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

over the body on the floor, and could hear the other ask him a question in English.

A few moments went by. The strangers conversed in a low tone of voice. From one or two words which came clearly to his ear, Tallien gathered that they spoke in English⁠—a language with which he himself was familiar. The taller man of the two appeared to be giving his friend some orders, which the latter promised to obey. Then, with utmost precaution, he took the body in his arms and lifted it from the floor.

“Let me help you, Blakeney,” the other said in a whisper.

“No, no!” the mysterious stranger replied quickly. “The poor worm is as light as a feather! ’Tis better he died as he did. His unfortunate infatuation was killing him.”

“Poor little Régine!” the younger man sighed.

“It is better so,” his friend rejoined. “We’ll be able to tell her that he died nobly, and that we’ve given him Christian burial.”

No wonder that Tallien thought that he was dreaming! These English were strange folk indeed! Heaven alone knew what they risked by coming here, at this hour, and into this house, in order to fetch away the body of their friend. They certainly were wholly unconscious of danger.

Tallien held his breath. He saw the splendid figure of the mysterious adventurer step across the threshold, bearing the lifeless body in his arms with as much ease as if he were carrying a child. The pale grey light of morning was behind him, and his fine head with its smooth fair hair was silhouetted against the neutual-tinted background. His friend came immediately behind him.

In the dark antechamber he paused, and called abruptly:

“Citizen Tallien!”

A cry rose to Tallien’s throat. He had thought himself entirely unobserved, and the stranger a mere vision which he was watching in a dream. Now he felt that compelling eyes were gazing straight at him, piercing the darkness for a clearer sight of his face.

But the spell was still on him, and he only moved in order to straighten himself out and to force his trembling knees to be still.

“They have taken the citoyenne Cabarrus to the Conciergerie,” the stranger went on simply. “Tomorrow she will be charged before the Revolutionary Tribunal.⁠ ⁠… You know what is the inevitable end⁠—”

It seemed as if some subtle magic was in the man’s voice, in his very presence, in the glance wherewith he challenged that of the unfortunate Tallien. The latter felt a wave of shame sweep over him. There was something so splendid in these two men⁠—exquisitely dressed, and perfectly deliberate and cool in all their movements⁠—who were braving and daring death in order to give Christian burial to their friend; whilst he, in face of the outrage put upon his beloved, had only sat on her desecrated doorstep like a dumb animal pining for its master. He felt a hot flush rush to his cheeks. With quick, nervy movements he readjusted the set of his coat, passed his thin hands over his rumpled hair; whilst the stranger reiterated with solemn significance:

“You know what is the inevitable end⁠ ⁠… The citoyenne Cabarrus will be condemned⁠ ⁠…”

Tallien this time met the stranger’s eyes fearlessly. It was the magic of strength and of courage that flowed into him from them. He drew up his meagre stature to its full height and threw up his head with an air of defiance and of conscious power.

“Not while I live!” he said firmly.

“Theresia Cabarrus will be condemned tomorrow,” the stranger went on calmly. “Then the next day, the guillotine⁠—”

“Never!”

“Inevitably!⁠ ⁠… Unless⁠—”

“Unless what?” Tallien queried, and hung breathless on the man’s lips as he would on those of an oracle.

“Theresia Cabarrus, or Robespierre and his herd of assassins. Which shall it be, citizen Tallien?”

“By Heaven!⁠—” Tallien exclaimed forcefully.

But he got no further. The stranger, bearing his burden, had already gone out of the room, closely followed by his friend.

Tallien was alone in the deserted apartment, where every broken piece of furniture, every torn curtain, cried out for vengeance in the name of his beloved. He said nothing. He neither protested nor swore. But he tiptoed into the apartment and knelt down upon the floor close beside the small sofa on which she was wont to sit. Here he remained quite still for a minute or two, his eyes closed, his hands tightly clasped together. Then he stooped very low and pressed his lips against the spot where her pretty, sandalled foot was wont to rest.

After that he rose, strode with a firm step out of the apartment, carefully closing the doors behind him.

The strangers had vanished into the night; and citizen Tallien went quietly back to his own lodgings.

XXXIII The Cataclysm I

Forty names! Found on a list in the pocket of Robespierre’s coat!

Forty names! And every one of these that of a known opponent of Robespierre’s schemes of dictatorship: Tallien, Barrère, Vadier, Cambon, and the rest. Men powerful today, prominent Members of the Convention, leaders of the people, too⁠—but opponents!

The inference was obvious, the panic general. That night⁠—it was the 8th Thermidor, July the 26th of the old calendar⁠—men talked of flight, of abject surrender, of appeal⁠—save the mark!⁠—to friendship, camaraderie, humanity! Friendship, camaraderie, humanity? An appeal to a heart of stone! They talked of everything, in fact, save of defying the tyrant; for such talk would have been folly.

Defying the tyrant? Ye gods! When with a word he could sway the Convention, the Committees, the multitude, bend them to his will, bring them to heel like any tamer of beasts when he cracks his whip?

So men talked and trembled. All night they talked and trembled; for they did not sleep, those forty whose names were on Robespierre’s list. But Tallien, their chief, was nowhere to be found. ’Twas known that his fiancée, the beautiful Theresia Cabarrus, had been summarily arrested. Since then he had disappeared; and they⁠—the others⁠—were leaderless. But, even so, he was no loss. Tallien was ever