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

her before now that no woman need ever have the slightest fear of that elegant milor with the quaint laugh and gently mocking mien, whom she had learned to know over in England.

Midway down the stairs she came face to face with him, and when she paused, panting, a little breathless with excitement, he said with perfect courtesy:

“You did me the honour to call me, Madame?”

“Yes, milor,” she replied, in a quick, eager whisper. “I heard every word that passed between you and citizen Chauvelin.”

“Of course you did, dear lady,” he rejoined with a smile. “If a woman once resisted the temptation of putting a shell-like ear to a keyhole, the world would lose many a cause for entertainment.”

“That letter, milor⁠—” she broke in impatiently.

“Which letter, Madame?”

“That insulting letter to me⁠ ⁠… when you took Moncrif away⁠ ⁠… You never wrote it?”

“Did you really think that I did?” he retorted.

“No. I ought to have guessed⁠ ⁠… the moment that I saw you in England⁠ ⁠…”

“And realised that I was not a cad⁠—what?”

“Oh, milor!” she protested. “But why⁠—why did you not tell me before?”

“It had escaped my memory. And if I remember rightly, you spent most of the time when I had the honour of walking with you, in giving me elaborate and interesting accounts of your difficulties, and I, in listening to them.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed vehemently. “I hate that man! I hate him!”

“In truth, he is not a lovable personality. But, by your leave, I presume that you did not desire to speak with me so that we might discuss our friend Chauvelin’s amiable qualities.”

“No, no, milor!” she rejoined quickly. “I called to you because⁠—”

Then she paused for a moment or two, as if to collect her thoughts. Her eager eyes strove to pierce the gloom that enveloped the figure of the bold adventurer. She could only see the dim outline of his powerful figure, the light from above striking on his smooth hair, the elegantly tied bow at the nape of his neck, the exquisite filmy lace at his throat and wrists. His head was slightly bent, one arm in a curve supported his chapeau-bras, his whole attitude was one befitting a salon rather than this dank hovel, where death was even now at his elbow; it was as cool and unperturbed as it had been on that May-day evening, in the hawthorn scented lanes of Kent.

“Milor,” she said abruptly, “you told me once⁠—you remember?⁠—that you were what you English call a sportsman. Is that so?”

“I hope always to remain that, dear lady,” he replied with a smile.

“Does that mean,” she queried, with a pretty air of deference and hesitation, “does that mean a man who would under no circumstances harm a woman?”

“I think so.”

“Now even if she⁠—if she has sinned⁠—transgressed against him?”

“I don’t quite understand, Madame,” he rejoined simply. “And, time being short⁠—Are you perchance speaking of yourself?”

“Yes. I have done you an injury, milor.”

“A very great one indeed,” he assented gravely.

“Could you,” she pleaded, raising earnest, tear-filled eyes to his, “could you bring yourself to believe that I have been nothing but a miserable, innocent tool?”

“So was the lady upstairs innocent, Madame,” he broke in quietly.

“I know,” she retorted with a sigh. “I know. I would never dare to plead, as you must hate me so.”

He shrugged his shoulders with an air of carelessness.

“Oh!” he said. “Does a man ever hate a pretty woman?”

“He forgives her, milor,” she entreated, “if he is a true sportsman.”

“Indeed? You astonish me, dear lady. But in verity you all in this unhappy country are full of surprises for a plain, blunt-headed Britisher. Now what, I wonder,” he added, with a light, good-humoured laugh, “would my forgiveness be worth to you?”

“Everything!” she replied earnestly. “I was deceived by that abominable liar, who knew how to play upon a woman’s pique. I am ashamed, wretched⁠ ⁠… Oh, cannot you believe me? And I would give worlds to atone!”

He laughed in his quiet, gently ironical way.

“You do not happen to possess worlds, dear lady. All that you have is youth and beauty and ambition, and life. You would forfeit all those treasures if you really tried to atone.”

“But⁠—”

“Lady Blakeney is a prisoner⁠ ⁠… You are her jailer⁠ ⁠… Her precious life is the hostage for yours.”

“Milor⁠—” she murmured.

“From my heart, I wish you well, fair one,” he broke in lightly. “Believe me, the pagan gods that fashioned you did not design you for tragedy⁠ ⁠… And if you ran counter to your friend Chauvelin’s desires, I fear me that that pretty neck of yours would suffer. A thing to be avoided at all costs! And now,” he added, “have I your permission to go? My position here is somewhat precarious, and for the next four days I cannot afford the luxury of entertaining so fine a lady, by running my head into a noose.”

He was on the point of going when she placed a restraining hand upon his arm.

“Milor!” she pleaded.

“At your service, dear lady!”

“Is there naught I can do for you?”

He looked at her for a moment or two, and even through the gloom she caught his quizzical look and the mocking lines around his firm lips.

“You can ask Lady Blakeney to forgive you,” he said, with a thought more seriousness than was habitual to him. “She is an angel; she might do it.”

“And if she does?”

“She will know what to do, to convey her thoughts to me.”

“Nay! but I’ll do more than that, milor,” Theresia continued excitedly. “I will tell her that I shall pray night and day for your deliverance and hers. I will tell her that I have seen you, and that you are well.”

“Ah, if you did that⁠—” he exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

“You would forgive me, too?” she pleaded.

“I would do more than that, fair one. I would make you Queen of France, in all but name.”

“What do you mean?” she murmured.

“That I would then redeem the promise which I made to you that evening, in the lane⁠—outside Dover. Do you remember?”

She made no reply, closed her eyes;