The Scarlet Pimpernel
_hors de combat_. These royalists are good swordsmen, and the
Englishman is devilish cunning, and looks very powerful. Still, we
shall be five against one at least. You can follow the cart closely
with your men, all along the St. Martin Road, through Miquelon. The
Englishman is ahead of us, and not likely to look behind him.”
Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed his
change of attire. The priest’s costume had been laid aside, and he was
once more dressed in his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At last he
took up his hat.
“I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your hands,” he
said with a chuckle, as with unwonted familiarity he took Desgas’ arm,
and led him towards the door. “We won’t kill him outright, eh, friend
Desgas? The Père Blanchard’s hut is—an I mistake not—a lonely spot upon
the beach, and our men will enjoy a bit of rough sport there with the
wounded fox. Choose your men well, friend Desgas . . . of the sort who
would enjoy that type of sport—eh? We must see that Scarlet Pimpernel
wither a bit—what?—shrink and tremble, eh? . . . before we finally . .
.”—he made an expressive gesture, whilst he laughed a low, evil laugh,
which filled Marguerite’s soul with sickening horror.
“Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas,” he said once more, as he led
his secretary finally out of the room.
CHAPTER XXVII.
ON THE TRACK
Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last sounds
outside the “Chat Gris” had died away in the night. She had heard
Desgas giving orders to his men, and then starting off towards the
fort, to get a reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not thought
sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman, whose resourceful brain
was even more dangerous than his valour and his strength.
Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew’s husky voice again,
evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and noise of
a rickety cart bumping over the rough road.
Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife, terrified
of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life; they hoped to be forgotten,
and at any rate to remain unperceived: Marguerite could not even hear
their usual volleys of muttered oaths.
She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped down the
broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her and slipped out
of the inn.
The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide her dark
figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the sound of the
cart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within the shadow of the
ditches which lined the road, that she would not be seen by Desgas’
men, when they approached, or by the patrols, which she concluded were
still on duty.
Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary journey,
alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to Miquelon, and
then on to the Père Blanchard’s hut, wherever that fatal spot might be,
probably over rough roads: she cared not.
The Jew’s nag could not get on very fast, and though she was weary with
mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could easily keep up
with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who was sure to be
half-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent rests. The
road lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either side by shrubs
and stunted trees, sparsely covered with meagre foliage, all turning
away from the North, with their branches looking in the semi-darkness,
like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind.
Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep between the clouds, and
Marguerite hugging the edge of the road, and keeping close to the low
line of shrubs, was fairly safe from view. Everything around her was so
still: only from far, very far away, there came like a long, soft moan,
the sound of the distant sea.
The air was keen and full of brine; after that enforced period of
inactivity, inside the evil-smelling, squalid inn, Marguerite would
have enjoyed the sweet scent of this autumnal night, and the distant
melancholy rumble of the waves; she would have revelled in the calm and
stillness of this lonely spot, a calm, broken only at intervals by the
strident and mournful cry of some distant gull, and by the creaking of
the wheels, some way down the road: she would have loved the cool
atmosphere, the peaceful immensity of Nature, in this lonely part of
the coast: but her heart was too full of cruel foreboding, of a great
ache and longing for a being who had become infinitely dear to her.
Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it safest not to
walk near the centre of the road, and she found it difficult to keep up
a sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it best not to
keep too near to the cart; everything was so still, that the rumble of
the wheels could not fail to be a safe guide.
The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of Calais lay
far behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human habitation,
not even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter anywhere near; far
away on her right was the edge of the cliff, below it the rough beach,
against which the incoming tide was dashing itself with its constant,
distant murmur. And ahead the rumble of the wheels, bearing an
implacable enemy to his triumph.
Marguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this lonely coast,
Percy could be at this moment. Not very far surely, for he had had less
than a quarter of an hour’s start of Chauvelin. She wondered if he knew
that in this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there lurked many
spies, all eager to sight his tall figure, to track him to where his
unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then, to close the net over
him and them.
Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew’s vehicle, was
nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together, with
content, as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through which
that ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape. As the
time went on, and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely along the
dark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale of this
exciting chase after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel.
The capture of the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf in
Citoyen Chauvelin’s wreath of glory. Caught, red-handed, on the spot,
in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the
Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his
own country. Chauvelin had, in any case, fully made up his mind that
all intervention should come too late.
Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart, as to the
terrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate wife, who had
unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of fact, Chauvelin had
ceased even to think of her: she had been a useful tool, that was all.
The Jew’s lean nag did little more than walk. She was going along at a
slow jog trot, and her driver had to give her long and frequent halts.
“Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?” asked Chauvelin from time to
time.
“Not very far, your Honour,” was the uniform placid reply.
“We have not yet come across your friend and mine, lying in a heap in
the roadway,” was Chauvelin’s sarcastic comment.
“Patience, noble Excellency,” rejoined the son of Moses, “they are
ahead of us. I can see the imprint of the cart wheels, driven by that
traitor, that son of the Amalekite.”
“You are sure of the road?”
“As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold pieces in the noble
Excellency’s pockets, which I trust will presently be mine.”
“As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the tall stranger, they
will certainly be yours.”
“Hark, what was that?” said the Jew suddenly.
Through the stillness, which had been absolute, there could now be
heard distinctly the sound of horses’ hoofs on the muddy road.
“They are soldiers,” he added in an awed whisper.
“Stop a moment, I want to hear,” said Chauvelin.
Marguerite had also heard the sound of galloping hoofs, coming towards
the cart, and towards herself. For some time she had been on the alert
thinking that Desgas and his squad would soon overtake them, but these
came from the opposite direction, presumably from Miquelon. The
darkness lent her sufficient cover. She had perceived that the cart had
stopped, and with utmost caution, treading noiselessly on the soft
road, she crept a little nearer.
Her heart was beating fast, she was trembling in every limb; already
she had guessed what news these mounted men would bring. “Every
stranger on these roads or on the beach must be shadowed, especially if
he be tall or stoops as if he would disguise his height; when sighted a
mounted messenger must at once ride back and report.” Those had been
Chauvelin’s orders. Had then the tall stranger been sighted, and was
this the mounted messenger, come to bring the great news, that the
hunted hare had run its head into the noose at last?
Marguerite, realising that the cart had come to a standstill, managed
to slip nearer to it in the darkness; she crept close up, hoping to get
within earshot, to hear what the messenger had to say.
She heard the quick words of challenge—
“Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité!” then Chauvelin’s quick query:—
“What news?”
Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle.
Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the midnight sky. She
could hear their voices, and the snorting of their horses, and now,
behind her, some little distance off, the regular and measured tread of
a body of advancing men: Desgas and his soldiers.
There had been a long pause, during which, no doubt, Chauvelin
satisfied the men as to his identity, for presently, questions and
answers followed each other in quick succession.
“You have seen the stranger?” asked Chauvelin, eagerly.
“No, citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger; we came by the edge of the
cliff.”
“Then?”
“Less than a quarter of a league beyond Miquelon, we came across a
rough construction of wood, which looked like the hut of a fisherman,
where he might keep his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it
seemed to be empty, and at first we thought that there was nothing
suspicious about it, until we saw some smoke issuing through an
aperture at the side. I dismounted and crept close to it. It was then
empty, but in one corner of the hut, there was a charcoal fire, and a
couple of stools were also in the hut. I consulted with my comrades,
and we decided that they should take cover with the horses, well out of
sight, and that I should remain on the watch, which I did.”
“Well! and did you see anything?”
“About half an hour later, I heard voices, citoyen, and presently, two
men came along towards the edge of the cliff; they seemed to me to have
come from the Lille Road. One was young, the other quite old. They were
talking in a whisper, to one another, and I could not hear what they
said.”
One was young, the other quite old. Marguerite’s aching heart almost stopped
beating as she listened: was the young one Armand?—her brother?—and the old one
de Tournay—were they the two fugitives who, unconsciously, were used as a
decoy, to entrap their fearless and noble rescuer.
“The two men presently went into the hut,” continued the soldier,
whilst Marguerite’s aching nerves seemed to catch the sound of
Chauvelin’s triumphant chuckle, “and I crept nearer to it then. The hut
is very roughly built, and I caught snatches of their conversation.”
“Yes?—Quick!—What did you hear?”
“The old man asked the young one if he were sure that was the right
place. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘’tis the place sure enough,’ and by the
light of the charcoal fire he showed to his companion a paper, which he