The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (best historical biographies .txt) 📗

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 milor’, and the English milor’ found Antoine Carré and took him and his mother safely out of France. Mme. Carré is my godmother.⁠ ⁠… I saw her the very night when she went to meet the English milor’ at his commands. 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 nigh on a fortnight I dared not ply my trade⁠ ⁠… I have only just ventured again to set up in business. I am not going to risk my old neck again in a hurry.⁠ ⁠…”

“It is a matter of life and death,” urged Agnès, as once more the tears rushed to her pleading eyes and the look of misery settled again upon her face.

“Your life, citizeness?” 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 Agnès de Lucines is fiancée to the citizen-deputy Arnould Fabrice,” rejoined the old man quietly, “and that it is Mademoiselle Agnès de Lucines who is speaking with me now.”

“You have known that all along?”

“Ever since mademoiselle first tripped past me at the angle of the Pont Neuf dressed in winsey kirtle and wearing sabots on her feet.⁠ ⁠…”

“But how?” she murmured, puzzled, 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 Arnould Fabrice had kept Agnès de Lucines in France these days, even though she was in 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 milor’ 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.

Agnès de Lucines’ pale face looked ethereal 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 Hériot⁠—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 Arnould 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 ⁠… 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 stooping 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 milor’ 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 sous 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 sous with elaborate care and laid them out upon the table. The old man took up the coins. He blew into his fingers, which looked paralysed with the cold. The snow lay over everything now; the rough awning had not protected him or his wares.

Agnès turned to go. The last she saw of him, as she went up the Rue Dauphine, 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.

II

It was half-an-hour before noon, and citizen-deputy Hériot was preparing to go out to the small tavern round the corner where he habitually took his déjeuner. Citizen Rondeau, who for the consideration of ten sous a day looked after Hériot’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 Cocatrice. This apartment consisted of three rooms leading out of one another; firstly there was a dark and