Not one of them had really trusted him for some time now. Heaven and his
conscience alone knew what had changed my Lord Kulmsted from a loyal
friend and keen sportsman into a surly and dissatisfied
adherent--adherent only in name.
Some say that lack of money had embittered him. He was a confirmed
gambler, and had been losing over-heavily of late; and the League of the
Scarlet Pimpernel demanded sacrifices of money at times from its
members, as well as of life if the need arose. Others averred that
jealousy against the chief had outweighed Kulmsted's honesty. Certain it
is that his oath of fealty to the League had long ago been broken in the
spirit. Treachery hovered in the air.
But the Scarlet Pimpernel himself, with that indomitable optimism of
his, and almost maddening insouciance, either did not believe in
Kulmsted's disloyalty or chose not to heed it.
He even asked him to join the present expedition--one of the most
dangerous undertaken by the League for some time, and which had for its
object the rescue of some women of the late unfortunate Marie
Antoinette's household: maids and faithful servants, ruthlessly
condemned to die for their tender adherence to a martyred queen. And yet
eighteen pairs of faithful lips had murmured words of warning.
It was towards the end of November, 1793. The rain was beating down in a
monotonous drip, drip, drip on to the roof of a derelict house in the
Rue Berthier. The wan light of a cold winter's morning peeped in through
the curtainless window and touched with its weird grey brush the pallid
face of a young girl--a mere child--who sat in a dejected attitude on a
rickety chair, with elbows leaning on the rough deal table before her,
and thin, grimy fingers wandering with pathetic futility to her tearful
eyes.
In the farther angle of the room a tall figure in dark clothes was made
one, by the still lingering gloom, with the dense shadows beyond.
"We have starved," said the girl, with rebellious tears. "Father and I
and the boys are miserable enough, God knows; but we have always been
honest."
From out the shadows in that dark corner of the room there came the
sound of an oath quickly suppressed.
"Honest!" exclaimed the man, with a harsh, mocking laugh, which made the
girl wince as if with physical pain. "Is it honest to harbour the
enemies of your country? Is it honest---"
But quickly he checked himself, biting his lips with vexation, feeling
that his present tactics were not like to gain the day.
He came out of the gloom and approached the girl with every outward sign
of eagerness. He knelt on the dusty floor beside her, his arms stole
round her meagre shoulders, and his harsh voice was subdued to tones of
gentleness.
"I was only thinking of your happiness, Yvonne," he said tenderly; "of
poor blind papa and the two boys to whom you have been such a devoted
little mother. My only desire is that you should earn the gratitude of
your country by denouncing her most bitter enemy--an act of patriotism
which will place you and those for whom you care for ever beyond the
reach of sorrow or of want."
The voice, the appeal, the look of love, was more than the poor, simple
girl could resist. Milor was so handsome, so kind, so good.
It had all been so strange: these English aristocrats coming here, she
knew not whence, and who seemed fugitives even though they had plenty of
money to spend. Two days ago they had sought shelter like malefactors
escaped from justice--in this same tumbledown, derelict house where she,
Yvonne, with her blind father and two little brothers, crept in of
nights, or when the weather was too rough for them all to stand and beg
in the streets of Paris.
There were five of them altogether, and one seemed to be the chief. He
was very tall, and had deep blue eyes, and a merry voice that went
echoing along the worm-eaten old rafters. But milor--the one whose arms
were encircling her even now--was the handsomest among them all. He had
sought Yvonne out on the very first night when she had crawled shivering
to that corner of the room where she usually slept.
The English aristocrats had frightened her at first, and she was for
flying from the derelict house with her family and seeking shelter
elsewhere; but he who appeared to be the chief had quickly reassured
her. He seemed so kind and good, and talked so gently to blind papa, and
made such merry jests with Francois and Clovis that she herself could
scarce refrain from laughing through her tears.
But later on in the night, milor--her milor, as she soon got to call
him--came and talked so beautifully that she, poor girl, felt as if no
music could ever sound quite so sweetly in her ear.
That was two days ago, and since then milor had often talked to her in
the lonely, abandoned house, and Yvonne had felt as if she dwelt in
Heaven. She still took blind papa and the boys out to beg in the
streets, but in the morning she prepared some hot coffee for the English
aristocrats, and in the evening she cooked them some broth. Oh! they
gave her money lavishly; but she quite understood that they were in
hiding, though what they had to fear, being English, she could not
understand.
And now milor--her milor--was telling her that these Englishmen, her
friends, were spies and traitors, and that it was her duty to tell
citizen Robespierre and the Committee of Public Safety all about them
and their mysterious doings. And poor Yvonne was greatly puzzled and
deeply distressed, because, of course, whatever milor said, that was the
truth; and yet her conscience cried out within her poor little bosom,
and the thought of betraying those kind Englishmen was horrible to her.
"Yvonne," whispered milor in that endearing voice of his, which was like
the loveliest music in her ear, "my little Yvonne, you do trust me, do
you not?"
"With all my heart, milor," she murmured fervently.
"Then, would you believe it of me that I would betray a real friend?"
"I believe, milor, that whatever you do is right and good."
A sigh of infinite relief escaped his lips.
"Come, that's better!" he said, patting her cheek kindly with his hand.
"Now, listen to me, little one. He who is the chief among us here is the
most unscrupulous and daring rascal whom the world has ever known. He it
is who is called the 'Scarlet Pimpernel!'"
"The Scarlet Pimpernel!" murmured Yvonne, her eyes dilated with
superstitious awe, for she too had heard of the mysterious Englishman
and of his followers, who rescued aristocrats and traitors from the
death to which the tribunal of the people had justly condemned them, and
on whom the mighty hand of the Committee of Public Safety had never yet
been able to fall.
"This Scarlet Pimpernel," said milor earnestly after a while, "is also
mine own most relentless enemy. With lies and promises he induced me to
join him in his work of spying and of treachery, forcing me to do this
work against which my whole soul rebels. You can save me from this hated
bondage, little one. You can make me free to live again, make me free to
love and place my love at your feet."
His voice had become exquisitely tender, and his lips, as he whispered
the heavenly words, were quite close to her ear. He, a great gentleman,
loved the miserable little waif whose kindred consisted of a blind
father and two half-starved little brothers, and whose only home was
this miserable hovel, whence milor's graciousness and bounty would soon
take her.
Do you think that Yvonne's sense of right and wrong, of honesty and
treachery, should have been keener than that primeval instinct of a
simple-hearted woman to throw herself trustingly into the arms of the
man who has succeeded in winning her love?
Yvonne, subdued, enchanted, murmured still through her tears:
"What would milor have me do?"
Lord Kulmsted rose from his knees satisfied.
"Listen to me, Yvonne," he said. "You are acquainted with the
Englishman's plans, are you not?"
"Of course," she replied simply. "He has had to trust me."
"Then you know that at sundown this afternoon I and the three others are
to leave for Courbevoie on foot, where we are to obtain what horses we
can whilst awaiting the chief."
"I did not know whither you and the other three gentlemen were going,
milor," she replied; "but I did know that some of you were to make a
start at four o'clock, whilst I was to wait here for your leader and
prepare some supper against his coming."
"At what time did he tell you that he would come?"
"He did not say; but he did tell me that when he returns he will have
friends with him--a lady and two little children. They will be hungry
and cold. I believe that they are in great danger now, and that the
brave English gentleman means to take them away from this awful Paris to
a place of safety."
"The brave English gentleman, my dear," retorted milor, with a sneer,
"is bent on some horrible work of spying. The lady and the two children
are, no doubt, innocent tools in his hands, just as I am, and when he no
longer needs them he will deliver them over to the Committee of Public
Safety, who will, of a surety, condemn them to death. That will also be
my fate, Yvonne, unless you help me now."
"Oh, no, no!" she exclaimed fervently. "Tell me what to do, milor, and I
will do it."
"At sundown," he said, sinking his voice so low that even she could
scarcely hear, "when I and the three others have started on our way, go
straight to the house I spoke to you about in the Rue Dauphine--you know
where it is?"
"Oh, yes, milor."
"You will know the house by its tumbledown portico and the tattered red
flag that surmounts it. Once there, push the door open and walk in
boldly. Then ask to speak with citizen Robespierre."
"Robespierre?" exclaimed the child in terror.
"You must not be afraid, Yvonne," he said earnestly; "you must think of
me and of what you are doing for me. My word on it--Robespierre will
listen to you most kindly."
"What shall I tell him?" she murmured.
"That a mysterious party of Englishmen are in hiding in this house--that
their chief is known among them as the Scarlet Pimpernel. The rest leave
to Robespierre's discretion. You see how simple it is?"
It was indeed very simple! Nor did the child recoil any longer from the
ugly task which milor, with suave speech and tender voice, was so
ardently seeking to impose on her.
A few more words of love, which cost him nothing, a few kisses which
cost him still less, since the wench loved him, and since she was young
and pretty, and Yvonne was as wax in the hands of the traitor.