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

and paper closer to him. He was leaning forward, his elbow resting upon the table, his fingers fidgeting with his long, lank hair. He had closed the door when he entered, and from the other room now the voices of his friends sounded confused and muffled. Now and then an exclamation: “Double!” “Je⁠ ⁠… tiens!” “Cinq-deux!” an oath, a laugh, the click of glasses and bottles came out more clearly; but the rest of the time these sounds were more like a droning accompaniment to the scraping of Hériot’s pen upon the paper when he finally began to write his letter.

Two minutes went by and then two more. The scratching of Hériot’s pen became more rapid as he appeared to be more completely immersed in his work. Behind the curtain the two men had been waiting: Blakeney ready to act, Ffoulkes equally ready to interpret the slightest signal from his chief.

The next minute Blakeney had stolen out of the alcove, and his two hands⁠—so slender and elegant looking, and yet with a grip of steel⁠—had fastened themselves upon Hériot’s mouth, smothering within the space of a second the cry that had been half-uttered. Ffoulkes was ready to complete the work of rendering the man helpless: one handkerchief made an efficient gag, another tied the ankles securely. Hériot’s own coat-sleeves supplied the handcuffs, and the blankets off the bed tied around his legs rendered him powerless to move. Then the two men lifted this inert mass on to the bed and Ffoulkes whispered anxiously: “Now, what next?”

Hériot’s overcoat, hat, and muffler lay upon a chair. Sir Percy, placing a warning finger upon his lips, quickly divested himself of his own coat, slipped that of Hériot on, twisted the muffler round his neck, hunched up his shoulders, and murmuring: “Now for a bit of luck!” once more lowered the light of the lamp and then went to the door.

“Rondeau!” he called. “Hey, Rondeau!” And Sir Percy himself was surprised at the marvellous way in which he had caught the very inflection of Hériot’s voice.

“Hey, Rondeau!” came from one of the players at the table, “the citizen-deputy is calling you!”

They were all sitting round the table: two men intent upon their game of dominoes, the other two watching with equal intentness. Rondeau came shuffling out of the antechamber. His face, by the dim light of the oil lamp, looked jaundiced with fear.

“Rondeau, you fool, where are you?” called Blakeney once again.

The next moment Rondeau had entered the room. No need for a signal or an order this time. Ffoulkes knew by instinct what his chief’s bold scheme would mean to them both if it succeeded. He retired into the darkest corner of the room as Rondeau shuffled across to the writing-desk. It was all done in a moment. In less time than it had taken to bind and gag Hériot, his henchman was laid out on the floor, his coat had been taken off him, and he was tied into a mummy-like bundle with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’ elegant coat fastened securely round his arms and chest. It had all been done in silence. The men in the next room were noisy and intent on their game; the slight scuffle, the quickly smothered cries had remained unheeded.

“Now, what next?” queried Sir Andrew Ffoulkes once more.

“The impudence of the d⁠⸺⁠l, my good Ffoulkes,” replied Blakeney in a whisper, “and may our stars not play us false. Now let me make you look as like Rondeau as possible⁠—there! Slip on his coat⁠—now your hair over your forehead⁠—your coat-collar up⁠—your knees bent⁠—that’s better!” he added as he surveyed the transformation which a few deft strokes had made in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’ appearance. “Now all you have to do is to shuffle across the room⁠—here’s your prototype’s handkerchief⁠—of dubious cleanliness, it is true, but it will serve⁠—blow your nose as you cross the room, it will hide your face. They’ll not heed you⁠—keep in the shadows and God guard you⁠—I’ll follow in a moment or two⁠ ⁠… but don’t wait for me.”

He opened the door, and before Sir Andrew could protest his chief had pushed him out into the room where the four men were still intent on their game. Through the open door Sir Percy now watched his friend who, keeping well within the shadows, shuffled quietly across the room. The next moment Sir Andrew was through and in the antechamber. Blakeney’s acutely sensitive ears caught the sound of the opening of the outer door. He waited for a while, then he drew out of his pocket the bundle of letters which he had risked so much to obtain. There they were neatly docketed and marked: “The affairs of Arnould Fabrice.”

Well! if he got away tonight Agnès de Lucines would be happy and free from the importunities of that brute Hériot; after that he must persuade her and Fabrice to go to England and to freedom.

For the moment his own safety was terribly in jeopardy; one false move⁠—one look from those players round the table.⁠ ⁠… Bah! even then⁠—!

With an inward laugh he pushed open the door once more and stepped into the room. For the moment no one noticed him; the game was at its most palpitating stage; four shaggy heads met beneath the lamp and four pairs of eyes were gazing with rapt attention upon the intricate maze of the dominoes.

Blakeney walked quietly across the room; he was just midway and on a level with the centre table when a voice was suddenly raised from that tense group beneath the lamp: “Is it thou, friend Hériot?”

Then one of the men looked up and stared, and another did likewise and exclaimed: “It is not Hériot!”

In a moment all was confusion, but confusion was the very essence of those hair-breadth escapes and desperate adventures which were as the breath of his nostrils to the Scarlet Pimpernel. Before those four men had had time to jump to their feet, or to realise that something was wrong with