The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (the little red hen read aloud .txt) 📗

peered out into the night. The little porch was deserted, but out there on the quay a few passersby still livened the evening with chatter or song. Theresia was on the point of stepping out of the porch, when a familiar voice hailed her softly by name:

“Citoyenne Cabarrus!”

A man, dressed in dark clothes, with high boots and sugar-loaf hat, came out from the dark angle behind the porch.

“Not here!” Theresia whispered eagerly. “Out on the quay. Wait for me there, my little Chauvelin. I’ll be with you anon. I have so much to tell you!”

Silently, he did as she desired. She waited for a moment in the porch, watching the meagre figure in the dark cloak making its way across to the quay, then walking rapidly in the direction of the Pent. The moon was dazzlingly brilliant. The harbour and the distant sea glistened like diamond-studded sheets of silver. From afar there came the sound of the castle clock striking ten. The groups of passersby had dwindled down to an occasional amorous couple strolling homewards, whispering soft nothings and gazing enraptured at the moon; or half-a-dozen sailors lolling down the quays arm in arm, on their way back to their ship, obstructing the road, yelling and singing the refrain of the newest ribald song; or perhaps a belated peddler, weary of an unprofitable beat, wending his way dejectedly home.

One of these poor wretches⁠—a cripple with a wooden leg and bent nearly double with the heavy load on his pack⁠—paused for a moment beside the porch, held out a grimy hand to Theresia, with a pitiable cry.

“Of your charity, kind sir! Buy a little something from the pore ole man, to buy a bit of bread!”

He looked utterly woebegone, with lank grey hair blown about by the breeze and a colourless face covered with sweat, that shone like painted metal in the moonlight.

“Buy a little something, kind sir!” he went on, in a shrill, throaty voice. “I’ve a sick wife at ’ome, and pore little gran’childen!”

Theresia⁠—a little frightened, and not at all charitably inclined at this hour⁠—turned hastily away and went back into to house, whither the cripple’s vigorous curses followed her.

“May Satan and all his armies⁠—”

She shut the door on him and hastened up the passage. That cadaverous old reprobate had caused her to shudder as with the presentiment of coming evil.

II

With infinite precaution, Theresia peeped into the room where she had left Bertrand. She saw him lying on the sofa, fast asleep.

On the table in the middle of the room there was an old ink-horn, a pen, and few loose sheets of paper. Noiseless as a mouse, Theresia slipped into the room, sat at the table, and hurriedly wrote a few lines. Bertrand had not moved. Having written her missive, Theresia folded it carefully, and still on tiptoe, more stealthily even than before, she slipped the paper between the young man’s loosely clasped fingers. Then, as soundlessly as she had come, she glided out of the room, ran down the passage, and was out in the porch once more, breathless but relieved.

Bertrand had not moved; and no one had seen her. Theresia only paused in the porch long enough to recover her breath, then, without hesitation and with rapid strides, she crossed over to the water’s edge and walked along in the direction of the Pent.

Whereupon, the figure of the old cripple emerged from out the shadows. He gazed after the fast retreating figure of Theresia for a moment or two, then threw down his load, straightened out his back, and stretched out his arms from the shoulders with a sigh of content. After which amazing proceedings he gave a soft, inward chuckle, unstrapped his wooden leg, slung it with his discarded load across his broad shoulders, and turning his back upon harbour and sea, turned up the High Street and strode rapidly away.

III

When Bertrand Moncrif woke, the dawn was peeping in through the uncurtained window. He felt cold and stiff. It took him some time to realise where he was, to collect his scattered senses. He had been dreaming⁠ ⁠… here in this room⁠ ⁠… Theresia had been here⁠ ⁠… and she had laid her head against his breast and allowed him to soothe and comfort her. Then she said that she would come back⁠ ⁠… and he⁠ ⁠… like a fool⁠ ⁠… had fallen asleep.

He jumped up, fully awake now; and as he did so a folded scrap of paper fell out of his hand. He had not known that it was there when first he woke, and somehow it appeared to be a part of his dream. As it lay there on the sanded floor at his feet, it looked strangely ghostlike, ominous; and it was with a trembling hand that, presently, he picked it up.

Every minute now brought fuller daylight into the room; a grey, cold light, for the window faced the southwest, showing a wide stretch of the tidal harbour and the open sea beyond. The sun, not fully risen, had not yet shed warmth over the landscape, and to Bertrand this colourless dawn, the mysterious stillness which earth assumes just before it wakens to the sun’s kiss, seemed inexpressibly dreary and desolate.

He went to the window and threw open the casement. Down below, a kitchen wench was busy scrubbing the flagged steps of the porch; over in the inner harbour, one or two fishing vessels were preparing to put out to sea; and from the tidal harbour, the graceful yacht which yesterday had brought him⁠—Bertrand⁠—and his friends safely to this land of refuge, was majestically gliding out, like a beautiful swan with gleaming wings outspread.

Controlling his apprehension, his nervousness, Bertrand at last contrived to unfold the mysterious epistle. He read the few lines that were traced with a delicate, feminine hand, and with a sigh of infinite longing and of ardent passion, he pressed the paper to his lips. Theresia had sent him a message. Finding him asleep, she had slipped