During the journey Marguerite had not much leisure to think. The
discomforts and petty miseries incidental on cheap travelling had
the very welcome effect of making her forget, for the time being, the
soul-rendering crisis through which she was now passing.
For, of necessity, she had to travel at the cheap rate, among the crowd
of poorer passengers who were herded aft the packet boat, leaning up
against one another, sitting on bundles and packages of all kinds; that
part of the deck, reeking with the smell of tar and sea-water, damp,
squally and stuffy, was an abomination of hideous discomfort to
the dainty, fastidious lady of fashion, yet she almost welcomed the
intolerable propinquity, the cold douches of salt water, which every now
and then wetted her through and through, for it was the consequent
sense of physical wretchedness that helped her to forget the intolerable
anguish of her mind.
And among these poorer travellers she felt secure from observation. No
one took much notice of her. She looked just like one of the herd, and
in the huddled-up little figure, in the dark bedraggled clothes, no
one would for a moment have recognized the dazzling personality of Lady
Blakeney.
Drawing her hood well over her head, she sat in a secluded corner of the
deck, upon the little black valise which contained the few belongings
she had brought with her. Her cloak and dress, now mud-stained and dank
with splashings of salt-water, attracted no one's attention. There was
a keen northeasterly breeze, cold and penetrating, but favourable to a
rapid crossing. Marguerite, who had gone through several hours of
weary travelling by coach, before she had embarked at Dover in the late
afternoon, was unspeakably tired. She had watched the golden sunset
out at sea until her eyes were burning with pain, and as the dazzling
crimson and orange and purple gave place to the soft grey tones of
evening, she descried the round cupola of the church of Our Lady of
Boulogne against the dull background of the sky.
After that her mind became a blank. A sort of torpor fell over her
sense: she was wakeful and yet half-asleep, unconscious of everything
around her, seeing nothing but the distant massive towers of old
Boulogne churches gradually detaching themselves one by one from out the
fast gathering gloom.
The town seemed like a dream city, a creation of some morbid
imagination, presented to her mind's eye as the city of sorrow and
death.
When the boat finally scraped her sides along the rough wooden jetty,
Marguerite felt as if she were forcibly awakened. She was numb and stiff
and thought she must have fallen asleep during the last half hour of the
journey. Everything round her was dark. The sky was overcast, and the
night seemed unusually sombre. Figures were moving all around her, there
was noise and confusion of voices, and a general pushing and shouting
which seemed strangely weird in this gloom. Here among the poorer
passengers, there had not been thought any necessity for a light, one
solitary lantern fixed to a mast only enhanced the intense blackness of
everything around. Now and then a face would come within range of this
meagre streak of yellow light, looking strangely distorted, with
great, elongated shadows across the brow and chin, a grotesque, ghostly
apparition which quickly vanished again, scurrying off like some
frightened gnome, giving place other forms, other figures all equally
grotesque and equally weird.
Marguerite watched them all half stupidly and motionlessly for awhile.
She did not quite know what she ought to do, and did not like to ask any
questions: she was dazed and the darkness blinded her. Then gradually
things began to detach themselves more clearly. On looking straight
before her, she began to discern the landing place, the little wooden
bridge across which the passengers walked one by one from the boat onto
the jetty. The first-class passengers were evidently all alighting now:
the crowd of which Marguerite formed a unit, had been pushed back in a
more compact herd, out of the way for the moment, so that their betters
might get along more comfortably.
Beyond the landing stage a little booth had been erected, a kind of
tent, open in front and lighted up within by a couple of lanthorns.
Under this tent there was a table, behind which sat a man dressed in
some sort of official looking clothes, and wearing the tricolour scarf
across his chest.
All the passengers from the boat had apparently to file past this tent.
Marguerite could see them now quite distinctly, the profiles of the
various faces, as they paused for a moment in front of the table, being
brilliantly illuminated by one of the lanterns. Two sentinels wearing
the uniform of the National Guard stood each side of the table. The
passengers one by one took out their passport as they went by, handed
it to the man in the official dress, who examined it carefully, very
lengthily, then signed it and returned the paper to its owner: but at
times, he appeared doubtful, folded the passport and put it down in
front of him: the passenger would protest; Marguerite could not hear
what was said, but she could see that some argument was attempted,
quickly dismissed by a peremptory order from the official. The doubtful
passport was obviously put on one side for further examination, and the
unfortunate owner thereof detained, until he or she had been able
to give more satisfactory references to the representatives of the
Committee of Public Safety, stationed at Boulogne.
This process of examination necessarily took a long time. Marguerite
was getting horribly tired, her feet ached and she scarcely could hold
herself upright: yet she watched all these people mechanically, making
absurd little guesses in her weary mind as to whose passport would find
favour in the eyes of the official, and whose would be found suspect and
inadequate.
Suspect! a terrible word these times! since Merlin's terrible law
decreed now that every man, woman or child, who was suspected by the
Republic of being a traitor was a traitor in fact.
How sorry she felt for those whose passports were detained: who tried
to argue--so needlessly!--and who were finally led off by a soldier,
who had stepped out from somewhere in the dark, and had to await further
examination, probably imprisonment and often death.
As to herself, she felt quite safe: the passport given to her by
Chauvelin's own accomplice was sure to be quite en regle.
Then suddenly her heart seemed to give a sudden leap and then to stop in
its beating for a second or two. In one of the passengers, a man who
was just passing in front of the tent, she had recognized the form and
profile of Chauvelin.
He had no passport to show, but evidently the official knew who he
was, for he stood up and saluted, and listened deferentially whilst
the ex-ambassador apparently gave him a few instructions. It seemed to
Marguerite that these instructions related to two women who were close
behind Chauvelin at the time, and who presently seemed to file past
without going through the usual formalities of showing their passports.
But of this she could not be quite sure. The women were closely hooded
and veiled and her own attention had been completely absorbed by this
sudden appearance of her deadly enemy.
Yet what more natural than that Chauvelin should be here now? His object
accomplished, he had no doubt posted to Dover, just as she had done.
There was no difficulty in that, and a man of his type and importance
would always have unlimited means and money at his command to accomplish
any journey he might desire to undertake.
There was nothing strange or even unexpected in the man's presence here;
and yet somehow it had made the whole, awful reality more tangible, more
wholly unforgettable. Marguerite remembered his abject words to her,
when first she had seen him at the Richmond fete: he said that he
had fallen into disgrace, that, having failed in his service to the
Republic, he had been relegated to a subordinate position, pushed aside
with contumely to make room for better, abler men.
Well! all that was a lie, of course, a cunning method of gaining access
into her house; of that she had already been convinced, when Candeille
provoked the esclandre which led to the challenge.
That on French soil he seemed in anything but a subsidiary position,
that he appeared to rule rather than to obey, could in no way appear to
Marguerite in the nature of surprise.
As the actress had been a willing tool in the cunning hands of
Chauvelin, so were probably all these people around her. Where others
cringed in the face of officialism, the ex-ambassador had stepped forth
as a master: he had shown a badge, spoken a word mayhap, and the man in
the tent who had made other people tremble, stood up deferentially and
obeyed all commands.
It was all very simple and very obvious: but Marguerite's mind had been
asleep, and it was the sight of the sable-clad little figure which had
roused it from its happy torpor.
In a moment now her brain was active and alert, and presently it seemed
to her as if another figure--taller than those around--had crossed the
barrier immediately in the wake of Chauvelin. Then she chided herself
for her fancies!
It could not be her husband. Not yet! He had gone by water, and would
scarce be in Boulogne before the morning!
Ah! now at last came the turn of the second-class passengers! There was
a general bousculade and the human bundle began to move. Marguerite lost
sight of the tent and its awe-inspiring appurtenances: she was a mere
unit again in this herd on the move. She too progressed along slowly,
one step at a time; it was wearisome and she was deadly tired. She was
beginning to form plans now that she had arrived in France. All along
she had made up her mind that she would begin by seeking out the Abbe
Foucquet, for he would prove a link 'twixt her husband and herself. She
knew that Percy would communicate with the abbe; had he not told
her that the rescue of the devoted old man from the clutches of the
Terrorists would be one of the chief objects of his journey? It had
never occurred to her what she would do if she found the Abbe Foucquet
gone from Boulogne.
“He! la mere! your passport!”
The rough words roused her from her meditations. She had moved forward,
quite mechanically, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts not following the
aim of her feet. Thus she must have crossed the bridge along with some
of the crowd, must have landed on the jetty, and reached the front of
the tent, without really knowing what she was doing.
Ah yes! her passport! She had quite forgotten that! But she had it
by her, quite in order, given to her in a fit of tardy remorse by
Demoiselle Candeille, the intimate friend of one of the most influential
members of the Revolutionary Government of France.
She took the passport from the bosom of her dress and handed it to the
man in the official dress.
“Your name?” he asked peremptorily.
“Celine Dumont,” she replied unhesitatingly, for had she not rehearsed
all this in her mind dozens of times, until her tongue could rattle off
the borrowed name as easily as it could her own; “servitor to Citizeness
Desiree Candeille!”
The man who had very carefully been examining the paper the while,
placed it down on the table deliberately in front of him, and said:
“Celine Dumont! Eh! la mere! what tricks are you up to now?”
“Tricks? I don't understand!” she said quietly, for she was not afraid.
The passport was en regle: she knew she had nothing to fear.
“Oh! but I think you do!” retorted the official with a sneer, “and
'tis a mighty clever one, I'll allow. Celine Dumont, ma foi! Not badly
imagined, ma petite mere: and all would have passed off splendidly;
unfortunately, Celine Dumont, servitor to Citizeness Desiree Candeille,
passed through these barriers along with her mistress not half an hour
ago.”
And with long, grimy finger he pointed to an entry in the large book
which lay open before him, and wherein he had apparently been busy
making notes of the various passengers who had filed past him.
Then he looked up with a triumphant leer at the calm face of Marguerite.
She still did not feel really frightened, only puzzled and perturbed;
but all the blood had rushed away from her face, leaving her cheeks
ashen white, and pressing against her heart, until it almost choked her.
“You are making a mistake, Citizen,” she said very quietly. “I am
Citizeness Candeille's maid. She gave me the passport herself, just
before I left for England; if you will ask her the question, she will
confirm what I say, and she assured me that it was quite en regle.”
But the man only shrugged his shoulders and laughed derisively. The
incident evidently amused him, yet he must have seen many of the same
sort; in the far corner of the tent Marguerite seemed to discern a few
moving forms, soldiers, she thought, for she caught sight of a glint
like that of steel. One or two men stood close behind the official at
the desk, and the sentinels were to the right and left of the tent.
With an instinctive sense of appeal, Marguerite looked round from one
face to the other: but each looked absolutely impassive and stolid,
quite uninterested in this little scene, the exact counterpart of a
dozen others, enacted on this very spot within the last hour.
“He! la! la! petite mere!” said the official in the same tone of easy
persiflage which he had adopted all along, “but we do know how to
concoct a pretty lie, aye! and so circumstantially too! Unfortunately
it was Citizeness Desiree Candeille herself who happened to be standing
just where you are at the present moment, along with her maid, Celine
Dumont, both of whom were specially signed for and recommended as
perfectly trustworthy, by no less a person than Citoyen Chauvelin of the
Committee of Public Safety.”
“But I assure you that there is a mistake,” pleaded Marguerite
earnestly, “'Tis the other woman who lied, I have my passport and...”
“A truce on this,” retorted the man peremptorily. “If everything is
as you say, and if you have nothing to hide, you'll be at liberty to
continue your journey to-morrow, after you have explained yourself
before the citizen governor. Next one now, quick!”
Marguerite tried another protest, just as those others had done, whom
she had watched so mechanically before. But already she knew that that
would be useless, for she had felt that a heavy hand was being placed on
her shoulder, and that she was being roughly led away.
In a flash she had understood and seen the whole sequel of the awful
trap which had all along been destined to engulf her as well as her
husband.
What a clumsy, blind fool she had been!
What a miserable antagonist the subtle schemes of a past master of
intrigue as was Chauvelin. To have enticed the Scarlet Pimpernel to
France was a great thing! The challenge was clever, the acceptance of
it by the bold adventurer a forgone conclusion, but the master stroke of
the whole plan was done, when she, the wife, was enticed over too with
the story of Candeille's remorse and the offer of the passport.
Fool! fool that she was!
And how well did Chauvelin know feminine nature! How cleverly he had
divined her thoughts, her feelings, the impulsive way in which she would
act; how easily he had guessed that, knowing her husband's danger, she,
Marguerite, would immediately follow him.
Now the trap had closed on her--and she saw it all, when it was too
late.
Percy Blakeney in France! His wife a prisoner! Her freedom and safety in
exchange for his life!
The hopelessness of it all struck her with appalling force, and her
senses reeled with the awful finality of the disaster.
Yet instinct in her still struggled for freedom. Ahead of her, and all
around, beyond the tent and in the far distance there was a provocative
alluring darkness: if she only could get away, only could reach the
shelter of that remote and sombre distance, she would hide, and wait,
not blunder again, oh no! she would be prudent and wary, if only she
could get away!
One woman's struggles, against five men! It was pitiable, sublime,
absolutely useless.
The man in the tent seemed to be watching her with much amusement for a
moment or two, as her whole graceful body stiffened for that absurd and
unequal physical contest. He seemed vastly entertained at the sight of
this good-looking young woman striving to pit her strength against five
sturdy soldiers of the Republic.
“Allons! that will do now!” he said at last roughly. “We have no time
to waste! Get the jade away, and let her cool her temper in No. 6, until
the citizen governor gives further orders.
“Take her away!” he shouted more loudly, banging a grimy fist down on
the table before him, as Marguerite still struggled on with the blind
madness of despair. “Pardi! can none of you rid us of that turbulent
baggage?”
The crowd behind were pushing forward: the guard within the tent were
jeering at those who were striving to drag Marguerite away: these latter
were cursing loudly and volubly, until one of them, tired out, furious
and brutal, raised his heavy fist and with an obscene oath brought it
crashing down upon the unfortunate woman's head.
Perhaps, though it was the work of a savage and cruel creature, the blow
proved more merciful than it had been intended: it had caught Marguerite
full between the eyes; her aching senses, wearied and reeling already,
gave way beneath this terrible violence; her useless struggles ceased,
her arms fell inert by her side: and losing consciousness completely,
her proud, unbendable spirit was spared the humiliating knowledge of her
final removal by the rough soldiers, and of the complete wreckage of her
last, lingering hopes.