The Elusive Pimpernel

by Emmuska Orczy

  "Bah! he'll do it," he would say whenever he thought the whole matter over: "Sacre tonnerre! but 'tis an easy means to save his own skin."

  "You would sign such a letter without hesitation, eh, Citizen Collot," said Chauvelin, with well-concealed sarcasm, on one occasion when his colleague discussed the all-absorbing topic with him; "you would show no hesitation, if your life were at stake, and you were given the choice between writing that letter and... the guillotine?"

  "Parbleu!" responded Collot with conviction.

  "More especially," continued Chauvelin drily, "if a million francs were promised you as well?"

  "Sacre Anglis!" swore Collot angrily, "you don't propose giving him that money, do you?"

  "We'll place it ready to his hand, at any rate, so that it should appear as if he had actually taken it."

  Collot looked up at his colleague in ungrudging admiration. Chauvelin had indeed left nothing undone, had thought everything out in this strangely conceived scheme for the destruction of the enemy of France.

  "But in the name of all the dwellers in hell, Citizen," admonished Collot, "guard that letter well, once it is in your hands."

  "I'll do better than that," said Chauvelin, "I will hand it over to you, Citizen Collot, and you shall ride with it to Paris at once."

  "To-night!" assented Collot with a shout of triumph, as he brought his grimy fist crashing down on the table, "I'll have a horse ready saddled at this very gate, and an escort of mounted men... we'll ride like hell's own furies and not pause to breathe until that letter is in Citizen Robespierre's hands."

  "Well thought of, Citizen," said Chauvelin approvingly. "I pray you give the necessary orders, that the horses be ready saddled, and the men booted and spurred, and waiting at the Gayole gate, at seven o'clock this evening."

  "I wish the letter were written and safely in our hands by now."

  "Nay! the Englishman will have it ready by this evening, never fear. The tide is high at half-past seven, and he will be in haste for his wife to be aboard his yacht, ere the turn, even if he..."

  He paused, savouring the thoughts which had suddenly flashed across his mind, and a look of intense hatred and cruel satisfaction for a moment chased away the studied impassiveness of his face.

  "What do you mean, Citizen?" queried Collot anxiously, "even if he... what?..."

  "Oh! nothing, nothing! I was only trying to make vague guesses as to what the Englishman will do AFTER he has written the letter," quoth Chauvelin reflectively.

  "Morbleu! he'll return to his own accursed country... glad enough to have escaped with his skin.... I suppose," added Collot with sudden anxiety, "you have no fear that he will refuse at the last moment to write that letter?"

  The two men were sitting in the large room, out of which opened the one which was now occupied by Marguerite. They were talking at the further end of it, close to the window, and though Chauvelin had mostly spoken in a whisper, Collot had ofttimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador was wondering how much Marguerite had heard.

  Now at Collot's anxious query he gave a quick furtive glance in the direction of the further room wherein she sat, so silent and so still, that it seemed almost as if she must be sleeping.

  "You don't think that the Englishman will refuse to write the letter?" insisted Collot with angry impatience.

  "No!" replied Chauvelin quietly.

  "But if he does?" persisted the other.

  "If he does, I send the woman to Paris to-night and have him hanged as a spy in this prison yard without further formality or trial..." replied Chauvelin firmly; "so either way, you see, Citizen," he added in a whisper, "the Scarlet Pimpernel is done for.... But I think that he will write the letter."

  "Parbleu! so do I!..." rejoined Collot with a coarse laugh.

  Chapter XXXII: The Letter

  Later on, when his colleague left him in order to see to the horses and to his escort for to-night, Chauvelin called Sergeant Hebert, his old and trusted familiar, to him and gave him some final orders.

  "The Angelus must be rung at the proper hour, friend Hebert," he began with a grim smile.

  "The Angelus, Citizen?" quoth the Sergeant, with complete stupefaction, "'tis months now since it has been rung. It was forbidden by a decree of the Convention, and I doubt me if any of our men would know how to set about it."

  Chauvelin's eyes were fixed before him in apparent vacancy, while the same grim smile still hovered round his thin lips. Something of that irresponsible spirit of adventure which was the mainspring of all Sir Percy Blakeney's actions, must for the moment have pervaded the mind of his deadly enemy.

  Chauvelin had thought out this idea of having the Angelus rung to-night, and was thoroughly pleased with the notion. This was the day when the duel was to have been fought; seven o'clock would have been the very hour, and the sound of the Angelus to have been the signal for combat, and there was something very satisfying in the thought, that that same Angelus should be rung, as a signal that the Scarlet Pimpernel was withered and broken at last.

  In answer to Hebert's look of bewilderment Chauvelin said quietly:

  "We must have some signal between ourselves and the guard at the different gates, also with the harbour officials: at a given moment the general amnesty must take effect and the harbour become a free port. I have a fancy that the signal shall be the ringing of the Angelus: the cannons at the gates and the harbour can boom in response; then the prisons can be thrown open and prisoners can either participate in the evening fete or leave the city immediately, as they choose. The Committee of Public Safety has promised the amnesty: it will carry out its promise to the full, and when Citizen Collot d'Herbois arrives in Paris with the joyful news, all natives of Boulogne in the prisons there will participate in the free pardon too."

  "I understand all that, Citizen," said Hebert, still somewhat bewildered, "but not the Angelus."

  "A fancy, friend Hebert, and I mean to have it."

  "But who is to ring it, Citizen?"

  "Morbleu! haven't you one calotin left in Boulogne whom you can press into doing this service?"

  "Aye! calotins enough! there's the Abbe Foucquet in this very building... in No. 6 cell..."

  "Sacre tonnerre!" ejaculated Chauvelin exultingly, "the very man! I know his dossier well! Once he is free, he will make straightway for England... he and his family... and will help to spread the glorious news of the dishonour and disgrace of the much-vaunted Scarlet Pimpernel!... The very man, friend Hebert!... Let him be stationed here... to see the letter written... to see the money handed over—for we will go through with that farce—and make him understand that the moment I give him the order, he can run over to his old church St. Joseph and ring the Angelus. ... The old fool will be delighted... more especially when he knows that he will thereby be giving the very signal which will set his own sister's children free.... You understand?..."

  "I understand, Citizen."

  "And you can make the old calotin understand?"

  "I think so, Citizen.... You want him in this room.... At what time?"

  "A quarter before seven."

  "Yes. I'll bring him along myself, and stand over him, lest he play any pranks."

  "Oh! he'll not trouble you," sneered Chauvelin, "he'll be deeply interested in the proceedings. The woman will be here too, remember," he added with a jerky movement of the hand in the direction of Marguerite's room, "the two might be made to stand together, with four of your fellows round them."

  "I understand, Citizen. Are any of us to escort the Citizen Foucquet when he goes to St. Joseph?"

  "Aye! two men had best go with him. There will be a crowd in the streets by then... How far is it from here to the church?"

  "Less than five minutes."

  "Good. See to it that the doors are opened and the bell ropes easy of access."

  "It shall be seen to, Citizen. How many men will you have inside this room to-night?"

  "Let the walls be lined with men whom you can trust. I anticipate neith
er trouble nor resistance. The whole thing is a simple formality to which the Englishman has already intimated his readiness to submit. If he changes his mind at the last moment there will be no Angelus rung, no booming of the cannons or opening of the prison doors: there will be no amnesty, and no free pardon. The woman will be at once conveyed to Paris, and... But he'll not change his mind, friend Hebert," he concluded in suddenly altered tones, and speaking quite lightly, "he'll not change his mind."

  The conversation between Chauvelin and his familiar had been carried on in whispers: not that the Terrorist cared whether Marguerite overheard or not, but whispering had become a habit with this man, whose tortuous ways and subtle intrigues did not lend themselves to discussion in a loud voice.

  Chauvelin was sitting at the central table, just where he had been last night when Sir Percy Blakeney's sudden advent broke in on his meditations. The table had been cleared of the litter of multitudinous papers which had encumbered it before. On it now there were only a couple of heavy pewter candlesticks, with the tallow candles fixed ready in them, a leather-pad, an ink-well, a sand-box and two or three quill pens: everything disposed, in fact, for the writing and signing of the letter.

  Already in imagination, Chauvelin saw his impudent enemy, the bold and daring adventurer, standing there beside that table and putting his name to the consummation of his own infamy. The mental picture thus evoked brought a gleam of cruel satisfaction and of satiated lust into the keen, ferret-like face, and a smile of intense joy lit up the narrow, pale-coloured eyes.

  He looked round the room where the great scene would be enacted: two soldiers were standing guard outside Marguerite's prison, two more at attention near the door which gave on the passage: his own half-dozen picked men were waiting his commands in the corridor. Presently the whole room would be lined with troops, himself and Collot standing with eyes fixed on the principal actor of the drama! Hebert with specially selected troopers standing on guard over Marguerite!

  No, no! he had left nothing to chance this time, and down below the horses would be ready saddled, that were to convey Collot and the precious document to Paris.

  No! nothing was left to chance, and in either case he was bound to win. Sir Percy Blakeney would either write the letter in order to save his wife, and heap dishonour on himself, or he would shrink from the terrible ordeal at the last moment and let Chauvelin and the Committee of Public Safety work their will with her and him.

  "In that case the pillory as a spy and summary hanging for you, my friend," concluded Chauvelin in his mind, "and for your wife... Bah, once you are out of the way, even she will cease to matter."

  He left Hebert on guard in the room. An irresistible desire seized him to go and have a look at his discomfited enemy, and from the latter's attitude make a shrewd guess as to what he meant to do to-night.

  Sir Percy had been given a room on one of the upper floors of the old prison. He had in no way been closely guarded, and the room itself had been made as comfortable as may be. He had seemed quite happy and contented when he had been conducted hither by Chauvelin, the evening before.

  "I hope you quite understand, Sir Percy, that you are my guest here to-night," Chauvelin had said suavely, "and that you are free to come and go, just as you please."

  "Lud love you, sir," Sir Percy had replied gaily, "but I verily believe that I am."

  "It is only Lady Blakeney whom we have cause to watch until to-morrow," added Chauvelin with quiet significance. "Is that not so, Sir Percy?"

  But Sir Percy seemed, whenever his wife's name was mentioned, to lapse into irresistible somnolence. He yawned now with his usual affectation, and asked at what hour gentlemen in France were wont to breakfast.

  Since then Chauvelin had not seen him. He had repeatedly asked how the English prisoner was faring, and whether he seemed to be sleeping and eating heartily. The orderly in charge invariably reported that the Englishman seemed well, but did not eat much. On the other hand, he had ordered, and lavishly paid for, measure after measure of brandy and bottle after bottle of wine.

  "Hm! how strange these Englishmen are!" mused Chauvelin; "this so-called hero is nothing but a wine-sodden brute, who seeks to nerve himself for a trying ordeal by drowning his faculties in brandy... Perhaps after all he doesn't care!..."

  But the wish to have a look at that strangely complex creature—hero, adventurer or mere lucky fool—was irresistible, and Chauvelin in the latter part of the afternoon went up to the room which had been allotted to Sir Percy Blakeney.

  He never moved now without his escort, and this time also two of his favourite bodyguard accompanied him to the upper floor. He knocked at the door, but received no answer, and after a second or two he bade his men wait in the corridor and, gently turning the latch, walked in.

  There was an odour of brandy in the air; on the table two or three empty bottles of wine and a glass half filled with cognac testified to the truth of what the orderly had said, whilst sprawling across the camp bedstead, which obviously was too small for his long limbs, his head thrown back, his mouth open for a vigorous snore, lay the imperturbable Sir Percy fast asleep.

  Chauvelin went up to the bedstead and looked down upon the reclining figure of the man who had oft been called the most dangerous enemy of Republican France.

  Of a truth, a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin was ready enough to admit that; the long, hard limbs, the wide chest, and slender, white hands, all bespoke the man of birth, breeding and energy: the face too looked strong and clearly-cut in repose, now that the perpetually inane smile did not play round the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression mar the seriousness of the straight brow. For one moment—it was a mere flash—Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career should be thus ignominiously brought to a close.

  The Terrorist felt that if his own future, his own honour and integrity were about to be so hopelessly crushed, he would have wandered up and down this narrow room like a caged beast, eating out his heart with self-reproach and remorse, and racking his nerves and brain for an issue out of the terrible alternative which meant dishonour or death.

  But this man drank and slept.

  "Perhaps he doesn't care!"

  And as if in answer to Chauvelin's puzzled musing a deep snore escaped the sleeping adventurer's parted lips.

  Chauvelin sighed, perplexed and troubled. He looked round the little room, then went up to a small side table which stood against the wall and on which were two or three quill pens and an ink-well, also some loosely scattered sheets of paper. These he turned over with a careless hand and presently came across a closely written page. —— "Citizen Chauvelin:—In consideration of a further sum of one million francs..."

  It was the beginning of the letter!... only a few words so far... with several corrections of misspelt words... and a line left out here and there which confused the meaning... a beginning made by the unsteady hand of that drunken fool... an attempt only at present....

  But still... a beginning.

  Close by was the draft of it as written out by Chauvelin, and which Sir Percy had evidently begun to copy.

  He had made up his mind then.... He meant to subscribe with his own hand to his lasting dishonour... and meaning it, he slept!

  Chauvelin felt the paper trembling in his hand. He felt strangely agitated and nervous, now that the issue was so near... so sure!...

  "There's no demmed hurry for that, is there... er... Monsieur Chaubertin?..." came from the slowly wakening Sir Percy in somewhat thick, heavy accents, accompanied by a prolonged yawn. "I haven't got the demmed thing quite ready..."

  Chauvelin had been so startled that the paper dropped from his hand. He stooped to pick it up.

  "Nay! why should you be so scared, sir?" continued Sir Percy lazily, "did you think I was drunk?... I assure you, sir, on my honour, I am not so drunk as you think I am."

  "I have no doubt, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin ironically, "that you have all your marvellous faculties entirely at your
command.... I must apologize for disturbing your papers," he added, replacing the half-written page on the table, "I thought perhaps that if the letter was ready ..."

  "It will be, sir... it will be... for I am not drunk, I assure you.... and can write with a steady hand... and do honour to my signature...."

  "When will you have the letter ready, Sir Percy?"

  "The 'Day-Dream' must leave the harbour at the turn of the tide," quoth Sir Percy thickly. "It'll be demmed well time by then... won't it, sir?..."

  "About sundown, Sir Percy... not later..."

  "About sundown... not later..." muttered Blakeney, as he once more stretched his long limbs along the narrow bed.

  He gave a loud and hearty yawn.

  "I'll not fail you..." he murmured, as he closed his eyes, and gave a final struggle to get his head at a comfortable angle, "the letter will be written in my best cali... calig.... Lud! but I'm not so drunk as you think I am. ..."

  But as if to belie his own oft-repeated assertion, hardly was the last word out of his mouth than his stertorous and even breathing proclaimed the fact that he was once more fast asleep.

  With a shrug of the shoulders and a look of unutterable contempt at his broken-down enemy, Chauvelin turned on his heel and went out of the room.

  But outside in the corridor he called the orderly to him and gave strict commands that no more wine or brandy was to be served to the Englishman under any circumstances whatever.

  "He has two hours in which to sleep off the effects of all that brandy which he had consumed," he mused as he finally went back to his own quarters, "and by that time he will be able to write with a steady hand."

  Chapter XXXIII: The English Spy

  And now at last the shades of evening were drawing in thick and fast. Within the walls of Fort Gayole the last rays of the setting sun had long ago ceased to shed their dying radiance, and through the thick stone embrasures and the dusty panes of glass, the grey light of dusk soon failed to penetrate.