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CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH-TRAP
The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly. In the room
downstairs, Brogard had for a while busied himself with clearing the
table, and re-arranging 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 Brogard had a certain amount
of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to take some trouble in
making the place look a trifle less uninviting than it had done before.
He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser, what
actually looked like a table-cloth; 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 pains 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 Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment of muttered
oaths. Clearly the great height and bulk of the Englishman, or perhaps
the weight of his fist, had overawed this free-born citizen of France,
or he would never have been at such trouble for any SACRRE ARISTO.
When the table was set—such as it was—Brogard surveyed it with evident
satisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the corner of his
blouse, gave a stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots on
to 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
table-cloth, a glass, a plate and a spoon; that was all. But those mute
and 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.
That thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed her eyes in order
to shut out everything but that. 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, or . . .
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 Brogard! 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 Brogard's 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, "SACRRREE
SOUTANE!"
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 forward towards Brogard. He was dressed in the
soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual to the French
CURE, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw open his soutane
for a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of officialism, which
sight immediately had the effect of transforming Brogard's attitude of
contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.
It was the sight of this French CURE, 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 gait 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 reel, 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
Brogard, "then clear out of here—understand? I want to be alone."
Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed. Chauvelin
sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall Englishman,
and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round 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, Brogard had hurried back to the inner
room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had accompanied him.
In him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, 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 Brogards' door. "Not listening?" asked Chauvelin, curtly.
"No, citoyen."
For a moment Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order Desgas 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
Desgas quickly back to his side.
"The English schooner?" he asked.
"She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen," replied Desgas, "but was
then making west, towards Cap Gris Nez."
"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 'Pere Blanchard's' hut is?"
"No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that name. There are any
amount of fisherman's huts all along the course . . . but . . ."
"That'll do. Now about tonight?" 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 look-out 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. You understand?"
"Perfectly, citoyen," replied Desgas.
"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 see Jutley 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—"
Desgas 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
Pimpernel became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the
fugitives should be left in false 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 at 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.
Desgas 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 Desgas; she could
just see his face beneath the broad-brimmed, CURES'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 has 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 Desgas 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 awhile, 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, the 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 death. That
fiend there, in a holy man's garb, was 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; he wished to gloat over him, to enjoy his
downfall, to inflict upon him what moral and mental torture a deadly
hatred alone can devise. 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, save 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 meagre supper. He was evidently quite
contented, and awaited events with perfect calm; he even seemed to enjoy
Brogard's unsavoury 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 THE EAGLE AND THE FOX
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 recognised 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
CURE 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 Brogard?"
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 Mechlin 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, Bart., might have been on his
way to a garden-party at the Prince of Wales', 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!—'tis 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 CURE on the back,
said in his own drawly, affected way,—
"Odds's fish! . . . er . . . 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 this 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 "Chat Gris"—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
Desgas 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; his underlings
might not succeed so well in capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, 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 demmed sorry . . ." he was saying cheerfully, "so very sorry
. . . I seem to have upset you . . . eating soup, too . . . nasty, awkward
thing, soup . . . er . . . Begad!—a friend of mine died once . . .
er . . . choked . . . just like you . . . with a spoonful of soup."
And he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at Chauvelin.
"Odd's life!" he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat recovered
himself, "beastly hole this . . . ain't it now? La! you don't mind?" he
added, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close to the table and
drew the soup tureen towards him. "That fool Brogard 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—h'm—I
thought 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—er—M.—er—Chaubertin?"
"Pardon me—Chauvelin."
"I beg pardon—a thousand times. Yes—Chauvelin of course. . . .
Er . . . 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, for 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 aught 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 . . .
er . . . were in holy orders."
"I . . . er . . . hem . . ." stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence of
his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance.
"But, la! 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 you a bit."
"Do you think so?"
"Lud! they alter a man so . . . but . . . begad! I hope you don't mind my
having made the remark? . . . Demmed bad form making remarks. . . . I
hope you don't mind?"
"No, no, not at all—hem! 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,
drily. 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 a part, 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. Desgas 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
. . . eh, Monsieur Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin!"
"Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy," rejoined
Chauvelin, sarcastically, "who takes no interest in the conflict that is
raging there."
"La! you see it's no business of mine, and our demmed government is all
on your side of the business. Old Pitt daren't say 'Bo' to a goose. You
are 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 hearth. Once more
Marguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was getting on;
Desgas 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 this God-forsaken hole! But,
begad! sir," he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his
watch for the third time, "that watch of yours won't go any faster for
all the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe?"
"Aye—a friend!"
"Not a lady—I trust, Monsieur l'Abbe," laughed Blakeney; "surely the
holy church does not allow? . . . eh? . . . what! But, I say, come by the
fire . . . it's getting demmed cold."
He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in
the old hearth. 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 hearth, in such a way as to command a view of the
door. Desgas 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 Pimpernel at once.
"Hey, M. Chauvelin," the latter was saying airily, "tell me, I pray
you, is your friend pretty? Demmed 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 Desgas would enter. Marguerite's
thoughts, too, were centered 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 Desgas 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 were scattered pell-mell. 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 again turned with an 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—?"
"I was saying," said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin, by the fire, "that
the Jew in Piccadilly has sold me better snuff this time than I have
ever tasted. Will you honour me, Monsieur l'Abbe?"
He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, DEBONNAIRE 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 Desgas
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 Blakeney 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
Desgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from the
"Chat Gris."
When she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and wonder
filled her heart. It all was 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.
Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at the Pere
Blanchard's hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless; for the
moment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by Desgas 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
Desgas' 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
Desgas' 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 tall stranger—quick!—did any of you see him?"
"Where, citoyen?" asked Desgas, in surprise.
"Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago."
"We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and . . ."
"And you are just five minutes too late, my friend," said Chauvelin,
with concentrated fury.
"Citoyen . . . 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, Citoyen
Desgas."
Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his
superior's whole attitude.
"The tall stranger, citoyen—" 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.
Brogard 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, citoyen."
"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, citoyen: 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 Pimpernel would slip through clumsy
fingers. We must let him get to the Pere Blanchard's hut now; there
surround and capture him."
"The men understand that, citoyen, 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 pleased.
"I have further news for you, citoyen."
"What is it?"
"A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an
hour ago with a Jew, Reuben 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 Reuben live?"
"A few minutes' walk from this door."
"Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in
Reuben's cart."
"Yes, citoyen."
Desgas 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 Pimpernel.
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.
Desgas left Chauvelin moodily 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 Pimpernel 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, Desgas returned, followed by an elderly Jew,
in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn greasy across the shoulders. His
red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the
corkscrew curls 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 Desgas with the peculiar shuffling gait 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 this the man?" asked Chauvelin.
"No, citoyen," replied Desgas, "Reuben 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 peremptorily to him, "that you
know something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I desire to meet
. . . MORBLEU! 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 Reuben 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, "Reuben
Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial . . ."
"Cut that short, man," interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, "and go on with
your story."
"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, Reuben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved nag,
and his broken-down cart."
"And what did the Englishman do?"
"He listened to Reuben 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."
"And, of course, the horse and cart were ready?"
"Well! they were ready for him in a manner, so to speak, your
Excellency. Reuben's nag was lame as usual; she refused to budge at
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 Reuben'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 Reuben's bag of bones. He
would not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such insinuating ways.
The stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry, he would have had
better value for his money by taking my cart."
"You have a horse and cart too, then?" asked Chauvelin, peremptorily.
"Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your Excellency wants to
drive . . ."
"Do you happen to know which way my friend went in Reuben Goldstein's
cart?"
Thoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Marguerite's heart was
beating well-nigh to bursting. She had heard the peremptory 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 Reuben,
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 terrorize 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 Reuben Goldstein's cart?"
"My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where you please."
"To a place called the Pere Blanchard's hut?"
"Your Honour has guessed?" said the Jew in astonishment.
"You know the place? Which road leads to it?"
"The St. Martin 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 meters 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 Pere Blanchard's hut, your Honour, and further than
Reuben's nag took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues from
here, we shall come across that wily Reuben, 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?"
"Will your Excellency try?" said the Jew simply.
"That is my intention," said Chauvelin very quietly, "but remember, if
you have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most stalwart soldiers
to give you such a beating, that your breath will perhaps leave your
ugly body for ever. But if we find my friend the tall Englishman, either
on the road or at the Pere 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 Desgas, 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 a 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 Desgas at last.
Desgas 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 soutane, beneath which he was wearing close-fitting
breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire.
"You, citoyen, in the meanwhile," he said to Desgas, "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 daresay
you will soon overtake the Jew's cart with myself in it. There will be
hot work presently, if I mistake not, in the Pere Blanchard's hut. We
shall corner our game there, I'll warrant, for this impudent Scarlet
Pimpernel has had the audacity—or the stupidity, I hardly know
which—to adhere to his original plans. He has gone to meet de Tournay,
St. 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. Some of our men will, I presume, be put
HORS DE COMBAT. 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 unwonted familiarity he took Desgas' arm,
and led him towards the door. "We won't kill him outright, eh, friend
Desgas? The Pere Blanchard's hut is—an 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 Desgas . . . of the
sort who would enjoy that type of sport—eh? We must see that Scarlet
Pimpernel wither a bit—what?—shrink and tremble, eh? . . . before we
finally . . ." He made an expressive gesture, whilst he laughed a low,
evil laugh, which filled Marguerite's soul with sickening horror.
"Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas," he said once more, as he led his
secretary finally out of the room.
CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK
Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last sounds
outside the "Chat Gris" had died away in the night. She had heard Desgas
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. Brogard 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 Desgas' 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 Miquelon, and then on to
the Pere 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 wary 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 was 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 autumnal night, and the distant melancholy
rumble of the waves; she would have revelled 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 sight 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 Pimpernel. The capture of
the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf in Citoyen Chauvelin's
wreath of glory. Caught, 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 Miquelon?" asked Chauvelin from time to
time.
"Not very far, your Honour," was the uniform placid reply.
"We have not yet come across your friend and mine, lying in a heap in
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 cart wheels, 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' hoofs on the muddy road.
"They are soldiers," he added in an awed whisper.
"Stop a moment, I want to hear," said Chauvelin.
Marguerite had also heard the sound of galloping hoofs, coming towards
the cart and towards herself. For some time she had been on the alert
thinking that Desgas 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 stoops 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, realizing that the cart had come to a standstill, managed
to slip nearer to it in the darkness; she crept close up, hoping to get
within earshot, to hear what the messenger had to say.
She heard the quick words of challenge—
"Liberte, Fraternite, Egalite!" 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, and now,
behind her, some little distance off, the regular and measured tread of
a body of advancing men: Desgas and his soldiers.
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 Miquelon, 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,
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
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 de Tournay—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 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, and
I have had none. Here is the road we followed, see . . . here the fork
. . . here we cut across the St. 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 round 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 altogether, 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 report of what we had seen."
"You saw nothing of the tall stranger?"
"Nothing, citoyen."
"If your comrades 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 ahead 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, citoyen."
"You can find it again?—at once?—without hesitation?"
"I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen."
"The footpath, to the edge of the cliff?—Even in the dark?"
"It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find my way,"
repeated the soldier firmly.
"Fall in 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 Chauvelin spoke, Desgas 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, would close round the small band of fugitives, and their
daring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according to
Chauvelin'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.
She heard 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 Desgas and 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.
End of Chapter XXVII �