The Scarlet Pimpernel
carried. ‘Here is the plan,’ he said, ‘which he gave me before I left
London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan, unless I had contrary
orders, and I have had none. Here is the road we followed, see . . .
here the fork . . . here we cut across the St. Martin Road . . . and
here is the footpath which brought us to the edge of the cliff.’ I must
have made a slight noise then, for the young man came to the door of
the hut, and peered anxiously all round him. When he again joined his
companion, they whispered so low, that I could no longer hear them.”
“Well?—and?” asked Chauvelin, impatiently.
“There were six of us altogether, patrolling that part of the beach, so
we consulted together, and thought it best that four should remain
behind and keep the hut in sight, and I and my comrade rode back at
once to make report of what we had seen.”
“You saw nothing of the tall stranger?”
“Nothing, citoyen.”
“If your comrades see him, what would they do?”
“Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of escape,
or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and, if
necessary, they would shoot: the firing would bring the rest of the
patrol to the spot. In any case they would not let the stranger go.”
“Aye! but I did not want the stranger hurt—not just yet,” murmured
Chauvelin, savagely, “but there, you’ve done your best. The Fates grant
that I may not be too late . . .”
“We met half a dozen men just now, who have been patrolling this road
for several hours.”
“Well?”
“They have seen no stranger either.”
“Yet he is on ahead somewhere, in a cart or else . . . . Here! there is
not a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here?”
“About a couple of leagues, citoyen.”
“You can find it again?—at once?—without hesitation?”
“I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen.”
“The footpath, to the edge of the cliff?—Even in the dark?”
“It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find my way,”
repeated the soldier firmly.
“Fall in behind then. Let your comrade take both your horses back to
Calais. You won’t want them. Keep beside the cart, and direct the Jew
to drive straight ahead; then stop him, within a quarter of a league of
the footpath; see that he takes the most direct road.”
Whilst Chauvelin spoke, Desgas and his men were fast approaching, and
Marguerite could hear their footsteps within a hundred yards behind her
now. She thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and unnecessary too,
as she had heard enough. She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty
even for suffering: her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have
become numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminating in
this awful despair.
For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within two short
leagues of this spot, the fugitives were waiting for their brave
deliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road, and
presently he would join them; then the well-laid trap would close, two
dozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning was
malicious, would close round the small band of fugitives, and their
daring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according to
Chauvelin’s pledged word, would be restored to her, but her husband,
Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to love and worship
more and more, he would fall into the hands of a remorseless enemy, who
had no pity for a brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble
soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning antagonist, who
had baffled him so long.
She heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to the Jew, then
she retired quickly to the edge of the road, and cowered behind some
low shrubs, whilst Desgas and his men came up.
All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they all started
down the dark road. Marguerite waited until she reckoned that they were
well outside the range of earshot, then, she too in the darkness, which
suddenly seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly along.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE PÈRE BLANCHARD’S HUT
As in a dream, Marguerite followed on; the web was drawing more and
more tightly every moment round the beloved life, which had become
dearer than all. To see her husband once again, to tell him how she had
suffered, how much she had wronged, and how little understood him, had
become now her only aim. She had abandoned all hope of saving him: she
saw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and, in despair, she gazed
round her into the darkness, and wondered whence he would presently
come, to fall into the death-trap which his relentless enemy had
prepared for him.
The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder; the occasional
dismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled her with unspeakable
horror. She thought of the ravenous beasts—in human shape—who lay in
wait for their prey, and destroyed them, as mercilessly as any hungry
wolf, for the satisfaction of their own appetite of hate. Marguerite
was not afraid of the darkness, she only feared that man, on ahead, who
was sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, nursing thoughts of
vengeance, which would have made the very demons in hell chuckle with
delight.
Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her, from sheer bodily
fatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of excitement;
she had not had a quiet rest for three nights; now, she had walked on a
slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her determination never
swerved for a moment. She would see her husband, tell him all, and, if
he was ready to forgive the crime, which she had committed in her blind
ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying by his side.
She must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct alone keeping her
up, and guiding her in the wake of the enemy, when suddenly her ears,
attuned to the slightest sound, by that same blind instinct, told her
that the cart had stopped, and that the soldiers had halted. They had
come to their destination. No doubt on the right, somewhere close
ahead, was the footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the
hut.
Heedless of any risks, she crept quite close up to where Chauvelin
stood, surrounded by his little troop: he had descended from the cart,
and was giving some orders to the men. These she wanted to hear: what
little chance she yet had, of being useful to Percy, consisted in
hearing absolutely every word of his enemy’s plans.
The spot where all the party had halted must have lain some eight
hundred mètres from the coast; the sound of the sea came only very
faintly, as from a distance. Chauvelin and Desgas, followed by the
soldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently
on to the footpath, which led to the cliffs. The Jew had remained on
the road, with his cart and nag.
Marguerite, with infinite caution, and literally crawling on her hands
and knees, had also turned off to the right: to accomplish this she had
to creep through the rough, low shrubs, trying to make as little noise
as possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands against the
dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or heard.
Fortunately—as is usual in this part of France—the footpath was
bordered by a low, rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled
with coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter; she was
quite hidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three yards of
where Chauvelin stood, giving orders to his men.
“Now,” he was saying in a low and peremptory whisper, “where is the
Père Blanchard’s hut?”
“About eight hundred mètres from here, along the footpath,” said the
soldier who had lately been directing the party, “and half-way down the
cliff.”
“Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff,
you shall creep down to the hut, as noiselessly as possible, and
ascertain if the traitor royalists are there? Do you understand?”
“I understand, citoyen.”
“Now listen very attentively, all of you,” continued Chauvelin,
impressively, and addressing the soldiers collectively, “for after this
we may not be able to exchange another word, so remember every syllable
I utter, as if your very lives depended on your memory. Perhaps they
do,” he added drily.
“We listen, citoyen,” said Desgas, “and a soldier of the Republic never
forgets an order.”
“You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep inside. If an
Englishman is there with those traitors, a man who is tall above the
average, or who stoops as if he would disguise his height, then give a
sharp, quick whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you,” he
added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively, “then quickly
surround and rush into the hut, and each seize one of the men there,
before they have time to draw their firearms; if any of them struggle,
shoot at their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall man. Do
you understand?”
“We understand, citoyen.”
“The man who is tall above the average is probably also strong above
the average; it will take four or five of you at least to overpower
him.”
There was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued,—
“If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more than likely to
be the case, then warn your comrades who are lying in wait there, and
all of you creep and take cover behind the rocks and boulders round the
hut, and wait there, in dead silence, until the tall Englishman
arrives; then only rush the hut, when he is safely within its doors.
But remember that you must be as silent as the wolf is at night, when
he prowls around the pens. I do not wish those royalists to be on the
alert—the firing of a pistol, a shriek or call on their part would be
sufficient, perhaps, to warn the tall personage to keep clear of the
cliffs, and of the hut, and,” he added emphatically, “it is the tall
Englishman whom it is your duty to capture to-night.”
“You shall be implicitly obeyed, citoyen.”
“Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I will follow you.”
“What about the Jew, citoyen?” asked Desgas, as silently like noiseless
shadows, one by one the soldiers began to creep along the rough and
narrow footpath.
“Ah, yes; I had forgotten the Jew,” said Chauvelin, and, turning
towards the Jew, he called him peremptorily.
“Here, you . . . Aaron, Moses, Abraham, or whatever your confounded
name may be,” he said to the old man, who had quietly stood beside his
lean nag, as far away from the soldiers as possible.
“Benjamin Rosenbaum, so it please your Honour,” he replied humbly.
“It does not please me to hear your voice, but it does please me to
give you certain orders, which you will find it wise to obey.”
“So it please your Honour . . .”
“Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay here, do you hear? with
your horse and cart until our return. You are on no account to utter
the faintest sound, or even to breathe louder than you can help; nor
are you, on any consideration whatever, to leave your post, until I
give you orders to do so. Do you understand?”
“But your Honour—” protested the Jew pitiably.
“There is no question of ‘but’ or of any argument,” said Chauvelin, in
a tone that made the timid old man tremble from head to foot. “If, when
I return, I do not find you here, I most solemnly assure you that,
wherever you may try to hide yourself, I can find you, and that
punishment swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or later overtake you.
Do you hear me?”
“But your Excellency . . .”
“I said, do you hear me?”
The soldiers had all crept away; the three men stood alone together in
the dark and lonely road, with Marguerite there, behind the hedge,
listening to Chauvelin’s orders, as she would to her own death
sentence.
“I heard your Honour,” protested the Jew again, while he tried to draw