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

as your threats. One does not insult a cur, any more than one threatens Sir Percy Blakeney⁠—what?”

“You are right there, Sir Percy. The time for threats has gone by. And since you appear so vastly entertained⁠—”

“I am vastly entertained, my dear M. Chambertin! How can I help it, when I see before me a miserable shred of humanity who does not even know how to keep his tie straight or his hair smooth, calmly⁠—or almost calmly⁠—talking of⁠—Let me see, what were you talking of, my amiable friend?”

“Of the hostage, Sir Percy, which we hold until the happy day when the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel is a prisoner in our hands.”

“ ’M, yes! He was that once before, was he not, my good sir? Then, too, you laid down mighty schemes for his capture.”

“And we succeeded.”

“By your usual amiable methods⁠—lies, deceit, forgery. The latter has been useful to you this time too, eh?”

“What do you mean, Sir Percy?”

“You had need of the assistance of a fair lady for your schemes. She appeared disinclined to help you. So when her inconvenient lover, Bertrand Moncrif, was happily dragged away from her path, you forged a letter, which the lady rightly looked upon as an insult. Because of that letter, she nourished a comfortable amount of spite against me, and lent you her aid in the fiendish outrage for which you are about to receive punishment.”

He had raised his voice slightly while he spoke, and Chauvelin cast an apprehensive glance in the direction of the door behind which he guessed that Theresia Cabarrus must be straining her ears to listen.

“A pretty story, Sir Percy,” he said with affected coolness. “And one that does infinite credit to your imagination. It is mere surmise on your part.”

“What, my friend? What is surmise? That you gave a letter to Madame de Fontenay which you had concocted, and which I had never written? Why, man,” he added with a laugh, “I saw you do it!”

“You? Impossible!”

“More impossible things than that will happen within the next few days, my good sir. I was outside the window of Madame de Fontenay’s apartment during the whole of your interview with her. And the shutters were not as closely fastened as you would have wished. But why argue about it, my dear M. Chambertin, when you know quite well that I have given you a perfectly accurate exposé of the means which you employed to make a pretty and spoilt woman help you in your nefarious work?”

“Why argue, indeed?” Chauvelin retorted dryly. “The past is past. I’ll answer to my country, which you outrage by your machinations, for the methods which I employ to circumvent them. Your concern and mine, my gallant friend, is solely with the future⁠—with the next four days, in fact⁠ ⁠… After which, either the Scarlet Pimpernel is in our hands, or Lady Blakeney will be put against the wall upstairs and summarily shot.”

Then only did something of his habitual lazy nonchalance go out of Blakeney’s attitude. Just for the space of a few seconds he drew himself up to his full magnificent height, and from the summit of his splendid audacity and the consciousness of his own power, he looked down at the mean, cringing figure of the enemy who had hurled this threat of death against the woman he worshipped. Chauvelin vainly tried to keep up some semblance of dignity; he tried to meet the glance which no longer mocked, and to close his ears to the voice which, sonorous and commanding, now threatened in its turn.

“And you really believe,” Sir Percy Blakeney said slowly and deliberately, “that you have the power to carry through your infamous schemes? That I⁠—yes, I!⁠—would allow you to come within measurable distance of their execution? Bah! my dear friend. You have learned nothing by past experience⁠—not even this: that when you dared to lay your filthy hands upon Lady Blakeney, you and the whole pack of assassins who have terrorized this beautiful country far too long, struck the knell of your ultimate doom. You have dared to measure your strength against mine by perpetrating an outrage so monstrous in my sight that, to punish you, I⁠—even I!⁠—will sweep you off the face of the earth and send you to join the pack of unclean ghouls who have aided you in your crimes. After which⁠—thank the Lord!⁠—the earth, being purged of your presence, will begin to smell sweetly again.”

Chauvelin made a vain effort to laugh, to shrug his shoulders, to put on those airs of insolence which came so naturally to his opponent. No doubt the strain of this long interview with his enemy had told upon his nerves. Certain it is that at this moment, though he was conscious enough to rail inwardly at his own cowardice, he was utterly unable to move or to retort. His limbs felt heavy as lead, an icy shudder was coursing down his spine. It seemed in truth as if some uncanny ghoul had entered the dreary, dank apartment and with gaunt, invisible hand was tolling a silent passing bell⁠—the death-knell of all his ambitions and all his hopes. He closed his eyes, for he felt giddy and sick. When he opened his eyes again he was alone.

XXVI A Dream

Chauvelin had not yet regained full possession of his faculties, when a few seconds later he saw Theresia Cabarrus glide swiftly across the antechamber. She appeared to him like a ghost⁠—a pixie who had found her way through a keyhole. But she threw him a glance of contempt that was very human, very feminine indeed, and the next moment she was gone.

Outside on the landing she paused. Straining her ears, she caught the sound of a firm footfall slowly descending the stairs. She ran down a few steps, then called softly:

“Milor!”

The footsteps paused, and a pleasant voice gave quiet reply:

“At your service, fair lady!”

Theresia, shrewd as well as brave, continued to descend. She was not in the least afraid. Instinct had told