The Elusive Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (feel good books to read .txt) 📗

A shudder of intense mental pain went through her now as she gazed on the sleeping city, and sweet memories of the past turned to bitterness in this agonizing present. One by one as the moon gradually disappeared behind a bank of clouds, the towers of Boulogne were merged in the gloom. In front of her far, far away, beyond the flat sand dunes, the sea seemed to be calling to her with a ghostly and melancholy moan.

The window was on the ground floor of the Fort, and gave direct onto the wide and shady walk which runs along the crest of the city walls; from where she stood Marguerite was looking straight along the ramparts, some thirty metres wide at this point, flanked on either side by the granite balustrade, and adorned with a double row of ancient elms stunted and twisted into grotesque shapes by the persistent action of the wind.

“These wide ramparts are a peculiarity of this city⁠ ⁠…” said a voice close to her ear, “at times of peace they form an agreeable promenade under the shade of the trees, and a delightful meeting-place for lovers⁠ ⁠… or enemies.⁠ ⁠…”

The sound brought her back to the ugly realities of the present: the rose-scented garden at Richmond, the lazily flowing river, the tender memories which for that brief moment had confronted her from out a happy past, suddenly vanished from her ken. Instead of these the brine-laden sea-air struck her quivering nostrils, the echo of the old Beffroi died away in her ear, and now from out one of the streets or open places of the sleeping city there came the sound of a raucous voice, shooting in monotonous tones a string of words, the meaning of which failed to reach her brain.

Not many feet below the window, the southern ramparts of the town stretched away into the darkness. She felt unaccountably cold suddenly as she looked down upon them and, with aching eyes, tried to pierce the gloom. She was shivering in spite of the mildness of this early autumnal night: her overwrought fancy was peopling the lonely walls with unearthly shapes strolling along, discussing in spectral language a strange duel which was to take place here between a noted butcher of men and a mad Englishman overfond of adventure.

The ghouls seemed to pass and repass along in front of her and to be laughing audibly because that mad Englishman had been offered his life in exchange for his honour. They laughed and laughed, no doubt because he refused the bargain⁠—Englishmen were always eccentric, and in these days of equality and other devices of a free and glorious revolution, honour was such a very marketable commodity that it seemed ridiculous to prize it quite so highly. Then they strolled away again and disappeared, whilst Marguerite distinctly heard the scrunching of the path beneath their feet. She leant forward to peer still further into the darkness, for this sound had seemed so absolutely real, but immediately a detaining hand was place upon her arm and a sarcastic voice murmured at her elbow:

“The result, fair lady, would only be a broken leg or arm; the height is not great enough for picturesque suicides, and believe me these ramparts are only haunted by ghosts.”

She drew back as if a viper had stung her; for the moment she had become oblivious of Chauvelin’s presence. However, she would not take notice of his taunt, and, after a slight pause, he asked her if she could hear the town crier over in the public streets.

“Yes,” she replied.

“What he says at this present moment is of vast importance to your ladyship,” he remarked drily.

“How so?”

“Your ladyship is a precious hostage. We are taking measures to guard our valuable property securely.”

Marguerite thought of the Abbé Foucquet, who no doubt was still quietly telling his beads, even if in his heart he had begun to wonder what had become of her. She thought of François, who was the breadwinner, and of Félicité, who was blind.

“Methinks you and your colleagues have done that already,” she said.

“Not as completely as we would wish. We know the daring of the Scarlet Pimpernel. We are not even ashamed to admit that we fear his luck, his impudence and his marvellous ingenuity.⁠ ⁠… Have I not told you that I have the greatest possible respect for that mysterious English hero.⁠ ⁠… An old priest and two young children might be spirited away by that enigmatical adventurer, even whilst Lady Blakeney herself is made to vanish from our sight.

“Ah! I see your ladyship is taking my simple words as a confession of weakness,” he continued, noting the swift sigh of hope which had involuntarily escaped her lips. “Nay! and it please you, you shall despise me for it. But a confession of weakness is the first sign of strength. The Scarlet Pimpernel is still at large, and whilst we guard our hostage securely, he is bound to fall into our hands.”

“Aye! still at large!” she retorted with impulsive defiance. “Think you that all your bolts and bars, the ingenuity of yourself and your colleagues, the collaboration of the devil himself, would succeed in outwitting the Scarlet Pimpernel, now that his purpose will be to try and drag me from out your clutches.”

She felt hopeful and proud. Now that she had the pure air of heaven in her lungs, that from afar she could smell the sea, and could feel that perhaps in a straight line of vision from where she stood, the Daydream with Sir Percy on board, might be lying out there in the roads, it seemed impossible that he should fail in freeing her and those poor people⁠—an old man and two children⁠—whose lives depended on her own.

But Chauvelin only laughed a dry, sarcastic laugh and said:

“Hm! perhaps not!⁠ ⁠… It of course will depend on you and your personality⁠ ⁠… your feelings in such matters⁠ ⁠… and whether an English gentleman likes to save his own skin at the expense of