked congested and sunken about the eyes. He appeared to be asleep, for sturtorous breathing came at intervals from between his parted lips, whilst every now and then a racking cough seemed to tear at his broad chest. Etienne gave him one look, shuddering with horror, despite himself, at the aspect of this bloated wretch from whom salvation was to come. The whole place seemed to him hideous and loathsome in the extreme. What it all meant, he could not understand. All that he knew was that this seemed like another hideous trap into which he and Lucille had fallen, and that he must fly from it, fly at all costs, before he betrayed Monsieur Le Marquis still further to these drink-sodden boots. Another moment, and he feared that he might faint. The din of a bibulous song rang in his ears. The reek of alcohol turned him giddy and sick. He had only just enough strength to turn and totter back into the open. There, his senses reeled. The lights in the houses opposite began to dance wildly before his eyes, after which he remembered nothing more. End of Book 10, Chapter 3. Book 10, Chapter 4 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsey. Book 10, Needs Must. Chapter 4. There is nothing now in the whole country side, quite so desolate and forlorn as the Chateau of Montargue. With its once-magnificent park now overgrown with weeds, its encircling walls broken down, its terraces devastated, and its stately gates rusty and torn. Just by the side of what was known in happier times as the stable gate, there stands a hollow tree. It is not inside the park but just outside, and shelters the narrow lane, which skirts the park walls against the blaze of the afternoon sun. Its beneficent shade is a favorite spot for an afternoon siesta, for there is a bit of green slard under the tree and all along the side of the road. But as the shades of evening gather in, the lane is usually deserted, shunned by the neighboring peasantry on account of its eerie loneliness. So different to the former bustle, which used to rain around the park gates when Montserré laid marquis and his family were still in residence. Nor does the lane lead anywhere, for it is a mere loop which gives on the main road at either end. Henri de Montargue shows a particularly dark night in mid-September for one of his periodical visits to the hollow tree. It was close on nine o'clock when he passed stealthily down the lane, keeping close to the park wall. A soft rain was falling, the first since the prolonged drought, and though it made the road heavy and slippery in places, it helped to deaden the sound of the young man's furtive footsteps. The air, except for the patter of the rain, was absolutely still. Henri de Montargue paused from time to time with neck creamed forward, every sense on the alert, listening like any poor hunted beast, for the slightest sound which might betray the approach of danger. As many a time before he reached the hollow tree in safety, felt for, and found, in the usual place, the letter which the unfortunate girl Lucille had written to him. Then, with it in his hand, he turned to the stable gate. It had long since ceased to be kept locked and barred. Pillage and ransacked by the order of the Committee of Public Safety, there was nothing left inside the park walls worth keeping under lock and key. Henri slipped stealthily through the gates and made his way along the drive. Every stone, every nook and cranny of his former home was familiar to him, and anon he turned into a shed, where in former times, wheelbarrows and garden tools were want to be kept. Now it was full of debris, lumber of every sort. A more safe or secluded spot could not be imagined. Henri crouched in the furthermost corner of the shed. Then, from his belt he detached a small, dark lantern, opened its shutter, and with the aid of a tiny dim light, read the contents of the letter. For a long while after that, he remained quite still, as still as the man who has received the stunning blow in the head and has partly lost consciousness. The blow was indeed a staggering one. Lucille Clomet, with the invincible power of her own helplessness, was demanding the surrender of a weapon which had been a safeguard for the Monteguilles all this while. The papers which compromised the number of influential members of the Committee of Public Safety had been the most perfect arms of defense against persecution and spoliation. And now these were to be given up. Oh, there could be no question of that. Even before consulting with his father, Henri knew that the papers would have to be given up. They were clever, those revolutionaries. The thought of holding innocent children as hostages could only have originated in minds attuned to the villainies of devils. But it was unthinkable that the children should suffer. After a while, the young man roused himself from the torpor into which the suddenness of this awful blow had plunged him. By the light of the lantern, he began to write upon a sheet of paper which he had torn from his pocketbook. My dear Lucille, he wrote, as you say, our debt to your father and to you all could never be adequately repaid. You and the children shall never suffer whilst we have the power to save you. You will find the papers in the receptacle you know of inside the chimney of what used to be my mother's boudoir. You will find the receptacle unlocked. One day before the term you name, I myself will place the papers there for you. With them, my father and I do give up our lives to save you and the little ones from the persecution of those beings. May the good God guard you all. He signed the letter with his initials, h, d, m. Then he crept back to the gate and dropped the message into the hollow of the tree. A quarter of an hour later, Henri de Montargile was winding his way back to the hiding place which had sheltered him and his father for so long. Silence and darkness then held undisputed sway once more around the hollow tree. Even the rain had ceased its gentle pattering. A non from far away came the sound of a church bell striking the hour of ten. Then nothing more. A few more minutes of absolute silence, then something dark and furtive began to move out of the long grass which boarded the roadside. Something that in movement was almost like a snake. It dragged itself along close to the ground, making no sound as it moved. Soon it reached the hollow tree, rose to the height of a man and flattened itself against the tree trunk. Then it put out a hand, felt for the hollow receptacle, and groped for the missive which Henri de Montargile had dropped in there a while ago. The next moment a tiny ray of light gleamed through the darkness like a star. A small, almost fragile figure of a man, dressed in the mud-stained clothes of a country yokel, it turned up the shutter of a small lantern. By its flickering light, he deciphered the letter which Henri de Montargile had written to Lucille Clement. One day before the term you name, I myself will place the papers there for you. A sigh of satisfaction quickly suppressed came through his thin, colorless lips, and the light of the lantern caught the flash of triumph in his pale, inscrutable eyes. Then the light was extinguished, impenetrable darkness swallowed up that slender, mysterious figure again. End of book 10, chapter 4. Book 10, chapter 5 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsy. Book 10. Needs Must. Chapter 5. Six days had gone by since Chauvelin had delivered his cruel either-or to poor little Lucille Clement. Three since he had found Henri de Montargile's reply to the girl's appeal in the hollow of the tree. Since then he had made a careful investigation of the Chateau, and soon was able to settle it in his own mind as to which room had been Madame La Marquise's Ludois in the past. It was a small apartment, having direct access on the first landing of the staircase, and the one window gave on the rose garden at the back of the house. Inside the monumental hearth, at an arm's length up the wide chimney, a receptacle had been contrived in the brickwork, with a small iron door which opened and closed with a secret spring. Chauvelin, whom his nefarious calling had rendered proficient in such matters, had soon mastered the workings of that spring. He could now open and close the iron door at will. Up to a late hour on the sixth night of this weary waiting, the receptacle inside the chimney was still empty. That night Chauvelin had determined to spend at the Chateau. He could not have rested elsewhere. Even his colleague La Belle could not know what the possession of those papers would mean to the discredited agent of the Committee of Public Safety. With them in his hands, he could demand rehabilitation and could purchase immunity from those sneers which had been so galling to his arrogant soul. Sneers which had become more and more marked, more and more unendurable, and more and more menacing as he piled up failure on failure with every encounter with the scarlet Pimpernel. Immunity and rehabilitation. This would mean that he could once more measure his wits and his power with that audacious enemy who had brought about his downfall. In the name of Satan bring us those papers. Robespierre himself had cried with unwanted passion ere he sent him out on this important mission. We none of us could stand the scandal of such disclosures. It would mean absolute ruin for us all. And Chauvelin that night, as soon as the shades of evening had drawn in, took up his stand in the Chateau in a small inner room which was contiguous to the Boudoir. Here he sat beside the open window for hour upon hour, his every sense on alert, listening for the first footfall upon the gravel path below. Though the hours went by lead and footed, he was neither excited nor anxious. The Comet family was such a precious hostage that the Montergeals were bound to comply with Lucille's demand for the papers by every dictate of honor and of humanity. While we have those people in our power, Chauvelin had reiterated to himself more than once during the course of his long vigil. Even that meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel could do nothing to save those cursed Montergeals. The night was dark and still, not a breath of air stirred the branches of the trees or the shrubberies in the park. Any footsteps, however wary, must echo through that perfect and absolute silence. Chauvelin's keen pale eyes tried to pierce the gloom in the direction whence in all probability the Aristo would come. Vaguely, he wondered if it would be Henri de Montergeal or the Old Marquis himself who would bring the papers. By whichever one it is, he muttered, we can easily get the other once those abominable papers are in our hands. And even if both the Aristos escape, he added mentally, it is no matter once we have the papers. Anon, far away, a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. The stillness of the air had become oppressive. A kind of torpor, born of intense fatigue, loved the terrorist's sense to somnolence. His head fell forward on his breast. End of Book 10, Chapter 5. Book 10, Chapter 6 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsy. Book 10, Needs Must. Chapter 6. Then suddenly a shiver of excitement went right through him. He was fully awake now, with glowing eyes, wide open, and icy calm of perfect confidence, ruling every nerve. The sound of stealthy footsteps had reached his ear. He could see nothing, either outside or in, but his fingers felt for the pistol which he carried in his belt. The aristow was evidently alone. Only one solitary footstep was approaching the chateau. Chauvelin had left the door jar, which gave on the bourgeois. The staircase was on the other side of that fateful room, and a door leading to that was closed. A few minutes of tense expectancy went by. Then through the silence there came the sound of furtive footsteps on the stairs, the creaking of a loose board, and finally the stealthy opening of the door. In all his adventurous career, Chauvelin had never felt so calm. His heart beat quite evenly. His senses were undisturbed by the slightest tingling of his nerves. The stealthy sounds in the next room brought the movements of the aristow perfectly clear before his middle vision. The latter was carrying a small dark lantern. As soon as he entered, he flashed its light about the room. Then he deposited the lantern on the floor, close beside the hearth, and started to feel up the chimney for the hidden receptacle. Chauvelin watched him now, like a cat watches a mouse, savoring these few moments of anticipated triumph. He pushed open the door noiselessly, which gave on the boudoir. By the feeble light of the lantern on the ground, he could only see the vague outline of the aristow's back, bending forward to his task. But a thrill went through him as he saw a bundle of papers lying on the ground close by. Everything was ready. The trap was set. Here was a complete victory at last. It was obviously the young Vicente de Montaguil who had come to do the deed. His head was up the chimney even now. The old Marquis's back would have looked narrower and more fragile. Chauvelin held his breath. Then he gave a sharp little cough and took the pistol from his belt. The sound caused the aristow to turn. In the next moment, a loud and merry laugh roused the dormant echoes of the old chateau, whilst the pleasant, drawly voice said in English, I am dimmed if this is not my dear old friend, Monsieur Chamberton. Sound, sir, who'd have thought of meeting you here? Had a cannon suddenly exploded at Chauvelin's feet, he would, I think, have felt less unnerved. For the space of two heartbeats he stood there, rooted to the spot, his eyes glued on his arch enemy that executed Scarlet Pimpernel, whose mocking glance, even through the intervening gloom, seemed to have deprived him of consciousness. But that phase of helplessness only lasted for a moment. The next, all the marvelous possibilities of this encounter flashed through the terrorist's keen mind. Everything was ready. The trap was set. The unfortunate climates were still the bait which would now bring a far more noble quarry into the mesh than ever he, Chauvelin, had dared to hope. He raised his pistol, ready to fire. But already, Sir Percy Blakeney was on him, and with a swift movement, which the other was too weak to resist, he wrenched the weapon from his enemy's grasp. Why, how hasty you are, my dear Monsieur Chamberton, he said lightly. Surely you are not in such a hurry to put a dimmed bullet into me. The position was now one which would have made even a braver man than Chauvelin Quake. He stood alone and unarmed, in face of an enemy from whom he could expect no mercy. But, even so, his first thought was not of escape. He had not only apprised his own danger, but also the immense power which he held whilst the climates remained his hostages in the hands of his colleague Lebel. You have me at a disadvantage, Sir Percy, he said, speaking every wit as coolly as his vote, but only momentarily. You can kill me, of course, but if I do not return from this expedition, not only safe in sound, but with a certain packet of papers in my hand, my colleague Lebel has instructions to proceed at once against the girl Clement and the whole family. I know that well enough rejoined Sir Percy with a quaint laugh. I know what venomous reptiles you and those of your kidney are. You certainly do owe your life at the present moment to the unfortunate girl whom you are persecuting with such infamous callousness. Chauvelin drew a sigh of relief. The situation was shaping itself more to his satisfaction already. Through the gloom, he could vaguely discern the Englishman's massive form standing a few paces away, one hand buried in his breeches pocket, the other still holding the pistol. On the ground close by the hearth was the small lantern, and in its dim light, the packet of papers gleamed white and tempting in the darkness. Chauvelin's keen eyes had fastened on it, saw the form of receipt for money with Ariel's signature which he recognized on the top. He himself had never felt so calm. The only thing he could regret was that he was alone. Half a dozen men now and this impudent folk could indeed be brought to his knees. In this time there would be no risks taken, no chances for escape. Somehow it seemed to Chauvelin as if something of the Scarlet Timpernell's audacity and foresight had gone from him. As he stood there looking broad and physically powerful, there was something wavering and undecided in his attitude. As if the edge had been taken off his former recklessness and enthusiasm. He had brought the compromising papers here, had no doubt helped the Montergales to escape. But while Lucille Clement and her family were under the eye of Labelle, no amount of impudence could force a successful bargaining. It was Chauvelin now who appeared the more keen and the more alert. The Englishman seemed undecided what to do next. Remained silent, toying with the pistol, he even smothered a yawn. Chauvelin saw his opportunity. With the quick movement of a cat pouncing upon a mouse, he stooped and seized that packet of papers. Would then and there have made a dash for the door with them, only that as he seized the packet the string which held it together gave way and the papers were scattered all over the floor. Receipts for money? Compromising letters? No. Blanksheets of paper. All of them. All except the one which had lain tantalizingly on the top. The one receipt signed by Citizen Arreo. Sir Percy laughed lightly. Did you really think, my good friend, he said, that I would be such a damned fool as to place my best weapon so readily to your hand? Your best weapon, Sir Percy, retorted Chauvelin with a sneer. What uses it to you while we hold Lucille Comet? While I hold Lucille Comet, you mean, my dear Montseur Chanderton, where I posted like me with elaborate blindness. You hold Lucille Comet? I defy you to drag a whole family like that out of our clutches. The man a cripple, the children helpless, and you think they can escape our vigilance when all our men are warned? How do you think they are going to get across the river, Sir Percy, when every bridge is closely watched? How will they get across Paris when at every gate our men are on the lookout for them? They can't do it, my dear Montseur Chanderton rejoined Sir Percy blandly, else I were not here. Then, as Chauvelin, fuming irritated despite himself, as he always was when he encountered that impudent Englishman, shrugged his shoulders in token of contempt. Like me's powerful grasp, suddenly clutched his arm. Let us understand one another, my good Montseur Chanderton, he said coolly. Those unfortunate Clemets, as you say, are too helpless and too numerous to smuggle across Paris with any chance of success. Therefore I look to you to take them under your protection. They are all stowed away comfortably at this moment in a conveyance which I have provided for them. That conveyance is waiting at the bridgehead now. We could not cross without your help. We could not get across Paris without your august presence and your tricolor scarf of office. So you are coming with us, my dear Montseur Chanderton. He continued. And with force, which was quite irresistible, he began to drag his enemy after him towards the door. You are going to sit in that conveyance with the Clemets, and I myself will have the honor to drive you, and at every bridgehead you will show your pleasing countenance and your scarf of office to the guard and demand free passage for yourself and your family as representative member of the Committee of Public Safety. And then we'll enter Paris by the Port d'Aivrie, and leave it by the Batignolls, and everywhere your charming presence will lull the guard's suspicions to rest. I pray you come. There is no time to consider. At noon tomorrow, without a moment's grace, my friend Sir Andrew Folx, who has the papers in his possession, will dispose of them as he thinks best unless I myself do claim them from him. While he spoke, he continued to drag his enemy along with him, with an assurance and an impudence which were past belief. Chauvelin was trying to collect his thoughts. A whirl of conflicting pains were running riot in his mind. The scarlet Pimpernel in his power. At any point on the road he could deliver him up to the nearest guard, then still hold the Clemets and demand the papers. Too late, my dear Monser Chamberton, Sir Percy's mocking voice broke in, as if divining his thoughts. You do not know where to find my friend Folx. And at noon tomorrow, if I do not arrive to claim those papers, there will not be a single regga-muffin in Paris who will not be crying your shame and that of your precious colleagues upon the house stops. Chauvelin's whole nervous system was writhing with a feeling of impotence. Mechanically unresisting now, he followed his enemy down the main staircase of the chateau and out through the wide open gates. He could not bring himself to believe that he had been so completely foiled, that this impudent adventurer had him once more in the hollow of his hand. In the name of Satan, bring us back those papers Robespierre had commanded. And now he, Chauvelin, was left in a maze of doubt, and the vital alternative was hammering in his brain the Scarlet Pimpernel or those papers, which, in Satan's name, was but more important. Passion whispered the Scarlet Pimpernel, but common sense in the future of his party, the whole future of the revolution they had, demanded those compromising papers. And all the while he followed that relentless enemy through the avenues of the park and down the lonely lane. Overhead the trees of the forest of Susie, nodding in a gentle breeze, seemed to mock his perplexity. He had not arrived at a definite decision when the river came in sight, and when anon, a carriage lantern threw a shaft dim light through the misladen air. Now he felt as if he were in a dream. He was thrust unresisting into a closed chaise, wherein he felt the presence of several other people, children, and old man who was muttering ceaselessly. As in a dream he answered questions at the bridge to a guard whom he knew well. You know me, Armand Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety. As in a dream he heard the curt words of command, pass on in the name of the Republic. And all the while the thought hammered in his brain, something must be done. This is impossible. This cannot be. It is not I, Chauvelin, who am sitting here helpless, unresisting. It is not that impudent Scarlet Pimpernel who is sitting there before me on the box, driving me to utter humiliation. And yet it was all true, all real. The Clement children were sitting in front of him, clinging to the seal, terrified of him even now. The old man was beside him, imbecile, and not understanding. The boy, Etienne, was up on the box next to that audacious adventurer whose broad back appeared to Chauvelin like a rock on which all his hopes and dreams must forever be shattered. The shades rattled triumphantly through the batting knolls. It was then broad daylight, a brilliant early autumn day after the rains. The sun, the keen air, all mocked Chauvelin's helplessness, his humiliation. Long before noon they passed St. Denis. Here the barouche turned off the main road, halted at a small wayside house, nothing more than a cottage, after which everything seemed more dreamlike than ever. All that Chauvelin remembered of it afterwards was that he was once more alone in a room with his enemy who had demanded his signature to a number of safe conducts, ere he finally handed over the packet of papers to him. How do I know that they are all here, he heard himself vaguely muttering, while his trembling fingers handled that precious packet. That's just it, his tormentor retorted thoroughly. You don't know. I don't know myself, he added, with a light laugh. And personally, I don't see how either of us can possibly ascertain. In the meanwhile, I must bid you au revoir, my dear Monsieur Chamberton. I am sorry that I cannot provide you with a conveyance, and you will have to walk a league or more ere you meet one, I fear me. We, in the meanwhile, will be well on our way to Guipe, where my yacht, the Daydream, lies at Anchor, and I do not think it will be worth your while to try and overtake us. I thank you for the safe conducts. They will make our journey exceedingly pleasant. Shall I give you regards to Montsur-les-Marquis, des Monturguilles, or to Montsur-les-Vicombes? They are on board the Daydream, you know. Oh, and I was forgetting. Lady Blakeney desired to be remembered to you. The next moment he was gone. Chauvelin, standing at the window of the wayside house, saw Sir Percy Blakeney once more mount the box of the chaise. This time he had Sir Andrew Folkes beside him. The Comet family were huddled together, happy and free inside the vehicle. After which there was the usual clatter of horses hooves. The creaking of wheels, the rattle of chains. Chauvelin saw and heard nothing of that. All that he saw, at the last, was Sir Percy's slender hand, waving him a last adieu. After which he was left alone with his thoughts. The packet of papers was in his hand. He fingered it, felt its crispness, clutched it with a fierce gesture, which was followed by a long drawn-out sigh of intense bitterness. No one would ever know what it had cost him to obtain these papers. No one would ever know how much he had sacrificed of pride, revenge, and hate in order to save a few shreds of his own party's honor. End of Chapter 6 and end of Book 10. Needs Must Book 11. Chapter 1. What had happened was this. Ternophor, one of the ablest of the many sleuth-hounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety, was out during that awful storm on the night of the twenty-fifth. The rain came down as if it had been poured out of buckets, and Ternophor took shelter under the portico of a tall, dilapidated-looking house somewhere at the back of St. Lazar. The night was, of course, pitch dark, and the howling of the wind and beating of the rain effectively drowned every other sound. Ternophor, chilled to the marrow, had at first cowered in the angle of the door, as far away from the drought as he could, but presently he spied the glimmer of a tiny light some little way up on his left, and, taking this to come from the concierge's lodge, he went cautiously along the passage, intending to ask for better shelter against the fury of the elements than the rickety front door afforded. Ternophor, you must remember, was always on the best terms with every concierge in Paris, they were, as it were, his subordinates. Without their help, he never could have carried on his unavowable profession quite so successfully, and they, in their turn, found it to their advantage to earn the goodwill of that army of spies, which the revolutionary government kept in its service, for the tracking down of all those unfortunate would not give complete adhesion to their tyrannical and murderous policy. Therefore, in this instance, Ternophor felt no hesitation in claiming the hospitality of the concierge of the squalid house wherein he found himself. He went boldly up to the lodge. His hand was already on the latch, when certain sounds which preceded from the interior of the lodge caused him to pause and to bend his ear in order to listen. It was Ternophor's miitié to listen. What had arrested his attention was the sound of a man's voice, saying in a tone of deep respect. Bien, madame Lacomtez, we'll do our best. No wonder that the servant of the Committee of Public Safety remained at attention, no longer thought of the storm or felt the cold blast chilling him to the marrow. Here was a wholly unexpected piece of good luck. Madame Lacomtez? Peste, there were not any such left in the Paris these days. Unfortunately, the tempest of the wind and the rain made such a din that it was difficult to catch every sound which came from the interior of the lodge. All that Ternophor caught definitely were a few fragments of conversation. My good Monsieur Bertin came at one time from a woman's voice. Truly I do not know why you should do all this for me. And then again, all I possess in the world now are my diamonds. They alone stand between my children and utter destruction. The man's voice seemed all the time to be saying something that sounded tearful and encouraging, but his voice came only as a vague murmur to the listener's ears. Presently, however, there came a word which set his pulses tingling. Madame said something about Gentilly, and directly afterwards, you will have to be very careful, my dear Monsieur Bertin. The chateau I feel sure is being watched. Ternophor could scarce repress a cry of joy. Gentilly? Madame Lacomtez? The chateau? Why, of course, he held all the necessary threads already. The cedavon comtez de Soussi, a pestilential aristote if ever there was one, had been sent to the guillotine less than a fortnight ago. His chateau, situated just outside Gentilly, stood empty, it having been given out that the widow Soussi and her two children had escaped to England. Well, she had not gone, apparently, for here she was in the lodge of the concierge of a mean house in one of the desolate quarters of Paris, begging some trader to find her diamonds for her, which she had obviously left concealed inside the chateau. What a haul for Ternophor! What commendation from his superiors! The chances of a speedy promotion were indeed glorious now. He blessed the storm and the rain which had driven him for shelter to this house, where a poisonous plot was being hatched to rob the people of valuable property, and to aid a few more of those abominable aristos in cheating the guillotine of their traitorous heads. He listened for a while longer, in order to get all the information that he could on the subject of the diamonds, because he knew by experience that those perfidus aristos, once they were under arrest, would sooner bite out their tongues than reveal anything that might be of service to the government of the people. But he learned little else. Nothing was revealed of where Madame Lacomtez was in hiding, or how the diamonds were to be disposed of once they were found. Ternophor would have given much to have at least one of his colleagues with him. As it was, he would be forced to act single-handed and on his own initiative. In his own mind he had already decided that he would wait until Madame Lacomtez came out of the concierge's lodge, and that he would follow her and apprehend her somewhere out in the open streets, rather than here, where her friend Bertine might prove to be a stalwart as well as a desperate man, ready with a pistol whilst he, Ternophor, was unarmed. Bertine, who had, it seemed, been entrusted with the task of finding the diamonds, could then be shadowed and arrested in the very act of filtering property which by decree of the State belonged to the people. So he waited patiently for a while. No doubt the aristote would remain here under shelter, until the storm had abated. The sound of voices died down, and an extraordinary silence descended on this miserable abandoned corner of old Paris. The silence became all the more marked after a while, because the rain ceased its monotonous pattering, and the sighing of the wind was stilled. It was, in fact, this amazing stillness which set citizen Ternophor thinking. Evidently the aristote did not intend to come out of the lodge to-night. Well, Ternophor had not meant to make himself unpleasant inside the house, or to have a quarrel just yet with the traitor Bertine, whoever he was, but his hand was forced, and he had no option. The door of the lodge was locked. He tugged vigorously at the bell again and again, for at first he got no answer. A few minutes later he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps upon creaking boards. The door was opened, and a man in night attire, with bare, thin legs, and tattered carpet slippers on his feet, confronted an exceedingly astonished servant of the Committee of Public Safety. Indeed, Ternophor thought that he must have been dreaming, or that he was dreaming now, for the man who opened the door to him was well known to every agent of the Committee. He was an ex-soldier who had been crippled years ago by the loss of one arm, and had held the post of concierge in a house of the Rue des Paradis ever since. His name was Grossjohn. He was very old, and nearly doubled up with rheumatism, had scarcely any hair on his head or flesh on his bones. At this moment he appeared to be suffering from a cold in the head, for his eyes were streaming, and his narrow, hooked nose was adorned by a drop of moisture at its tip. In fact, for old Grossjohn looked more like a dilapidated scarecrow than a dangerous conspirator. Ternophor literally gasped at the sight of him, and Grossjohn uttered a kind of croak, intended no doubt for complete surprise. "'Citizen Ternophor,' he exclaimed. "'Name of a dog. What are you doing here at this hour in this abominable weather? Come in, come in,' he added, and turning on his heel he shuffled back to the inner room, and then returned, carrying a lighted lamp, which he set upon the table. Amelie left a sup of hot coffee on the hob in the kitchen before she went to bed. You must have a drop of that.' He was about to shuffle off again when Ternophor broke in roughly. None of that nonsense, Grossjohn. Where are the Oristos? The Oristos-citizen queried Grossjohn, and nothing could have looked more utterly, more ludicrously bewildered than did the old concierge at this moment. What Oristos? Bertine and Madame Lacontesse, retorted Ternophor roughly. I heard them talking. "'You have been dreaming, Citizen Ternophor,' the old man said with a husky little laugh. "'Sit down, and let me get you some coffee.' "'Don't try and hoodwit me, Grossjohn,' Ternophor cried now in a sudden access of rage. "'I tell you that I saw the light. I heard the Oristos talking. There was a man named Bertine, and a woman he called Madame Lacontesse, and I say that some devilish royalist plot is being hatched here, and that you, Grossjohn, will suffer for it if you try and shield those Oristos.' "'But Citizen Ternophor,' replied the concierge meekly, "'I assure you that I have seen no Oristos. The door of my bedroom was open, and the lamp was by my bedside. Emily, too, has only been in bed a few minutes. You ask her. There has been no one I tell you. No one. I should have seen and heard them. The door was open,' he reiterated pathetically. "'We'll soon see about that,' was Ternophor's curt comment. But it was his turn to indeed be utterly bewildered. He searched, none too gently. The squalid little lodge, through and through, turned the paltry sticks of furniture over, hauled little Emily, Grossjohn's granddaughter, out of bed, searched under the mattresses, and even poked his head up the chimney. Grossjohn watched him wholly unperturbed. These were strange times, and Ternophor had obviously gone a little off his head. The worthy old concierge calmly went on getting the coffee ready. Only when presently Ternophor, worn out with anger and futile exertion, threw himself, with many an oath, into the one armchair, Grossjohn remarked coolly, "'I tell you what I think it is, citizen. If you are standing just by the door of the lodge, you had the back staircase of the house immediately behind you. The partition wall is very thin, and there is a disused door just there also. No doubt the voices came from there. You see, if there had been any aristos here,' he added naively, they could not have flown up the chimney, could they? That argument was certainly unanswerable, but Ternophor was out of temper. He roughly ordered Grossjohn to bring the lamp and show him the back staircase and the disused door. The concierge obeyed without a murmur. He was not in the least disturbed or frightened by all this blustering. He was only afraid that getting out of bed had made his cold worse, but he knew Ternophor of old, a good fellow, but inclined to be noisy and arrogant since he was in the employ of the government. Grossjohn took the precaution of putting on his trousers and wrapping an old shawl around his shoulders. Then he had a final sip of hot coffee, after which he picked up the lamp and guided Ternophor out of the lodge. The wind had quite gone down by now. The lamp scarcely flickered as Grossjohn held it above his head. Just here, citizen Ternophor, he said, and turned sharply to his left, but the next sound which he uttered was a loud croak of astonishment. That door has been out of use since I've been here, he muttered, and it certainly was closed when I stood up against it, rejoined Ternophor with a savage oath. Or, of course, I should have noticed it. Close to the lodge, at right angles to it, a door stood partially open. Ternophor went through it, closely followed by Grossjohn. He found himself in a passage which ended in a cul-de-sac on his right. On the left was the foot of the stairs. The whole place was pitch-dark, safe for the feeble light of the lamp. The cul-de-sac itself reeked of dirt and fussiness, as if it had not been cleaned or ventilated for years. When did you last notice that this door was closed? queried Ternophor, furious with the sense of discomforture, which he would have liked to vent on the unfortunate concierge. I have not noticed it for some days, citizen, replied Grossjohn Meekly. I have had a severe cold and have not been outside my lodge since Monday last, but we'll ask Emily, he added more hopefully. Emily, however, could throw no light upon the subject. She certainly kept the back stairs cleaned and swept, but it was not part of her duties to extend her sweeping operations as far as the cul-de-sac. She had quite enough to do as it was, with grandfather now practically helpless. This morning, when she went out to do her shopping, she had not noticed whether the disused door did or did not look the same as usual. Grossjohn was very sorry for his friend Ternophor, who appeared vastly upset, but still more sorry for himself, for he knew what endless trouble this would entail upon him. Nor was the trouble slow in coming, not only on Grossjohn, but on every lodger inside the house. For before half an hour had gone by, Ternophor had gone and come back, this time with the local commissary of police and a couple of agents, who had every man, woman, and child in that house out of bed and examined at great length, their identity books searchingly overhauled, their rooms turned topsy-turvy and their furniture knocked about. It was past midnight before all these perquisitions were completed. No one dared to complain that these indignities put upon peaceable citizens at the mere denunciation of an obscure police agent. These were times when every regulation, every command, had to be accepted without a murmur. At one o'clock in the morning, Grossjohn himself was thankful to get back to bed, having satisfied the commissary that he was not a dangerous conspirator. But of any one even remotely approaching the description of Siddhavon Comtesse de Soussi or of any man called Bertine, there was not the faintest trace. End of Book 11, Chapter 1, Recording by Sarah Luann