Marguerite's aching heart stood still. She felt, more than she heard,the men on the watch preparing for the fight. Her senses told her thateach, with sword in hand, was crouching, ready for the spring.
The voice came nearer and nearer; in the vast immensity of these lonelycliffs, with the loud murmur of the sea below, it was impossible to sayhow near, or how far, nor yet from which direction came that cheerfulsinger, who sang to God to save his King, whilst he himself was in suchdeadly danger. Faint at first, the voice grew louder and louder; fromtime to time a small pebble detached itself apparently from beneath thefirm tread of the singer, and went rolling down the rocky cliffs to thebeach below.
Marguerite as she heard, felt that her very life was slipping away, asif when that voice drew nearer, when that singer became entrapped . . .
She distinctly heard the click of Desgas' gun close to her. . . .
No! no! no! no! Oh, God in heaven! this cannot be! let Armand's bloodthen be on her own head! let her be branded as his murderer! let evenhe, whom she loved, despise and loathe her for this, but God! oh God!save him at any cost!
With a wild shriek, she sprang to her feet, and darted round the rock,against which she had been cowering; she saw the little red gleamthrough the chinks of the hut; she ran up to it and fell against itswooden walls, which she began to hammer with clenched fists in an almostmaniacal frenzy, while she shouted,--
"Armand! Armand! for God's sake fire! your leader is near! he is coming!he is betrayed! Armand! Armand! fire in Heaven's name!"
She was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay there moaning, bruised,not caring, but still half-sobbing, half-shrieking,--
"Percy, my husband, for God's sake fly! Armand! Armand! why don't youfire?"
"One of you stop that woman screaming," hissed Chauvelin, who hardlycould refrain from striking her.
Something was thrown over her face; she could not breathe, and perforceshe was silent.
The bold singer, too, had become silent, warned, no doubt, of hisimpending danger by Marguerite's frantic shrieks. The men had sprungto their feet, there was no need for further silence on their part; thevery cliffs echoed the poor, heart-broken woman's screams.
Chauvelin, with a muttered oath, which boded no good to her, who haddared to upset his most cherished plans, had hastily shouted the word ofcommand,--
"Into it, my men, and let no one escape from that hut alive!"
The moon had once more emerged from between the clouds: the darkness onthe cliffs had gone, giving place once more to brilliant, silvery light.Some of the soldiers had rushed to the rough, wooden door of the hut,whilst one of them kept guard over Marguerite.
The door was partially open; one of the soldiers pushed it further, butwithin all was darkness, the charcoal fire only lighting with a dim, redlight the furthest corner of the hut. The soldiers paused automaticallyat the door, like machines waiting for further orders.
Chauvelin, who was prepared for a violent onslaught from within, andfor a vigorous resistance from the four fugitives, under cover of thedarkness, was for the moment paralyzed with astonishment when he saw thesoldiers standing there at attention, like sentries on guard, whilst nota sound proceeded from the hut.
Filled with strange, anxious foreboding, he, too, went to the door ofthe hut, and peering into the gloom, he asked quickly,--
"What is the meaning of this?"
"I think, citoyen, that there is no one there now," replied one of thesoldiers imperturbably.
"You have not let those four men go?" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly."I ordered you to let no man escape alive!--Quick, after them all ofyou! Quick, in every direction!"
The men, obedient as machines, rushed down the rocky incline towardsthe beach, some going off to right and left, as fast as their feet couldcarry them.
"You and your men will pay with your lives for this blunder, citoyensergeant," said Chauvelin viciously to the sergeant who had been incharge of the men; "and you, too, citoyen," he added turning with asnarl to Desgas, "for disobeying my orders."
"You ordered us to wait, citoyen, until the tall Englishman arrivedand joined the four men in the hut. No one came," said the sergeantsullenly.
"But I ordered you just now, when the woman screamed, to rush in and letno one escape."
"But, citoyen, the four men who were there before had been gone sometime, I think . . ."
"You think?--You? . . ." said Chauvelin, almost choking with fury, "andyou let them go . . ."
"You ordered us to wait, citoyen," protested the sergeant, "and toimplicitly obey your commands on pain of death. We waited."
"I heard the men creep out of the hut, not many minutes after we tookcover, and long before the woman screamed," he added, as Chauvelinseemed still quite speechless with rage.
"Hark!" said Desgas suddenly.
In the distance the sound of repeated firing was heard. Chauvelin triedto peer along the beach below, but as luck would have it, the fitfulmoon once more hid her light behind a bank of clouds, and he could seenothing.
"One of you go into the hut and strike a light," he stammered at last.
Stolidly the sergeant obeyed: he went up to the charcoal fire and litthe small lantern he carried in his belt; it was evident that the hutwas quite empty.
"Which way did they go?" asked Chauvelin.
"I could not tell, citoyen," said the sergeant; "they went straight downthe cliff first, then disappeared behind some boulders."
"Hush! what was that?"
All three men listened attentively. In the far, very far distance, couldbe heard faintly echoing and already dying away, the quick, sharp splashof half a dozen oars. Chauvelin took out his handkerchief and wiped theperspiration from his forehead.
"The schooner's boat!" was all he gasped.
Evidently Armand St. Just and his three companions had managed to creepalong the side of the cliffs, whilst the men, like true soldiers of thewell-drilled Republican army, had with blind obedience, and in fear oftheir own lives, implicitly obeyed Chauvelin's orders--to wait for thetall Englishman, who was the important capture.
They had no doubt reached one of the creeks which jut far out to seaon this coast at intervals; behind this, the boat of the DAY DREAM musthave been on the lookout for them, and they were by now safely on boardthe British schooner.
As if to confirm this last supposition, the dull boom of a gun was heardfrom out at sea.
"The schooner, citoyen," said Desgas, quietly; "she's off."
It needed all Chauvelin's nerve and presence of mind not to give way toa useless and undignified access of rage. There was no doubt now, thatonce again, that accursed British head had completely outwitted him.How he had contrived to reach the hut, without being seen by one ofthe thirty soldiers who guarded the spot, was more than Chauvelin couldconceive. That he had done so before the thirty men had arrived on thecliff was, of course, fairly clear, but how he had come over in ReubenGoldstein's cart, all the way from Calais, without being sighted by thevarious patrols on duty was impossible of explanation. It really seemedas if some potent Fate watched over that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, andhis astute enemy almost felt a superstitious shudder pass through him,as he looked round at the towering cliffs, and the loneliness of thisoutlying coast.
But surely this was reality! and the year of grace 1792: there were nofairies and hobgoblins about. Chauvelin and his thirty men had all heardwith their own ears that accursed voice singing "God save the King,"fully twenty minutes AFTER they had all taken cover around the hut; bythat time the four fugitives must have reached the creek, and got intothe boat, and the nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut.
Where had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had lent himwings, he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff in the spaceof two minutes; and only two minutes had elapsed between his song andthe sound of the boat's oars away at sea. He must have remained behind,and was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs; the patrols werestill about, he would st
ill be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopefulonce again.
One or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives, were now slowlyworking their way up the cliff: one of them reached Chauvelin's side, atthe very moment that this hope arose in the astute diplomatist's heart.
"We were too late, citoyen," the soldier said, "we reached the beachjust before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The boat hadundoubtedly been on the look-out behind that first creek, a mile off,but she had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the beach, and wasalready some way out to sea. We fired after her, but of course, it wasno good. She was making straight and quickly for the schooner. We sawher very clearly in the moonlight."
"Yes," said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, "she had shoved off sometime ago, you said, and the nearest creek is a mile further on."
"Yes, citoyen! I ran all the way, straight to the beach, though Iguessed the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek, as the tidewould reach there earliest. The boat must have shoved off some minutesbefore the woman began to scream."
"Bring the light in here!" he commanded eagerly, as he once more enteredthe hut.
The sergeant brought his lantern, and together the two men exploredthe little place: with a rapid glance Chauvelin noted its contents: thecauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall, and containing thelast few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of stools, overturnedas if in the haste of sudden departure, then the fisherman's toolsand his nets lying in one corner, and beside them, something small andwhite.
"Pick that up," said Chauvelin to the sergeant, pointing to this whitescrap, "and bring it to me."
It was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten there by thefugitives, in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much awed by thecitoyen's obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and handed itrespectfully to Chauvelin.
"Read it, sergeant," said the latter curtly.
"It is almost illegible, citoyen . . . a fearful scrawl . . ."
"I ordered you to read it," repeated Chauvelin, viciously.
The sergeant, by the light of his lantern, began deciphering the fewhastily scrawled words.
"I cannot quite reach you, without risking your lives and endangeringthe success of your rescue. When you receive this, wait two minutes,then creep out of the hut one by one, turn to your left sharply, andcreep cautiously down the cliff; keep to the left all the time, till youreach the first rock, which you see jutting far out to sea--behind itin the creek the boat is on the look-out for you--give a long, sharpwhistle--she will come up--get into her--my men will row you to theschooner, and thence to England and safety--once on board the DAY DREAMsend the boat back for me, tell my men that I shall be at the creek,which is in a direct line opposite the 'Chat Gris' near Calais. Theyknow it. I shall be there as soon as possible--they must wait for meat a safe distance out at sea, till they hear the usual signal. Do notdelay--and obey these instructions implicitly."
"Then there is the signature, citoyen," added the sergeant, as he handedthe paper back to Chauvelin.
But the latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the momentousscrawl had caught his ear. "I shall be at the creek which is in a directline opposite the 'Chat Gris' near Calais": that phrase might yet meanvictory for him. "Which of you knows this coast well?" he shouted to hismen who now one by one all returned from their fruitless run, and wereall assembled once more round the hut.
"I do, citoyen," said one of them, "I was born in Calais, and know everystone of these cliffs."
"There is a creek in a direct line from the 'Chat Gris'?"
"There is, citoyen. I know it well."
"The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does NOT know everystone of these cliffs, he may go there by the longest way round, andin any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the patrols. At anyrate, there is a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each manwho gets to that creek before that long-legged Englishman."
"I know of a short cut across the cliffs," said the soldier, and with anenthusiastic shout, he rushed forward, followed closely by his comrades.
Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in thedistance. Chauvelin listened to them for a moment; the promise of thereward was lending spurs to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam ofhate and anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his face.
Close to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive, waiting for furtherorders, whilst two soldiers were kneeling beside the prostrate form ofMarguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well-laidplan had failed, its sequel was problematical; there was still a greatchance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel might yet escape, and Chauvelin,with that unreasoning fury, which sometimes assails a strong nature, waslonging to vent his rage on somebody.
The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the ground, though,she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle. Overwrought naturehad at last peremptorily asserted herself, and she lay there in adead swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that told of long,sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead, her lipsparted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain.
The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable LadyBlakeney, who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit andher extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out,suffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the hard,vengeful heart of her baffled enemy.
"It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half dead," he saidspitefully to the soldiers, "when you have allowed five men who werevery much alive to escape."
Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet.
"You'd better try and find that footpath again for me, and thatbroken-down cart we left on the road."
Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him.
"Ah! by-the-bye! where is the Jew?"
"Close by here, citoyen," said Desgas; "I gagged him and tied his legstogether as you commanded."
From the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached Chauvelin's ears.He followed his secretary, who led the way to the other side of the hut,where, fallen into an absolute heap of dejection, with his legs tightlypinioned together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate descendantof Israel.
His face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively ghastly withterror: his eyes were wide open and almost glassy, and his wholebody was trembling, as if with ague, while a piteous wail escaped hisbloodless lips. The rope which had originally been wound round hisshoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a tangle abouthis body, but he seemed quite unconscious of this, for he had not madethe slightest attempt to move from the place where Desgas had originallyput him: like a terrified chicken which looks upon a line of whitechalk, drawn on a table, as on a string which paralyzes its movements.
"Bring the cowardly brute here," commanded Chauvelin.
He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he had no reasonablegrounds for venting his ill-humour on the soldiers who had but toopunctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the despised racewould prove an excellent butt. With true French contempt of the Jew,which has survived the lapse of centuries even to this day, he would notgo too near him, but said with biting sarcasm, as the wretched old manwas brought in full light of the moon by the two soldiers,--
"I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good memory for bargains?"
"Answer!" he again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips seemed toofrightened to speak.
"Yes, your Honour," stammered the poor wretch.
"You remember, then, the one you and I made together in Calais, when youundertook to overtake Reuben Goldstein, his nag and my friend the tallstranger? Eh?"
"B . . . b . . . but . . . your Honour . . ."
"There is no 'but.' I said, do you remember?"
"Y . . . y . . . y . . . yes . . . your Honour!"
"What was the bargain?"
There was dead silence. The unfortunat
e man looked round at the greatcliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers, and even atthe poor, prostate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing.
"Will you speak?" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.
He did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not. There was nodoubt, however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man beforehim.
"Your Honour . . ." he ventured imploringly.
"Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your tongue," said Chauvelinsarcastically, "I must needs refresh your memory. It was agreed betweenus, that if we overtook my friend the tall stranger, before he reachedthis place, you were to have ten pieces of gold."
A low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips.
"But," added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, "if you deceived me in yourpromise, you were to have a sound beating, one that would teach you notto tell lies."
"I did not, your Honour; I swear it by Abraham . . ."
"And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfortunately, they are stillin Hades, I believe, according to your creed, and cannot help you muchin your present trouble. Now, you did not fulfil your share of thebargain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here," he added, turning to thesoldiers, "the buckle-end of your two belts to this confounded Jew."
As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather belts, theJew set up a howl that surely would have been enough to bring all thepatriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere, to defend their descendant fromthe brutality of this French official.
"I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers," laughed Chauvelin,maliciously, "to give this old liar the best and soundest beating he hasever experienced. But don't kill him," he added drily.
"We will obey, citoyen," replied the soldiers as imperturbably as ever.
He did not wait to see his orders carried out: he knew that he couldtrust these soldiers--who were still smarting under his rebuke--not tomince matters, when given a free hand to belabour a third party.
"When that lumbering coward has had his punishment," he said to Desgas,"the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them can drive usin it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look after each other,"he added roughly, "until we can send somebody for them in the morning.They can't run away very far, in their present condition, and we cannotbe troubled with them just now."
Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were spurredon by the hope of the reward. That enigmatic and audacious ScarletPimpernel, alone and with thirty men at his heels, could not reasonablybe expected to escape a second time.
But he felt less sure now: the Englishman's audacity had baffled himonce, whilst the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers, and theinterference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all the trumps,into a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his time, if thesoldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if . . . it was a long "if,"and Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still, and enrolled thirty oddpeople in one long, overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic, silent,balmy, the bright moon, the calm, silvery sea spoke of beauty and ofrest, and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, and above all,he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with one giganticcurse.
The howls of the Jew behind him, undergoing his punishment sent a balmthrough his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful malice. Hesmiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being at least was,like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind.
He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast, where stoodthe wooden hut, now bathed in moonlight, the scene of the greatestdiscomfiture ever experienced by a leading member of the Committee ofPublic Safety.
Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the unconscious figure ofMarguerite Blakeney, while some few paces further on, the unfortunateJew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout leatherbelts, wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of theRepublic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the dead risefrom their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls from sleep, andmade them look down with great interest at the doings of the lords ofthe creation.
"That will do," commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became morefeeble, and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away, "we don't wantto kill him."
Obediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them viciouslykicking the Jew to one side.
"Leave him there," said Chauvelin, "and lead the way now quickly to thecart. I'll follow."
He walked up to where Marguerite lay, and looked down into her face. Shehad evidently recovered consciousness, and was making feeble efforts toraise herself. Her large, blue eyes were looking at the moonlit sceneround her with a scared and terrified look; they rested with a mixtureof horror and pity on the Jew, whose luckless fate and wild howls hadbeen the first signs that struck her, with her returning senses; thenshe caught sight of Chauvelin, in his neat, dark clothes, which seemedhardly crumpled after the stirring events of the last few hours. He wassmiling sarcastically, and his pale eyes peered down at her with a lookof intense malice.
With mock gallantry, he stooped and raised her icy-cold hand to hislips, which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through Marguerite'sweary frame.
"I much regret, fair lady," he said in his most suave tones, "thatcircumstances, over which I have no control, compel me to leave you herefor the moment. But I go away, secure in the knowledge that I do notleave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, though a trifle theworse for wear at the present moment, will prove a gallant defender ofyour fair person, I have no doubt. At dawn I will send an escort foryou; until then, I feel sure that you will find him devoted, thoughperhaps a trifle slow."
Marguerite only had the strength to turn her head away. Her heart wasbroken with cruel anguish. One awful thought had returned to her mind,together with gathering consciousness: "What had become of Percy?--Whatof Armand?"
She knew nothing of what had happened after she heard the cheerful song,"God save the King," which she believed to be the signal of death.
"I, myself," concluded Chauvelin, "must now very reluctantly leave you.AU REVOIR, fair lady. We meet, I hope, soon in London. Shall I seeyou at the Prince of Wales' garden party?--No?--Ah, well, AUREVOIR!--Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Blakeney."
And, with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more kissed her hand,and disappeared down the footpath in the wake of the soldiers, andfollowed by the imperturbable Desgas.
CHAPTER XXXI THE ESCAPE
The Scarlet Pimpernel Page 30