The Scarlet Pimpernel (30 page)

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.

As in a dream, Marguerite followed on; the web was drawing more and more
tightly every moment round the beloved life, which had become dearer
than all. To see her husband once again, to tell him how she had
suffered, how much she had wronged, and how little understood him, had
become now her only aim. She had abandoned all hope of saving him: she
saw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and, in despair, she gazed
round her into the darkness, and wondered whence he would presently
come, to fall into the death-trap which his relentless enemy had
prepared for him.

The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder; the occasional
dismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled her with unspeakable horror.
She thought of the ravenous beasts—in human shape—who lay in wait for
their prey, and destroyed them, as mercilessly as any hungry wolf,
for the satisfaction of their own appetite of hate. Marguerite was not
afraid of the darkness, she only feared that man, on ahead, who was
sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, nursing thoughts of
vengeance, which would have made the very demons in hell chuckle with
delight.

Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her, from sheer bodily
fatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of excitement;
she had not had a quiet rest for three nights; now, she had walked on
a slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her determination never
swerved for a moment. She would see her husband, tell him all, and, if
he was ready to forgive the crime, which she had committed in her blind
ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying by his side.

She must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct alone keeping her
up, and guiding her in the wake of the enemy, when suddenly her ears,
attuned to the slightest sound, by that same blind instinct, told her
that the cart had stopped, and that the soldiers had halted. They had
come to their destination. No doubt on the right, somewhere close ahead,
was the footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the hut.

Heedless of any risks, she crept up quite close up to where Chauvelin
stood, surrounded by his little troop: he had descended from the cart,
and was giving some orders to the men. These she wanted to hear: what
little chance she yet had, of being useful to Percy, consisted in
hearing absolutely every word of his enemy's plans.

The spot where all the party had halted must have lain some eight
hundred meters from the coast; the sound of the sea came only very
faintly, as from a distance. Chauvelin and Desgas, followed by the
soldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently
on to the footpath, which led to the cliffs. The Jew had remained on the
road, with his cart and nag.