The Scarlet Pimpernel
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There was a second plate on the table, and he calmly helped himself to soup, then poured himself out a glass of wine.
For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His disguise was so good that perhaps he meant, on recovering himself, to deny his identity: but Chauvelin was too astute to make such an obviously false and childish move, and already he too had stretched out his hand and said pleasantly,—
“I am indeed charmed to see you Sir Percy. You must excuse me—h’m—I thought you the other side of the Channel. Sudden surprise almost took my breath away.”
“La!” said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin, “it did that quite, didn’t it—er—M.—er—Chaubertin?”
“Pardon me—Chauvelin.”
“I beg pardon—a thousand times. Yes—Chauvelin of course. . . . Er . . . I never could cotton to foreign names. . . .”
He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good-humour, as if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of enjoying supper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy.
For the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the little Frenchman down then and there—and no doubt something of the sort must have darted through his mind, for every now and then his lazy eyes seemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight figure of Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself and was also calmly eating his soup.
But the keen brain, which had planned and carried through so many daring plots, was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This place, after all, might be infested with spies; the innkeeper might be in Chauvelin’s pay. One call on Chauvelin’s part might bring twenty men about Blakeney’s ears for aught he knew, and he might be caught and trapped before he could help, or, at least, warn the fugitives. This he would not risk; he meant to help the others, to get THEM safely away; for he had pledged his word to them, and his word he WOULD keep. And whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned, whilst, up in the loft, the poor, anxious woman racked her brain as to what she should do, and endured agonies of longing to rush down to him, yet not daring to move for fear of upsetting his plans.
“I didn’t know,” Blakeney was saying jovially, “that you . . . er . . . were in holy orders.”
“I . . . er . . . hem . . .” stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence of his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance.
“But, la! I should have known you anywhere,” continued Sir Percy, placidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine, “although the wig and hat have changed you a bit.”
“Do you think so?”
“Lud! they alter a man so . . . but . . . begad! I hope you don’t mind my having made the remark? . . . Demmed bad form making remarks. . . . I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, no, not at all—hem! I hope Lady Blakeney is well,” said Chauvelin, hurriedly changing the topic of conversation.
Blakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of soup, drank his glass of wine, and, momentarily, it seemed to Marguerite as if he glanced all round the room. “Quite well, thank you,” he said at last, drily. There was a pause, during which Marguerite could watch these two antagonists who, evidently in their minds, were measuring themselves against one another. She could see Percy almost full face where he sat at the table not ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, not knowing what to do, or what she should think. She had quite controlled her impulse now of rushing down and disclosing herself to her husband. A man capable of acting a part, in the way he was doing at the present moment, did not need a woman’s word to warn him to be cautious.
Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every tender woman’s heart, of looking at the man she loved. She looked through the tattered curtain, across at the handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue eyes, and behind whose inane smile, she could now so plainly see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused the Scarlet Pimpernel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers. “There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady Blakeney,” Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she looked at the forehead, low, but square and broad, the eyes, blue, yet deep-set and intense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable energy, hiding, behind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of will and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the fascination which he exercised over his followers, for had he not also cast his spells over her heart and her imagination?
Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Desgas should not be long: another two or three minutes, and this impudent Englishman would be secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley’s most trusted men.
“You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?” he asked carelessly.
“Odd’s life, no,” replied Blakeney, with a laugh. “Only as far as Lille—not Paris for me . . . beastly uncomfortable place Paris, just now . . . eh, Monsieur Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin!”
“Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy,” rejoined Chauvelin, sarcastically, “who takes no interest in the conflict that is raging there.”
“La! you see it’s no business of mine, and our demmed government is all on your side of the business. Old Pitt daren’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose. You are in a hurry, sir,” he added, as Chauvelin once again took out his watch; “an appointment, perhaps. . . . I pray you take no heed of me. . . . My time’s my own.”
He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the hearth. Once more Marguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was getting on; Desgas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know that and . . . oh! how horrible it all was—and how helpless she felt.
“I am in no hurry,” continued Percy, pleasantly, “but, la! I don’t want to spend any more time than I can help in this God-forsaken hole! But, begad! sir,” he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his watch for the third time, “that watch of yours won’t go any faster for all the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe?”
“Aye—a friend!”
“Not a lady—I trust, Monsieur l’Abbe,” laughed Blakeney; “surely the holy church does not allow? . . . eh? . . . what! But, I say, come by the fire . . . it’s getting demmed cold.”
He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in the old hearth. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently was quite unconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite beyond control, sat down beside the hearth, in such a way as to command a view of the door. Desgas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite plain to Marguerite’s aching senses that as soon as he arrived, Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the fugitives, and capture this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel at once.
“Hey, M. Chauvelin,” the latter was saying airily, “tell me, I pray you, is your friend pretty? Demmed smart these little French women sometimes—what? But I protest I need not ask,” he added, as he carelessly strode back towards the supper-table. “In matters of taste the Church has never been backward. . . . Eh?”
But Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty was now concentrated on that door through which presently Desgas would enter. Marguerite’s thoughts, too, were centred there, for her ears had suddenly caught, through the stillness of the night, the sound of numerous and measured treads some distance away.
It was Desgas and his men. Another three minutes and they would be here! Another three minutes and the awful thing would have occurred: the brave eagle would have fallen in the ferret’s trap! She would have moved now and screamed, but she dared not; for whilst she heard the soldiers approaching, she was looking at Percy and watching his every movement. He was standing by the table whereon the remnants of the supper, plates, glasses, spoons, salt and pepper-pots were scattered pell-mell. His back was turned to Chauvelin and he was still prattling along in his own affected and inane way, but from his pocket he had taken his snuff-box, and quickly and suddenly he emptied the contents of the pepper-pot into it.
Then he again turned with an inane laugh to Chauvelin,—
“Eh? Did you speak, sir?”
Chauvelin had been too intent on listening to the sound of those approaching footsteps, to notice what his cunning adversary had been doing. He now pulled himself together, trying to look unconcerned in the very midst of his anticipated triumph. “No,” he said presently, “that is—as you were saying, Sir Percy—?”
“I was saying,” said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin, by the fire, “that the Jew in Piccadilly has sold me better snuff this time than I have ever tasted. Will you honour me, Monsieur l’Abbe?”
He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, DEBONNAIRE way, holding out his snuff-box to his arch-enemy.
Chauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen a trick or two in his day, had never dreamed of this one. With one ear fixed on those fast-approaching footsteps, one eye turned to that door where Desgas and his men would presently appear, lulled into false security by the impudent Englishman’s airy manner, he never even remotely guessed the trick which was being played upon him.
He took a pinch of snuff.
Only he, who has ever by accident sniffed vigorously a dose of pepper, can have the faintest conception of the hopeless condition in which such a sniff would reduce any human being.
Chauvelin felt as if his head would burst—sneeze after sneeze seemed nearly to choke him; he was blind, deaf, and dumb for the moment, and during that moment Blakeney quietly, without the slightest haste, took up his hat, took some money out of his pocket, which he left on the table, then calmly stalked out of the room!
CHAPTER XXVI THE JEW
It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses; the whole of this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and Desgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from the “Chat Gris.”
When she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and wonder filled her heart. It all was so neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been under a blow from the fist, for now he could neither see, nor hear, nor speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his fingers.
Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at the Pere Blanchard’s hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless; for the moment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by Desgas and his men. But all the roads and the beach were patrolled. Every place was watched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go, thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and followed? Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and given him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all, he needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for his capture, and even now, perhaps . . .
But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and Desgas’ voice shouting “Halt!” to his men.
Chauvelin had partially recovered; his sneezing had become less violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door just as Desgas’ knock was heard on the outside.
Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes—
“The tall stranger—quick!—did any of you see him?”
“Where, citoyen?” asked Desgas, in surprise.
“Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago.”
“We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and . . .”
“And you are just five minutes too late, my friend,” said Chauvelin, with concentrated fury.
“Citoyen . . . I . . .”
“You did what I ordered you to do,” said Chauvelin, with impatience. “I know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately, there’s not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyen Desgas.”
Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his superior’s whole attitude.
“The tall stranger, citoyen—” he stammered.
“Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at that table. Damn his impudence! For obvious reasons, I dared not tackle him alone. Brogard is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have the strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away under your very nose.”
“He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen.”
“Ah?”
“Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty: twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch had been constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the beach, or reach a boat, without being sighted.”
“That’s good.—Do the men know their work?”
“They have had very clear orders, citoyen: and I myself spoke to those who were about to start. They are to shadow—as secretly as possible—any stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he would disguise his height.”
“In no case to detain such a person, of course,” said Chauvelin, eagerly. “That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel would slip through clumsy fingers. We must let him get to the Pere Blanchard’s hut now; there surround and capture him.”
“The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as soon as a tall stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to turn straight back and report to you.”
“That is right,” said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well pleased.
“I have further news for you, citoyen.”
“What is it?”
“A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives not ten paces from here.”
“Yes—and?” queried Chauvelin, impatiently.
“The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the tall Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by eleven o’clock.”
“It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live?”
“A few minutes’ walk from this door.”
“Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in Reuben’s cart.”
“Yes, citoyen.”
Desgas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men. Not a word of this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped Marguerite, and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart, with terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding.
She had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do nothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes of the deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.
He could not now advance many steps, without spying eyes to track and denounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the terrible sense of utter disappointment. The possibility of being the slightest use to her husband had become almost NIL, and her only hope rested in being allowed to share his fate, whatever it might ultimately be.
For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she loved again, had become a remote one. Still, she was determined to keep a close watch over his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart, that whilst she kept Chauvelin in sight, Percy’s fate might still be hanging in the balance.
Desgas left Chauvelin moodily pacing up and down the room, whilst he himself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had sent in search of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin was evidently devoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one: this last trick played upon him by the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had made him suddenly doubtful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, direct and superintend the capture of this impudent Englishman.
About five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by an elderly Jew, in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn greasy across the shoulders. His red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with grey—a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and his chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his race affected in mock humility in past centuries, before the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, and he walked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling gait which has remained the characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to this day.
Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman’s prejudice against the despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful distance. The group of the three men were standing just underneath the hanging oil-lamp, and Marguerite had a clear view of them all.
“Is this the man?” asked Chauvelin.
“No, citoyen,” replied Desgas, “Reuben could not be found, so presumably his cart has gone with the stranger; but this man here seems to know something, which he is willing to sell for a consideration.”
“Ah!” said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the loathsome specimen of humanity before him.
The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one side, leaning on the knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble Excellency to deign to put some questions to him.
“The citoyen tells me,” said Chauvelin peremptorily to him, “that you know something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I desire to meet . . . MORBLEU! keep your distance, man,” he added hurriedly, as the Jew took a quick and eager step forward.
“Yes, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, who spoke the language with that peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin, “I and Reuben Goldstein met a tall Englishman, on the road, close by here this evening.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he could hire a horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin road, to a place he wanted to reach to-night.”
“What did you say?”
“I did not say anything,” said the Jew in an injured tone, “Reuben Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial . . .”
“Cut that short, man,” interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, “and go on with your story.”
“He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency: when I was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart, to take him wheresoever he chose, Reuben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved nag, and his broken-down cart.”
“And what did the Englishman do?”
“He listened to Reuben Goldstein, your Excellency, and put his hand in his pocket then and there, and took out a handful of gold, which he showed to that descendant of Beelzebub, telling him that all that would be his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by eleven o’clock.”
“And, of course, the horse and cart were ready?”
“Well! they were ready for him in a manner, so to speak, your Excellency. Reuben’s nag was lame as usual; she refused to budge at first. It was only after a time and with plenty of kicks, that she at last could be made to move,” said the Jew with a malicious chuckle.
“Then they started?”
“Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I was disgusted with that stranger’s folly. An Englishman too!—He ought to have known Reuben’s nag was not fit to drive.”
“But if he had no choice?”
“No choice, your Excellency?” protested the Jew, in a rasping voice, “did I not repeat to him a dozen times, that my horse and cart would take him quicker, and more comfortably than Reuben’s bag of bones. He would not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such insinuating ways. The stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry, he would have had better value for his money by taking my cart.”
“You have a horse and cart too, then?” asked Chauvelin, peremptorily.
“Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your Excellency wants to drive . . .”
“Do you happen to know which way my friend went in Reuben Goldstein’s cart?”
Thoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Marguerite’s heart was beating well-nigh to bursting. She had heard the peremptory question; she looked anxiously at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt somehow as if he held Percy’s fate in his long dirty hands.
There was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned impatiently at the stooping figure before him: at last the Jew slowly put his hand in his breast pocket, and drew out from its capacious depths a number of silver coins. He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a quiet tone of voice,—
“This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove away with Reuben, for holding my tongue about him, and his doings.”
Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
“How much is there there?” he asked.
“Twenty francs, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, “and I have been an honest man all my life.”
Chauvelin without further comment took a few pieces of gold out of his own pocket, and leaving them in the palm of his hand, he allowed them to jingle as he held them out towards the Jew.
“How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand?” he asked quietly.
Evidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but to conciliate him, for his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt he feared that threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive methods of that type, might addle the old man’s brains, and that he would be more likely to be useful through greed of gain, than through terror of death.
The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in his interlocutor’s hand.
“At least five, I should say, your Excellency,” he replied obsequiously.
“Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue of yours?”
“What does your Excellency wish to know?”
“Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend the tall stranger, who has driven off in Reuben Goldstein’s cart?”
“My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where you please.”
“To a place called the Pere Blanchard’s hut?”
“Your Honour has guessed?” said the Jew in astonishment.
“You know the place? Which road leads to it?”
“The St. Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath from there to the cliffs.”
“You know the road?” repeated Chauvelin, roughly.
“Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour,” replied the Jew quietly.
Chauvelin without another word threw the five pieces of gold one by one before the Jew, who knelt down, and on his hands and knees struggled to collect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for it had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly waited while the old man scrambled on the floor, to find the piece of gold.
When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said,—
“How soon can your horse and cart be ready?”
“They are ready now, your Honour.”
“Where?”
“Not ten metres from this door. Will your Excellency deign to look.”
“I don’t want to see it. How far can you drive me in it?”
“As far as the Pere Blanchard’s hut, your Honour, and further than Reuben’s nag took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues from here, we shall come across that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart and the tall stranger all in a heap in the middle of the road.”
“How far is the nearest village from here?”
“On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon is the nearest village, not two leagues from here.”
“There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted to go further?”
“He could—if he ever got so far.”
“Can you?”
“Will your Excellency try?” said the Jew simply.
“That is my intention,” said Chauvelin very quietly, “but remember, if you have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most stalwart soldiers to give you such a beating, that your breath will perhaps leave your ugly body for ever. But if we find my friend the tall Englishman, either on the road or at the Pere Blanchard’s hut, there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you accept the bargain?”
The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money in his hand, then at this stern interlocutor, and at Desgas, who had stood silently behind him all this while. After a moment’s pause, he said deliberately,—