The Scarlet Pimpernel (29 page)

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.

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.