El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy (best smutty novels .txt) 📗
- Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
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“I do not understand you, citizen,” retorted Armand coldly, “nor do I desire indulgence at your hands. You have arrested an innocent woman on the trumped-up charge that she was harbouring me. I came here to-night to give myself up to justice so that she might be set free.”
“But the hour is somewhat late, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin urbanely. “The lady in whom you take so fervent an interest is no doubt asleep in her cell at this hour. It would not be fitting to disturb her now. She might not find shelter before morning, and the weather is quite exceptionally unpropitious.”
“Then, sir,” said Armand, a little bewildered, “am I to understand that if I hold myself at your disposition Mademoiselle Lange will be set free as early to-morrow morning as may be?”
“No doubt, sir—no doubt,” replied Chauvelin with more than his accustomed blandness; “if you will hold yourself entirely at our disposition, Mademoiselle Lange will be set free to-morrow. I think that we can safely promise that, citizen Heron, can we not?” he added, turning to his colleague.
But Heron, overcome with the stress of emotions, could only murmur vague, unintelligible words.
“Your word on that, citizen Chauvelin?” asked Armand.
“My word on it an you will accept it.”
“No, I will not do that. Give me an unconditional certificate of safety and I will believe you.”
“Of what use were that to you?” asked Chauvelin.
“I believe my capture to be of more importance to you than that of Mademoiselle Lange,” said Armand quietly.
“I will use the certificate of safety for myself or one of my friends if you break your word to me anent Mademoiselle Lange.”
“H’m! the reasoning is not illogical, citizen,” said Chauvelin, whilst a curious smile played round the corners of his thin lips. “You are quite right. You are a more valuable asset to us than the charming lady who, I hope, will for many a day and year to come delight pleasure-loving Paris with her talent and her grace.”
“Amen to that, citizen,” said Armand fervently.
“Well, it will all depend on you, sir! Here,” he added, coolly running over some papers on Heron’s desk until he found what he wanted, “is an absolutely unconditional certificate of safety. The Committee of General Security issue very few of these. It is worth the cost of a human life. At no barrier or gate of any city can such a certificate be disregarded, nor even can it be detained. Allow me to hand it to you, citizen, as a pledge of my own good faith.”
Smiling, urbane, with a curious look that almost expressed amusement lurking in his shrewd, pale eyes, Chauvelin handed the momentous document to Armand.
The young man studied it very carefully before he slipped it into the inner pocket of his coat.
“How soon shall I have news of Mademoiselle Lange?” he asked finally.
“In the course of to-morrow. I myself will call on you and redeem that precious document in person. You, on the other hand, will hold yourself at my disposition. That’s understood, is it not?”
“I shall not fail you. My lodgings are—”
“Oh! do not trouble,” interposed Chauvelin, with a polite bow; “we can find that out for ourselves.”
Heron had taken no part in this colloquy. Now that Armand prepared to go he made no attempt to detain him, or to question his colleague’s actions. He sat by the table like a log; his mind was obviously a blank to all else save to his own terrors engendered by the events of this night.
With bleary, half-veiled eyes he followed Armand’s progress through the room, and seemed unaware of the loud slamming of the outside door. Chauvelin had escorted the young man past the first line of sentry, then he took cordial leave of him.
“Your certificate will, you will find, open every gate to you. Good-night, citizen. A demain.”
“Good-night.”
Armand’s slim figure disappeared in the gloom. Chauvelin watched him for a few moments until even his footsteps had died away in the distance; then he turned back towards Heron’s lodgings.
“A nous deux,” he muttered between tightly clenched teeth; “a nous deux once more, my enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel.”
CHAPTER XXI. BACK TO PARIS
It was an exceptionally dark night, and the rain was falling in torrents. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, wrapped in a piece of sacking, had taken shelter right underneath the coal-cart; even then he was getting wet through to the skin.
He had worked hard for two days coal-heaving, and the night before he had found a cheap, squalid lodging where at any rate he was protected from the inclemencies of the weather; but to-night he was expecting Blakeney at the appointed hour and place. He had secured a cart of the ordinary ramshackle pattern used for carrying coal. Unfortunately there were no covered ones to be obtained in the neighbourhood, and equally unfortunately the thaw had set in with a blustering wind and driving rain, which made waiting in the open air for hours at a stretch and in complete darkness excessively unpleasant.
But for all these discomforts Sir Andrew Ffoulkes cared not one jot. In England, in his magnificent Suffolk home, he was a confirmed sybarite, in whose service every description of comfort and luxury had to be enrolled. Here tonight in the rough and tattered clothes of a coal-heaver, drenched to the skin, and crouching under the body of a cart that hardly sheltered him from the rain, he was as happy as a schoolboy out for a holiday.
Happy, but vaguely anxious.
He had no means of ascertaining the time. So many of the church-bells and clock towers had been silenced recently that not one of those welcome sounds penetrated to the dreary desolation of this canal wharf, with its abandoned carts standing ghostlike in a row. Darkness had set in very early in the afternoon, and the heavers had given up work soon after four o’clock.
For about an hour after that a certain animation had still reigned round the wharf, men crossing and going, one or two of the barges moving in or out alongside the quay. But for some time now darkness and silence had been the masters in this desolate spot, and that time had seemed to Sir Andrew an eternity. He had hobbled and tethered his horse, and stretched himself out at full length under the cart. Now and again he had crawled out from under this uncomfortable shelter and walked up and down in ankle-deep mud, trying to restore circulation in his stiffened limbs; now and again a kind of torpor had come over him, and he had fallen into a brief and restless sleep. He would at this moment have given half his
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