El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy (best smutty novels .txt) 📗

rid of the Simons. The woman might have been very useful and more easily got at than a man. The avarice of the French bourgeoise would have proved a promising factor. But this, of course, would now be out of the question. At the same time it was not because Heron raved and stormed and uttered cries like a hyena that he, de Batz, meant to give up an enterprise which, if successful, would place millions into his own pocket.

As for that meddling Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel, and his crack-brained followers, they must be effectually swept out of the way first of all. De Batz felt that they were the real, the most likely hindrance to his schemes. He himself would have to go very cautiously to work, since apparently Heron would not allow him to purchase immunity for himself in that one matter, and whilst he was laying his plans with necessary deliberation so as to ensure his own safety, that accursed Scarlet Pimpernel would mayhap snatch the golden prize from the Temple prison right under his very nose.

When he thought of that the Gascon Royalist felt just as vindictive as did the chief agent of the Committee of General Security.

While these thoughts were coursing through de Batz’ head, Heron had been indulging in a volley of vituperation.

“If that little vermin escapes,” he said, “my life will not be worth an hour’s purchase. In twenty-four hours I am a dead man, thrown to the guillotine like those dogs of aristocrats! You say I am a night-bird, citizen. I tell you that I do not sleep night or day thinking of that brat and the means to keep him safely under my hand. I have never trusted those Simons—”

“Not trusted them!” exclaimed de Batz; “surely you could not find anywhere more inhuman monsters!”

“Inhuman monsters?” snarled Heron. “Bah! they don’t do their business thoroughly; we want the tyrant’s spawn to become a true Republican and a patriot—aye! to make of him such a one that even if you and your cursed confederates got him by some hellish chance, he would be no use to you as a king, a tyrant to set above the people, to set up in your Versailles, your Louvre, to eat off golden plates and wear satin clothes. You have seen the brat! By the time he is a man he should forget how to eat save with his fingers, and get roaring drunk every night. That’s what we want!—to make him so that he shall be no use to you, even if you did get him away; but you shall not! You shall not, not if I have to strangle him with my own hands.”

He picked up his short-stemmed pipe and pulled savagely at it for awhile. De Batz was meditating.

“My friend,” he said after a little while, “you are agitating yourself quite unnecessarily, and gravely jeopardising your prospects of getting a comfortable little income through keeping your fingers off my person. Who said I wanted to meddle with the child?”

“You had best not,” growled Heron.

“Exactly. You have said that before. But do you not think that you would be far wiser, instead of directing your undivided attention to my unworthy self, to turn your thoughts a little to one whom, believe me, you have far greater cause to fear?”

“Who is that?”

“The Englishman.”

“You mean the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“Himself. Have you not suffered from his activity, friend Heron? I fancy that citizen Chauvelin and citizen Collot would have quite a tale to tell about him.”

“They ought both to have been guillotined for that blunder last autumn at Boulogne.”

“Take care that the same accusation be not laid at your door this year, my friend,” commented de Batz placidly.

“Bah!”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel is in Paris even now.”

“The devil he is!”

“And on what errand, think you?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then de Batz continued with slow and dramatic emphasis:

“That of rescuing your most precious prisoner from the Temple.”

“How do you know?” Heron queried savagely.

“I guessed.”

“How?”

“I saw a man in the Theatre National to-day...”

“Well?”

“Who is a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“D—— him! Where can I find him?”

“Will you sign a receipt for the three thousand five hundred livres, which I am pining to hand over to you, my friend, and I will tell you?”

“Where’s the money?”

“In my pocket.”

Without further words Heron dragged the inkhorn and a sheet of paper towards him, took up a pen, and wrote a few words rapidly in a loose, scrawly hand. He strewed sand over the writing, then handed it across the table to de Batz.

“Will that do?” he asked briefly.

The other was reading the note through carefully.

“I see you only grant me a fortnight,” he remarked casually.

“For that amount of money it is sufficient. If you want an extension you must pay more.”

“So be it,” assented de Batz coolly, as he folded the paper across. “On the whole a fortnight’s immunity in France these days is quite a pleasant respite. And I prefer to keep in touch with you, friend Heron. I’ll call on you again this day fortnight.”

He took out a letter-case from his pocket. Out of this he drew a packet of bank-notes, which he laid on the table in front of Heron, then he placed the receipt carefully into the letter-case, and this back into his pocket.

Heron in the meanwhile was counting over the banknotes. The light of ferocity had entirely gone from his eyes; momentarily the whole expression of the face was one of satisfied greed.

“Well!” he said at last when he had assured himself that the number of notes was quite correct, and he had transferred the bundle of crisp papers into an inner pocket of his coat—“well, what about your friend?”

“I knew him years ago,” rejoined de Batz coolly; “he is a kinsman of citizen St. Just. I know that he is one of the confederates of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Where does he lodge?”

“That is for you to find out. I saw him at the theatre, and afterwards in the green-room; he was making himself agreeable to the citizeness Lange. I heard him ask for leave to call on her to-morrow at four o’clock. You know where she lodges, of course!”