The Scarlet Pimpernel
whose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him from its meshes now.
Desgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him back.
Marguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he could have
formed, in order to entrap one brave man, alone, against two-score of
others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to Desgas; she could
just see his face beneath the broad-brimmed _curé’s_ hat. There was at
that moment so much deadly hatred, such fiendish malice in the thin
face and pale, small eyes, that Marguerite’s last hope died in her
heart, for she felt that from this man she could expect no mercy.
“I had forgotten,” repeated Chauvelin, with a weird chuckle, as he
rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one against the other, with a gesture
of fiendish satisfaction. “The tall stranger may show fight. In any
case no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want that tall
stranger alive . . . if possible.”
He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at sight of the
torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by now she had lived
through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that human heart could
bear; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she remained alone in
this lonely, squalid room, with that fiend for company, she felt as if
all that she had suffered was nothing compared with this. He continued
to laugh and chuckle to himself for a while, rubbing his hands together
in anticipation of his triumph.
His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph! Not a loophole was
left, through which the bravest, the most cunning man might escape.
Every road guarded, every corner watched, and in that lonely hut
somewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their
rescuer, and leading him to his death—nay! to worse than death. That
fiend there, in a holy man’s garb, was too much of a devil to allow a
brave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of
duty.
He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who had so long
baffled him, helpless in his power; he wished to gloat over him, to
enjoy his downfall, to inflict upon him what moral and mental torture a
deadly hatred alone can devise. The brave eagle, captured, and with
noble wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of the rat. And
she, his wife, who loved him, and who had brought him to this, could do
nothing to help him.
Nothing, save to hope for death by his side, and for one brief moment
in which to tell him that her love—whole, true and passionate—was
entirely his.
Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table; he had taken off his hat,
and Marguerite could just see the outline of his thin profile and
pointed chin, as he bent over his meagre supper. He was evidently quite
contented, and awaited events with perfect calm; he even seemed to
enjoy Brogard’s unsavoury fare. Marguerite wondered how so much hatred
could lurk in one human being against another.
Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught her ear, which
turned her very heart to stone. And yet that sound was not calculated
to inspire anyone with horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of
a gay, fresh voice singing lustily, “God save the King!”
CHAPTER XXV.
THE EAGLE AND THE FOX
Marguerite’s breath stopped short; she seemed to feel her very life
standing still momentarily whilst she listened to that voice and to
that song. In the singer she had recognised her husband. Chauvelin,
too, had heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door, then
hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and clapped it over his head.
The voice drew nearer; for one brief second the wild desire seized
Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly across the room, to stop that
song at any cost, to beg the cheerful singer to fly—fly for his life,
before it be too late. She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin
would stop her before she reached the door, and, moreover, she had no
idea if he had any soldiers posted within his call. Her impetuous act
might prove the death-signal of the man she would have died to save.
“Long to reign over us,
God save the King!”
sang the voice more lustily than ever. The next moment the door was
thrown open and there was dead silence for a second or so.
Marguerite could not see the door: she held her breath, trying to
imagine what was happening.
Percy Blakeney on entering had, of course, at once caught sight of the
_curé_ at the table; his hesitation lasted less than five seconds, the
next moment Marguerite saw his tall figure crossing the room, whilst he
called in a loud, cheerful voice,—
“Hello, there! no one about? Where’s that fool Brogard?”
He wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which he had on when
Marguerite last saw him at Richmond, so many hours ago. As usual, his
get-up was absolutely irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace at his neck
and wrists was immaculate in its gossamer daintiness, his hands looked
slender and white, his fair hair was carefully brushed, and he carried
his eye-glass with his usual affected gesture. In fact, at this moment,
Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., might have been on his way to a garden-party
at the Prince of Wales’, instead of deliberately, cold-bloodedly
running his head in a trap, set for him by his deadliest enemy.
He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, whilst Marguerite,
absolutely paralysed with horror, seemed unable even to breathe.
Every moment she expected that Chauvelin would give a signal, that the
place would fill with soldiers, that she would rush down and help Percy
to sell his life dearly. As he stood there, suavely unconscious, she
very nearly screamed out to him,—
“Fly, Percy!—’tis your deadly enemy!—fly before it be too late!”
But she had not time even to do that, for the next moment Blakeney
quietly walked to the table, and, jovially clapping the _curé_ on the
back, said in his own drawly, affected way,—
“Odd’s fish! . . . er . . . M. Chauvelin. . . . I vow I never thought
of meeting you here.”
Chauvelin, who had been in the very act of conveying soup to his mouth,
fairly choked. His thin face became absolutely purple, and a violent
fit of coughing saved this cunning representative of France from
betraying the most boundless surprise he had ever experienced. There
was no doubt that this bold move on the part of the enemy had been
wholly unexpected, as far as he was concerned: and the daring impudence
of it completely nonplussed him for the moment.
Obviously he had not taken the precaution of having the inn surrounded
with soldiers. Blakeney had evidently guessed that much, and no doubt
his resourceful brain had already formed some plan by which he could
turn this unexpected interview to account.
Marguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had made a solemn promise
to Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before strangers, and she had
sufficient self-control not to throw herself unreasoningly and
impulsively across his plans. To sit still and watch these two men
together was a terrible trial of fortitude. Marguerite had heard
Chauvelin give the orders for the patrolling of all the roads. She knew
that if Percy now left the “Chat Gris”—in whichever direction he
happened to go—he could not go far without being sighted by some of
Captain Jutley’s men on patrol. On the other hand, if he stayed, then
Desgas would have time to come back with the half-dozen men Chauvelin
had specially ordered.
The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but watch and
wonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of the two it
was Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear. Marguerite knew him
well enough to guess what was passing in his mind. He had no fear for
his own person, although he certainly was alone in a lonely inn with a
man who was powerfully built, and who was daring and reckless beyond
the bounds of probability. She knew that Chauvelin would willingly have
braved perilous encounters for the sake of the cause he had at heart,
but what he did fear was that this impudent Englishman would, by
knocking him down, double his own chances of escape; his underlings
might not succeed so well in capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, when not
directed by the cunning hand and the shrewd brain, which had deadly
hate for an incentive.
Evidently, however, the representative of the French Government had
nothing to fear for the moment, at the hands of his powerful adversary.
Blakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant good-nature, was
solemnly patting him on the back.
“I am so demmed sorry . . .” he was saying cheerfully, “so very sorry .
. . I seem to have upset you . . . eating soup, too . . . nasty,
awkward thing, soup . . . er . . . Begad!—a friend of mine died once .
. . er . . . choked . . . just like you . . . with a spoonful of soup.”
And he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at Chauvelin.
“Odd’s life!” he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat
recovered himself, “beastly hole this . . . ain’t it now? La! you don’t
mind?” he added, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close to the
table and drew the soup tureen towards him. “That fool Brogard seems to
be asleep or something.”
There was a second plate on the table, and he calmly helped himself to
soup, then poured himself out a glass of wine.
For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His disguise
was so good that perhaps he meant, on recovering himself, to deny his
identity: but Chauvelin was too astute to make such an obviously false
and childish move, and already he too had stretched out his hand and
said pleasantly,—
“I am indeed charmed to see you, Sir Percy. You must excuse me—h’m—I
thought you the other side of the Channel. Sudden surprise almost took
my breath away.”
“La!” said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin, “it did that quite,
didn’t it—er—M.—er—Chaubertin?”
“Pardon me—Chauvelin.”
“I beg pardon—a thousand times. Yes—Chauvelin of course. . . . Er . . .
I never could cotton to foreign names. . . .”
He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good-humour, as
if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of
enjoying supper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy.
For the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the little
Frenchman down then and there—and no doubt something of the sort must
have darted through his mind, for every now and then his lazy eyes
seemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight figure of
Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself and was also calmly
eating his soup.
But the keen brain, which had planned and carried through so many
daring plots, was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This place,
after all, might be infested with spies; the innkeeper might be in
Chauvelin’s pay. One call on Chauvelin’s part might bring twenty men
about Blakeney’s ears for aught he knew, and he might be caught and
trapped before he could help or, at least, warn the fugitives. This he
would not risk; he meant to help the others, to get _them_ safely away;
for he had pledged his word to them, and his word he _would_ keep. And
whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned, whilst, up in the
loft, the poor, anxious woman racked her brain as to what she should
do, and endured agonies of longing to rush down to him, yet not daring
to move for fear of upsetting his plans.
“I didn’t know,” Blakeney was saying jovially, “that you . . . er . . .
were in holy orders.”
“I . . . er . . . hem . . .” stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence of
his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance.
“But, la! I should have known you anywhere,” continued Sir Percy,
placidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine, “although the
wig and hat have changed you a bit.”