Five minutes later the soldiers, directed by petite maman, had reached
No. 37 Rue Ste. Anne. The big outside door stood wide open, and the
whole party turned immediately into the house.
The concierge, terrified and obsequious, rushed--trembling--out of his
box.
"What was the pleasure of the citizen soldiers?" he asked.
"Tell him, citizeness," commanded Rouget curtly.
"We are going to apartment No. 12 on the second floor," said petite
maman to the concierge.
"Have you a key of the apartment?" queried Rouget.
"No, citizen," stammered the concierge, "but--"
"Well, what is it?" queried the other peremptorily.
"Papa Turandot is a poor, harmless maker of volins," said the concierge.
"I know him well, though he is not often at home. He lives with a
daughter somewhere Passy way, and only uses this place as a workshop. I
am sure he is no traitor."
"We'll soon see about that," remarked Rouget dryly.
Petite maman held her shawl tightly crossed over her bosom: her hands
felt clammy and cold as ice. She was looking straight out before her,
quite dry-eyed and calm, and never once glanced on Rosette, who was not
allowed to come anywhere near her mother.
As there was no duplicate key to apartment No. 12, citizen Rouget
ordered his men to break in the door. It did not take very long: the
house was old and ramshackle and the doors rickety. The next moment the
party stood in the room which a while ago the Englishman had so
accurately described to pere Lenegre in petite maman's hearing.
There was the wardrobe. Petite maman, closely surrounded by the
soldiers, went boldly up to it; she opened it just as milor had
directed, and pushed aside the row of shabby clothes that hung there.
Then she pointed to the panels that did not fit quite tightly together
at the back. Petite maman passed her tongue over her dry lips before she
spoke.
"There's a recess behind those panels," she said at last. "They slide
back quite easily. My old man is there."
"And God bless you for a brave, loyal soul," came in merry, ringing
accent from the other end of the room. "And God save the Scarlet
Pimpernel!"
These last words, spoken in English, completed the blank amazement which
literally paralysed the only three genuine Republican soldiers
there--those, namely, whom Rouget had borrowed from the sergeant. As for
the others, they knew what to do. In less than a minute they had
overpowered and gagged the three bewildered soldiers.
Rosette had screamed, terror-stricken, from sheer astonishment, but
petite maman stood quite still, her pale, tear-dimmed eyes fixed upon
the man whose gay "God bless you!" had so suddenly turned her despair
into hope.
How was it that in the hideous, unkempt and grimy Rouget she had not at
once recognised the handsome and gallant milor who had saved her
Pierre's life? Well, of a truth he had been unrecognisable, but now that
he tore the ugly wig and beard from his face, stretched out his fine
figure to its full height, and presently turned his lazy, merry eyes on
her, she could have screamed for very joy.
The next moment he had her by the shoulders and had imprinted two
sounding kisses upon her cheeks.
"Now, petite maman," he said gaily, "let us liberate the old man."
Pere Lenegre, from his hiding-place, had heard all that had been going
on in the room for the last few moments. True, he had known exactly what
to expect, for no sooner had he taken possession of the recess behind
the wardrobe than milor also entered the apartment and then and there
told him of his plans not only for pere's own safety, but for that of
petite maman and Rosette who would be in grave danger if the old man
followed in the wake of Pierre.
Milor told him in his usual light-hearted way that he had given the
Committee's spies the slip.
"I do that very easily, you know," he explained. "I just slip into my
rooms in the Rue Jolivet, change myself into a snuffy and hunchback
violin-maker, and walk out of the house under the noses of the spies. In
the nearest wine-shop my English friends, in various disguises, are all
ready to my hand: half a dozen of them are never far from where I am in
case they may be wanted."
These half-dozen brave Englishmen soon arrived one by one: one looked
like a coal-heaver, another like a seedy musician, a third like a
coach-driver. But they all walked boldly into the house and were soon
all congregated in apartment No. 12. Here fresh disguises were assumed,
and soon a squad of Republican Guards looked as like the real thing as
possible.
Pere Lenegre admitted himself that though he actually saw milor
transforming himself into citizen Rouget, he could hardly believe his
eyes, so complete was the change.
"I am deeply grieved to have frightened and upset you so, petite maman,"
now concluded milor kindly, "but I saw no other way of getting you and
Rosette out of the house and leaving that stupid sergeant and some of
his men behind. I did not want to arouse in him even the faintest breath
of suspicion, and of course if he had asked me for the written orders
which he was actually waiting for, or if his corporal had returned
sooner than I anticipated, there might have been trouble. But even
then," he added with his usual careless insouciance, "I should have
thought of some way of baffling those brutes."
"And now," he concluded more authoritatively, "it is a case of getting
out of Paris before the gates close. Pere Lenegre, take your wife and
daughter with you and walk boldly out of this house. The sergeant and
his men have not vacated their post in the Rue Jolivet, and no one else
can molest you. Go straight to the Porte de Neuilly, and on the other
side wait quietly in the little cafe at the corner of the Avenue until I
come. Your old passes for the barriers still hold good; you were only
placed on the 'suspect' list this morning, and there has not been a hue
and cry yet about you. In any case some of us will be close by to help
you if needs be."
"But you, milor," stammered pere Lenegre, "and your friends--?"
"La, man," retorted Blakeney lightly, "have I not told you before never
to worry about me and my friends? We have more ways than one of giving
the slip to this demmed government of yours. All you've got to think of
is your wife and your daughter. I am afraid that petite maman cannot
take more with her than she has on, but we'll do all we can for her
comfort until we have you all in perfect safety--in England--with
Pierre."
Neither pere Lenegre, nor petite maman, nor Rosette could speak just
then, for tears were choking them, but anon when milor stood nearer,
petite maman knelt down, and, imprisoning his slender hand in her brown,
wrinkled ones, she kissed it reverently.
He laughed and chided her for this.
"'Tis I should kneel to you in gratitude, petite maman," he said
earnestly, "you were ready to sacrifice your old man for me."
"You have saved Pierre, milor," said the mother simply.
A minute later pere Lenegre and the two women were ready to go. Already
milor and his gallant English friends were busy once more transforming
themselves into grimy workmen or seedy middle-class professionals.
As soon as the door of apartment No. 12 finally closed behind the three
good folk, my lord Tony asked of his chief:
"What about these three wretched soldiers, Blakeney?"
"Oh! they'll be all right for twenty-four hours. They can't starve till
then, and by that time the concierge will have realised that there's
something wrong with the door of No. 12 and will come in to investigate
the matter. Are they securely bound, though?"
"And gagged! Rather!" ejaculated one of the others. "Odds life,
Blakeney!" he added enthusiastically, "that was a fine bit of work!"