The Scarlet Pimpernel (26 page)

"Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, honoured leader of a score
of English gentlemen," said Sir Andrew, proudly, "if he abandoned
those who placed their trust in him. As for breaking his word, the very
thought is preposterous!"

There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite had buried her face
in her hands, and was letting the tears slowly trickle through her
trembling fingers. The young man said nothing; his heart ached for this
beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had felt the terrible
IMPASSE in which her own rash act had plunged them all. He knew his
friend and leader so well, with his reckless daring, his mad bravery,
his worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew that Blakeney
would brave any danger, run the wildest risks sooner than break it, and
with Chauvelin at his very heels, would make a final attempt, however
desperate, to rescue those who trusted in him.

"Faith, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite at last, making brave efforts
to dry her tears, "you are right, and I would not now shame myself by
trying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say, I should plead
in vain. God grant him strength and ability," she added fervently and
resolutely, "to outwit his pursuers. He will not refuse to take you with
him, perhaps, when he starts on his noble work; between you, you will
have cunning as well as valour! God guard you both! In the meanwhile I
think we should lose no time. I still believe that his safety depends
upon his knowing that Chauvelin is on his track."

"Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his command. As soon as he
is aware of his danger he will exercise more caution: his ingenuity is a
veritable miracle."

"Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in the village whilst
I wait here against his coming!—You might come across Percy's track
and thus save valuable time. If you find him, tell him to beware!—his
bitterest enemy is on his heels!"

"But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait in."

"Nay, that I do not mind!—But you might ask our surly host if he could
let me wait in another room, where I could be safer from the prying eyes
of any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money, so that he should
not fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman returns."

She spike quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking out her plans,
ready for the worst if need be; she would show no more weakness, she
would prove herself worthy of him, who was about to give his life for
the sake of his fellow-men.

Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively he felt
that hers now was the stronger mind; he was willing to give himself over
to her guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the directing hand.

He went to the door of the inner room, through which Brogard and his
wife had disappeared before, and knocked; as usual, he was answered by a
salvo of muttered oaths.

"Hey! friend Brogard!" said the man peremptorily, "my lady friend would
wish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of another room?
She would wish to be alone."

He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed it to jingle
significantly in his hand. Brogard had opened the door, and listened,
with his usual surly apathy, to the young man's request. At the sight of
the gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly; he took his pipe
from his mouth and shuffled into the room.

He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall.

"She can wait up there!" he said with a grunt. "It's comfortable, and I
have no other room."

"Nothing could be better," said Marguerite in English; she at once
realised the advantages such a position hidden from view would give her.
"Give him the money, Sir Andrew; I shall be quite happy up there, and
can see everything without being seen."

She nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up to the attic, and to
shake up the straw that lay on the floor.

"May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash," said Sir Andrew, as
Marguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety flight of steps.
"Remember this place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you,
reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely certain that you
are alone with him."

Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this caution: Marguerite
was as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear of her doing
anything that was rash.

"Nay," she said with a slight attempt at cheerfulness, "that I can
faithfully promise you. I would not jeopardise my husband's life, nor
yet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear, I will
watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he needs it
most."

Brogard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up
to her safe retreat.

"I dare not kiss your hand, madam," said Sir Andrew, as she began to
mount the steps, "since I am your lacquey, but I pray you be of good
cheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return,
expecting to find him here."

"Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an hour.
Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that either you
or I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend! Have no fear
for me."

Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the attic.
Brogard was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself
comfortable there or not as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she
had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was
singularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining
unobserved.

He had paid Brogard well; the surly old innkeeper would have no object
in betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned
once again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged curtains
Marguerite's sweet face was peeping down at him, and the young man
rejoiced to see that it looked serene, and even gently smiling. With a
final nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night.

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."