El Dorado - Baroness Orczy (best ebook reader for surface pro TXT) 📗

Marguerite sat silently beside her husband, her hand in his. Armand, opposite to them, had both elbows on the table. He looked pale and wan, with a bandage across his forehead, and his glowing eyes were resting on his chief.

“Yes! you demmed young idiot,” said Blakeney merrily, “you nearly upset my plan in the end, with your yelling and screaming outside the chapel gates.”

“I wanted to get to you, Percy. I thought those brutes had got you there inside that building.”

“Not they!” he exclaimed. “It was my friend Héron whom they had trussed and gagged, and whom my amiable friend M. Chambertin will find in there tomorrow morning. By Gad! I would go back if only for the pleasure of hearing Héron curse when first the gag is taken from his mouth.”

“But how was it all done, Percy? And there was de Batz⁠—”

“De Batz was part of the scheme I had planned for mine own escape before I knew that those brutes meant to take Marguerite and you as hostages for my good behaviour. What I hoped then was that under cover of a tussle or a fight I could somehow or other contrive to slip through their fingers. It was a chance, and you know my belief in bald-headed Fortune, with the one solitary hair. Well, I meant to grab that hair; and at the worst I could but die in the open and not caged in that awful hole like some noxious vermin. I knew that de Batz would rise to the bait. I told him in my letter that the Dauphin would be at the Château d’Ourde this night, but that I feared the revolutionary Government had got wind of this fact, and were sending an armed escort to bring the lad away. This letter Ffoulkes took to him; I knew that he would make a vigorous effort to get the Dauphin into his hands, and that during the scuffle that one hair on Fortune’s head would for one second only, mayhap, come within my reach. I had so planned the expedition that we were bound to arrive at the forest of Boulogne by nightfall, and night is always a useful ally. But at the guardhouse of the Rue Ste. Anne I realised for the first time that those brutes had pressed me into a tighter corner than I had preconceived.”

He paused, and once again that look of recklessness swept over his face, and his eyes⁠—still hollow and circled⁠—shone with the excitement of past memories.

“I was such a weak, miserable wretch, then,” he said, in answer to Marguerite’s appeal. “I had to try and build up some strength, when⁠—Heaven forgive me for the sacrilege⁠—I had unwittingly risked your precious life, dear heart, in that blind endeavour to save mine own. By Gad! it was no easy task in that jolting vehicle with that noisome wretch beside me for sole company; yet I ate and I drank and I slept for three days and two nights, until the hour when in the darkness I struck Héron from behind, half-strangled him first, then gagged him, and finally slipped into his filthy coat and put that loathsome bandage across my head, and his battered hat above it all. The yell he gave when first I attacked him made every horse rear⁠—you must remember it⁠—the noise effectually drowned our last scuffle in the coach. Chauvelin was the only man who might have suspected what had occurred, but he had gone on ahead, and bald-headed Fortune had passed by me, and I had managed to grab its one hair. After that it was all quite easy. The sergeant and the soldiers had seen very little of Héron and nothing of me; it did not take a great effort to deceive them, and the darkness of the night was my most faithful friend. His raucous voice was not difficult to imitate, and darkness always muffles and changes every tone. Anyway, it was not likely that those loutish soldiers would even remotely suspect the trick that was being played on them. The citizen agent’s orders were promptly and implicitly obeyed. The men never even thought to wonder that after insisting on an escort of twenty he should drive off with two prisoners and only two men to guard them. If they did wonder, it was not theirs to question. Those two troopers are spending an uncomfortable night somewhere in the forest of Boulogne, each tied to a tree, and some two leagues apart one from the other. And now,” he added gaily, “en voiture, my fair lady; and you, too, Armand. ’Tis seven leagues to Le Portel, and we must be there before dawn.”

“Sir Andrew’s intention was to make for Calais first, there to open communication with the Daydream and then for Le Portel,” said Marguerite; “after that he meant to strike back for the Château d’Ourde in search of me.”

“Then we’ll still find him at Le Portel⁠—I shall know how to lay hands on him; but you two must get aboard the Daydream at once, for Ffoulkes and I can always look after ourselves.”

It was one hour after midnight when⁠—refreshed with food and rest⁠—Marguerite, Armand and Sir Percy left the halfway house. Marguerite was standing in the doorway ready to go. Percy and Armand had gone ahead to bring the coach along.

“Percy,” whispered Armand, “Marguerite does not know?”

“Of course she does not, you young fool,” retorted Percy lightly. “If you try and tell her I think I would smash your head.”

“But you⁠—” said the young man with sudden vehemence; “can you bear the sight of me? My God! when I think⁠—”

“Don’t think, my good Armand⁠—not of that anyway. Only think of the woman for whose sake you committed a crime⁠—if she is pure and good, woo her and win her⁠—not just now, for it were foolish to go back to Paris after her, but anon, when she comes