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

yonder,” Rateau went on eagerly, and pointed in the direction where Chauvelin’s spare figure had disappeared a while ago. “The floor above is inhabited by Mother Théot, the witch. You know her, citizen?”

“Yes, yes! I thought she had been sent to the guillotine along with⁠—”

“She was let out of prison, and has been doing some of citizen Chauvelin’s spying for him.”

Barras frowned. This was none of his business, and the dirty coalheaver inspired him with an unpleasant sense of loathing.

“To the point, citizen!” he said curtly.

“Citizen Chauvelin has a dozen or more soldiers under his command, in that house,” Rateau went on with a leer. “They are trained troops of the National Guard⁠—”

“How do you know?” Barras broke in harshly.

“Pardi!” was the coalheaver’s dry reply. “I clean their boots for them.”

“Where is the house?”

“In the Rue de la Planchette. But there is an entrance into the warehouse at the back of it.”

“Allons!” was Barras’ curt word of command, to the two men who accompanied him.

He strode up the street toward the gate, not caring whether Rateau came along or no. But the coalheaver followed in the wake of the three men. He had buried his grimy fists once more in the pocket of his tattered breeches; but not before he had shaken them, each in turn, in the direction of the Rue de la Planchette.

V

Chauvelin in the meanwhile had turned into Mother Théot’s house, and without speaking to the old charlatan, who was watching for him in the vestibule, he mounted to the top floor. Here he called peremptorily to Captain Boyer.

“There is half an hour yet,” the latter murmured gruffly; “and I am sick of all this waiting! Let me finish with that cursed aristo in there. My comrades and I want to see what is going on in the city, and join in the fun, if there is any.”

“Half an hour, citizen,” Chauvelin rejoined drily. “You’ll lose little of the fun, and you’ll certainly lose your share of the ten thousand livres if you shoot the woman and fail to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“Bah! He’ll not come now,” Boyer riposted. “It is too late. He is looking after his own skin, pardi!”

“He will come, I swear!” Chauvelin said firmly, as if in answer to his own thoughts.

Inside the room, Marguerite has heard every word of this colloquy. Its meaning is clear enough. Clear and horrible! Death awaits her at the hands of those abominable ruffians⁠—here⁠—within half an hour⁠—unless⁠ ⁠… Her thoughts are becoming confused; she cannot concentrate. Frightened? No, she is not frightened. She has looked death in the face before now. That time in Boulogne. And there are worse things than death⁠ ⁠… There is, for instance, the fear that she might never see her husband again⁠ ⁠… in this life⁠ ⁠… There is only half an hour or less than that⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… and he might not come⁠ ⁠… She prays that he might not come. But, if he does, then what chance has he? My God, what chance?

And her tortured mind conjures up visions of his courage, his coolness, his amazing audacity and luck⁠ ⁠… She thinks and thinks⁠ ⁠… if he does not come⁠ ⁠… and if he does⁠ ⁠…

A distant church clock strikes the half-hour⁠ ⁠… a short half-hour now⁠ ⁠…

The evening is sultry. Another storm is threatening, and the sun has tinged the heat-mist with red. The air smells foul, as in the midst of a huge, perspiring crowd. And through the heat, the lull, above the hideous sounds of those ruffians outside her door, there is a rumbling noise as of distant, unceasing thunder. The city is in travail.

Then suddenly Boyer, the Captain of the ruffians, exclaims loudly:

“Let me finish with the aristo, citizen Chauvelin! I want to join in the fun.”

And the door of her room is torn open by a savage, violent hand.

The window behind Marguerite is open, and she, facing the door, clings with both hands to the sill. Her cheeks bloodless, her eyes glowing, her head erect, she waits, praying with all her might for courage⁠ ⁠… only courage.

The ruffianly captain, in his tattered, mud-stained uniform, stands in the doorway⁠—for one moment only. The next, Chauvelin has elbowed him out of the way, and in his turn faces the prisoner⁠—the innocent woman whom he has pursued with such relentless hatred. Marguerite prays with all her might, and does not flinch. Not for one second. Death stands there before her in the guise of this man’s vengeful lust, which gleams in his pale eyes. Death is there waiting for her, under the guise of the ignoble soldiers in the scrubby rags, with their muskets held in stained, filthy hands.

Courage⁠—only courage! The power to die as he would wish her to⁠ ⁠… could he but know!

Chauvelin speaks to her; she does not hear. There is a mighty buzzing in her ears as of men shouting⁠—shouting what, she does not know, for she is still praying for courage. Chauvelin has ceased talking. Then it must be the end. Thank God! she has had the courage not to speak and not to flinch. Now she closes her eyes, for there is a red mist before her and she feels that she might fall into it⁠—straight into that mist.

VI

With closed eyes, Marguerite suddenly seems able to hear. She hears shouts which come from below⁠—quite close, and coming nearer every moment. Shouts, and the tramp, the scurry of many feet; and now and then that wheezing, asthmatic cough, that strange, strange cough, and the click of wooden shoes. Then a voice, harsh and peremptory:

“Citizen soldiers, your country needs you! Rebels have defied her laws. To arms! Every man who hangs back is a deserter and a traitor!”

After this, Chauvelin’s sharp, dictatorial voice raised in protest:

“In the name of the Republic, citizen Barras!⁠—”

But the other breaks in more peremptorily still:

“Ah, ça, citizen Chauvelin Do you presume to stand between me and my duty? By order of the Convention now assembled, every soldier