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

heaven-sent mission, or whether he only desire to strengthen his own popularity by endowing it with supernatural prestige, is a matter of conjecture. Certain it is that he did lend himself to Catherine Théot’s cabalistic practices and that he allowed himself to be flattered and worshipped by the numerous nepohytes who flocked to this new temple of magic, either from mystical fevour or merely to serve their own ends by fawning on the most dreaded man in France. II

Catherine Théot had remained rigidly still, in rapt contemplation. It seemed as if she pondered over the Chosen One’s last peremptory demand.

“Which of us two,” he had queried, in a dry, hard voice, “is in danger of death now⁠—now that I am warned⁠—mine English enemy, or I?”

The next moment, as if moved by inspiration, she took another pinch of powder out of the metal box. The nigger’s bright black eyes followed her every movement, as did the dictator’s half-contemptuous gaze. The girls had begun to intone a monotonous chant. As the seer dropped the powder into the metal bowl, a highly scented smoke shot upwards and the interior of the vessel was suffused with a golden glow. The smoke rose in spirals. Its fumes spread through the airless room, rendering the atmosphere insufferably heavy.

The dictator of France felt a strange exultation running through him, as with deep breaths he inhaled the potent fumes. It seemed to him as if his body had suddenly become etherealised, as if he were in truth the Chosen of the Most High as well as the idol of France. Thus disembodied, he felt in himself boundless strength! the power to rise triumphant over all his enemies, whoever they may be. There was a mighty buzzing in his ears like the reverberation of thousands of trumpets and drums ringing and beating in unison to his exaltation and to his might. His eyes appeared to see the whole of the people of France, clad in white robes, with ropes round their necks, and bowing as slaves to the ground before him. He was riding on a cloud. His throne was of gold. In his hand he had a sceptre of flame, and beneath his feet lay, crushed and mangled, a huge scarlet flower. The sybil’s voice reached his ears as if through a surpernal trumpet:

“Thus lie forever crushed at the feet of the Chosen One, those who have dared to defy his power!”

Greater and greater became his exultation. He felt himself uplifted high, high above the clouds, until he could see the world as a mere crystal ball at his feet. His head had touched the portals of heaven; his eyes gazed upon his own majesty, which was second only to that of God. An eternity went by. He was immortal.

Then suddenly, through all the mystic music, the clarion sounds and songs of praise, there came a sound, so strange and yet so human, that the almighty dictator’s wandering spirit was in an instant hurled back to earth, brought down with a mighty jerk which left him giddy, sick, with throat dry and burning eyes. He could not stand on his feet, indeed would have fallen but that the negro had hastily pulled a chair forward, into which he sank, swooning with unaccountable horror.

And yet that sound had been harmless enough: just a peal of laughter, merry and inane⁠—nothing more. It came faintly echoing from beyond the heavy portière. Yet it had unnerved the most ruthless despot in France. He looked about him, scared and mystified. Nothing had been changed since he had gone wandering into Elysian fields. He was still in a stuffy, curtained room; there was the dais on which he had sat; the two women still chanted their weird lament; and there was the old necromancer in her shapeless, colourless robe, coolly setting down the crystal globe upon its carved stand. There was the blackamoor, grinning and mischievous, the metal vessel, the oil lamp, the threadbare carpet. What of all this had been a dream? The clouds and the trumpets, or that peal of human laughter with the quaint, inane catch in it? No one looked scared: the girls chanted, the old hag mumbled vague directions to her black attendant, who tried to look solemn, since he was paid to keep his impish mirth in check.

“What was that?” Robespierre murmured at last.

The old woman looked up.

“What was what, O Chosen One?” she asked.

“I heard a sound⁠—” he mumbled. “A laugh⁠ ⁠… Is anyone else in the room?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“People are waiting in the antechamber,” she replied carelessly, “until it is the pleasure of the Chosen One to go. As a rule they wait patiently, and in silence. But one of them may have laughed.” Then, as he made no further comment but still stood there silent, as if irresolute, she queried with a great show of deference: “What is thy next pleasure, O thou who art beloved of the people of France?”

“Nothing⁠ ⁠… nothing!” he murmured. “I’ll go now.”

She turned straight to him and made him elaborate obeisance, waving her arms about her. The two girls struck the ground with their foreheads. The Chosen One, in his innermost heart vaguely conscious of ridicule, frowned impatiently.

“Do not,” he said peremptorily, “let anyone know that I have been here.”

“Only those who idolise thee⁠—” she began.

“I know⁠—I know,” he broke in more gently, for the fulsome adulation soothed his exacerbated nerves. “But I have many enemies⁠ ⁠… and thou too art watched with malevolent eyes⁠ ⁠… Let not our enemies make capital of our intercourse.”

“I swear to thee, O Mighty Lord, that thy servant obeys thy behests in all things.”

“That is well,” he retorted drily. “But thy adepts are wont to talk too much. I’ll not have my name bandied about for the glorification of thy necromancy.”

“Thy name is sacred to thy servants,” she insisted with ponderous solemnity. “As sacred as is thy person. Thous art the regenerator of the true faith, the Elect of the First Cause, the