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

Sir Percy airily. “The inevitable has always been such a good friend to me.”

“Not this time, I fear, Sir Percy.”

“Ah? You really mean this time to⁠—?” and he made a significant gesture across his own neck.

“In as few days as possible.”

Whereupon Sir Percy rose, and said solemnly:

“You are right there, my friend, quite right. Delays are always dangerous. If you mean to have my head, why⁠—have it quickly. As for me, delays always bore me to tears.”

He yawned and stretched his long limbs.

“I am getting so demmed fatigued,” he said. “Do you not think this conversation has lasted quite long enough?”

“It was none of my seeking, Sir Percy.”

“Mine, I grant you; mine, absolutely! But, hang it, man! I had to tell you that your breeches were badly cut.”

“And I, that we are at your service, to end the business as soon as may be.”

“To⁠—?” And once more Sir Percy passed his firm hand across his throat. Then he gave a shudder.

“B-r-r-r!” he exclaimed. “I had no idea you were in such a demmed hurry.”

“We await your pleasure, Sir Percy. Lady Blakeney must not be kept in suspense too long. Shall we say that, in three days⁠ ⁠… ?”

“Make if four, my dear M. Chambertin, and I am eternally your debtor.”

“In four days then, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin rejoined with pronounced sarcasm. “You see how ready I am to meet you in a spirit of conciliation! Four days, you say? Very well then; for four days more we keep our prisoner in those rooms upstairs⁠ ⁠… After that⁠—”

He paused, awed mayhap, in spite of himself, but the diabolical thought which had suddenly come into his mind⁠—a sudden inspiration which in truth must have emanated from some unclean spirit with which he held converse. He looked the Scarlet Pimpernel⁠—his enemy⁠—squarely in the face. Conscious of his power, he was no longer afraid. What he longed for most at this moment was to see the least suspicion of a shadow dim the mocking light that danced in those lazy, supercilious eyes, or the merest tremor pass over the slender hand framed in priceless Mechlin lace.

For a while complete silence reigned in the bare, dank room⁠—a silence broken only by the stertorous, rapid breathing of the one man who appeared moved. That man was not Sir Percy Blakeney. He indeed had remained quite still, spyglass in hand, the good-humoured smile still dancing round his lips. Somewhere in the far distance a church clock struck the hour. Then only did Chauvelin put his full fiendish project into words.

“For four days,” he reiterated with slow deliberation, “we keep our prisoner in the room upstairs⁠ ⁠… After that, Captain Boyer has orders to shoot her.”

Again there was silence⁠—only for a second perhaps; whilst down by the Stygian creek, where Time never was, the elfish ghouls and impish demons set up a howl of delight at the hellish knavery of man.

Just one second, whilst Chauvelin waited for his enemy’s answer to this monstrous pronouncement, and the very walls of the drabby apartment appeared to listen, expectant. Overhead, could be dimly heard the measured tramp of heavy feet upon the uncarpeted floor. And suddenly through the bare apartment there rang the sound of a quaint, lighthearted laugh.

“You really are the worst-dressed man I have ever come across, my good M. Chambertin,” Sir Percy said with rare good-humour. “You must allow me to give you the address of a good little tailor I came across in the Latin Quarter the other day. No decent man would be seen walking up the guillotine in such a waistcoat as you are wearing. As for your boots⁠—” He yawned again. “You really must excuse me! I came home late from the theatre last night, and have not had my usual hours of sleep. So, by your leave⁠—”

“By all means, Sir Percy!” Chauvelin replied complacently. “At this moment you are a free man, because I happen to be alone and unarmed, and because this house is solidly built and my voice would not carry to the floor above. Also because you are so nimble that no doubt you could give me the slip long before Captain Boyer and his men came to my rescue. Yes, Sir Percy; for the moment you are a free man! Free to walk out of this house unharmed. But even now, you are not as free as you would wish to be, eh? You are free to despise me, to overwhelm me with lofty scorn, to sharpen your wits at my expense; but you are not free to indulge your desire to squeeze the life out of me, to shake me as you would a rat. And shall I tell you why? Because you know now that if at a certain hour of the day I do not pay my daily visit to Captain Boyer upstairs, he will shoot his prisoner without the least compunction.”

Whereupon Blakeney threw up his head and laughed heartily.

“You are absolutely priceless, my dear M. Chambertin!” he said gaily. “But you really must put your cravat straight. It has once again become disarranged⁠ ⁠… in the heat of your oratory, no doubt⁠ ⁠… Allow me to offer you a pin.”

And with inimitable affectation, he took a pin out of his own cravat and presented it to Chauvelin, who, unable to control his wrath, jumped to his feet.

“Sir Percy⁠—!” he snarled.

But Blakeney placed a gentle, firm hand upon his shoulder, forcing him to sit down again.

“Easy, easy, my friend,” he said. “Do not, I pray you, lose that composure for which you are so justly famous. There! Allow me to arrange your cravat for you. A gentle tug here,” he added, suiting the action to the word, “a delicate flick there, and you are the most perfectly cravatted man in France!”

“Your insults leave me unmoved, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin broke in savagely, and tried to free himself from the touch of those slender, strong hands that wandered so uncomfortably in the vicinity of his throat.

“No doubt,” Blakeney riposted lightly, “that they are as futile