The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel (16 page)

But Laporte still hesitated.

“How do I know that you are not one of those English spies?” he began.

“Take it that I am,” rejoined milor imperturbably, “and come and see the patient.”

Never had a situation been carried off with so bold a hand. Claude Lemoine declared that Laporte’s mouth literally opened for the call which would have summoned the sergeant of the guard into the room and ordered the summary arrest of this impudent stranger. During the veriest fraction of a second life and death hung in the balance for the gallant English milor. In the heart of Laporte every evil passion fought the one noble fibre within him. But the instinct of the skilful healer won the battle, and the next moment he had hastily collected what medicaments and appliances he might require, and the two men were soon speeding along the streets in the direction of the Rue des Pipots.

During the whole of that night, milor and Laporte sat together by the bedside of M. le Vicomte. Laporte only went out once in order to fetch what further medicaments he required.
Mme.
la Marquise took the opportunity of running out of her hiding-place in order to catch a glimpse of her child. I saw her take milor’s hand and press it against her heart in silent gratitude. On her knees she begged him to go away and leave her and the boy to their fate. Was it likely that he would go? But she was so insistent that at last he said:

“Madame, let me assure you that even if I were prepared to play the coward’s part which you would assign to me, it is not in my power to do so at this moment. Citizen Laporte came to this house under the escort of six picked men of his guard. He has left these men stationed on the landing outside this door.”

Madame la Marquise gave a cry of terror, and once more that pathetic look of horror came into her face. Milor took her hand and then pointed to the sick child.

“Madame,” he said, “M. le Vicomte is already slightly better. Thanks to medical skill and a child’s vigorous hold on life, he will live. The rest is in the hands of God.”

Already the heavy footsteps of Laporte were heard upon the creaking stairs.
Mme.
la Marquise was forced to return to her hiding-place.

Soon after dawn he went. M. le Vicomte was then visibly easier. Laporte had all along paid no heed to me, but I noticed that once or twice during his long vigil by the sick-bed his dark eyes beneath their overhanging brows shot a quick suspicious look at the door behind which cowered
Mme.
la Marquise. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind then that he knew quite well who his patient was.

He gave certain directions to milor—there were certain fresh medicaments to be got during the day. While he spoke there was a sinister glint in his eyes—half cynical, wholly menacing—as he looked up into the calm, impassive face of milor.

“It is essential for the welfare of the patient that these medicaments be got for him during the day,” he said dryly, “and the guard have orders to allow you to pass in and out. But you need have no fear,” he added significantly, “I will leave an escort outside the house to accompany you on your way.”

He gave a mocking, cruel laugh, the meaning of which was unmistakable. His well-drilled human bloodhounds would be on the track of the English spy, whenever the latter dared to venture out into the streets.

Mme.
la Marquise and I were prisoners for the day. We spent it in watching alternately beside M. le Vicomte. But milor came and went as freely as if he had not been carrying his precious life in his hands every time that he ventured outside the house.

In the evening Laporte returned to see his patient, and again the following morning, and the next evening. M. le Vicomte was making rapid progress towards recovery.

The third day in the morning Laporte pronounced his patient to be out of danger, but said that he would nevertheless come again to see him at the usual hour in the evening. Directly he had gone, milor went out in order to bring in certain delicacies of which the invalid was now allowed to partake. I persuaded Madame to lie down and have a couple of hours’ good sleep in the inner attic, while I stayed to watch over the child.

To my horror, hardly had I taken up my stand at the foot of the bed when Laporte returned; he muttered something as he entered about having left some important appliance behind, but I was quite convinced that he had been on the watch until milor was out of sight, and then slipped back in order to find me and Madame here alone.

He gave a glance at the child and another at the door of the inner attic, then he said in a loud voice:

“Yes, another twenty-four hours and my duties as doctor will cease and those of patriot will recommence. But
Mme.
la Marquise de Mortaine need no longer be in any anxiety about her son’s health, nor will
Mme.
la Guillotine be cheated of a pack of rebels.”

He laughed, and was on the point of turning on his heel when the door which gave on the smaller attic was opened and
Mme.
la Marquise appeared upon the threshold.

Monsieur, I had never seen her look more beautiful than she did now in her overwhelming grief. Her face was as pale as death, her eyes, large and dilated, were fixed upon the human monster who had found it in his heart to speak such cruel words. Clad in a miserable, threadbare gown, her rich brown hair brought to the top of her head like a crown, she looked more regal than any queen.

But proud as she was, monsieur, she yet knelt at the feet of that wretch. Yes, knelt, and embraced his knees and pleaded in such pitiable accents as would have melted the heart of a stone. She pleaded, monsieur—ah, not for herself. She pleaded for her child and for me, her faithful servant, and she pleaded for the gallant gentleman who had risked his life for the sake of the child, who was nothing to him.

“Take me!” she said. “I come of a race that have always known how to die! But what harm has that innocent child done in this world? What harm has poor old Jean-Pierre done, and, oh … is the world so full of brave and noble men that the bravest of them all be so unjustly sent to death?”

Ah, monsieur, any man, save one of those abject products of that hideous Revolution, would have listened to such heartrending accents. But this man only laughed and turned on his heel without a word.

Shall I ever forget the day that went by?
Mme.
la Marquise was well-nigh prostrate with terror, and it was heartrending to watch the noble efforts which she made to amuse M. le Vicomte. The only gleams of sunshine which came to us out of our darkness were the brief appearances of milor. Outside we could hear the measured tramp of the guard that had been set there to keep us close prisoners. They were relieved every six hours, and, in fact, we were as much under arrest as if we were already incarcerated in one of the prisons of Lyons.

At about four o’clock in the afternoon milor came back to us after a brief absence. He stayed for a little while playing with M. le Vicomte. Just before leaving he took Madame’s hand in his and said very earnestly, and sinking his voice to the merest whisper:

“Tonight! Fear nothing! Be ready for anything! Remember that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel have never failed to succour, and that I hereby pledge you mine honour that you and those you care for will be out of Lyons this night.”

He was gone, leaving us to marvel at his strange words.
Mme.
la Marquise after that was just like a person in a dream. She hardly spoke to me, and the only sound that passed her lips was a quaint little lullaby which she sang to M. le Vicomte ere he dropped off to sleep.

The hours went by leaden-footed. At every sound on the stairs Madame started like a frightened bird. That infamous Laporte usually paid his visits at about eight o’clock in the evening, and after it became quite dark, Madame sat at the tiny window, and I felt that she was counting the minutes which still lay between her and the dreaded presence of that awful man.

At a quarter before eight o’clock we heard the usual heavy footfall on the stairs. Madame started up as if she had been struck. She ran to the bed—almost like one demented, and wrapping the one poor blanket round M. le Vicomte, she seized him in her arms. Outside we could hear Laporte’s raucous voice speaking to the guard. His usual query: “Is all well?” was answered by the brief: “All well, citizen.” Then he asked if the English spy were within, and the sentinel replied: “No, citizen, he went out at about five o’clock and has not come back since.”

“Not come back since five o’clock?” said Laporte with a loud curse. “Pardi! I trust that that fool Caudy has not allowed him to escape.”

“I saw Caudy about an hour ago, citizen,” said the man.

“Did he say anything about the Englishman then?”

It seemed to us, who were listening to this conversation with bated breath, that the man hesitated a moment ere he replied; then he spoke with obvious nervousness.

“As a matter of fact, citizen,” he said, “Caudy thought then that the Englishman was inside the house, whilst I was equally sure that I had seen him go downstairs an hour before.”

“A thousand devils!” cried Laporte with a savage oath, “if I find that you, citizen sergeant, or Caudy have blundered there will be trouble for you.”

To the accompaniment of a great deal more swearing he suddenly kicked open the door of our attic with his boot, and then came to a standstill on the threshold with his hands in the pockets of his breeches and his legs planted wide apart, face to face with
Mme.
la Marquise, who confronted him now, herself like a veritable tigress who is defending her young.

He gave a loud, mocking laugh.

“Ah, the aristos!” he cried, “waiting for that cursed Englishman, what? to drag you and your brat out of the claws of the human tiger. … Not so, my fine ci-devant Marquise. The brat is no longer sick—he is well enough, anyhow, to breathe the air of the prisons of Lyons for a few days pending a final rest in the arms of
Mme.
la Guillotine. Citizen sergeant,” he called over his shoulder, “escort these aristos to my carriage downstairs. When the Englishman returns, tell him he will find his friends under the tender care of Doctor Laporte. En avant, little mother,” he added, as he gripped
Mme.
la Marquise tightly by the arm, “and you, old scarecrow,” he concluded, speaking to me over his shoulder, “follow the citizen sergeant, or–-“

Mme.
la Marquise made no resistance. As I told you, she had been, since dusk, like a person in a dream; so what could I do but follow her noble example? Indeed, I was too dazed to do otherwise.

We all went stumbling down the dark, rickety staircase, Laporte leading the way with
Mme.
la Marquise, who had M. le Vicomte tightly clasped in her arms. I followed with the sergeant, whose hand was on my shoulder; I believe that two soldiers walked behind, but of that I cannot be sure.

At the bottom of the stairs through the open door of the house I caught sight of the vague outline of a large barouche, the lanthorns of which threw a feeble light upon the cruppers of two horses and of a couple of men sitting on the box.

Mme.
la Marquise stepped quietly into the carriage. Laporte followed her, and I was bundled in in his wake by the rough hands of the soldiery. Just before the order was given to start, Laporte put his head out of the window and shouted to the sergeant:

“When you see Caudy tell him to report himself to me at once. I will be back here in half an hour; keep strict guard as before until then, citizen sergeant.”

The next moment the coachman cracked his whip, Laporte called loudly, “En avant!” and the heavy barouche went rattling along the ill-paved streets.

Inside the carriage all was silence. I could hear
Mme.
la Marquise softly whispering to M. le Vicomte, and I marvelled how wondrously calm— nay, cheerful, she could be. Then suddenly I heard a sound which of a truth did make my heart stop its beating. It was a quaint and prolonged laugh which I once thought I would never hear again on this earth. It came from the corner of the barouche next to where
Mme.
la Marquise was so tenderly and gaily crooning to her child. And a kindly voice said merrily:

“In half an hour we shall be outside Lyons. To-morrow we’ll be across the Swiss frontier. We’ve cheated that old tiger after all. What say you,
Mme.
la Marquise?”

It was milor’s voice, and he was as merry as a schoolboy.

“I told you, old Jean-Pierre,” he added, as he placed that firm hand which I loved so well upon my knee, “I told you that those confounded murderers would not get me this time.”

And to think that I did not know him, as he stood less than a quarter of an hour ago upon the threshold of our attic in the hideous guise of that abominable Laporte. He had spent two days in collecting old clothes that resembled those of that infamous wretch, and in taking possession of one of the derelict rooms in the house in the Rue des Pipots. Then while we were expecting every moment that Laporte would order our arrest, milor assumed the personality of the monster, hoodwinked the sergeant on the dark staircase, and by that wonderfully audacious coup saved
Mme.
la Marquise, M. le Vicomte and my humble self from the guillotine.

Money, of which he had plenty, secured us immunity on the way, and we were in safety over the Swiss frontier, leaving Laporte to eat out his tigerish heart with baffled rage.

OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH

Being a fragment from the diary of Valentine Lemercier, in the possession of her great-granddaughter.

We were such a happy family before this terrible Revolution broke out; we lived rather simply, but very comfortably, in our dear old home just on the borders of the forest of Compiegne. Jean and Andre were the twins; just fifteen years old they were when King Louis was deposed from the throne of France which God had given him, and sent to prison like a common criminal, with our beautiful Queen Marie Antoinette and the Royal children, and Madame Elizabeth, who was so beloved by the poor!

Ah! that seems very, very long ago now. No doubt you know better than I do all that happened in our beautiful land of France and in lovely Paris about that time: goods and property confiscated, innocent men, women, and children condemned to death for acts of treason which they had never committed.