The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy (ereader iphone txt) 📕

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.

CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK

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.

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,