The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy (e novels to read TXT) 📕

done so before the thirty men had arrived on the cliff was, of course, fairly clear, but how he had come over in Reuben Goldstein’s cart, all the way from Calais, without being sighted by the various patrols on duty was impossible of explanation. It really seemed as if some potent Fate watched over that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, and his astute enemy almost felt a superstitious shudder pass through him, as he looked round at the towering cliffs, and the loneliness of this outlying coast.

But surely this was reality! and the year of grace 1792: there were no fairies and hobgoblins about. Chauvelin and his thirty men had all heard with their own ears that accursed voice singing “God save the King,” fully twenty minutes after they had all taken cover around the hut; by that time the four fugitives must have reached the creek, and got into the boat, and the nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut.

Where had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had lent him wings, he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff in the space of two minutes; and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and the sound of the boat’s oars away at sea. He must have remained behind, and was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs; the patrols were still about, he would still be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopeful once again.

One or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives, were now slowly working their way up the cliff: one of them reached Chauvelin’s side, at the very moment that this hope arose in the astute diplomatist’s heart.

“We were too late, citoyen,” the soldier said, “we reached the beach just before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The boat had undoubtedly been on the look-out behind that first creek, a mile off, but she had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the beach, and was already some way out to sea. We fired after her, but of course, it was no good. She was making straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw her very clearly in the moonlight.”

“Yes,” said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, “she had shoved off some time ago, you said, and the nearest creek is a mile further on.”

“Yes, citoyen! I ran all the way, straight to the beach, though I guessed the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek, as the tide would reach there earliest. The boat must have shoved off some minutes before the woman began to scream.”

Some minutes before the woman began to scream! Then Chauvelin’s hopes had not deceived him. The Scarlet Pimpernel may have contrived to send the fugitives on ahead by the boat, but he himself had not had time to reach it; he was still on shore, and all the roads were well patrolled. At any rate, all was not yet lost, and would not be, whilst that impudent Britisher was still on French soil.

“Bring the light in here!” he commanded eagerly, as he once more entered the hut.

The sergeant brought his lantern, and together the two men explored the little place: with a rapid glance Chauvelin noted its contents: the cauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall, and containing the last few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of stools, overturned as if in the haste of sudden departure, then the fisherman’s tools and his nets lying in one corner, and beside them, something small and white.

“Pick that up,” said Chauvelin to the sergeant, pointing to this white scrap, “and bring it to me.”

It was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten there by the fugitives, in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much awed by the citoyen’s obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and handed it respectfully to Chauvelin.

“Read it, sergeant,” said the latter curtly.

“It is almost illegible, citoyen . . . a fearful scrawl. . . .”

“I ordered you to read it,” repeated Chauvelin, viciously.

The sergeant, by the light of his lantern, began deciphering the few hastily scrawled words.

“I cannot quite reach you, without risking your lives and endangering the success of your rescue. When you receive this, wait two minutes, then creep out of the hut one by one, turn to your left sharply, and creep cautiously down the cliff; keep to the left all the time, till you reach the first rock, which you see jutting far out to sea—behind it in the creek the boat is on the look-out for you—give a long, sharp whistle—she will come up—get into her—my men will row you to the schooner, and thence to England and safety—once on board the Day Dream send the boat back for me, tell my men that I shall be at the creek, which is in a direct line opposite the ‘Chat Gris’ near Calais. They know it. I shall be there as soon as possible—they must wait for me at a safe distance out at sea, till they hear the usual signal. Do not delay—and obey these instructions implicitly.”

“Then there is the signature, citoyen,” added the sergeant, as he handed the paper back to Chauvelin.

But the latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the momentous scrawl had caught his ear. “I shall be at the creek which is in a direct line opposite the ‘Chat Gris’ near Calais”: that phrase might yet mean victory for him.

“Which of you knows this coast well?” he shouted to his men who now one by one had all returned from their fruitless run, and were all assembled once more round the hut.

“I do, citoyen,” said one of them, “I was born in Calais, and know every stone of these cliffs.”

“There is a creek in a direct line from the ‘Chat Gris’?”

“There is, citoyen. I know it well.”

“The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does not know every stone of these cliffs, he may go there by the longest way round, and in any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the patrols. At any rate, there is a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each man who gets to that creek before that long-legged Englishman.”

“I know a short cut across the cliffs,” said the soldier, and with an enthusiastic shout, he rushed forward, followed closely by his comrades.

Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in the distance. Chauvelin listened to them for a moment; the promise of the reward was lending spurs to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his face.

Close to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive, waiting for further orders, whilst two soldiers were kneeling beside the prostrate form of Marguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well-laid plan had failed, its sequel was problematical; there was still a great chance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel might yet escape, and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning fury, which sometimes assails a strong nature, was longing to vent his rage on somebody.

The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the ground, though she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle. Overwrought nature had at last peremptorily asserted herself, and she lay there in a dead swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that told of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead, her lips parted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain.

The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable Lady Blakeney, who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit and her extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out, suffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the hard, vengeful heart of her baffled enemy.

“It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half dead,” he said spitefully to the soldiers, “when you have allowed five men who were very much alive to escape.”

Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet.

“You’d better try and find that footpath again for me, and that broken-down cart we left on the road.”

Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him.

“Ah! by-the-bye! where is the Jew?”

“Close by here, citoyen,” said Desgas; “I gagged him and tied his legs together as you commanded.”

From the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached Chauvelin’s ears. He followed his secretary, who led the way to the other side of the hut, where, fallen into an absolute heap of dejection, with his legs tightly pinioned together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate descendant of Israel.

His face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively ghastly with terror: his eyes were wide open and almost glassy, and his whole body was trembling, as if with ague, while a piteous wail escaped his bloodless lips. The rope which had originally been wound round his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a tangle about his body, but he seemed quite unconscious of this, for he had not made the slightest attempt to move from the place where Desgas had originally put him: like a terrified chicken which looks upon a line of white chalk, drawn on a table, as on a string which paralyzes its movements.

“Bring the cowardly brute here,” commanded Chauvelin.

He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he had no reasonable grounds for venting his ill-humour on the soldiers who had but too punctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the despised race would prove an excellent butt. With true French contempt of the Jew, which has survived the lapse of centuries even to this day, he would not go too near him, but said with biting sarcasm, as the wretched old man was brought in full light of the moon by the two soldiers,—

“I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good memory for bargains?”

“Answer!” he again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips seemed too frightened to speak.

“Yes, your Honour,” stammered the poor wretch.

“You remember, then, the one you and I made together in Calais, when you undertook to overtake Reuben Goldstein, his nag and my friend the tall stranger? Eh?”

“B . . . b . . . but . . . your Honour . . .”

“There is no ‘but.’ I said, do you remember?”

“Y . . . y . . . y . . . yes . . . your Honour!”

“What was the bargain?”

There was dead silence. The unfortunate man looked round at the great cliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers, and even at the poor, prostrate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing.

“Will you speak?” thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.

He did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not. There was no doubt, however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man before him.

“Your Honour . . .” he ventured imploringly.

“Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your tongue,” said Chauvelin, sarcastically, “I must needs refresh your memory. It was agreed between us, that if we overtook my friend the tall stranger, before he reached this place, you were to have ten pieces of gold.”

A low moan escaped from the Jew’s trembling lips.

“But,” added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, “if you deceived me in your promise, you were to have a sound beating, one that would teach you not to tell lies.”

“I did not, your Honour; I swear it by Abraham . . .”

“And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfortunately, they are still in Hades, I believe, according to your creed, and cannot help you much in your present trouble. Now, you did not fulfil your share of the bargain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here,” he added, turning to the soldiers, “the buckle-end of your two belts to this confounded Jew.”

As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather belts, the Jew set up a howl that surely would have been enough to bring all the patriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere, to defend their descendant from the brutality of this French official.

“I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers,” laughed Chauvelin, maliciously, “to give this old liar the best and soundest beating he has ever experienced. But don’t kill him,” he added drily.

“We will obey, citoyen,” replied the soldiers as imperturbably as ever.

He did not wait to see his orders carried out: he knew that he could trust these soldiers—who were still smarting under his rebuke—not to mince matters, when given a free hand to belabour a third party.

“When that lumbering coward has had his punishment,” he said to Desgas, “the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them can drive us in it back to Calais. The Jew and the