A DREAM
§1
Chauvelin had not yet regained full possession of his faculties, when a
few seconds later he saw Theresia Cabarrus glide swiftly across the
antechamber. She appeared to him like a ghost--a pixie who had found her
way through a keyhole. But she threw him a glance of contempt that was
very human, very feminine indeed, and the next moment she was gone.
Outside on the landing she paused. Straining her ears, she caught the
sound of a firm footfall slowly descending the stairs. She ran down a
few steps, then called softly:
"Milor!"
The footsteps paused, and a pleasant voice gave quiet reply:
"At your service, fair lady!"
Theresia, shrewd as well as brave, continued to descend. She was not in
the least afraid. Instinct had told her before now that no woman need
ever have the slightest fear of that elegant milor with the quaint laugh
and gently mocking mien, whom she had learned to know over in England.
Midway down the stairs she came face to face with him, and when she
paused, panting, a little breathless with excitement, he said with
perfect courtesy:
"You did me the honour to call me, Madame?"
"Yes, milor," she replied in a quick, eager whisper. "I heard every word
that passed between you and citizen Chauvelin."
"Of course you did, dear lady," he rejoined with a smile. "If a woman
once resisted the temptation of putting a shell-like ear to a keyhole,
the world would lose many a cause for entertainment."
"That letter, milor----" she broke in impatiently.
"Which letter, Madame?"
"That insulting letter to me . . . when you took Moncrif away. . . . You
never wrote it?"
"Did you really think that I did?" he retorted.
"No. I ought to have guessed . . . the moment that I saw you in
England. . . ."
"And realised that I was not a cad--what?"
"Oh, milor!" she protested. "But why--why did you not tell me before?"
"It had escaped my memory. And if I remember rightly, you spent most of
the time when I had the honour of walking with you, in giving me
elaborate and interesting accounts of your difficulties, and I, in
listening to them."
"Oh!" she exclaimed vehemently. "I hate that man! I hate him!"
"In truth, he is not a lovable personality. But, by your leave, I
presume that you did not desire to speak with me so that we might
discuss our friend Chauvelin's amiable qualities."
"No, no, milor!" she rejoined quickly. "I called to you because----"
Then she paused for a moment or two, as if to collect her thoughts. Her
eager eyes strove to pierce the bloom that enveloped the figure of the
bold adventurer. She could only see the dim outline of his powerful
figure, the light from above striking on his smooth hair, the elegantly
tied bow at the nape of his neck, the exquisite filmy lace at his throat
and wrists. His head was slightly bent, one arm in a curve supported his
chapeau-bras, his whole attitude was one befitting a salon rather than
this dank hovel, where death was even now at his elbow; it was as cool
and unperturbed as it had been on that May-day evening, in the
hawthorn-scented lanes of Kent.
"Milor," she said abruptly, "you told me once--you remember?--that you
were what you English call a sportsman. Is that so?"
"I hope always to remain that, dear lady," he replied with a smile.
"Does that mean," she queried, with a pretty air of deference and
hesitation, "does that mean a man who would under no circumstances harm
a woman?"
"I think so."
"Not even if she--if she has sinned--transgressed against him?"
"I don't quite understand, Madame," he rejoined simply. "And, time being
short---- Are you perchance speaking of yourself?"
"Yes. I have done you an injury, milor."
"A very great one indeed," he assented gravely.
"Could you," she pleaded, raising earnest, tear-filled eyes to his,
"could you bring yourself to believe that I have been nothing but a
miserable, innocent tool?"
"So was the lady upstairs innocent, Madame," he broke in quietly.
"I know," she retorted with a sigh. "I know. I would never dare to
plead, as you must hate me so."
He shrugged his shoulders with an air of carelessness.
"Oh!" he said. "Does a man ever hate a pretty woman?"
"He forgives her, milor," she entreated, "if he is a true sportsman."
"Indeed? You astonish me, dear lady. But in verity you all in this
unhappy country are full of surprises for a plain, blunt-headed
Britisher. Now what, I wonder," he added, with a light, good-humoured
laugh, "would my forgiveness be worth to you?"
"Everything!" she replied earnestly. "I was deceived by that abominable
liar, who knew how to play upon a woman's pique. I am ashamed,
wretched. . . . Oh, cannot you believe me? And I would give worlds to
atone!"
He laughed in his quiet, gently ironical way.
"You do not happen to possess worlds, dear lady. All that you have is
youth and beauty and ambition, and life. You would forfeit all those
treasures if you really tried to atone."
"But----"
"Lady Blakeney is a prisoner. . . . You are her jailer. . . . Her
precious life is the hostage for yours."
"Milor----" she murmured.
"From my heart, I wish you well, fair one," he broke in lightly.
"Believe me, the pagan gods that fashioned you did not design you for
tragedy. . . . And if you ran counter to your friend Chauvelin's
desires, I fear me that pretty neck of yours would suffer. A thing
to be avoided at all costs! And now," he added, "have I your permission
to go? My position here is somewhat precarious, and for the next four
days I cannot afford the luxury of entertaining so fair a lady, by
running my head into a noose."
He was on the point of going when she placed a restraining hand upon his
arm.
"Milor!" she pleaded.
"At your service, dear lady!"
"Is there naught I can do for you?"
He looked at her for a moment or two, and even through the gloom she
caught his quizzical look and the mocking lines around his firm lips.
"You can ask Lady Blakeney to forgive you," he said, with a thought more
seriousness than was habitual to him, "She is an angel; she might do
it."
"And if she does?"
"She will know what to do, to convey her thoughts to me."
"Nay! but I'll do more than that, milor," Theresia continued excitedly.
"I will tell her that I shall pray night and day for your deliverance
and hers. I will tell her that I have seen you, and that you are well."
"Ah, if you did that----!" he exclaimed, almost involuntarily.
"You would forgive me, too?" she pleaded.
"I would do more than that, fair one. I would make you Queen of France,
in all but name."
"What do you mean?" she murmured.
"That I would then redeem the promise which I made to you that evening,
in the lane--outside Dover. Do you remember?"
She made no reply, closed her eyes; and her vivid fancy, rendered doubly
keen by the mystery which seemed to encompass him as with a supernal
mantle, conjured up the vision of that unforgettable evening: the
moonlight, the scent of the hawthorn, the call of the thrush. She saw
him stooping before her, and kissing her finger-tips, even whilst her
ears recalled every word he had spoken and every inflexion of his
mocking voice:
"Let me rather put it differently, dear lady," he had said then. "One
day the exquisite Theresia Cabarrus, the Egeria of the Terrorists, the
fiancée of the great Tallien, might need the help of the Scarlet
Pimpernel."
And she, angered, piqued by his coolness, thirsting for revenge for the
insult which she believed he had put upon her, had then protested
earnestly:
"I would sooner die," she had boldly asserted, "than seek your help,
milor!"
And now, at this hour, here in this house where Death lurked in every
corner, she could still hear his retort: "Here in Dover, perhaps. . . .
But in France?"
How right he had been! . . . How right! She--who had thought herself so
strong, so powerful--what was she indeed but a miserable tool in the
hands of men who would break her without scruple if she ran counter to
their will? Remorse was not for her--atonement too great a luxury for a
tool of Chauvelin to indulge in. The black, hideous taint, the sin of
having dragged this splendid man and that innocent woman to their death
must rest upon her soul for ever. Even now she was jeopardizing his
life, every moment that she kept him talking in this house. And yet the
impulse to speak with him, to hear him say a word of forgiveness, had
been unconquerable. One moment she longed for him to go; the next she
would have sacrificed much to keep him by her side. When he wished to
go, she held him back. Now that, with his wonted careless disregard of
danger, he appeared willing to linger, she sought for the right words
wherewith to bid him go.
He seemed to divine her thoughts, remained quite still while she stood
there with eyes closed, in one brief second reviewing the past. All! All!
It all came back to her: her challenge to him, his laughing retort.
"You mean," she had said at parting, "that you would risk your life to
save mine?"
"I should not risk my life, dear lady," he had said, with his puzzling
smile. "But I should--God help me!--do my best, if the need arose, to
save yours."
Then he had gone, and she had stood under the porch of the quaint old
English inn and watched his splendid figure as it disappeared down the
street. She had watched, puzzled, uncomprehending, her heart already
stirred by that sweet, sad ache which at this hour brought tears to her
eyes--the aching sorrow of that which could never, never be. Ah! if it
had been her good fortune to have come across such a man, to have
aroused in him that admiration for herself which she so scorned in
others, how different, how very different would life have been! And she
fell to envying the poor prisoner upstairs, who owned the most precious
treasure life can offer to any woman: the love of a fine man. Two hot
tears came slowly through her closed eyes, coursing down her cheeks.
"Why so sad, dear lady?" he asked gently.
She could not speak for the moment, only murmured vaguely:
"Four days----"
"Four days," he retorted gaily, "as you say! In four days, either I or a
pack of assassins will be dead."
"Oh, what will become of me?" she sighed.
"Whatever you choose."
"You are bold, milor," she rejoined more calmly. "And you are brave.
Alas! what can you do, when the most powerful hands in France are
against you?"
"Smite them, dear lady," he replied airily. "Smite them! Then turn my
back upon this fair land. It will no longer have need of me." Then he
made her a courteous bow. "May I have the honour of escorting you
upstairs? Your friend M. Chauvelin will be awaiting you."
The name of her taskmaster brought Theresia back to the realities of
life. Gone was the dream of a while ago, when subconsciously her mind
had dwelt upon a sweet might-have-been. The man was nothing to her--less
than nothing; a common spy, so her friends averred. Even if he had not
presumed to write her an insulting letter, he was still the enemy--the
foe whose hand was raised against her own country and against those with
whose fortunes she had thrown in her lot. Even now, she ought to be
calling loudly for help, rouse the house with her cries, so that this
spy, this enemy, might be brought down before her eyes. Instead of
which, she felt her heart beating with apprehension lest his quiet, even
voice be heard on the floor above, and he be caught in the snare which
those who feared and hated him had laid for him.
Indeed, she appeared far more conscious of danger than he was; and while
she chided herself for her folly in having called to him, he was
standing before her as if he were in a drawing-room, holding out his arm
to escort her in to dinner. His foot was on the step, ready to ascend,
even whilst Theresia's straining ears caught the sound of other
footsteps up above: footsteps of men--real men, those!--who were set up
there to watch for the coming of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and whose
vigilance had been spurred by promise of reward and by threat of death.
She pushed his arm aside almost roughly.
"You are mad, milor!" she said, in a choked murmur. "Such foolhardiness,
when your life is in deadly jeopardy, becomes criminal folly----"
"The best of life," he said airily, "is folly. I would not miss this
moment for a kingdom!"
She felt like a creature under a spell. He took her hand and drew it
through his arm. She went up the steps beside him.
Every moment she thought that one or more of the soldiers would be
coming down, or that Chauvelin, impatient at her absence, might step out
upon the landing. The dank, murky air seemed alive with ominous
whisperings, of stealthy treads upon the stone. Theresia dared not look
behind her, fearful lest the grim presence of Death itself be suddenly
made manifest before her.
On the landing he took leave of her, stooped and kissed her hand.
"Why, how cold it is!" he remarked with a smile.
His was perfectly steady and warm. The very feel of it seemed to give
her strength. She raised her eyes to his.
"Milor," she entreated, "on my knees I beg of you not to toy with your
life any longer."
"Toy with my life," he retorted gaily. "Nothing is further from my
thoughts."
"You must know that every second which you spend in this house is
fraught with the greatest possible danger."
"Danger? Ne'er a bit, dear lady! I am no longer in danger, now that you
are my friend."
The next moment he was gone. For awhile, Theresia's straining ears still
caught the sound of his firm footfall upon the stone steps. Then all was
still; and she was left wondering if, in very truth, the last few
minutes on the dark stairs had not all been part of a dream.