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

turned me out of my lodging. They keep asking me what I have done to be branded like a convict.”

Chauvelin laughed.

“Tell them you’ve been punished for serving the English spy,” he said.

“The Englishman paid me well, and I am very poor,” Rateau retorted meekly. “I could serve the State now⁠ ⁠… if it would pay me well.”

“Indeed? How?”

“By telling you something, citizen, which you would like to know.”

“What is it?”

At once the instinct of the informer, of the sleuthhound, was on the qui vive. The coalheaver’s words, the expression of cunning on his ugly face, the cringing obsequiousness of his attitude, all suggested the spirit of intrigue, of underhand dealing, of lies and denunciations, which were as the breath of life to this master-spy. He retraced his steps, came and sat upon a pile of rubbish beside the barrel, and when Rateau, terrified apparently at what he had said, made a motion as if to slink away, Chauvelin called him back peremptorily.

“What is it, citizen Rateau,” he said curtly, “that you could tell me, and that I would like to know?”

Rateau was cowering in the darkness, trying to efface his huge bulk and to smother his rasping cough.

“You have said too much already,” Chauvelin went on harshly, “to hold your tongue. And you have nothing to fear⁠ ⁠… everything to gain. What is it?”

For a moment Rateau leaned forward, struck the ground with his fist.

“Am I to be paid this time?” he asked.

“If you speak the truth⁠—yes.”

“How much?”

“That depends on what you tell me. And now, if you hold your tongue, I shall call to the citizen Captain upstairs and send you to jail.”

The coalheaver appeared to crouch yet further into himself. He looked like a huge, shapeless mass in the gloom. His huge yellow teeth could be heard chattering.

“Citizen Tallien will send me to the guillotine,” he murmured.

“What has citizen Tallien to do with it?”

“He pays great attention to the citoyenne Cabarrus.”

“And it is about her?”

Rateau nodded.

“What is it?” Chauvelin reiterated harshly.

“She is playing you false, citizen,” Rateau murmured in a hoarse breath, and crawled like a long, bulky worm a little closer to the Terrorist.

“How?”

“She is in league with the Englishman.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw her here⁠ ⁠… two days ago⁠ ⁠… You remember, citizen⁠ ⁠… after you⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, yes!” Chauvelin cried impatiently.

“Sergeant Chazot took me to the cavalry barracks⁠ ⁠… They gave me to drink⁠ ⁠… and I don’t remember much what happened. But when I was myself again, I know that my arm was very sore, and when I looked down I saw this awful mark on it⁠ ⁠… I was just outside the Arsenal then⁠ ⁠… How I got there I don’t know⁠ ⁠… I suppose Sergeant Chazot brought me back⁠ ⁠… He says I was howling for Mother Théot⁠ ⁠… She has marvellous salves, you know, citizen.”

“Yes, yes!”

“I came in here⁠ ⁠… My head still felt very strange⁠ ⁠… and my arm felt like living fire. Then I heard voices⁠ ⁠… they came from the stairs⁠ ⁠… I looked about me, and saw them standing there⁠ ⁠…”

Rateau, leaning upon one arm, stretched out the other and pointed to the stairs, Chauvelin, with a violent gesture, seized him by the wrist.

“Who?” he queried harshly. “Who was standing there?”

His glance followed the direction in which the coalheaver was pointing, then instinctively wandered back and fastened on that fiery letter M which had been seared into the vagabond’s flesh.

“The Englishman and citoyenne Cabarrus,” Rateau replied feebly, for he had winced with pain under the excited grip of the Terrorist.

“You are certain?”

“I heard them talking⁠—”

“What did they say?”

“I do not know⁠ ⁠… But I saw the Englishman kiss the citoyenne’s hand before they parted.”

“And what happened after that?”

“The citoyenne went to Mother Théot’s apartment and the Englishman came down the stairs. I had just time to hide behind that pile of rubbish. He did not see me.”

Chauvelin uttered a savage curse of disappointment.

“Is that all?” he exclaimed.

“The State will pay me?” Rateau murmured vaguely.

“Not a sou!” Chauvelin retorted roughly. “And if citizen Tallien hears this pretty tale⁠ ⁠…”

“I can swear to it!”

“Bah! Citoyenne Cabarrus will swear that you lied. ’Twill be her word against that of a mudlark!”

“Nay!” Rateau retorted. “ ’Twill be more than that.”

“What then?”

“Will you swear to protect me, citizen, if citizen Tallien⁠—”

“Yes, yes! I’ll protect you⁠ ⁠… And the guillotine has no time to trouble about suck muck-worms as you!”

“Well, then, citizen,” Rateau went on in a hoarse murmur, “if you will go to the citoyenne’s lodgings in the Rue Villedot, I can show you where the Englishman hides the clothes wherewith he disguises himself⁠ ⁠… and the letters which he writes to the citoyenne when⁠ ⁠…”

He paused, obviously terrified at the awesome expression of the other man’s face. Chauvelin had allowed the coalheaver’s wrist to drop out of his grasp. He was sitting quite still, silent and grim, his thin, claw-like hands closely clasped together and held between his knees. The flickering light of the lantern distorted his narrow face, lengthened the shadows beneath the nose and chin, threw a high light just below the brows, so that the pale eyes appeared to gleam with an unnatural flame. Rateau hardly dared to move. He lay like a huge bundle of rags in the inky blackness beyond the circle of light projected by the lantern; his breath came and went with a dragging, hissing sound, now and then broken by a painful cough.

For a moment or two there was silence in the great disused storeroom⁠—a silence broken only by the thunder, dull and distant now, and the ceaseless, monotonous patter of the rain. Then Chauvelin murmured between his teeth:

“If I thought that she⁠ ⁠…” But he did not complete the sentence, jumped to his feet and approached the big mass of rags and humanity that coward in the gloom. “Get up, citizen Rateau!” he commanded.

The asthmatic giant struggled to his knees. His wooden shoes had slipped off his feet. He groped for them, and with trembling hands contrived to put them on again.

“Get up!” Chauvelin reiterated,