The Scarlet Pimpernel (27 page)

"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 evens 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!"

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 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 sell 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."