The Elusive Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (feel good books to read .txt) 📗

He looked round the room where the great scene would be enacted: two soldiers were standing guard outside Marguerite’s prison, two more at attention near the door which gave on the passage: his own half-dozen picked men were waiting his commands in the corridor. Presently the whole room would be lined with troops, himself and Collot standing with eyes fixed on the principal actor of the drama! Hébert with specially selected troopers standing on guard over Marguerite!

No, no! he had left nothing to chance this time, and down below the horses would be ready saddled, that were to convey Collot and the precious document to Paris.

No! nothing was left to chance, and in either case he was bound to win. Sir Percy Blakeney would either write the letter in order to save his wife, and heap dishonour on himself, or he would shrink from the terrible ordeal at the last moment and let Chauvelin and the Committee of Public Safety work their will with her and him.

“In that case the pillory as a spy and summary hanging for you, my friend,” concluded Chauvelin in his mind, “and for your wife⁠ ⁠… Bah, once you are out of the way, even she will cease to matter.”

He left Hébert on guard in the room. An irresistible desire seized him to go and have a look at his discomfited enemy, and from the latter’s attitude make a shrewd guess as to what he meant to do tonight.

Sir Percy had been given a room on one of the upper floors of the old prison. He had in no way been closely guarded, and the room itself had been made as comfortable as may be. He had seemed quite happy and contented when he had been conducted hither by Chauvelin, the evening before.

“I hope you quite understand, Sir Percy, that you are my guest here tonight,” Chauvelin had said suavely, “and that you are free to come and go, just as you please.”

“Lud love you, sir,” Sir Percy had replied gaily, “but I verily believe that I am.”

“It is only Lady Blakeney whom we have cause to watch until tomorrow,” added Chauvelin with quiet significance. “Is that not so, Sir Percy?”

But Sir Percy seemed, whenever his wife’s name was mentioned, to lapse into irresistible somnolence. He yawned now with his usual affectation, and asked at what hour gentlemen in France were wont to breakfast.

Since then Chauvelin had not seen him. He had repeatedly asked how the English prisoner was faring, and whether he seemed to be sleeping and eating heartily. The orderly in charge invariably reported that the Englishman seemed well, but did not eat much. On the other hand, he had ordered, and lavishly paid for, measure after measure of brandy and bottle after bottle of wine.

“Hm! how strange these Englishmen are!” mused Chauvelin; “this so-called hero is nothing but a wine-sodden brute, who seeks to nerve himself for a trying ordeal by drowning his faculties in brandy⁠ ⁠… Perhaps after all he doesn’t care!⁠ ⁠…”

But the wish to have a look at that strangely complex creature⁠—hero, adventurer or mere lucky fool⁠—was irresistible, and Chauvelin in the latter part of the afternoon went up to the room which had been allotted to Sir Percy Blakeney.

He never moved now without his escort, and this time also two of his favourite bodyguards accompanied him to the upper floor. He knocked at the door, but received no answer, and after a second or two he bade his men wait in the corridor and, gently turning the latch, walked in.

There was an odour of brandy in the air; on the table two or three empty bottles of wine and a glass half-filled with cognac testified to the truth of what the orderly had said, whilst sprawling across the camp bedstead, which obviously was too small for his long limbs, his head thrown back, his mouth open for a vigorous snore, lay the imperturbable Sir Percy, fast asleep.

Chauvelin went up to the bedstead and looked down upon the reclining figure of the man who had oft been called the most dangerous enemy of Republican France.

Of a truth, a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin was ready enough to admit that; the long, hard limbs, the wide chest, and slender, white hands all bespoke the man of birth, breeding and energy: the face, too, looked strong and clearly-cut in repose, now that the perpetually inane smile did not play round the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression mar the seriousness of the straight brow. For one moment⁠—it was a mere flash⁠—Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career should be thus ignominiously brought to a close.

The Terrorist felt that if his own future, his own honour and integrity were about to be so hopelessly crushed, he would have wandered up and down this narrow room like a caged beast, eating out his heart with self-reproach and remorse, and racking his nerves and brain for an issue out of the terrible alternative which meant dishonour or death.

But this man drank and slept.

“Perhaps he doesn’t care!”

And as if in answer to Chauvelin’s puzzled musing a deep snore escaped the sleeping adventurer’s parted lips.

Chauvelin sighed, perplexed and troubled. He looked round the little room, then went up to a small side table which stood against the wall and on which were two or three quill pens and an inkwell, also some loosely scattered sheets of paper. These he turned over with a careless hand and presently came across a closely written page:

“Citizen Chauvelin:⁠—In consideration of a further sum of one million francs⁠ ⁠…”

It was the beginning of the letter!⁠ ⁠… only a few words so far⁠ ⁠… with several corrections of misspelt words⁠ ⁠… and a line left out here and there which confused the meaning⁠ ⁠… a beginning made by the unsteady hand of that drunken fool⁠ ⁠… an attempt only at present.⁠ ⁠…

But still⁠ ⁠… a beginning.

Close by was the draft of it as written out by Chauvelin, and which Sir Percy had evidently begun to copy.

He