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

in impressions, my dear sir. The impression now that I have of your charming personality is indelibly graven upon my memory.”

“Sir Percy Blakeney counts a good memory as one of his many accomplishments. Another is his adventurous spirit, and the gallantry which must inevitably bring him into the net which we have been at pains to spread for him. Lady Blakeney⁠—”

“Name her not, man!” Sir Percy broke in with affected deliberation; “or I verily believe that within sixty seconds you would be a dead man!”

“I am not worthy to speak her name, c’est entendu,” Chauvelin retorted with mock humility. “Nevertheless, Sir Percy, it is around the person of that gracious lady that the Fates will spin their web during the next few days. You may kill me. Of course, I am at this moment entirely at your mercy. But before you embark on such a perilous undertaking, will you allow me to place the position a little more clearly before you?”

“Lud, man!” quoth Sir Percy with a quaint laugh. “That’s what I’m here for! Think you that I have sought your agreeable company for the mere pleasure of gazing at your amiable countenance?”

“I only desired to explain to you, Sir Percy, the dangers to which you expose Lady Blakeney, if you laid violent hands upon me. ’Tis you, remember, who sought this interview⁠—not I.”

“You are right, my dear sir, always right; and I’ll not interrupt again. I pray you to proceed.”

“Allow me then to make my point clear. There are at this moment a score of men of the National Guard in the room above your head. Every one of them goes to the guillotine if they allow their prisoner to escape; every one of them receives a reward of ten thousand livres the day they capture the Scarlet Pimpernel. A good spur for vigilance, what? But that is not all,” Chauvelin went on quite steadily, seeing that Sir Percy had apparently become thoughtful and absorbed. “The men are under the command of Captain Boyer, and he understands that every day at a certain hour⁠—seven in the evening, to be precise⁠—I will be with him and interrogate him as to the welfare of the prisoner. If⁠—mark me, Sir Percy!⁠—if on any one day I do not appear before him at that hour, his orders are to shoot the prisoner on sight⁠ ⁠…”

The word was scarce out of his mouth; it broke in a hoarse spasm. Sir Percy had him by the throat, shook him indeed as he would a rat.

“You cur!” he said in an ominous whisper, his face quite close now to that of his enemy, his jaw set, his eyes no longer good-humoured and mildly scornful, but burning with the fire of a mighty, unbridled wrath. “You damned⁠—insolent⁠—miserable cur! As there is a Heaven above us⁠—”

Then suddenly his grip relaxed, the whole face changed as if an unseen hand has swept away the fierce lines of anger and hate. The eyes softened beneath their heavy lids, the set lips broke into a mocking smile. He let go his hold of the Terrorist’s throat; and the unfortunate man, panting and breathless, fell heavily against the wall. He tried to steady himself as best he could, but his knees were shaking, and faint and helpless, he finally collapsed upon the nearest bench, the while Sir Percy straightened out his tall figure, with unruffled composure rubbed his slender hands one against the other, as if to free them from dust, and said, with gentle, good-humoured sarcasm:

“Do put your cravat straight, man! You look a disgusting object!”

He dragged the corner of a bench forward, sat astride upon it, and waited with perfect sangfroid, spyglass in hand, while Chauvelin mechanically readjusted the set of his clothes.

“That’s better!” he said approvingly. “Just the bow at the back of your neck⁠ ⁠… a little more to the right⁠ ⁠… now your cuffs⁠ ⁠… Ah, you look quite tidy again!⁠ ⁠… a perfect picture, I vow, my dear M. Chambertin, of elegance and of a well-regulated mind!”

“Sir Percy⁠—!” Chauvelin broke in with a vicious snarl.

“I entreat you to accept my apologies,” the other rejoined with utmost courtesy. “I was on the verge of losing my temper, which we in England would call demmed bad form. I’ll not transgress again. I pray you, proceed with what you were saying. So interesting⁠—demmed interesting! You were talking about murdering a woman in cold blood, I think⁠—”

“In hot blood, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin rejoined more firmly. “Blood fired by thoughts of just revenge.”

“Pardon! My mistake! As you were saying⁠—”

“ ’Tis you who attack us. You⁠—the meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel, with your accursed gang!⁠ ⁠… We defend ourselves as best we can, using what weapons lie closest to our hand⁠—”

“Such as murder, outrage, abduction⁠ ⁠… and wearing breeches the cut of which would provoke a saint to indignation.”

“Murder, abduction, outrage, as you will, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin retorted, as cool now as his opponent. “Had you ceased to interfere in the affairs of France when first you escaped punishment for your machinations, you would not now be in the sorry plight in which your own intrigues have at last landed you. Had you left us alone, we should by now have forgotten you.”

“Which would have been such a pity, my dear M. Chambertin,” Blakeney rejoined gravely. “I should not like you to forget me. Believe me, I have enjoyed life so much these past two years, I would not give up those pleasures even for that of seeing you and your friends have a bath or wear tidy buckles on your shoes.”

“You will have cause to indulge in those pleasures within the next few days, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin rejoined dryly.

“What?” Sir Percy exclaimed. “The Committee of Public Safety going to have a bath? Or the Revolutionary Tribunal? Which?”

But Chauvelin was determined not to lose his temper again. Indeed, he abhorred this man so deeply that he felt no anger against him, no resentment; only a cold, calculating hate.

“The pleasure of pitting your wits against the inevitable,” he riposted dryly.

“Ah?” quoth