The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy (top ten books to read txt) 📗
- Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
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“You saw nothing of the tall stranger?”
“Nothing, citoyen.”
“If your comrades see him, what would they do?”
“Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of escape, or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and, if necessary, they would shoot: the firing would bring the rest of the patrol to the spot. In any case they would not let the stranger go.”
“Aye! but I did not want the stranger hurt—not just yet,” murmured Chauvelin, savagely, “but there, you’ve done your best. The Fates grant that I may not be too late . . .”
“We met half a dozen men just now, who have been patrolling this road for several hours.”
“Well?”
“They have seen no stranger either.”
“Yet he is on ahead somewhere, in a cart or else . . . . Here! there is not a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here?”
“About a couple of leagues, citoyen.”
“You can find it again?—at once?—without hesitation?”
“I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen.”
“The footpath, to the edge of the cliff?—Even in the dark?”
“It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find my way,” repeated the soldier firmly.
“Fall in behind then. Let your comrade take both your horses back to Calais. You won’t want them. Keep beside the cart, and direct the Jew to drive straight ahead; then stop him, within a quarter of a league of the footpath; see that he takes the most direct road.”
Whilst Chauvelin spoke, Desgas and his men were fast approaching, and Marguerite could hear their footsteps within a hundred yards behind her now. She thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and unnecessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering: her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminating in this awful despair.
For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within two short leagues of this spot, the fugitives were waiting for their brave deliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road, and presently he would join them; then the well-laid trap would close, two dozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning was malicious, would close round the small band of fugitives, and their daring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according to Chauvelin’s pledged word, would be restored to her, but her husband, Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to love and worship more and more, he would fall into the hands of a remorseless enemy, who had no pity for a brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning antagonist, who had baffled him so long.
She heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to the Jew, then she retired quickly to the edge of the road, and cowered behind some low shrubs, whilst Desgas and his men came up.
All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they all started down the dark road. Marguerite waited until she reckoned that they were well outside the range of earshot, then, she too in the darkness, which suddenly seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly along.
THE PÈRE BLANCHARD’S HUT
As in a dream, Marguerite followed on; the web was drawing more and more tightly every moment round the beloved life, which had become dearer than all. To see her husband once again, to tell him how she had suffered, how much she had wronged, and how little understood him, had become now her only aim. She had abandoned all hope of saving him: she saw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and, in despair, she gazed round her into the darkness, and wondered whence he would presently come, to fall into the death-trap which his relentless enemy had prepared for him.
The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder; the occasional dismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled her with unspeakable horror. She thought of the ravenous beasts—in human shape—who lay in wait for their prey, and destroyed them, as mercilessly as any hungry wolf, for the satisfaction of their own appetite of hate. Marguerite was not afraid of the darkness, she only feared that man, on ahead, who was sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, nursing thoughts of vengeance, which would have made the very demons in hell chuckle with delight.
Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her, from sheer bodily fatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of excitement; she had not had a quiet rest for three nights; now, she had walked on a slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her determination never swerved for a moment. She would see her husband, tell him all, and, if he was ready to forgive the crime, which she had committed in her blind ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying by his side.
She must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct alone keeping her up, and guiding her in the wake of the enemy, when suddenly her ears, attuned to the slightest sound, by that same blind instinct, told her that the cart had stopped, and that the soldiers had halted. They had come to their destination. No doubt on the right, somewhere close ahead, was the footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the hut.
Heedless of any risks, she crept quite close up to where Chauvelin stood, surrounded by his little troop: he had descended from the cart, and was giving some orders to the men. These she wanted to hear: what little chance she yet had, of being useful to Percy, consisted in hearing absolutely every word of his enemy’s plans.
The spot where all the party had halted must have lain some eight hundred mètres from the coast; the sound of the sea came only very faintly, as from a distance. Chauvelin and Desgas, followed by the soldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently on to the footpath, which led to the cliffs. The Jew had remained on the road, with his cart and nag.
Marguerite, with infinite caution, and literally crawling on her hands and knees, had also turned off to the right: to accomplish this she had to creep through the rough, low shrubs, trying to make as little noise as possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or heard. Fortunately—as is usual in this part of France—the footpath was bordered by a low, rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled with coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter; she was quite hidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three yards of where Chauvelin stood, giving orders to his men.
“Now,” he was saying in a low and peremptory whisper, “where is the Père Blanchard’s hut?”
“About eight hundred mètres from here, along the footpath,” said the soldier who had lately been directing the party, “and half-way down the cliff.”
“Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff, you shall creep down to the hut, as noiselessly as possible, and ascertain if the traitor royalists are there? Do you understand?”
“I understand, citoyen.”
“Now listen very attentively, all of you,” continued Chauvelin, impressively, and addressing the soldiers collectively, “for after this we may not be able to exchange another word, so remember every syllable I utter, as if your very lives depended on your memory. Perhaps they do,” he added drily.
“We listen, citoyen,” said Desgas, “and a soldier of the Republic never forgets an order.”
“You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep inside. If an Englishman is there with those traitors, a man who is tall above the average, or who stoops as if he would disguise his height, then give a sharp, quick whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you,” he added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively, “then quickly surround and rush into the hut, and each seize one of the men there, before they have time to draw their firearms; if any of them struggle, shoot at their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall man. Do you understand?”
“We understand, citoyen.”
“The man who is tall above the average is probably also strong above the average; it will take four or five of you at least to overpower him.”
There was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued,—
“If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more than likely to be the case, then warn your comrades who are lying in wait there, and all of you creep and take cover behind the rocks and boulders round the hut, and wait there, in dead silence, until the tall Englishman arrives; then only rush the hut, when he is safely within its doors. But remember that you must be as silent as the wolf is at night, when he prowls around the pens. I do not wish those royalists to be on the alert—the firing of a pistol, a shriek or call on their part would be sufficient, perhaps, to warn the tall personage to keep clear of the cliffs, and of the hut, and,” he added emphatically, “it is the tall Englishman whom it is your duty to capture to-night.”
“You shall be implicitly obeyed, citoyen.”
“Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I will follow you.”
“What about the Jew, citoyen?” asked Desgas, as silently like noiseless shadows, one by one the soldiers began to creep along the rough and narrow footpath.
“Ah, yes; I had forgotten the Jew,” said Chauvelin, and, turning towards the Jew, he called him peremptorily.
“Here, you . . . Aaron, Moses, Abraham, or whatever your confounded name may be,” he said to the old man, who had quietly stood beside his lean nag, as far away from the soldiers as possible.
“Benjamin Rosenbaum, so it please your Honour,” he replied humbly.
“It does not please me to hear your voice, but it does please me to give you certain orders, which you will find it wise to obey.”
“So it please your Honour . . .”
“Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay here, do you hear? with your horse and cart until our return. You are on no account to utter the faintest sound, or even to breathe louder than you can help; nor are you, on any consideration whatever, to leave your post, until I give you orders to do so. Do you understand?”
“But your Honour—” protested the Jew pitiably.
“There is no question of ‘but’ or of any argument,” said Chauvelin, in a tone that made the timid old man tremble from head to foot. “If, when I return, I do not find you here, I most solemnly assure you that, wherever you may try to hide yourself, I can find you, and that punishment swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or later overtake you. Do you hear me?”
“But your Excellency . . .”
“I said, do you hear me?”
The soldiers had all crept away; the three men stood alone together in the dark and lonely road, with Marguerite there, behind the hedge, listening to Chauvelin’s orders, as she would to her own death sentence.
“I heard your Honour,” protested the Jew again, while he tried to draw nearer to Chauvelin, “and I swear by Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that I would obey your Honour most absolutely, and that I would not move from this place until your Honour once more deigned to shed the light of your countenance upon your humble servant; but remember, your Honour, I am a poor old man; my nerves are not as strong as those of a young soldier. If midnight marauders should come prowling round this lonely road, I might scream or run in my fright! And is my life to be forfeit, is some terrible punishment to come on my poor old head for that which I cannot help?”
The Jew seemed in real distress; he was shaking from head to foot. Clearly he was not the man to be left by himself on this lonely road. The man spoke truly; he might unwittingly, in sheer terror, utter the shriek that might prove a warning to the wily Scarlet Pimpernel.
Chauvelin reflected for a moment.
“Will your horse and cart be safe alone, here, do you think?” he asked roughly.
“I fancy, citoyen,” here interposed
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