 Chapter 30 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 E. Lee. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orzi. Chapter 30 The Schooner Marguerite's aching heart stood still. She felt more than she heard the men on the watch preparing for the fight. Her senses told her that each, with sword in hand, was crouching, ready for the spring. The voice came nearer and nearer. In the vast immensity of these lonely cliffs, with the loud murmur of the sea below, it was impossible to say how near or how far, nor yet from which direction came that cheerful singer who sang to God to save his king, whilst he himself was in such deadly danger. Faint at first, the voice grew louder and louder. From time to time, a small pebble detached itself apparently from beneath the firm tread of the singer and went rolling down the rocky cliffs to the beach below. Mom, to reign over us, God save the king. Marguerite, as she heard, felt that her very life was slipping away as if when that voice drew nearer, when that singer became entrapped, she distinctly heard the click of Degas' gun close to her. No, no, no, no, oh God in heaven, this cannot be. Let Armand's blood then be on her own head. Let her be branded as his murderer. Let even he whom she loved despise and loathe her for this. But God, oh God, save him at any cost. With a wild shriek she sprang to her feet and darted around the rock against which she had been cowering. She saw the little red gleam through the chinks of the hut. She ran up to it and fell against its wooden walls which she began to hammer with clenched fists in an almost maniacal frenzy while she shouted, Armand, Armand for God's sake, fire, your leader is near. He is coming, he is betrayed. Armand, Armand, fire in heaven's name. She was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay there moaning, bruised, not caring, but still half sobbing, half shrieking. Percy, my husband, for God's sake, fly. Armand, Armand, why don't you fire? One of you stop that woman screaming. His shovel-on who hardly could refrain from striking her. Something was thrown over her face. She could not breathe and perforce she was silent. The bold singer too had become silent, warned no doubt of his impending danger by Marguerite's frantic shrieks. The men had sprung to their feet. There was no need for further silence on their part. The very cliffs echoed the poor, heartbroken woman's screams. She'll belong with a muttered oath, which boated no good to her who had dared to upset his most cherished plans. Had hastily shouted the word of command, Into it my men and let no one escape from that utter live. The moon had once more emerged from between the clouds. The darkness on the cliffs had gone, giving place once more to brilliant, silvery light. Some of the soldiers had rushed to the rough wooden door of the hut, whilst one of them kept guard over Marguerite. The door was partially open. One of the soldiers pushed it further, but within all was darkness. The charcoal fire only lighting with the dim red light, the furthest corner of the hut. The soldiers paused automatically at the door, like machines waiting for further orders. Chauvalan, who was prepared for a violent onslaught from within, and for a vigorous resistance from the four fugitives under cover of the darkness, was for the moment paralysed with astonishment when he saw the soldiers standing there at attention, like centuries on guard, who's not a sound proceeded from the hut, filled with a strange, anxious foreboding. He too went to the door of the hut, and peering into the gloom he asked quickly, what is the meaning of this? I think, Citoyenne, that there is no one there now. Replied one of the soldiers, impoturably. You have not let those four men go? Thundered Chauvalan menacingly. I ordered you to let no man escape alive, quick after them all of you, quick in every direction. The men, obedient as machines, rushed down the rocky incline towards the beach, some going off to right and left, as fast as their feet could carry them. You and your men will pay with your lives for this blunder, Citoyenne Sergeant. Thundered Chauvalan viciously to the sergeant who had been in charge of the men. And you too, Citoyenne. He added, turning with a snarl to Dika, thought disobeying my orders. You ordered us to wait, Citoyenne, until the tall Englishmen arrived, and joined the four men in the hut. No one came. Suddenly. But I ordered you just now when the woman screamed at the rushing and let no one escape. But Citoyenne, the four men who were there before, had been gone some time, I think. Your think? You? Thundered Chauvalan almost choking with fury. And you let them go? You ordered us to wait, Citoyenne. Protested the sergeant? And to implicitly obey your commands on pain of death. We waited. I heard the men creep out of the hut, not many minutes after we took cover, long before the woman screamed. He added, as Chauvalan seemed still quite speechless with rage. Hark! said Dika suddenly. In the distance, the sound of repeated firing was heard. Chauvalan tried to peer along the beach below, but as luck would have it the fitful moon once more hid her light behind a bank of clouds, and he could see nothing. When are you going to the hut and strike a light? He stammered at last. Stolledly the sergeant obeyed. He went up to the charcoal fire and lit the small lantern he carried in his belt. It was evident that the hut was quite empty. Which way did they go? asked Chauvalan. I could not tell, Citoyenne. said the sergeant. They went straight down the cliff first, then disappeared behind some boulders. Hush! What was that? All three men listened attentively. In the far, very far distance could be heard faintly echoing and already dying away. The quick, sharp splash of half a dozen oars. Chauvalan took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. His boat! was all he gasped. Evidently, Armand St. Joust and his three companions had managed to creep along the sides of the cliff, whilst the men, like true soldiers of the well-drilled Republican army, had with blind obedience and in fear of their own lives implicitly obeyed Chauvalan's orders to wait for the tall Englishman who was the important capture. They had no doubt reached one of the creeks which jut far out to sea on this coast at intervals. Behind this, the boat of the daydream must have been on the lookout for them, and they were by now safely onboard the British schooner. As if to confirm this last opposition, the dull boom of a gun was heard from out at sea. The schooner, Citoyenne, said to God quietly, It needed all Chauvalan's nerve and presence of mind not to give away to a useless and undignified access of rage. There was no doubt now that once again that accursed British head had completely outwitted him. How he had contrived to reach the hut without being seen by one of the 30 soldiers who guarded the spot was more than Chauvalan could conceive. That he had done so before the 30 men had arrived on the cliff was, of course, fairly clear. But how he had come over in Ruben Goldstein's cart all the way from Calais without being sighted by the various patrols on duty was impossible of explanation. It really seemed as if some potent fate watched over that daring scarlet Pimpernel, and his astute enemy almost felt a superstitious shutter pass through him as he looked around at the towering cliffs and the loneliness of this outlying coast. But surely this was reality and the year of Grace 1792. There were no fairies and hubgoblins about. Chauvalan and his 30 men had all heard with their own ears that a cursed voice singing God Save the King fully 20 minutes after they had all taken cover around the hut. By that time the four fugitives must have reached the creek and got into the boat and the nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut. Where had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had lent him wings he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff in a space of two minutes and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and the sound of the boat's oars away at sea. He must have remained behind and was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs. The patrol were still about. He would still be sighted no doubt. Chauvalan felt hopeful once again. One or two of the men who had run after the fugitives were now slowly working their way up the cliff. One of them reached Chauvalan's side at the very moment that this hope arose in the astute diplomatist's heart. We were too late, Citoyen, the soldier said. We reached the beach just before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The boat had undoubtedly been on the lookout to find that first creek, a mile off, but she had shoved off some time ago when we got to the beach and was already some way out to sea. We fired after her, but of course it was no good. She was making straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw her very clearly in the moonlight. Yes, said Chauvalan with eager impatience. She had shoved off some time ago, you say, down the nearest creek a mile further on. Yes, Citoyen, I ran all the way straight to the beach, though I guessed the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek the earliest. The boat must have shoved off some minutes before the woman began to scream. Bring the lightning ear. He commanded eagerly as he once more entered the hut. The sergeant brought his lantern and together the two men explored the little place. With the rapid glance, Chauvalan noted its contents. The cauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall and containing the last few dying embers of burned charcoal. A couple of stools overturned as if in the haste of sudden departure. Then the fisherman's tools and his nets lying in one corner and beside them something small and white. Pick that up. Said Chauvalan to the sergeant, pointing to this white scrap. And bring it to me. It was a crumpled piece of paper evidently forgotten there by the fugitives in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much odd by the Citoyen's obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and handed it respectfully to Chauvalan. Read it, sergeant. Said the latter curtly. It is almost illegible, Citoyen. A fearful scrawl. I ordered you to read it. Repeated Chauvalan viciously. The sergeant by the light of his lantern began deciphering the few hastily scrawled words. I cannot quite reach you without risking your lives and endangering the success of your rescue. When you receive this, wait two minutes, then creep out of the hut one by one, turn to your left sharply, and creep cautiously down the cliff. Keep to the left all the time till you reach the first rock, which you see jutting far out to sea. Behind it in the creek the boat is on the lookout for you. Give a long, sharp whistle. She will come up, get into her. My men will row you to the schooner and thence to England and safety. Once on board the daydream, send the boat back for me. Tell my men that I shall be at the creek, which is in a direct line opposite the Chategrie near Calais. They know it. I shall be there as soon as possible. They must wait for me at a safe distance out at sea till they hear the usual signal. Do not delay and obey these instructions implicitly. Then there is the signature, Citroën. Added the sergeant as he handed the paper back to Chauvelin. The latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the momentous scrawl had caught his ear. I shall be at the creek, which is in a direct line opposite the Chategrie near Calais. That phrase might yet mean victory for him. Which of you knows this, Castwell? He shouted to his men, who now one by one all returned from their fruitless run and were all assembled once more round the hut. I do, Citroën. Said one of them. I was born in Calais and I know every stone of these cliffs. There is a creek in a direct line from the Chategrie. There is Citroën. I know it well. The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does not know every stone of these cliffs. He may go there by the longest way round and in any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the patrols. At any rate, there is a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each man who gets to that creek before that long leg at Englishman. I know of a shortcut across the cliffs. Said the soldier, and with an enthusiastic shout he rushed forward, followed closely by his comrades. Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in the distance. Chauvelin listened to them for a moment. The promise of the reward was lending spurs to their soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his face. Close to him, they guys still stood mutant and passive waiting for further orders. Those two soldiers were kneeling beside the prostrate form of Marguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well-laid plan had failed. Its sequel was problematical. There was still a great chance now that the scarlet Pimpernel might yet escape and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning fury which sometimes assails a strong nature was longing to vent his rage on somebody. The soldiers were holding Marguerite Pinion to the ground, though she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle. Overwrought nature had at last preemptorily asserted herself and she lay there in a deep swoon, her eyes circled by deep purple lines that told of long sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp around her forehead, her lips parted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain. The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable Lady Blakeney who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit and her extravagances presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out, suffering womanhood which would have appealed to any but the hard, vengeful heart of her baffled enemy. There is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half-dead. He said spitefully to the soldiers. You have allowed five men who were very much alive to escape. Obediently, the soldiers rose to their feet. You'd better try to find that footpath again for me and that broken-down cart we left on the road. Then suddenly, a bright idea seemed to strike him. Ah, by the boy, where is the Jew? Close by here, Sir Troyan. I gagged him and tied his legs together, as you commanded. From the immediate vicinity a plaintive moan reached Chauvalan's ears. He followed his secretary who led the way to the other side of the hut, where, fallen into an absolute heap of dejection with his legs tightly pinioned together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate descendant of Israel. His face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively ghastly with terror. His eyes were wide open and almost glassy and his whole body was trembling as if with ague the piteous whale escaped his bloodless lips. The rope which had originally been wound round his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a tangle about his body, but he seemed quite unconscious of this, for he had not made the slightest attempt to move from the place where the gahed originally put him, like a terrified chicken, which looks upon a line of white chalk drawn on a table, as on a string which paralyzes its movements. Bring the cowardly brute ear. Commander Chauvelin. He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he had no reasonable grounds for venting his ill-humour on the soldiers, who had but to punctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the despised race would prove an excellent but. With true French contempt of the Jew, which has survived the lapse of centuries even to this day, he would not go too near him, but said with biting sarcasm, as the wretched old man was brought in full light of the moon by the two soldiers. I suppose now that being a Jew, you have a good memory for bargains? Answer. He again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips seemed too frightened to speak. Yes, Your Honor. Stammered the poor wretch. You remember, then, the one that you and I met together in Calais when you undertook to overtake Rubin Goldstein, his nag and my friend, the tall stranger. Huh? B-b-but, Your Honor. There is no but, I said, do you remember? Y-yes, Your Honor. What was the bargain? There was dead silence. The unfortunate man looked round at the great cliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers, and even at the poor, prostrate inanimate woman close by, but said nothing. Will you speak? Thunder Chauvelin menacingly. He did try, poor wretch, but obviously he could not. There was no doubt, however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man before him. Your Honor. He ventured imploringly. Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your tongue, said Chauvelin sarcastically, I must need to refresh your memory. I read between us that if we overtook my friend, the tall stranger, before he reached this place, you ought to have ten pieces of gold. A low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips. But, added Chauvelin with slow emphasis, if you deceived me in your promise, you ought to have a sound-pating one that would teach you not to tell lies. I did not, Your Honor. I swear it by Abraham. And by all the other patriarchs I know. Unfortunately, they are still in eddies. I believe, according to your creed, and cannot much help you in your present trouble. Now, you did not fulfill your share of the bargain, but I am ready to fulfill mine. Here. He added, turning to the soldiers. The buckle end of your two belts to this confounded Jew. As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather belts, the Jews that abba howl that surely would have been enough to bring all the patriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere to defend their descendant from the brutality of this French official. I think I can rely on you, Citoyen soldiers. Laugh Chauvelin maliciously to give this old liar the best and soundest beating he has ever experienced. But don't kill him. We will obey, Citoyen. replied the soldiers as imperturbably as ever. He did not wait to see his orders carried out. He knew that he could trust these soldiers who were still smarting under his rebuke, not to mince matters when given a free hand to belabor a third party. When that lamboring coward has had his punishment, he said to Degas, the men can guide us as far as the cart and one of them can drive us in it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look after each other. He added roughly, until we send somebody for them in the morning. We can run away very far in that present condition and we cannot be troubled with them just now. Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were spurred on by the hope of the reward. That enigmatic and audacious Scarlet Pimpernel, alone and with thirty men at his heels, could not reasonably be expected to escape a second time. But he felt less sure now. The Englishman's audacity had baffled him once. With the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers and the interference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all the trumps into a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his time, if the soldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if it was a long if. And Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still and enrolled thirty odd people in one long overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic, silent, balmy. The bright moon, the calm silvery sea, spoke of beauty and of rest. And Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman. And above all, he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with one gigantic curse. The house of the Jew behind him, undergoing his punishment, sent a bomb through his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful malice. He smiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being, at least, was like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind. He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast, where stood the wooden hut now bathed in moonlight, seen of the greatest discomforture ever experienced by a leading member of the Committee of Public Safety. Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the unconscious figure of Marguerite Blakeney. While some few paces further on, the unfortunate Jew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout leather belts wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of the Republic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the dead rise from their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls from sleep and made them look down with great interest at the doings of the Lords of Creation. That will do, commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became more feeble and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away. We don't want to kill him. Obediently, the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them viciously kicking the Jew to one side. I'll leave him there, said Chauvelin, and leave the way now quickly to the cart. I'll follow. He walked up to where Marguerite lay and looked down into her face. She had evidently recovered consciousness and was making feeble efforts to raise herself. Her large blue eyes were looking at the moonlit scene round her with a scared and terrified look. They rested with a mixture of horror and pity on the Jew whose luckless fate and wild howls had been the first signs that struck her with her returning senses. Then she had caught sight of Chauvelin in his neat dark clothes, which seemed hardly crumpled after the stirring events of the last few hours. He was smiling sarcastically, and his pale eyes peered down at her with a look of intense malice. With mock gallantry he stooped and raised her icy cold hand to his lips, which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through Marguerite's weary frame. I must regret, fair lady. He said, in his most suave tones, that circumstances over which I have no control compel me to leave you here for the moment. But I go away secure in the knowledge that I do not leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, through a trifle the worst for wear at the present moment will prove a gallant defender of your fair person, I have no doubt. Adorn, I will send an escort for you. Until then I feel sure that you will find him devoted, although perhaps a trifle slow. Marguerite only had this strength to turn her head away. Her heart was broken with cruel anguish when awful thought had returned to her mind together with gathering consciousness. What had become of Percy? What of Armand? She knew nothing of what had happened after she heard the cheerful song God Save the King, which she believed to be the signal of death. I myself, concluded Chauvelin, of you. Au revoir, fair lady. We meet, I hope, soon in London. Shall I see you at the Prince of Wales garden party? No? Ah well. Au revoir. Remember me, I pray, to this party, black and me. And with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more kissed her hand and disappeared down the footpath in the wake of the soldiers and followed by the imperturbable Degas. End of Chapter 30 Chapter 31 of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Ortsy. Chapter 31 The Escape Margaret listened, half dazed as she was, fast retreating, firm footsteps of the four men. All nature was so still that she, lying with her ear close to the ground, could distinctly trace the sound of their tread, as they ultimately turned into the road, and presently the faint echo of the old cartwheels, the halting gate to the lean nag, told her that her enemy was a quart of a league away. How long she lay there she knew not. She had lost count of time. Dreamily she looked up at the moonlit sky and listened to the monotonous roll of the waves. The invigorating scent of the sea was nectar to her wearied body. The immensity of the lonely cliffs was silent and dreamlike. Her brain only remained conscious of its ceaselessness, its intolerable torture of uncertainty. She did not know. She did not know whether Percy was even now, at this moment, in the hands of the soldiers of the Republic, enduring as she had done herself, the jibes and jeers of his malicious enemy. She did not know, on the other hand, whether Armand's lifeless body did not lie there in the hut whilst Percy had escaped, to hear that his wife's hands had guided the human bloodhounds to the murder of Armand and his friends. The physical pain of utter weariness was so great that she hoped confidently her tired body could rest here forever. After all the turmoil, the passion, and the intrigues of the last few days, here, beneath that clear sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All was so solitary, so silent, like onto dreamland. Even the last faint echo of the distant cart long ago died away, afar. Suddenly, a sound, the strangest, undoubtedly, that these lonely cliffs of France had ever heard, broke the silent solemnity of the shore. So strange a sound was it that the gentle breeze ceased to murmur, the tiny pebbles to roll down the steep incline. So strange that Marguerite, wearied, overrotted as she was, thought that the beneficial unconsciousness of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping sense as a weird and elusive trick. It was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British, dumb. The seagulls in their nests awoke and looked round in astonishment. A distant and solitary owl set up a midnight hoot. The tall cliffs frowned down majestically at the strange unheard of sacrilege. Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising herself on her hands, she strained every sense to see or hear to know the meaning of this very earthly sound. All was still again for the space of a few seconds. The same silence once more fell upon the great and lonely vastness. Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, who felt she must be dreaming with that cool magnetic moonlight overhead, heard again, and this time her heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated, looked round her, not daring to trust her other sense. Odd's life! But I wish those dim fellows had not hit me quite so hard. This time it was quite unmistakable. Only one particular pair of essentially British lips could have uttered those words in sleepy, drawly, affected tones. Dumb! Repeated those same British lips emphatically. Zounds, but I'm as weak as a rat. In a moment Marguerite was on her feet. Was she dreaming? Were those great stony cliffs the gates of paradise? Was the fragrant breath of the breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of angels' wings, bringing tidings of unnervaously joys to her after all her sufferings, or faint and ill, was she the prey of delirium? She listened again, and once again she heard the same very earthy sounds of good, honest British language, not the least akin to whispering from paradise or flutter of angels' wings. She looked round eagerly at the tall cliffs, the lonely hut, the great stretch of rocky beach, somewhere there, above or below her, behind a boulder or inside a crevice, but still hidden from her longing feverish eyes, must be the owner of that voice, which once used to irritate her, but now would make her the happiest woman in Europe if only she could locate it. Percy! Percy! She streaked hysterically, tortured between doubt and hope. I am here. Come to me. Where are you, Percy? Percy? It is all very well calling me, my dear, said the same sleepy, drawly voice. But odd's life I cannot come to you. Those damned frog eaters have trust me like a goose on a spit, and I am weak as a mouse. I cannot get away. And still Marguerite did not understand. She did not realise for at least another ten seconds whence came that voice so drawly, so dear, but alas, with a strange accent of weakness and of suffering. There was no one within sight except by that rock. Great God! The Jew! Was she mad or dreaming? His back was against the pale moonlight. He was half-crouching, trying vainly to raise himself with his arms tightly pinioned. Marguerite ran up to him, took his head in both her hands, and looked straight into a pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused, shining out of the weird and distorted mask of the Jew. Percy! Percy! My husband! She gasped, faint with the fullness of her joy. Thank God! Thank God! La, my dear! He rejoined good-humourly. We will both do that and not, and you think you can loosen these damned ropes to release me from my inelegant attitude. She had no knife, her fingers were numb and weak, but she worked away with her teeth, while great welcome tears poured from her eyes onto those poor, pinioned hands. Odd's life! He said, when at last, after frantic efforts on her part, the rope seemed at last to be giving way. But I marvel whether it has ever happened before, that an English gentleman allowed himself to be licked by a damned foreigner, and made no attempt to give as good as he got. It was very obvious that he was exhausted from sheer physical pain, and when at last the rope gave way, he fell in a heap against the rock. Marguerite looked helplessly round her. Oh, for a drop of water on this awful beach! She cried in agony, seeing that he was ready to faint again. Nay, my dear! He murmured with his good-humoured smile. Personally, I should prefer a drop of good French brandy. And you'll dive in the pocket of this dirty old garment, you'll find my flask. I am damned if I can move. When he had drunk some brandy, he forced Marguerite to do likewise. La, that's better now, eh, little woman? He said with a sigh of satisfaction. Hey, ho! But this is a queer rig up for Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, to be found in by his lady, and no mistake, begad! He added, passing his hand over his chin, I haven't been shaved for nearly twenty hours. I must look a disgusting object, as for these curls. And laughingly he took off the disfiguring wig and curls, and stretched out his long limbs, which were cramped for many hours stooping. Then he bent forward and looked long and searchingly into his wife's blue eyes. Percy! She whispered, while a deep blush suffused her delicate cheeks and neck. If you only knew. I do know, dear, everything. He said with infinite gentleness. And can you ever forgive? I have not to forgive, sweetheart. Your heroism, your devotion, which I, alas, so little deserved, have more than atoned for that unfortunate episode at the ball. Then you knew? She whispered. All the time? Yes. He replied tenderly. I knew. All the time. But, begad, had I but known what a noble heart yours was, my Margo, I should have trusted you, as you deserved to be trusted. And you would not have had to undergo the terrible sufferings of the past few hours, in order to run after a husband who has done so much that needs forgiveness. They were sitting side by side, leaning up against a rock, and he had rested his aching head on her shoulder. She certainly now deserved the name of the happiest woman in Europe. It is a case of the blind leading the lame, sweetheart, is it not? He said with his good-natured smile of old, Odd's life, but I do not know which are the most sore, my shoulders, or your little feet. He bent forward to kiss them, for they peeped out through her torn stockings, and bore pathetic witness to her endurance and devotion. But Amal! She said with sudden terror and remorse, as in the midst of her happiness the image of the beloved brother, for whose sake she had so deeply sinned, rose now before her mind. Oh, have no fear for Armand, sweetheart! He said tenderly, Did I not pledge you my word that he would be safe? He, with de Tourne and the others, are even now on board the daydream. But how? She gasped. I do not understand. Yet it is simple enough, my dear. He said with that funny, half-shy, half-nane laugh of his. You see, when I found that the brute Chauvelin meant to stick to me like a leech, I thought the best thing I could do, as I could not shake him off, was to take him along with me. I had to get to Armand and the others somehow, and all the roads were patrolled, and everyone on the lookout for your humble servant. I knew that when I slipped through Chauvelin's fingers of the chagry that he would lie and wait for me here, whichever way I took. I wanted to keep an eye on him and his doings, and a British head is as good as a French one any day. Indeed, it had proved to be infinitely better, and Marguerite's heart was filled with joy and marvel, as he continued to recount to her the daring manner in which he had snatched the fugitives away, right from under Chauvelin's very nose. Dressed as the dirty old dew— He said, gaily— I knew I should not be recognised. I had met Ruben Goldstein in Calais earlier in the evening. A few gold pieces he supplied me with his regout, and undertook to bury himself out of sight of everybody, whilst he lent me his cart and nag. But if Chauvelin had discovered you— She gasped excitedly. Your disguise was good, but he is so sharp. Odds fish. He rejoined quietly. Then certainly the gain would have been up. I could but take the risk. I know human nature pretty well by now. He added with a note of sadness in his cheery young voice. And I know these Frenchmen out and out. They so loathe a Jew that they never come nearer than a couple of yards of him, and begad. I fancy that I contrived to make myself look about as loathsome an object as it is possible to conceive. Yes, and so? She asked eagerly. Zooks! Then I carried out my little plan. That is to say, at first I only determined to leave everything to chance, and I heard Chauvelin giving his orders to the soldiers. I thought that fate and I were going to work together after all. I reckoned on the blind obedience of the soldiers. Chauvelin had ordered them on pain of death, not to stir until a tall Englishman came. Degas had thrown me down in a heap quite close to the hut. The soldiers took no notice of the Jew who had driven Citoyenne Chauvelin to this spot. I managed to free my hands from the ropes with which the Brutes had trust me. I always carry a pencil and paper with me wherever I go, and I hastily scroll the few important instructions on a scrap of paper. Then I looked about me. I crawled up to the hut, under the very noses of the soldiers, who lay under cover without stirring, just as Chauvelin had ordered them to do. Then I dropped my little note into the hut through a chink in the wall and waited. In this note I told the fugitives to walk noiselessly out of the hut, creep down the cliffs, keep to the left until they came to the first creek. To give a certain signal when the boat of the Daydream, which lay in wait not far out to sea, would pick them up. They obeyed implicitly, fortunately for them, and for me. The soldiers who saw them were equally obedient to Chauvelin's orders. They did not stir. I waited for nearly half an hour. When I knew that the fugitives were safe, they gave the signal which caused so much stir. And that was the whole story. It seemed so simple, and Marguerite could be marvel at the wonderful ingenuity, the boundless pluck and audacity which had evolved and helped to carry out the staring plan. That's as brute struck you! She gasped in horror at the bare recollection of the fearful indignity. Well, that could not be helped. He said gently, whilst my little wife's fate was so uncertain, I had to remain here by her side. Odd's life! He added merrily, Never fear! Chauvelin will lose nothing by waiting, I warrant. Wait till I get him back to England. La! he shall pay for the thrashing he gave me with compound interest, I promise you. Marguerite laughed. It was so good to be beside him, to hear his cheery voice, to watch that good humor twinkle in his blue eyes as he stretched out his strong arms in longing for that foe and anticipation of his well-deserved punishment. Suddenly, however, she started, the heavy blush left her cheeks. The light of joy died out of her eyes. She had heard a salty foot fall overhead and a stone had rolled down from the top of the cliffs right down to the beach below. What's that? She whispered in horror and alarm. Nothing, my dear! Only a trifle you happen to have forgotten. My friend, Fulks. Sir Andrew! She gasped. Indeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted friend and companion and stood by her during all these hours of anxiety and suffering. She remembered him now, tardily, and with the pain of remorse. Aye, you had forgotten him, hadn't you, my dear? Said Sir Percy Merrily. Fortunately, I met him not far from the char gris before I had that interesting supper-party with my friend Chauvelin. Odd's life, but I have a score to settle with that young reprobate. But in the meanwhile, I told him of a very long, very circuitous road and would never suspect. Just about the time when we are ready for him. A little woman. And he obeyed. As Marguerite in utter astonishment. Without word or question. See, here he comes. He was not in the way when I did not want him. And now he arrives in the nick of time. Ah, he will make pretty little Suzanne a most admirable and methodical husband. In the meanwhile, Sir Andrew Fulks had cautiously worked his way down the cliffs. He stopped once or twice, pausing to listen for whispered words which would guide him to Blakeney's hiding place. Blakeney. He ventured to say it last cautiously. Blakeney, are you there? The next moment he rounded the rock against which Sir Percy and Marguerite were leaning. And seeing the weird figure still clad in the Jews long gabardain, he paused and suddenly complete bewilderment. But already Blakeney had struggled to his feet. Here I am, friend. He said with his funny inane laugh. All alive. Though I do look a big-gad scarecrow in these damned things. Look. Ejaculated Sir Andrew in boundless astonishment as he recognized his leader. Of all the— The young man had seen Marguerite and happily checked the forcible language that rose to his lips at the sight of the exquisite Sir Percy in this weird and dirty garb. Yes. Said Blakeney calmly. I will ask you what you were doing in France when I ordered you to remain in London. In subordination? What? Wait till my shoulders are less sore and by gad see the punishment you'll get. Odds fish. Old Barrett. Ha ha ha ha ha ha. Said Sir Andrew with a merry laugh. Seeing that you were alive to give it. Would you have had me allow Lady Blakeney to do the journey alone? But in the name of heaven-man where did you get these extraordinary clothes? Love they are a bit quaint, are they? Laugh Sir Percy Jovially. But Odds fish. He added with sudden earnestness and authority. Now you are here, folks. We must lose no more time. That brute Shovla may send someone to look after us. Marguerite was so happy she could have stayed here forever, hearing his voice, asking a hundred questions. But at the mention of Shovla's name she started in quick alarm, afraid for the dear life she would have died to save. But how can we get back? She gasped. The roads are full of soldiers between here and Calais. And... We are not going back to Calais, sweetheart. He said? But just the other side of Greenay, not half a league from here. The boat of the daydream will meet us there. The boat of the daydream? Yes. He said with a merry laugh. Another little trick of mine. I remember that when I slipped that note into the hut, I also added another for Armand, which I directed him to leave behind, and which has sent Shovla and his men running full tilt back to the chagrie after me. But the first little note contained my real instructions, including those to Old Briggs. He had my orders to go out further to sea and then towards the west. When well out of sight of Calais he will send the galley to a little creek he and I know of, just beyond Greenay. The men will look out for me. We have a pre-concerted signal and we will all be safely aboard, whilst Shovla and his men solemnly sit and watch the creek, which is just opposite the chagrie. The other side of Greenay, but I... I cannot walk, Percy. She moaned helplessly as, trying to struggle to her tired feet, she found herself unable even to stand. I will carry you, dear. He said simply? Leaving the lame, you know. Sir Andrew was ready, too, to help with the precious burden, but Sir Percy would not trust his beloved to any arms but his own. When you and she are both safely on board the daydream, he said to his young comrade, and I feel that Mamoiselle Susanne's eyes will not greet me in England with reproachful looks. Then it will be my turn to rest. And his arms still vigorous in spite of fatigue and suffering on Marguerite's poor, weary body, and lifted her as gently as if she had been a feather. Then, as Sir Andrew discreetly kept out of earshot, there were many things said or rather whispered which even the autumn breeze did not catch for it had gone to rest. All his fatigue was forgotten. His shoulders must have been very sore for the soldiers had hit hard, but the man's muscles seemed made of steel and his energy was almost supernatural. It was a weary tramp, half a leg along the stony side of the cliffs, and the guard give way or his muscles yield to fatigue. On he trapped with firm footstep his vigorous arms encircling the precious burden and, no doubt, as she lay, quiet and happy, at times lulled to momentary drowsiness and others watching through the slowly gathering morning light, the pleasant face with the lazy, drooping blue eyes, ever cheerful, ever illuminated with a good, humored smile, she whispered many things which helped to shorten the weary road to the news. The many-hewed light of dawn was breaking in the east when at last they reached the creek beyond the Green Nez. The galley lay in wait in answer to a signal from Sir Percy she drew near, and two sturdy British sailors had the honour of carrying my lady into the boat. Half an hour later they were on board the day-tream. The crew, who of necessity were in their master's secrets and who were devoted to him heart and soul were not surprised to see him arriving in so extraordinary a disguise. Our Monson Jews and the other fugitives were eagerly awaiting the advent of their brave rescuer. He would not stay to hear the expressions of their gratitude, but found the way to his private cabin as quickly as he could, leaving Marguerite quite happy in the arms of her brother. Everything on board the day-tream was fitted with that exquisite luxury, so dear to Sir Percy Blakeney's heart, and by the time they all landed at Dover he had found time to get into some of the sumptuous clothes which he loved, and of which he always kept a supply on board his yacht. The difficulty was to provide Marguerite with a pair of shoes, and great was the little Mitty's joy when my lady found that she could put foot on English shore in his best pair. The rest is silence, silence and joy for those who had endured so much suffering, yet found at last a great and lasting happiness. But it is on record that at the brilliant wedding of Sir Andrew Fawkes-Barnet with Madame Waselle Suzanne de Tornay de Basservet, a function at which his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and all the elite of fashionable society were present, the most beautiful woman there was unquestionably Lady Blakeney, whilst the clothes of Sir Percy Blakeney wore with the talk of the gennueur duree of London for many days. It is also a fact that Mont-jeu Chavon, the accredited agent of the French Republican government, was not present at that or any other social function in London after that memorable evening at Lord Grenville's Ball. End of Chapter 31 End of The Scarlet Pimpernel