This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007. THE SCARLET PIMPANEL by Baroness Orzee CHAPTER XXIII. HOPE Faith, madame," said Sir Andrew, seeing that Marguerite seemed desirous to call her surly host back again, I think we'd better leave him alone. We shall not get anything more out of him, and we might arouse his suspicions. One never knows what spies may be lurking around these Godforsaken places. What care I! she replied, lightly. Now I know that my husband is safe, and that I shall see him almost directly. Hush! he said in genuine alarm, for she had talked quite loudly in the fullness of her glee. The very walls have ears in France these days. He rose quickly from the table, and walked around the bare, squalid room, listening attentively at the door, through which Brogarde had just disappeared, and whence only muttered oaths and shuffling footsteps could be heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led to the attic, to assure himself that there were no spies of chauvelins about the place. Are we alone, M. I. Lackey? said Marguerite Gailey, as the young man once more sat down beside her. May we talk? As cautiously as possible, he entreated. Faith, man, but you wear a glum face. As for me, I could dance with joy. Surely there is no longer any cause for fear. Our boat is on the beach, the foam crest not two miles out at sea, and my husband will be here, under this very roof, within the next half hour, perhaps. Sure there is not to hinder us. Chauvelin and his gang have not yet arrived. Nay, madam, that I fear we do not know. What do you mean? He was at Dover at the same time that we were. Held up by the same storm which kept us from starting. Exactly. But—I did not speak of it before, for I feared to alarm you. I saw him on the beach, not five minutes before we embarked. At least, I swore to myself at the time that it was himself. He was disguised as a curée so that Satan, his own guardian, would scarce have known him. But I heard him then, bargaining for a vessel to take him swiftly to Calais, and he must have set sail less than an hour after we did. Marguerite's face had quickly lost its look of joy. The terrible danger in which Percy stood, now that he was actually on French soil, became suddenly and horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was close upon his heels. Here in Calais the astute diplomatist was all powerful. A word from him and Percy could be tracked and arrested and—every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins. Not even during the moments of her wildest anguish in England had she so completely realized the imminence of the peril in which her husband stood. Chauvelin had sworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpinel to the guillotine, and now the daring plotter, whose anonymity hitherto had been his safeguard, stood revealed through her own hand to his most bitter, most relentless enemy. Chauvelin, when he way-laid Lord Tony and Sir Andrew Folks in the coffee-room of the fisherman's rest, had obtained possession of all the plans of this latest expedition. Armand Saint-Juste, the comte de Tournée, and other fugitive royalists were to have met the Scarlet Pimpinel, or rather, as it had been originally arranged, two of his emissaries, on this day, the 2nd of October, at a place evidently known to the League, and vaguely alluded to as the Père Blanchard's hut. Armand, whose connection with the Scarlet Pimpinel and disavowal of the brutal policy of the reign of terror was still unknown to his countrymen, had left England a little more than a week ago, carrying with him the necessary instructions which would enable him to meet the other fugitives and to convey them to this place of safety. This much Marguerite had fully understood from the first, and Sir Andrew Folks had confirmed her surmises. She knew, too, that when Sir Percy realized that his own plans and his directions to his lieutenants had been stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communicate with Armand, or to send fresh instructions to the fugitives. They would, of necessity, be at the appointed time and place, not knowing how grave was the danger which now awaited their brave rescuer. Blakeney, who as usual had planned and organized the whole expedition, would not allow any of his younger comrades to run the risk of almost certain capture. Hence, his hurried note to them at Lord Grenville's Ball, start myself to-morrow alone. And now, with his identity known to his most bitter enemy, his every step would be dogged, the moment he set foot in France. He would be tracked by Chauvelin's emissaries, followed until he reached that mysterious hut where the fugitives were waiting for him, and there the trap would be closed on him and on them. There was but one hour, the hour's start which Marguerite and Sir Andrew had of their enemy, in which to warn Percy of the imminence of his danger, and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy expedition which could only end in his own death. But there was that one hour. Chauvelin knows of this inn from the papers he stole, said Sir Andrew earnestly, and on landing will make straight for it. He has not landed yet, she said. We have an hour's start on him, and Percy will be here directly. We shall be mid-channel ere Chauvelin has realized that we have slipped through his fingers. She spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse into her young friend some of the buoyant hope which still clung to her heart.   Faith, madame, he replied, it is only because in making your rose-coloured plans you are forgetting the most important factor. What in the world do you mean? I'm forgetting nothing. What factor do you mean? She added with more impatience. She stands six-foot-odd high, replied Sir Andrew quietly, and half-name Percy Blakeney. I don't understand, she murmured. Do you think that Blakeney would leave Calais without having accomplished what he set out to do? You mean there's the old Comte de Tournée, the Comte, she murmured, and Saint-Just, and others? My brother, she said with a heart-broken sob of anguish, heaven help me, but I fear I had forgotten. As fugitives as they are, these men, at this moment, await with perfect confidence and unshaken faith the arrival of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who has pledged his honour to take them safely across the Channel. Indeed she had forgotten. With the sublime selfishness of a woman who loves with her whole heart, she had in the last twenty-four hours had no thought save for him. His precious noble life, his danger, he, the loved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind. My brother, she murmured, as one by one the heavy tears gathered in her eyes, as memory came back to her of Armand, the companion and darling of her childhood, the man for whom she had committed the deadly sin which had so hopelessly imperiled her brave husband's life. So Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted honoured leader of a score of English gentlemen, said Sir Andrew proudly, if he abandoned those who placed their trust in him. As for breaking his word, the very thought is preposterous. There was silence for a moment or two.  The young man said nothing. His heart ate for this beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had felt the terrible impasse in which her own rash act had plunged them all. He knew his friend and leader so well, with his reckless staring, his mad bravery, his worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew that Blakeney would brave any danger, run the wildest risks sooner than break it, and with Chauvelin at his very heels would make a final attempt, however desperate, to rescue those who trusted in him. Faith, Sir Andrew! said Marguerite at last, making brave efforts to dry her tears. You are right, and I would not now shame myself by trying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say, I should plead in vain. God grant him strength and ability—she added fervently and resolutely—to outwit his pursuers. He will not refuse to take you with him, perhaps, when he starts on his noble work.  God, you both! In the meanwhile, I think we should lose no time. I still believe that his safety depends upon his knowing that Chauvelin is on his track. Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his command. As soon as he is aware of his danger he will exercise more caution. His ingenuity is a veritable miracle. Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in the village whilst I wait here against his coming? You might come across Percy's track and thus save valuable time. If you find him, tell him to beware. His bitterest enemy is on his heels. But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait in. Nay, that I do not mind. But you might ask our surly host if he could let me wait in another room where I could be safer from the prying eyes of any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money, so that he should not fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman returns.  She would show no more weakness.  Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively he felt that hers now was the stronger mind. He was willing to give himself over to her guidance, to become the hand whilst she was directing the hand. He went to the door of the inner room through which Brogarde and his wife had disappeared before, and knocked. As usual he was answered by a salvo of muttered oaths. Hey! Friend Brogarde! said the man, premedrally. My lady friend would wish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of another room? She would wish to be alone. He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed it to jingle significantly in his hand. Brogarde had opened the door, and listened with his usual surly apathy to the young man's request. At the sight of the gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly. He took his pipe from his mouth, and shuffled into the room. He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall. She can wait up there, he said with a grunt. It's comfortable, and I have no other room. Nothing could be better, said Marguerite in English. She had once realized the advantages such a position hidden from view would give her. Give him the money, Sir Andrew. I shall be quite happy up there, and can see everything without being seen. She nodded to Brogarde, who condescended to go up to the attic, and to shake up the straw that lay on the floor. May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash," said Sir Andrew, as Marguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety flight of steps. Remember, this place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you, reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely certain that you are alone with him. Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this caution. Marguerite was as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear of her doing anything that was rash. Nay, she said, with a slight attempted cheerfulness, that I can faithfully promise you. I would not jeopardize my husband's life, nor yet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear. I will watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he needs it most. Brogarde had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up to her safe retreat. I dare not kiss your hand, madam," said Sir Andrew, as she began to mount for steps, since I am your lackey, but I pray you be of good cheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return, expecting to find him here. Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an hour. Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that either you or I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend. Have no fear for me." Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the attic. Brogarde was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself comfortable there or not, as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was singularly well placed there for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining unobserved. He had paid Brogarde well, the surly old innkeeper would have no object in betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned once again, and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged curtains, Marguerite's sweet face was peeping down at him, and the young man rejoiced to see that it looked serene, and even gently smiling. With a final nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night. CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH TRAP The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly. In the room downstairs, Brogarde had for a while busied himself with clearing the table and rearranging it for another guest. It was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite found the time slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that this semblance of supper was being got ready. Evidently, Brogarde had a certain amount of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to take some trouble in making the place look at trifle less uninviting than it had done before. Even produced from some hidden recess in the old dresser what actually looked like a tablecloth, and when he spread it out and saw it was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while, then was at much pain so to spread it over the table as to hide most of its blemishes. Then he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but possessing some measure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully wiped the glasses, spoons, and plates which he put on the table. Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched all these preparations, which Brogarde accomplished to an accompaniment of muttered oaths. Clearly, the great height and bulk of the Englishman, or perhaps the weight of his fist, had overroared this freeborn citizen of France, or he would never have been at such trouble for any sacré aristo. When the table was set, such as it was, Brogarde surveyed it with evident satisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the corner of his blouse, gave a stir to the stockpot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots onto the fire, and slouched out of the room. Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She had spread her travelling cloak over the straw, and was sitting fairly comfortably as the straw was fresh, and the evil odours from below came up to her only in a modified form. But momentarily she was almost happy, happy because, when she peeped through the tattered curtains, she could see a rickety chair, a torn tablecloth, a glass, a plate, and a spoon. That was all. But those mutant ugly things seemed to say to her that they were waiting for Percy, that soon, very soon, he would be here, that the squalid room being still empty, they would be alone together.  In a few minutes she would be alone with him. She would run down the ladder, and let him see her. Then he would take her in his arms, and she would let him see that, after that, she would gladly die for him, and with him, for earth could hold no greater happiness than that. And then what would happen? She could not even remotely conjecture. She knew, of course, that Sir Andrew was right, that Percy would do everything he had set out to accomplish, that she, now she was here, could do nothing beyond warning him to be cautious, since Chauvelin himself was on his track. After having cautioned him, she would perforce have to see him go off upon the terrible and daring mission. She could not even, with a word or look, attempt to keep him back. She would have to obey whatever he told her to do. Even, perhaps, have to efface herself, and wait in indescribable agony, whilst he, perhaps, went to his death. But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the thought that he should never know how much she loved him. That, at any rate, would be spared her. The squalid room itself, which seemed to be waiting for him, told her that he would be here soon. Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of distant footsteps drawing near. Her heart gave a wild leap of joy. Was it Percy at last? No. The step did not seem quite as long, nor quite as firm as his. She also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of footsteps. Yes, that was it. Two men were coming this way. Two strangers, perhaps, to get a drink, all. But she had not time to conjecture, for presently there was a peremptory call at the door, and the next moment it was violently open from the outside, whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted, Hey! Citoyen Brogarde! Hola! Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but through a hole in one of the curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below. She heard Brogarde shuffling footsteps as he came out of the inner room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the strangers, however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within range of Marguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered, Sacres-soutain! Marguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating. Her eyes, large and dilated, had fastened on one of the newcomers, who at this point had taken a quick step forwards towards Brogarde. He was dressed in the soutain, broad-brimmed hat, and buckled shoes habitual to the French curée. But as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw open his soutain for a moment, displaying the tricolour scarf of officialism, which Cit immediately had the effect of transforming Brogarde's attitude of contempt into one of cringing obsequiousness. It was the sight of this French curée, which seemed to freeze the very blood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony hands, the slight stoop, the whole gate of the man. It was Chauvelin. The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical blow. The awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made her very senses real, and she needed almost superhuman effort not to fall senseless beneath it all. A plate of soup and a bottle of wine, said Chauvelin imperiously to Brogarde, then clear out of here, understand? I want to be alone. Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogarde obeyed. Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously around him, dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered with Chauvelin, and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close by the door. At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogarde had hurried back to the inner room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had accompanied him. In him Marguerite had once recognized Degas, Chauvelin's secretary and confidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris in days gone by. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened attentively at the Brogarde's door. Not listening, asked Chauvelin curtly. No citoyen. For a moment Marguerite dreaded less Chauvelin should order Degas to search the place. What would happen if she were to be discovered? She hardly dared to imagine. Fortunately, however, Chauvelin seemed more impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid of spies, for he called Degas quickly back to his side. The English schooner, he asked. She was lost sight of at Sundown, citoyen, replied Degas, but was then making west towards Cap Griné. Ah! good! muttered Chauvelin. And now, about Captain Jutley, what did he say? He assured me that all the orders you sent him last week have been implicitly obeyed. All the roads which converge to this place have been patrolled night and day ever since, and the beach and cliffs have been most rigorously searched and guarded. Does he know where this Père Blanchard's hut is? No, citoyen. Nobody seems to know of it by that name. There are any amount of fishermen's huts all along the course, but—that'll do. Now about to-night, interrupted Chauvelin impatiently. The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual, citoyen, and Captain Jutley awaits further orders. Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send reinforcements to the various patrols, and especially to those along the beach, you understand? Chauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every word he uttered struck at Marguerite's heart like the death knell of her fondest hopes. The men, he continued, are to keep the sharpest possible lookout for any stranger who may be walking, riding, or driving along the road or the beach, more especially for a tall stranger whom I need not describe further, as probably he will be disguised. But he cannot very well conceal his height except by stooping.  Perfectly, citoyen," replied Degas. As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, two of them are to keep him in view. The man who loses sight of the tall stranger after he is once seen will pay for his negligence with his life. But one man is to ride straight back here and report to me. Is that clear? Absolutely clear, citoyen. Very well, then. Go and seat Jotli at once. See the reinforcements start off for the patrol duty, then ask the captain to let you have a half a dozen more men and bring them here with you. You can be back in ten minutes. Go!" Degas saluted and went to the door. As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin's directions to his underling, the whole of the plan for the capture of the scarlet pimpinal became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the fugitives should be left in full security, waiting in their hidden retreat until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter was to be surrounded and caught red-handed in the very act of aiding and abetting royalists who were traitors to the Republic. Thus, if his capture were noised abroad, even the British government could not legally protest in his favour, having plotted with the enemies of the French government, France had the right to put him to death. Escape for him and them would be impossible. All the roads patrolled and watched, the trap well set, the net wide present, but drawing together tighter and tighter until it closed upon the daring plotter, whose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him from its meshes now. Degas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him back. Marguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he could have formed in order to entrap one brave man alone against two score of others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to Degas. Here, she could just see his face beneath the broad-brimmed cuirée's hat. There was at that moment so much deadly hatred, such fiendish malice in the thin face and pale small eyes, that Marguerite's last hope died in her heart, for she felt that from this man she could expect no mercy. I had forgotten, repeated Chauvelin with a weird chuckle, as he rubbed his bony, talon-like hands, one against the other, with a gesture of fiendish satisfaction. The tall stranger may show fight. In any case, no shooting remember except as a last resort. I want that tall stranger alive, if possible. He laughed, as Dante had told us that the devils laugh at the sight of the torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by now she had lived through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that human heart could bear. Yet now, when Degas left the house, and she remained alone in this lonely, squalid room with that fiend for company, she felt as if all that she had suffered was nothing compared with this. He continued to laugh and chuckle to himself for a while, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his triumph. His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph. Not a loophole was left through which the bravest, most cunning man might escape. Every road guarded, every corner watched, and in that lonely hut, somewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their rescuer and leading him to his death. Nay, to worse than that, that fiend there in a holy man's garb wouldst too much of a devil to allow a brave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of duty. He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy who had so long baffled him helpless in his power.  The brave eagle, captured, and with noble wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of the rat, and she, his wife, who loved him, and who had brought him to this, could do nothing to help him. Nothing saved to hope for death by his side, and for one brief moment in which to tell him that her love, whole, true, and passionate, was entirely his. Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table. He had taken off his hat, and Marguerite could just see the outline of his thin profile and pointed chin as he bent over his meager supper. He was evidently quite contented, and awaited events with perfect calm. He even seemed to enjoy Brogarde's unsavory fare. Marguerite wondered how so much hatred could lurk in one human being against another. Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught her ear, which turned her very heart to stone. And yet that sound was not calculated to inspire anyone with horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of a gay, fresh voice singing lustily, God save the king. CHAPTER XXV. Marguerite's breath stopped short. She seemed to feel her very life standing still momentarily whilst she listened to that voice and to that song. In the singer she had recognized her husband. Chauvelin too had heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door, then hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and clapped it over his head. The voice drew nearer. For one brief second, the wild desire seized Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly across the room to stop that song at any cost, to beg the cheerful singer to fly, fly for his life before it be too late. She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin would stop her before she reached the door, and, moreover, she had no idea if he had any soldiers posted within his call. Her impetuous act might prove the death signal of the man she would have died to save. Long to reign over us, God save the king. Sang the voice more lustily than ever. The next moment the door was thrown open, and there was dead silence for a second or so. Marguerite could not see the door. She held her breath, trying to imagine what was happening. Percy Blakeney, on entering, had, of course, at once caught sight of the curée at the table. His hesitation lasted less than five seconds. The next moment Marguerite saw his tall figure crossing the room whilst he called in a loud, cheerful voice. Hello there! No one about. Where's that fool Brogarde? He wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which he had on when Marguerite last saw him at Richmond so many hours ago. As usual, his get-up was absolutely irreproachable. The fine mechelin lace at his neck and wrists were immaculate and white. His fair hair was carefully brushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual affected gesture. In fact, at this moment Sir Percy Blakeney Baronette might have been on his way to a garden party at the Prince of Waleses, instead of deliberately, cold, bloodedly running his head in a trap set for him by his deadliest enemy. He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, whilst Marguerite, absolutely paralysed with horror, seemed unable even to breathe. Every moment she expected that Chauvelin would give a signal, that the place would fill with soldiers, that she would rush down and help Percy to sell his life dearly. As he stood there, suavely unconscious, she very nearly screamed out to him, Fly, Percy, to your deadly enemy! Fly before it be too late!" But she had not time even to do that. For the next moment Blakeney quietly walked to the table, and jovially clapped the curée on the back, said in his own drawly affected way, —Odd's fish!—M. Chauvelin! I vow I never thought of meeting you here. Chauvelin, who had been in the very act of conveying soup to his mouth, fairly choked. His thin face became absolutely purple, and a violent fit of coughing saved his cunning representative of France from betraying the most boundless surprise he had ever experienced. There was no doubt that this bold move on the part of the enemy had been wholly unexpected as far as he was concerned, and the daring impudence of it completely nonplussed him for the moment. Obviously he had not taken the precaution of having the inn surrounded with soldiers. Blakeney had evidently guessed that much, and no doubt his resourceful brain had already formed some plan by which he could turn this unexpected interview to account. Marguerite, up in the loft, had not moved. She had made a solemn promise to Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before strangers, and she had sufficient self-control not to throw herself unreasoningly and impulsively across his plans. To sit still and watch these two men together was a terrible trial of fortitude. Marguerite had heard Chauvelin give the orders for the patrolling of all the roads. She knew that if Percy now left the chagri in whatever direction he happened to go, he could not go far without being sighted by some of Captain Jutley's men on patrol. On the other hand, if he stayed, then Degas would have time to come back with the dozen men Chauvelin had specially ordered. The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but watch and wonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of the two it was Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear. Marguerite knew him well enough to guess what was passing in his mind. He had no fear for his own person, although he certainly was alone, in a lonely inn, with a man who was powerfully built, and who was daring and reckless beyond the bounds of probability. She knew that Chauvelin would willingly have braved perilous encounters for the sake of the cause he had at heart. But what he did fear was that this impudent Englishman would, by knocking him down, double his own chances of escape. The chandelings might not succeed so well in capturing the scarlet pimpenel when not directed by the cunning hand and the shrewd brain which had deadly hate for an incentive. Evidently, however, the representative of the French government had nothing to fear for the moment at the hands of his powerful adversary. Blakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant good-nature, was solemnly patting him on the back. I am so dim, sorry, he was saying cheerfully, so very sorry. I seem to have upset you. Eating soup, too. Nasty, awkward thing, soup. Bigad, a friend of mine, died once. Choked, just like you, with a spoonful of soup. And he smiled, shyly, good-humidly, down at Chauvelin. Odd's life, he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat recovered himself. Beastly hovis, hate it now. Nah, you don't mind, he added, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close to the table and drew the soup-turing towards him. That fool Brogaard seems to be asleep or something. There was a second plate on the table, and he calmly helped himself to soup, then poured himself out a glass of wine. For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His disguise was so good that perhaps he meant, on recovering himself, to deny his identity. But Chauvelin was too astute to make such an obviously false and childish move, and already he, too, had stretched out his hand and said pleasantly, I am indeed charmed to see you, Sir Percy. You must excuse me. I fought you the other side of the channel. Sudden surprise almost took my breath away. La, said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin. It did that quite, didn't it, Mr. Chauvelin? Pardon me, Chauvelin. I beg pardon a thousand times. Yes, Chauvelin, of course. Erm, I never could cotton to foreign names. He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good humour, as if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of enjoying supper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy. For the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the little Frenchman down then and there, and no doubt something of the sort must have darted through his mind. Every now and then his lazy eyes seemed to flash ominously as they rested on the slight figure of Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself, and was also calmly eating his soup. But the keen brain, which had planned and carried through so many daring plots, was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This place, after all, might be infested with spies. The innkeeper might be in Chauvelin's pay. One call on Chauvelin's part might bring twenty men about Blakeney's ears, for all he knew, and he might be caught and trapped before he could help, or at least warn, the fugitives. This he would not risk. He meant to help the others, to get them safely away, for he had pledged his word to them, and his word he would keep. And whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned, whilst up in the loft, the poor, anxious woman racked her brain as to what she should do, and endured agonies of longing to rush down to him, yet not daring to move for fear of upsetting his plans. I didn't know, Blakeney was saying jovially, that you were in holy orders. I—er—stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence of his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance. But lie! I should have known you anywhere, continued Sir Percy placidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine, although the wig and hat have changed your bit. Do you think so? Lod, they alter a man so, but—big gad, I hope you don't mind my having made the remark. Damed bad for making remarks. I hope you don't mind. No, no, not at all. I hope Lady Blakeney is well, said Chauvelin, hurriedly changing the topic of conversation. Blakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of soup, drank his glass of wine, and momentarily it seemed to Marguerite as if he glanced all round the room. Quite well, thank you," he said at last, dryly. There was a pause, during which Marguerite could watch these two antagonists, who, evidently in their minds, were measuring themselves against one another. She could see Percy almost full face where he sat at the table, not ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, not knowing what to do or what she should think. She had quite controlled her impulse now of rushing down and disclosing herself to her husband. A man capable of acting apart in the way he was doing at the present moment, did not need a woman's word to warn him to be cautious. Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every tender woman's heart, of looking at the man she loved. She looked through the tattered curtain across at the handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue eyes, and behind whose inane smile, she could now so plainly see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused the Scarlet Pimpernel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady Blakeney," Sir Andrew had said to her, and as she looked at the forehead, low but square and broad, the eyes, blue yet deep-set and intense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable energy, hiding behind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of will and marvellous ingenuity. She understood the fascination which he exercised over his followers, for had he not also cast his spells over her heart and her imagination? Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Degas should not be long. Another two or three minutes, and this impudent Englishman would be secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley's most trusted men. You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy," he asked carelessly. Odd's life, no, replied Blakeney with a laugh, only as far as Lille, not Paris for me. Beastly uncomfortable place, Paris, just now. Mr. Chauvelin? Beg pardon? Chauvelin? Not for an Englishman like yourself, Sir Percy. Rejoin Chauvelin sarcastically, who takes no interest in the conflict that is raging there. La, you see, it's no business of mine, and our damned government is all on your side of the business. Old pickdance, eh? Boo to a goose! You're in a hurry, Sir," he added, as Chauvelin once again took out his watch. An appointment, perhaps. I pray you take no heed of me. My time's my own. He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the half. Once more, Marguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was getting on. Degas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know that, and, oh, how horrible it all was, and how helpless she felt. I am in no hurry, continued Percy, pleasantly. But, la, I don't want to spend any more time than I can help in his God-forsaken whole. But begad, Sir," he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his watch for the third time, at watch of yours. Well, go any faster for all the looking you give it. You're expecting a friend, maybe. I—a friend. Not a lady, I trust, Monsieur Labbe. Laughed Blakeney. Surely the Holy Church does not allow. Eh, what? But I say, come by the fire. It's getting damned cold. He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in the old half. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently was quite unconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite beyond control, sat down beside the half, in such a way as to command a view of the door. Degas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite plain to Marguerite's aching senses, that as soon as he arrived, Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the fugitives, and capture this impudent scarlet pimpinal at once. Hey, Monsieur Chauvelin, the latter was saying, airily, tell me, I pray, you was your friend pretty. Demed smart, these little French women, sometimes what? But I protest, I need not ask. He added, as he carelessly strode back towards the supper-table. In matters of taste, the church has never been backward, eh? But Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty was now concentrated on that door through which presently Degas would enter. Marguerite's thoughts, too, were centred there, for her ears had suddenly caught through the stillness of the night, the sound of numerous and measured treads some distance away. It was Degas and his men. Another three minutes, and they would be here. Another three minutes, and the awful thing would have occurred. The brave eagle would have fallen in the ferret's trap. She would have moved now and screamed, but she dared not. For whilst she heard the soldiers approaching, she was looking at Percy and watching his every movement. He was standing by the table, whereon the remnants of the supper—plates, glasses, spoons, salt, and pepper-pots—was scattered pel-mel. His back was turned to Chauvelin, and he was still prattling along in his own affected and inane way. But from his pocket he had taken his snuff-box, and quickly and suddenly he emptied the contents of the pepper-pot into it. Then he turned again, with inane laugh, to Chauvelin. Eh! did you speak, sir? Chauvelin had been too intent on listening to the sound of those approaching footsteps, to notice what his cunning adversary had been doing. He now pulled himself together, trying to look unconcerned in the very midst of his anticipated triumph. No! he said presently, that is—as you were saying, Sir Percy?  Will you honour me, Monsieur Laber? He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, debonair way, holding out his snuff-box to his arch-enemy. Chauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen a trick or two in his day, had never dreamed of this one. With one ear fixed on those fast-approaching footsteps, one eye turned to that door where Degas and his men would presently appear, lulled into false security by the impudent Englishman's airy manner, he never even remotely guessed the trick which was being played upon him. He took a pinch of snuff. Only he, who has ever by accident sniffed vigorously a dose of pepper, can have the faintest conception of the hopeless condition in which such a sniff would reduce any human being. Chauvelin felt as if his head would burst. Sneeze after sneeze seemed nearly to choke him. He was blind, deaf and dumb for the moment, and during that moment, Blake knee quietly, without the slightest haste, took up his hat, took some money out of his pocket which he left on the table, then calmly stalked out of the room. CHAPTER XXVI The Jew It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses. The whole of this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and Degas and his soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from the chagri. When she realized what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and wonder filled her heart. It was all so neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been under a blow from the fist. For now he could neither see nor hear nor speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his fingers. Blake knee was gone, obviously, to try and join the fugitives at the pair Blanchard's hat. For the moment true, Chauvelin was helpless. For the moment, the daring Scarlett Pimpinel had not been caught by Degas and his men. But all the roads and the beach were patrolled. Every place was watched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go, thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and followed? Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and given him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all, he needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for his capture, and even now, perhaps— But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and Degas' voice shouting halt to his men. Chauvelin had partially recovered, his sneezing had become less violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door just as Degas' knock was heard on the outside. Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes. The door, stranger, quick! Did any of you see him? Where, Citoyan? asked Degas in surprise. Yeah, man, through that door, not five minutes ago. We saw nothing, Citoyan. The moon is not yet up, and—and you are just five minutes too late, my friend, said Chauvelin, with concentrated fury. Citoyan, I—you did what I ordered you to do, said Chauvelin, with impatience. I know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately, there's not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyan, Degas. Degas turned a little pale.  The tall stranger, Citoyan, he stammered, was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at that table. Damn his impudence! For obvious reasons I dared not tackle him alone. Brogarde is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have the strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away under your very nose. He cannot go far without being sighted, Citoyan. Ah! Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty. Twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch had been constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the beach or reach a boat without being sighted. That's good. Do the men know their work? They have had very clear orders, Citoyan, and I myself spoke to those who were about to start. They are to shadow, as secretly as possible, any stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he would disguise his height. In no case to detain such a person, of course, said Chauvelin, eagerly, that impudent scarlet pimpener would slip through clumsy fingers. We must let him get to the pair-blanc-chars hut now. There, surround and capture him. The men understand that, Citoyan, and also that, as soon as a tall stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to turn straight back and report to you. That is right," said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands. Well, please. I have further news for you, Citoyan. What is it? A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Ruben, by name, who lives not ten paces from here. Yes—AND! queried Chauvelin, impatiently. The conversation was all about a horse and cart which the tall Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by eleven o'clock. It is past that now. Where does that Ruben live? A few minutes walk from this door. Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in Ruben's cart. Yes, Citoyan. Degas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men. Not a word of this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped Marguerite, and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart, with terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding. She had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do nothing but to watch with a heart breaking with anguish the meshes of the deadly net closing round the daring scarlet pimpenel. He could not now advance many steps without spying eyes to track and denounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the terrible sense of utter disappointment. The possibility of being the slightest use to her husband had become almost nil, and her only hope rested in being allowed to share his fate, whatever it might ultimately be. For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she loved again had become a remote one. Still, she was determined to keep a close watch over his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart that, whilst she kept Chauvelin in sight, Percy's fate might still be hanging in the balance. Degas left Chauvelin moodyly pacing up and down the room, whilst he himself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had sent in search of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin was evidently devoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one. This last trick played upon him by the daring scarlet pimpenel had made him suddenly doubtful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, direct, and superintend the capture of this impudent Englishman. About five minutes later Degas returned, followed by an elderly Jew in a dirty, threadbare gabardine, worn greasy across the shoulders. His red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew curls at each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with grey. A general coating of grime about his cheeks and his chin gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his race affected in mock humility in past centuries before the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, and he walked behind Degas with the peculiar shuffling gate which has remained the characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to this day. Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman's prejudice against the despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful distance. The group of the three men were standing just underneath the hanging oil lamp, and Marguerite had a clear view of them all. "'Is the man?' asked Chauvelin. "'No, citoyen,' replied Degas. Ruben could not be found, so presumably his cart has gone with the stranger. But this man here seems to know something which he is willing to sell for a consideration.' "'Ah!' said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the loathsome specimen of humanity before him. The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one side, leaning on the knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble excellency to deign to put some questions to him. "'The citoyen tells me,' said Chauvelin, peremptrally to him, that you know something of my friend, the tall Englishman whom I desire to meet. More blur, keep your distance, man!' he added hurriedly as the Jew took a quick and eager step forward. "'Yes, your excellency,' replied the Jew, who spoke the language with that peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin. I and Ruben Goldstein met a tall Englishman on the road close by here this evening. "'Did you speak to him?' He spoke to us, your excellency. He wanted to know if he could hire a horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin Road, to a place he wanted to reach to-night.' "'What did you say?' I did not say anything,' said the Jew in an injured tone.  He took the words out of my mouth, your excellency. When I was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart to take him wheresoever he chose, Ruben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved nag, and his broken-down cart. "'And what did the Englishman do?' He listened to Ruben Goldstein, your excellency, and put his hand in his pocket then and there, and took out a handful of gold which he showed to that descendant of Beelzebub, telling him that all that would be his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by eleven o'clock.  Ruben's nag was lame as usual. She refused to budget first. It was only after a time, and with plenty of kicks, that she at last could be made to move,' said the Jew with a malicious chuckle. "'Then they started?' "'Yes. They started about five minutes ago. I was disgusted with that stranger's folly, an Englishman, too. He ought to have known Ruben's nag was not fit to drive.' "'But if he had no choice—' "'No choice, your excellency,' protested the Jew in a rasping voice, "'did I not repeat to him a dozen times that my horse and cart would take him quicker and more comfortably than Ruben's bag of bones?' He would not listen.  The stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry, he would have had better value for his money by taking my heart. "'You have a horse and cart, too, then,' asked Chauvelin, preemptively, "'I that I have your excellency, and if your excellency wants to drive, do you haven't to know which way my friend went in Ruben Goldstein's cart?'  Marguerite's heart was beating well, night or bursting. She had heard the preemptory question. She looked anxiously at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt somehow as if he held Percy's fate in his long, dirty hands. There was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned impatiently at the stooping figure before him. At last the Jew slowly put his hand in his breast-pocket, and drew out from its capacious depths a number of silver coins. He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a quiet tone of voice, "'This is what the tall stranger gave me when he drove away with Ruben, for holding my tongue about him and his doings.' Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently. "'How much is there there?' he asked. "'Twenty francs, your excellency,' replied the Jew, "'and I have been an honest man all my life.' Chauvelin, without further comment, took a few pieces of gold out of his own pocket, and, leaving them in the palm of his hand, he allowed them to jingle as he held them out towards the Jew. "'How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand?' he asked quietly. Evidently he had no desire to terrorise the man but to conciliate him for his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt he feared that threats of the guillotine and various other persuasive methods of that type might addle the old man's brains, and that he would be more likely to be useful through greed of gain than through terror of death. The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in his interlocutor's hand. "'At least five, I should say, your excellency,' he replied obsequiously. "'Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue of yours?' "'What does your excellency wish to know?' "'Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend, the tall stranger, who has driven off in Ruben Goldstein's cart?' "'My horse and cart can take your honour there, where you please.' "'To a place called the Père Blanchard's hut?' "'Your honour is guessed,' said the Jew in astonishment. "'You know the place? Which road leads to it?' "'The St. Barton Road, your honour, then a footpath from there to the cliffs.' "'You know the road?' repeated Chauvelin roughly. "'Every stone, every blade of grass,' your honour,' replied the Jew quietly. Chauvelin, without another word, threw the five pieces of gold one by one before the Jew who knelt down, and on his hands and knees struggled to collect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for it had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly waited while the old man scrambled on the floor to find the piece of gold. When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said, "'How soon can your horse and cart be ready?' "'They are ready now, your honour.' "'Where? Not ten metres from this door. Will your excellency deign to look?' "'I don't want to see it. How far can you drive me in it?' "'As far as the Père Blanchard's hut, your honour, and further than Ruben's nag took your friend. "'I am sure that, not two leagues from here, we shall crumb across that wily Ruben, his nag, his cart, and the tall stranger, all in a heap in the middle of the road.' "'How far is the nearest village from here?' "'On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon is the nearest village, not two leagues from here.' "'There he could get fresh conveyance if he wanted to go further.' "'He could, if he ever got so far.' "'Can you?' "'Well, your excellency try,' said the Jew simply. "'That is my intention,' said Chauvelin very quietly.  But if we find my friend the tall Englishman, either on the road or at the Père Blanchard's hut, there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you accept the bargain?' The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money in his hand, then at this stern interlocutor, and at Degas, who had stood silently behind him all this while. After a moment's pause he said deliberately, "'I accept.' "'Go and wait outside, then,' said Chauvelin, "'and remember to stick to your bargain, or by heaven I will keep to mine.' With the final, most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew shuffled out of the room. Chauvelin seemed pleased with his interview, for he rubbed his hands together with that usual gesture of his of malignant satisfaction. "'My coat and boots,' he said to Degas at last. Degas went to the door, and apparently gave the necessary orders, for presently a soldier entered, carrying Chauvelin's coat, boots, and hat. He took off his suit down, beneath which he was wearing close-fitting britches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire. "'You, c'etoyant, in the meanwhile,' he said to Degas, "'go back to Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and tell him to let you have another dozen men, and bring them with you along the St. Martin Road, where I dare say you will soon overtake the Jew's cart with myself in it. There will be hot work presently, if I mistake not, in the pair Blanc Charles Hutt. We shall corner our game there, I'll warrant, for this impudent scarlet pimpenal has had the audacity, or the stupidity, I hardly know which, to adhere to his original plans. He has gone to meet the Dournet, Saint-Just and the other traitors, which, for the moment, I thought, perhaps he did not intend to do. When we find them, there will be a band of desperate men at bay. Your men will, I presume, be put to all the gombas. These royalists are good swordsmen, and the Englishman is devilish cunning, and looks very powerful. Still, we shall be five against one at least. You can follow the cart closely with your men, all along the St. Martin Road, through Miquelon. The Englishman is ahead of us, and not likely to look behind him. Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed his change of attire. The priest's costume had been laid aside, and he was once more dressed in his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At last he took up his hat. I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your hands, he said with a chuckle, as with unwanted familiarity he took Degas' arm and led him towards the door.  The pair Blanchard's hut is, and I mistake not, a lonely spot upon the beach, and our men will enjoy a bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox. Choose your men well, friend Degas, of the sort who would enjoy that type of sport, eh? We must see that scarlet pimpinel wither a bit, what? Shrink and tremble, eh?  Choose your men well, citoyan Degas, he said once more, as he led his secretary finally out of the room. End of Chapter 26 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007 The Scarlet Pimpinel By Baroness Orzee Chapter 27 On the Track Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last sounds outside the chagri had died away in the night. She had heard Degas giving orders to his men and then starting off towards the fort to get a reinforcement of a dozen more men. Six were not thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman whose resourceful brain was even more dangerous than his valour and his strength. Then, a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky voice again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels and noise of a rickety cart bumping over the rough road. Inside the inn everything was still. Brogarde and his wife, terrified of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life. They hoped to be forgotten, and at any rate, to remain unperceived. Marguerite could not even hear their usual volleys of muttered oaths. She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her, and slipped out of the inn. The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the sound of the cart going on ahead. She hoped, by keeping well within the shadow of the ditches which lined the road, that she would not be seen by Degas's men when they approached, or by the patrols which she concluded were still on duty. Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to Meglont, and then on to the Père Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal spot might be, probably over rough roads, she cared not. The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was weary with mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could easily keep up with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who were sure to be half-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent rests. The road lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either side by shrubs and stunted trees, sparsely covered with meagre foliage, all turning away from the north, with their branches looking in the semi-darkness like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind. Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep between the clouds, and marguerite, hugging the edge of the road and keeping close to the low line of shrubs, was fairly safe from view. Everything around her was so still, only from far, very far away, there came like a long, soft moan, the sound of the distant sea. The air was keen and full of brine. After that enforced period of inactivity inside the evil-smelling squalid inn, marguerite would have enjoyed the sweet scent of this autumnal night and the distant melancholy rumble of the waves. She would have reveled in the calm and stillness of this lonely spot, a calm broken only at intervals by the strident and mournful cry of some distant gull, and by the creaking of the wheels some way down the road. She would have loved the cool atmosphere, the peaceful immensity of nature in this lonely part of the coast, but her heart was too full of cruel foreboding of a great ache and longing for a being who had become infinitely dear to her. Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it safest not to walk near the centre of the road, and she found it difficult to keep up a sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it best not to keep too near to the cart. Everything was so still that the rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe guide. The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of Calais lay far behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human habitation, not even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter anywhere near. Far away on her right was the edge of the cliff, below it the rough beach against which the incoming tide was dashing itself with its constant distant murmur. And ahead the rumble of the wheels, bearing an implacable enemy to his triumph. Marguerite wondered at what particular spot on this lonely coast Percy could be at this moment, not very far surely, for he had had less than a quarter of an hour's start of Chauvelin. She wondered if he knew that in this cool ocean-scented bit of France there lurked many spies, all eager to cite his tall figure, to track him to where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then to close the net over him and them. Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's vehicle, was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together with content as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through which that ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape. As the time went on, and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely along the dark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale of this exciting chase after the mysterious scarlet pimpenel. The capture of the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf in Citoyen Chauvelin's wreath of glory. Court red-handed, on the spot, in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his own country. Chauvelin had, in any case, fully made up his mind that all intervention should come too late. Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart as to the terrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate wife who had unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of fact, Chauvelin had ceased even to think of her. She had been a useful tool. That was all. The Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She was going along at a slow jog-trot, and her driver had to give her long and frequent halts. Are we a long way yet from Iglon? asked Chauvelin from time to time. Not very far, Your Honor, was the uniform placid reply. We have not yet come across your friend and mine lying in a heap on the roadway, was Chauvelin's sarcastic comment. Patience, noble excellency, rejoined the son of Moses. They are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of the cartwheels driven by that traitor, that son of the Amalekite. You are sure of the road, as sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold pieces in the noble excellency's pockets, which I trust will presently be mine. As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the tall stranger they will certainly be yours. Hark! What was that? said the Jew suddenly. Through the stillness, which had been absolute, there could now be heard distinctly the sound of horses' hooves on the muddy road. They are softest! he added, in an awed whisper. Stop a moment, I want to hear, said Chauvelin. Marguerite had also heard the sound of galloping hooves coming towards the cart and towards herself. For some time she had been on the alert, thinking that Degas and his squad would soon overtake them. But these came from the opposite direction, presumably from Miquelon. The darkness lent her sufficient cover. She had perceived that the cart had stopped, and with utmost caution, treading noiselessly on the soft road, she crept a little nearer. Her heart was beating fast. She was trembling in every limb. Already she had guessed what news these mounted men would bring. Every stranger on these roads or on the beach must be shadowed, especially if he be tall or stooped as if he would disguise his height. When sighted a mounted messenger must at once ride back and report. Those had been Chauvelin's orders. Had then the tall stranger been sighted, and was this the mounted messenger come to bring the great news that the hunted hare had run its head into the noose at last? Marguerite, realising that the cart had come to a standstill, managed to slip nearer to it in the darkness. She crept close up, hoping to get with an earshot to hear what the messenger had to say. She heard the quick words of challenge. Liberté, fraternité, égalité! Then Chauvelin's quick query. What news? Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle. Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the midnight sky. She could hear their voices and the snorting of their horses.  There had been a long pause during which no doubt Chauvelin satisfied the men as to his identity, for presently questions and answers followed each other in quick succession. You have seen the stranger? Asked Chauvelin eagerly. No citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger. We came by the edge of the cliff. Then, less than a quarter of a league beyond Michelang, we came across a rough construction of wood, which looked like the hut of a fisherman, where he might keep his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it seemed to be empty, and at first we thought that there was nothing suspicious about it, until we saw some smoke issuing through an aperture at the side. I dismounted and crept close to it. It was then empty, but in one corner of the hut there was a charcoal fire, and a couple of stools were also in the hut. I consulted with my comrades, and we decided that they should take cover with the horses, well out of sight, and that I should remain on the watch, which I did. Well, and did you see anything? About half an hour later I heard voices, citoyen, and presently two men came along towards the edge of the cliff. They seemed to me to have come from the Lille Road. One was young, the other quite old. They were talking in a whisper to one another, and I could not hear what they have said. One was young, and the other quite old. Marguerite's aching heart almost stopped beating as she listened. Was the young one Armand her brother, and the old one, the Dournet? Were they the two fugitives who unconsciously were used as a decoy to entrap their fearless and noble rescuer? The two men presently went into the hut, continued the soldier, whilst Marguerite's aching nerves seemed to catch the sound of Chauvelin's triumphant chuckle, and I crept nearer to it then. The hut is very roughly built, and I caught snatches of their conversation. Yes! Quick! What did you hear?" The old man asked the young one if he were sure that was the right place. Oh, yes! he replied. Tis the place, sure enough. And by the light of the charcoal fire he showed to his companion a paper, which he carried. Here is the plan. He said, which he gave me before I left London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan unless I had contrary orders. I have had none. Here is the road we followed. See? Here the fork. Here we cut across the Saint-Martin Road. And here is the footpath which brought us to the edge of the cliff. I must have made a slight noise then, for the young man came to the door of the hut and peered anxiously all around him. When he again joined his companion they whispered so low that I could no longer hear them. Well, and?" asked Chauvelin impatiently. There were six of us all together patrolling that part of the beach, so we consulted together and thought it best that four should remain behind and keep the hut in sight, and I and my comrade rode back at once to make a report of what we had seen. You saw nothing of the tall stranger. Nothing, c'est rayon. If your comrade see him, what would they do? Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of escape or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and if necessary they would shoot. The firing would bring the rest of the patrol to the spot. In any case, they would not let the stranger go. Aye! But I did not want the stranger hurt. Not just yet, murmured Chauvelin savagely. But there, you've done your best. The fates grant that I may not be too late. We met half a dozen men just now who have been patrolling this road for several hours. Well, they have seen no stranger either. Yet he is on a head somewhere, in a cart or else—here! There is not a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here? About a couple of leagues, c'est rayon. You can find it again, at once, without hesitation? I have absolutely no doubt, c'est rayon. The footpath to the edge of the cliff, even in the dark? It is not a dark night, c'est rayon, and I know I can find my way, repeated the soldier firmly. Falling behind then. Let your comrade take both your horses back to Calais. You won't want them. Keep beside the cart and direct the Jew to drive straight ahead. Then stop him within a quarter of a league of the footpath. See that he takes the most direct road. Whilst Chevalan spoke, Degas and his men were fast approaching, and Marguerite could hear their footsteps within a hundred yards behind her now. She thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and unnecessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering. Her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become numb. After all these hours of ceaseless anguish culminating in this awful despair. For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within two short leagues of this spot the fugitives were waiting for their brave deliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road, and presently he would join them. Then the well-laid trap would close. Two dozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning was malicious, closed round the small band of fugitives, and their daring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according to Chevalan's pledged word, would be restored to her. But her husband Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to love and worship more and more, he would fall into the hands of a remorseless enemy who had no pity for a brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning antagonist who had baffled him so long. Then the soldier giving a few brief directions to the Jew. Then she retired quickly to the edge of the road, and cowered behind some low shrubs, whilst day-guide his men came up. All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they all started down the dark road. Marguerite waited until she reckoned that they were well outside the range of earshot. Then she too, in the darkness, which suddenly seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly along. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007. The Scarlet Pimpenel. By Baroness Ozzie. Chapter 28. The Père Blanchard's Hut. As in a dream, Marguerite followed on. The web was drawing more and more tightly every moment round the beloved life, which had become dearer than all. To see her husband once again, to tell him how she had suffered, how much she had wronged, and how little understood him, had become now her only aim. She had abandoned all hope of saving him. She saw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and in despair she gazed round her into the darkness, and wondered whence he would presently come to fall into the death-trap which his relentless enemy had prepared for him. The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder. The occasional dismal cry of an owl or a seagull filled her with unspeakable horror. She thought of the ravenous beasts in human shape who lay in wait for their prey and destroyed them as mercilessly as any hungry wolf for the satisfaction of their own appetite of hate. Marguerite was not afraid of the darkness. She only feared that man, on ahead, who was sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, nursing thoughts of vengeance, which would have made the very demons in hell chuckle with delight. Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her from sheer bodily fatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of excitement. She had not had a quiet rest for three nights. Now she had walked on a slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her determination never swerved for a moment. She would see her husband, tell him all, and if he was ready to forgive the crime which she had committed in her blind ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying by his side. She must have walked on, almost in a trance, instinct alone keeping her up and guiding her in the wake of the enemy when suddenly her ears attuned to the slightest sound by that same blind instinct, told her that the cart had stopped and that the soldiers had halted. They had come to their destination, but no doubt on the right, somewhere close ahead, was the footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the hut. Heedless of any risks, she crept up quite close to where Chauvelin stood, surrounded by his little troop. He had descended from the cart and was giving some orders to the men. These she wanted to hear.  The spot where all the party had halted must have lain some eight hundred metres from the coast. The sound of the sea came only very faintly as from a distance. Chauvelin and Degas, followed by the soldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently onto the footpath which led to the cliffs. The Jew had remained on the road with his cart and nag. Marguerite, with infinite caution and literally crawling on her hands and knees, had also turned off to the right. To accomplish this she had to creep through the rough, low shrubs, trying to make as little noise as possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or heard. Fortunately, as is usual in this part of France, the footpath was bordered by a low, rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch filled with coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter. She was quite hidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three yards of where Chauvelin stood, giving orders to his men. Now, he was saying, in a low and prump tree whisper, where is the Père Blanchard's hut? About eight hundred metres from here, along the footpath, said the soldier who had lately been directing the party, and half way down the cliff. Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff, you shall creep down to the hut, as noiselessly as possible, and ascertain if the traitor royalists are there.  I understand, citoyen. Now listen very attentively all of you, continued Chauvelin impressively and addressing the soldiers collectively, for after this we may not be able to exchange another word, so remember every syllable I utter, as if your very lives depended on your memory. Perhaps they do, he added, dryly. We listen, citoyen, said Degas, and a soldier of the Republic never forgets an order. You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep inside. If an Englishman is there with those traitors, a man who is tall above the average, or who stoopes as if he would disguise his height, then give a sharp, quick whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you, he added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively, then quickly surround and rush into the hut, and each sees one of the men there before they have time to draw their firearms. If any of them struggle, shoot at their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall man.  We understand, citoyen. The man who is tall above the average is probably also strong above the average. We'll take four or five of you at least to overpower him. There was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued. If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more than likely to be the case, then warn your comrades who are lying in wait there, and all of you creep and take cover behind the rocks and boulders round the hut, and wait there in dead silence until the tall Englishman arrives. Then only rush the hut when he is safely within its doors. But remember that you must be as silent as the wolf is at night and prows around the pens. I do not wish those royalists to be on the alert. The firing of a pistol, a shriek or call on their part, would be sufficient, perhaps, to warn the tall personage to keep clear of the cliffs and of the hut, and—he added emphatically— it is the tall Englishman whom it is your duty to capture to-night. You shall be implicitly obeyed, citoyen. Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I will follow you. What about the Jew, citoyen? Ask Degas as silently, like noiseless shadows. One by one the soldiers began to creep along the rough and narrow footpath. Ah, yes. I had forgotten about the Jew," said Chauvelin, and turning towards the Jew he called him peremptorily. Here! You! Aaron! Moses! Abraham! or whatever your confounded name may be!" He said to the old man, who had quietly stood beside his lean nag, as far away from the soldiers as possible. Benjamin Rosenbaum, sir, please your honour. He replied humbly. It does not please me to hear your voice, but it does please me to give you certain orders, which you will find it wise to obey. So it please your honour. Hold your confounded tongue.  With your horse and cart until our return.   But your honour," protested the Jew pitiably,--"there is no question of but, or of any argument," said Chauvelin, in a tone that made the timid man tremble from head to foot. If, when I return, I do not find you here, I most solemnly assure you, that wherever you may try to hide yourself, I can find you, and that punishment, swift, sure, and terrible, will sooner or later overtake you. Do you hear me?" But your excellency! I said, Do you hear me?" The soldiers had all crept away. The three men stood alone together in the dark and lonely road, with Marguerite there behind the hedge, listening to Chauvelin's orders, as she would to her own death sentence. I heard your honour," protested the Jew again, while he tried to draw nearer to Chauvelin, and I swear by Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, that I would obey your honour most absolutely, and that I would not move from this place until your honour, once more dain to shed the light of your countenance upon your humble servant. But remember, your honour, I am a poor man. My nerves are not as strong as those of a young soldier. If midnight marauder should come prowling round this lonely road, I might scream or run in my fright. And is my life to be forfeit?  The Jew seemed in real distress. He was shaking from head to foot. Clearly, he was not the man to be left by himself on this lonely road. The man spoke truly. He might unwittingly in sheer terror utter the shriek that might prove a warning to the wily scarlet pimpenel. Chauvelin reflected for a moment. "'Will your horse and cart be safe alone here, do you think?' he asked, roughly. "'I fancy Citoyan, here in Depeau's Degas, that they will be safer without that dirty cowardly Jew than with him.  But what am I to do with the brute? Will you send him back to Calais, Citoyan? No, for we shall want him to drive back the wounded presently,' said Chauvelin, with grim significance. There was a pause again. Degas waiting for the decision of his chief and the old Jew whining beside his nag. "'Well, you lazy, lumbering old coward,' said Chauvelin at last, you had better shuffle along behind us. Here, Citoyan Degas, tie this handkerchief tightly round fellow's mouth.' Chauvelin handed a scarf to Degas, who solemnly began winding it round the Jew's mouth. Meekly, Benjamin Rosenbaum allowed himself to be gagged. He evidently preferred this uncomfortable state to that of being left alone on the dark St. Martin Road. "'Quick,' said Chauvelin impatiently, we have already wasted much valuable time. And the firm footsteps of Chauvelin and Degas, the shuffling gate of the old Jew, soon died away along the footpath. Margrete had not lost a single one of Chauvelin's words of command. Her every nerve was strained to completely grasp the situation first, then to make a final appeal to those wits which had so often been called the sharpest in Europe and which alone might be of service now. Certainly the situation was desperate enough. A tiny band of unsuspecting men quietly awaiting the arrival of their rescuer who was equally unconscious of the trap laid for them all. It seemed so horrible, this net, as it were drawn in a circle, at dead of night, on a lonely beach round a few defenseless men, defenseless because they were tricked and unsuspecting. Of these, one was the husband she idolized, another the brother she loved. She vaguely wondered who the others were, calmly waiting for the scarlet pimpenel, while death lurked behind every boulder of the cliffs. For the moment she could do nothing but follow the soldiers in Chauvelin. She feared to lose her way, or she would have rushed forward and found that wooden hut, and perhaps been in time to warn the fugitives and their brave deliverer yet. For a second the thought flashed through her mind of uttering the piercing streaks which Chauvelin seemed to dread as a possible warning to the scarlet pimpenel and his friends in the wild hope that they would hear and have yet time to escape before it was too late. But she did not know if her streaks would reach the ears of the doomed men. Her effort might be premature, and she would never be allowed to make another. Her mouth would be securely gagged, like that of the Jew, and she a helpless prisoner in the hands of Chauvelin's men. Like a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge. She had taken her shoes off, and her stockings were by now torn off her feet. She felt neither soreness nor weariness, indomitable will to reach her husband in spite of adverse fate and of a cunning enemy killed all sense of bodily pain within her and rendered her instincts doubly acute. She had nothing save the soft and measured footsteps of Percy's enemies on in front. She saw nothing but, in her mind's eye, that wooden hut and he, her husband, walking blindly to his doom. Suddenly those same keen instincts within her made her paws in her mad haste and cower still further within the shadow of the hedge. The moon, which had proved a friend to her by remaining hidden behind a bank of clouds, now emerged in all the glory of an early autumn night, and in a moment flooded the weird and lonely landscape with a rush of brilliant light. There, not two hundred metres ahead, was the edge of the cliff, and below, stretching far away to free and happy England, the sea rolled on smoothly and peaceably. Marguerite's gaze rested for an instant on the brilliant silvery waters, and as she gazed her heart, which had been numb with pain for all these hours, seemed to soften and distend, and her eyes filled with hot tears, not three miles away, with white sails set, a graceful schooner lay in wait. Marguerite had guessed rather than recognized her. It was the daydream, Percy's favourite yacht, and all her crew of British sailors. Her white sails, glistening in the moonlight, seemed to convey a message to Marguerite of joy and hope, which yet she feared could never be. She waited there, out at sea, waited for her master, like a beautiful white bird, all ready to take flight, and he would never reach her, never see her smooth deck again, never gaze any more on the white cliffs of England, the land of liberty and of hope. The sight of the schooner seemed to infuse into the poor, wearied woman the superhuman strength of despair. There was the edge of the cliff, and some way below was the hut, where presently her husband would meet his death. But the moon was out. She could see her way now. She would see the hut from a distance, run to it, rouse them all, warm them at any rate to be prepared and to sell their lives dearly, rather than be caught like so many rats in a hole. She stumbled on behind the hedge in the low, thick grass of the ditch. She must have run on very fast, and had out-distance Chauvelin and Degas, for presently she reached the edge of the cliff and heard their footsteps distinctly behind her. But only a very few yards away, and now the moonlight was full upon her. Her figure must have been distinctly silhouetted against the silvery background of the sea. Only for a moment, though. The next she had cowered, like some animal doubled up within itself. She peeped down the great rugged cliffs. The descent would be easy enough, as they were not precipitous, and the great boulders afforded plenty of foothold. Suddenly, as she gazed, she saw at some little distance on her left and about midway down the cliffs a rough wooden construction, through the wall of which a tiny red light was seen. Her very heart seemed to stand still. The eagerness of joy was so great that it felt like an awful pain. She could not gauge how distant the hut was, but without hesitation she began the steep descent, creeping from boulder to boulder, carrying nothing for the enemy behind or for the soldiers, who evidently had all taken cover since the tall Englishman had not yet appeared. On she pressed, forgetting the deadly foe on her track, running, stumbling, foot sore, half dazed, but still on. When suddenly a crevice or stone or slippery bit of rock threw her violently through the ground, she struggled again to her feet and started running forward once more to give them that timely warning to beg them to flee before he came and to tell him to keep away, away from this death trap, away from this awful doom. But now she realized that other steps, quicker than her own, were already close at her heels. The next instant a hand dragged at her skirt and she was down on her knees again in the mouth to prevent her uttering a scream. Bewildered, half frantic with the bitterness of disappointment, she looked round her helplessly and bending down quite close to her, she saw through the mist which seemed to gather round her, a pair of keen, malicious eyes which appeared to her excited brain to have a weird, supernatural green light in them. She lay in the shadow of a great boulder. Chauvelin could not see her features, but he passed his thin, white fingers over her face. A woman, he whispered, by all the saints in the calendar. We cannot let her loose that certain, he muttered to himself. I wonder now. Suddenly he paused. After a few moments of deadly silence he gave forth a long, low, curious chuckle, while once again Marguerite felt with a horrible shudder his thin fingers wandering over her face. Dear me, dear me! he whispered with affected gallantry. This is indeed a charming surprise. And Marguerite felt her resistless hand raised to Chauvelin's thin, mocking lips. The situation was indeed grotesque. Had it not been at the same time so fearfully tragic, the poor, weary woman, broken in spirit and half frantic with the bitterness of her disappointment, receiving on her knees the banal gallantries of her deadly enemy. Her senses were leaving her. Half choked with the tight grip round her mouth. She had no strength to move or to utter her words. She had no strength to move or to utter her words. She had no strength to move or to utter the faintest sound. The excitement which all along had kept up her delicate body seemed at once to have subsided and the feeling of blank despair to have completely paralyzed her brain and nerves. Chauvelin must have given some directions, which she was two days to hear, for she felt herself lifted from off her feet. The bandage round her mouth was made more secure and a pair of strong arms carried her towards that tiny red light on her head which she had looked upon as a beacon and the last faint glimmer of hope. She did not know how long she was thus carried along. She had lost all notion of time and space and for a few seconds tired nature mercifully deprived her of consciousness. When she once more realized her state she felt that she was placed with some degree of comfort upon a man's coat with her back resting against a fragment of rock. The moon was hidden again behind some clouds and the darkness seemed in comparison more intense. The sea was roaring some two hundred feet below her and on looking all round she could no longer see any vestige of the tiny glimmer of red light. At the end of the journey had been reached she gathered from the fact that she heard rapid questions and answers spoken in a whisper quite close to her. There are four men in their citoyen. They are sitting by the fire and seem to be waiting quietly. The hour? Nearly two o'clock. The tide? Coming in quickly. The schooner? Obviously an English one, lying some three kilometers out, cannot see her boat. Have the men taken cover? Yes, citoyen. They will not blunder. They will not stir until the tall Englishman comes. Then they will surround and overpower the five men. Right. And the lady? Still dazed, I fancy. She's close beside you, citoyen. And the Jew? He's gagged and his legs strapped together. He cannot move or scream. Good. Then have your gun ready in case you wanted. Get close to the hut and leave me to look after the lady. Degas evidently obeyed. For Marguerite heard him creeping away along the stony cliff. Then she felt that a pair of warm, thin, talon-like hands took hold of both her own and held them in a grip of steel. Before that handkerchief is removed from your pretty mouth, fair lady, whispered Chauvelin close to her ear, I think it right to give you one small word of warning. What has procured me the honour of being followed across the channel by so charming a companion, I cannot, of course, conceive. But if I mistake it not, the purpose of this flattering attention is not one that would commend itself to my vanity, and I think that I am right in surmising, moreover, that the first sound which your pretty lips would utter, as soon as the cruel gag is removed, would be one that would prove a warning to the cunning fox which I have been at such pains to track to his lair. He paused a moment while the steel-like grasp seemed to tighten round her wrist. Then he resumed in the same hurried whisper. Inside that hut, if again I am not mistaken, your brother, Armand Saint-Jus, waits with that traitor de Gournet and two other men unknown to you, for the arrival of the mysterious rescuer whose identity has for so long puzzled our committee of public safety, the audacious scarlet pimpenel. No doubt if you scream, if there is a scuffle here, if shots are fired, it is more than likely that the same long legs that brought this scarlet enigma here will as quickly take him to some place of safety. The purpose, then, for which I have travelled all these miles will remain unaccomplished. On the other hand, it only rests with yourself that your brother, Armand, shall be free to go off with you to-night, if you like, to England or any other place of safety. Marguerite could not utter a sound, as the handkerchief was wound very tightly round her mouth, but Chauvelin was peering through the darkness very closely into her face. No doubt, too, her hand gave a responsive appeal to his last suggestion, for presently he continued, What I want you to do to ensure Armand's safety is a very simple thing, dear lady. What is it? Marguerite's hand seemed to convey to his in response. To remain on this spot without uttering a sound until I give you leave to speak. Ah! but I think you will obey, he added, with that funny dry chuckle of his as Marguerite's whole figure seemed to stiffen in defiance of this order. For let me tell you that if you scream, if you utter one sound or attempt to move from here, my men, there are thirty of them about, we'll seize sans juste the Dornay and their two friends and shoot them here, by my orders, before your eyes. Marguerite had listened to her implacable enemy's speech with ever-increasing terror. Numbed with physical pain, she yet had sufficient mental vitality in her to realise the full horror of this terrible either-or, he was once more putting before her. Either-or, ten thousand times more appalling and horrible than the one he had suggested to her that fatal night at the ball. This time it meant that she should keep still and allow the husband she worshipped to walk unconsciously to his death, or that she should, by trying to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might even be unavailing, actually give the signal for her own brother's death and that of three other unsuspecting men. She could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost feel those keen, pale eyes of his fixed maliciously upon her helpless form and his hurried, whispered words reached her ear as the death knell of her last faint, lingering hope. Nay, fair lady, he added urbanely, you can have no interest in any one's saving sans juste and all you need do for his safety is to remain where you are and to keep silent. My men have strict orders to spare him in every way. As for that enigmatic scarlet pimpenel, what is he to you? Believe me, no warning from you could possibly save him. And now, dear lady, let me remove this unpleasant coercion which has been placed before your pretty mouth. You see, I wish you to be perfectly free in the choice which you are about to make. Her thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her nerves paralyzed, her body numb with pain. Marguerite sat there in the darkness which surrounded her as with a pawl. From where she sat she could not see the sea, but she heard the incessant, mournful murmur of the incoming tide which spoke of her dead hopes, her lost love, the husband she had with her own hand betrayed and sent to his death. Chauvelin removed the handkerchief from her mouth. She certainly did not scream. At that moment she had no strength to do anything but barely to hold herself upright and to force herself to think. Oh, think, think, think of what she should do. The minutes flew on. In this awful stillness she could not tell how fast or how slowly. She heard nothing, she saw nothing. She did not feel the sweet smelling autumn air centred with the briny odour of the sea. She no longer heard the murmur of the waves, the occasional rattling of a pebble as it rolled down some steep incline. More and more unreal did the whole situation seem. It was impossible that she, Marguerite Blakeney, the Queen of London Society, could actually be sitting here in this bit of lonely coast in the middle of the night, side by side with the most bitter enemy. And oh, it was not possible that somewhere not many hundred feet away perhaps from where she stood, the being she had once despised, but who now, in every moment of this weird dream-like life, became more and more dear, it was not possible that he was unconsciously, even now, walking to his doom whilst she did nothing to save him. Why did she not, with unearthly screams that would re-echo from one end of the lonely beach to the other, send out a warning to him to desist, to retrace his steps, full death lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or twice the screams rose to her throat as if by instinct. Then before her eyes there stood the awful alternative. Her brother and those three men shot before her eyes, practically by her orders. She their murderer. Oh, that fiend in human shape next to her knew human, female nature well. He had played upon her feelings as a skillful musician plays upon an instrument. He had gauged her very thoughts to a nicety. She could not give that signal, for she was weak, and she was a woman.  He dying perhaps with a curse on her upon his lips, and little Suzanne's father too, he, an old man, and the others. Oh, it was all too, too horrible. Wait! Wait! Wait! How long? The early morning hours sped on, and yet it was not dawn. The sea continued its incessant mournful murmur. The autumnal breeze sighed gently in the night. The lonely beach was silent, even as the grave. Suddenly, from somewhere not very far away, a cheerful, strong voice was heard singing, God save the king. End of Chapter 29 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007. The Scarlet Pimpenel by Baroness Ozzie Chapter 30 The Schooner Marguerite's aching heart stood still. She felt, more than she heard, men on the watch preparing for the fight. Her senses told her that each, with sword in hand, was crouching, ready for the spring. The voice came nearer and nearer. In the vast immensity of these lonely cliffs, with the loud murmur of the sea below, it was impossible to say how near or how far, nor yet from which direction came that cheerful singer who sang to God to save his king, whilst he himself was in such deadly danger. Faint at first, the voice grew louder and louder, from time to time a small pebble detached itself apparently from beneath the firm tread of the singer, and went rolling down the rocky cliffs to the beach below. Marguerite, as she heard, felt that her very life was slipping away, as if when that voice drew nearer, when that singer became entrapped. She distinctly heard the click of Degas' gun close to her. No, no, no, no! Oh, God in heaven! This cannot be!  Let her be branded as his murderer. Let even he whom she loved despise and loathe her for this. But God! Oh, God! Save him at any cost! With a wild shriek she sprang to her feet and darted round the rock against which she had been cowering. She saw the little red gleam through the chinks of the hut. She ran up to it and fell against its wooden walls, which she began to hammer with clenched fists and an almost maniacal frenzy while she shouted, Ah, man! Ah, man! For God's sake, fire! Your leader is near! He is coming! He is betrayed! Ah, man! Ah, man! Fire in heaven's name! She was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay there moaning, bruised, not caring, but still half sobbing, half shrieking, Percy, my husband, for God's sake, fly! Ah, man! Ah, man! Why don't you fire? One of you stop that woman screaming, his chauvelin who hardly could refrain from striking her. Something was thrown over her face. She could not breathe and perforce she was silent. The bold singer too had become silent, warned no doubt of his impending danger by Marguerite's frantic shrieks. The men had sprung to their feet. There was no need for further silence on their part. The very cliffs echoed the poor heartbroken woman's screams. Chauvelin with a muttered oaf, which bowed it no good to her, who had dared to upset his most cherished plans, had hastily shouted the word of command, Intuit, my men, and let no one escape from that hut alive! The moon had once more emerged from between the clouds. The darkness on the cliffs had gone, giving place once more to brilliant silvery light. Some of the soldiers had rushed to the rough wooden door of the hut, whilst one of them kept guard over Marguerite. The door was partially open. One of the soldiers pushed it further, but within all was darkness, the charcoal fire only lighting with a dim red light the furthest corner of the hut. The soldiers paused automatically at the door, like machines waiting for further orders. Chauvelin, who was prepared for a violent onslaught from within and for a vigorous resistance from the four fugitives under cover of the darkness, was for the moment paralysed with astonishment when he saw the soldiers standing there at attention, like sentries on guard, whilst not a sound proceeded from the hut. Filled with strange, anxious foreboding, he too went to the door of the hut, and peering into the gloom he asked quickly, What is the meaning of this? I think, Citoyan, that there is no one there now," replied one of the soldiers, imperturbably. You have not let those four men go, funded Chauvelin menacingly. I ordered you to let no man escape alive! Quick, after them all of you, quick in every direction! The men, obedient as machines, rushed down the rocky incline towards the beach, some going off to right and left as far as their feet could carry them. You and your men were pay with your lives for this blunder, Citoyan's sergeant, said Chauvelin viciously to the sergeant who had been in charge of the men, and you too, Citoyan, he added, for disobeying my orders. You ordered us to wait, Citoyan, until the tall Englishmen arrived and joined the four men in the hut. No one came," said the sergeant, sullenly. But I ordered you just now, when the women screamed to rush in and let no one escape. But Citoyan, the four men who were there before, had been gone some time, I think. You think? You," said Chauvelin, almost choking with fury, and you let them go. You ordered us to wait, Citoyan, protested the sergeant, with the command on pain of death. We waited. I heard the men creep out of the hut not many minutes after we took cover and long before the women screamed, he added, as Chauvelin seemed still quite speechless with rage. Hark! said Degas suddenly. In the distance the sound of repeated firing was heard. Chauvelin tried to peer along the beach below, but as luck would have it, the fitful moon once more hid her light behind a bank of clouds, and he could see nothing. One of you go into the hut and strike a light. Next, stolidly the sergeant obeyed. He went up to the charcoal fire and lit the small lantern he carried in his belt. It was evident that the hut was quite empty. Which way did they go? asked Chauvelin. I could not tell Citoyan," said the sergeant. They went straight down the cliff first, then disappeared behind some boulders. Hush! What was that? All three men listened attentively. In the far, very far distance could be heard faintly echoing and already dying away the quick, sharp splash of half a dozen oars. Chauvelin took out his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. The schooner's boat was all he gasped. Evidently, Armand Saint-Jus and his three companions had managed to creep along the side of the cliffs, whilst the men, like true soldiers of the well-drilled Republican army, had, with blind obedience and in fear of their own lives, implicitly obeyed Chauvelin's orders to wait for the tall Englishman who was the important to capture. They had no doubt reached one of the creeks which jut far out to sea on this coast at intervals. Behind this, the boat of the Daedrie must have been on the lookout for them, and they were, by now, safely on board the British schooner. As if to confirm this last supposition, the dull boom of a gun was heard from out at sea. The schooner, citoyen, c'est dégât, quietly. She's off. It needed all Chauvelin's nerve and presence of mind not to give way to a useless and undignified access of rage. There was no doubt now that once again that accursed British head had completely outwitted him. How he had contrived to reach the hut without being seen by one of the thirty soldiers who guarded the spot was more than Chauvelin could conceive. That he had done so before the thirty men had arrived on the cliff was, of course, fairly clear. But how he had come over in Ruben Goldstein's cart all the way from Calais without being sighted by the various patrols on duty was impossible of explanation. It really seemed as if some potent fate watched over that daring scarlet pimpenal and his astute enemy almost felt a superstitious shudder pass through him as he looked round at the towering cliffs and the loneliness of this outlying coast. But surely this was reality, and the year of Grace 1792. There were no fairies and hobgoblins about.  By that time the four fugitives must have reached the creek and got into the boat and the nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut. Where had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had lent him wings he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff in the space of two minutes and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and the sound of the boat's oars away at sea. He must have remained behind and was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs. The patrols were still about. He would still be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopeful once again. One or two of the men who had run after the fugitives were now slowly working their way up the cliff. One of them reached Chauvelin's side at the very moment that this hope rose in the astute diplomatist's heart. We were too late citoyen, the soldier said. We reached the beach just before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The boat had undoubtedly been on the lookout behind that first creek, a mile off, but she had shoved off some time ago when we got to the beach and was already some way out to sea. We ran after her, but of course it was no good. She was making straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw her very clearly in the moonlight. Yes, said Chauvelin with eager impatience, she had shoved off some time ago, you said, and the nearest creek is a mile further on. Yes, citoyen, I ran all the way straight to the beach, though I guess the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek as the tide would reach there earliest. The boat must have shoved off some minutes before the woman began to scream. Bring the light in here," he commanded eagerly, as once more he entered the hut. The sergeant brought his lantern, and together the two men explored the little place. With a rapid glance Chauvelin noted its contents. The cauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall, and containing the last few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of stools overturned as if in the haste of sudden departure, then the fisherman's tools and his nets lying in one corner, and beside them, something small and white. Pick that up," said Chauvelin to the sergeant, pointing to this white scrap, and bring it to me. It was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten there by the fugitives in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much awed by the citoyen's obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and handed it respectfully to Chauvelin. Read it, sergeant," said the lacer curtly. It is almost illegible, citoyen, a fearful scroll. I ordered you to read it," repeated Chauvelin viciously. The sergeant, by the light of his lantern, began deciphering the few hastily scrawled words. I cannot quite reach you without risking your lives and endangering the success of your rescue. When you receive this, wait two minutes, then creep out of the hut one by one, turn to your left sharply, and creep cautiously down the cliff. Keep to the left all the time till you reach the first rock which you see jutting far out to sea. Behind it, in the creek, the boat is on the lookout for you. Give a long, sharp whistle. She will come up, get into her. My men will row you to the schooner, and then to England and safety. Once on board the daydream, send the boat back for me. Tell my men that I shall be at the creek which is in a direct line opposite the chagri near Calais. They know it. I shall be there as soon as possible. They must wait for me at a safe distance out to sea till they hear the usual signal. Do not delay and obey these instructions implicitly." Then there is the signature, citoyen," added the sergeant, as he handed the paper back to Chauvelin. But the latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the momentous scroll had caught his ear. I shall be at the creek which is in a direct line opposite the chagri near Calais. That phrase might yet mean victory for him. Which of you knows this coast well?" he shouted to his men, who now one by one all returned from their fruitless run and were all assembled once more round the hut. I do, citoyen," said one of them. I was born in Calais and know every stone of these cliffs. There is a creek in a direct line from the chagri. There is, citoyen, I know it well. The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does not know every stone of these cliffs. He may go there by the longest way round, and in any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the patrols. At any rate, there is a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each man who gets to that creek before that long-legged Englishman. I know of a shortcut across the cliffs," said the soldier, and with an enthusiastic shout he rushed forward, followed closely by his comrades. Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in the distance. Chauvelin listened to them for a moment. The promise of the reward was lending spurs to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and anticipated triumph was months more apparent on his face. Close to him, Degas still stood mute and impassive, waiting for further orders, whilst two soldiers were kneeling beside the prostrate form of Marguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well-laid plan had failed. Its sequel was problematical. There was still a great chance now that Charlotte Pimpinel might yet escape, and Chauvelin, with her unraising fury, which sometimes assails a strong nature, was longing to vent his rage on somebody. The soldiers were holding Marguerite Pinyin to the ground, though she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle. Overawed nature had at last prematurely asserted itself, and she lay there in a dead swoon, her eyes circled by deep purple lines that told of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead, her lips parted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain. The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable Lady Blakeney who had dazzled London's society with her beauty, her wit, and her extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out, suffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any but the hard, vengeful heart of a baffled enemy. It is no use mounting God over a woman who is half-dead, he said spitefully to the soldiers, when you have allowed five men who were very much alive to escape. Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet. You'd better try and find that footpath again for me, and that broken-down cart we left on the road. Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him. Ah, by the pie! Where is the Jew? Close by here, Citoyan, said Degas, I gagged him and tied his legs together as you commanded. From the immediate vicinity a plaintive moan reached Chauvelin's ears. He followed his secretary, who led the way to the other side of the hut where he had fallen into an absolute heap of dejection, with his legs tightly pinioned together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate descendant of Israel. His face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively ghastly with terror. His eyes were wide open and almost glassy, and his whole body was trembling as if with ague, while a piteous wail escaped his bloodless lips. The robe which had originally been wound round his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a tangle about his body, but he seemed quite unconscious of this, for he had not made the slightest attempt to move from the place where Degas had originally put him, like a terrified chicken which looks upon a line of white chalk drawn on a table as on a string which paralyzes its movements. Bring the cowardly brute here, commanded Chauvelin. He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he had no reasonable grounds for venting his ill humour on the soldiers who had but too punctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the despised race would prove an excellent but. With true French contempt of the Jew which has survived the lapse of centuries even to this day, he would not go too near him, but said with biting sarcasm as the wretched old man was brought in full light of the moon by the two soldiers, I suppose now that being a Jew you have a good memory for bargains. Answer! he again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips seemed too frightened to speak. Yes, your honour! stammered the poor wretch. You remember, then, the one you and I made together in Calais when you undertook to overtake Ruben Goldstein, his nag, and my friend, the tall stranger, eh? But, but, but, your honour! There is no but, I said. Do you remember? Yes, your honour! What was the bargain? There was dead silence. The unfortunate man looked round at the great cliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers, and even at the poor, prostrate inanimate woman close by, but said nothing. Will you speak? funded Chauvelin menacingly. He did try, poor wretch, but obviously he could not. There was no doubt, however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man before him. He—your honour! he ventured imploringly. Since your terror seems to have paralysed your tongue, said Chauvelin sarcastically, I must need to refresh your memory. It was agreed between us that if we overtook my friend, the tall stranger, before he reached this place, you were to have ten pieces of gold. A low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips. But, added Chauvelin with slow emphasis, if you deceived me in your promise, you were to have a sound beating, one that would teach you not to tell lies. I did not, your honour! I swear it by Abraham and by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfortunately, they are still in Hades, I believe, according to your creed, and cannot help you much in your present trouble. Now, you did not fulfil your share of the bargain. But I am ready to fulfil mine. Here, he added, turning to the soldiers, the buckle end of your two belts to this confounded Jew. As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather belts, the Jews set up a howl that surely would have been enough to bring all the patriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere to defend their descendant from the brutality of this friend official. I think I can rely on you, Citoyale soldiers, laughed Chauvelin maliciously, to give this old liar the best and soundest beating he has ever experienced.  We will obey Citoyan," replied the soldiers as imperturbably as ever. He did not wait to see his orders carried out. He knew that he could trust these soldiers, who were still smarting under his rebuke, not to mince matters when given a free hand to belabor a third party. When that lumbering coward has had his punishment, he said to Degas, the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them can drive us in it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look after each other," he added roughly, until we can send somebody for them in the morning. They can't run away very far, in their present condition, and we cannot be troubled with them just now. Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were spurred on by the hope of the reward, that enigmatic and audacious scarlet pimpinel alone and with thirty men and his heels could not reasonably be expected to escape a second time. But he felt less sure now. The Englishman's audacity had baffled him once, whilst the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers and the interference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all the trumps into a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his time, if the soldiers had had a grain of intelligence—if— it was a long if, and Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still and enrolled thirty odd people in one long, overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic, silent, balmy, the bright moon, the calm, silvery sea, spoke of beauty and of rest, and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, and, above all, he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with one gigantic curse. The howls of the Jew behind him, undergoing his punishment, sent a balm through his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful malice. He smiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being, at least, was like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind. He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast where stood the wooden hut, now bathed in moonlight, the scene of the greatest discomfortor ever experienced by a leading member of the Committee of Public Safety. Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the unconscious figure of Marguerite Blakeney. While some few paces further on, the unfortunate Jew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout leather belts wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of the Republic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the dead rise from their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls from sleep and made them look down with great interest at the doings of the Lords of the Creation. That will do, commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became more feeble and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away. We don't want to kill him. Obediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them viciously kicking the Jew to one side. Leave him there, said Chauvelin, and lead the way now quickly to the cart. I'll follow. He walked up to where Marguerite lay and looked down into her face. She had evidently recovered consciousness of making feeble efforts to raise herself. Her large blue eyes were looking at the moonlit scene round her with a scared and terrified look. They rested with a mixture of horror and pity on the Jew whose luckless fate and wild house had been the first signs that struck her with her returning senses. Then she caught sight of Chauvelin in his neat dark clothes which seemed hardly crumpled after the stirring events of the last few hours. He was smiling sarcastically, and his pale eyes peered down at her with the look of intense malice. With mock gallantry he stooped and raised her icy cold hand to his lips which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through Marguerite's weary frame. I much regret, fair lady, he said in his most suave tones, that circumstances over which I have no control compel me to leave you here for the moment. But I go away secure in the knowledge that I do not leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, though a trifle the worse for where at the present moment, will prove a gallant defender of your fair person, I have no doubt. At dawn I will send an escort for you. Until then I feel sure that you will find him devoted, though perhaps a trifle slow. Marguerite only had the strength to turn her head away. Her heart was broken with cruel anguish. One awful thought had returned to her mind together with gathering consciousness. What had become of Percy? What of our mind? She knew nothing of what had happened after she heard the cheerful song which she believed to be the signal of death. I myself, concluded Chauvelin, must now very reluctantly leave you. Au revoir, fair lady. We meet again, I hope, soon in London. Shall I see you at the Prince of Wales garden party? No? Ah, well. Au revoir. Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Plagueny. And with a last, ironical smile in bow, he once more kissed her hand and disappeared down the footpath in the wake of the soldiers and followed by the imperturbable Degas. End of Chapter 30