The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforcecome to an end.

  Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental torture aswell-nigh drove her crazy. After a sleepless night, she rose early, wildwith excitement, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest furtherobstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else in the housewas astir, so frightened was she, lest she should miss the one goldenopportunity of making a start.

  When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew Ffoulkes sitting in thecoffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and had gone to theAdmiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French packet nor anyprivately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet. The storm wasthen at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If the wind did notabate or change, they would perforce have to wait another ten or twelvehours until the next tide, before a start could be made. And the stormhad not abated, the wind had not changed, and the tide was rapidlydrawing out.

  Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this melancholynews. Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally breaking down,and thus adding to the young man's anxiety, which evidently had becomevery keen.

  Though he tried to hide it, Marguerite could see that Sir Andrewwas just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend. Thisenforced inactivity was terrible to them both.

  How they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Marguerite could neverafterwards say. She was in terror of showing herself, lest Chauvelin'sspies happened to be about, so she had a private sitting-room, andshe and Sir Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at longintervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would bring them,with nothing to do but to think, to conjecture, and only occasionally tohope.

  The storm had abated just too late; the tide was by then too far out toallow a vessel to put off to sea. The wind had changed, and was settlingdown to a comfortable north-westerly breeze--a veritable godsend for aspeedy passage across to France.

  And there those two waited, wondering if the hour would ever come whenthey could finally make a start. There had been one happy interval inthis long weary day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once againto the pier, and presently came back to tell Marguerite that he hadchartered a quick schooner, whose skipper was ready to put to sea themoment the tide was favourable.

  From that moment the hours seemed less wearisome; there was lesshopelessness in the waiting; and at last, at five o'clock in theafternoon, Marguerite, closely veiled and followed by Sir AndrewFfoulkes, who, in the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number ofimpedimenta, found her way down to the pier.

  Once on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her, the breeze was juststrong enough to nicely swell the sails of the FOAM CREST, as she cuther way merrily towards the open.

  The sunset was glorious after the storm, and Marguerite, as she watchedthe white cliffs of Dover gradually disappearing from view, felt more atpeace and once more almost hopeful.

  Sir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt how lucky she hadbeen to have him by her side in this, her great trouble.

  Gradually the grey coast of France began to emerge from thefast-gathering evening mists. One or two lights could be seenflickering, and the spires of several churches to rise out of thesurrounding haze.

  Half an hour later Marguerite had landed upon French shore. She wasback in that country where at this very moment men slaughtered theirfellow-creatures by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and childrenin thousands to the block.

  The very aspect of the country and its people, even in this remotesea-coast town, spoke of that seething revolution, three hundred milesaway, in beautiful Paris, now rendered hideous by the constant flow ofthe blood of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the widows, and thecries of fatherless children.

  The men all wore red caps--in various stages of cleanliness--but allwith the tricolor cockade pinned on the left-side. Marguerite noticedwith a shudder that, instead of the laughing, merry countenance habitualto her own countrymen, their faces now invariably wore a look of slydistrust.

  Every man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows: the most innocentword uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a proof ofaristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people. Even thewomen went about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking intheir brown eyes; and all watched Marguerite as she stepped on shore,followed by Sir Andrew, and murmured as she passed along: "SACRESARISTOS!" or else "SACRES ANGLAIS!"

  Otherwise their presence excited no further comment. Calais, even inthose days, was in constant business communication with England, andEnglish merchants were often seen on this coast. It was well known thatin view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal of French winesand brandies were smuggled across. This pleased the French BOURGEOISimmensely; he liked to see the English Government and the English king,both of whom he hated, cheated out of their revenues; and an Englishsmuggler was always a welcome guest at the tumble-down taverns of Calaisand Boulogne.

  So, perhaps, as Sir Andrew gradually directed Marguerite through thetortuous streets of Calais, many of the population, who turned with anoath to look at the strangers clad in English fashion, thought thatthey were bent on purchasing dutiable articles for their own fog-riddencountry, and gave them no more than a passing thought.

  Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband's tall, massive figurecould have passed through Calais unobserved: she marvelled what disguisehe assumed to do his noble work, without exciting too much attention.

  Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew was leading herright across the town, to the other side from that where they hadlanded, and the way towards Cap Gris Nez. The streets were narrow,tortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale fish anddamp cellar odours. There had been heavy rain here during the stormlast night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for theroads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer from a lamp insidea house.

  But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts: "We may meetBlakeney at the 'Chat Gris,'" Sir Andrew had said, when they landed, andshe was walking as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, for she was going tomeet him almost at once.

  At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew evidently knew theroad, for he had walked unerringly in the dark, and had not asked hisway from anyone. It was too dark then for Marguerite to notice theoutside aspect of this house. The "Chat Gris," as Sir Andrew had calledit, was evidently a small wayside inn on the outskirts of Calais, and onthe way to Gris Nez. It lay some little distance from the coast, for thesound of the sea seemed to come from afar.

  Sir Andrew knocked at the door with the knob of his cane, and fromwithin Marguerite heard a sort of grunt and the muttering of a number ofoaths. Sir Andrew knocked again, this time more peremptorily: moreoaths were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed to draw near the door.Presently this was thrown open, and Marguerite found herself on thethreshold of the most dilapidated, most squalid room she had ever seenin all her life.

  The paper, such as it was, was hanging from the walls in strips; theredid not seem to be a single piece of furniture in the room that could,by the wildest stretch of imagination, be called "whole." Most of thechairs had broken backs, others had no seats to them, one corner of thetable was propped up with a bundle of faggots, there where the fourthleg had been broken.

  In one corner of the room there was a huge hearth, over which hung astock-pot, with a not altogether unpalatable odour of hot soup emanatingtherefrom. On one side of the room, high up in the wall, there was aspecies of loft, before which hung a tattered blue-and-white checkedcurtain. A rickety set of steps led up to this loft.

  On the great bare walls, with their colourless paper, all stainedwith varied filth, there were chalked up at intervals in great boldcharacters, the words: "Liberte--Egalite--Fraternite."

  The whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by an evil-smellingoil-lamp, which hung from the rickety rafters of the ceiling. It alllooked
so horribly squalid, so dirty and uninviting, that Margueritehardly dared to cross the threshold.

  Sir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly forward.

  "English travellers, citoyen!" he said boldly, and speaking in French.

  The individual who had come to the door in response to Sir Andrew'sknock, and who, presumably, was the owner of this squalid abode, was anelderly, heavily built peasant, dressed in a dirty blue blouse, heavysabots, from which wisps of straw protruded all round, shabby bluetrousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tricolour cockade, thatproclaimed his momentary political views. He carried a short woodenpipe, from which the odour of rank tobacco emanated. He looked with somesuspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two travellers, muttering"SACRRRES ANGLAIS!" and spat upon the ground to further show hisindependence of spirit, but, nevertheless, he stood aside to let thementer, no doubt well aware that these same SACCRES ANGLAIS always hadwell-filled purses.

  "Oh, lud!" said Marguerite, as she advanced into the room, holding herhandkerchief to her dainty nose, "what a dreadful hole! Are you surethis is the place?"

  "Aye! 'tis the place, sure enough," replied the young man as, with hislace-edged, fashionable handkerchief, he dusted a chair for Margueriteto sit on; "but I vow I never saw a more villainous hole."

  "Faith!" she said, looking round with some curiosity and a great deal ofhorror at the dilapidated walls, the broken chairs, the rickety table,"it certainly does not look inviting."

  The landlord of the "Chat Gris"--by name, Brogard--had taken no furthernotice of his guests; he concluded that presently they would ordersupper, and in the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen to showdeference, or even courtesy, to anyone, however smartly they might bedressed.

  By the hearth sat a huddled-up figure clad, seemingly, mostly in rags:that figure was apparently a woman, although even that would have beenhard to distinguish, except for the cap, which had once been white,and for what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was sittingmumbling to herself, and from time to time stirring the brew in herstock-pot.

  "Hey, my friend!" said Sir Andrew at last, "we should like some supper.. . . The citoyenne there," he added, "is concocting some delicioussoup, I'll warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for severalhours."

  It took Brogard some few minutes to consider the question. A freecitizen does not respond too readily to the wishes of those who happento require something of him.

  "SACRRRES ARISTOS!" he murmured, and once more spat upon the ground.

  Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner ofthe room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and slowly,and without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in the samesilence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-pot.

  Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror; wereit not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently havefled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.

  "Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people," said Sir Andrew,seeing the look of horror on Marguerite's face. "I would I could offeryou a more hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you willfind the soup eatable and the wine good; these people wallow in dirt,but live well as a rule."

  "Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew," she said gently, "be not anxious aboutme. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper."

  Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had placeda couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of which SirAndrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.

  Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, andMarguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to makesome pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his ROLE of lacquey,stood behind her chair.

  "Nay, Madame, I pray you," he said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quiteunable to eat, "I beg of you to try and swallow some food--remember youhave need of all your strength."

  The soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted good. Margueritemight have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings. She broke thebread, however, and drank some of the wine.

  "Nay, Sir Andrew," she said, "I do not like to see you standing. Youhave need of food just as much as I have. This creature will only thinkthat I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if you'llsit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me."

  Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon thetable, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests. TheMere Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stoodand lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes underMarguerite's very nose, as any free-born citizen who was anybody's equalshould do.

  "Confound the brute!" said Sir Andrew, with native British wrath,as Brogard leant up against the table, smoking and looking downsuperciliously at these two SACRRRES ANGLAIS.

  "In Heaven's name, man," admonished Marguerite, hurriedly, seeing thatSir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching hisfist, "remember that you are in France, and that in this year of gracethis is the temper of the people."

  "I'd like to scrag the brute!" muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.

  He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table, and theywere both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by pretending toeat and drink.

  "I pray you," said Marguerite, "keep the creature in a good temper, sothat he may answer the questions we must put to him."

  "I'll do my best, but, begad! I'd sooner scrag him than question him.Hey! my friend," he said pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogardlightly on the shoulder, "do you see many of our quality along theseparts? Many English travellers, I mean?"

  Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed away at hispipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered,--

  "Heu!--sometimes!"

  "Ah!" said Sir Andrew, carelessly, "English travellers always knowwhere they can get good wine, eh! my friend?--Now, tell me, my lady wasdesiring to know if by any chance you happen to have seen a great friendof hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to Calais on business; heis tall, and recently was on his way to Paris--my lady hoped to have methim in Calais."

  Marguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she should betray beforehim the burning anxiety with which she waited for his reply. But afree-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions:Brogard took his time, then he said very slowly,--

  "Tall Englishman?--To-day!--Yes."

  "Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he quietly took SirAndrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head, tugged athis dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in pantomime thatthe individual in question wore very fine clothes. "SACRRE ARISTO!" hemuttered, "that tall Englishman!"

  Marguerite could scarce repress a scream.

  "It's Sir Percy right enough," she murmured, "and not even in disguise!"

  She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her gatheringtears, at the thought of "the ruling passion strong in death"; of Percyrunning into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat uponhis back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.

  "Oh! the foolhardiness of it!" she sighed. "Quick, Sir Andrew! ask theman when he went."

  "Ah yes, my friend," said Sir Andrew, addressing Brogard, with the sameassumption of carelessness, "my lord always wears beautiful clothes;the tall Englishman you saw, was certainly my lady's friend. And he hasgone, you say?"

  "He went . . . yes . . . but he's coming back . . . here--he ordered supper. . ."

  Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of warning uponMarguerite's arm; it came none too sooe, for the next moment her wild,mad joy would have betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming backhere presently, she would see him in a few moments perhaps. . . . Oh!the wildness of her joy seemed almost more than she could bear.

  "Here!" she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly to have beentransformed in her eyes i
nto some heaven-born messenger of bliss."Here!--did you say the English gentleman was coming back here?"

  The heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the floor, to express hiscontempt for all and sundry ARISTOS, who chose to haunt the "Chat Gris."

  "Heu!" he muttered, "he ordered supper--he will come back . . . SACRREANGLAIS!" he added, by way of protest against all this fuss for a mereEnglishman.

  "But where is he now?--Do you know?" she asked eagerly, placing herdainty white hand upon the dirty sleeve of his blue blouse.

  "He went to get a horse and cart," said Brogard, laconically, as with asurly gesture, he shook off from his arm that pretty hand which princeshad been proud to kiss.

  "At what time did he go?"

  But Brogard had evidently had enough of these questionings. He didnot think that it was fitting for a citizen--who was the equal ofanybody--to be thus catechised by these SACRRES ARISTOS, even thoughthey were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting to hisnewborn dignity to be as rude as possible; it was a sure sign ofservility to meekly reply to civil questions.

  "I don't know," he said surlily. "I have said enough, VOYONS, LESARISTOS! . . . He came to-day. He ordered supper. He went out.--He'llcome back. VOILA!"

  And with this parting assertion of his rights as a citizen and a freeman, to be as rude as he well pleased, Brogard shuffled out of the room,banging the door after him.

  CHAPTER XXIII HOPE