The Scarlet Pimpernel
gentleman, he tried by this brave hint to allay some of the worthy
innkeeper’s suspicions. He had the satisfaction of seeing that he had
partially succeeded. Jellyband’s rubicund countenance brightened
somewhat, at mention of Sir Percy’s name.
“I’ll go and see to it at once, sir,” he said with alacrity, and with
less frigidity in his manner. “Has her ladyship everything she wants
for supper?”
“Everything, thanks, honest friend, and as I am famished and dead with
fatigue, I pray you see to the rooms.”
“Now tell me,” she said eagerly, as soon as Jellyband had gone from the
room, “tell me all your news.”
“There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady Blakeney,” replied the
young man. “The storm makes it quite impossible for any vessel to put
out of Dover this tide. But, what seemed to you at first a terrible
calamity is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot cross over to
France to-night, Chauvelin is in the same quandary.”
“He may have left before the storm broke out.”
“God grant he may,” said Sir Andrew, merrily, “for very likely then
he’ll have been driven out of his course! Who knows? He may now even be
lying at the bottom of the sea, for there is a furious storm raging,
and it will fare ill with all small craft which happen to be out. But I
fear me we cannot build our hopes upon the shipwreck of that cunning
devil, and of all his murderous plans. The sailors I spoke to, all
assured me that no schooner had put out of Dover for several hours: on
the other hand, I ascertained that a stranger had arrived by coach this
afternoon, and had, like myself, made some inquiries about crossing
over to France.”
“Then Chauvelin is still in Dover?”
“Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my sword through him? That
were indeed the quickest way out of the difficulty.”
“Nay! Sir Andrew, do not jest! Alas! I have often since last night
caught myself wishing for that fiend’s death. But what you suggest is
impossible! The laws of this country do not permit of murder! It is
only in our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done lawfully,
in the name of Liberty and of brotherly love.”
Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of
some supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least
twelve hours, until the next tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to
bear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in
these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink.
Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who are in
love, made her almost happy by talking to her about her husband. He
recounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel
had contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relentless and
bloody revolution was driving out of their country. He made her eyes
glow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his
resourcefulness, when it meant snatching the lives of men, women, and
even children from beneath the very edge of that murderous, ever-ready
guillotine.
He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the Scarlet
Pimpernel’s quaint and many disguises, through which he had baffled the
strictest watch set against him at the barricades of Paris. This last
time, the escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her children had been a
veritable masterpiece—Blakeney disguised as a hideous old market-woman,
in filthy cap and straggling grey locks, was a sight fit to make the
gods laugh.
Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe Blakeney’s
appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in his great
height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult.
Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in enforced
inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an impatient
sigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs,
with terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the howling of
the storm to help chase sleep away.
She wondered where Percy was now. The _Day Dream_ was a strong,
well-built, sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion that
no doubt she had got in the lee of the wind before the storm broke out,
or else perhaps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying
quietly at Gravesend.
Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a schooner as well
as any master mariner. There was no danger for them from the storm.
It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite retired to rest. As
she had feared, sleep sedulously avoided her eyes. Her thoughts were of
the blackest during these long, weary hours, whilst that incessant
storm raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The sound of the
distant breakers made her heart ache with melancholy. She was in the
mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only
when we are very happy, that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast
and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent,
irritating monotony, to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether
grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when
they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring
additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness and of the
pettiness of all our joys.
CHAPTER XXII.
CALAIS
The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce
come to an end.
Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental torture as
well-nigh drove her crazy. After a sleepless night, she rose early,
wild with excitement, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest
further obstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else in the
house was astir, so frightened was she, lest she should miss the one
golden opportunity of making a start.
When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew Ffoulkes sitting in the
coffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and had gone to the
Admiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French packet nor any
privately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet. The storm was
then at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If the wind did not
abate or change, they would perforce have to wait another ten or twelve
hours until the next tide, before a start could be made. And the storm
had not abated, the wind had not changed, and the tide was rapidly
drawing out.
Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this melancholy
news. Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally breaking
down, and thus adding to the young man’s anxiety, which evidently had
become very keen.
Though he tried to disguise it, Marguerite could see that Sir Andrew
was just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend. This
enforced inactivity was terrible to them both.
How they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Marguerite could never
afterwards say. She was in terror of showing herself, lest Chauvelin’s
spies happened to be about, so she had a private sitting-room, and she
and Sir Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at long
intervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would bring them,
with nothing to do but to think, to conjecture, and only occasionally
to hope.
The storm had abated just too late; the tide was by then too far out to
allow a vessel to put off to sea. The wind had changed, and was
settling down to a comfortable north-westerly breeze—a veritable
godsend for a speedy passage across to France.
And there those two waited, wondering if the hour would ever come when
they could finally make a start. There had been one happy interval in
this long weary day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once again
to the pier, and presently came back to tell Marguerite that he had
chartered a quick schooner, whose skipper was ready to put to sea the
moment the tide was favourable.
From that moment the hours seemed less wearisome; there was less
hopelessness in the waiting; and at last, at five o’clock in the
afternoon, Marguerite, closely veiled and followed by Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes, who, in the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number of
impedimenta, found her way down to the pier.
Once on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her, the breeze was just
strong enough to nicely swell the sails of the _Foam Crest_, as she cut
her way merrily towards the open.
The sunset was glorious after the storm, and Marguerite, as she watched
the white cliffs of Dover gradually disappearing from view, felt more
at peace and once more almost hopeful.
Sir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt how lucky she had
been to have him by her side in this, her great trouble.
Gradually the grey coast of France began to emerge from the
fast-gathering evening mists. One or two lights could be seen
flickering, and the spires of several churches to rise out of the
surrounding haze.
Half an hour later Marguerite had landed upon French shore. She was
back in that country where at this very moment men slaughtered their
fellow-creatures by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and children
in thousands to the block.
The very aspect of the country and its people, even in this remote
sea-coast town, spoke of that seething revolution, three hundred miles
away, in beautiful Paris, now rendered hideous by the constant flow of
the blood of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the widows, and the
cries of fatherless children.
The men all wore red caps—in various stages of cleanliness—but all with
the tricolour cockade pinned on the left-hand side. Marguerite noticed
with a shudder that, instead of the laughing, merry countenance
habitual to her own countrymen, their faces now invariably wore a look
of sly distrust.
Every man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows: the most innocent word
uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a proof of
aristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people. Even the
women went about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking in
their brown eyes; and all watched Marguerite as she stepped on shore,
followed by Sir Andrew, and murmured as she passed along: “_Sacrés
aristos!_” or else “_Sacrés Anglais!_”
Otherwise their presence excited no further comment. Calais, even in
those days, was in constant business communication with England, and
English merchants were often to be seen on this coast. It was well
known that in view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal of
French wines and brandies were smuggled across. This pleased the French
_bourgeois_ immensely; he liked to see the English Government and the
English king, both of whom he hated, cheated out of their revenues; and
an English smuggler was always a welcome guest at the tumble-down
taverns of Calais and Boulogne.
So, perhaps, as Sir Andrew gradually directed Marguerite through the
tortuous streets of Calais, many of the population, who turned with an
oath to look at the strangers clad in the English fashion, thought that
they were bent on purchasing dutiable articles for their own fog-ridden
country, and gave them no more than a passing thought.
Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband’s tall, massive figure
could have passed through Calais unobserved: she marvelled what
disguise he assumed to do his noble work, without exciting too much
attention.
Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew was leading her
right across the town, to the other side from that where they had
landed, and on the way towards Cap Gris Nez. The streets were narrow,
tortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale fish and
damp cellar odours. There had been heavy rain here during the storm
last night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for
the roads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer from a lamp
inside a house.