 CHAPTER 19 THE STRENGTH OF THE WEEK M. Labé said Marguerite gravely. Yes, mon enfant. The old man looked up from his breviary and saw Marguerite's great, earnest eyes fixed with obvious calm and trust upon him. She had finished her toilette as well as she could, had shaken up and tidied her tally-ass, and was now sitting on the edge of it, her hands clasped between her knees. There was something which still puzzled her, and impatient and impulsive as she was. She had watched the abe as he calmly went on reading the Latin prayers for the last five minutes, and now she could contain her questionings no longer. You said just now that they set you to watch over me. So they did, my child. So they did, he replied with a sigh, as he quietly closed his book and slipped it back into his pocket. Ah, they are very cunning, and we must remember that they have the power. No doubt, added the old man with his own quaint philosophy, no doubt Le Bon Dieu meant them to have the power, or they would not have it, would they? By they you mean the terrorists and anarchists of France, M. Labé? The committee of public safety who pillage and murder, outrage women and desecrate religion, is that not so? Alas! my child! he sighed. And it is they who have set you to watch over me. I confess I don't understand. She laughed, quite involuntarily, indeed. For in spite of the reassurance in her heart, her brain was still in a world of passionate anxiety. You don't look at all like one of them, M. Labé. She said. The good God forbid! ejaculated the old man, raising protesting hands up toward the very distant, quite invisible sky. How could I, a humble priest of the Lord, range myself with those who could flout and defy him? Yet I am a prisoner of the Republic, and you are my jailer, M. Labé. Ah, yes, he sighed. But I am very helpless. This was my cell. I had been here with François and Felicité, my sister's children, you know, innocent lambs whom those fiends would lead to slaughter. Last night, he continued speaking volubly, the soldiers came in and dragged François and Felicité out of this room where, in spite of the danger before us, in spite of what we suffered, we had contrived to be quite happy together. I could read the mass, and the dear children would say their prayers night and morning at my knee. He paused awhile. The unshed tears in his mild blue eyes struggled for freedom now, and one or two flowed slowly down his wrinkled cheek. Marguerite, though heart-sore and full of agonising sorrow herself, felt her whole noble soul go out to this kind old man, so pathetic, so high and simple-minded in his grief. She said nothing, however, and the aber continued after a few second silence. When the children had gone, they brought you in here, mon enfant, and laid you on the palliasse where Felicité used to sleep. He looked very white and stricken down like one of God's lambs attacked by the ravening wolf. Your eyes were closed, and you were blissfully unconscious. I was taken before the governor of the prison, and he told me that you would share the cell with me for a time, and that I was to watch you night and day, because— The old man paused again. Evidently, what he had to say was very difficult to put into words. He groped in his pockets and brought out a large bandana handkerchief, red and yellow and green, with which he began to mop his moist forehead. The quaver in his voice and the trembling of his hands became more apparent and pronounced. Yes, M. Labé, because—quirried Marguerite gently—they said that if I guarded you well, Felicité and François would be set free, replied the old man after a while, during which he made vigorous efforts to overcome his nervousness, and that if you escaped, the children and I would be guillotined the very next day. There was silence in the little room now. The abeille was sitting quite still, clasping his trembling fingers, and Marguerite neither moved nor spoke. What the old man had just said was very slowly finding its way to the innermost cells of her brain. Until her mind had thoroughly grasped the meaning of it all, she could not trust herself to make a single comment. It was some seconds before she fully understood it all, before she realized what it meant, not only to her, but indirectly to her husband. Until now she had not been fully conscious of the enormous wave of hope, which almost in spite of herself had risen triumphant above the dull gray sea of her former despair. Only now, when it had been shattered against this deadly rock of almost superhuman devilry and cunning, did she understand what she had hoped, and what she must now completely forswear. No bolts and bars, no fortified towers or inaccessible fortresses could prove so effectual a prison for Marguerite Glakney as the dictum which morally bound her to herself. If you escape, the children and I would be guillotined the very next day. This meant that even if Percy knew, even if he could reach her, he could never set her free, since her safety meant death to two innocent children and to this simple-hearted man. It would require more than the ingenuity of the scarlet pimpanel himself to untie this gaudy and knot. I don't mind for myself, of course. The old man went on with gentle philosophy. I have lived my life. What matters if I die to-morrow, or if I linger on until my earthly span is legitimately run out? I am ready to go home whenever my father calls me. But it is the children you see. I have to think of them. Francoise's mother's only son, the breadwinner of the household, a good lad and studious too, and Felicite has always been very delicate. She is blind from berth and—oh, don't, for pity's sake don't!—moaned Marguerite in an agony of helplessness. I understand. You need not fear for your children, Monsieur Lebes. No harm shall come to them through me. It is as the good God-wills," replied the old man quietly. Then, as Marguerite had once more relapsed into silence, he fumbled for his beads, and his gentle voice began droning the patas and avais wherein, no doubt, his child-like heart found peace and solace. He understood that the poor woman would not wish to speak. He knew as well as she did the overpowering strength of his helpless appeal. Thus the minutes sped on. The jailer and the captive, tied to one another by the strongest bonds that hand of man could forge, had nothing to say to one another. He, the old priest, imbued with the traditions of his calling, could pray and resign himself to the will of the Almighty. But she was young and ardent and passionate, she loved and was beloved, and an impassable barrier was built up between her and the man she worshipped. A barrier fashioned by the weak hands of children, one of whom was delicate and blind. Marguerite was air and freedom, reunion with her husband, an agony of happy remorse, a kiss from his dear lips, and trembling held her back from it all, because of Francois, who was the breadwinner, and of Felicite, who was blind. Mechanically now, Marguerite rose again, and like an automaton, lifeless and thoughtless, she began putting the dingy, squalid room to rights. The aber helped her demolish the improvised screen, with the same gentle delicacy of thought which had caused him to build it up, he reframed from speaking to her now. He would not intrude himself on her grief and her despair. Later on she forced herself to speak again, and asked the old man his name. My name is Fouquet, he replied, Jean-Baptiste Marie Fouquet, late parish priest of the Church of St. Joseph, the patron saint of Boulogne. Fouquet? This was la Béfouquet, the faithful friend and servant of the de Marnie family. Fouquet gazed at him with great, questioning eyes. What a wealth of memories crowded in on her mind at sound of that name! Her beautiful home at Richmond, her brilliant array of servants and guests, his royal highness at her side, life in free, joyous, happy England—how infinitely remote it now seemed! Her ears were filled with the sound of her voice, drawly and quaint and gentle, a voice and a laugh half shy, wholly mirthful, and oh, so infinitely dear! I think a little sea voyage in English country air would suit the Ebypouquet, my dear, and I only mean to ask him to cross the channel with me. Oh, the joy and confidence expressed in those words, the daring, the ambition, the pride, and the soft, languorous air of the old world garden round her then, the passion of his embrace, the heavy scent of late roses and of heliotrope, which caused her to swoon in his arms. And now, a narrow prison cell, and that pathetic, tender little creature there, with trembling hands and tear-dimmed eyes, the most powerful and most relentless jailer which the ferocious cunning of her deadly enemies could possibly have devised. Then she talked to him of Juliette Marnie. The Abbey did not know that Mademoiselle de Marnie had succeeded in reaching England safely, and was overjoyed to hear it. He recounted to Marguerite the story of the Marnie jewels, how he had put them safely away in the crypt of his little church, until the assembly of the convention had ordered the closing of the churches, and placed before every minister of Le Bon Dieu the alternative of apostasy or death. With me it has only been prison so far, continued the old man simply, but prison has rendered me just as helpless as the guillotine would have done, for the enemies of Le Bon Dieu have ransacked the Church of St. Joseph and stolen the jewels which I should have guarded with my life. But it was obvious joy for the Abbey to talk of Juliette Marnie's happiness. Vaguely in his remote little provincial curée, he had heard of the prowess and daring of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and liked to think that Juliette owed her safety to him. The good God will reward him and those whom he cares for, added Abbey Frouquet, with that earnest belief in divine interference which seemed so strangely pathetic under these present circumstances. Marguerite sighed, and for the first time in this terrible soul-stirring crisis through which she was passing so bravely, she felt a beneficent moisture in her eyes. The awful tension of her nerves relaxed. She went up to the old man, took his wrinkled hand in hers, and falling on her knees beside him, she eased her overburdened heart in a flood of tears. CHAPTER XX The day that Citizen Chauvelin's letter was received by the members of the Committee of Public Safety was indeed one of great rejoicing. The moniteur tells us that in the séance of September 22, 1793, or Vendemire 1 of the year, it was decreed that sixty prisoners not absolutely proved guilty of treason against the Republic, only suspected, were to be set free—sixty—at the mere news of the possible capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The Committee was inclined to be magnanimous, ferocity yielded for the moment to the elusive joy of anticipatory triumph. A glorious prize was about to fall into the hands of those who had the welfare of the people at heart. Obspire and his disarmveil rejoiced, and sixty persons had cause to rejoice with them. So be it. There were plans evolved already as to national fates, and wholesale pardons when that impudent and meddlesome Englishman at last got his desserts. Wholesale pardons, which could easily be rescinded afterwards, even with those sixty it was a mere respite. Those of le salut publice only loosened their hold for a while, when nobly magnanimous for a day quite prepared to be doubly ferocious the next. In the meanwhile, let us heartily rejoice. The Scarlet Pimpernel is in France, or will be very soon, and on an appointed day he will present himself conveniently to the soldiers of the Republic for capture and for subsequent guillotine. England is at war with us. There is nothing, therefore, further to fear from her. We might hang every Englishman we can lay hands on, and England can do no more than she is doing at the present moment—bombard our ports, bluster and threaten, join hands with Flanders and Austria and Sardinia, and the devil if she chooses. Allons! Vogue la galère! The Scarlet Pimpernel is perhaps on our shores at this very moment. Our most stinging, most irritating foe is about to be delivered into our hands. Citizen Chauvelin's letter is very categorical. I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre, and to the members of the revolutionary government who have entrusted me with the delicate mission—Robespierre's sensuous lips curl into a sarcastic smile. Citizen Chauvelin's pen was very florid in its style. It trusted me with the delicate mission is hardly the way to describe an order given under penalty of death, but let it pass. That four days from this date, at one hour after sunset, the man who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne at the extreme southern corner of the town. Four days from this date, and Citizen Chauvelin's letter is dated the nineteenth of September, seventeen ninety-three. Too much of an aristocrat, M. Le Marquis Chauvelin, Sniers Merlin, the Jack-o-ven, he does not know that all good citizens had called that date the twenty-eighth fructidore, year one of the Republic. No matter, retorts Robespierre with impatient frigidity, whatever we may call the date was forty-eight hours ago, and in forty-eight hours more the damned Englishman will have run his head into a noose from which, and I mistake not, he'll not find it easy to extricate himself. And you believe in Citizen Chauvelin's assertion, commented downtown with a lazy shrug of the shoulders? Only because he asks for help from us, quote Robespierre dryly, he is sure that the man will be there, but not sure if he can tackle him. But many were inclined to think that Chauvelin's letter was an idle boast. They knew nothing of the circumstances which had caused that letter to be written. They could not conjecture how it was that the ex-ambassador could be so precise in naming the day and hour when the enemy of France would be at the mercy of those whom he had outraged and flouted. Nevertheless Citizen Chauvelin asks for help, and help must not be denied him. There must be no shadow of blame upon the actions of the Committee of Public Safety. Chauvelin had been weak once, had allowed the prize to slip through his fingers. It must not occur again. He has a wonderful head for devising plans, but he needs a powerful hand to aid him, so that he may not fail again. Colo d'Arbois, just home from Lyon and Tours, is the right man in an emergency like this. Having Colo is full of ideas, the inventor of the Noillade is sure to find a means of converting Boulogne into one gigantic prison out of which the mysterious English adventurer will find it impossible to escape. And whilst the deliberations go on, whilst this Committee of Butchers are busy slaughtering an imagination the game they have not yet succeeded in bringing down, there comes another messenger from Citizen Chauvelin. He must have ridden hard on the other one's heels, and something very unexpected and very sudden must have occurred to cause the Citizen to send this second note. This time it is curt and to the point. Robsbier unfolds it, and reads it to his colleagues. We have called to the woman, his wife. There may be murder attempted against my person. Send me someone at once who will carry out my instructions in case of my sudden death." Robsbier's lips curl in satisfaction, showing a row of yellowish teeth long and sharp like the fangs of a wolf. A murmur like unto the snarl of a pack of hyenas rises round the table as Chauvelin's adventurous, handed round. Everyone has guessed the importance of this preliminary capture—the woman, his wife. Chauvelin evidently thinks much of it, for he anticipates an attempt against his life. Nay, he is quite prepared for it, ready to sacrifice it for the sake of his revenge. Who had accused him of weakness? He only thinks of his duty, not his life. He does not fear for himself, only that the fruits of his skill might be jeopardised through assassination. Well, this English adventurer is capable of any act of desperation to save his wife and himself, and Citizen Chauvelin must not be left in the lurch. Thus, Citizen Colo d'Herbois is dispatched forthwith to Boulogne to be a help-meet and counsellor to Citizen Chauvelin. Everything that can humanly be devised must be done to keep the woman secure and to set the trap for that elusive pimpinelle. Once he is caught, the whole of France shall rejoice, and Boulogne, who had been instrumental in running the quarry to earth, must be specially privileged on that day. A general amnesty for all prisoners the day the scarlet pimpinelle is captured, a public holiday and a pardon for all natives of Boulogne who are under sentence of death. They shall be allowed to find their way to the various English boats, trading and smuggling craft that always lie at anchor in the roads there. The Committee of Public Safety feel amazingly magnanimous towards Boulogne. A proclamation embodying the amnesty and the pardon is at once drawn up and signed by Robb Speer and his Blood Thirsty Council of Ten. It is entrusted to Citizen Colo d'Herbois to be read out at every corner of the ramparts as an inducement to the little town to do its level best. The Englishman and his wife, captured in Boulogne, will both be subsequently brought to Paris, formally tried on a charge of conspiring against the Republic, and guillotined as English spies. But Boulogne shall have the greater glory, and shall reap the first and richest reward. And armed with the magnanimous proclamation, the orders for general rejoicings and a grand local fit, armed also with any and every power over the entire city, its municipality, its garrisons, its forts, for himself and his colleague Chauvelin, Citizen Colo d'Herbois starts for Boulogne fourth with. Needless to tell him not to let the grass grow under his horse's hoofs, the capture of the scarlet pimpanel, though not absolutely an accomplished fact, is nevertheless a practical certainty, and no one rejoices over this great event more than the man who is to be present and see all the fun. Riding and driving, getting what relays of horses or wagons from roadside farms that he can, Colo is not likely to waste much time on the way. It is one hundred and fifty-seven miles to Boulogne by road, and Colo, burning with ambition to be in at the death, rides or drives as no messenger of good tidings has ever ridden or driven before. He does not stop to eat, but munches chunks of bread and cheese in the recess of the lumbering shears or wagon that bears him along, whenever his limbs refuse him service, and he cannot mount a horse. The chronicles tell us that twenty-four hours after he left Paris, half-dazed with fatigue but ferocious and eager still, he is born till the gates of Boulogne by an old cart-horse requisitioned from some distant farm, and which falls down dead at the Porte Gaïol whilst its rider, with a last effort, loudly clamours for admittance into the town in the name of the republic. CHAPTER XXI. In his memorable interview with Robespierre the day before he left for England, Chauvelin had asked that absolute power be given him, in order that he might carry out the plans for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpinale which he had in his mind. Now that he was back in France, he had no cause to complain that the revolutionary government had grudged in this power for which he had asked. Implicit obedience had followed whenever he had commanded. As soon as he heard that a woman had been arrested in the act of uttering a passport in the name of Celine Dumont, he guessed at once that Marguerite Blakeney had, with characteristic impulse, fallen into the trap which, with the aid of the woman Candet, he had succeeded in laying for her. He was not the least surprised at that. He knew human nature, feminine nature, far too well ever to have been in doubt for a moment, that Marguerite would follow her husband without calculating either costs or risks. He gods the irony of it all! Had she not been called the cleverest woman in Europe at one time? Chauvelin himself had thus acclaimed her in those olden days, before she and he became such mortal enemies, and when he was one of the many satellites that revolved ground brilliant Marguerite Saint-Jus. And to-night, when a sergeant of the town guards brought him news of her capture, she smiled grimly to himself. The cleverest woman in Europe had failed to perceive the trap laid temptingly open for her. Once more she had betrayed her husband into the hands of those who would not let him escape a second time, and now she had done it with her eyes open, with loving, passionate heart which ached for self-sacrifice, and only succeeded in imperiling the loved one more hopelessly than before. The sergeant was waiting for orders. Citizen Chauvelin had come to Boulogne, armed with more full and more autocratic powers than any servant of the New Republic had ever been endowed with before. The governor of the town, the captain of the guard, the fort and municipality were all as abject slaves before him. As soon as he had taken possession of the quarters organized for him in the town hall, he had asked for a list of prisoners who, for one cause or another, were being detained pending further investigations. The list was long and contained many names which were not of the slightest interest to Chauvelin. He passed them over impatiently. To be released at once, he said curtly. He did not want the guard to be burdened with unnecessary duties, nor the prisons of the little seaport town to be inconveniently encumbered. He wanted room, space, air, the force and intelligence of the entire town at his command for the one capture which meant life and revenge to him. A woman, name unknown, found a possession of a forged passport in the name of Céline Dumont, made to the citizeness Desiracandes, attempted to land, was interrogated, and failed to give satisfactory explanation of herself, detained in room number six of the Gaillol prison. This was one of the last names on the list, the only one of any importance to citizen Chauvelin. When he read it, he nearly drove his nails into the palms of his hands, so desperate an effort did he make not to betray before the sergeant by look or sigh the exultation which he felt. For a moment he shaded his eyes against the glare of the lamp, but it was not long before he had formulated a plan and was ready to give his orders. He asked for a list of prisoners already detained in the various forts. The name of Labé Fouquet, with those of his niece and nephew attracted his immediate attention. He asked for further information respecting these people, heard that the boy was a widow's only son, the sole supporter of his mother's declining years. The girl was ailing, suffering from incipient physis, and was blind. Bardi! The very thing! Labé himself, the friend of Juliet Marnie, the pathetic personality around which this final adventurer of the scarlet Pimpanel was intended to revolve, and these two young people, his sister's children, one of them blind and ill, the other full of vigor and manhood. Citizen Chauvelin had soon made up his mind. A few quick orders to the sergeant of the guard, and Labé Fouquet, weak, helpless and gentle, became the relentless jailer who would guard Marguerite more securely than a whole regiment of loyal soldiers could have done. Then, having dispatched a messenger to the Committee of Public Safety, Chauvelin laid himself down to rest. Fate had not deceived him. He had fought and schemed and planned, and events had shaped themselves exactly as foreseen, and the fact that Marguerite Blakeney was at the present moment a prisoner in his hands was merely the result of his own calculations. As for the scarlet Pimpanel, Chauvelin could not very well conceive what he would do under these present circumstances. The duel on the southern ramparts had, of course, become a farce, not likely to be inactive now that Marguerite's life was at stake. The daring adventurer was caught in a network at last from which all his ingenuity, all his wit, his impudence, and his amazing luck could never extricate him. And in Chauvelin's mind there was still something more. Revenge was the sweetest emotion his bruised and humbled pride could know. He had not yet tasted its complete and toxicating joy, but every hour now his cup of delight became more and more full, in a few days it would overflow. In the meanwhile he was content to wait. The hours sped by and there was no news yet of that elusive Pimpanel. Of Marguerite he knew nothing save that she was well guarded. The sentry who passed up and down outside room number six had heard her voice in that of the Abbe Fouquet in the course of the afternoon. Chauvelin had asked the Committee of Public Safety for aid in his difficult task, but forty-eight hours at least must elapse before such aid could reach him. Forty-eight hours, during which the hand of an assassin might be lurking for him, and might even reach him ere his vengeance was fully accomplished. That was the only thought which really troubled him. He did not want to die before he had seen the scarlet Pimpanel, a withered, abject creature, crushed in fame and honour, too debased to find glorification even in death. At this moment he only cared for his life because it was needed for the complete success of his schemes. No one else he knew would have that note of personal hatred towards the enemy of France, which was necessary now in order to carry out successfully the plans which he had formed. Robespierre and all the others only desired the destruction of a man who had intrigued against the reign of terror which they had established. His death on the guillotine, even if it were surrounded with the halo of martyrdom, would have satisfied them completely. Chauvelin looked further than that. He hated the man. He had suffered humiliation through him individually. He wished to see him as an object of contempt rather than of pity. And because of the anticipation of this joy, he was careful of his life, and throughout those two days which elapsed between the capture of Marguerite and the arrival of Colo d'Herbois at Boulogne, Chauvelin never left his quarters at the Hotel de Ville, and requisitioned a special escort consisting of proved soldiers of the town guard to attend his every footstep. On the evening of the twenty-second, after the arrival of Citizen Colo in Boulogne, he gave orders that the woman from number six Selby brought before him in the ground floor room of the Fort Gaillol. CHAPTER XXI. Two days of agonizing suspense, of alternate hope and despair had told heavily on Marguerite Blakeney. Her courage was still indomitable, her purpose firm and her faith secure, but she was without the slightest vestige of news, entirely shut off from the outside world, left to conjecture, to scheme, to expect, and to despond alone. The Abbe Fouquet had tried in his gentle way to be of comfort to her, and she in her turn did her very best not to render his position more cruel than it already was. A message came to him twice during those forty-eight hours from Francois and Felicité, a little note scribbled by the boy, or a token sent by the blind girl, to tell the Abbe that the children were safe and well, that they would be safe and well so long as the citizeness, with the name unknown, remained closely guarded by him in room number six. When these messages came, the old man would sigh and murmur something about the good God, and hope, which perhaps had faintly risen in Marguerite's heart within the last hour or so, would once more sink back into the abyss of uttermost despair. Outside the monotonous walk of the sentry sounded like the perpetual thud of a hammer beating upon her bruised temples. What's to be done, my God, what's to be done? Where was Percy now? How to reach him? Oh, God, grant me light! The one real terror which she felt was that she would go mad, nay, that she was in a measure mad already, for hours now, or was it days, or years? She had heard nothing save that rhythmic walk of the sentinel, and the kindly tremulous voice of the Abbe whispering consolations or murmuring prayers in her ears. She had seen nothing save that prison door of rough deal painted a dull gray with a great old-fashioned lock and hinges rusty with the damp of ages. She had kept her eyes fixed on that door until they burned and ached with well-nigh intolerable pain, yet she felt that she could not look elsewhere, lest she missed the golden moment when the bolts will be drawn, and that dull gray door would swing slowly on its rusty hinges. Surely, surely that was the commencement of madness. Yet for Percy's sake, because he might want her, because he might have need of her courage and of her presence of mind, she tried to keep her wits about her. But it was difficult—oh, terribly difficult, especially when the shade of evening began to gather in, and peopled the squalid whitewashed room with innumerable threatening ghouls. Then when the moon came up, a silver ray crept in through the tiny window and struck full upon that gray door, making it look weird and spectral like the entrance to a house of ghosts. Then now, as there was a distinct sound of the pushing of bolts and bars, Marguerite thought that she was the prey of hallucinations. The Abifuke was sitting in the remote and darkest corner of the room, quietly telling his beads. His serene philosophy and gentle placidity could in no way be disturbed by the opening or shutting of a door, or by the bearer of good or evil tidings. The room now seemed strangely gloomy and cavernous, with those deep, black shadows all around, and that white ray of the moon which struck so weirdly on the door. Marguerite shuddered with one of those unaccountable premonitions of something evil about to come, which oft times assail those who have a nervous and passionate temperament. The door swung slowly open upon its hinges. There was a quick word of command, and the light of a small oil lamp struck full into the gloom. Fagely, Marguerite discerned a group of men, soldiers no doubt, for there was a glint of arms in the suggestion of tricolor, cocades, and scarves. One of the men was holding the lamp aloft, another took a few steps forward into the room. He turned to Marguerite, entirely ignoring the presence of the old priest, and addressed her peremptorily. Your presence is desired by the citizen governor, he said curtly, stand up and follow me. Where am I to go? she asked. To where my men will take you? Now then, quick's the word. The citizen governor does not like to wait. But a word of command from him, two more soldiers now enter the room and place themselves one on each side of Marguerite, who, knowing that resistance was useless, had already risen and was prepared to go. The avay tried to utter a word of protest, and came quickly forward towards Marguerite, but he was summarily and very roughly pushed aside. Now then, Calotin, said the first soldier with an oath, this is none of your business. Forward march! he added, addressing his men, and you, citizeness, will find it wiser to come quietly along and not to attempt any tricks with me, or the gag and manacles will have to be used. But Marguerite had no intention of resisting. She was too tired even to wonder as to what they meant to do with her, or with her they were going. She moved as if in a dream, and felt her hope within her that she was being led to death. Summary executions were the order of the day, she knew that, and sighed for this simple solution of the awful problem which had been harassing her these past two days. She was being led along a passage, stumbling ever and on as she walked, for it was but dimly lighted by the same little oil-lamp which one of the soldiers was carrying in front, holding it high above his head. Then they went down a narrow flight of stone steps until she and her escort reached a heavy oak door. A horde was ordered at this point, and the man in command of the little party pushed to the door open and walked in. Marguerite caught sight of a room beyond, dark and gloomy looking as was her own prison cell. Somewhere on the left there was obviously a window. She could not see it, but guessed that it was there because the moon struck full upon the floor, ghost-like in spectral, well fitting in with the dream-like state in which Marguerite felt herself to be. In the centre of the room she could discern a table with a chair close beside it, also a couple of tallow candles which flickered in the draught caused no doubt by that open window which she could not see. All these little details impressed themselves on Marguerite's mind as she stood there, placidly waiting until she should once more be told to move along. The table, the chair, that unseen window, trivial objects though they were, assumed before her overrault fancy and utterly disproportionate importance. She caught herself presently counting up the number of boards visible on the floor, and watching the smoke of the tallow candles rising up towards the grimy ceiling. After a few minutes weary waiting, which seemed endless to Marguerite, there came a short word of command from within, and she was roughly pushed forward into the room by one of the men. The cool air of a late September's evening gently fanned her burning temples. She looked round her, and now perceived that someone was sitting at the table, the other side of the tallow candles, a man with head bent over a bundle of papers and shading his face against the light with his hand. He rose as she approached, and the flickering flame of the candles played weirdly upon the slight, sable-clad figure, illuminating the keen, ferret-like face, and throwing fitful gleams across the deep-set eyes and the narrow, cruel mouth. It was Chauvelin. Mechanically Marguerite took the chair which the soldier drew towards her, ordering her curtly to sit down. She seemed to have but little power to move. Though all her faculties had suddenly become pretty naturally alert at sight of this man, whose very life now was spent in doing her the most grievous wrong that one human being can do to another, yet all these faculties were forcefully centered in the one mighty effort not to flinch before him, not to let him see for a moment that she was afraid. She compelled her eyes to look at him fully and squarely, her lips not to tremble, her very heart to stop his wild, excited beating. She felt his keen eyes fixed intently upon her, but more in curiosity than in hatred or satisfied vengeance. When she had sat down he came round the table and moved towards her. When he drew quite near she instinctively recoiled. It had been an almost imperceptible action on her part, and certainly an involuntary one, for she did not wish to betray a single thought or emotion until she knew what he wished to say. But he had noted her movement, a sort of drawing up and stiffening of her whole person as he approached. He seemed pleased to see it, for he smiled sarcastically but with evident satisfaction, and as if his purpose was now accomplished, he immediately withdrew and went back to his former seat on the other side of the table. After that he ordered the soldiers to go. But remain at attention outside, you and your men, he added, ready to enter if I call. It was Marguerite's turn to smile at this obvious sign of a lurking fear on Chauvelin's part, and a line of sarcasm and contempt curled her full lips. The soldiers having obeyed and the oak door having closed upon them, Marguerite was now alone with the man whom she hated and loathed beyond every living thing on earth. She wondered when he would begin to speak and why he had sent for her, but he seemed in no hurry to begin. Still shading his face with his hand he was watching her with utmost attention. She on the other hand was looking through and beyond him with contemptuous indifference, as if his presence here did not interest her in the least. She would give him no opening for this conversation which he had sought, and which she felt would prove either purposeless or else deeply wounding to her heart and to her pride. She sat, therefore, quite still, with the flickering and yellow light fully illuminating her delicate face with its childlike curves and delicate features, the noble straight brow, the great blue eyes, and halo of golden hair. My desire to see you here to-night must seem strange to you, Lady Blakeney, said Shovlang at last. Then as she did not reply he continued, speaking quite gently, almost deferentially. There are various matters of grave importance which the events of the next twenty-four hours will reveal to your ladyship, and believe me that I am actuated by motives of pure friendship towards you in this, my effort to mitigate the unpleasantness of such news, as you might hear to-morrow, perhaps, by giving you due warning of what its nature might be. She turned great questioning eyes upon him, and in their expression she tried to put all the contempt which she felt, all the bitterness, all the defiance in the pride. He quietly shrugged his shoulders. Ah! I fear me, he said, that your Lady Jebaz usual doth me grievous wrong. It is but natural that you should misjudge me. Yet believe me, a truce on this foolery, Mr. Shovlang, she broke in with sudden impatient vehemence, pray leave your protestations of friendship and courtesy alone, there is no one here to hear them. I pray proceed with what you have to say. Ah! It was a sigh of satisfaction on the part of Shovlang. Her anger and impatience, even at this early stage of the interview, proved sufficiently that her icy restraint was only on the surface. And Shovlang always knew how to deal with vehemence. He loved to play with the emotions of a passionate fellow-creature. It was only the imperturbable calm of a certain enemy of his that was want to shake his own impenetrable armor of reserve. As your ladyship desires, he said, with a slight and ironical bow of the head. But before proceeding according to your wish, I am compelled to ask your ladyship just one question. And that is? Have you reflected what your present position means to that inimitable prince of Dandy, Sir Percy Blakeney? Is it necessary for your present purpose, monsieur, that you should mention my husband's name at all? She asked. It is indispensable, fair lady. He replied, suavely, for is not the fate of your husband so closely intertwined with yours that his actions will inevitably be largely influenced by your own? Magritte gave a start of surprise, and as Shovlang had paused, she tried to read what hidden meaning lay behind these last words of his. Was it his intention then to propose some bargain, one of those terrible either oars of which he seemed to possess the malignant secret? Oh, if that was so, if indeed he had sent for her in order to suggest one of those terrible alternatives of his, then, be it what it may, be it the wildest conception which the insane brain of a fiend could invent, she would accept it, so long as the man she loved were given one single chance of escape. Therefore she turned to her archenemy in a more conciliatory spirit now, and even endeavoured to match her own diplomatic cunning against his. I do not understand, she said tentatively. How can my actions influence those of my husband? I am a prisoner in Boulogne. He probably is not aware of that fact yet, and Sir Percy Blakeney may be in Boulogne at any moment now, he interrupted quietly. And I mistake not, few places can offer such great attractions to that peerless gentleman of fashion than doth this humble provincial town of France just at this present. Have it not the honour of harboring Lady Blakeney within its gates? And your ladyship may indeed believe me when I say that the day that Sir Percy lands in our hospitable port, two hundred pairs of eyes will be fixed upon him, lest you should wish to quit it again. And if it were two thousand, sir, she said impulsively, they would not stop his coming or going as he pleased. Nay, fair lady, he said with a smile. Are you then endowing Sir Percy Blakeney with the attributes which, as popular fancy has it, belong exclusively to that mysterious English hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel? A truce to your diplomacy, Monsieur Chauvelin, she retorted, goaded by his sarcasm. Why should we try to fence with one another? What was the object of your journey to England? Of the farce which you enacted in my house, with the help of the woman-cundae, of that duel and that challenge, save that you desired to entice Sir Percy Blakeney to France? And also his charming wife, he added, with an ironical bow. Shevert her lip, and made no comment. Shall we say that I succeeded admirably, he continued, speaking with persistent urbanity and calm, and that I have strong cause to hope that the elusive Pimpernel will soon be a guest on our friendly shores? There. You see, I too have laid down the foils. As you say, why should we fence? Your ladyship is now in Boulogne. Soon Sir Percy will come to try and take you away from us, but believe me, fair lady, that it would take more than the ingenuity and the daring of the Scarlet Pimpernel magnified a thousandfold to get him back to England again. Unless—unless—Magarit held her breath. She felt now as if the whole universe must stand still during the next supreme moment, until she had heard what Chauvelin's next words would be. There was to be an unless, then, an either or more terrible no doubt than the one he had formulated before her just a year ago. Chauvelin, she knew, was past master in the art of putting a knife at his victim's throat, and of giving it just the necessary twist with his cruel and relentless unless. But she felt quite calm, because her purpose was resolute. There is no doubt that during this agonizing moment of suspense, she was absolutely firm in her determination to accept any and every condition which Chauvelin would put before her, as the price of her husband's safety. After all, these conditions, since he placed them before her, could resolve themselves into questions of her own life against her husband's. With that unraising impulse which was one of her most salient characteristics, she never paused to think that, to Chauvelin, her own life and death were only the means to the great end which he had in view—the complete annihilation of the Scarlet Pimpernel. That end could only be reached by Percy Blakeney's death, not by her own. And now, as she was watching him with eyes glowing and lips tightly closed, lest a cry of impatient agony should escape her throat, he, like a snail that has shown its slimy horns too soon, and is not ready to face the enemy as yet, seemed suddenly to withdraw within his former shell of careless suavity. The earnestness of his tone vanished, giving place to light and easy conversation, just as if he were discussing social topics with a woman of fashion in a Paris drawing-room. —Nay, he said pleasantly, is not your ladyship taking this matter in too serious a spirit? Of a truth you repeated my innocent word, unless, even as if I were putting a knife at your dainty throat. Yet I meant naught that need disturb you yet. Have I not said that I am your friend? Let me try and prove it to you. —You will find that a difficult task, monsieur,' she said brightly. —Difficult tasks always have had a great fascination for your humble servant. May I try? —Certainly. —Shall we then touch at the root of this delicate matter? Your ladyship, so I understand, is at this moment under the impression that I desire to encompass, shall I say, the death of an English gentleman for whom, believe me, I have the greatest respect? That is so, is it not? —What is so, monsieur Chauvelin? —She asked almost stupidly, for truly she had not even begun to grasp his meaning. I do not understand. —You think that I am at this moment taking measures for sending the scarlet pimponot to the guillotine, eh? —I do. —Your lover was so great an error committed by a clever woman. Your ladyship must believe me when I say that the guillotine is the very last place in the world where I would wish to see that enigmatic and elusive personage. —Are you trying to fool me, monsieur Chauvelin? —If so, for what purpose? And why do you lie to me like that? —On my honours is the truth. The death of Sir Percy Blakeney, I may call him that, may I not? —Would ill suit the purpose which I have in view. —What purpose? —You must pardon me, monsieur Chauvelin, she added with a quick impatient sigh, but of a truth I am getting confused, and my wits must have become dull in the past few days. I pray to you to add to your many protestations of friendship a little more clearness in your speech, and, if possible, a little more brevity. What then is the purpose which you had in view when you enticed my husband to come over to France? —My purpose was the destruction of the scarlet pimponot, not the death of Sir Percy Blakeney. —Believe me, I have a great regard for Sir Percy. He is a most accomplished gentleman, witty, brilliant, an inimitable lady. Why should he not grace with his presence the drawing-rooms of London or of Brighton for many years to come? —She looked at him with puzzled inquiry. For one moment her thought flashed through her mind that, after all, Chauvelin might be still in doubt as to the identity of the scarlet pimponot. —But no, that hope was madness, it was preposterous and impossible, but then why, why, why, oh, God, for a little more patience! —What I have just said may seem a little enigmatic to your ladyship, he continued blandly. But surely so clever a woman as yourself, so greater lady as is the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney Baronet, will be aware that there are other means of destroying an enemy than the taking of his life. —For instance, Monsieur Chauvelin? —There is the destruction of his honour, he replied slowly. —A long, bitter laugh, almost hysterical in its loud outburst, broke from the very depths of Marguerite's convulsed heart. —The destruction of his honour! —Haha! Oh, but truth, Monsieur Chauvelin, your inventive powers have led you beyond the bounds of dreamland! —Haha! It is in the land of madness that you are wondering, sir, when you talk in one breath of Sir Percy Blakeney and the possible destruction of his honour. But he remained apparently quite unruffled, and when her laughter had somewhat subsided, he said placidly, —Perhaps. —Then he rose from his chair and once more approached her. This time she did not shrink from him. The suggestion which he had made just now, this talk of attacking her husband's honour rather than his life, seemed so wild and preposterous, the conception truly of a mind unhinged, that she looked upon it as a sign of extreme weakness on his part, almost as an acknowledgement of impotence. But she watched him as he moved round the table more in curiosity now than in fright. He puzzled her, and she still had a feeling at the back of her mind that there must be something more definite and more evil lurking at the back of that torturous brain. —Will your ladyship allow me to conduct you to yonder window? he said. The air is cool, and what I have to say can best be done in sight of yonder's sleeping city. His tone was one of perfect courtesy, even of respectful deference, through which not the slightest trace of sarcasm could be discerned, and she, still actuated by curiosity and interest, not in any way by fear, quietly rose to obey him. Though she ignored the hand which he was holding out towards her, she followed him readily enough as he walked up to the window. All through the saganizing and soul-stirring interview, she had felt heavily oppressed by the close atmosphere of the room, rendered nauseous by the evil smell of the smoky tallow candles, which were left to spread their grease and smoke abroad unchecked. Once or twice she had gazed longingly towards the suggestion of pure air outside. Chauvelin evidently still had much to say to her. The torturing, mental rack to which she was being subjected, had not yet fully done its work. It still was capable of one or two turns, a twist or so, which might succeed in crushing her pride and her defiance. Well, so be it. She was in the man's power, had placed herself therein through her own un-wraithing impulse. This interview was but one of the many soul agonies which she had been called upon to endure, and if by submitting to it all she could, in a measure, mitigate her own faults and be of help to the man she loved, she would find the sacrifice small and the mental torture easy to bear. Therefore, when Chauvelin beckoned to her to draw near, she went up to the window, and, leaning her head against the deep stone embrasure, she looked out into the night. CHAPTER XXIII The hostage. Chauvelin, without speaking, extended his hand out towards the city as if to invite Marguerite to gaze upon it. She was quite unconscious what hour of the night it might be, but it must have been late, for the little town encircled by the stony arms of its forts seemed asleep. The moon, now slowly sinking in the west, edged the towers' inspires with filmy lines of silver. To the right, Marguerite caught sight of the frowning befroy, which, even as she gazed out, began tolling its heavy bell. It sounded like the toxin, dull and muffled. After ten strokes it was still—ten o'clock. At this hour, in far off England, in fashionable London, the play was just over. Crowds of gaily dressed men and women poured out of the open gates of the theatres, calling loudly for a tendon, torches. Thence to balls or routes, gaily fluttering like so many butterflies, brilliant and irresponsible. And in England also, in the beautiful gardens of her Richmond home, oftimes at ten o'clock she had wandered alone with Percy when he was at home, and the spirit of adventure in him momentarily lay to rest. Then when the night was very dark and the air heavy with the scent of roses and lilies, she lay quiescent in his arms, in that little arbor beside the river. The rhythmic lapping of the waves was the only sound that stirred the balmy air. He seldom spoke then, for his voice would shake whenever he uttered a word, but his impenetrable armour of flippancy was pierced through, and he did not speak because his lips were pressed to hers, and his love had soared beyond the domain of speech. A shudder of intense mental pain went through her now as she gazed on the sleeping city, and sweet memories of the past turned to bitterness in this agonising present. One by one, as the moon gradually disappeared behind a bank of clouds, the towers of Boulogne were merged in the gloom. In front of her far, far away, beyond the flat sand dunes, the seas seemed to be calling to her with a ghostly and melancholy moan. The window was on the ground floor of a fort, and gave direct onto the wide and shady walk which runs along the crest of the city walls. From where she stood Marguerite was looking straight along the ramparts, some thirty metres wide at this point, flanked on either side by the granite balustrade, and adorned with a double row of ancient elms, stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes by the persistent action of the wind. "'These wide ramparts are a peculiarity of this city,' said a voice close to her ear. At times of peace they form an agreeable promenade under the shade of the trees, and a delightful meeting-place for lovers or enemies. The sound brought her back to the ugly realities of the present. The rose-centred garden at Richmond, the lazily flowing river, the tender memories which for that brief moment had confronted her from out of a happy past, suddenly vanished from her ken. Instead of these the brine-laden sea-air struck her quivering nostrils. The echo of the old befoir died away in her ear, and now from out one of the streets or open places of the sleeping city there came the sound of a raucous voice shouting in monotonous tones a string of words, the meaning of which failed to reach her brain. Not many feet below the window the southern ramparts of the town stretched away into the darkness. She felt unaccountably cold suddenly as she looked down upon them and with aching eyes tried to pierce the gloom. She was shivering in spite of the mildness of this early autumnal night. Her overraught fancy was peopling the lonely walls with unearthly shapes strolling along, discussing in spectral language a strange duel which was to take place here between a noted butcher of men and a mad Englishman over fond of adventure. The Gauls seemed to pass and repass along in front of her, and to be laughing audibly because that mad Englishman had been offered his life in exchange for his honour. They laughed and laughed, no doubt because he refused the bargain. Englishmen were always eccentric, and in these days of equality and other devices of a free and glorious revolution honour was such a very marketable commodity that it seemed ridiculous to prize it quite so highly. Then they strolled away again and disappeared, whilst Marguerite distinctly heard the scrunching of the path beneath their feet. She lent forward to pierce still further into the darkness, for this sound had seemed so absolutely real, but immediately a detaining hand was placed upon her arm, and a sarcastic voice murmured at her elbow, The result, fair lady, would only be a broken leg or arm. The height is not great enough for picturesque suicides, and believe me these ramparts are only haunted by ghosts. She drew back as if a viper had stung her, for the moment she had become oblivious of Chauvelin's presence. However she would not take notices of his taunt, and after a slight pause he asked her if she could hear the town crier over in the public streets. Yes, she replied. What he says at this present moment is of vast importance to your ladyship, he remarked dryly. How so? Your ladyship is a precious hostage. We are taking measures to guard our valuable property securely. Marguerite thought of the Abbe Fouquet, who no doubt was still quietly telling his beads, even if in his heart he had begun to wonder what had become of her. She thought of François, who was the breadwinner, and of Felicité, who was blind. Me thinks you and your colleagues have done that already, she said. Not as completely as we would wish. We know the daring of the Scarlet Pimpinel. We are not even ashamed to admit that we fear his luck, his impudence, and his marvellous ingenuity. Have I not told you that I have the greatest possible respect for that mysterious English hero? An old priest and two young children might be spirited away by that enigmatic adventure, even whilst Lady Blagney herself is made to vanish from our sight. Ha! I see your ladyship is taking my simple words as a confession of weakness, he continued, noting the swift sigh of hope which had involuntarily escaped her lips. Nay, and it pleases you, you shall despise me for it. But a confession of weakness is the first sign of strength. The Scarlet Pimpinel is still at large, and whilst we guard our hostage securely, he is bound to fall into our hands. I, still at large, she retorted with impulsive defiance, think you that all your boats and bars, the ingenuity of yourself and your colleagues, the collaboration of the devil himself would succeed in outwitting the Scarlet Pimpinel, now that his purpose will be to try to drag me from out of your clutches. She felt hopeful and proud. Now that she had the pure air of heaven in her lungs, that from afar she could smell the sea, and could feel that perhaps in a straight line of vision from where she stood, the daydream with supercy on board might be lying out there in the roads, it seemed impossible that he should fail in freeing her in those poor people, an old man and two children whose lives depended on her own. But Chauvelin only laughed a dry, sarcastic laugh, and said, hmm, perhaps not. It of course will depend on you and your personality, your feelings in such matters, and whether an English gentleman likes to save his own skin at the expense of others. Ah, I see, resumed Chauvelin quietly, that your ladyship has not quite grasped the position. That public cryer is a long way off. The words have lingered on the evening breeze, and have failed to reach your brain. Do you suppose that I and my colleagues do not know that all the ingenuity of which the Scarlet Pimpinel is capable, will now be directed in piloting Lady Blakeney, and incidentally the Abe Fouquet, with his nephew and niece, safely across the channel? Four people? Bah! A bagatelle for this mighty conspirator, who but lately snatched twenty aristocrats from the prisons of Lyon? Nay, nay. Two children and an old man were not enough to guard our precious hostage, and I was not thinking of either the Abe Fouquet, or of the two children, when I said that an English gentleman would not save himself at the expense of others. Of whom are you then thinking, Mr. Chauvelin? Whom else have you set to guard the prize which you value so highly? The whole city of Boulogne, he replied simply. I do not understand. Let me make my point clear. My colleague, citizen Golo Derbois, rode over from Paris yesterday. Like myself, he is a member of the Committee of Public Safety, whose duty it is to look after the welfare of France by punishing all those who conspire against her laws and the liberties of the people. Chief among these conspirators, whom it is our duty to punish, is, of course, that impudent adventurer who calls himself the Scarlet Pimpinel. He has given the Government of France a great deal of trouble through his attempts, mostly successful, as I have already admitted, at frustrating the just vengeance which in oppressed country has the right to wreak on those who have proved themselves to be tyrants and traitors. Is it necessary to recapitulate all this, Mr. Chauvelin? she asked impatiently. I think so, who replied blandly. You see, my point is this. We feel that in a measure now the Scarlet Pimpinel is in our power. Within the next few hours he will land at Boulogne. Boulogne, where he has agreed to fight a duel with me, Boulogne, where Lady Blakeney happens to be at this present moment. As you see, Boulogne has a great responsibility to bear. Just now she is to a certain extent the proudest city in France, since she holds within her gates a hostage for the appearance on our shores of her country's most bitter enemy. But she must not fall from that high estate. Her double duty is clear before her. She must guard Lady Blakeney and capture the Scarlet Pimpinel. If she fail in the former she must be punished. If she succeed in the latter she shall be rewarded. He paused and leaned out of the window again, whilst she watched him, breathless and terrified. She was beginning to understand. Huck! he said, looking straight at her. Do you hear the cryer now? He is proclaiming the punishment and the reward. He is making it clear to the citizens of Boulogne that on the day when the Scarlet Pimpinel falls into the hands of the Committee of Public Safety, a general amnesty will be granted to all natives of Boulogne who are under arrest at the present time, and a free pardon to all those who, born within these city walls, are to-day under sentence of death. A noble reward, eh? Well deserved, you'll admit. Should you wonder, then, if the whole town of Boulogne were engaged just now in finding that mysterious hero and delivering him into our hands? How many mothers, sisters, wives think you at the present moment would fail to lay hands on the English adventurer if a husband's or a son's life or freedom happened to be at stake? I have some records there," he continued, pointing in the direction of the table, which tell me that there are five and thirty natives of Boulogne in the local prisons, a dozen more in the prisons of Paris. Of these, at least twenty have been tried already and are condemned to death. Every hour that the Scarlet Pimpinel succeeds in evading his captors, so many deaths lie at his door. If he succeeds in once more reaching England safely, three score lives may happen, will be the price of his escape. Nay, but I see your ladyship is shivering with cold," he added, with a dry little laugh. Shall I close the window, or do you wish to hear what punishment will be meted out to Boulogne if on the day that the Scarlet Pimpinel is captured Lady Blakeney happens to have left the shelter of these city walls? I pray you proceed, monsieur," she rejoined with perfect calm. The Committee of Public Safety, he resumed, would look upon this city as a nest of traitors if on the day that the Scarlet Pimpinel becomes our prisoner, Lady Blakeney herself, the wife of that notorious English spy, had already quitted Boulogne. The whole town knows by now that you are in our hands, you, the most precious hostage we can hold for the ultimate capture of the man whom we all fear and attest. Virtually the town crier is at the present moment proclaiming to the inhabitants of this city, we want that man, but we already have his wife, see to it, citizens, that she does not escape. For if she do we shall summarily shoot the breadwinner in every family in the town. A cry of horror escaped Marguerite's parched lips. Are you devils then, all of you? she gasped, that you should think of such things. I, some of us are devils, no doubt, said Chauvelin dryly. But why should you honour us in this case with so flattering an epithet? We are mere men striving to guard our property, and mean no harm to the citizens of Boulogne. We have threatened them, true. But is it not for you and that elusive Pimpinel to see that the threat is never put into execution? You would not do it! She repeated, horror-stricken. Nay, I pray you, fair lady, do not deceive yourself. At present the proclamation sounds like a mere threat, I'll allow, but let me assure you that if we fail to capture the scarlet Pimpinel, and if you on the other hand are spirited out of this fortress by that mysterious adventurer, we shall undoubtedly shoot or guillotine every able-bodied man and woman in this town. He had spoken quietly and emphatically, neither with bombast nor with rage, and Marguerite saw in his face nothing but a calm and ferocious determination—the determination of an entire nation embodied in this one man—to be revenged at any cost. She would not let him see the depth of her despair, nor would she let him read in her face the unutterable hopelessness which filled her soul. It were useless to make an appeal to him. She knew full well that from him she could obtain neither gentleness nor mercy. I hope at last I have made the situation quite clear to your ladyship, he was asking quite pleasantly now. See how easy is your position. You have but to remain quiescent in room number six, and if any chance of escape be offered you ere the scarlet Pimpinel is captured, you need but to think of all the families of Boulogne who would be deprived of their breadwinner, fathers and sons mostly, but there are girls, too, who support their mothers or sisters. The fish curers of Boulogne are mostly women, and there are the net-makers in the seamstresses, all would suffer if your ladyship were no longer to be found in number six room of this ancient fort, whilst all would be included in the amnesty if the scarlet Pimpinel fell into our hands. He gave a low, satisfied chuckle which made Marguerite think of the evil spirits in hell exulting over the torments of unhappy lost souls. I think, Lady Blakeney, he added dryly and making her an ironical bow, that your humble servant hath outwitted the elusive hero at last. Quietly he turned on his heel and went back into the room. It remained motionless beside the open window, where the soft, brine-laden air, the distant murmur of the sea, the occasional cry of a seamew, all seemed to mock her agonizing despair. The voice of the town crier came nearer and nearer now. She could hear the words he spoke quite distinctly, something about amnesty and pardon, the reward for the capture of the scarlet Pimpinel, the lives of men, women, and children in exchange for his. Oh, she knew what all that meant! But Percy would not hesitate one single instant to throw his life into the hands of his enemies in exchange for that of others. Others! Others! Always others! This side that had made her heart ache so often in England, what terrible significance it bore now! And now he would suffer in his heart and in his pride, because of her whom he could not even attempt to save since it would mean the death of others. Of others! Always of others! She wondered if he had already landed in Boulogne. Again she remembered the vision on the landing stage, his massive figure, the glimpse she had of the loved form in the midst of the crowd. The moment he entered the town he would hear the proclamation red. She had posted up no doubt on every public building and realized that she had been foolish enough to follow him, that she was a prisoner, and that he could do nothing to save her. What would he do? Marguerite at the thought instinctively pressed her hands to her heart. The agony of it all had become physically painful. She hoped that perhaps this pain meant approaching death. Oh, how easy would this simple solution be! The moon peered out from beneath the bank of clouds which had obscured her for so long. Smiling, she drew her penciled silver lines along the edge of towers and pinnacles, the frowning befoir in those stony walls which seemed to Marguerite as if they encircled a gigantic graveyard. The town cry had evidently ceased to read the proclamation. One by one the windows in the public square were lighted up from within. The citizens of Boulogne wanted to think over the strange events which had occurred without their knowledge, yet which were apparently to have such direful or joyous consequences for them. A man to be captured, the mysterious English adventurer of whom they had all heard but whom nobody had seen, and a woman, his wife, to be guarded until the man was safely under lock and key. Marguerite felt as if she could almost hear them talking it over, and vowing that she should not escape, and that the scarlet Pimpernel should soon be captured. A gentle wind stirred the old gnarled trees on the southern ramparts, a wind that sounded like the sigh of swiftly dying hope. What could Percy do now? His hands were tired, and he was inevitably destined to endure the awful agony of seeing the woman he loved die a terrible death beside him. Having captured him they would not keep him long, no necessity for a trial, for detention, for formalities of any kind, a summery execution at dawn on the public place, a role of drums, a public holiday to mark the joyful event, and a brave man will have ceased to live. A noble heart have stilled its beatings for ever, whilst a whole nation gloried over the deed. Sleep, citizens of Boulogne, all is still. The night watchman had replaced the town crier. All was quiet within the city walls. The inhabitants could sleep in peace. A beneficent government was wakeful in guarding their rest. But many of the windows of the town remained lighted up, and at a little distance below her, round the corner so that she could not see it, a small crowd must have collected in front of the gateway which led into the courtyard of the Gallole Fort. Marguerite could hear a persistent murmur of voices, mostly angry and threatening, and once there were loud cries of English spies and Alalantairne. The citizens of Boulogne are guarding the treasures of France, commented Chauvelin Dryly, as he laughed again that cruel, mirthless laugh of his. Then she roused herself from her torpor. She did not know how long she had stood beside the open window, but the fear seized her that that man must have seen and gloated over the agony of her mind. She straightened her graceful figure, threw back her proud head defiantly, and quietly walked up to the table where Chauvelin seemed once more absorbed in the perusal of his papers. "'Is this interview over?' she asked quietly, and without the slightest tremor in her voice. May I go now?' "'As soon as you wish,' he replied with gentle irony. He regarded her with obvious delight, for truly she was beautiful, grand in this attitude of defiant despair. The man who had spent the last half-hour in martyrising her, gloried over the misery which he had wrought, and which all her strength of will could not entirely banish from her face. "'Will you believe me,' Lady Blakeney, he added, that there is no personal animosity in my heart towards you or your husband? Have I not told you that I do not wish to compass his death? Yet you propose to send him to the guillotine as soon as you have laid hands on him. I have explained to you the measures which I have taken in order to make sure that we do lay hands on the Scarlet Pimpinel. Once he is in our power, it will rest with him to walk to the guillotine, or to embark with you on board his yacht. You propose to place an alternative before Sir Percy Blakeney? Certainly. To offer him his life, and that of his charming wife. In exchange for what? His honour. He will refuse, monsieur. We shall see." Then he touched a hand-bell which stood on the table, and within a few seconds the door was opened, and the soldier who had led Marguerite Hither re-entered the room. The interview was at an end. It had served its purpose. Marguerite knew now that she must not even think of escape for herself, or hope for safety for the man she loved. Of Chauvalan's talk of a bargain which would touch Percy's honour, she would not even think, and she was too proud to ask anything further from him. Chauvalan stood up and made her a deep bow as she crossed the room and finally went out of the door. The little company of soldiers closed in around her, and she was once more led along the dark passages back to her own prison cell. CHAPTER XXIV Colleagues As soon as the door had closed behind Marguerite there came from somewhere in the room the sound of a yawn, a grunt, and a volley of oaths. The flickering light of the tallow candles had failed to penetrate into all the corners, and now from out one of these dark depths a certain something began to detach itself and to move forward towards the table at which Chauvalan had once more resumed his seat. As the damned aristocrat gone at last, queried a hoarse voice, as a burly body clad in loose-fitting coat and mud-stained boots and britches appeared within the narrow circle of light. Yes, replied Chauvalan curtly, and a cursed long time you have been with the baggage, grunted the other surly. The five minutes and I'd have taken the matter in my own hands. An assumption of authority, commented Chauvalan quietly, to which your position here does not entitle you, citizen Collo. Collo Derbois lounged lazily forward and presently he threw his ill-knit figure into the chair lately vacated by Marguerite. His heavy, square face bore distinct traces of the fatigue endured in the past twenty-four hours on horseback or in jolting market wagons. His temper, too, appeared to have suffered on the way, and that Chauvalan's curt and dictatorial replies he looked as surly as a chained dog. He were wasting your breath over that woman, he muttered, bringing a large and grimy fist heavily down on the table, and your measures are not quite so sound as you fondly imagine, citizen Chauvalan. They were mostly of your imagining, citizen Collo, rejoined the other quietly, and of your suggestion. I added a touch of strength and determination to your mild milk and water notion, citizen, snarled Collo spitefully. I'd have knocked that intriguing woman's brains out at the very first possible opportunity had I been consulted earlier than this. Quite regardless of the fact that such violent measures would completely dam all our chances of success as far as the capture of the scarlet pimpin'el is concerned, remarked Chauvalan dryly, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. Once his wife is dead the Englishman will never run his head into the noose which I have so carefully prepared for him. So you say, Chauvalan, and therefore I suggest to you certain measures to prevent the woman escaping, which you will find adequate, I hope. You need have no fear, citizen Collo," said Chauvalan curtly. This woman will make no attempt to escape now. If she does, and Collo d'Herbois swore an obscene oath, I think she understands that we mean to put our threat in execution. Threat! It was no empty threat, citizen, Sacred Donner, if that woman escapes now by all the devils in hell I swear that I'll wield the guillotine myself and cut off the head of every able-bodied man or woman in boulogne with my own hands. As he said this, his face assumed such an expression of inhuman cruelty, such a desire to kill, such a savage lust for blood that instinctively Chauvalan shuddered and shrank away from his colleague. All through his career there is no doubt that this man, who was of gentle birth, of gentle breeding, and who had once been called Monsieur le Marquis de Chauvalan, must have suffered in his susceptibilities and in his pride when in contact with the revolutionaries with whom he had chosen to cast his lot. He could not have thrown off all his old ideas of refinement quite so easily as to feel happy in the presence of such menace Collo d'Herbois or Marais in his day, men who had become brute beasts, more ferocious far than any wild animal, more scientifically cruel than any feline, prowlering jungle or desert. One look and Collo's distorted face was sufficient at this moment to convince Chauvalan that it were useless for him to view the proclamation against the citizens of Boulogne merely as an idle threat, even if he had wished to do so. That Marguerite would not, under the circumstances, attempt to escape, that Sir Percy Blakeney himself would be forced to give up all thoughts of rescuing her was a foregone conclusion in Chauvalan's mind. But if this high-born English gentleman had not happened to be the selfless hero that he was, if Marguerite Blakeney were cast in a different, a rougher mind, if, in short, the scarlet pimpinel in the face of the proclamation did succeed in dragging his wife out of the clutches of the terrorists, then it was equally certain that Collo de Herbois would carry out his rabid and cruel reprisals to the full. And if in the course of the wholesale buttery of the able, bodied, and wage-earning inhabitants of Boulogne, the headsmen should sink worn out, then would this ferocious sucker of blood put his own hand to the guillotine, with the same joy and lust which he had felt when he ordered one hundred and thirty-eight women of Nantes to be stripped naked by the soldiery before they were flung helter-skelter into the river. A touch of strength and determination. Aye. Citizen Collo de Herbois had plenty of that. Was it he, au carrière, who had a rare commandant mother's to stand by while their children were being guillotined? And surely it was Meignet, Collo's friend and colleague, who had been one, because the red flag of the republic had been mysteriously torn down overnight, burned the entire little village down to the last hovel, and guillotined every one of the three hundred and fifty inhabitants. And Chauvelin knew all that, nay more, he was himself a member of that so-called government which had countenanced these butcheries by giving unlimited powers to men like Collo, like Meignet and Carrière. He was at one with them in their republican ideas, and he believed in the regeneration and the purification of France through the medium of the guillotine, but he propounded his theories and carried out his most bloodthirsty schemes with physically clean hands, and in an immaculately cut coat. Even now, when Collo d'Arboire lounged before him, with mud bespattered legs stretched out before him, with dubious linen at neck and wrists, and an odor of ranked tobacco in stale, cheap wine pervading his whole personality, the more fastidious man of the world who had consorted with the dandies of London and Brighton, winced at the enforced proximity. But it was the joint characteristic of all these men who had turned France into a vast butchery and charnel-house, that they all feared and hated one another, even more wholeheartedly, than they hated the aristocrats and so-called traitors whom they sent to the guillotine. Citizen Leban is said to have dipped his sword into the blood which flowed from the guillotine whilst exclaiming, Comme je l'aime ce sangoule de traitres. But he and Collo and Danton and Robespierre, all of them, in fact, would have regarded with more delight still the blood of any one of their colleagues. At this very moment, Collo d'Arboire Chauvelin would with utmost satisfaction have denounced one the other to the tender mercies of the public prosecutor. Collo made no secret of his hatred for Chauvelin, and the latter disguised it but thinly under the veneer of contemptuous indifference. As for that damned Englishman, added Collo now after a slight pause, and with another savage oath, if it is my good fortune to lay hands on him, I would shoot him then and there like a mad dog and rid France once and for ever of this accursed spy. And think you, Citizen Collo, rejoined Chauvelin with a shrug of the shoulders, that France would be rid of all English adventurers by the summery death of this one man. He is a ring-leader at any rate, and has at least nineteen disciples to continue his traditions of conspiracy and intrigue. None perhaps so ingenious as himself, none with the same daring and good luck perhaps, but still a number of ardent fools only too ready to follow in the footsteps of their chief. Then there's the halo of martyrdom around the murdered hero, the enthusiasm created by his noble death. Nay, nay, Citizen, you have not lived among these English people. You do not understand them, or you would not talk of sending their popular hero to an honoured grave. But Collo Derbois only shook his powerful frame like a big, sulky dog, and spat upon the floor to express his contempt of this wild talk, which seemed to have no real tangible purpose. You have not caught your scarlet Pimpinale yet, Citizen, he said with a snort. No, but I will, after sundown to-morrow. How do you know? I have ordered the Angelus to be rung at one of the closed churches, and he agreed to fight a duel with me on the southern ramparts at that hour and on that day, said Chauvelin simply. You take him for a fool, snured Collo? No, only for a foolhardy adventurer. You imagine that with his wife as hostage in our hands, and the whole city of Boulogne on the lookout for him for the sake of the amnesty, that the man would be fool enough to walk on those ramparts at a given hour for the express purpose of getting himself caught by you and your men? I am quite sure that if we do not lay hands on him before that given hour, that he will be on the ramparts at the Angelus to-morrow, said Chauvelin emphatically. Collo shrugged his broad shoulders. It's the man mad, he asked with an incredulous laugh. Yes, I think so, rejoined the other with a smile. And have encored your hair, queried Collo, had you proposed to cook him. Twelve picked men will be on the ramparts ready to cease him the moment he appears, and to shoot him at sight, I hope. Only as a last resource, for the Englishman is powerful, and may cause our half-famished men a good deal of trouble, but I want him alive if possible. Why? A dead lion is safer than a live one any day. Oh! We'll kill him right enough, citizen. I pray you have no fear. I hold a weapon ready for that meddlesome scarlet pimpanel, which will be a thousand times more deadly and more effectual than a chance shot, or even a guillotine. What weapon is that, citizen Chauvelin? Chauvelin leaned forward across the table, and rested his chin in his hands. Instinctively Collo too leaned towards him, and both men peered furtively round them as if wondering if prying eyes happened to be lurking round. It was Chauvelin's pale eyes, which now gleamed with hatred, and with an insatiable lust for revenge, at least as powerful as Collo's lust for blood. The unsteady light of the tallow candles threw grotesque shadows across his brows, and his mouth was set in such rigid lines of implacable cruelty that the brutish shot beside him gazed on him amazed, vaguely senting here a depth of feeling which was beyond his power to comprehend. He repeated his question under his breath. What weapon do you mean to use against that accursed spy, citizen Chauvelin? Dishonour and ridicule replied the other quietly. Va! In exchange for his life and that of his wife. As the woman told you just now, he will refuse. We shall see, citizen. You are mad to think such things, citizen, and ill serve the Republic by sparing her bitterest foe. A long, sarcastic laugh broke from Chauvelin's parted lips. Spare him! Spare the scarlet pimpenel! he ejaculated. Nay, citizen, you need have no fear of that. But believe me, I have schemes in my head by which the man whom we all hate will be more truly destroyed than your guillotine could ever accomplish. Schemes whereby the hero, who is now worshipped in England as a demigod, will suddenly become an object of loathing and of contempt. Ah! I see you understand me now. I wish to so cover him with ridicule that the very name of the small wayside flower will become a turn of derision and of scorn. Only then shall we be rid of these pestilential English spies. Only then will the entire league of the scarlet pimpenel become a thing of the past when its Willem leader, now thought akin to a god, will have found refuge in a suicide's grave from the withering contempt of the entire world. Chauvelin had spoken low, hardly above a whisper, and the echo of his last words died away in the great, squalid room like a long drawn-out sigh. There was dead silence for a while save for the murmur of the wind outside, and from the floor above the measured tread of the sentinel guarding the precious hostage in number six. Both men were staring straight in front of them. Claude Arbois, incredulous, half-contemptuous, did not altogether approve of these schemes which seemed to him wild and uncanny. He liked the direct simplicity of a summary trial, of the guillotine, or of his own well-stage-managed noyade. He did not feel that any ridicule or dishonour would necessarily paralyse a man in his efforts at intrigue, and would have liked to set Chauvelin's authority aside to behead the woman upstairs, and then to take his chances of capturing the man later on. Throughout the orders of the Committee of Public Safety had been peremptory. He was to be Chauvelin's help, not his master, and to obey in all things. He did not dare take any initiative in the matter, for in that case, if he failed, the reprisals against him would indeed be terrible. He was fairly satisfied now that Chauvelin had accepted his suggestion of summarily sending to the guillotine one member of every family resident in Boulogne, if Marguerite succeeded in affecting an escape, and of a truth Chauvelin had hailed the fiendish suggestion with delight. The old Abbe, with his nephew and niece, were undoubtedly not sufficient deterrence against the daring schemes of the scarlet pimpinel, who, as a matter of fact, could spirit them out of Boulogne just as easily as he would his own wife. Colos' plan tied Marguerite to her own prison cell more completely than any other measure could have done, more so indeed than the originator thereof knew or believed. A man like this Derbois, born in the gutter, imbued with every brutish tradition which generations of jail-birds had bequeathed to him, would not perhaps fully realize the fact that neither Supercy nor Marguerite Blakeney would ever save themselves at the expense of others. He had merely made the suggestion because he felt that Chauvelin's plans were complicated and obscure, and above all insufficient, and that perhaps after all the English adventurer and his wife would succeed in once more outwitting him, when there would remain the grand and bloody compensation of a wholesale buterie in Boulogne. But Chauvelin was quite satisfied. He knew that under present circumstances neither Supercy nor Marguerite would make any attempt to escape. The ex-ambassador had lived in England. He understood the class to which these two belonged, and was quite convinced that no attempt would be made on either side to get Lady Blakeney away whilst the present ferocious order against the breadwinner of every family in the town held good. Aye! The measures were sound enough. Chauvelin was easing his mind about that. In another twenty-four hours he would hold the man completely in his power, who had so boldly outwitted him last year. Tonight he would sleep in peace. An entire city was guarding the precious hostage. We'll go to bed now, citizen, he said to Colour, who, tired and sulky, was moodly fingering the papers on the table. The scraping sound which he made thereby grated on Chauvelin's overstrung nerves. He wanted to be alone, and the sleepy brute's presence he had jarred on his own solemn mood. To his satisfaction, Colour grunted a surly assent. Very leisurely he rose from his chair, stretched out his loose limbs, shook himself like a shaggy cur, and without uttering another word he gave his colleague a curt nod, and slowly lounged out of the room. CHAPTER XXV The Unexpected Chauvelin heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction when Colauder Bois finally left him to himself. He listened for a while until the heavy footsteps died away in the distance, then, leaning back in his chair, he gave himself over to the delights of the present situation. Marguerite in his power, Sir Percy Blakeney compelled to treat for her rescue if he did not wish to see her die a miserable death. Ah! my elusive hero! he muttered to himself. Me thinks that we shall be able to cry quits at last. Outside everything had become still. Even the wind in the trees out there on the ramparts had ceased to their melancholy moaning. The man was alone with his thoughts. He felt secure and at peace, sure of victory, content to await the events of the next twenty-four hours. The other side of the door, the guard which he had picked out from amongst the more feeble and ill-fed garrison of the little city for attendance on his own person, were ranged ready to respond to his call. Dishonored and ridiculed, derision and scorn, he murmured, gloating over the very sound of these words which expressed all that he hoped to accomplish, utter objections, than perhaps a suicide's grave. He loved the silence around him, for he could murmur these words and hear them echoing against the bare stone walls like the whisperings of all the spirits of hate which were waiting to lend him their aid. How long he had remained thus absorbed in his meditations he could not afterwards have said—a minute or two, perhaps at most—whilst he leaned back in his chair with eyes closed, savouring the sweets of his own thoughts. When suddenly the silence was interrupted by a loud and pleasant laugh and a drawly voice speaking in merry accents, —'But, lad, love you, monsieur Chrobertin, and pray, how do you propose to accomplish all these pleasant things?' In a moment Chrovelin was on his feet and with eyes dilated, lips parted and awed bewilderment. He was gazing towards the open window, where a stride upon the hill, one leg inside the room, the other out, and with the moon shining full on his suit of delicate-coloured cloth, his wide-caped coat and elegant chapeau bras, sat the imperturbable super-scene. —'I heard you muttering such pleasant words, monsieur,' continued Blakeney calmly. —'That the temptation sees me to join in the conversation. A man talking to himself is ever in a sorry plight. He is either a madman or a fool.' He laughed his own quaint and inane laugh, and added apologetically,—'Far be it from me, sir, to apply either epithet to you. —'Dem'd bad form, calling another fellow names, just when he does not quite feel himself, eh? —'You don't quite feel yourself, I fancy just now.' —'Aim, monsieur Choborin, beg your pardon, Chrovelin?' He sat there quite comfortably, once lend a hand resting on the gracefully fashioned hilt of his sword, the sword of Lorenzo Cenci, the other holding up the gold-rimmed eyeglass through which he was regarding his avowed enemy. He was dressed as for a ball, and his perpetually amiable smile lurked round the corners of his firm lips. Choborin had undoubtedly, for the moment, lost his presence of mind. He did not even think of calling to his picked guard, so completely taken aback was he by this unforeseen move on the part of Cipersi. Yet obviously he should have been ready for this eventuality. Had he not caused the town crier to loudly proclaim throughout the city that if one female prisoner escaped from Fort Gaiol the entire abled-bodied population of Boulogne would suffer. The moment Cipersi entered the gates of the town he could not help but hear the proclamation, and here at the same time that this one female prisoner who was so precious a charge was the wife of the English spy, the Scarlet Pimpanel. Moreover, was it not a fact that whenever or wherever the Scarlet Pimpanel was least expected there and then would he surely appear? Having once realized that it was his wife who was incarcerated in Fort Gaiol, was it not natural that he would go and prowl round the prison and along the avenue on the summit of the southern ramparts which was accessible to every passer-by? No doubt he had lain in hiding among the trees, had perhaps caught snatches of Chauvelin's recent talk with Collin. Ha-ha! It was all so natural, so simple, strange that it should have been so unexpected. Furious at himself for his momentary stupor he now made a vigorous effort to face his impudent enemy with the same sang-foile of which the latter had so inexhaustible a fund. He walked quietly towards the window, compelling his nerves to perfect calm and his mood to indifference. The situation had ceased to astonish him. Already his keen mind had seen its possibilities, its grimness and its humour, and he was quite prepared to enjoy these to the full. So Percy now was dusting the sleeve of his coat with a lace-edged handkerchief, but just as Chauvelin was about to come near him, he stretched out one leg, turning the point of a dainty boot towards the ex-ambassador. Would you like to take hold of me by the leg, Mr. Chauvelin? He said gaily. It is more effectual than a shoulder, and your picked guard of six stalwart fellows can have the other leg. Nay, I pray you, sir, do not look at me like that. I vow that it is myself and not my ghost. But if you still doubt me, I pray you call the guard, ere I fly out again towards that fitful moon. Nay, sir Percy," said Chauvelin, with a steady voice, I have no thought that you will take flight just yet. Me thinks you desire conversation with me, or you had not paid me so unexpected a visit. Nay, sir, the air is too oppressive for lengthy conversation. I was strolling along these ramparts, thinking about pleasant encounter at the hour of the Antelus to-morrow, when this light attracted me, feared I had lost my way and climbed the window to obtain information. As to your way to the nearest prison cell, sir Percy, queried Chauvelin dryly, as to anywhere, where I could sit more comfortably than on this damned sill, it must be very dusty, and I vowed it terribly hard. I presume, sir Percy, that you did my colleague and myself the honour of listening to our conversation, and you desire to talk secrets, monsieur Chauvelin, you should have shut this window, and closed this avenue of trees against the chance pass by. What we said was no secret, sir Percy. It is all over the town tonight. Quite so. You were only telling the devil your mind, eh? I had also been having conversation with Lady Blakene. Pray did you hear any of that, sir? But sir Percy had evidently not heard the question, for he seemed quite absorbed in the task of removing a speck of dust from his immaculate chapeau bras. These hats are all the rage in England just now, he said, eerily. But they have had their day. Do you not think so, monsieur? When I return to town, I shall have to devote my whole mind to the invention of a new headgear. When will you return to England, sir Percy? queried Chauvelin with good-natured sarcasm. At the turn of the tide to Murrow Eve, monsieur, replied Blakene. In company with Lady Blakene? Certainly, sir. And yours, if you will honour us with your company. If you return to England to Murrow, sir Percy, Lady Blakene, I fear me, cannot accompany you. You astonish me, sir, rejoined Blakene, with an exclamation of genuine and unaffected surprise. I wonder now what would prevent her. All those whose death would be the result of her flight, if she succeeded in escaping from Boulogne. But sir Percy was staring at him, with wide-open eyes expressive of utmost amazement. Dear, dear, dear, lad, but that sounds most unfortunate. You have not heard of the measures which I have taken to prevent Lady Blakene quitting the city without our leave? No, monsieur Schrobertin, no, I have heard nothing, rejoined sir Percy blandly. I lead a very retired life when I come abroad, and would you wish to hear them now? Quite unnecessary, sir, I assure you, and the hour is getting late. Sir Percy, are you aware of the fact that unless you listen to what I have to say, your wife will be dragged before the Committee of Public Safety in Paris within the next twenty-four hours? said Chauvelin firmly. What swift horses you must have, sir! Quoth Blakene pleasantly, lad, to think of it. I always hurt that these damned French horses would never beat ours cross-country. But Chauvelin now would not allow himself to be ruffled by Sir Percy's apparent indifference. Keen reader of emotions as he was, he had not failed to know the distinct change in the drawly voice, a sound of something hard and trenchant in the flippant laugh, ever since Marguerite's name was first mentioned. Blakene's attitude was apparently as careless, as audacious as before, but Chauvelin's keen eyes had not missed the almost imperceptible tightening of the jaw, and the rapid clenching of one hand on the sword-hilt, even whilst the other toyed in graceful idleness with the filmy mechelon lace cravat. Sir Percy's head was well thrown back, and the pale rays of the moon caught the edge of the clear-cut profile, the low massive brow, the drooping lids through which the audacious plotter was lazily regarding the man, who held not only his own life, but that of the woman who was infinitely dear to him in the hollow of his hand. I am afraid, Sir Percy," continued Chauvelin, dryly, that you are under the impression that bolts and bars will yield your usual good luck, now that so precious a life is at stake as that of Lady Blakeney. I am a great believer in impressions, Mr. Chauvelin. I told her just now, that if she quitted Boulogne, ere the scarlet pimpenel is in our hands, we should summarily shoot one member of every family in the town, the breadwinner. A pleasant conceit, monsieur, and one that does infinite credit to your inventive faculties. Lady Blakeney, therefore, we hold safely enough," continued Chauvelin, who no longer heeded the mocking observations of his enemy. As for the scarlet pimpenel, you have but to ring a bell to raise a voice, and he, too, will be under lock and key within the next two minutes, eh? Vassal, monsieur. You are dying to say something further. I pray you proceed. Your engaging countenance is becoming quite interesting in its seriousness. What I wish to say to you, Sir Percy, is in the nature of a proposed bargain. Indeed. Monsieur, you are full of surprises, like a pretty woman. And pray, what are the terms of this proposed bargain? Your side of the bargain, Sir Percy, or mine? Which will you hear first? Oh, yours, monsieur, yours, I pray you. Have I not said that you are like a pretty woman? Bless or damn, sir, always. My share of the bargain, sir, is simple enough. Lady Blakeney, escorted by yourself and any of your friends who might be in this city at the time, shall leave Boulogne to harbour at sunset to-morrow, free and unmolested, if you, on the other hand, will do your share. I don't know yet what my share in this interesting bargain is to be, sir, but for the sake of argument let us suppose that I do not carry it out, what then? Then, Sir Percy, putting aside for the moment the question of the Scarlet Pimpinel altogether, then Lady Blakeney will be taken to Paris, and will be incarcerated in the prison of the temple, lately vacated by Marie Antoinette. There she will be treated in exactly the same way as the ex-queen is now being treated in the Conciergerie. Do you know what that means, Sir Percy? It does not mean a summery trial and a speedy death with the halo and glory of Martyrdom thrown in. It means days, weeks, nay, months, perhaps, of misery and humiliation. It means that, like Marie Antoinette, she will never be allowed solitude for one single instant of the day or night. It means the constant proximity of soldiers, drunk with cruelty and with hate, the insults, the shame. You hound! You dog! You cur! Do you not see that I must strangle you for this?" The attack had been so sudden and so violent that Chauvelin had not the time to utter the slightest call for help. But a second ago Sir Percy Blakeney had been sitting on the windowsill, outwardly listening with perfect calm to what his enemy had to say. Now he was at the latter's throat, pressing with long and slender hands the breath out of the Frenchman's body, his usually placid face distorted into a mask of hate. You cur! You cur! he repeated. Am I to kill you or will you unsay those words? Then he suddenly relaxed his grip. The habits of a lifetime would not be game-said even now. A second ago his face had been livid with rage and hate. Now a quick flush overspread it, as if he were ashamed of this loss of self-control. He threw the little Frenchman away from him like he would a beast which had snarled and passed his hand across his brow. "'Lud, forgive me,' he said quaintly. I had almost lost my temper. The Frenchman was not slow in recovering himself. He was plucky and alert, and his hatred for this man was so great that he had actually ceased to fear him. Now he quietly readjusted his cravat, made a vigorous effort to reconquer his breath, and said firmly, as soon as you could contrive to speak at all, "'And if you did strangle me, Sir Percy, you would do yourself no good. The fate which I have mapped out for Lady Blakeney would then irrevocably be hers, for she is in our power, and none of my colleagues are disposed to offer you a means of saving her from it, as I am ready to do.' Blakeney was now standing in the middle of the room, with his hands buried in the pockets of his breeches, his manner and attitude once more calm, debonair, expressive of lofty self-possession and of absolute indifference. He came quite close to the meagre little figure of his exultant enemy, thereby forcing the latter to look up at him. "'Oh, ah, yes,' he said airily, "'I had nigh forgotten. You were talking of a bargain, my share of it, eh? Is it me you want? Do you wish to see me in your Paris prison? I assure you, sir, that the propinquity of drunken soldiers may disgust me, but it would in no way disturb the equanimity of my temper. "'I am quite sure of that, Sir Percy, and I can but repeat what I had the honour of saying to Lady Blakeney just now. I do not desire the death of so accomplished a gentleman as yourself.' "'Strange, monsieur,' retorted Blakeney, with the return of his accustomed flippancy, "'Now I do desire your death very strongly, indeed. There would be so much less vermin on the face of the earth. But pardon me, I was interrupting you. Will you be so kindest to proceed?' Chauvelin had not winced at the insult. His enemy's attitude now left him completely indifferent. He had seen that self-possessed man of the world, that dainty and fastidious dandy, in the throes of an over-mustering passion. He had very nearly paid with his life for the joy of having roused that supercilious endormant lion. In fact, he was ready to welcome any insults from Sir Percy Blakeney now, since these would be only additional evidences that the Englishman's temper was not yet under control. "'I will try to be brief,' Sir Percy,' he said, setting himself the task of imitating his antagonists' affected manner. "'Will you not sit down? We must try and discuss these matters like two men of the world. As for me, I am always happiest beside a board littered with papers. I am not an athlete, Sir Percy, and serve my country with my pen, rather than with my fists.' Whilst he spoke, he had reached the table, and once more took the chair whereon he had been sitting lately, when he dreamed the dreams which were so near realisation now. He pointed with a graceful gesture to the other vacant chair which Blakeney took without a word. "'Ah!' said Chauvelin, with a sigh of satisfaction, I see that we are about to understand one another. I have always felt it was a pity, Sir Percy, that you and I could not discuss certain matters pleasantly with one another. Now, about this unfortunate incident of Lady Blakeney's incarceration, I would like you to believe that I had no part in the arrangements which have been made for her detention in Paris. My colleagues have arranged it all. And I have vainly tried to protest against the rigorous measures which are to be enforced against her in the temple prison. But these are answering so completely in the case of the ex-queen. They have so completely broken her spirit and her pride that my colleagues felt that they would prove equally useful in order to bring the scarlet pimponel through his wife to an humbler frame of mind. He paused a moment, distinctly pleased with his peroration, satisfied that his voice had been without a tremor and his face impassive, and wondering what effect this somewhat lengthy preamble had upon Sir Percy, who through it all had remained singularly quiet. Chauvelin was preparing himself for the next effect which he hoped to produce, and was vaguely seeking for the best words with which to fully express his meaning, and he was suddenly startled by a sound as unexpected as it was disconcerting. It was the sound of a loud and prolonged snore. He pushed the candle aside which somewhat obstructed his line of vision, and casting a rapid glance at the enemy with whose life he was toying, even as a cat doth with that of a mouse, he saw that the aforesaid mouse was calmly and unmistakably asleep. An impatient oaf escaped Chauvelin's lips, and he brought his fist heavily down on the table, making the metal candlesticks rattle and causing Sir Percy to open one sleepy eye. "'A thousand pardons, sir,' said Blakeney, with a slight yawn, "'I am so damned fatigued, and your preface was unduly long. Be sleep-ad-form, I know, going to sleep during a sermon, but I haven't had a wink of sleep all day. I pray you to excuse me.' "'Will you condescend to listen, Sir Percy,' queried Chauvelin, prempterily, "'or shall I call the guard and give up all thoughts of treating with you?' "'Just whichever you deem'd well prefer, sir,' rejoined Blakeney impatiently. And once more, stretching out his long limbs, he buried his hands in the pockets of his britches, and apparently prepared himself for another quiet sleep. Chauvelin looked at him for a moment, vaguely wondering what to do next. He felt strangely irritated at what he firmly believed was mere affectation on Blakeney's part, and although he was burning with impatience to place the terms of the proposed bargain before this man, yet he would have preferred to be interrogated, to deliver his either or with becoming sternness and decision, rather than to take the initiative in this discussion, where he should have been calm and indifferent, whilst his enemy should have been nervous and disturbed. Sir Percy's attitude had disconcerted him. A touch of the grotesque had been given to what should have been a tense moment, and it was terribly galling to the pride of the ex-diplomatist, that with this elusive enemy and in spite of his own preparedness for any eventuality, it was invariably the unforeseen that happened. For a moment's reflection, however, he decided upon a fresh course of action. He rose and crossed the room, keeping as much as possible an eye upon Sir Percy, but the latter sat placid in endowment, and evidently in no hurry to move. Chauvelin, having reached the door, opened it noiselessly, and to the sergeant in command of his bodyguard, who stood at attention outside, he whispered hurriedly, the prisoner from number six, that two of the men bring her hither back to me at once. CHAPTER XXVI The Terms of the Bargon Less than three minutes later there came to Chauvelin's expectant ears the soft sound made by a woman's skirts against the stone floor. During those three minutes which had seemed an eternity to his impatience, he had sat silently watching the slumber, affected or real, of his enemy. Directly he heard the word HAUGHT outside the door. He jumped to his feet. The next moment Marguerite had entered the room. Hardly had her foot crossed the threshold and Sir Percy rose, quietly and without haste, but evidently fully awake and turning towards her, made a low obeisance. She poor woman had of course caught sight of him at once. His presence here, Chauvelin's demand for her reappearance, the soldiers in a small compact group outside the door, all these were unmistakable proofs that awful cataclysm had at last occurred. The scarlet pimpenel, Percy Blakeney, her husband, was in the hands of the terrorists of France, and though face to face with her now, with an open window close to him and an apparently helpless enemy under his hand, he could not, owing to the fiendish measures taken by Chauvelin, raise a finger to save himself or her. Mercifully for her, nature, in the face of this appalling tragedy, deprived her of the full measure of her senses. She could move and speak and see. She could hear and in a measure understand what was said, but she was really an automaton or a sleep-walker, moving and speaking mechanically and without due comprehension. Possibly if she had then and there fully realized all that the future meant, she would have gone mad with the horror of it all. Lady Blakeney began Chauvelin after he had quickly dismissed the soldiers from the room. When you and I parted from one another just now, I had no idea that I should so soon have the pleasure of a personal conversation with Sir Percy. There is no occasion yet, believe me, for sorrow or fear. Another twenty-four hours at most, and you will be on board the daydream, outward bound for England. Sir Percy himself might perhaps accompany you. He does not desire that you should journey to Paris, and I may safely say that in his mind he has already accepted certain little conditions which I have been forced to impose upon him ere I sign the order for your absolute release. Conditions? She repeated vaguely and stupidly, looking in bewilderment from one to the other. You are tired, my dear," said Sir Percy quietly. Will you not sit down? He held the chair glantly for her. She tried to read his face, but could not catch even a flash from beneath the heavy lids which obstinately veiled his eyes. Oh! It is a mere matter of exchanging signatures, continued Chauvelin in response to her inquiring glance, and toying with the papers which were scattered on the table. Here you see is the order to allow Sir Percy Blakeney and his wife, Naye Marguerite Saint-Jus, to quit the town of Boulogne, unmolested. He held a paper out towards Marguerite, inviting her to look at it. She caught sight of an official-looking document bearing the motto and seal of the Republic of France, and of her own name and Percy's written thereon in full. It is perfectly ar règle, I assure you, continued Chauvelin, and only awaits my signature. He now took up another paper which looked like a long, closely written letter. Marguerite watched his every movement, for instinct told her that the supreme moment had come. There was a look of almost superhuman cruelty and malice in the little Frenchman's eyes, as he fixed them on the impassive figure of Sir Percy. The while, with slightly trembling hands, he fingered that piece of paper, and smoothed out its creases with loving care. I am quite prepared to sign the order for your release, Lady Blakeney, he said, keeping his gaze still keenly fixed upon Sir Percy. When it is signed, you will understand that our measures against the citizens of Boulogne will no longer hold good, and that on the contrary, the general amnesty and free pardon will come into force. Yes, I understand that, she replied. And all that will come to pass, Lady Blakeney, the moment Sir Percy will write me in his own hand a letter, in accordance with the draft which I have prepared, and sign it with his name. Shall I read it to you? he asked. If you please. You will see how simple it all is. A mere matter of form. I pray you do not look upon it with terror, but only as the prelude to that general amnesty and free pardon, which I feel sure will satisfy the philanthropic heart of the noble scarlet pimpinel, since three score at least of the inhabitants of Boulogne will owe their life and freedom to him. I am listening, monsieur, she said calmly. As I have already had the honour of explaining, this little document is in the form of a letter addressed personally to me, and of course in French, he said, finally, and then looked down on the paper and began to read. Citizen Chauvelin. In consideration of a further sum of one million francs, and on the understanding that this ridiculous charge brought against me of conspiring against the Republic of France is immediately withdrawn, and I am allowed to return to England un molested, I am quite prepared to acquaint you with the names and whereabouts of certain persons who, under the guise of the League of the Scarlet Pimpinel, are even now conspiring to free the woman Marie Antoinette and her son from prison, and to place the latter upon the throne of France. You are quite well aware that under the pretense of being the leader of a gang of English adventurers, who never did the Republic of France send her people any real harm, I have actually been the means of unmasking many a royalist plot before you, and of bringing many persistent conspirators to the guillotine. I am surprised that you should cavill at the price I am asking this time, for the very important information with which I am able to furnish you, whilst you have often paid me similar sums for work which was a great deal less difficult to do. In order to serve your government effectually, both in England and in France, I must have a sufficiency of money to enable me to live in a costly style befitting a gentleman of my rank. Were I to alter my mode of life, I would not continue to mix in that same social milieu to which all my friends belong, and we are in, as you are well aware, most of the royalist plots are hatched. Trusting therefore to receive a favourable reply to my just amounts within the next twenty-four hours, whereupon the names in question shall be furnished you forthwith, I have the honour to remain citizen, your humble and obedient servant. When he had finished reading, Chauvelin quietly folded the paper up again, and then only did he look at the man and the woman before him. Marguerite sat very erect, her head thrown back, her face very pale, and her hands tightly clutched in her lap. She had not stirred whilst Chauvelin read out the infamous document, with which he desired to brand a brave man with the ineradicable stigma of dishonour and of shame. After she heard the first word she looked up swiftly and questioningly at her husband, but he stood at some little distance from her, right out of the flickering circle of yellowish light made by the burning tallow candle. He was as rigid as a statue, standing in his usual attitude with legs apart and hands buried in his bridge's pockets. She could not see his face. Whatever she may have felt with regard to the letter, as the meaning of it gradually penetrated into her brain, she was, of course, convinced of one thing, and that was that never for a moment would Percy dream of purchasing his life or even hers at such a price. But she would have liked some sign from him, some look by which she could be guided as to her immediate conduct. As however he gave neither look nor sign, she preferred to assume an attitude of silent contempt. But even before Chauvelin had had time to look from one face to the other, a prolonged and merry laugh echoed across the squalid room. So Percy, with head thrown back, was laughing wholeheartedly. A magnificent epistle, sir, he said gaily. Love, love you, where did you wield the pen so gracefully? I vow that if I signed this interesting document, no one will believe I could have expressed myself with perfect ease, and in French, too. Nay, sir Percy, rejoin Chauvelin dryly. I have thought of all that, and lest in the future there should be any doubt as to whether your own hand had or had not penned the whole of this letter, I also make it a condition that you write out every word of it yourself, and sign it here in this very room, in the presence of Lady Blakeney, of myself, of my colleagues, and of at least half a dozen other persons whom I will select. It is indeed admirably thought out, monsieur, rejoin Sir Percy, and what is to become of the charming epistle may I ask, after I have written and signed it? Pardon my curiosity, I take a natural interest in the matter, and truly your ingenuity passes belief. Oh! the fate of this letter will be as simple as the writing thereof. A copy of it will be published in our Gazette de Paris, as a bait for enterprising English journalists. They will not be backward in getting hold of so much interesting matter. Can you not see the attractive headlines in the London Gazette, Sir Percy? The League of the Scarlet Pimpinel unmasked, a gigantic hoax, the origin of the Blakeney Millions. I believe that journalism in England has reached a high standard of excellence, and even the Gazette de Paris is greatly read in certain towns of your charming country. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, and various other influential gentlemen in London, will, on the other hand, be granted a private view of the original, through the kind offices of certain devoted friends whom we possess in England. I don't think that you need have any fear, Sir Percy, that your calligraphy will sink into oblivion. It will be our business to see that it obtains the full measure of publicity which it deserves. He paused a moment. Then his manner suddenly changed. The sarcastic tones died out of his voice, and there came back into his face that look of hatred and cruelty which Blakeney's Perseflage had always the power to evoke. You may rest assured of one thing, Sir Percy. He said with a harsh laugh, that enough mud will be thrown at that erstwhile glorious scarlet pimpanel. Some of it will be bound to stick. Nay, Monsieur, read the shrubbit down, quote Blakeney lightly. I have no doubt that you and your colleagues are past masters in the graceful art of mud-throwing. But pardon me. I was interrupting you. Continue, Monsieur. Continue, I pray, upon my honour, the mattress vastly diverting. Nay, Sir. After the publication of this diverting epistle, Missime's Your Honour will cease to be a marketable commodity. Undoubtedly, Sir, rejoin, Sir Percy, apparently quite unruffled. Partness-sip of the tongue. We are so much the creatures of habit. As you were saying. I have but little more to say, Sir. But lest there should be even now lurking in your mind a vague hope that, having written this letter, you could easily in the future deny its authorship, let me tell you this. My measures are well taken. There will be witnesses to your writing of it. You will sit here in this room, unfettered, uncoerced in any way, and the money spoken of in the letter will be handed over to you by my colleague, after a few suitable words spoken by him, and you will take the money from him, Sir Percy, and the witnesses will see you take it, after having seen you write the letter. They will understand that you are being paid by the French government for giving information and end royalist plots in this country and in England. They will understand that your identity as the leader of that so-called band is not only known to me and to my colleague, but that it also covers your real character and profession as the paid spy of France. Marvellous, I call it. Demmed marvellous! Quote Sir Percy Blandly. Chauvelin had paused, half choked by his own emotion, his hatred and prospective revenge. He passed his handkerchief over his forehead, which was streaming with perspiration. Warm work, this sort of thing, eh, monsieur Chaubertin? queried his imperturbable enemy. Marguerite said nothing. The whole thing was too horrible for words. But she kept her large eyes fixed upon her husband's face, waiting for that look, that sign from him which would have eased the agonizing anxiety in her heart, and which never came. With a great effort now Chauvelin pulled himself together, and though his voice still trembled, he managed to speak with a certain amount of calm. Probably, Sir Percy, you know, he said, that throughout the whole of France we are inaugurating a series of national fates in honor of the new religion which the people are about to adopt. Demoiselles de Séracandé, whom you know, will at these festivals impersonate the goddess of reason, the only deity whom we now admit in France. She has been specially chosen for this honor, owing to the services which she has rendered us recently. And as Boulogne happens to be the lucky city in which we have succeeded in bringing the scarlet Pimpernel to justice, the national fate will begin within these city walls, with Demoiselles Candé as the thrice-honored goddess. And you will be very merry here in Boulogne, I dare swear. I, merry, sir, said Chauvelin, with an involuntary and savage snarl, as he placed a long claw-like finger upon the momentous paper before him. Merry! For we here in Boulogne will see that which will fill the heart of every patriot in France with gladness. Nay, it was not the death of the scarlet Pimpernel we wanted, not the noble martyrdom of England's chosen hero, but his humiliation and defeat, derision and scorn, contumely and contempt. You asked me errally just now, Sir Percy, how I propose to accomplish this object. Well, you know it now. By forcing you, I, forcing, to write and sign a letter, and to take money from my hands, which will brand you for ever as a liar and informer, and cover you with the thick and slimy mud of irreclaimable infamy. Lod, sir, said Sir Percy pleasantly, what a wonderful command you have of our language. I wish I could speak French half as well." Marguerite had risen like an automaton from her chair. She felt that she could no longer sit still. She wanted to scream out at the top of her voice—all the horror that she felt for this dastardly plot which surely must have had its origin in the brain of devils. She could not understand, Percy. This was one of those awful moments which she had been destined to experience once or twice before, when the whole personality of her husband seemed to become shadowy before her, to slip as it were past her comprehension, leaving her indescribably lonely and wretched, trusting yet terrified. She thought that long ere this he would have flung back every insult in his opponent's teeth. She did not know what inducements Chauvelin had held out in exchange for the infamous letter, what threats he had used. That her own life and freedom were at stake was, of course, evident, but she cared nothing for life, and he should know that certainly she would care still less if such a price had to be paid for it. She longed to tell him all that was in her heart, longed to tell him how little she valued her life, how highly she prized his honour. But how could she, before this fiend who snarled and sneered in his anticipated triumph, and surely, surely Percy knew? And knowing all that, why did he not speak? Why did he not tear that infamous paper from out of that devil's hands and fling it in his face? Yet though her loving ear caught every intonation of her husband's voice, she could not detect the slightest harshness in his airy laugh. His tone was perfectly natural, and he seemed to be indeed, just as he appeared, vastly amused. Then she thought that perhaps he would wish her to go now, that he felt desire to be alone with this man who had outraged him in everything that he held most holy and most dear, his honour and his wife. That perhaps, knowing that his own temper was no longer under control, he did not wish her to witness the rough and ready chastisement which he was intending to meet out to this dastardly intrigue. Yes. That was it, no doubt. Herein she could not be mistaken. She knew his fastidious notions of what was due and proper in the presence of a woman, and that even at a moment like this, he would wish the manners of London drawing-rooms to govern his every action. Therefore she rose to go, and as she did so, once more tried to read the expression in his face, to guess what was passing in his mind. "'Nay, madam,' he said, whilst he bowed gracefully before her. I fear me this lengthy conversation hath somewhat fatigued you. This merry jest tooks my engaging friend and myself should not have been prolonged so far into the night. Monsieur, I pray you, will you not give orders that her ladyship be escorted back to her room.' He was still standing outside the circle of light, and Marguerite instinctively went up to him. For this one second she was oblivious of Chauvelin's presence. She forgot her well-schooled pride, her firm determination to be silent and to be brave. She could no longer restrain the wild beatings of her heart, the agony of her soul, and with sudden impulse she murmured in a voice broken with intense love and subdued with passionate appeal, pussy. He drew back a step further into the gloom. This made her realize the mistake she had made in allowing her husband's most bitter enemy to get this brief glimpse into her soul. Chauvelin's thin lips curled with satisfaction. The brief glimpse had been sufficient for him. The rapidly whispered name, the broken accent, had told him what he had not known hitherto. Namely, that between this man and woman there was a bond far more powerful than that which usually existed between husband and wife, and merely made up of chivalry on the one side and trustful reliance on the other. Marguerite having realized her mistake, her shame of having betrayed her feelings even for a moment, threw back her proud head and gave her exultant foe a look of defiance and of scorn. He responded with one of pity, not altogether unmixed with deference. There was something almost unearthly and sublime in this beautiful woman's agonizing despair. He lowered his head and made her a deeper basins, lest she should see the satisfaction and triumph which shone through his pity. As usual, Sir Percy remained quite imperturbable, and now it was he who, with characteristic impudence, touched the hand-bell on the table. "'Excuse this intrusion, monsieur,' he said lightly. Her ladyship is over fatigue, and would be best in her room." Marguerite threw him a grateful look. After all, she was only a woman, and was afraid of breaking down. In her mind there was no issue to the present deadlock saving death. For this she was prepared and had but one great hope that she could lie in her husband's arms just once again before she died. Now since she could not speak to him, scarcely dared to look into the loved face, she was quite ready to go. In answer to the bell the soldier had entered. "'If Lady Blakeney desires to go,' said Chauvelin. She nodded, and Chauvelin gave the necessary orders. Two soldiers stood at attention, ready to escort Marguerite back to her prison cell. As she went towards her door she came to within a couple of steps from where her husband was standing, bowing to her as she passed. She stretched out an icy cold hand towards him, and he, in the most approved London fashion, with the courtly grace of a perfect English gentleman, took the little hand in his, and stooping very low, kissed the delicate fingertips. Then only did she notice that the strong, nervy hand which held hers trembled perceptibly, and that his lips, which for an instant rested on her fingers, were burning hot. End of chapter 26