The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy (ereader for comics .TXT) 📕

for even if you did know who this Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him⁠—an Englishman!”

“I’d take my chance of that,” said Chauvelin, with a dry, rasping little laugh. “At any rate we could send him to the guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we can apologise⁠—humbly⁠—to the British Government, and, if necessary, pay compensation to the bereaved family.”

“What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin,” she said, drawing away from him as from some noisome insect. “Whoever the man may be, he is brave and noble, and never⁠—do you hear me?⁠—never would I lend a hand to such villainy.”

“You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who comes to this country?”

Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft. Marguerite’s fresh young cheeks became a touch more pale and she bit her under lip, for she would not let him see that the shaft had struck home.

“That is beside the question,” she said at last with indifference. “I can defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you⁠—or for France. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, my friend.”

And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back on him and walked straight into the inn.

“That is not your last word, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, as a flood of light from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, “we meet in London, I hope!”

“We meet in London,” she said, speaking over her shoulder at him, “but that is my last word.”

She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his view, but he remained under the porch for a moment or two, taking a pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners of his thin lips.

IX The Outrage

A beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of incessant rain: a cool, balmy, late summer’s night, essentially English in its suggestion of moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.

The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds in England, had driven off along the London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney on the box, holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and beside him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A fifty-mile drive on a starlit summer’s night! Marguerite had hailed the notion of it with delight.⁠ ⁠… Sir Percy was an enthusiastic whip; his four thoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a couple of days before, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the expedition and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the few hours of solitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughts wandering, whither away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy would speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on his beautiful coach for hours at night, from point to point, without making more than one or two casual remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads. He was very fond of driving by night, and she had very quickly adopted his fancy: as she sat next to him hour after hour, admiring the dexterous, certain way in which he handled the reins, she often wondered what went on in that slow-going head of his. He never told her, and she had never cared to ask.

At the Fisherman’s Rest Mr. Jellyband was going the round, putting out the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs in the snug little bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important guests: the Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzannne, and the Vicomte, and there were two more bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, if the two young men should elect to honour the ancient hostelry and stay the night.

For the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installed in the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of the mildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily.

“I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?” asked Lord Tony, as the worthy landlord still busied himself clearing away glasses and mugs.

“Everyone, as you see, my lord.”

“And all your servants gone to bed?”

“All except the boy on duty in the bar, and,” added Mr. Jellyband with a laugh, “I expect he’ll be asleep afore long, the rascal.”

“Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an hour?”

“At your service, my lord.⁠ ⁠… I’ll leave your candles on the dresser⁠ ⁠… and your rooms are quite ready⁠ ⁠… I sleep at the top of the house myself, but if your lordship’ll only call loudly enough, I daresay I shall hear.”

“All right, Jelly⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… I say, put the lamp out⁠—the fire’ll give us all the light we need⁠—and we don’t want to attract the passerby.”

“Al ri’, my lord.”

Mr. Jellyband did as he was bid⁠—he turned out the quaint old lamp that hung from the raftered ceiling and blew out all the candles.

“Let’s have a bottle of wine, Jelly,” suggested Sir Andrew.

“Al ri’, sir!”

Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room now was quite dark, save for the circle of ruddy and fitful light formed by the brightly blazing logs in the hearth.

“Is that all, gentlemen?” asked Jellyband, as he returned with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table.

“That’ll do nicely, thanks, Jelly!” said Lord Tony.

“Good night, my lord! Good night, sir!”

“Good night, Jelly!”

The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread of Mr. Jellyband was heard echoing along the passage and staircase. Presently even that sound died out, and the whole of the Fisherman’s Rest seemed wrapt in sleep, save the two young men drinking in silence beside the hearth.

For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee-room, save the ticking of the old grandfather’s clock and the crackling of the burning wood.

“All right again this time,