 Book two of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sarah Luann, the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, by Baroness Orksey. Book two, a question of passports. Bibo was very sure of himself. There never was, never had been, there never would be again another such patriotic citizen of the Republic as was Citizen Bibo of the town guard. And because his patriotism was so well known among the members of the Committee of Public Safety, and his uncompromising hatred of the aristocrats so highly appreciated, Citizen Bibo had been given the most important military post within the city of Paris. He was in command of the Porte Montmartre, which goes to prove how highly he was esteemed, for believe me, more treachery had been going on inside and out of the Porte Montmartre than any other quarter of Paris. The last commandant there, Citizen Fernet, was guillotine for having allowed a whole batch of aristocrats, traitors to the Republic all of them, to slip through the Porte Montmartre and find safety outside the walls of Paris. Fernet pleaded in his defence that these traitors had been spirited away from under his very nose by the Devil's agency, for surely that meddlesome Englishman who spent his time in rescuing aristocrats, traitors all of them, from the clutches of Madame La guillotine must either be the Devil himself or, at any rate, one of his most powerful agents. Nom de Dieu, just think of his name, the Scarlet Pimpernel they call him, no one knows him by any other name, and he's pretty naturally tall and strong and superhumanly cunning, and the power which he has of being transmuted into various personalities, rendering himself quite unrecognisable to the eyes of the most sharp-seeing patriot of France, must of surety be a gift of Satan. But the Committee of Public Safety refused to listen to Fernet's explanations. The Scarlet Pimpernel was only an ordinary mortal, an exceedingly cunning and meddlesome personage it is true, and endowed with a superfluity of wealth which enabled him to break the thin crust of patriotism that overlay the natural cupidity of many captains of the town guard, but still an ordinary man for all that. And no true lover of the Republic should allow either superstitious terror or greed to interfere with the discharge of his duties, which, at the Porte Montmartre, consisted in detaining any and every person, aristocrat foreigner or otherwise trader to the Republic, who could not give a satisfactory reason for desiring to leave Paris. Having detained such persons, the Patriot's next duty was to hand them over to the Committee of Public Safety, who would then decide whether Madame La guillotine would have the last word over them or not. And the guillotine did nearly always have the last word to say, unless the Scarlet Pimpernel interfered. The trouble was that the same accursed Englishman interfered at times in a manner which was positively terrifying. His impudence, certé, passed all belief. Stories of his daring and of his impudence were abroad which literally made the lank in greasy hair of every Patriot curl with wonder. It was even whispered, not too loudly forsooth, that certain members of the Committee of Public Safety had measured their skill and valor against that of the Englishman, and emerged from the conflict beaten and humiliated, vowing vengeance which, of a truth, was still slow in coming. Citizen Chauvelin, one of the most implacable and unyielding members of the Committee, was known to have suffered overwhelming shame at the hands of that daring gang, of whom the so-called Scarlet Pimpernel was the accredited chief. Some there were who said that Citizen Chauvelin had forever forfeited his prestige and even endangered his head by measuring his well-known astuteness against that mysterious League of Spies. But then Bebo was different. He feared neither the devil nor any Englishman. Had the latter the strength of giants and the protection of every power of evil, Bebo was ready for him. Nay, he was aching for a tussle, and haunted the Perliots of the Committees to obtain some post which would enable him to come to grips with the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League. Bebo's zeal and perseverance were duly rewarded, and a none he was appointed to the command of the guard at the Port Montmartre. A post of vast importance, as aforesaid, so much so in fact, that no less a person than Citizen Jean-Paul-Maurat himself came to speak with Bebo on that third day of Nouveau's in the year one of the Republic, with a view to impressing upon him the necessity of keeping his eyes open and of suspecting every man, woman, and child indiscriminately until they had proved themselves to be true patriots. Let no one slip through your fingers, Citizen Bebo. Marat admonished with grim earnestness. That accursed Englishman is cunning and resourceful, and his impudence surpasses that of the devil himself. He'd better try some of his impudence on me, commented Bebo with a sneer. He'll soon find out that he no longer has a fornay to deal with. Take it from me, Citizen Marat, that if a batch of aristocrats escape out of Paris within the next few days under the guidance of the Englishman, they will have to find some other way than the Port Montmartre. Well said, Citizen, commented Marat, but be watchful to-night, to-night especially. The scarlet Pimpernel is rampant in Paris just now. How so? The cidavans du and du chest des monthros and the whole of their brood, sisters, brothers, two or three children, a priest, and several servants, around a dozen and all, have been condemned to death. The guillotine for them to-morrow at daybreak, would it could have been to-night? added Marat, whilst a demonical leer contorted his face, which already exuded lust for blood from every pore. Would it could have been to-night? But the guillotine has been busy, over four hundred executions today, and the tumbrels are full, the seats bespoken in advance, and still they come. But to-morrow morning at daybreak, Madame la guillotine will have a word to say to the whole of the Montreux crowd. But they are in the concierge prison, surely, Citizen, out of the reach of that accursed Englishman. They are on their way, and I must say not to the prison at this moment. I came straight on here after the condemnation, to which I listened with true joy. Ah, Citizen Bibo, the blood of these hated aristocrats is good to behold when it drips from the blade of the guillotine. Have a care, Citizen Bibo. Do not let the Montreux crowd escape. Have no fear, Citizen Marat, but surely there is no danger. They have been tried and condemned. They are, as you say, even now on their way, well guarded, I presume, to the concierge prison. Tomorrow at daybreak, the guillotine. What is there to fear? Well, well, said Marat, with a slight tone of hesitation, it is best, Citizen Bibo, to be over-careful these times. Even Wilt Marat spoke, his face, usually so cunning and so vengeful, had suddenly lost its look of devilish cruelty, which was almost superhuman in the excess of its infamy, and a grayish hue, suggestive of terror, had spread over the sunken cheeks. He clutched Bibo's arm, and leaning over the table he whispered in his ear. The public prosecutor had scarce finished his speech today. Judgment was being pronounced. The spectators were expectant and still. Only the Montreux woman and some of the females and children were blubbering and moaning when suddenly it seemed from nowhere a small piece of paper fluttered from out of the assembly and alighted on the desk in front of the public prosecutor. He took the paper up and glanced at its contents. I saw that his cheeks had paled and that his hand trembled as he handed the paper over to me. And what did that paper contain, Citizen Marat? asked Bibo, also speaking in whisper, for an access whose superstitious terror was gripping him by the throat. Just the well-known accursed device, Citizen, the small scarlet flower drawn in red ink, and the few words. Tonight the innocent men and women now condemned by this infamous tribunal will be beyond your reach. And no sign of a messenger? None. And when did— Hush! said Marat prematurely. No more of that now. To your post, Citizen, and remember, all are suspect. Let none escape. The two men had been sitting outside a small tavern opposite the Port Montmartre, with a bottle of wine between them, their elbows resting on the grimy top of a rough wooden table. They had talked in whispers, for even the walls of the tumbledown cabaret might have had ears. Opposite them, the city wall, broken here by the great gate of Montmartre, loomed threateningly in the fast-gathering dusk of this winter's afternoon. Men in ragged red shirts, their unkempt heads crowned with figurine caps and adorned with a tricolour cacade, lounged against the wall, or sat in groups on the top of piles of refuse that littered the street, with a rough deal plank between them and a greasy pack of cards in their grimy fingers. Guns and bayonets were propped against the wall. The gate itself had three means of egress. Each of these was guarded by two men, with fixed bayonets at their shoulders, but otherwise dressed like the others, in rags, with bare legs that looked blue and numb in the cold, the sans culotte of revolutionary Paris. Bibo rose from his seat, nodding to Marat, and joined his men. From afar but gradually drawing nearer came the sound of a rivaled song, with chorus accompaniment sung by throats obviously surfited with liquor. For a moment, as the sound approached, Bibo turned back once more to the friend of the people. Am I to understand, citizen, he said, that my orders are not to let anyone pass through these gates tonight? No, no, citizen, replied Marat. We dare not do that. There are a number of good patriots in the city still. We cannot interfere with their liberty or— and the look of fear of the demagogue, himself afraid of the human whirlpool which he has let loose, stolen to Marat's cruel piercing eyes. No, no, he reiterated more emphatically. We cannot disregard the passports issued by the Committee of Public Safety, but examine each passport carefully, citizen Bibo. If you have any reasonable ground for suspicion, detain the holder, and if you have not— the sound of singing was quite near now. With another wink and a final leer, Marat drew back under the shadow of the cabaret, and Bibo swaggered up to the main entrance of the gate. Kiva-la, he thundered in stentorian tones, as a group of some half-dozen people lurched toward him out of the gloom, still shouting hoarsely at a rival drinking-song. The foremost man in the group paused opposite citizen Bibo, and with arms akimbo and legs planted well apart, tried to assume a rigidity of attitude which apparently was somewhat foreign to him at this moment. Good patriot, citizen, he said in a thick voice which he vainly tried to render steady. What do you want, queried Bibo? To be allowed to go on our way unmolested. What is your way? Through the port Montmartre to the village of Berency. What is your business there? This query delivered in Bibo's most pompous manner seemed vastly to amuse the rowdy crowd. He who was the spokesman turned to his friends and shouted hilariously, Hark at him, citizens! He asked me what is our business. Oh, he, citizen Bibo, since when have you become blind? Adult you've always been, else you would not ask the question. But Bibo, undeterred by the man's drunken insolence, retorted gruffly, Your business, I want to know. Bibo, my little Bibo, could the Bibbulous order now in dulcet tones. Dost not know us, my good Bibo? Let we all know thee, citizen. Captain Bibo of the town guard, eh, citizens? Three cheers for the citizen captain! The noisy shouts and cheers from half a dozen horse-throats had died down. Bibo, without more ado, turned to his own men at the gate. Drive these drunken louts away, he commanded. No one is allowed to loiter here. Loud protest on the part of the hilarious crowd followed, then a slight scuffle with the bayonets of the town guard. Finally the spokesman, somewhat sobered, once more appealed to Bibo. Citizen Bibo, you must be blind not to know me and my mates. And let me tell you that you are doing yourself a deal of harm by interfering with the citizens of the Republic in the proper discharge of their duties, and by disregarding their rights of egress through this gate, a right confirmed by passports signed by two members of the Committee of Public Safety. He had spoken now fairly clearly and very pompously. Bibo, somewhat impressed in remembering Mara's admonitions, said very civilly. Tell me your business, then, Citizen, and show me your passports. If everything is in order, you may go your way. But you know me, Citizen Bibo, queried the other. Yes, I know you, unofficially, Citizen Derrand. You know that I and the citizens here are the carriers for Citizen Legrand, the market gardener of Barency. Yes, I know that, said Bibo, guardedly, unofficially. Then, unofficially, let me tell you, Citizen, that unless we get to Barency this evening, Paris will have to do without cabbages and potatoes tomorrow. So now you know that you are acting at your own risk and peril, Citizen, by detaining us. Your passports, all of you, commanded Bibo. He had just caught sight of Mara still sitting outside the tavern opposite, and was glad enough, in this instance, to shelve his responsibility on the shoulders of the popular friend of the people. There was general searching in ragged pockets for grimy papers with official seals thereon, and Bibo ordered one of his men to take the six passports across the road to Citizen Mara for his inspection. He himself, by the last rays of the setting winter sun, made close examination of the six men who desired to pass through the Port Montmartre. As the spokesmen had averred, he, Bibo, knew every one of these men. They were the carriers to the Citizen Legrand, the Barency market gardener. Bibo knew every face. They passed with a load of fruit and vegetables in and out of Paris every day. There was really an absolutely no cause for suspicion, and when Citizen Mara returned the six passports, pronouncing them to be genuine and recognizing his own signature at the bottom of each, Bibo was at last satisfied, and the six biblious carriers were allowed to pass through the gate, which they did, arm in arm, singing a wild carmagnol, and vociferously cheering as they emerged out into the open. But Bibo passed an unsteady hand over his brow. It was cold, yet he was in a perspiration. That sort of thing tells on a man's nerves. He rejoined Mara at the table outside the drinking-booth and ordered a fresh bottle of wine. The sun had set now, and with the gathering dusk a damp mist descended on Montmartre. From the wall opposite, where men sat playing cards, came occasional volleys of blasphemous oaths. Bibo was feeling much more like himself. He had half forgotten the incident of the six carriers, which had occurred nearly half an hour ago. Two or three people had, in the meantime, tried to pass through the gates, but Bibo had been suspicious and detained them all. Mara, having commended him for his zeal, took final leave of him. Just as the demagogue's louchy, grimy figure was disappearing down a side-streep, there was a loud clatter of hooves from that same direction, and the next moment a detachment of the mounted town guard, headed by an officer in uniform, galloped down the ill-paved street. Even before the troopers had drawn rain, the officer had hailed Bibo. Citizen, he shouted, and his voice was breathless, for he had evidently ridden hard and fast. This messaged to you from the citizen chief commissary of the section. Six men are wanted by the Committee of Public Safety. They are disguised as carriers in the employ of a market gardener, and they have passports for baroncy. The passports are stolen, the men are traitors, escaped aristocrats, and their spokesman is that Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Bibo tried to speak. He tugged at the collar of his ragged shirt. An awful curse escaped him. Ten thousand devils, he roared. On no account allowed these people to go through, continued the officer. Keep their passports, detain them. Understand? Bibo was still gasping for breath, even whilst the officer, ordering a quick turn, reeled his horse around, ready to gallop away as far as he had come. I'm for the St. Denis gate. Grosjean is on guard there, he shouted. Same orders all around the city. No one to leave the gates. Understand? His troopers fell in. The next moment he would be gone, and those cursed aristocrats well in safety's way. Citizen captain! The horse shout at last contrived to escape Bibo's parched throat, as if involuntary the officer drew rain once more. What is it? Quick! I've no time. That confounded Englishman may be at the St. Denis gate even now. Citizen captain! Gasp Bibo, his breath coming and going like that of a man fighting for his life. Here! At this gate! Not half an hour ago! Six men! Carriers! Market gardeners! I seemed to know their faces! Yes, yes, market gardeners' carriers! Exclaimed the officer gleefully. Aristocrats all of them, and that scarlet Pimpernel! You've got them, you've detain them? Where are they? Speak, man, in the name of hell! Gone! Gasp Bibo, his legs would no longer bear him. He fell backwards onto a heat of street debris and refuse, from which lowly vantage ground he contrived to give away the whole miserable tale. Gone! Half an hour ago their passports were in order. I seemed to know their faces. Citizen Mara was here. He, too. In a moment the officer had once more swung his horse round, so that the animal reared with wild four feet pawing the air, with champing of bit and white foam scattered around. A thousand million curses, he exclaimed, Citizen Bibo, your head will pay for this treachery. Which way did they go? A dozen hands were ready to point in the direction where the merry party of carriers had disappeared half an hour ago. A dozen tongues gave rapid, confused explanations. Into it my men, shouted the officer, they were on foot, they can't have gone far. Remember, the Republic has offered ten thousand francs for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Already the heavy gates had been swung open, and the officer's voice once more rang out clear through a perfect thunderclap of fast galloping hooves. Ventrotter, remember, ten thousand francs to him who first cites the Scarlet Pimpernel. The thunderclap died away in the distance. The dust of four score hooves was merged in the fog and in the darkness. The voice of the captain was raised again through the mist-laden air. One shout, a shout of triumph. Then silence once again. Bibo had fainted on the heap of debris. His comrades brought him wine to drink. He gradually revived. Hope came back to his heart. His nerves soon steadied themselves as the heavy beverage filtrated through into his blood. Bah! he ejaculated as he pulled himself together. The troopers were well-mounted. The officer was enthusiastic. Those carriers could not have walked very far. And in any case, I am free from blame. Sitoyan Marah himself was here and let them pass. A shutter of superstitious terror ran through him as he recollected the whole scene, for surely he knew all the faces of the six men who had gone through the gate. The devil indeed must have given the mysterious Englishman power to transmute himself and his gang wholly into the bodies of other people. More than an hour went by. Bibo was quite himself again, bullying, commanding, detaining everybody now. At that time there appeared to be a slight altercation going on, on the farther side of the gate. Bibo thought it his duty to go see what the noise was about. Someone wanting to get into Paris instead of out of it at this hour of the night was a strange occurrence. Bibo heard his name spoken by a raucous voice. Accompanied by two of his men, he crossed the wide gates in order to see what was happening. One of the men held a lantern which he was swinging high above his head. Bibo saw standing there before him, arguing with the guard by the gate, the biblulous spokesman of the band of carriers. He was explaining to the sentry that he had a message to deliver to the citizen commanding at the Porte Montmartre. It is a note, he said, which an officer of the mounted guard gave me. He and twenty troopers were galloping down the north road, not far from Barency. When they overtook the six of us they drew rain, and the officer gave me this note for the citizen Bibo and fifty francs if I would deliver it to-night. Give me the note, said Bibo calmly. But his hand shook as he took the paper. His face was livid with fear and rage. The paper had no writing on it, only the outline of a small scarlet flower, done in red. The device of the cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Which way did the officer and the twenty troopers go, he stammered, after they gave you this note? On the way to Calais, replied the other, but they had magnificent horses and didn't spare them either. They are a league and more away by now. All the blood in Bibo's body seemed to rush up to his head, a wild buzzing was in his ears. And that was how the douin du cheste de Montreux, with their servants and family, escaped from Paris on that third day of Nouveau in the year one of the Republic. End of book two. Recording by Sarah Luann Chapter three of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Linda Velwest The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsy Chapter three, Two Good Patriots Being the deposition of citizeness Fanny Rousseau, who was brought up together with her husband before the Tribunal of the Revolution on a charge of treason, both being subsequently acquitted. My name is Fanny Rousseau, and I am a respectable married woman, and as good a patriot as any of you sitting there. I, and I'll say it with my dying breath, though you may send me to the guillotine, as you probably will, for you are all thieves and murderers, every one of you. And you have already made up your minds that I and my men are guilty of having sheltered at a cursed Englishman whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel, and of having helped him escape. But I'll tell you how it all happened, because though you call me a traitor to the people of France, yet am I a true patriot, and will prove it to you by telling you exactly how everything occurred, so that you may be on your guard against the cleverness of that man who, I do believe, is a friend and confederate of the devil. Else how could he have escaped that time? Well, it was three days ago, and as bitterly cold as anything that my man and I can remember. We had no travellers staying in the house, for we are a good three leagues out of Calais, and too far for the folk who have business in or about the harbor. Only at midday the coffee room would get full sometimes with people on their way to or from the port. But in the evenings the place was quite deserted, and so lonely that at times we fancied that we could hear the wolves howling in the forest of Saint Pierre. It was close to eight o'clock, and my man was putting up the shutters when suddenly we heard the tramp of feet on the road outside, and then the quick word halt. The next moment there was a peremptory knock at the door. My man opened it, and there stood four men in the uniform of the ninth regiment of the line, the same that is quartered at Calais. The uniform, of course, I knew well, though I did not know the men by sight. In the name of the people, and by the order of the Committee of Public Safety, said one of the men, who stood on the forefront and who, I noticed, had corporal stripes on his left sleeve. He held on a paper which was covered with seals and with writing, but as neither my man nor I could read, it was no use our looking at it. Hercules, that is my husband's name, citizens, asked the corporal what the Committee of Public Safety wanted with us poor hoteliers of a wayside in. Only food and shelter for tonight for me and my men, replied the corporal quite civilly. You can rest here, said Hercules, as he pointed to the benches in the coffee room, and if there is any soup left in the stock pot, you are welcome to it. Hercules, you'll see, is a good patriot, and he had been a soldier in his day. No, no, do not interrupt me any of you. You would only be saying that I ought to have known, but listen to the end. The soup will gladly eat, said the corporal very pleasantly. As for shelter, well, I am afraid this nice warm coffee room will not exactly serve our purpose. We want a place where we can lie hidden, and at the same time people watch on the road. I noticed an outhouse as we came. By your leave, we will sleep in there. As you please, said my man curtly. He frowned as he said this, and suddenly it seemed as if some vague suspicion had crept into Hercules' mind. The corporal, however, appeared unaware of this, for he went on quite cheerfully. Ah, that is excellent! Entrenew, citizen, my men and I have a desperate customer to deal with. I'll not mention his name, for I see you have guessed it already. A small red flower, what? Well, we know that he must be making straight for the port of Calais, for he has been traced to Saint-Omer and Ardre, but he cannot possibly enter Calais City tonight, for we are on the watch for him. He must seek shelter somewhere for himself and any other aristocrat he may have with him, and bar this house there is no other place between André and Calais where he can get it. The night is bitterly cold, with a snow-blizzard raging round. I, and my men, have been detailed to watch this road. Other patrols are guarding those that lead toward Bologna and de Gravelinier, but I have an idea, citizen, that our fox is making for Calais, and to me will fall the honor of handing that tiresome scarlet flower to the public prosecutor enroute for Madame de Guiletine. Now, I could not really tell you, citizens, what suspicions had by this time entered Hockel's head or mine. Certainly what suspicions we did have were still very vague. I prepared the soup for the men, and they ate it heartily, after which my husband led the way to the outhouse where we sometimes stabled the traveller's horse when the need arose. It is nice and dry, and always filled with warm fresh straw. The entrance into it immediately faces the road. The corporal declared that nothing would suit him and his men better. They retired to rest, apparently, but we noticed that two men remained on the watch just inside the entrance, whilst the two others curled up in the straw. Hockel put out the lights in the coffee-room, and then he and I went upstairs, not to bed, mind you, but to have a quiet talk together over the events of the past half-hour. The result of our talk was that ten minutes later, my man quietly stole downstairs and out of the house. He did not, however, go out by the front door, but through a back way which, leading through a cabbage patch and then across the field, cuts into the main road some two hundred metres higher up. Hockel and I had decided that he would walk the three leagues into Calais, despite the cold, which was intense, and the blizzard, which was nearly blinding, and that he would call at the post of Grand Armoury at the city gates, and there see the officer in command and tell him the exact state of the case. It would then be for that officer to decide what was to be done. Our responsibility as loyal citizens would be completely covered. Hockel, you must know, had just emerged from our cabbage patch onto the field when he was suddenly challenged. Kiva la! He gave his name. His certificate of citizenship was in his pocket. He had nothing to fear. Darkness and the veil of snow, he had discerned a small group of men wearing the uniform of the ninth regiment of the line. Four men, said the foremost of these, speaking quickly and commandingly, wearing the same uniform that I and my men are wearing. Have you seen them? Yes, said Hockel hurriedly. Where are they? In the outhouse, close by. The others suppressed a cry of triumph. At them, my men, he said in a whisper, I knew, citizen, thank your stars that we have not come too late. These men, whispered Hockel, I had my suspicions. A aristocrat citizen rejoined the commander of the little party, and one of them is that cursed Englishman, a scarlet pimper now. Already the soldiers, closely followed by Hockel, had made their way through our cabbage patch back to the house. The next moment they had made a bold dash for the barn. There was a great deal of shouting, a great deal of swearing, and some firing, whilst Hockel and I, not a little frightened, remained in the coffee-room, anxiously awaiting events. Presently, the group of soldiers returned, not the ones who at first came, but the others. I noticed their leader, who seemed to be exceptionally tall. He looked very cheerful and laughed loudly as he entered the coffee-room. From the moment that I looked at his face, I knew, somehow, that Hockel and I had been fooled, and that now, indeed, we stood eye to eye with that mysterious personage who was called the Scarlet Pimpernel. I screamed, and Hockel made a dash for the door. But what could two humble and peaceful citizens do against this band of desperate men who held their lives in their own hands? They were four, and we were two, and I do believe that their leader had supernatural strength and power. He treated us quite kindly, even though he ordered his followers to bind us down to our beds upstairs and to tie a cloth around our mouths so that our cries could not be distinctly heard. Neither my a man nor I close an eye all night, of course, but we heard the miscreants moving about in the coffee-room below. But they did no mischief, nor did they steal any of the food or wines. At daybreak, we heard them going out by the front door, and their footsteps disappearing toward Calais. We found their discarded uniforms lying in the coffee-room. They must have entered Calais by daylight when the gates were open just like any other peaceable citizens. No doubt they had forged passports just as they had stolen uniforms. Our maid of all work released us from our terrible position in the course of the morning, and we released the soldiers of the Ninth Regiment of the line whom we found bound and gagged, some of them wounded, in the outhouse. That same afternoon, we were arrested, and here we are, ready to die if we must. But I swear that I have told you the truth, and I ask you, in the name of justice, if we have done anything wrong, and if we did not act like loyal and true citizens, even though we were pitted against an emissary of the devil. End of Chapter 3. Recording by Linda Velas. Book 4, Chapter 1 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rebecca Case. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orksi. Book 4, The Old Scarecrow. Nobody in the quartier could quite recollect when it was that the new public letter-writer first set up in business at the angle formed by the Cadice Augustin and the Rue D'Ephine immediately facing the Pont Neuf. But there he certainly was on the 28th day of February, 1793, when Agnes, with eyes swollen with tears, a market basket under her arm, and a look of dreary despair on her young face, turned that self-same angle on her way to the Pont Neuf, and nearly fell over the rickety construction which sheltered him and his stock in trade. Oh, mon Dieu! Citizen Lapine! I had no idea you were here, she exclaimed, as soon as she had recovered her balance. Nor I, citizen S, that I should have the pleasure of seeing you this morning, he retorted. But you were always at the other corner of the Pont Neuf, she argued. So I was, he replied. So I was. But I thought I would like a change. The Faborg St. Michel appealed to me. Most of my clients came to me from this side of the river. All those on the other side seemed to know how to read and write. I was just going over to see you, she remarked. You, citizen S, he exclaimed, in unfame surprise. What should procure a poor public writer the honour of Hush in God's name broke in the young girl quickly as she cast a rapid, furtive glance up and down the quay and the narrow stretch which converged at this angle? She was dressed in the humblest and poorest of clothes. Her skimpy shawl round her shoulders could scarce protect her against the cold of this cruel winter's morning. Her hair was entirely hidden beneath a frilled and starched cap and her feet were encased in coarse, worsted stockings and sabots. But her hands were delicate and fine and her face had that nobility of feature and look of patient resignation in the midst of overwhelming sorrow which proclaimed a lofty refinement both of soul and of mind. The old-letter writer was surveying the pathetic young figure before him through his huge horn-rimmed spectacles and she smiled on him through her fast-gathering tears. He used to have his pitch at the angle of the Pont Neuf and whenever Agnes had walked past it she nodded to him and bid him good-morrow. He had at times done little commissions for her and gone on errands when she needed a messenger. Today, in the midst of her despair, she had suddenly thought of him and that rumor credited him with certain knowledge which she would give her all to possess. She had sallied forth this morning with the express purpose of speaking with him. But now suddenly she felt afraid and stood looking at him for a moment or two, hesitating, wondering if she dared tell him, one never knew these days into what terrible pitfall an ill-considered word might lead one. A scarecrow he was, that old public-letter writer, more like a great gaunt bird than a human being with those spectacles of his and his long, very sparse and very lanky fringe of a beard which fell from his cheeks and chin and down his chest for all the world like a crumpled gray bib. He was wrapped from head to toe in a caped coat which had once been green in color but was now of many hues not usually seen in rainbows. He wore his coat all buttoned down the front like a dressing gown and below the hem there peeped out a pair of very large feet encased in boots which had never been a pair. He sat upon a rickety, straw-bottom chair under an improvised awning which was made up of four poles and a bit of sacking. He had a table in front of him, a table partially and very insecurely propped up by a bundle of old papers and books since no two of its four legs were completely whole and on the table there was a necklace bottle half filled with ink, a few sheets of paper and a couple of quill pens. The young girl's hesitation had indeed not lasted more than a few seconds. Fertively, like a young creature terrified of lurking enemies, she once more glanced to right and left of her and down the two streets and the riverbank. For Paris was full of spies these days, human bloodhounds ready for a few sue to sell their fellow-creatures' lives. It was middle morning now and a few passers-by were hurrying along wrapped to the nose in mufflers for the weather was bitterly cold. Agnes waited until there was no one in sight then she leaned forward over the table and whispered under her breath, They say, citizen, that you alone in Paris know the whereabouts of the English Malor, of him who was called the Scarlet Pimpernel. Hush! said the old man quickly for just at that moment two men had gone by in ragged coats and torn breeches who had leered at Agnes and her neat cap and skirt as they passed. Now they had turned the angle of the street and the old man, too, sank his voice to a whisper. I know nothing of any Englishman he muttered. Yes, you do, she rejoined insistently, when poor Antoine Carré was somewhere in hiding and threatened with arrest and his mother dared not write to him lest her letter be intercepted. She spoke to you about the English Malor and the English Malor found Antoine Carré and took him and his mother safely out of France. Madame Carré is my godmother. I saw her that very night when she went to meet the English Malor at his command. I know all that happened then. I know that you were the intermediary. And if I was, he muttered sullenly as he fiddled with his pen and paper. Maybe I've had cause to regret it. For a week after that Carré episode I dared not show my face in the streets of Paris. For night on a fortnight I dared not ply my trade. I have only just ventured again to set up in business. I'm not going to risk my old neck again in a hurry. It is a matter of life and death urged Agnes as once more the tears rushed to her pleading eyes and the look of misery settled again upon her face. Your life, Citizen S, queried the old man, or that of Citizen Deputy Fabrice. Hush, she broke in again as a look of real terror now overspread her face. Then she added under her breath, You know? I know that Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucine is fiancé to this Citizen Deputy Arnold Fabrice, rejoined the old man quietly, and that it is Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucine who is speaking with me now. You have known that all along? Ever since Mademoiselle first tripped past me at the angle of the pontenouf dressed in winery-curtle and wearing sabbats on her feet. Then she murmured, puzzles, not a little frightened, for his knowledge might prove dangerous to her. She was of gentle birth and as such an object of suspicion to the government of the Republic and of the terror. Her mother was a hopeless cripple, unable to move. This, together with her love for Arnold Fabrice, had kept Agnes de Lucine's in France these days, even though she was an hourly peril of arrest. Tell me what has happened the old man said, unheeding her last anxious query? Perhaps I can help. Oh, you cannot! The English Malore can and will, if only we could know where he is. I thought of him the moment I received that awful man's letter and then I thought of you. Tell me about the letter quickly, he interrupted her with some impatience. I'll be writing something, but talk away, I shall hear every word, but for God's sake be as brief as you can. He drew some paper nearer to him and dipped his pen in the ink. He appeared to be writing under her dictation. Thin, flaky snow had begun to fall and settled in a smooth white carpet upon the frozen ground and the footsteps of the passersby sounded muffled as they hurried along. Only the lapping of the water of the sluggish river close by broke the absolute stillness of the air. Agnes de Lucine's pale face looked erythral in this framework of white which covered her shoulders and the shawl crossed over her bosom. Only her eyes, dark, appealing, filled with a glow of immeasurable despair, appeared tensely human and alive. I had a letter this morning, she whispered, speaking very rapidly, from Citizen Herot, that awful man. You know him? Yes, yes. He used to be Valet in the service of Deputy Fabrice. Now he too is a member of the National Assembly. He is arrogant and cruel and vile. He hates our node, Fabrice, and he professes himself passionately in love with me. Yes, yes, murmured the old man, but the letter. It came this morning. In it he says that he has in his possession a number of old letters, documents and manuscripts, which are quite enough to send Deputy Fabrice to the guillotine. He threatens to place all those papers before the Committee of Public Safety unless I... She paused, and a deep blush, partly of shame, partly of wrath, suffused her pale cheeks. Unless you accept his grimy hand in marriage, concluded the man dryly. Her eyes gave him answer. With pathetic insistence she tried now to glean a ray of hope from the old scarecrow's inscrutable face. But he was bending over his writing. His fingers were blue with cold, his great shoulders were stooped to his task. Citizen, she pleaded. Hush, he muttered, no more now. The very snowflakes are made up of whispers that may reach those bloodhounds yet. The English Malore shall know of this. He will send you a message if he thinks fit. Citizen, not another word in God's name, pay me five Sioux for this letter and pray heaven that you have not been watched. She shivered and drew her shawl closer round her shoulders. Then she counted out five Sioux with elaborate care and laid them out upon the table. The old man took up the coins. He blew into his fingers, which looked paralyzed with the cold. The snow lay over everything now. The rough awning had not protected him or his wares. Agnes turned to go. The last she saw of him, as she went up the rude affine, was one broad shoulder still bending over the table and clad in the shabby, caped coat all covered with snow, like an old Santa Claus. End of Chapter 1 Book 4, Chapter 2 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Rebecca Case. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orksey Book 4, The Old Scarecrow Chapter 2 It was half an hour before noon, and Citizen Deputy Harrow was preparing to go out to the small tavern around the corner, where he habitually took his degenure. Citizen Rondo, who for the consideration of 10 Sue a day, looked after Harrow's paltry creature comforts, was busy tidying up the squalid apartment, which the latter occupied on the top floor of a lodging house in the Rue Coquitrice. This apartment consisted of three rooms leading out of one another. Firstly, there was a dark and narrow antechamber, wherein slept the aforesaid Citizen Servant. Then came a sitting room, sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a center table, and an iron stove. And finally, there was the bedroom, wherein the most conspicuous object was a large oak chest, clamped with wide iron hinges, and a massive riding desk. The bed in a very primitive wash stand were in an alcove at the farther end of the room, and partially hidden by a tapestry curtain. At exactly half past seven that morning, there came a preemptory knock at the door of the antechamber, and as Rondo was busy in the bedroom, Harrow went himself to see who his unexpected visitor might be. On the landing outside stood an extraordinary-looking individual, more like a tall and animated scarecrow than a man, who in a tremulous voice asked if he might speak with the Citizen Harrow. That is my name, said the deputy gruffly, what do you want? He would have liked to slam the door in the old scarecrow's face, but the latter, with the boldness which sometimes besets the timid, had already stepped into the antechamber and was now quietly sauntering through to the next room, into the one beyond. Harrow, being a representative of the people and a social democrat of the most advanced type, was supposed to be accessible to everyone who desired speech with him. Though muttering sundry curses, he thought it best not to go against his usual practice, and after a moment's hesitation he followed his unwelcome visitor. The latter was in the sitting-room by this time. He had drawn a chair close to the table and sat down with the air of one who has a perfect right to be where he is. As soon as Harrow entered, he said placidly, I would desire to speak alone with the Citizen Deputy. And Harrow, after another slight hesitation, ordered Rondo to close the bedroom door. Keep your ears open in case I call, he added significantly. You are cautious Citizen, merely remarked the visitor with a smile. To this Harrow vouchsafed no reply. He too drew a chair forward and sat opposite his visitor. Then he asked abruptly, your name and quality. My name is Lapine at your service, said the old man, and by profession I write letters at the rate of five Sioux or so, according to length, for those who are not able to do it for themselves. Your business with me, queried Harrow curtly, to offer you two thousand francs for the letters which you stole from Deputy Fabrice when you were his valet, replied Lapine with perfect calm. In a moment Harrow was on his feet, jumping as if he had been stung. His pale, short-sided eyes narrowed till they were mere slits, and through them he darted a quick, suspicious glance at the extraordinary, out-at-elbows figure before him. Then he threw back his head and laughed till the tears streamed down his cheeks and his sides began to ache. This is a farce, I presume, Citizen, he said when he had recovered something of his composure. No farce, Citizen, replied Lapine calmly. The money is at your disposal whenever you care to bring the letters to my pitch at the angle of the root of Fien and the quay to Augustine, where I carry on my business. Whose money is it? Agnes de Lucine, or did that fool Fabrice send you? No one sent me, Citizen, the money is mine. A few savings I possess. I honour Citizen Fabrice. I would wish to do him service by purchasing certain letters from you. Then Lapine, in the second row, moody and sullen, remained silent and began pacing up and down the long bare floor of the room. Lapine added persuasively, Well, what do you say? 2000 francs for a packet of letters. Not a bad bargain, these hard times. Get out of this room! was Haroe's fierce and sudden reply. You refuse? Get out of this room. As you please,' said Lapine share. But before I go, citizen Harrow," he added, speaking very quietly, "'Let me tell you one thing. Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucine would far sooner cut off her right hand than let yours touch it even for one instant. Neither she nor deputy Fabrice would ever purchase their lives at such a price.' "'And who are you, you mangy old scarecrow,' retorted Harrow, who is getting beside himself with rage, that you should assert these things. What are these people to you, or you to them, that you should interfere in their affairs?' "'Your question is beside the point, citizen,' said Lapine Blanley. "'I am here to propose a bargain. Had you not better agree to it?' "'Never,' reiterated Harrow emphatically. "'Two thousand fronks,' reiterated the old man imperturbably. "'Not if you offered me two hundred thousand,' retorted the other fiercely. "'Go and tell that to those who sent you. Tell them that I, Harrow, would look upon a fortune as mere dross against the delight of seeing that man Fabrice, whom I hate beyond everything in earth or hell. Mount up the steps to the guillotine. Tell them that I know that Agnes de Lucine loathes me, that I know that she loves him. I know that I cannot win her, saved by threatening him. But you are wrong, citizen Lapine. He continued, speaking more and more calmly, as his passions of hatred and of love seem more and more to hold him in their grip. You are wrong if you think that she will not strike a bargain with me in order to save the life of Fabrice, whom she loves. Agnes de Lucine will be my wife within the month, or all Lord Fabrice's head will fall under the guillotine, and you, my interfering friend, may go to the devil, if you please. "'That would be but a tame, proceeding citizen, after my visit to you,' said the old man, with unruffled, sang Freud. But let me, in my turn, assure you this, citizen Harrow,' he added, that Mamousel de Lucine will never be your wife, that Arnold Fabrice will not end his valuable life under the guillotine, and that you will never be allowed to use against him the cowardly and stolen weapon which you possess. Harrow laughed, a low, cynical laugh, and shrugged his thin shoulders. "'And who will prevent me, I pray you?' he asked sarcastically. The old man made no immediate reply. But he came just a step or two closer to the citizen deputy and, suddenly drawing himself up to his full height, he looked for one brief moment down upon the mean and sordid figure of the ex-vallet. To Harrow it seemed as if the whole man had become transfigured. The shabby old scarecrow looked all of a sudden like a brilliant and powerful personality. From his eyes there flashed down a look of supreme contempt and of supreme pride, and Harrow, unable to understand this metamorphosis, which was more apparent to his inner consciousness than to his outward sight, felt his knees shake under him, and all the blood rushed back to his heart in an agony of superstitious terror. From somewhere they came to his ear the sound of two words, "'I will,' in reply to his own defiant quarry. Surely those words uttered by a man conscious of power and of strength could never have been spoken by the dilapidated old scarecrow who earned a precarious living by writing letters for ignorant folk. But before he could recover some semblance of presence of mind, citizen Lapine had gone, and only a loud and merry laugh seemed to echo through the squalid room. Harrow shook off the remnant of his own senseless terror. He tore open the door of the bedroom and shouted to Rondo, who truly was thinking that the citizen deputy had gone mad. "'After him! After him! Quick! Curse you!' he cried. "'After whom?' gasped the man. "'The man who was here just now. An aristow.' "'I saw no one. But the public letter-writer, old Lapine, I know him well.' "'Curse you for a fool!' shouted Harrow savagely. The man who was here was that cursed Englishman, the one whom they called the Scarlet Pimpernel. Run after him. Stop him, I say.' "'Too late, citizen,' said the other, placidly. Whoever was here before is certainly half-way down the street by now.' End of Chapter 2 Book 4 Chapter 3 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Rebecca Case The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orksey Book 4 The Old Scarecrow Chapter 3 No use, Fawkes, said Sir Percy Blakeney to his friend half an hour later. The man's passions of hatred and desire are greater than his greed. The two men were sitting together in one of Sir Percy Blakeney's many lodgings, the one in the Rue de Petit Peret, and Sir Percy had just put Sir Andrew Fawkes off hay with the whole sad story of Arnold Fabrice's danger and Agnes de Lucine's despair. You could do nothing with the brute then, queried Sir Andrew. Nothing, replied Blakeney. He refused all bribes, and violence would not have helped me, for what I wanted was not to knock him down, but to get hold of the letters. Well, after all, he might have sold you the letters and then denounced Fabrice just the same. No, without actual proofs he could not do that. Arnold Fabrice is not a man against whom her denunciation would suffice. He has the grudging respect of every faction in the National Assembly. Nothing but irrefutable proof would prevail against him, and bring him to the guillotine. Why not get Fabrice and Mademoiselle de Lucine safely over to England? Fabrice would not come. He is not of the stuff that Emma agrees are made of. He is not an aristocrat. He is a Republican by conviction, and a damned honest wanted that. He would scorn to run away, and Agnes de Lucine would not go without him. Then what can we do? Filched those letters from that brute hero, said Blakeney calmly. How spraking you mean? commented Sir Andrew Faults dryly. Petty theft, shall we say, retorted Sir Andrew. I can bribe the lout who has charge of Harrow's rooms to introduce us into his master's sanctum this evening, when the National Assembly is sitting, and the citizen deputies safely out of the way. And the two men, one of whom was the most intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, and the acknowledged darling of London Society. Thereupon fell to discussing plans for surpeticiously entering a man's room and committing larceny, which in normal times would entail, if discovered, a long term of imprisonment, but which in these days, in Paris, and perpetrated against a member of the National Assembly, would certainly be punished by death. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orksey Book 4. The Old Scarecrow. Chapter 4. Citizen Rondo, whose business it was to look after the creature comforts of Deputy Harrow, was standing in the antechamber facing the two visitors whom he had just introduced into his master's apartments, and idly turning a couple of gold coins over and over between his grimy fingers. In mind, you are to see nothing and hear nothing of what goes on in the next room, so the taller of the two strangers. And when we go, there'll be another couple of Louis for you. Is that understood? Yes, it's understood, granted Rondo sullenly. But I'm running great risks. The Citizen Deputy sometimes returns at ten o'clock, but sometimes at nine. I never know. It is now seven, rejoin the other, will be gone long before nine. Well, said Rondo sullenly, I go out now for my supper. I'll return in half an hour, but at half-past eight, you must clear out. Then he added with a sneer. Citizens Legro and Degas usually come back with Deputy Harrow of Knights, and Citizens Genot and Bombard come in from next door for a game of cards. You wouldn't stand much chance if you were caught here. Not with you to back up so formidable a quintent of stalwarts, assented the tall visitor gaily. But we won't trouble about that just now. We have a couple of hours before us in which to do all that we want. So au revoir, friend Rondo. Two more Louis for your complacence, remember, when we have accomplished our purpose. Rondo muttered something more, but the two strangers paid no further heed to him. They had already walked to the next room, leaving Rondo in the antechamber. Sir Percy Blankney did not pause in the sitting room where an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling through a feeble circle of light above the center table. He went straight through to the bedroom. Here, too, a small lamp was burning, which only lit up a small portion of the room, the writing desk and the oak chest, leaving the corners and the alcove with its partially drawn curtains in complete shadow. Blankney pointed to the oak chest and to the desk. You tackle the chest, Falks, and I will go for the desk, he said quietly, as soon as he had taken a rapid survey of the room. You have your tools? Falks nodded, and anon in the squalid room, ill-lit, ill-ventilated, barely furnished, was presented one of the most curious spectacles of these strange and trouble-less times. Two English gentlemen, the acknowledged dandies of London drawing rooms, busy picking locks and filing hinges like any common house thieves. Neither of them spoke, and a strange hush fell over the room, a hush only broken by the click of metal against metal, and the deep breathing of the two men bending to their task. Sir Andrew Falks was working with a file on the padlocks of the oak chest, and Sir Percy Blankney, with a bunch of skeleton keys, was opening the drawers of the riding desk. These, when finally opened, revealed nothing of any importance, but when anon Sir Andrew was able to lift the lid of the oak chest, he disclosed an innumerable quantity of papers and documents tied up in neat bundles, docketed and piled up in rows and tiers to the very top of the chest. Quick to work, Falks, said Blankney, as in response to his friend's call he drew a chair forward and, seating himself beside the chest, started on the task of looking through the hundreds of bundles which lay before him. It will take us all our time to look through these. Together now the two men set to work, methodically and quietly, piling up on the floor beside them the bundles of papers which they had already examined, and delving into the oak chest for others. No sound was heard, said the crackling of crisp paper, and an occasional ejaculation from either of them, when they came upon some proof or other of Harrow's propensity for blackmail. Agnes de Lucines is not the only one whom this brute is terrorizing, murmured Blankney once between his teeth. I marvel that the man ever feels safe, alone in these lodgings, with no one but that weak need Rondo to protect him. He must have scores of enemies in this city who would gladly put a dagger in his heart or a bullet through his back. They had been at work for close on half an hour when an exclamation of triumph, quickly smothered, escaped Sir Percy's lips. By a gad, folks, he said, I believe I have got what we want. With quick, capable hands he turned over a bundle which he had just extracted from the chest. Rapidly he glanced through them. I have them, folks. He reiterated more emphatically as he put the bundle into his pocket. Now everything back in its place and—suddenly he paused, his slender hand up to his lips, his head turned toward the door, an expression of tense expectancy in every line on his face. Quick, folks, he whispered, everything back into the chest and the lid down. What ears you have, murmured folks as he obeyed rapidly and without question. I heard nothing. Blankney went to the door and bent his head to listen. Three men coming up the stairs he said, they are on the landing now. Have we time to rush them? No chance. They are at the door. Two more men have joined them and I can distinguish Rondo's voice, too. Quintet, murmured Sir Andrew, we are caught like two wraps in a trap. Even as he spoke, the opening of the outside door could be distinctly heard than the confused murmurs of many voices. Already Blankney and folks had with perfect presence of mind put the finishing touches to tidying of the room, put the chairs straight, shut down the lid of the oak chest, closed all the drawers of the desk. Nothing but good luck can save us now, whispered Blankney as he lowered the wick of the lamp. Quick now he added, behind that tapestry in the alcove and trust to our stars. Securely hidden for the moment behind the curtains in the dark recess of the alcove the two men waited. Overleading into the sitting room was a jar, and they could hear Haro and his friends making merry eruption into the place. From out of the confusion of general conversation they soon gathered that the debates in the chamber had been so dull and uninteresting, that, at a given signal, the little party had decided to adjourn to Haro's rooms for their habitual game of cards. They could also hear Haro calling to Rondo to bring bottles and glasses, and vaguely they marveled at what Rondo's attitude might be like at this moment. Was he brazening out the situation, or was he sick with terror? Suddenly Haro's voice came out more distinctly. Make yourselves at home, friends, he was saying. Hear at cards, dominoes, and wine. I must leave you to yourselves for ten minutes, whilst I write an important letter. All right, but don't be long, came in merry response. No longer than I can help rejoined Haro I want my revenge against Bompard, remember? He did fleece me last night. Hurry on, then, said one of the men. I'll play Degas that return game of dominoes until then. Ten minutes and I'll be back, concluded Haro. He pushed open the bedroom door. The light within was very dim. The two men, hidden behind the tapestry, could hear him moving about the room muttering curses to himself. Presently the light of the lamp was shifted from one end of the room to the other. Through the opening between the two curtains, Blankney could just see Haro's back as he placed the lamp at a convenient angle upon his desk, divested himself of his overcoat and muffler, then sat down and drew pen and paper closer to him. He was leaning forward, his elbows resting upon the table, his fingers fidgeting with his long, blank hair. He had closed the door when he entered, and from the other room now the voices of his friends sounded confused and muffled. Now and then an exclamation, double, je, tien, sing, de, and oath, a laugh, the clink of glasses and bottles came out more clearly. But the rest of the time these sounds were more like a droning accompaniment to the scraping of Haro's pen upon the paper when he finally began to write his letter. Two minutes went by, and then two more. The scratching of Haro's pen became more rapid as he appeared to be more completely immersed in his work. Behind the curtain the two men had been waiting. Blankney ready to act, folks equally ready to interpret the slightest signal from his chief. The next minute Blankney had stolen out of the alcove and his two hands, so slender and elegant looking, and yet with a grip of steel, had fastened themselves upon Haro's mouth, smothering within the space of a second the cry that had been half uttered. Folks was ready to complete the work of rendering the man helpless. One handkerchief made an efficient gag, another tied the ankles securely. Haro's own overcoat sleeves supplied the handcuffs, and the blanket off the bed tied around his legs rendered him powerless to move. Then the two men lifted this inert mass onto the bed, and folks whispered anxiously, Now what next? Haro's overcoat hat and muffler lay upon a chair. Sir Percy, placing a warning finger upon his lips, quickly divested himself of his own coat, slipped that of Haro on, twisted the muffler round his neck, hunched up his shoulders and murmuring, now for a bit of luck. Once more lowered the light of the lamp and then went to the door. Rondo, he called, Hey Rondo! And Sir Percy himself was surprised at the marvellous way in which he had caught the very inflection of Haro's voice. Hey Rondo! came from one of the players at the table. The citizen deputy is calling you. They were all sitting round the table. Two men intent upon their game of dominoes, the other two watching with equal intentness. Rondo came shuffling out of the ante chamber. His face, by the dim light of the oil lamp, looked jaundiced with fear. Rondo, you fool, where are you? called Blinkney once more. The next moment Rondo had entered the room. No need for a signal or an order this time. Folks knew by instinct what his chief's bold scheme would mean to them both if it succeeded. He retired into the darkest corner of the room as Rondo shuffled across to the writing desk. It was all done in a moment. In less time than it had taken to bind and gag Haro, his henchman was laid out on the floor, his coat had been taken off him, and he was tied into a mummy-like bundle with Sir Andrew Falk's elegant coat fastened securely round his arms and chest. It had all been done in silence. The men in the next room were noisy in intent on their game. The slight scuffle, the quickly smothered cries had remained unheeded. Now what next, queried Sir Andrew Falk's once more. The impudence of the dell, my good Falk's replied Blinkney in a whisper, and may our stars not play as false. Now let me make you look as like Rondo as possible. There! Slip on his coat, now your hair over your forehead, your coat collar up, your knees bent, that's better. He added as he surveyed the transformation which a few depth strokes had made in Sir Andrew Falk's appearance. Now all you have to do is shuffle across the room. Here's your prototype's handkerchief. Of doobie's cleanliness it is true, but it will serve. Blow your nose as you cross the room, it will hide your face. They'll not heed you, keep in the shadows, and God guard you. I'll follow in a moment or two, but don't wait for me. He opened the door, and before Sir Andrew could protest, his chief had pushed him out into the room where the four men were still intent on their game. Through the open door Sir Percy now watched his friend who, keeping well within the shadows, shuffled quietly across the room. The next moment Sir Andrew was through and in the antechamber. Blinkney's acutely sensitive ears caught the sound of the opening of the outer door. He waited for a while, then he drew out of his pocket a bundle of letters which he had risked so much to obtain. There they were neatly docketed and marked, the affairs of Arnold Febrece. Well, if he got away to-night, Agnus de Lucine would be happy and free from the importunities of that brute hero. After that he must persuade her and Febrece to go to England and to freedom. For the moment his own safety was terribly in jeopardy. One false move, one look from those players round the table, bah, even then. With an inward laugh he pushed open the door once more and stepped into the room. For the moment no one noticed him. The game was in its most palpitating stage. Four shaggy heads met beneath the lamp and four pairs of eyes were gazing with rapt attention upon the intricate maze of the dominoes. Blinkney walked quietly across the room. Just midway and on a level with the center table when a voice was suddenly raised from that tense group beneath the lamp. Is it thou, friend Harrow? Then one of the men looked up and stared, and another did likewise and exclaimed, it is not Harrow. In a moment all was confusion, but confusion was the very essence of those hare-breath escapes and desperate adventures which were as the breath of his nostrils to the scarlet pimpernel. Before those four men had had time to jump to their feet, or to realize that something was wrong with their friend Harrow, he had run across the room, his hand was on the knob of the door, the door that led to the ante-chamber and to freedom. Bombard, Degas, Genoux, Legreau were at his heels, but he tore open the door, bounded across the threshold, and slammed it too with such a vigorous bang that those on the other side were brought to a momentary halt. That moment meant life and liberty to Blankney, already had crossed the ante-chamber. Quite coolly and quietly now he took out the key from the inner side of the main door and slipped it to the outside. The next second, even as the four men rushed helter-skelter into the ante-chamber, he was on the landing and had turned the key in the door. His prisoners were safely locked in, in Harrow's apartments, and Sir Percy Blankney, calmly and without haste, was descending the stairs of the house in the rue coquetrice. The next morning Agnes de Lucine received, through an anonymous messenger, the packet of letters which would so gravely have compromised Arnold Febreze. Though the weather was more inclement than ever, she ran out into the streets, determined to seek out the old public letter-writer and thank him for his mediation with the English Malor, who surely had done this noble action, but the old scarecrow had disappeared. End of Chapter 4 Book No. 5, Chapter 1 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sarah Prusoff. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Oroxy. Book No. 5, A Fine Bit of Work, Chapter 1 It's the English man. I'd know his footstep anywhere. God bless him, murmured Petit Maman fervently. Pierre Le Negre went to the door. He stepped cautiously and with that stealthy foot tread which speaks an eloquent silence of daily, hourly danger, of anguish and anxiety for lives that are dear. The door was low and narrow, up on the fifth floor of one of the huge tenement houses in the Rue Jolivette in the Montmartre quarter of Paris. A narrow stone passage led to it, pitch dark at all times, but dirty and evil smelling, when the concierge, a free citizen of the new democracy, took a week's holiday from his work in order to spend whole afternoons either at the wine shop around the corner, or on the Place du Carceau to watch the guillotine getting rid of some twenty aristocrats an hour for the glorification of the will of the people. But inside the small apartment everything was scrupulously neat and clean. Petit Maman was such an excellent manager and Rosette was busy all the day tidying and cleaning the poor little home which Pierre Le Negre contrived to keep up for wife and daughter by working fourteen hours a day in the government's saddlery. When Pierre Le Negre opened the narrow door the entire framework of it was filled by the broad, magnificent figure of a man in heavy caped coat and high leather boots with dainty frills of lace at throat and wrist and elegant chapeau bras held in the hand. Pierre Le Negre at sight of him put a quick finger to his own quivering lips. Anything wrong, papa? Asked the newcomer lightly. The other closed the door cautiously before he made reply but Petit Maman could not restrain her anxiety. My little Pierre Millore she asked if she clasped her wrinkled hands together and turned on the stranger her tear dimmed restless eyes. Pierre is safe and well little mother he replied cheerily. We got him out of Paris early this morning in a coal cart carefully hidden among the sacks. When he emerged he was black but safe. I drove the cart myself as far as Courvois and there handed over your Pierre and those whom we got out of Paris with him to those of my friends who were going straight to England. There is nothing more to be afraid of Petit Maman he added as he took the old woman's wrinkled hands in both his own. Your son is now under the care of men who would die rather than see him captured. So make your mind at ease Pierre will be in England safe and well within a week. Petit Maman couldn't say anything just then because tears were choking her but in her turn she clasped those two strong and slender hands the hands of the brave English man who had just risked his life in order to save Pierre from the guillotine and she kissed them as fervently as she kissed the feet of the Madonna when she knelt before her shrine in prayer. Pierre had been a footman in the household of unhappy Marie Antoinette. His crime had been that he remained loyal to her in words as well as in thought. A hot-headed but nobly outspoken harangue on behalf of the unfortunate queen delivered in a public place had at once marked him out to the spies of the terrorists as suspects of intrigue against the safety of the Republic. He was denounced to the Committee of Public Safety and his arrest and condemnation to the guillotine would have inevitably followed and not the gallant band of Englishmen known as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel succeeded in affecting his escape. What wonder that Petit Maman could not speak for tears when she clasped the hands of the noble leader of that splendid little band of heroes? What wonder that Pierre Linaire when he heard that his son was safe murmured a fervent, God bless you my lord and your friends and that Rosette surreptitiously raised the fine-caped coat to her lips for Pierre was her twin brother and she loved him very dearly. But already Sir Percy Blackney had, with one of his characteristic cheery words, dissipated the atmosphere of cheerful emotion which oppressed these kindly folk. Now, Papa Negre, he said lightly, tell me why you wore such a solemn air when you let me in just now. Because, my lord, replied the old man quietly, that didn't concierge Jean Baptiste is a black-hearted traitor. Sir Percy laughed, his merry infectious laugh. You mean that while he has been pocketing bribes from me, he has denounced me to the committee. Pierre Linaire nodded, I only heard it this morning, he said, from one or two threatening words the treacherous brute let fall. He knows that you lodged in the Place du Chois-Marie and that you came here frequently. I would have given my life to warn you then and there, continued the old man with touching earnestness, but I didn't know where to find you. All I knew was that you were looking after Pierre. Even while the man spoke, there darted from beneath the Englishman's heavy lids a quick look like a flash of sudden and brilliant light out of the lazy depths of his merry blue eyes. It was one of those glances of pure delight and exultation which light up the eyes of the true soldier when there is serious fighting to be done. La, man, he said gaily, there is no cause to worry, Pierre is safe, remember that. As for me, he added with that wonderful insouciance which caused him to risk his life a hundred times a day with a shrug of his broad shoulders and a smile upon his lips. As for me, I'll look after myself, never fear. He paused a while, then added gravely. So long as you are safe, my good Linaire and Petit Maman and Rosette. Whereupon the old man was silent, Petit Maman murmured a short prayer and Rosette began to cry. The hero of a thousand gallant rescues had received his answer. You, too, are on the blacklist. Pierre Linaire, he asked quietly. The old man nodded. How do you know? queried the Englishman. Through Jean-Baptiste Milord, still that damned concierge muttered Sir Percy. He frightened Petit Maman with it all this morning, saying that he knew my name was down on the sectional committee's list as a suspect. That's when he let fall a word or two about you, Milord. He said it is known that Pierre has escaped from justice and that you helped him to it. I am sure that we shall get a domiciliary visit presently, continued Pierre Linaire, after a slight pause. The gendarmes have not yet been, I fancy that already this morning early I saw one or two of the committee's spies hanging about the house, and when I went to the workshop I was followed all the time. The Englishman looked grave, and tell me, he said, have you got anything in this place that may prove compromising to any of you? No, Milord. But as Jean-Baptiste said, the sectional committee know about Pierre. It is because of my son that I am suspect. The old man spoke quite quietly, like a philosopher who has long ago learned to put behind him the fear of death. Nor did Petit Maman cry or lament. Her thoughts were for the brave Milord who had saved her boy. But her fears for her old man left her dry-eyed and dumb with grief. There was silence in the little room for one moment while the angel of sorrow and anguish hovered around these faithful and brave souls. Then the Englishman's cherry voice, so full of spirit and merriment, rang out once more. He had risen to his full, towering height and now placed a kindly hand on the old man's shoulder. It seems to me, my good Lenegr, he said, that you and I haven't many moments to spare if we mean to cheat those devils by saving your neck. Now, Petit Maman, he added, turning to the old woman, are you going to be brave? I will do anything, Milord, she replied quietly, to help my old man. Well then, said Sir Percy Blakeney, light-hearted yet supremely authoritative tone of which he held the secret. You and Rosette remain here and wait for their gendarmes. When they come, say nothing, behave with absolute meekness and let them search your place from end to end. If they ask you about your husband, say that you believe him to be at his workshop. Is that clear? Quite clear, Milord, replied Petit Maman. And you, Perlenegre, continued the Englishman, now with slow and careful deliberation, listen very attentively to the instructions I am going to give you, for on your implicit obedience to them depends not only your own life, but that of these two dear women. Go at once now to the Rue Saint-Anne round the corner, the second house on your right, which is numbered 37. The Port-Cochère stands open, go boldly through past the Econcierge's box and up the stairs to apartment number 12, second floor. Here is the key of the apartment, he added, producing one from his coat pocket and handing it over to the old man. The rooms are nominally occupied by a certain ma-tre-ten-a-do, maker of violins, and not even the concierge of the place knows that the hunchbacked and snuffy violin maker and the meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel, whom the Committee of Public Safety would so love to lay by the heels, are one and the same person. The apartment, then, is mine, one of the many which I occupy in Paris at different times, he went on. Let yourself in quietly with this key, walk straight across the first room to a wardrobe, which you will see in front of you. Open it. It is hung full of shabby clothes. Put these aside, and you will notice that the panels at the back do not fit very closely, as if the wardrobe was old or had been badly put together. Insert your fingers in the tiny aperture between the two middle panels. These slide back easily. There is a recess immediately behind them. Get in there, pull the doors of the wardrobe together first, then slide the back panels into their place. You will be perfectly safe there, as the house is not under suspicion at present. And even if the revolutionary guard under some meddlesome sergeant or other chooses to pay it a surprise visit, your hiding place will be perfectly secure. Now is all that quite understood? Absolutely, my lord, replied Lenegré, even as he made ready to obey Sir Percy's orders. But what about you? You cannot get out of this house, my lord, he urged. It is watched, I tell you. La, broken black-knee in his light-hearted way, and do you think I didn't know that? I had to come and tell you about Pierre. And now I must give those worthy gendarmes the slip somehow. I have my rooms downstairs in the ground floor, as you know, and I must make certain arrangements so that we can all get out of Paris comfortably this evening. This stemmed place is no longer safe either for you, my good Lenegré, or for Petit Maman and Rosette. But wherever I may be, meanwhile, don't worry about me. As soon as the gendarmes have been and gone, I'll go over to the Rue Saint Anne and let you know what arrangements I've been able to make. So do as I tell you now, and in heaven's name, let me look after myself. Whereupon, with scant ceremony, he hustled the old man out of the room. Pierre Lenegré had contrived to kiss Petit Maman and Rosette before he went. It was touching to see the perfect confidence with which these simple-hearted folk obeyed the commands of Milaure. Had he not saved Pierre in his wonderful, brave, resourceful way, of a truth he would know how to save Pierre Lenegré also. But nevertheless, Anguish gripped the women's hearts. Anguish doubly was seen since the savior of Pierre was also in danger now. When Pierre Lenegré's shuffling footsteps had died away along the flagged corridor, the stranger once more turned to the two women. And now, Petit Maman, he said cheerily as he kissed the old woman on both her furrowed cheeks, keep up a good heart, and say your prayers with Rosette. Your old man and I will both have need of them. And so he put stuff that echoed down the corridor. He went off singing a song at the top of his voice for the whole house to hear, and for that traitor Jean-Baptiste to come rushing out of his room, marveling at the impudence of the man and cursing the committee of public safety who were so slow in sending the soldiers of the Republic to lay this impertinent Englishman by the heels. End of Book 5, Chapter 1 Book 5, Chapter 2 A quarter of an hour later, half-dozen men of the Republic and Guard, with corporal and sergeant in command, were in the small apartment on the fifth floor of the Tenement House in the Rue Jolie Bay. They had demanded an entry to the Royal Palace, but they were not allowed to enter the Royal Palace. They were not allowed to enter the Royal Palace. They were not allowed to enter the Royal Palace. They had demanded an entry in the name of the Republic, had roughly hustled Petit Maman and Rosette, questioned them, to Lady Grays' whereabouts and not satisfied with their reply which they received, had turned the tidy little home topsy-turvy, ransacked every cupboard, dislocated every bed, table or sofa which might presumably have afforded a hiding place for a man. Satisfied now that the suspect, whom they were searching for, was not on the premises, the sergeant stationed four of his men with the corporal outside the door and two within, and himself sitting down in the center of the room, ordered the two women to stand before him and to answer his questions clearly on pain of being dragged away forthwith to the St. Lazar House of Detention. Petit Maman smoothed out her apron, crossed her arms before her and looked the sergeant quite straight in the face. Her eyes were full of tears but she showed no signs of fear either although her shoulder, where one of the gendarmes had seized it so roughly, was terribly painful. Your husband's citizeness asked the sergeant peremptorily, where is he? I am not sure citizen, replied Petit Maman. At this hour he is generally at the government works in the quite des messageries. He is not there now, asserted the sergeant. We have knowledge that he did not go back to his work since dinner time. Petit Maman was silent. Answer ordered the sergeant. I cannot tell you more, citizen sergeant, she said firmly. I do not know. You do yourself no good woman by this obstinacy. He continued roughly, my belief is that your husband is inside this house, hidden away somewhere. If necessary, I can get orders to have every apartment searched until he is found. But in that case it will go much harder with you and with your daughter and much harder too with your husband than if he gave us no trouble and followed us quietly. But with sublime confidence in the man who saved Pierre and who had given her explicit orders as to what she should do. Petit Maman, backed by Rosette, reiterated quietly. I cannot tell you more, citizen sergeant. I do not know. And what about the Englishman queried the sergeant more roughly? The man they called the Scarlet Pimpernel. What do you know of him? Nothing, citizen, replied Petit Maman. What should we poor folk know of an English Milore? You know at any rate this much, citizeness, that the English Milore helped your son Pierre to escape from the status. If that is so, said Petit Maman, quietly, it cannot be wrong for a mother to pray to God to bless her son's preserver. It behooves every good citizen retorted the sergeant firmly to denounce all traitors to the Republic. But since I know nothing about the Englishman, citizen sergeant, and Petit Maman shrugged her thin shoulders as if the matter had ceased to interest her. Think again, citizeness, admonish the sergeant. It is your husband's neck as well as your daughter's and your own that you are risking by so much obstinacy. He waited a moment or two as if willing to give the old woman time to speak. Then when he saw that she kept her thin, quivering lips resolutely glued together, he called his corporal to him. Go to the citizen commissary of the section he commanded to search every apartment in number 24 Rue Jolievet. Leave two of our men posted on the first and third landings of this house and leave two outside this door. Be as quick as you can. You can be back here with the order in half an hour or perhaps the committee will send me an extra squad. Tell the citizen commissary that this is a big house with many corridors. You can go. The corporal saluted and went. Petite Mama and Rosette, the while, were still standing quietly in the middle of the room. Their arms folded underneath their aprons, their wide open, anxious eyes fixed into space. Rosette's tears were falling slowly, one by one, down her cheeks. But Petite Mama was dry-eyed. She was thinking and thinking as she had never had occasion to think before. She was thinking of the brave and gallant to save Pierre's life only yesterday. The sergeant, who sat there before her, had asked for orders from the citizen commissary to search this big house from attic to cellar. That is what made Petite Mama think and think. The brave Englishman was in this house at the present moment. The house would be searched from attic to cellar and he would be found, taken and brought to the guillotine. The man who yesterday had risked to save her boy was in imminent and deadly danger and she, Petite Mama, could do nothing to save him. Every moment now she thought to hear Milord's firm tread resounding on stairs or corridor. Every moment she thought to hear snatches of an English song sung by a fresh and powerful voice never after today to be heard in guillotine again. The old clock upon the shelf ticked away these seconds and minutes while Petite Mama thought and thought. While men set traps to catch a fellow being in a deathly snare and human carnivorous beasts lay lurking for their prey. End of Book 5, Chapter 2 Book 5, Chapter 3 of the League of the Scarlet Pempernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The League of the Scarlet Pempernel by Baroness Ortsy. Book 5, A Fine Bit of Work Chapter 3 Another quarter of an hour went by. Petite Mama and Rosette had hardly moved. The shadows of evening were creeping into the narrow room blurring the outlines of the pieces of furniture and wrapping all the corners in gloom. The sergeant had ordered Rosette to bring in a lamp. The light was on, placing it upon the table so that the feeble light glinted upon the belt and buckles of the sergeant and upon the tricolor cockade which was pinned to his hat. Petite Mama had thought and thought until she could think no more. On non, there was much commotion on the stairs. Heavy footsteps were heard ascending from below then crossing the corridors on the various landings. The silence which reigned otherwise in the house and which had fallen on the squall of Little Street void of traffic at this hour caused those footsteps to echo with ominous power. Petite Mama felt her heart beating so vigorously that she could hardly breathe. She pressed her wrinkled hands tightly against her bosom. There were quick words of command, alas, so familiar in France just now, the cruel, peremptory words that invariably proceeded in arrest, preliminaries to the dragging often wholly harmless creature before a tribunal that knew neither pardon nor mercy. The sergeant who had become drowsy in the close atmosphere of the tiny room roused himself at the sound and jumped to his feet. The door was thrown open by the men stationed outside even before the authoritative words open in the name of the Republic had echoed along the narrow corridor. The sergeant stood at attention with his hand to his forehead in salute. A fresh squad of some half dozen men of the Republican Guard stood in the doorway. They were under the command of an officer of high rank, a rough uncouth almost beastial looking creature with length hair worn the fashionable length under his greasy chapeau bra and unkempt beard round an ill-washed and bloated face. But he wore the tricolor sash and badge which proclaimed him one of the military members of the sectional committee of public safety. And the sergeant who had been so overbearing with the women just now had assumed a very humble and even obsequious manner. You sent for a general order to the sectional committee, said the newcomer, turning abruptly to the sergeant after he had cast a quick searching glance around the room hardly condescending to look on Petit Mama and Rosette. Those very souls were now gazing out of their anguish filled eyes. I did, citizen commandant, replied the sergeant. I am not a commandant, said the other curtly. My name is Roje, member of the convention and of the committee of public safety. The sectional committee to whom you sent for a general order of search thought that you had blundered somehow so they sent me to put things right. I am not aware that I committed any blunder, citizen, stammered the sergeant dolefully. I could not take the responsibility of making a domiciliary search all through the house, so I begged for fuller orders. And wasted the committee's time and mind by such nonsense, retorted Roje harshly. Every citizen of the Republic worthy of the name should know how to act on his own initiative when the safety of the nation demands it. I did not know. I did not dare, murmured the sergeant. Obviously cowed by this reproof, which had been delivered in the rough overbearing tones peculiar to these men who, one in all, had risen from the gutter to places of importance and responsibility in the newly modeled state. Silence, commanded the other peremptorily. Don't waste any more of my time with your lame excuses. You have failed in zeal and initiative. That's enough. What else have you done? Have you got the man Lenegré? No, citizen. He is not in hiding here, and his wife and daughter will not give us a word about him. That is their lookout, retorted Roje with a harsh laugh. If they give up Lenegré of their own free will, the law will deal leniently with them, and even perhaps with him. But if we have to search the house for him, then it means the guillotine for the lot of them. He had spoken these callous words without even looking on the two unfortunate women. Nor did he ask them any further questions just then, as he continued speaking to the sergeant. And what about the Englishman? The sectional committee sent down some spies this morning to be on the lookout for him on or about this house. Have you got him? Not yet, citizen, but Akka, citizen sergeant, broken the other breastplate. He seemed that your zeal has been even more at fault than I had supposed. Have you done anything at all then in the matter of Lenegré or the Englishman? I have told you, the citizen retorted the sergeant sullenly that I believe Lenegré to be still in this house. At any rate, he had not gone out of it an hour ago, that's all I know, and I wanted to search the whole of this house as I am sure we should have found him in one of the other apartments. These people are all friends together and will always help each other to evade justice. But the Englishman was no concern of mine. The spies of the committee were ordered and when they reported to me I was to proceed with the arrest. I was not sent to do any of the spying work. I am a soldier and obey my orders when I get them. Very well then, you'd better obey them now, citizen sergeant, was Roger's dry comment on the other man's surly explanation where you seem to have properly blundered from first to last and will be hard put to it to redeem your character. No use for fools. The sergeant after this covert threat thought it best, apparently, to keep his tongue, while Roger continued in the same aggressive peremptory tone. Get on with your domiciliary visits at once. Take your own men with you and leave me the others. Begin on this floor and leave your sentry at the front door outside. Now let me see your zeal atoning for your past slackness. Right turn, quick march. Then it was that Petite Mama spoke out. She had thought and thought and now she knew what she ought to do. She knew that the cruel and human rich would presently begin his tramp up and down corridors and stairs demanding admittance at every door entering every apartment. She knew that the man who had saved her Pierre's life was in hiding somewhere in the house. That he would be found and dragged to the guillotine for she knew that the whole government body of this abominable revolution was determined not to allow that hated Englishman to escape again. She was old and feeble, small and thin. That's why everyone called her Petite Mama. But once she knew what she ought to do, then her spirit overpowered the weakness of her wisened body. Now she knew and even while that arrogant member of an executed murdering committee was giving final instructions to the sergeant, Petite Mama said in a calm piping voice, No need, citizen sergeant, to go and disturb all my friends and neighbors. I'll tell you where my husband is. In a moment, Roger had swung round on his heel. A hideous gleam of satisfaction sprayed over his grimy face and he said with an ugly sneer, So you have thought better of it, have you? Well, out with it. You'd better be quick about it if you want to do yourselves any good. I have my daughter to think of, said Petite Mama in a feeble, quarrelous way. And I won't have all my neighbors in this house made unhappy because of me. They have all been kind neighbors. Will you promise not to molest them and to clear the house of soldiers if I tell you where Linigrae is? The Republic makes no promises, replied Roger roughly. Her citizens must do their duty without hope of a reward. If they fail in it, they are punished. But privately, I will tell you, woman, that if you save us the troublesome and probably unprofitable task of searching this rabbit-worn through and through, it shall go very leniently with you and with your daughter. And perhaps, I won't promise, remember, perhaps with your husband also. Very good citizen, said Petite Mama calmly. I am ready. Ready for what, he demanded, to take you to where my husband is in hiding. Oh ho, he is not in the house then. No, where is he then? In the rue Saint Anne. I will take you there. Roger cast a quick suspicious glance on the old woman and exchanged one of her understanding with the sergeant. Very well, he said after a slight pause. But your daughter must come along too. Sergeant, he added, I'll take three of your men with me and leave half a dozen. But it's better to be on the safe side. Post your fellows around the outer door and on my way to the rue Saint Anne, I will leave word at the gendarmerie that a small reinforcement be sent on to you at once. These can be here in five minutes. Until then, you are quite safe. Then he added under his breath so that the woman should not hear. The Englishman may still be in the house, in which case, hearing us depart, he may think us all gone and try to give us the slip. You'll know what to do. He queried significantly. Of course, citizen replied the sergeant. Now then, citizeness, hurry up. Once more, there was tramping of heavy feet on stone stairs and corridors. A squad of soldiers of the Republican Guard with two women in their midst, followed by a member of the committee of public safety, a sergeant, corporal, and two or three more men excited much anxious curiosity as they descended the steep flights of steps from the fifth floor. Pale frightened faces peep shyly through the doorways at sound of the noisy tramp from above, but quickly disappeared again at sight of the grimy scarlet facings and tricolor cockades. The sergeant and three soldiers at the foot of the stairs inside the house. Then, citizen Roger roughly gave the order to proceed. It seems strange that it should require close on a dozen men to guard two women and to apprehend one old man. But as the member of the committee of public safety whispered to the sergeant before he finally went out of the house, the whole thing may be a trap and one can't be too careful. The Englishman is said to be very powerful. I'll get the gendarmerie to send you another half dozen men and mind you, guard the house until my return. End of Book 5, Chapter 3 Book 5, Chapter 4 of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Ortsy Book 5, A Fine Bit of Work Chapter 4 Five minutes later, the soldiers, directed by Petit Maman, had reached number 37, Rue Saint Anne. The big outside door stood wide open and the whole party turned immediately into the house. The concierge, terrified and obsequious, rushed, trembling, out of his box. What was the pleasure of the citizen soldiers, he asked. Tell him, citizeness, commanded Rogé, curtly. We are going to apartment number 12 on the second floor, said Petit Maman to the concierge. Have you a key of the apartment? queried Rogé. No, citizen, stammered the concierge. But what is it? queried the other peremptorily. Papa turned out is a poor, harmless maker of violins, said the concierge. I know him well, though he is not often at home. He lives with a daughter somewhere pass away and only uses this place as a workshop. I am sure he is no traitor. We'll soon see about that, her marked Rogé dryly. Petit Maman held her shawl tightly crossed over her bosom. Her hands felt clammy and cold as ice. She was looking straight out before her, quite dry-eyed and calm, and never once glanced on Rosette, who was not allowed to come anywhere near her mother. Since there was no duplicate key to apartment number 12, citizen Rogé ordered his men to break in the door. It did not take very long. The house was old and ramshackle, and the door is rickety. The next moment the party stood in the room, which a while ago, the Englishman had so accurately described to Pierre Lenegré in Petit Maman's hearing. There was the wardrobe. Petit Maman, closely surrounded by the soldiers, went boldly up to it. She opened it just as Milaure had directed, then pushed aside the row of shabby clothes that hung there. Then she pointed to the panels that did not fit quite tightly together at the back. Petit Maman passed her tongue over her dry lips before she spoke. There is a recess behind those panels, she said at last. They slide back quite easily. My old man is there. And God bless you for a brave loyal soul came in merry ringing accent from the other end of the room. And God saved the scarlet temperament. These last words, spoken in English, completed the blank amazement which literally paralyzed the only three genuine Republican soldiers there. Those, namely, whom Rojet had borrowed from the sergeant. As for the others, they knew what to do. In less than a minute, they had overpowered and gagged the three bewildered soldiers. Rojet had screamed terror-stricken from sheer astonishment, but Petit Maman stood quite still. Her pale, teardim-dyes fixed upon the man whose gay, God bless you, had so suddenly turned her despair into hope. How was it that in the hideous unkempt and grimy Rojet, she had not at once recognized the handsome and gallant Milaure who had saved her peer's life? Well, of a truth, he had been unrecognizable, but now that he tore the ugly wig and beard from his face, stretched out his fine figure to its full height, and presently turned his lazy merry eyes on her, she could have screamed for very joy. The next moment he had her by the shoulders and had imprinted two sounding kisses upon her cheeks. Now, Petit Maman, he said gaily, let us liberate the old man. Peer Lene Gray from his hiding place had heard all that had been going on in the room for the last few moments. True, he had known exactly what to expect, for no sooner had he taken possession of the recess behind the wardrobe, than Milaure also entered the apartment, and then and there told him of his plans, not only for Peer's own safety, but for that of Petit Maman and Rojet, who would be in grave danger if the old man followed in the wake of Peer. Milaure told him in his usual light-hearted way that he had given the committee spies the slip. I'd do that very easily, you know, he explained. I'd just slip into my rooms in the Rouge Holy Bay, change myself into a snuffy and hunchback violin maker, and walk out of the house under the noses of the spies. In the nearest wine shop, my English friends in various disguises are all ready to my hand. Half a dozen of them are never far from where I am, in case they may be wanted. These half-dozen brave Englishmen soon arrived one by one, one looking like a coal-heaver, another like a seedy musician, a third like a coach-driver, but they all walked boldly into the house and were soon all congregated in apartment number 12. Here fresh disguises were assumed, and soon a squad of Republican guards looked like the real thing as possible. Here Lenegré admitted himself that though he actually saw Milord transforming himself into Citizen Roger, he could hardly believe his eyes. So complete was the change. I am deeply grieved to have frightened and upset you so, petite mama. Now concluded Milord kindly, but I saw no other way of getting you and Rosette out of the house and leaving that stupid sergeant and some of his men behind. I did not want to arouse in him even the faintest breath of suspicion. And of course, if he had asked me for the written orders, which he was actually waiting for, or if his corporal had returned sooner than I anticipated, there might have been trouble. But even then, he added with his usual careless insouciance, I should have thought of some way of baffling those brutes. And now he concluded, more authoritatively, it is a case of getting you out of Paris before the gates close. Here, Lenegré, take your wife and daughter with you and walk boldly out of this house. The sergeant and his men have not vacated their post in the Rouge-Auley Bay and no one else can molest you. Go straight to the Port de Nuit and on the other side, wait quietly in the little cafe-eth corner of the avenue until I come. Your old passes for the barriers still hold good. You were only placed on the suspect list this morning and there has not been a hue and cry yet about you. In any case, some of us will be close by to help you if needs be. But you, Milaure, stammered Pierre Lenegré and your friends. La man retorted Blake knee lightly, have I not told you before never to worry about me and my friends? We have more ways than one of giving the slip to this dimmed government of yours. All you've got to think of is your wife and your daughter. I am afraid that Petite Maman cannot take more with her than she has on. But we'll do all we can for her comfort until we have you in perfect safety in England with Pierre. Neither Pierre Lenegré nor Petite Maman nor Rosette could speak just then. For tears were choking them. But Anon, when Milaure stood nearer, Petite Maman knelt down and, imprisoning his slender hand in her brown wrinkled ones, she kissed it reverently. He laughed and chided her for this. His eyes should kneel to you in gratitude, Petite Maman, he said earnestly. You were ready to sacrifice your old man for me. You have saved Pierre, Milaure, said the mother simply. A minute later, Pierre Lenegré and the two women were ready to go. Already Milaure and his gallant English friends were busy once more, transforming themselves into grimy workmen or seedy middle-class professionals. As soon as the door of apartment 12 finally closed behind the three good folk, my Lord Tony asked of his chief, What about these three wretched soldiers, Blakeney? Oh, they'll be all right for 24 hours. They can't starve till then. And by that time, the concierge will have realized that there's something wrong with that door of number 12 and will come in to investigate the matter. Are they securely bound, though? And gagged, rather, ejaculated one of the others. Odd's life, Blakeney, he added enthusiastically. That was a fine bit of work. End of chapter 4 and end of book 5. A fine bit of work.