Lord Tony’s Wife - Baroness Orczy (red novels txt) 📗

Fleury jumped to his feet⁠—the appearance of these two men, each with his burden, caused him to frown with anger and to demand peremptorily: “What is the meaning of this?”

“The aristos,” said Paul Friche curtly; “they were trying to escape.”

He strode into the room, carrying the unconscious form of the girl as if it were a load of feathers. He was a huge, massive-looking giant: the girl’s shoulders nearly touched the low ceiling as he swung forward facing the angry commandant.

“How did you get into the house? and by whose orders?” demanded Fleury roughly.

“Climbed in by the window, pardi,” retorted the man, “and by the orders of citizen Martin-Roget.”

“A corporal of the Company Marat takes orders only from me; you should know that, citizen Friche.”

“Nay!” interposed the sergeant quickly, “this man is not a corporal of the Company Marat, citizen commandant. As for Corporal Friche, why! he was taken to the infirmary some hours ago with a cracked skull, he.⁠ ⁠…”

“Not Corporal Friche,” exclaimed Fleury with an oath, “then who in the devil’s name is this man?”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel, at your service, citizen commandant,” came loudly and with a merry laugh from the pseudo Friche.

And before either Fleury or the sergeant or any of the Marats could even begin to realise what was happening, he had literally bounded across the room, and as he did so he knocked against the hanging lamp which fell with a crash to the floor, scattering oil and broken glass in every direction and by its fall plunging the place into total darkness. At once there arose a confusion and medley of terrified screams, of piercing shrieks from the women and the children, and of loud imprecations from the men. These mingled with the hasty words of command, with quick orders from Fleury and the sergeant, with the grounding of arms and the tramping of many feet, and with the fall of human bodies that happened to be in the way of the reckless adventurer and his flight.

“He is through the door,” cried the men who had been there on guard.

“After him then!” shouted Fleury. “Curse you all for cowards and for fools.”

The order had no need to be repeated. The confusion, though great, had only been momentary. Within a second or less, Fleury and his sergeant had fought their way through to the door, urging the men to follow.

“After him⁠ ⁠… quick!⁠ ⁠… he is heavily loaded⁠ ⁠… he cannot have got far⁠ ⁠…” commanded Fleury as soon as he had crossed the threshold. “Sergeant, keep order within, and on your life see that no one else escapes.”

From round the angle of the house Martin-Roget and Chauvelin were already speeding along at a rapid pace.

“What does it all mean?” queried the latter hastily.

“The Englishman⁠—with the wench on his back? have you seen him?”

“Malediction! what do you mean?”

“Have you seen him?” reiterated Fleury hoarsely.

“No.”

“He couldn’t have passed you?”

“Impossible.”

“Then unless some of us here have eyes like cats that limb of Satan will get away. On to him, my men,” he called once more. “Can you see him?”

The darkness outside was intense. The northwesterly wind was whistling down the narrow street, drowning the sound of every distant footfall: it tore mercilessly round the men’s heads, snatching the bonnets from off their heads, dragging at their loose shirts and breeches, adding to the confusion which already reigned.

“He went this way⁠ ⁠…” shouted one.

“No! that!” cried another.

“There he is!” came finally in chorus from several lusty throats. “Just crossing the bridge.”

“After him,” cried Fleury, “an hundred francs to the man who first lays hands on that devil.”

Then the chase began. The Englishman on ahead was unmistakable with that burden on his shoulder. He had just reached the foot of the bridge where a street lantern fixed on a tall bracket on the corner stone had suddenly thrown him into bold relief. He had less than an hundred metres start of his pursuers and with a wild cry of excitement they started in his wake.

He was now in the middle of the bridge⁠—an unmistakable figure of a giant vaguely silhouetted against the light from the lanterns on the further end of the bridge⁠—seeming preternaturally tall and misshapen with that hump upon his back.

From right and left, from under the doorways of the houses in the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie the Marats who had been left on guard in the street now joined in the chase. Overhead windows were thrown open⁠—the good burghers of Nantes, awakened from their sleep, forgetful for the nonce of all their anxieties, their squalor and their miseries, leaned out to see what this new kind of din might mean. From everywhere⁠—it almost seemed as if some sprang out of the earth⁠—men, either of the town-guard or Marats on patrol duty, or merely idlers and night hawks who happened to be about, yielded to that primeval instinct of brutality which causes men as well as beasts to join in a pursuit against a fellow creature.

Fleury was in the rear of his posse. Martin-Roget and Chauvelin, walking as rapidly as they could by his side, tried to glean some information out of the commandant’s breathless and scrappy narrative:

“What happened exactly?”

“It was the man Paul Friche⁠ ⁠… with the aristo wench on his back⁠ ⁠… and another man carrying the ci-devant aristo⁠ ⁠… they were the English spies⁠ ⁠… in disguise⁠ ⁠… they knocked over the lamp⁠ ⁠… and got away⁠ ⁠…”

“Name of a⁠ ⁠…”

“No use swearing, citizen Martin-Roget,” retorted Fleury as hotly as his agitated movements would allow. “You and citizen Chauvelin are responsible for the affair. It was you, citizen Chauvelin, who placed Paul Friche inside that tavern in observation⁠—you told him what to do⁠ ⁠…”

“Well?”

“Paul Friche⁠—the real Paul Friche⁠—was taken to the infirmary some hours ago⁠ ⁠… with a cracked skull, dealt him by your Englishman, I’ve no doubt⁠ ⁠…”

“Impossible,” reiterated Chauvelin with a curse.

“Impossible? why impossible?”

“The man I spoke to outside Le Bouffay⁠ ⁠…”

“Was not Paul Friche.”

“He was on guard in the Place with two other Marats.”

“He was