“Yer friends will explain, Count Armande. You must have courage now, and fortitude too. However hard it’s going to be, Count. For you especially.”
Wickham looked at Armande very significantly indeed.
“See you Saturday, then,” said Foxwood cheerfully. “I’ll think of some fun disguises.”
“Yer sworn,” said Wickham pointedly, “and just in case you get any silly ideas, Darney and Hayfield here are camped right outside, front n’ back, so you’re not try to leave at all now. When they turn up, Saturday, Foxy here has my authority to use a pistol, if any of you try to resist.”
William Wickham and the others marched smartly out of the strange library, back to the front door, although neither Justine nor Marius were there to open it, so the members of the English League let themselves out of the ancient house, into the French Revolutionary night.
“You think they’ll fall into line?” asked Foxwood, on the steps.
“They must, Foxy. I’ll not have their blood on my ‘ands too.”
Inside the library, the Pimpernel Club was left standing in total disarray.
“What’s happened, ‘enri?” asked Armande, and Francis quickly explained, as Armande’s ugly face fell through the floor.
“Where have you been anyway?” asked Henry angrily though. “You think a leader acts like that?
“I…I went back to get my handkerchief, ‘enri, and, well, Miss Merimonde was going into the theatre, and I followed her. It was wonderful, Henri.”
“Wonderful?” said Spike jealously.
“Mais oui. I saw a play and then the great illusionist, Bouzardi, with his marvellous vanishing elephant. It disappeared, la, right there in front of us all.”
“Oh, it’s hardly the time, Count,” said Henry coldly, though feeling a little jealous too, “Your sister goes to the Guillotine at ten, Saturday morning, but the League are collecting us at nine. While they’re watching the house front and back now.”
“And the Square too,” said Count Armande suddenly.
“What ?” criedd Henry indignantly. “They can’t have eyes everywhere. There were only four of…”
“Not them ‘enri, Alceste Couchonet and his little soldiers.”
The Pimpernels blinked in horror at the Count.
“Alceste?”
“Yes. I nearly bumped into him in the Square, coming out of la teatre. Alceste knows something, bien sure. And now he has his own soldiers, to look for Pamples. I heard them talking.”
Henry’s poor head was suddenly reeling.
“Why that little creep,” said Spike. “That little Spider.”
“But how much does he know, Armande?” asked Henry gravely, thinking of Pelle and ZooZoo, and all their plans.
“Not sure,” answered the Count, “He knows about the watch, for sure, and I don’t think he realises we’ve handed on les papiers. They’ll be watching the Square every day now. For us.”
“What do we do then?” said Spike bitterly, “we’s sworn to Wickham too.”
“But we’ve a choise, haven’t we?” said Henry suddenly, as he pulled his hands from behind his back, to show that his fingers were crossed. “And free will.”
Skipper Holmwood did the same and so did Francis, both revealing that their fingers had been crossed as well, and all the Pimpernels grinned, when Spike showed her little crossed fingers too. She blushed.
“Still the same problem though,” said Francis cheerlessly. “Spies.”
“Yes, F,” sighed Hal, “perhaps we do just what Wickham told us to then. Go with Foxwood and the others and get Armande safely back home again.”
“But I can’t leave my sister,” said the Count.
Henry felt guilty again and very uncertain too. He wanted to be fair and just and right.
“But think of your mother, Armande,” he said softly, “The Countess. You are heir. The Ninth Count of St Honoré.”
“But Juliette’s innocent,” said Spike indignantly, “not like old lavender breath, and the Club swore to protect the Innocent. You know we did.”
Henry and the others felt utterly miserable.
“But even if we could come up with another plan,” said Henry desperately, “there’s no other way out of headquarters now. We’re trapped, like blinkin’ rats.”
Suddenly the Club heard a muffled cry from somewhere in the room and they all swung round. It came again, and Francis was pointing at the bookcase, quaking.
The sound had emanated from right inside the books themselves. It was impossible.
“G-g-ghosts,” he moaned again, “They’re really are around, reason or no reason. I saw one upstairs too. A lady, in a tapestry.”
Henry and Spike glanced sharply at him, thinking of their own secret visions, but this part of the bookcase was still covered in cobwebs and they all crept towards it now.
The Pimples brushed away the lacy webs, to see many very ancient volumes there, especially tomes on Alchemy, Witchcraft and the Occult.
Now they were all trembling, as they heard muffled sounds coming from inside them. Were the very books bewitched?
Hal reached out though and pulled at one volume, that seemed oddly protruding, entitled The Pantheon of The Gods.
As he did, it moved like a lever, attached to a Guillotine, or hinged to the book shelf itself, and there was a loud Click.
The whole thing swung towards them, the bookcase itself, and none other than Justine and Marius tumbled straight into the room.
Justine was wincing from Marius having trod on her foot, twice, and they both looked terrified, as they sprawled on the floor. Beyond was a kind of narrow corridor, that ran left and right, along the entire Bookcase.
“Speak up,” cried Hal angrily, “You’ve been spying on us all along. You work for them then. The Committee of Public Security?”
The poor spotty maid servant looked terrified, but she spoke in a whisper.
“Oh no, Monsieur, I swear it,” she said, as she got up. “We just wanted to know what you’ve been doing dressing up. And where you’ve been going too.”
“We think its incroyable,” said Marius, getting to his feet as well.
“It’s true, Monsieur,” insisted poor Justine, trying to straighten her clothes. “The only adventure we’ve ever had. It’s so frightening here, and Madame can be very hard, so we don’t have much fun. Especially now that we have to wind all the clocks.”
“No,” said Henry Bonespair, more kindly, “I don’t suppose you do, Justine. But why don’t you just leave then?”
“Because I’m a slave,” whispered Marius bitterly, but Juliette was looking truly petrified now.
“Leave? And go out there, Monsieur?” she whispered in horror.
“But why not?” asked Henry, “with their Revolution, as a former servant you shouldn’t have any…”
“But you do not understand,” whispered Marius, glancing guiltily at his ally. “Justine cannot leave.”
All Justine’s spots went puce, as the Pimple Club frowned.
“I…I don’t like open spaces,” admitted the poor girl, starting to tremble like a leaf. “I cannot go out there.”
Henry Bonespair felt suddenly hugely sorry for the poor maid, but it was Skipper who was looking especially compassionate.
“Oh,” said Henry though, “Then what do you both want? Why were you spying on us?”
“We want to be free, and to help,” answered Marius warmly. “Because if you want a way out, in secret, it’s here, Monsieur.”
Justine turned eagerly back to the secret passageway ,behind the bookcase.
“This leads up from the servant’s quarters,” she explained softly, “but also to a similar door, in the very next house, where the owners lost their heads long ago. It’s empty now.”
Hal was drawing out the Club’s Chronometer, because he had already worked out that, in different disguises, they could easily sneak out into the Rue Beaulieu, and go to work still.
“You’ll swear?” he cried. “Neve
r to tell any adult grown…oh, any of them.”
The two servants both nodded immediately and it was clear to the others that Henry Bonespair was determined to disobey William Wickham to the letter.
Francis noticed that Malfort had slunk into the library and was watching intently too and Spike suddenly wanted to adopt him as pet, although she had no idea how she would ever get him back to England.
The one thing they were all silently praying though was that Alceste and his little band of fresh young soldiers had not learnt the full nature of their brilliant plans about the sewers, or told it to the Black Spider.
SIXTEEN - THE BIG DAY
“In which we hear trumpets, the Pimples pull off the impossible, and the balloon goes up…”
“Oh my dearest, Juliette,” said Marie Antoinette, “I shall pray for your poor, dear soul. As you must pray for ours, even as you go to your death, so bravely.”
Juliette St Honoré was as white as a sheet, saying her last farewells to the Queen of France, and her daughter, Marie Therese, in the Conciergerie Prison.
So sweet was her generous nature that poor Juliette didn’t even think of her own impending death. That very hour: Saturday. August 15th, that stormy year of 1793.
“They will rescue you, your Majesty,” Juliette said instead, “There are many plots on your behalf.”
Juliette suddenly wondered what had become of the Pamples.
She had long forgiven them for not being able to help her, because how could they really help, in Revolutionary Paris? She only prayed that they were safely back home, by now, in her new home of England.
The waiting had been the most terrible thing, but now that was over, at least.
“Plots?” said the Queen mournfully, “And what if I did escape, child, what then? Now HE is gone. What point is there, all alone? There is no Freedom, alone.”
Marie Antoinette shook her head, although the Queen straightened regally too.
“But merci, ma Cherie. And you must bear yourself with dignity too, today. It will all be over soon now.”
Juliette St Honoré tried to stand straight, as well, as Marie Therese ran forwards and hugged her furiously.
“Oh Juliette. I’ll never forget you, dearest Juliette.”
“It may look horrible,” said her mother softly, “but the fear of it is the worst, child. There’s no real hurt, they tell me, and it is over in an instant, with their swift mechanics. At least we may say that of their humanity.”
The Queen scowled though and stressed the word humanity, as an austere figure suddenly entered the prison cell.
Charles Peperan Couchonet dipped his head slightly to the three mourning females.
“Citizenesses. You are well?”
He smiled thinly, for the Spider had come in person to escort Juliette to her appointment with Madame Death; kind, dear man that he was.
“Oh your Majesty, I’ll try to be brave,” cried Juliette, glaring at the Black Spider. “As you must too.”
“Yes, Juliette. We must never show them our fear, child. Never. Now come and kiss me, one last time.”
Juliette embraced the Queen, and they kissed tenderly too, but Juliette felt a slight bitterness now, for she had done nothing wrong.
“Come now, girl,” hissed Couchonet, pulling her back by the shoulder, “it’s past nine of the clock. Citizeness Capet is right, it will be over soon. For the good of France.”
One way or another, thought the Black Spider, glancing coldly at the Capet woman and wondering where his nephew was. Alceste must be already taking up position in the Square, Couchonet told himself, with his little band of toy soldiers.
Alceste’s presence could only be an added bonus to the huge number of real troops and secret agents that Charles Couchonet had positioned there today, to watch the girl’s beheading, and for any sudden attempt at rescue by the League of the Gloved Hand.
He was almost grateful to Alceste for alerting him to this watch, that William Wickham had given a Huguenot boy called Bonespair, and if it really did contain secret letters, the children had no chance.
Whatever the truth, CPC would soon have them all wrapped up in his spreading spider’s web.
There was still doubt in his scheming brain about what Alceste had revealed of Zoo’s extorted information too, about a definite plan to rescue Juliette, using some silly diversion, and the filthy Paris sewers.
Today Couchonet was giving his nephew his head though and something was certainly afoot regarding the St Honoré girl. If the trail led back to the League and to the Queen, then so much the better.
“Be calm, child,” he said coldly, as he marched Juliette from the cell, “and think of yourself as a martyr for the Revolution. Remember, girl, people are nothing, ideas everything.”
Alceste Couchonet was indeed already in the great Square, feeling so excited today that he could have hugged someone, or even made friends, which is to say very excited indeed.
Not only that, he was feeling hugely self important too, as the filthy crowd murmured and jostled about him.
Since seven am that morning he had been moving around the great Place, issuing his orders to his fresh but dirty faced recruits.
Some of the band were stationed near the grilling, where he had nabbed Zoo, to watch the Pamples’ first escape route.
Others Alceste had positioned near the Guillotine herself, to guard the steps, scaffold, and drain below, also at a distance. There she stood then, the National Razor, empty carts at the side, ready for the headless bodies, among rows of brand new coffins, so plentiful that some had to be stored right under the scaffold itself.
Alceste already knew from ZooZoo that the freckled face lad and the smallest of the Pamples were planning some kind of great diversion, so he had more of his young guards right in the middle of the Square itself.
These Pampelles were all walking blindly into his certain trap.
Alceste had not stationed anyone inside the sewers themselves, for fear that would give the game away, or the Pamples would just be frightened off.
Alceste was delighted though because, just as Zoo had said it would, a fine carriage had just pulled up, in the alley beyond the sewer grating, that the boy recognised immediately from the Petit Moulin.
That big, stupid looking English lad was on top, who had pretended to be Henry’s father back in Calais, wrapped in that woollen English scarf and big floppy hat, just sitting there dumbly, waiting.
Alceste was a little surprised though, since it seemed so obvious a place to wait.
Not half as surprised though as Foxwood and his men had been that morning when, just an hour earlier, they had gone to Madame Bonespair’s front door, but found no one answering the bell at all.
Alceste had not ordered his recruits to approach Skipper yet, because he wanted them all in his clutches; especially Henry Bonespair and that wonderful Chronometer. He would have his hands on them both soon enough.
So imagine Alceste Couchonet’s utter delight when, crouching with four recruits by a brazier, he saw two little figures approaching the machine, playing a very unconvincing game of stick and hoop, who suddenly ducked beneath it, obviously thinking themselves invisible in the mêlée, to squat right by the storm drain.
Alceste could tell from his nose that one was Henry Bonespair, and the other a short, French-looking lad, Alceste half fancied he had seen somewhere before.
Alceste might have advanced there and then, if his uncle had not given him the strictest instructions to do nothing without his say so, and because Alceste saw Hal’s simple shirt was open, but the wonderful Chronometer wasn’t there at all.
He felt a sharp pain in his heart. Nor were the boys opening the drain yet, but simply looking out at the noisy rabble.
“Patience, Alceste,” he whispered to himself though, “And subtlety. All in good time!”
Alceste’s cunning plan was to rush the scaffold, just as the filthy Pamples tried to snatch the St Honoré girl away.
Or, if they m
anaged to get her down into the sewers, nab them when they came up at the far exit by the getaway coach, about fifteen minutes later.
The drums started beating now, as the Fournees started to arrive with their wretched batches, and Sanson stepped out on stage again.
Juliette St Honoré was clutching the rail of the second tumbril, as if she had on the deck of L’Esperance, trying to hold her head high. Her heart was in her feet, as she caught sight of that terrible axe.
Poor Juliette thought she might faint away, as she saw the skeletal executioner and the leering, hate-filled faces in the crowd: Her own people.
She was desperately glad to be outside in the open air at least, away from that foul prison cell, until poor Juliette caught sight of the truly enclosed space that she was facing now, in the form of the coffins beneath the scaffold.
They rattled closer still, as the first tumbril stopped in front of the terrible machine.
“She’s coming, Armande,” whispered Hal excitedly, beneath the shining machine, “We’ve only one chance now. We had better take it.”
Alceste had not heard, of course, but the boy knew that they had no chance at all, as he noticed that neither tried to open the storm drain at all.
Other prisoners were already mounting the grim steps, their tread so heavy that their poor feet seemed made of lead.
There were several “shnaaaks” above and wild cheers in the Square, and the red had started to drip onto Hal’s head, before Juliette’s own tumbril drew up.
The Black Spider himself was walking right beside it, glancing at Juliette, and it was mostly filled with children, between eight and fourteen.
Charles Couchonet had been distracted from Juliette’s plight though by the only man on the back, who looked French, but who seemed to be talking in English: “It is a much stronger thing I do,” he was saying, “No, that’s not right. It is a far, far better thing I do. Yes, that’s it.”
Suddenly Alceste spotted the two missing Pamples walking straight towards the Guillotine, Francis and little Spike, also in their revolutionary caps and hateful disguises.
“The diversion,” he hissed, “Get ready, lads. Here it comes.”
The Terror Time Spies Page 30