The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy (story reading .TXT) 📕

arrival on the scene⁠—the shouts⁠—the mob. The terror of that awful giant who had dragged them into the empty house, and there left them in the care of others scarce less brave than himself. Then the disguises⁠—the wanderings through the streets⁠—the deathly anxiety at the gates of the city⁠—the final escape in a laundry cart. Miracles of self-abnegation! Wonders of ingenuity and of daring! What wonder that the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel was one to be revered!

“On my knees will I pay homage to him,” Bertrand concluded fervently; “since he brought you to my arms!”

She had him by the shoulders, held him from her at arm’s length, whilst she looked⁠—inquiring, slightly mocking⁠—into his eyes.

“Brought me to your arms, Bertrand?” she said slowly. “What do you mean?”

“You are here, Theresia,” he riposted. “Safe in England⁠ ⁠… through the agency of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

She gave a hard, mirthless laugh.

“Aye!” she said drily; “through his agency. But not as you imagine, Bertrand.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel, my friend, after he had dragged you away from the shelter which you had found under my roof, sent an anonymous denunciation of me to the nearest Roste de Section, as having harboured the traitor Moncrif and conspiring with him to assassinate Robespierre whilst the latter was in my apartment.”

Bertrand uttered a cry of horror.

“Impossible!” he exclaimed.

“The chief Commissary of the Section,” she went on glibly, earnestly⁠—never taking her eyes off his, “at risk of his life, gave me warning. Aided by him and a faithful servant, I contrived to escape⁠—out of Paris first, then across country in the midst of unspeakable misery, and finally out of the country into an open boat, until I was picked up by a chance vessel and brought to this inn more dead than alive.”

She fell back against the cushion of the chair, her sinuous body shaken with sobs. Bertrand, speechless with horror, could but try and soothe his beloved as she had soothed him a while ago, when past terrors and past bitter experiences had unmanned him. After a while she became more calm, contrived to smile through her tears.

“You see, Bertrand, that your gallant Scarlet Pimpernel is as merciless in hate as he is selfless in love.”

“But why?” the young man ejaculated vehemently. “Why?”

“Why he should hate me?” she rejoined with a pathetic little sigh and a shrug of the shoulders. “Chien sabe, my friend! Of course, he does not know that of late⁠—ever since I have gained the regard of citizen Tallien⁠—my life has been devoted to intervening on behalf of the innocent victims of our revolution. I suppose he takes me for the friend and companion of all those ruthless Terrorists whom he abhors. He has forgotten what I did in Bordeaux, and how I risked my life there, and did so daily in Paris for the sake of those whom he himself befriends. It may all be a question of misunderstanding,” she added, with gentle resignation, “but ’tis one that well-nigh did cost me my life.”

Bertrand folded her in his arms, held her against him, as if to shield her with his body against every danger. It was his turn now to comfort and to console, and she rested her head against his shoulder⁠—a perfect woman rather than an unapproachable divinity, giving him through her weakness more exquisite bliss than he had ever dreamed of before. The minutes sped on, winged with happiness, and time was forgotten in the infinity of joy.

II

Theresia was the first to rouse herself from this dream of happiness and oblivion. She glanced up at the clock. It was close upon ten. Confused, adorable, she jumped to her feet.

“You will ruin my reputation, Bertrand,” she said with a smile, “thus early in a strange land!”

She would arrange with the landlord’s daughter, she said, about a bed for herself, as she was very tired. What did he mean to do?

“Spend the night in this room,” he replied, “if mine host will let me. I could have such happy dreams here! These four walls will reflect your exquisite image, and ’tis your dear face will smile down on me ere I close mine eyes in sleep.”

She had some difficulty in escaping fro his clinging arms, and ’twas only the definite promise that she gave him to come back in a few minutes and let him know what she had arranged, that ultimately enabled him to let her go. Even so, he felt inexpressibly sad when she went, watched her retreating figure, so supple and so quaint in the rough, masculine clothes and the heavy mantle, as she walked resolutely down the passage in the direction of the kitchen. From the coffee-room there still came the sound of bustle and of merriment; but this little room seemed so peaceful, so remote⁠—a shrine, now that his goddess had hallowed it by her presence.

Bertrand drew a deep sigh, partly of happiness, partly of utter weariness. He was more tired than he knew. She had promised to come back and say good night⁠ ⁠… in a few minutes⁠ ⁠… But the minutes seemed leaden-footed now⁠ ⁠… and he was half-dead with fatigue. He threw himself down on the hard, uncomfortable horsehair sofa, whereon he hoped to pass the night if the landlord would let him, and glanced up at the clock. Only three minutes since she had gone⁠ ⁠… of course she would not be long⁠ ⁠… only a few more minutes⁠ ⁠… a very few⁠ ⁠… He closed his eyes, for the lids felt heavy⁠ ⁠… of a surety he would hear her come⁠ ⁠…

XVIII Night and Morning I

Theresia waited for a moment or two at the turn of the passage, until her keen ear had told her that Bertrand was no longer on the watch and had closed the door behind him. Then she retraced her steps⁠—on tiptoe, lest he should hear.

She found her way to the front door; it was still on the latch. She opened it and