 CHAPTER XXII. THE WEAREST NIGHTS, THE LONGEST DAYS, SOON OR LATER MUST PERFORCE COME TO AN END. Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental torture as Will Nye drove her crazy. After a sleepless night she rose early, wild with excitement, dying to start on her journey, terrified thus further obstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else in the house was a stir, so frightened was she, lest she should miss the one golden opportunity of making a start. When she came downstairs she found surrender folks sitting in the coffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and had gone to the Admiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French packet nor any privately charted vessel could put out of Dover yet. The storm was then at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If the wind did not abate or change they would perforce have to wait another ten or twelve hours until the next tide, before a start could be made. And the storm had not abated, the wind had not changed, and the tide was rapidly drawing out. Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this melancholy news. Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally breaking down, and thus adding to the young man's anxiety, which evidently had become very keen. Though he tried to hide it, Marguerite could see that Sir Andrew was just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend. This enforced inactivity was terrible to them both. How they spent that weirsome day at Dover, Marguerite could never afterwards say. She was in terror of showing herself that Chauvelin's spies happened to be about, so she had a private sitting-room, and she and Sir Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at long intervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would bring them, with nothing to do with think, to conjecture, and only occasionally to hope. The storm had abated just too late, the tide was by then too far out to allow a vessel to put off to sea. The wind had changed, and was settling down to a comfortable northwesterly breeze, a veritable godsend for a speedy passage across to France. And there those two waited, wondering if the hour would ever come where they could finally make a start. There had been one happy interval in this long weary day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once again to the pier, and presently came back to tell Marguerite that he had chartered a quick schooner, whose skipper was ready to put to sea the moment the tide was favorable. From that moment the hours seemed less weirsome. There was less hopelessness in the waiting, and at last, at five o'clock in the afternoon, Marguerite, closely veiled and followed by Sir Andrew folks, who, in the guise of her lackey, was carrying a number of impendimenta, found her way down to the pier. Once on board the keen fresh sea air revived her. The breeze was just strong enough to nicely swell the sails of the foam crest, as she cut her way merrily towards the open. The sunset was glorious after the storm, and Marguerite, as she watched the white cliffs of Dover gradually disappearing from view, felt more at peace and once more almost hopeful. Sir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt how lucky she had been to have him by her side in this her great trouble. Gradually the grey coast of France began to emerge from the fast-gathering evening mist. One or two lights could be seen flickering, and the spires of several churches to rise out of the surrounding haze. Half an hour later Marguerite had landed upon French shore. She was back in that country where at this very moment men slaughtered their fellow creatures by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and children in thousands to the block. The very aspect of the country and its people, even in this remote sea-coast town, spoke of that seething revolution three hundred miles away in beautiful Paris, now rendered hideous by the constant flow of the blood of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the widows, and the cries of fatherless children. The men all wore red caps in various stages of cleanliness, but all with a tricolored caucade pinned on the left side. Marguerite donned us with a shutter that, instead of the laughing, merry countenance habitual to her own countrymen, their faces now invariably wore a look of sly distrust. Every man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows. The most innocent word uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a proof of aristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people. Even the woman went about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking in their brown eyes, and all watched Marguerite as she stepped on shore, followed by Sir Andrews, and murmured as she passed along, Sacre Aristos, or else Sacre Anglès. Otherwise their presence excited no further comment. Calais, even in those days, was in constant business communication with England, and English merchants were often seen on this coast. It was well known that in view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal of French wines and brandies were smuggled across. This pleased the French bourgeois immensely. He liked to see the English government and the English king, both of whom he hated, cheated out of their revenues, and an English smuggler was always a welcome guest at the tumbled-down taverns of Calais and Bouillon. So perhaps, as Sir Andrew gradually directed Marguerite through the torturous streets of Calais, many of the population who turned with an oath to look at the strangers clad in English fashion, thought that they were bent on purchasing dutiful articles for their own fog-ridden country, and gave them no more than a passing thought. Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband's tall, massive figure could have passed through Calais unobserved. She marveled but disguised he assumed to do his noble work without exciting too much attention. Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew was leading her right across the town, to the other side from that where they had landed, and the way towards the Capgrisnes. The streets were narrow, tortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale fish and damp cellar odours. There had been heavy rains here during the storm last night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for the roads were not lighted safe by the occasional glimmer from a lamp inside a house. But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts. We may meet Blakeney at the Chagry. Sir Andrew had said when they landed, and she was walking as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, where she was going to meet him almost at once. At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew evidently knew the road, for he had walked unerringly in the dark, and had not asked his way from any one. It was too dark then for Marguerite to notice the outside aspect of this house. The shot gray, as Sir Andrew had called it, was evidently a small wayside inn on the outskirts of Calais, and on the way to the Grisnes. It lay some distance from the coast, for the sound of the sea seemed to come from afar. Sir Andrew knocked at the door with the knob of his cane, and from within Marguerite heard a sort of grunge and the muttering of a number of oaths. Sir Andrew knocked again, this time more parameterily. More oaths were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed to draw near at the door. Presently this was thrown open, and Marguerite found herself on the threshold of the most elapidated, most squalid room she had ever seen in all her life. The paper, such as it was, was hanging from the walls and strips. There did not seem to be a single piece of furniture in the room that could, by the wildest stretch of imagination, be called whole. Most of the chairs had broken backs, others had no seats to them, one corner of the table was propped up with a bundle of faggots there where the fourth leg had been broken. In one corner of the room there was a huge hearth over which hung a stockpot with a knot altogether unpalatable odor of hot soup emanating therefrom. On one side of the room, high up in the wall, there was a species of loft before which hung a tattered blue and white checked curtain. A rickety set of steps led up to this loft. On the great bare walls, with their colorless paper, all stained with varied filth, there were chalked up at intervals in great bold characters, liberty, equality, fraternity. The whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by an evil-smelling oil lamp which hung from the rickety rafters of the ceiling. It all looked so horribly squalid, so dirty and uninviting, that Marguerite hardly dared to cross the threshold. Sir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly forward. He said boldly, and speaking in French, the individual who had come to the door in response to Sir Andrew's knock, and who presumably was the owner of this squalid abode, was an elderly, heavily built peasant, dressed in a dirty blue blouse, heavy sabote from which wisps of straw protruded all around, shabby blue trousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tricolor caucade that proclaimed his momentary political views. He carried a short wooden pipe from which the odor of ranked tobacco emanated. He looked with some suspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two travelers, muttering, Sacra Anglais, and spat upon the ground to further show his independence of spirit. But, nevertheless, he stood aside to let them enter, no doubt well aware that these same Sacra Anglais always had well-filled verses. Oh, what? Said Marguerite as she advanced into the room, holding her handkerchief to her dainty nose. What a dreadful hole! Are you sure this is the place? Hi, this the place, sure enough? Replied the young man as, with his lace-edged, fashionable handkerchief, he dusted a chair for Marguerite to sit on. But I vow I never saw a more villainous hole. Faith! She said, looking round with some curiosity and a great deal of horror at the dilapidated walls, the broken chair, the rickety table. It certainly does not look inviting. The landlord of the Chagribe, by name Brogarde, had taken no further notice of his guests. He concluded that presently they would order supper, and in the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen to show deference or even courtesy to anyone, however smartly they might be dressed. By the hearth said a huddled-up figure clad seemingly, mostly in rags. That figure was apparently a woman, although even that would have been hard to distinguish except for the cap, which had once been white, and for what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was sitting mumbling to herself, and from time to time stirring the brew in her stockpot. Hey, my friend! said Sir Andrew at last. We should like some supper. Is it de rienth there? He added. Is concocting some delicious soup, I'll warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for several hours. It took Brogarde some few minutes to consider the question. A free citizen does not respond too readily to the wishes of those who happen to require something of him. Sacrallitos! He murmured, and once more spat upon the ground. Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner of the room. From this he took an old pewter soup turrine, and slowly, and without a word, he handed it to his better half, who, in the same silence, began filling the turrine with the soup out of her stockpot. Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror. Were it not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently have fled from this abode of dirt and evil smells. Faith! Oh, host and hostess are not cheerful people! said Sir Andrew, seeing the look of horror on Marguerite's face. I would, I could offer you a more hearty and more appetizing meal. But I think you will find the soup eatable and the wine good. These people wallow in dirt, but live well as a rule. Nay, I pray you, Sir Andrew. She said gently, Be not anxious about me. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper. Brogarde was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations. He had placed a couple of spoons, also two glasses, on the table, both of which Sir Andrew took the precaution of wiping carefully. Brogarde had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make some pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his role of lackey, stood behind her chair. Nay, madame, I pray you. He said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quite unable to eat. I beg you to try and swallow some food. Remember you have need of all your strength. The soup certainly was not bad. It smelled and tasted good. Marguerite might have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings. She broke the bread, however, and drank some of the wine. Nay, Sir Andrew. She said, I do not like to see you standing. You have need of food just as much as I have. This creature will only think that I am an eccentric English woman, alloping with her lackey, if you'll sit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me. Indeed, Brogarde, having placed what was strictly necessary upon the table, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests. The maire of Brogarde had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood and lunged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes under Marguerite's very nose, as any freeborn citizen who was anybody's equal should do. Confound the brute. She said, Sir Andrew, with native British wrath, as Brogarde lent up against the table, smoking and looking down superciliously at these two saccharan glaze. In heaven's name, man. And, monish Marguerite hurriedly, seeing that Sir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching his fist. Remember that you are in France, and that in this year of grace, this is the temper of the people. I'd like to scrag the brute. muttered Sir Andrew savagely. He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table, and they were both making noble efforts to deceive one another by pretending to eat and drink. I pray you, said Marguerite, keep the creature in a good temper, so that he may answer the questions we must put to him. I'll do my best, but big-gad. I'd soon as scrag him than question him. Hey, my friend. He said pleasantly in French and tapping Brogarde lightly on the shoulder. Do you see many of our quality along these parts? Many English travellers, I mean. Brogarde looked round at him over his shoulder, puffed away at his pipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered. Boy, sometimes. Said Sir Andrew carelessly. English travellers always know where they can get good wine, eh, my friend? Now tell me, my lady was desiring to know if, by any chance, you happen to have seen a great friend of hers, an English gentleman who often comes to Calais on business. He is tall, and recently was on his way to Paris. My lady hoped to have met him in Calais. Marguerite tried not to look at Brogarde, lest she should betray before him the burning anxiety with which she waited for his reply. But a free-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions. Brogarde took his time, then he said, very slowly. All Englishmen? Today? Yes. Yes, today. muttered Brogarde, sullenly. Then he quietly took Sir Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head, tugged at his dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in pantomime that the individual in question wore very fine clothes. Sacraristo. He muttered. That tall Englishman. Marguerite could scarce repress a scream. Eh, it's Sir Percy right enough. She murmured. And not even in disguise. She smiled in the midst of all her anxiety and through her gathering tears at the thought of the ruling passion strong in death, of Percy running into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the latest cut coat upon his back and the laces of his jabot unruffled. Oh, the full heartiness of it. She sighed. Quick, Sir Andrew, ask the man when he went. Ah, yes, my friend. Said Sir Andrew, addressing Brogarde with the same assumption of carelessness. My lord always wears beautiful clothes. The tall Englishman you saw was certainly my lady's friend. Had he gone, you say? He went. Yes. But he's coming back. Here. He ordered supper. Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of warning upon Marguerite's arm. It came none too soon. For the next moment her wild, mad joy would have betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming back here presently. She would see him in a few moments, perhaps. Oh, the wildness of her joy seemed almost more than she could bear. Here. She said to Brogarde, who seemed suddenly to have been transformed in her eyes into some heaven-born messenger of bliss. Here. Did you say the English gentleman was coming back here? The heaven-born messenger of bliss bat upon the floor to express his contempt for all Uncendrio Ristos who chose to haunt the shot green. Oy. He muttered. He ordered supper. He will come back. Sacre anglais. He added, by way of protest against all this fuss for a mere Englishman. But where is he now? Do you know? She asked eagerly, placing her dainty white hand upon the dirty sleeve of his blue blouse. You went to get a horse and cart. Said Brogarde, laconically, as with a surly gesture, he shook off from his arm that pretty hand which princes had been proud to kiss. At what time did he go? But Brogarde had evidently had enough of these questionings. He did not think that it was fitting for a citizen, who was the equal of anybody, to be thus cataclyzed by these Sacre Ristos even though they were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting to his newborn dignity to be as rude as possible, it was a sure sign of servility to meekly reply to civil questions. I don't know. He said surly, I have said enough. Voyons, les Sacre Ristos. He came today. He ordered supper. He went out. He'll come back. Voila! And with this parting assertion of his rights as a citizen and a free man, to be as rude as he well pleased, Brogarde shuffled out of the room, banging the door after him. End of Chapter 22 Chapter 23 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 Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Ortsy. Chapter 23 Hope Faith, madam! said Sir Andrew, seeing that Marguerite seemed desirous to call her surly host back again. I think we had better leave him alone. We shall not get anything more out of him, and we might arouse his suspicions. One never knows what spies may be lurking around these God-forsaken places. What care I? She replied lightly. Now I know that my husband is safe, and that I shall see him almost directly. Hush! He said in genuine alarm, for she had talked quite loudly in the fullness of her glee. The very walls have ears in France these days. He rose quickly from the table and walked round the bare, squalid room, listening attentively at the door. Through which Rogard had just disappeared, and whence only muttered oaths and shuffling footsteps could be heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led to the attic, to assure himself that there were no spies of chauvelins about the place. Are we alone, monsieur, my lackey? said Marguerite Gaely, as the young man once more sat down beside her. May we talk? As cautiously as possible. He entreated. Faith, man, but you wear a glum face. As for me, I could dance with joy. Surely there is no longer any cause for fear. Our boat is on the beach, the foam crest not two miles out at sea, and my husband will be here under this very roof, within the next half hour perhaps. Sure, there is not to hinder us. Chauvelin and his gang have not yet arrived. Nay, madam, that I fear we do not know. What do you mean? He was at Dover at the same time that we were. Held up by the same storm which kept us from starting. Exactly, but I did not speak of it before, for I feared to alarm you. I saw him on the beach not five minutes before we embarked. At least I swore to myself at the time that it was his himself. He was dressed as a curée, so that Satan, his own guardian, would scarce have known him. But I heard him then bargaining for a vessel to take him swiftly to Calais. And he must have set sail less than an hour after we did. Marguerite's face had quickly lost its look of joy. The terrible danger in which Percy stood, now that he was actually on French soil, became suddenly and horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was close upon his heels. Here in Calais, the astute diplomatist was all powerful. A word from him and Percy could be tracked and arrested and— Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Not even during the moments of her wild disanguish in England had she so completely realized the eminence of the peril in which her husband stood. Chauvelin had sworn to bring the scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine. And now the daring plotter, whose anonymity hitherto had been his safeguard, stood revealed through her own hand to his most bitter, most relentless enemy. Chauvelin, when he way-laid Lord Tony and surrender folks in the coffee room of the fisherman's rest, had obtained possession of all the plans of this latest expedition. Armand Sangeuse, the Conte de Tournet, and other fugitive royalists were to have met the scarlet Pimpernel, or rather as it had been originally arranged, two of his emissaries, on this day, the 2nd of October, at a place evidently known to the League, and vaguely alluded to as the Pierre Blanchard's hut. Armand, whose connection with the scarlet Pimpernel and a saval of the brutal policy of the reign of terror was still unknown to his countrymen, had left England a little more than a week ago, carrying with him the necessary instructions, which would enable him to meet the other fugitives and to convey them to this place of safety. This much margarite had fully understood from the first, and surrender folks had confirmed her surmises. She knew, too, that when Sir Percy realized that his own plans in his directions to his lieutenants had been stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communicate with Armand, or to send fresh instructions to the fugitives. They would, of necessity, be at the appointed time and place, not knowing how grave was the danger which now awaited their brave rescuer. Blakeney, who as usual had planned and organized the whole expedition, would not allow any of his younger comrades to run the risk of almost certain capture. Hence his hurried note to them at Lord Grenville's ball. Start myself, tomorrow, alone. And now, with his identity known to his most bitter enemy, his every step would be dogged, the moment he set foot in France. He would be tracked by Chauvelin's emissaries, followed until he reached that mysterious hut where the fugitives were waiting for him, and there the trap would be closed on him and on them. There was but one hour, the hour start which Marguerite and Sir Andrew had of their enemy, in which to warn Percy of the imminence of his danger and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy expedition, which could only end in his own death. But there was that one hour. Chauvelin knows of this inn from the papers he stole, said Sir Andrew earnestly, and on landing will make straight for it. He has not landed yet, she said. We have an hour's start on him, and Percy will be here directly. We shall be mid-channel, Air Chauvelin has realized, that we have slipped through his fingers. She spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse into her young friend some of that boy and hope which still clung to her heart. But he shook his head sadly. Silent again, Sir Andrew? She said with some impatience. What do you shake your head and look so glum? Faith, madame. He replied? It is only because in making your rose-colored plans, you are forgetting the most important factor. What in the world do you mean? I am forgetting nothing. What factor do you mean? She added with more impatience. It stands six foot odd high. Replied, Sir Andrew, quietly. And hath the name Percy Blakeney. I don't understand. She murmured. Do you think the Blakeney would leave Calais without having accomplished what he set out to do? You mean? There's the old comte de tournée. The comte? She murmured. And Saint Just? And others? My brother. She said with a heartbroken sob of anguish. Heaven help me, but I fear I had forgotten. Fugitives as they are, these men at this moment await with perfect confidence and unshaken faith the arrival of the Scarlet Pimpernel who has pledged his honour to take them safely across the channel. Indeed she had forgotten. With the sublime selfishness of a woman who loves with her whole heart she had in the last twenty-four hours had no thought save for him. His precious noble life, his danger. He, the loved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind. My brother. She murmured. As one by one the heavy tears gathered in her eyes as memory came back to her of Armand, the companion and darling of her childhood, the man for whom she had committed the deadly sin which had so hopelessly imperiled her brave husband's life. So Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, honoured leader of a score of English gentlemen? Said Sir Andrew proudly, If he abandoned those who placed their trust in him. As for bracing his word the very thought is preposterous. There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite had buried her face in her hands and was letting the tears slowly trickle through her trembling fingers. The young man said nothing. His heart ached for this beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had felt the terrible impasse in which her own rash act had plunged them all. He knew his friend and leader so well with his reckless daring, his mad bravery, his worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew that Blakeney would brave any danger, run the wildest risks sooner than break it, and with Chauvan at his very heels would make a final attempt, however desperate, to rescue those who trusted in him. Faith, Sir Andrew! Said Marguerite at last, making brave efforts to dry her tears. You are right, and I would not now shame myself by trying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say I should plead in vain. God grant him strength and ability. She added fervently and resolutely. To outwit his pursuers. He will not refuse to take you with him, perhaps, when he starts on his noble work. Between you you will have cunning as well as valor. God guard you both. In the meanwhile I think we should lose no time. I still believe that his safety depends upon his knowing that Chauvalat is on his track. Undoubtedly he has wonderful resources at his command. As soon as he is aware of his danger he will exercise more caution. His ingenuity is a veritable miracle. Then what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in the village whilst I wait here against his coming? You might come across Percy's track and thus save valuable time. If you find him tell him to beware his bitterest enemy is on his heels. But this is such a villainous hold for you to wait in. Nay, that I do not mind. But you might ask our surly host if he could let me wait in another room where I could be safer from the prying eyes of any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money so that he should not fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman returns. She spoke quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking out her plans, ready for the worst of need be. She would show no more weakness, she would prove herself worthy of him, who was about to give his life for the sake of his fellow men. Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively he felt that hers now was a stronger mind. He was willing to give himself over to her guidance to become the hand whilst she was the directing head. He went to the door of the inner room through which Brogarde and his wife had disappeared before and knocked. As usual he was answered by a salvo of Mother Dose. Hey! Friend Brogarde! said the man peremptorily. My lady friend would wish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of another room? She would wish to be alone. He took some money out of his pocket and allowed it to jingle significantly in his hand. Brogarde had opened the door and listened with his usual surly apathy to the young man's request. At the sight of the gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly. He took his pipe from his mouth and shuffled into the room. He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall. She can wait up there. He said with a grunt. It's comfotable. I have no other room. Nothing could be better. Said Marguerite in English. She at once realized the advantages such a position hidden from view would give her. Give him the money, Sir Andrew. I shall be quite happy up there and can see everything without being seen. She nodded to Brogarde, who condescended to go up to the attic and to shake up the straw that lay on the floor. May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash? Said Sir Andrew as Marguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety flight of steps. Remember this place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you, reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely certain that you are alone with him. Even as he spoke he felt how unnecessary was his caution. Marguerite was as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear of her doing anything that was rash. Nay. She said with a slight attempt at cheerfulness. That I can faithfully promise you. I would not jeopardize my husband's life, nor yet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear. I will watch my opportunity and serve him in the manner I think he needs it most. Brigard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up to her safe retreat. I dare not kiss your hand, madam. Said Sir Andrew as she began to mount the steps. Since I am your lackey, but I pray you be of good cheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return, expecting to find him here. Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an hour. Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that either you or I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend. Have no fear for me. Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the attic. Brigard was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself comfortable there or not, as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was singularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining unobserved. He had paid Progard well, the surly old innkeeper would have no object in betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned once again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged curtains Marguerite's sweet face was heaping down at him, and the young man rejoiced to see that it looked serene and even gently smiling. With a final nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Eliza. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orksy. Chapter 24 The Death Trap The next quarter of an hour went swiftly and noiselessly by. In the room downstairs, Brogard had for a while busyed himself with clearing the table and rearranging it for another guest. It was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite found the time slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that this semblance of supper was being got ready. Evidently, Brogard had a certain amount of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to take some trouble in making the place look a trifle less unbiding than it had done before. He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser, what actually looked like a tablecloth. And when he spread it out and saw it was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while. Then was that much pain so to spread it over the table as to hide most of its blemishes. Then he got out of serviette, also old and ragged, but possessing some measure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully wiped the glasses, spoons, and plates which he put on the table. Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched all these preparations which Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment of muttered oats. Clearly the great height and bulk of the Englishman, or perhaps the weight of his fist, had overawed this freeborn citizen of France, or he would never have been at such trouble for any sacrage d'eau. When the table was set, such as it was, Brogard surveyed it with evident satisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the corner of his blouse, gave a stir to the stockpot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots onto the fire, and slouched out of the room. Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She had spread her traveling cloak over the straw, and was sitting fairly comfortably, as the straw was fresh, and the evil odors from below came up to her only in a modified form. But momentarily she was almost happy, happy because, when she peeped through the tattered curtains, she could see a rickety chair, a torn tablecloth, a glass, a plate, and a spoon. That was all. But those mute and ugly things seemed to say to her that they were waiting for Percy, that soon, very soon, he would be here, that the squalid room being still empty, they would be alone together. That thought was so heavenly that Marguerite closed her eyes in order to shut out everything but that. In a few minutes, she would be alone with him. She would run down the ladder and let him see her. Then he would take her in his arms, and she would let him see that. After that, she would gladly die for him, and with him, for earth could hold no greater happiness than that. And then what would happen? She could not even remotely conjecture. She knew, of course, that Sir Andrew was right, that Percy would do everything he had set out to accomplish, that she, now she was here, could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious, since Shoblin himself was on his track. After having cautioned him, she would, before us, have to see him go off upon the terrible and daring mission. She could not even with a word or look attempt to keep him back. She would have to obey whatever he told her to do, even perhaps have to efface herself and wait in indescribable agony whilst he, perhaps, went to his death. But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the thought that he should never know how much she loved him. That, at any rate, would be spared her. The squalled room itself, which seemed to be waiting for him, told her that he would be here soon. Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of distant footsteps drawing near. Her heart gave a wild leap of joy. Was it Percy at last? No. The step did not seem quite as long, nor quite as firm as his. She also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of footsteps. Yes, that was it. Two men were coming this way. Two strangers, perhaps, to get a drink, or... But she had not time to conjecture. For presently, there was a preemptory call at the door, and the next moment it was violently open from the outside, whilst a rough commanding voice shouted, Hey, citoyen, brogarde, hola! Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but through a hole in one of the curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below. She heard Brogarde's shuffling footsteps as he came out of the inner room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the strangers, however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within range of Marguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered, Sacré-soutan! Marguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating. Her eyes, large and dilated, had fastened out one of the newcomers, who, at this point, had taken a quick step forwards towards Brogarde. He was dressed in the soutaine, broad-brim tat, and buckled shoes habitual to the French cure. But as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw up in his soutaine for a moment, displaying the tricolour scarf of officialism, which sight immediately had the effect of transforming Brogarde's attitude of contempt into one of cringing obsequiousness. It was the sight of this French cure, which seemed to freeze the very blood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was shaded by his broad-brim tat, but she recognized the thin, bony hands, the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man. It was Chauvelin. The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical blow, the awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made her very senses real, and she needed almost superhuman effort not to fall senseless beneath it all. The plet of soup and a bottle of wine! said Chauvelin imperiously to Brogarde. Then clear out of here. Understand? I want to be alone. Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogarde obeyed. Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him, dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered was Chauvelin, and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close by the door. At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogarde had hurried back to the inner room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had accompanied him. In him Marguerite once recognized Degas, Chauvelin's secretary in confidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris, and days gone by. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened attentively at the Brogarde's door. Not listening? As Chauvelin curtly, for a moment Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order Degas to search the place. What would happen if she were to be discovered? She hardly dared to imagine. Fortunately, however, Chauvelin seemed more impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid of spies, for he called Degas quickly back to his side. The English schooner? He asked. She was lost sight of at sundown, Citroyan. Replied Degas. What was then making west? Towards Caprines. Ah, good. What a show of that. And now, how about Captain Jutley, what did he say? He assured me that all the orders you sent him last week have been implicitly obeyed. All the roads which converged this place have been patrolled night and day ever since, and the beach and cliffs have been most rigorously searched and guarded. Does he know where this pair of Blanchard's hut is? No, Citroyan. Nobody seems to know of it by that name. There are any amount of fishermen's huts all along the coast, but… That'll do. Now, about tonight? Interrupted Chauvelin impatiently. The roads in the beach are patrolled as usual, Citroyan, and Captain Jutley awaits further orders. Go back to him at once then. Tell him to send reinforcements to the various patrols, and especially to those along the beach. You understand? Chauvelin spoke curtly into the point, and every word he uttered struck at Marguerite's heart like the death knell of her fondest hopes. The men, he continued, are to keep the sharpest possible lookout for any stranger who may be walking, or riding, or deriving along the road, or the beach more especially, for a tall stranger whom I need not describe further, as probably he will be disguised, but he cannot very well conceal his height, except by stooping. You understand? Perfectly, Citroyan. Replied Degas. As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, two of them are to keep him in view. The man who loses sight of the tall stranger after he is once seen will pay for his negligence with his laugh. But one man is to ride straight back here and report to me. Is that clear? Absolutely clear, Citroyan. Very well then. Go and see Jutley at once. See the reinforcements start off for the patrol duty that asks the captain to let you have a half a dozen more men, and bring them here with you. You can be back in ten minutes. Go. Degas eluded and went to the door. As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin's directions to his underling, the whole of the plan for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the fugitives should be left in false security waiting in their hidden retreat until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter was to be surrounded and caught red-handed in the very act of aiding and abetting royalists, who were traitors to the Republic. Thus, if his capture were noised abroad, even the British government could not legally protest in his favour, having plotted with the enemies of the French government, France had the right to put him to death. Escape for him and them would be impossible. All the roads patrolled and watched, the trap well set, the net wide at present, but drawing together tighter and tighter, until it closed upon the daring plotter, whose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him from its meshes now. Degas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him back. Marguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he could have formed in order to entrap one brave man, alone, against two score of others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to Degas. She could just see his face beneath the broad brim to Cure's hat. There was at that moment so much deadly hatred, such fiendish mouths in the thin face and pale small eyes, that Marguerite's last hope died in her heart, for she felt that from this man she could expect no mercy. I had forgotten, repeated Chauvelin with a weird chuckle, as he rubbed his bony talon-like hands one against the other, with a gesture of fiendish satisfaction. The tall stranger made sure fight. In any case, no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want that tall stranger alive, if possible. He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at the sight of the torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by now she had lived through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that human heart could bear. Yet now, when Degas left the house and she remained alone in this lonely, squalid room, with that fiend for company, she felt as if all that she had suffered was nothing compared with this. He continued to laugh and chuckle to himself for a while, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his triumph. His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph. Not a loophole was left, through which the bravest, the most cunning man might escape. Every road guarded, every corner watched, and in that lonely hut somewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their rescuer, and leading him to his death, nay, to worse than death. That fiend there, in a holy man's garb, was too much of a devil to allow a brave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of duty. He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who had so long baffled him, helpless in his power, he wished to gloat over him, to enjoy his downfall, to inflict upon him what moral and mental torture a deadly hatred alone can devise. The brave eagle, captured, and with noble wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of the rat. And she, his wife who loved him, and who had brought him to this, could do nothing to help him. Nothing, saved to hope for death by his side, and for one brief moment in which to tell him that her love, whole, true, and passionate, was entirely his. Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table. He had taken off his hat, and Marguerite could just see the outline of his thin profile and pointed chin as he bent over his meager supper. He was evidently quite contented, and awaited events with perfect calm. He even seemed to enjoy Broguard's unsabery fare. Marguerite wondered how so much hatred could lurk in one human being against another. Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught her ear, which turned her very heart to stone. And yet that sound was not calculated to inspire anyone with horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of a gay, fresh boy singing lustily. Chapter 25 The Eagle and the Fox Marguerite's breath stopped short. She seemed to feel her very life standing still momentarily, while she listened to that voice and to that song. In the singer she had recognised her husband. Chauvelin too had heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door, then hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and clapped it over his head. The voice drew nearer. For one brief second the wild desire seized Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly across the room to stop that song at any cost. To beg the cheerful singer to fly, fly for his life before it be too late. She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin would stop her before she reached the door, and, moreover, she had no idea if he had any soldiers posted within his call. Her impetuous act might prove the death signal of the man she would have died to save. God save great joy, dark king, long live our noble king. God save our king. Send him victorious, happy as long God save the... Saying the voice more lustily than ever. The next moment the door was thrown open and there was a dead silence for a second or so. Marguerite could not see the door. She held her breath, trying to imagine what was happening. Percy Blake in the on-entering had, of course, at once caught sight of the curate at the table. His hesitation lasted less than five seconds. The next moment, Marguerite saw his tall figure crossing the room, whilst he called in a loud cheerful voice. Hello there, no one about? Where's that full brogarde? He wore the magnificent coat and riding suit, which he had on when Marguerite last saw him at Richmond so many hours ago. As usual, his get-up was absolutely irreproachable. The fine meshlin lace at his neck and wrists were immaculate and white. His fair hair was carefully brushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual affected gesture. In fact, at this moment, Sir Percy Blackney, Baronette, might have been on his way to a garden party at the Prince of Wales, instead of deliberately, cold-bloodily running his head in a trap, set for him by his deadliest enemy. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room. Whilst Marguerite, absolutely paralysed with horror, seemed unable even to breathe. Every moment, she expected that Chauvelin would give a signal that the place would fill with soldiers, that she would rush down and help Percy to sell his life dearly. As he stood there, suavely unconscious, she very nearly screamed out to him, Fly, Percy! Tis your deadly enemy! Fly before it be too late! But she had not time even to do that. For the next moment, Blackney quietly walked to the table, and jovially clapped the curate on the back, said in his own drawly affected way, Odds Fish! Monsieur Chauvelin! I vow I never thought of meeting you here! Chauvelin, who had been in the very act of conveying slip to his mouth, fairly choked. His thin face became absolutely purple, and a violent fit of coughing saved this cunning representative of France from betraying the most boundless surprise he had ever experienced. There was no doubt that this bold move on the part of the enemy had been wholly unexpected. As far as he was concerned, and the daring impudence of it completely non-plust him for the moment. Obviously he had not taken the precaution of having the inn surrounded with soldiers. Blackney had evidently guessed that much, and no doubt his resourceful brain had already formed some plan by which he could turn this unexpected interview to account. Marguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had made a solemn promise to Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before strangers, and she had sufficient self-control not to throw herself unreasonably and impossibly across his plans. To sit still and watch these two men together was a terrible trial of fortitude. Marguerite had heard Chauvelin give the orders for patrolling of all of the roads. She knew that if Sir Percy left now, the Chagri, in whatever direction he happened to go, he could not go far without being cited by some of Captain Jutley's men on patrol. On the other hand, if he stayed, then Degas would have time to come back with the dozen men that Chauvelin had specially ordered. The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but watch and wonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of the two it was Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear. Marguerite knew him well enough to guess what was passing in his mind. He had no fear for his own person, although he certainly was alone in a lonely inn with a man who was powerfully built and who was daring and reckless beyond the bounds of probability. She knew that Chauvelin would willingly have braved perilous encounters for the sake of the cause he had at heart. But what he did fear was that this impudent Englishman would, by knocking him down, double his own chances of escape. His underlings might not succeed in capturing the scarlet pimpinol were not directed by the cunning hand and the shrewd brain which had deadly hate for an incentive. Evidently, however, the representative of the French government had nothing to fear for the moment at the hands of this powerful adversary. Blakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant good nature, was solemnly patting him on the back. I'm so damned sorry. He was saying cheerfully. So very sorry. I seem to have upset you. Eating soup, too. Nasty, awkward thing soup. Ah, but that. A friend of mine died once, ah, choked, just like you, with a spoonful of soup. And he smiled shyly, good-humidly, down at Chauvelin. Odd's life. He continued as soon as the latter had somewhat recovered himself. Beastly hold this, ain't it now. La, you don't mind. He added apologetically as he sat down on a chair close to the table and drew the soup tureen towards him. That fool Brogarde seems to be asleep or something. There was a second plate on the table and he calmly helped himself to soup, then poured himself a glass of wine. For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His disguise was so good that perhaps he meant on recovering himself to deny his identity. But Chauvelin was too astute to make such an obviously false and childish move. And already he, too, had stretched out his hand and said pleasantly, I am indeed charm to see you, sir Percy. You must excuse me. Ah, I thought you were the other side of the channel. Sudden surprise almost took my breath away. La, said Sir Percy with a good, humid grin. He did that quite, didn't it? Ah, Monsieur Chaubertine? Pardon me, Chauvelin. I beg pardon, a thousand times. Yes, Chauvelin, of course. Ah, I never could part into foreign names. He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good humour, as if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of enjoying supper at this filthy inn in the company of his arch-enemy. For a moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the little Frenchman down then and there. And no doubt something of the sort must have darted through his mind, for every now and then his lazy eyes seemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight figure of Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself and was also calmly eating soup. But the keen brain which had planned and carried through so many daring plots was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This place, after all, might be infested with spies. The inn caper might be in Chauvelin's pay. One call on Chauvelin's part might bring twenty men about Blake and his ears for oughty new, and he might be caught and trapped before he could help, or at least warn the fugitives. This he would not risk. He meant to help the others, to get them safely away, for he had pledged his word to them and his word he would keep. And whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned. Whilst up in the loft, the poor anxious woman racked her brain as to what she should do, and endured agonies of longing to rush down to him, yet not daring to move for fear of upsetting his plans. I didn't know. Blake and he were saying, Jovially, that you, uh, were in holy orders. I be him. Stammer Chauvelin. The calm impudence of his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance. But, Vaugh, I should have known you anywhere. Continued so pursy placidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine. Although the wig and hat have changed you a bit. Do you think so? Ludd, they alter a man so, but begad, I hope you don't mind my having made the remark. Dumbed bad form making remarks. I hope you don't mind. No, no, not at all. Um, I hope Lady Blackney as well. Said Chauvelin, hurriedly changing the topic of conversation. Blakeney with much deliberation finished his plate of soup, drank his glass of wine, and momentarily it seemed to Marguerite, as if he glanced all around the room. Quite well. Thank you. He said at last, dryling. There was a pause during which Marguerite could watch these two antagonists, who evidently in their minds were measuring themselves against one another. She could see Percy almost full face where he sat at the table not ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, not knowing what to do or what she should think. She had quite controlled her impulse now of rushing down and disclosing herself to her husband. A man capable of acting apart in the way he was doing at the present moment did not need a woman's word to warn him to be cautious. Marguerite indulged in the luxury dear to every tender woman's heart of looking at the man she loved. She looked through the tattered curtain across at the handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue eyes and behind whose inane smile she could now so plainly see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused the scarlet pimpinel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady Blakeney, so Andrew had said to her, and as she looked at the forehead low but square and broad, the eyes blue yet deep set and intense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable energy hiding behind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of will and marvellous ingenuity. She understood the fascination which he exercised over his followers, or had he not also cast his spells over her heart and imagination? Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Degas should not be long another two or three minutes and this impudent Englishman would be secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley's most trusted men. You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy? He asked carelessly. Odd's life, no! replied Blakeney with a laugh. Only as far as Lille, not Paris for me. Beastly uncomfortable place, Paris just now. Monsieur Chambretin, oh, beg pardon, Chauvelin. Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy. Rejoin Chauvelin sarcastically. It takes no interest in the conflict that he's arranging there. La, you see it's no business of mine, and our damned government is all on your side of the business. Old pit, derrancy, boo to a goose. You are in a hurry, sir. He added a Chauvelin once again took out his watch. An appointment perhaps? I pray you take no heed of me. My time is my own. He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the hearth. Once more, Marguerite, with terribly tempted to go to him for time was getting on. Degas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know that, and, oh, how horrible it all was, and how helpless she felt. I am in no hurry. Continued Percy pleasantly. But la, I don't want to spend any more time than I can help in this God-forsaken whole. But begat, sir. He added a Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his watch for the third time. That watch of yours won't go any faster for all the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe? Aye, a friend. Not a lady, I trust Monsieur Labierre. Loved blankening. Surely the Holy Church does not allow. Eh, what? But I say, come by the fire. It's getting damned cold. He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in the old hearth. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently was quite unconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite beyond control, sat down beside the hearth in such a way as to command a view of the door. Degas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite plain to margarit's aching senses that as soon as he arrived, Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the fugitives and capture this impudent scarlet pimpin'l at once. Hey, Monsieur Chauvelin. The latter was saying eerily, Tell me, I pray you, is your friend pretty? Damn smart, these little French women sometimes, what? But I protest, I need not ask. He added, as he callously strove back towards the supper table. In matters of taste, the church has never been backward, eh? But Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty was now concentrated on that door, through which presently Degas would enter. Margarit's thoughts, too, were centred there, for her ears had suddenly caught through the stillness of the night the sound of numerous and measured treads some distance away. It was Degas and his men. Another three minutes, and they would be here. Another three minutes, and the awful thing would have occurred. The brave eagle would have fallen in the ferret's trap. She would have moved now and screamed, but she dared not. For while she heard the soldiers approaching, she was looking at Percy and watching his every movement. He was standing at the table, where on the remnants of the supper plates, glasses, spoons, salt and pepper pots were scattered pel-mel. His back was turned to Chauvelin, and he was still prattling along and his own affected an inane way, but from his pocket he had taken his snuff box, and quickly and suddenly he emptied the contents of the pepper pot into it. Then he again turned with an inane laugh to Chauvelin. Ah, did you speak, sir? Chauvelin had been too intent on listening to the sound of those approaching footsteps to notice what his cunning adversary had been doing. He now pulled himself together, trying to look unconcerned in the very midst of his anticipated triumph. No. He said presently, That is, as you are saying, Sir Percy. I was saying, said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin by the fire, that the Jew in Piccadilly has sold me better snuff this time than I have ever tasted. Will you honour me, Mr. Labet? He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless debonair way, holding out his snuff box to his archenemy. Chauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen a trick or two in his day, had never dreamed of this one. With one ear fixed on those fast-approaching footsteps, one eye turned to that door where Degas and his men would presently appear, lulled into a false security by the impudent Englishman's eerie manner. He never even remotely guessed the trick which was being played on him. He took a pinch of snuff. Only he who has ever by accident, accidentally sniffed vigorously a dose of pepper can have the faintest conception of the hopeless condition in which such a sniff would reduce any human being. Chauvelin felt his head would burst. Sneeze after sneeze seemed nearly to choke him. He was blind, deaf and dumb for the moment, and during that moment Blake knee quietly, without the slightest haste, took up his hat, took some money out of his pocket which he left on the table, and then calmly stalked out of the room. End of Chapter 25 Chapter 26 of the Skylet 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 Skylet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orksey Chapter 26 The Jew It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses. The whole of this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and Degas and the soldiers were still about 200 yards away from the Chauvelin. When she realized what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and wonder filled her heart. It was also neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been under a blow from the fist. For now he could neither see, nor hear, nor speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his fingers. Blake knew was gone, obviously, to try and join the fugitives at the parable on Chard's hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless. For the moment, the daring Skylet Pimpernel had not been caught by Degas and his men. But all the roads in the beach were patrolled, every place was watched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go? Thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and followed. Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and given him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all, he needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for his capture, and even now, perhaps. But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and Degas' voice shouting, All to his men. Chauvelin had partially recovered, his sneezing had become less violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door, just as Degas' knock was heard on the outside. Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes. The tall stranger, quick! Did any of you see him? Where? St. Trojan. Asked Degas' surprise. He helped man through that door, not five minutes ago. We saw nothing, St. Trojan. The moon is not yet up, and? And you are just five minutes too late, my friend. St. Chauvelin was concentrated fury. St. Trojan, I... You did what I ordered you to do. St. Chauvelin was impatient. I know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately, there was not much arm done, or it had fared ill with you, St. Trojan Degas. Degas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his superior's whole attitude. The tall stranger, St. Trojan? He stammered. Was here, in this room, a five minutes ago having supper at that table? Damn his impudence! The obvious reasons I had dared not tackle him alone. Brogar is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have the strength of a bullock. And so he slipped away under your very nose. He cannot go far without being excited, St. Trojan. Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty. Twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch had been constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the beach, or reach a boat without being sighted. That's good. Do the men know their work? They have had very clear orders, St. Trojan, and I myself spoke to those who were about to start. They are too shadowy, as secretly as possible, any stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he would disguise his height. In no case to detain such a person, of course. C'est chauvelin. That impudent scarlet pimponel would slip through clumsy fingers. We must let him get to the pair Blanchard's hut now, there surround and capture him. The men understand that, St. Trojan. And also that, as soon as a tall stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to turn straight back and report to you. That is right. C'est chauvelin rubbing his hands, well pleased. I have further news for you, St. Trojan. What is it? A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Ruben by name, who lives not ten paces from here. Yes, and? C'est chauvelin impatiently. The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the tall Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by eleven o'clock. It is past that now. Where does this Ruben live? A few minutes walk from this door. Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in Ruben's cart. Yes, to Trojan. Degas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men. Not a word of this conversation between him and chauvelin had escaped Marguerite, and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart with terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding. She had come all this way and with such high hopes and firm determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do nothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes of the deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel. He could not now advance many steps without spying eyes to track and denounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the terrible sense of utter disappointment. The possibility of being the slightest use to her husband had become almost nil, and her only hope rested in being allowed to share his fate, whatever it might ultimately be. For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she loved again had become a remote one. Still, she was determined to keep a close watch over his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart that whilst she kept Chauvin in sight, Percy's fate might still be hanging in the balance. Degas left Chauvin moodily pacing up and down the room, whilst he himself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had sent in search of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvin was evidently devoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one. This last trick played upon him by the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had made him suddenly doubtful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, direct and super intend the capture of this impudent Englishman. About five minutes later Degas returned, followed by an elderly Jew, and a dirty, threadbare gabardine worn greasy across his shoulders. His red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with gray. A general coating of grime, about his cheeks and his chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and lill-some appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his race, affected in mock humility in past centuries, before the dawn of equality and freedom in manners of faith. And he walked behind Degas with a peculiar shuffling gait, which has remained the characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to this day. Chauvin, who had all the Frenchmen's prejudice against the despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful distance. The group of the three men were standing just underneath the hanging oil lamp, and Marguerite had a clear view of them all. Is this the man? Asked Chauvin. Nossetrayan. Replied Degas. Rubin could not be found, so presumably his cart has gone with the stranger. But this man here seems to know something, which he is willing to sell for a consideration. C'est Chauvin, turning away with disgust from the loathsome specimen of humanity before him. The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one side, leaving on the nodded staff, his greasy broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble Excellency to dame to put some questions to him. Dessetrayan tells me. C'est Chauvin, preemptorily to him. That you know something of my friend, the tall Englishman whom I desire to meet. Morble, keep your distance, man. He added hurriedly as the Jew took a quick and eager step forward. Yes, your Excellency. Replied the Jew, who spoke the language with that peculiar list which denotes Eastern origin. I, Edrubin Goldstein, met a tall Englishman on the road, close by here this evening. Did you speak to him? He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he could hire a horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin Road to a place he wanted to reach tonight. What did you say? I did not say anything. C'est the Jew in an injured tone. Rubin Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial. Cut that short, man. Interrupted Chauvin roughly. And go on with your story. He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency, when I was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart to take him where so ever he chose. Rubin had already spoken and offered his half-starved nag and his broken-down cart. And what did the Englishman do? He listened to Rubin Goldstein, your Excellency, and put his hand in his bucket, then and there, and took out a handful of gold, which he showed to that descendant of Bezelbub, telling him that all that would be his, that the horse and cart were ready for him by eleven o'clock. And, of course, the horse and cart were ready? Well, they were ready for him in a manner to, so to speak, your Excellency. Rubin's nag was lame, as usual. She refused to budget first. It was only after a time and with plenty of kicks that she and last could be made to move. So the Jew with a malicious chuckle. Then they started? Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I was disgusted with that stranger's folly, an Englishman, too. He ought to have known Rubin's nag was not fit to drive. But if he had no choice? No, choice, your Excellency. Protested the Jew in a rasping voice. Did I not repeat to him a dozen times that my horse and cart would take him quicker and more comfortably than Rubin's bag of bones? He would not listen. Rubin is such a liar and has such insinuating ways. The stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry, he would have had better value for his money by taking my cart. You have a horse and cart, too, then? Asked Shobland peremptorly. Aye, that I have your Excellency. And if your Excellency wants to drive. Do you happen to know which way my friend went in Rubin Goldstein's cart? Softly the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Margaret's heart was beating well night of bursting. She had heard the peremptory question. She looked anxiously at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Fagly, she felt somehow as if he held Percy's fate in his long, dirty hands. There was a long pause, whilst Shobland frowned impatiently at the stooping figure before him. At last the Jew slowly put his hand in his breast pocket, and drew out from its capacious depth a number of silver coins. He gazed at them softly, then remarked in a quiet tone of voice. This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove away with Rubin for holding my tongue about him and his doings. Shobland shrugged his shoulders impatiently. How much is there there? He asked. Twenty francs, your excellency. Replied the Jew. And I have been an honest man all my life. Shobland, without further comment, took a few pieces of gold out of his own pocket, and leaving them in the palm of his hand. He allowed them to jingle as he held them out towards the Jew. How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand? He asked quietly. Evidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but to conciliate him for his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt he feared that threats of the guillotine and various other persuasive methods of that type might addle the old man's brains, and that he would be more likely to be useful through greed of gain than through terror of death. The eyes of the Jew shot a quick keen glance at the gold in his interlocutor's hand. At least five. I should say, your excellency. He replied obsequiously. Enough do you think to loosen that honest tongue of yours. What does your excellency wish to know? Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend a tall stranger who has driven off in Rubin Goldstein's cart. My horse and cart can take your honor. There, where you please. To a place called the Père Blanchard's hut. Your honor has guessed. Said the Jew in astonishment. You know the place, which rod leads to it. The saint Martin wrote your honor. Then a footpath from there to the cliffs. You know the road? Repeated Chauvelin roughly. Every stone, every blade of grass, your honor. Reply the Jew quietly. Chauvelin, without another word, threw the five pieces of gold one by one before the Jew, who knelt down, and on his hands and knees struggled to collect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for it had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly waited while the old man scrambled on the floor to find the piece of gold. When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said, How soon can your horse and cart be ready? They are ready now, your honor. Where? Not ten meters from this door. Will your Excellency deign to look? I don't want to see it. How far can you drive me in it? As far as the Père Blanchard's hut, your honor, and farther than Ruben's nag, took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues from here. We shall come across that wily Ruben, his nag, his cart, and the tall stranger, all in a heap, in the middle of the road. How far is the nearest village from here? On the road which the Englishman took, Mechelon is the nearest village, not two leagues from here. There he could get fresh conveyance if he wanted to go farther. He could, if he ever got so far. Can you? Will your Excellency try? Said the Jew simply. That is my intention. Said Schopenhagen very quietly. But remember, if you have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most stalwart soldiers to give you such a beating that your breath will perhaps leave your ugly body forever. But if we find my friend, the tall Englishman, either on the road or at the Père Blanchard's hut, there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you accept the bargain? The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money in his hand, then at his stern interlocutor, and at Degas, who had stood silently behind him all this while. After a moment's pause, he said deliberately. I accept. Go and wait outside, then, said Chauvelin. And remember to stick to your bargain, or by heaven, I will keep to mine. With the final most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew shuffled out of the room. Chauvelin seemed pleased with his interview, for he rubbed his hands together with that usual gesture of his, of malignant satisfaction. My coat and boots. He said to Degas at last. Degas went to the door and apparently gave the necessary orders, for presently a soldier entered, carrying Chauvelin's coat, boots, and hat. He took off his suit and beneath which he was wearing clothes-fitting breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire. You, citoyenne, in the meanwhile, he said to Degas, go back to Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and tell him to let you have another dozen men, and bring them with you along the San Martin Road, where I dare say you shall soon overtake the Jew's cart with myself in it. There will be odd work presently, if I mistake not, in the pair-blanchards. But we shall corner our game there, I want. For this impudent Scarlet Pimponel has had the audacity, or the stupidity I hardly know which, to adhere to his original plans. He has gone to meet the tournée Sargeust and the other traitors, which for the moment, I thought perhaps he did not intend to do. When we find them, there will be a band of desperate men at bay. Some of our men will, I presume, be put, or the combat. These royalists are good swordsmen, and the Englishman is devilish cunning and looks very powerful. Still, we shall be five against one at least. You can follow the cart closely with your men, all along the Saint Martin Road through Michelin. The Englishman is ahead of us, and not likely to look behind him. Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed his change of attire. The priest's costume had been laid aside, and he was once more dressed in his usual dark tight-fitting clothes. At last he took up his hat. I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your hands. He said with a chuckle, as with unwonted familiarity, he took Degas' arm and led him towards the door. We won't kill him outright, eh, friend Degas? The Père Blanchard, that is, and I must take note, a lonely sport upon the beach, and our men will enjoy a bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox. Choose your men well, friend Degas, of the sort who will enjoy that type of sport, eh? We must see that a scarlet pimpinelle wither a bit. What, shrink and tremble, eh? Before we finally... He made an expressive gesture whilst he laughed a low evil laugh, which filled Marguerite's soul with sickening horror. Choose your men well, citoyen Degas. He said once more as he let his secretary finally out of the room. End of Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Of the Scarlet Pimpinelle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Tiffany Pincombe The Scarlet Pimpinelle By Baroness Emma Orksey Chapter 27 Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last sounds outside the Chagri had died away in the night. She had heard Degas giving orders to his men, and then starting off towards the fort to get a reinforcement of a dozen more men. Six were not thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman, whose resourceful brain was even more dangerous than his valor and his strength. Then a few minutes later she heard the Jew's husky voice again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and noise of a rickety cart bumping over the rough road. Inside the inn everything was still. Brogare and his wife, terrified of chauvin, had given no sign of life. They hoped to be forgotten, and at any rate to remain unperceived. Marguerite could not even hear their usual volleys of muttered oaths. She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her, and slipped out of the inn. The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the sound of the cart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within the shadow of the ditches which lined the road that she would not be seen by Degas men when they approached, or by the patrols which she concluded were still on duty. Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to Michelin, and then on to Père Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal spot might be, probably over rough roads, she cared not. The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was weary with mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could easily keep up with it on a hilly road where the poor beast who was sure to be half-starved would have to be allowed long and frequent rests. The road lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either side by shrubs and stunted trees, sparsely covered with meager foliage, all turning away from the north with their branches looking in the semi-darkness like stiff ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind. Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep between the clouds, and Marguerite hugging the edge of the road and keeping close to the lone line of shrubs was fairly safe from view. Everything around her was so still, only from far, very far away, there came like a long, soft moan, the sound of the distant sea. The air was keen and full of brine. After that enforced period of inactivity inside the evil-smelling squalid inn, Marguerite would have enjoyed the sweet scent of this autumnal night, and the distant melancholy rumble of the waves. She would have reveled in the calm and stillness of this lonely spot, a calm broken only at intervals by the strident and mournful cry of some distant gull, and by the creaking of the wheel some way down the road. She would have loved the cool atmosphere, the peaceful immensity of nature, in this lonely part of the coast, but her heart was too full of cruel foreboding of a great ache in longing for a being who had become infinitely dear to her. Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it's safest not to walk near the center of the road, and she found it difficult to keep up a sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it best not to keep too near to the cart. Everything was so still that the rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe guide. The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of Calais lay far behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human habitation, not even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter anywhere near. Far away on her right was the edge of the cliff, below it the rough beach against which the incoming tide was dashing itself with its constant distant murmur, and ahead the rumble of the wheels bearing an implacable enemy to his triumph. Marguerite wondered at what particular spot on this lonely coast Percy could be at this moment, not very far surely, for he had had less than a quarter of an hour's start of Chauvelin. She wondered if he knew that in this cool ocean-scented bit of France there looked many spies, all eager to cite his tall figure, to track him to where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then to close the net over him and them. Chauvelin on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's vehicle, was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together with content as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through which that ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape. As the time went on and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely along the dark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale of this exciting chase after the mysterious Scarlet Vimpernel. The capture of the adacious plotter would be the finest leaf in Citoyenne's wreath of glory, caught red-handed on the spot in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his own country. Chauvelin had in any case fully made up his mind that all intervention should come too late. Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart as to the terrible position which he had placed the unfortunate wife who had unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of fact Chauvelin had ceased even to think of her, she had been a useful tool, that was all. The Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She was going along at a slow jog trot and her driver had to give her long and frequent halts. Are we a long way yet from Michelin? Asked Chauvelin from time to time. Not very far, Your Honor. Was the uniform placid reply? We have not yet come across your friend on mine lying in a heap in the roadway. Was Chauvelin's sarcastic comment? Patience, noble excellency. Rejoin the son of Moses. They are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of the cartwheels driven by that traitor, that son of the Amalekite. You are sure of the road? As sure as I am of the presence of those turned gold pieces in the noble excellency's pocket, which I trust will presently be mine. As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend at all, stranger, they will certainly be yours. Hark! What was that? Said the Jew suddenly. Through the stillness which had been absolute, there could now be heard distinctly the sound of horses hooves on the muddy road. They are soldiers. He added in an odd whisper. Stop a moment, I want to hear. Said Chauvelin. Marguerite had also heard the sound of galloping hooves coming towards the cart and towards herself. For some time she had been on the alert thinking that Dagon his squad would soon overtake them, but these came from the opposite direction, presumably from Miklan. The darkness lent her sufficient cover. She had perceived that the cart had stopped and with utmost caution, treading noiselessly on the soft road, she crept a little nearer. Her heart was beating fast. She was trembling in every limb. Already she had guessed what news these mounted men would bring. Every stranger on these roads or on the beach must be shadowed, especially if he be tall or stooped as if he would disguise his height, when sighted a mountain messenger must at once ride back and report. Those had been Chauvelin's orders. Had then the tall stranger been sighted and was this the mounted messenger come to bring the great news, that the hunted hare had run its head into the noose at last? Marguerite, realizing that the cart had come to a standstill, managed to slip nearer to it in the darkness. She crept close up, hoping to get within earshot to hear what the messenger had to say. She heard the quick words of challenge. Then Chauvelin's quick query. Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle. Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the midnight sky. She could hear their voices and the snorting of their horses, and now behind her some little distance off the regular and measured tread of a body of advancing men, Degas and his soldiers. There had been a long pause during which no doubt Chauvelin satisfied the men as to his identity, for presently the questions and answers followed each other in quick succession. You have seen the stranger? Asked Chauvelin eagerly. No, Citoyenne. We have seen no tall stranger. We came by the edge of the cliff. Then? Less than a quarter of a leg beyond Michelon we came across a rough construction of wood, which looked like the hut of a fisherman where he might keep his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it seemed to be empty, and at first we thought there was nothing suspicious about, until we saw some smoke issuing through an aperture at the side. I dismounted and crept close to it. It was then empty, but in one corner of the hut there was a charcoal fire, and a couple of stools were also in the hut. I consulted with my comrades, and we decided that they should take cover with the horses well out of sight, and that I should remain on watch, which I did. Well, and did you see anything? About half an hour later I heard voices, Citoyenne, and presently two men came along towards the edge of the cliff. They seemed to have come from the lee road. One was young, the other quite old. They were talking in a whisper to one another, and I could not hear what they were saying. One was young, and the other quite old. Marguerite's aching heart almost stopped beating as she listened. Was the young one Armand, her brother, and the old one Detournet? Were they the two fugitives who unconsciously were used as a decoy to entrap their fearless and noble rescuer? The two men presently went into the hut. Continued the soldier whilst Marguerite's aching nerves seemed to catch the sound of Sholand's triumphant chuckle. And I crept nearer to it then. The hut is very roughly built, and I caught snatchers of their conversation. Yes, quick, what did you hear? The old man asked the young one if he was sure that was the right place. Oh yes, he replied, it is the place sure enough. And by the light of the chuckle fire he showed his companion a paper which he carried. Here is the plan, he said, which he gave me before I left London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan, unless I had contrary orders, and I have had none. Here is the road we followed, see. Here is the fork. Here we cut across the St. Martin Road. And here is the footpath which brought us to the edge of the cliff. I must have made a slight noise then, for the young man came to the door of the hut and peered anxiously all around him. When he again joined his companion they whispered so low that I could no longer hear them. Well, and? As Sholand impatiently. There were six of us altogether patrolling that part of the beach, so we consulted together and thought it best that four should remain behind and keep the hut in sight, and I and my comrade rode back at once to make report of what we had seen. You saw nothing of the tall stranger? Nothing, Zutoyen. If your comrades see him, what would they do? Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of escape, or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and if necessary, they would shoot. The firing would bring the rest of the patrol to the spot. In any case, they would not let the strain to go. Aye, but I did not want the stranger hurt, not just yet. Remember Sholand savagely? But there you've done your best. The fates grant that they may not be too late. We met half a dozen men just now who have been patrolling this road for several hours. Well? They have seen no stranger either. Get his on a head somewhere in a cart, or else. Here, there is not a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here? About a couple of leagues, Zutoyen. You can find it again? At once? Without hesitation? I have absolutely no doubts, Zutoyen. The footpath to the edge of the cliff, even in the dark? It is not a dark night, Zutoyen, and I know I can find my way. Repeated the soldier firmly. Fall in behind them. Let your comrade take both your horses back to Calais. You won't want them. Keep beside the cart and direct the Jew to drive straight ahead. Then stop him within a quarter of a league of the footpath. See that he takes the most direct road. While Sholand spoke, they gone his men were fast approaching, and Marguerite could hear their footsteps within a hundred yards behind her now. She thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and unnecessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering. Her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminating in this awful despair. For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within two short leagues of this spot the fugitives were waiting for their brave deliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road, and presently he would join them. Then the well-laid trap would close. Two dozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning was malicious, would close round the small band of fugitives and their daring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according to Sholand's pledged word, would be restored to her, but her husband Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to love and worship more and more, he would fall into the hands of a remorseless enemy, who had no pity for a brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning antagonist who had baffled him for so long. She heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to the Jew, then she retired quickly to the edge of the road, and cowered behind some low shrubs, whilst Degas and his men came up. All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they all started down the dark road. Marguerite waited until she reckoned they were well outside the range of earshot, then she too in the darkness, which suddenly seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly along. End of Chapter 27 Chapter 28 of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by J. L. Ramundo. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Ortsy. Chapter 28 The Pear Blanchard's Hut As in a dream Marguerite followed on. The web was drawing more and more tightly every moment round the beloved life which had become dearer than all. To see her husband once again, to tell him how she had suffered, how much she had wronged, and how little understood him, had become now her only aim. She had abandoned all hope of saving him. She saw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and in despair she gazed round her into the darkness, and wondered whence he would presently come to fall into the death trap which his relentless enemy had prepared for him. The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder. The occasional dismal cry of an owl, or a seagull, filled her with unspeakable horror. She thought of the ravenous beasts, in human shape, who lay in wait for their prey, and destroy them as mercilessly as any hungry wolf for the satisfaction of their own appetite of hate. Marguerite was not afraid of the darkness. She only feared that man, on ahead, who was sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, nursing thoughts of vengeance which would have made the very demons in hell chuckle with delight. Her feet were sore, her knees shook under her, from sheer bodily fatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of excitement. She had not had a quiet rest for three nights. Now she had walked on a slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her determination never served for a moment. She would see her husband, tell him all, and, if he was ready to forgive the crime which she had committed in her blind ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying by his side. She must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct alone keeping her up and guiding her in the wake of the enemy, when suddenly her ears attuned to the slightest sound by that same blind instinct told her that the cart had stopped and that the soldiers had halted. They had come to their destination. No doubt on the right, somewhere close ahead, was the footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the hut. Heedless of any risks she crept up quite close up to where Chauvelin stood, surrounded by his little troop. He had descended from the cart and was giving them orders to the men. These she wanted to hear. What little chance she had yet of being useful to Percy consisted in hearing absolutely every word of his enemy's plans. The spot where all the party had halted must have lain some 800 metres from the coast. The sound of the sea came only very faintly as from a distance. Chauvelin and Degas, followed by the soldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently onto the footpath which led to the cliffs. The Jew had remained on the road with his cart and nag. Marguerite, with infinite caution and literally crawling on her hands and knees, had also turned off to the right to accomplish this she had to creep through the rough, low shrubs trying to make as little noise as possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or heard. Fortunately, as is usual in this part of France, the footpath was bordered by a low, rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled with coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter. She was quite hidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three yards of where Chauvelin stood, giving orders to his men. Now, he was saying in a low and peremptory whisper, Where is the Père Blanchard's hut? About eight hundred meters from here along the footpath, said the soldier who had lately been directing the party, and half way down the cliff. Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff, you shall creep down to the hut as noiselessly as possible and ascertain if the traitor royalists are there. Do you understand? I understand, Citoyen. Now listen very attentively, all of you, continued Chauvelin, and addressing the soldiers collectively. For after this we may not be able to exchange another word, so remember every syllable I utter as if your very lives depended on your memory. Perhaps they do. He added dryly. We listen, Citoyen, said Degas, and a soldier of the Republic never forgets an order. You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep inside. If an Englishman is there with those traitors, a man who is tall above the average, or who stoopes as if he would disguise his height, then give a sharp, quick whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you. He added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively. Then quickly surround and rush into the hut, and each sees one of the men there before they have time to draw their firearms. If any of them struggle, shoot at their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall man, do you understand? We understand, Citoyen. The man who is tall above the average is probably also strong above the average. It will take four or five of you at least to overpower him. There was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued. If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more than likely to be the case, then warn your comrades who are lying in wait there, and all of you creep and take cover behind the rocks and boulders around the hut and wait there in dead silence, until the tall Englishman arrives. Then only rush the hut when he is safely within its doors, but remember that you must be as silent as the wolf is at night when he prowls around the pens. I do not wish these royalists to be on the alert. The firing of a pistol, a shriek, or call on their part would be sufficient, perhaps, to warn the tall personage to keep clear of the cliffs and of the hut, and... He added emphatically. It is the tall Englishman whom it is your duty to capture tonight. You shall be implicitly obeyed, Citoyen. Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I will follow you. What about the Jew, Citoyen? Ask Degas, as silently like noiseless shadows, one by one the soldiers began to creep along the rough and narrow footpath. Ah, yes, I had forgotten about the Jew. Says Chauvelin, and turning towards the Jew, he called him parentorly. Here, you, Aaron, Moses, Abram, or whatever your confounded name may be. He said to the old man, who had quietly stood beside his lean nag as far away from the soldiers as possible. Benjamin Rosenbaum, so it please your honor. He replied humbly. It does not please me to hear your voice, but it does please me to give you certain orders which you will find it wise to obey. So it please your honor. Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay here, do you hear, with your horse and cart until our return. You are, on no account, to utter the faintest sound, or to even breeze louder than you can help, nor are you on any consideration or whatever, to leave your post until I give you orders to do so. Do you understand? But your honor. Protested the Jew pitiably. There is no question of but or of any argument. Says Chauvelin, in a tone that made the timid old man tremble from head to foot. If when I return I do not find you here, I most solemnly assure you that, wherever you may try to hide yourself, I can find you. And that punishment, swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or later overtake you. Do you hear me? But your excellency. I said, do you hear me? The soldiers had all crept away. The three men stood alone together in the dark and lonely road, with Marga reach there, behind the hedge, listening to Chauvelin's orders, as she would to her own death sentence. I heard your honor. Protested the Jew again, while he tried to draw nearer to Chauvelin. And I swear, by Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, that I would obey your honor most absolutely, and that I would not move from this place, until your honor once more deigned to shed the light of your countenance upon your humble servant. But remember your honor, I am a poor man. My nerves are not as strong as those of a young soldier. If midnight marauder should come prowling around this lonely road, I might scream or run in my fright. And is my life to be forfeit? Is some terrible punishment to come on my poor old head, for that which I cannot help? The Jew seemed in real distress. He was shaking from head to foot. Clearly he was knocked the man to be left by himself on this lonely road. The man spoke truly. He might unwittingly, in sheer terror, utter the shriek that might prove a warning to the wildly scarlet Pimpernel. Chauvelin reflected for a moment. Will your horse and cart be safe alone here, do you think? He asked roughly. I fancy Citroyan. Here interposed agar. That they will be safer without that dirty cowardly Jew than with him. There seems no doubt that, if he gets scared, he will either make a bolt of it, or shriek his head off. But what am I to do with the brute? Will you send him back to Calais, Citroyan? No, for we shall want him to drive back the wounded presently. Said Chauvelin, with grim significance. There was a pause again, Degas waiting for the decision of his chief, and the old Jew whining beside his nag. Well, you lazy, lumbering old coward, said Chauvelin at last. You had better shuffle along beside us. Here, Citroyan Degas, tie this anger chief tightly around the fellow's mouth. Chauvelin handed a scarf to Degas, who solemnly began winding it round the Jew's mouth. Meagly Benjamin Rosenbaum allowed himself to be gagged. He evidently preferred this uncomfortable state to that of being left alone on the dark St. Martin Road. Then the three men fell in line. Quick, says Chauvelin impatiently. We have already wasted much valuable time. And the firm footsteps of Chauvelin and Degas, the shuffling gate of the old Jew, soon died away along the footpath. Marguerite had not lost a single one of Chauvelin's words of command. Her every nerve was strained to completely grasp the situation first, then to make a final appeal to those wits which had so often been called the sharpest in Europe and which alone might be of service now. Certainly the situation was desperate enough. A tiny band of unsuspecting men, quietly awaiting the arrival of their rescuer, who was equally unconscious of the trap laid for them all. It seemed so horrible, this net, as it were drawn in a circle, at dead of night, on a whole lonely beach, round a few defenseless men, defenseless because they were tricked and unsuspecting. Of these one was the husband she idolized, another the brother she loved. She vaguely wondered who the others were, who were also calmly waiting for the scarlet Pimpernel, while death lurked behind every boulder of the cliffs. For the moment she could do nothing but follow the soldiers in Chauvelin. She feared to lose her way or she would have rushed forward and found that wooden hut and perhaps spent in time to warn the fugitives and their brave deliverer yet. For a second the thought flashed through her mind of uttering the piercing shrieks which Chauvelin seemed to dread as a possible warning to the scarlet Pimpernel and his friends in the wild hope that they would hear and have yet time to escape before it was too late. But she did not know if her shrieks would reach the ears of the doomed men. Her effort might be premature and she would never be allowed to make another. Her mouth would be securely gagged, like that of the Jew, and she, a helpless prisoner in the hands of Chauvelin's men. Like a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge. She had taken her shoes off and her stockings were by now torn off her feet. She felt neither soreness nor weariness, indomitable will to reach her husband in spite of adverse fate and of a cunning enemy killed all sense of bodily pain within her and rendered her instincts doubly acute. She heard nothing save the soft and measured footsteps of Percy's enemies on in front. She saw nothing but, in her mind's eye, that wooden hut, and he, her husband, walking blindly to his doom. Suddenly those same keen instincts within her made her paws in her mad haste and cower still further within the shadow of the hedge. The moon, which had proved a friend to her by remaining hidden behind a bank of clouds, now emerged in all the glory of an early autumn night, and in a moment flooded the weird and lonely landscape with the rush of brilliant light. There, not two hundred meters ahead, was the edge of the cliff, and below, stretching far away to free and happy England, the sea rolled on smoothly and peaceably. Marguerite's gaze rested for an instant on the brilliant, silvery waters, and, as she gazed, her heart, which had been numb with pain for all these hours, seemed to soften and extend, and her eyes filled with hot tears. Not three miles away, with white sails set, a graceful schooner lay in wait. Marguerite had guessed, rather than recognized her. It was the daydream, Percy's favourite yacht, and all her crew of British sailors. Her white sails, glistening in the moonlight, seemed to convey a message to Marguerite of joy and hope, which yet she feared could never be. She waited there, out at sea, waited for her master, like a beautiful white bird, all ready to take flight. And he would never reach her, never see her smooth deck again, never gaze any more on the white cliffs of England, the land of liberty and of hope. The sight of the schooner seemed to infuse into the poor, wearied woman the superhuman strength of despair. There was the edge of the cliff, and some way below was the hut, where, presently, her husband would meet his death. But the moon was out. She could see her way now. She would see the hut from a distance, run to it, rouse them all, warn them at any rate to be prepared and to sell their lives dearly, rather than be caught like so many rats in a hole. She stumbled on behind the hedge in the low, thick grass of the ditch. She must have run on very fast and had out-distance Chauvelin and Degas. For presently, she reached the edge of the cliff and heard their footsteps distinctly behind her. But only a very few yards away, and now the moonlight was full upon her, her figure must have been distinctly silhouetted against the silvery background of the sea. Only for a moment, though, the next she had cowered, like some animal doubled up within itself. She peeped down the great rugged cliffs. The descent would be easy enough, as they were not precipitous, and the great boulders afforded plenty of foothold. Suddenly, as she gazed, she saw at some little distance on her left and about midway down the cliffs a rough wooden construction through the wall of which a tiny red light glimmered like a beacon. Her very heart seemed to stand still, the eagerness of joy was so great that it felt like an awful pain. She could not gauge how distant the hut was, but without hesitation she began the steep descent, creeping from boulder to boulder, carrying nothing for the enemy behind or for the soldiers who evidently had all taken cover since the tall Englishman had not yet appeared. On she pressed, forgetting the deadly foe on her track, running, stumbling, foot sore, half dazed, but still on, when, suddenly, a crevice or stone or slippery bit of rock threw her violently to the ground. She struggled again to her feet and started running forward once more to give them that timely warning to beg them to flee before he came and to tell him to keep away, away from this death trap, away from this awful doom. But now she realized that other steps, quicker than her own, were already close at her heels. The next instant a hand dragged at her skirt, and she was down on her knees again while something was wound round her mouth to prevent her uttering a scream. Bewildered, half frantic with the bitterness of disappointment, she looked round her helplessly, and, bending down quite close to her, she saw through the mist which seemed to gather round her a pair of keen, malicious eyes which appeared to her excited brain to have a weird, supernatural green light in them. She lay in the shadow of a great boulder. Chauvelin could not see her features, but he passed his thin, white fingers over her face. A woman, he whispered, by all the signs in the calendar. We cannot let her lose that certain, he muttered to himself. I wonder now. Suddenly he paused after a few moments of deadly silence. He gave forth a long, low, curious chuckle while once again Marguerite felt, with a horrible shutter, his thin fingers wandering over her face. He whispered with affected gallantry. And Marguerite felt her resistless hand raised to Chauvelin's thin, mocking lips. The situation was indeed grotesque, had it not been at the same time so fearfully tragic. The poor, weary woman, broken in spirit and half frantic with the bitterness of her disappointment receiving on her knees the banal gallantries of her deadly enemy. Her senses were leaving her, half choked with the tight grip round her mouth, she had no strength to move or to utter the faintest sound. The excitement which all along had kept up her delicate body seemed at once to have subsided and the feeling of blank despair to have completely paralyzed her brain and nerves. Chauvelin must have given some directions, which she was two days to hear, for she felt herself lifted from off her feet. The bandage round her mouth was made more secure and a pair of strong arms carried her towards the tiny red light on ahead, which she had looked upon as a beacon and the last faint glimmer of hope. Chapter 29 Trapped She did not know how long she was thus carried along, she had lost all notion of time and space, and for a few seconds tired nature mercifully deprived her of consciousness. When she once more realised her state, she felt that she was placed with some degree of comfort upon a man's coat with her back resting against a fragment of rock. The moon was hidden again behind some clouds and the darkness seemed in comparison more intense. The sea was roaring some 200 feet below her and on looking all around she could no longer see any vestige of the tiny glimmer of red light. That the end of the journey had been reached she gathered from the fact that she heard rapid questions and answers spoken in a whisper quite close to her. There are four men in there, Cetroyan. They are sitting by the fire and seem to be waiting quietly. The hour? Nearly two o'clock. The tide? Coming in quickly. The scunner? Obviously an English one, lying some three kilometres out, but we cannot see her boat. Have the men taken cover? Yes, Cetroyan. They will not blunder? They will not stir until a tall Englishman comes, then they will surround and overpower the five men. Right, and the lady? Still dazed, I fancy. She's close beside you, Cetroyan. And the Jew? He's gagged and his legs strapped together. He cannot move or scream. Good, then have your gun ready in case you want it. Get close to the hut and leave me to look after the lady. Degar evidently obeyed, for Marguerite heard him creeping away along the stony cliff. Then she felt that a pair of warm, thin, talon-like hands took hold of both her own and held them in a grip of steel. Before that anchorchief is removed from your pretty mouth, fair lady, whispered Chauvelin close to her ear. I think it right to give you one small word of warning. What has procured me the honour of being followed across the channel by so charming a companion I cannot, of course, conceive. But if I mistake it now to the purpose of this flattering attention, is not one that would commend itself to my vanity. And I think that I am right in surmising, moreover, that the first sound which your pretty lips would utter as soon as the cruel gag is removed, would be one that would prove our warning to the cunning fox, which I have been at such pains to track to his lair. He paused a moment while the steel-like grasp seemed to tighten around her waist. Then he resumed in the same hurried whisper. Inside that hurt, if again I am not mistaken, your brother, Armand Saint-Just, waits with that traitor de tournée, and the two other men are known to you for the arrival of that mysterious rescuer whose identity has for so long puzzled our comité of public safety, the audacious Scarlet Pimpernel. No doubt if you scream, if there is a scufferly, or if shots are fired, it is more than likely that the same long leg as that brought this Scarlet Enigma here will as quickly take him to some place of safety. The purpose then for which I have travelled all these miles will remain unaccomplished. On the other hand, it only rests with yourself that your brother, Armand, shall be free to go off with you tonight if you like, to England, or to any other place of safety. Marguerite could not utter a sound, as the handkerchief was wound very tightly around her mouth, but Chauvelin was peering through the darkness very closely into her face. No doubt, too, her hand gave a responsive appeal to his last suggestion. For presently, he continued, What I want you to do to ensure Armand's safety is a very simple thing, dear lady. What is it? Marguerite's hand seemed to convey to his in response. To Armand, on this spot, without uttering a sound, until I give you leave to speak. Ah, but I think you will obey. He added with that funny dry chuckle of his, as Marguerite's whole figure seemed to stiffen in defiance of this order. For let me tell you that if you scream, nay, if you utter one sound or attempt to move from here, my men, there are thirty of them about. We'll seize Saint-Just to detournay and their two friends and shoot them here by my orders before your eyes. Marguerite had listened to her implacable enemy's speech with ever-increasing terror, numbed with physical pain. She had yet sufficient mental vitality in her to realize the full horror of this terrible either-or, he was once more putting before her, either-or ten thousand times more appalling and horrible than the one he had suggested to her that fatal night at the ball. This time it meant that she should keep still and allow the husband she worshipped to walk unconsciously to his death, or that she should by trying to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might even be unavailing, actually give the signal for her own brother's death and that of three other unsuspecting men. She could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost feel those keen, pale eyes of his fixed maliciously upon her helpless form and his hurried, whispered words reached her ear as the death knell of her last faint, lingering hope. You can have no interest in anyone, save in San Juice, and all you need to do for his safety is to remain where you are and to keep silent. My men have strict orders to spare him in every way. As for that enigmatic scarlat, Pimp frankly, what is it to you? Believe me, no warning from you could possibly save him, and now, dear lady, let me remove this unpleasant coercion which has been palaced before your pretty mouth. You see, I wish you to be perfectly free in the choice which you are about to make." Her thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her nerves paralyzed, her body numb with pain, Marguerite sat there in the darkness which surrounded her as with a pawl. From where she sat she could not see the sea, but she heard the incessant mournful murmur of the incoming tide, which spoke of her dead hopes, her lost love, the husband she had with her own hand betrayed and sent to his death. Chauvalin removed the handkerchief from her mouth. She certainly did not scream. At that moment she had no strength to do anything but barely to hold herself upright and to force herself to think. Think, think, think of what she should do. The minutes flew on. In this awful stillness she could not tell how fast or how slowly. She heard nothing, she saw nothing. She did not feel the sweet smelling autumn air centred with the briny odor of the sea. She no longer heard the murmur of the waves, the occasional rattling of a pebble as it rolled down some steep incline. More and more unreal did the whole situation seem. It was impossible that she, Marguerite Blakeney, the Queen of London Society, should actually be sitting here on this bit of lonely coast in the middle of the night, side by side with the most bitter enemy. And oh it was not possible that somewhere not many hundred feet away perhaps, from where she stood, the being she had once despised, but who now, in every moment of this weird dreamlike life, became more and more dear. It was not possible that he was unconsciously even now walking to his doom while she did nothing to save him. Why did she not with unearthly screams that would re-echo from one end of the lonely beach to the other, send out a warning to him to desist to retrace his steps for death lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or twice the screams rose in her throat as if by instinct. Then before her eyes there stood the awful alternative, her brother and those three men shot before her eyes, practically by her orders, she their murderer. Oh that fiend in human shape next to her, new human, female, nature well. He had played upon her feelings as a skillful musician plays upon an instrument. He had gaid to her very thoughts to a nicety. She could not give that signal, for she was weak and she was a woman. How could she deliberately order Arman to be shot before her eyes to have his dear blood upon her head? He dying perhaps with a curse on her upon his lips. And little Suzanne's father too, he and old man, and the others. Oh it was all too, too horrible. Wait, wait, wait, how long? The early morning hours sped on and yet it was not dawn. The sea continued its incessant mournful murmur. The autumnal breeze sighed gently in the night. The lonely beach was silent, even as the grave. Suddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a cheerful strong voice was heard singing, God save the king. End of chapter 29.