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

Marguerite listened—half-dazed as she was—to the fast-retreating, firm footsteps of the four men.

All nature was so still that she, lying with her ear close to the ground, could distinctly trace the sound of their tread, as they ultimately turned into the road, and presently the faint echo of the old cart-wheels, the halting gait of the lean nag, told her that her enemy was a quarter of a league away. How long she lay there she knew not. She had lost count of time; dreamily she looked up at the moonlit sky, and listened to the monotonous roll of the waves.

The invigorating scent of the sea was nectar to her wearied body, the immensity of the lonely cliffs was silent and dreamlike. Her brain only remained conscious of its ceaseless, its intolerable torture of uncertainty.

She did not know!—

She did not know whether Percy was even now, at this moment, in the hands of the soldiers of the Republic, enduring—as she had done herself—the gibes and jeers of his malicious enemy. She did not know, on the other hand, whether Armand’s lifeless body did not lie there, in the hut, whilst Percy had escaped, only to hear that his wife’s hands had guided the human bloodhounds to the murder of Armand and his friends.

The physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that she hoped confidently her tired body could rest here for ever, after all the turmoil, the passion, and the intrigues of the last few days—here, beneath that clear sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All was so solitary, so silent, like unto dreamland. Even the last faint echo of the distant cart had long ago died away, afar.

Suddenly . . . a sound . . . the strangest, undoubtedly, that these lonely cliffs of France had ever heard, broke the silent solemnity of the shore.

So strange a sound was it that the gentle breeze ceased to murmur, the tiny pebbles to roll down the steep incline! So strange, that Marguerite, wearied, overwrought as she was, thought that the beneficial unconsciousness of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping senses a weird and elusive trick.

It was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British “Damn!”

The sea-gulls in their nests awoke and looked round in astonishment; a distant and solitary owl set up a midnight hoot, the tall cliffs frowned down majestically at the strange, unheard-of sacrilege.

Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising herself on her hands, she strained every sense to see or hear, to know the meaning of this very earthly sound.

All was still again for the space of a few seconds; the same silence once more fell upon the great and lonely vastness.

Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, who felt she must be dreaming with that cool, magnetic moonlight overhead, heard again; and this time her heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated, looked round her, not daring to trust to her other sense.

“Odd’s life! but I wish those demmed fellows had not hit quite so hard!”

This time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular pair of essentially British lips could have uttered those words, in sleepy, drawly, affected tones.

“Damn!” repeated those same British lips, emphatically. “Zounds! but I’m as weak as a rat!”

In a moment Marguerite was on her feet.

Was she dreaming? Were those great, stony cliffs the gates of paradise? Was the fragrant breath of the breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of angels’ wings, bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after all her suffering, or—faint and ill—was she the prey of delirium?

She listened again, and once again she heard the same very earthly sounds of good, honest British language, not the least akin to whisperings from paradise or flutter of angels’ wings.

She looked round her eagerly at the tall cliffs, the lonely hut, the great stretch of rocky beach. Somewhere there, above or below her, behind a boulder or inside a crevice, but still hidden from her longing, feverish eyes, must be the owner of that voice, which once used to irritate her, but which now would make her the happiest woman in Europe, if only she could locate it.

“Percy! Percy!” she shrieked hysterically, tortured between doubt and hope, “I am here! Come to me! Where are you? Percy! Percy! . . .”

“It’s all very well calling me, m’dear!” said the same sleepy, drawly voice, “but odd’s my life, I cannot come to you: those demmed frog-eaters have trussed me like a goose on a spit, and I am as weak as a mouse . . . I cannot get away.”

And still Marguerite did not understand. She did not realise for at least another ten seconds whence came that voice, so drawly, so dear, but alas! with a strange accent of weakness and of suffering. There was no one within sight . . . except by that rock . . . Great God! . . . the Jew! . . . Was she mad or dreaming? . . .

His back was against the pale moonlight, he was half-crouching, trying vainly to raise himself with his arms tightly pinioned. Marguerite ran up to him, took his head in both her hands . . . and looked straight into a pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused—shining out of the weird and distorted mask of the Jew.

“Percy! . . . Percy! . . . my husband!” she gasped, faint with the fulness of her joy. “Thank God! Thank God!”

“La! m’dear,” he rejoined good-humouredly, “we will both do that anon, an you think you can loosen these demmed ropes, and release me from my inelegant attitude.”

She had no knife, her fingers were numb and weak, but she worked away with her teeth, while great welcome tears poured from her eyes, onto those poor, pinioned hands.

“Odd’s life!” he said, when at last, after frantic efforts on her part, the ropes seemed at last to be giving way, “but I marvel whether it has ever happened before, that an English gentleman allowed himself to be licked by a demmed foreigner, and made no attempt to give as good as he got.”

It was very obvious that he was exhausted from sheer physical pain, and when at last the rope gave way, he fell in a heap against the rock.

Marguerite looked helplessly round her.

“Oh! for a drop of water on this awful beach!” she cried in agony, seeing that he was ready to faint again.

“Nay, m’dear,” he murmured with his good-humoured smile, “personally I should prefer a drop of good French brandy! an you’ll dive in the pocket of this dirty old garment, you’ll find my flask. . . . I am demmed if I can move.”

When he had drunk some brandy, he forced Marguerite to do likewise.

“La! that’s better now! Eh! little woman?” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “Heigh-ho! but this is a queer rig-up for Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., to be found in by his lady, and no mistake. Begad!” he added, passing his hand over his chin, “I haven’t been shaved for nearly twenty hours: I must look a disgusting object. As for these curls . . .”

And laughingly he took off the disfiguring wig and curls, and stretched out his long limbs, which were cramped from many hours’ stooping. Then he bent forward and looked long and searchingly into his wife’s blue eyes.

“Percy,” she whispered, while a deep blush suffused her delicate cheeks and neck, “if you only knew . . .”

“I do know, dear . . . everything,” he said with infinite gentleness.

“And can you ever forgive?”

“I have naught to forgive, sweetheart; your heroism, your devotion, which I, alas! so little deserved, have more than atoned for that unfortunate episode at the ball.”

“Then you knew? . . .” she whispered, “all the time . . .”

“Yes!” he replied tenderly, “I knew . . . all the time. . . . But, begad! had I but known what a