Chauvelin heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction when Collot d'Herbois
finally left him to himself. He listened for awhile until the heavy
footsteps died away in the distance, then leaning back in his chair, he
gave himself over to the delights of the present situation.
Marguerite in his power. Sir Percy Blakeney compelled to treat for her
rescue if he did not wish to see her die a miserable death.
“Aye! my elusive hero,” he muttered to himself, “methinks that we shall
be able to cry quits at last.”
Outside everything had become still. Even the wind in the trees out
there on the ramparts had ceased their melancholy moaning. The man was
alone with his thoughts. He felt secure and at peace, sure of victory,
content to await the events of the next twenty-four hours. The other
side of the door the guard which he had picked out from amongst the more
feeble and ill-fed garrison of the little city for attendance on his own
person were ranged ready to respond to his call.
“Dishonour and ridicule! Derision and scorn!” he murmured, gloating
over the very sound of these words, which expressed all that he hoped to
accomplish, “utter abjections, then perhaps a suicide's grave...”
He loved the silence around him, for he could murmur these words and
hear them echoing against the bare stone walls like the whisperings of
all the spirits of hate which were waiting to lend him their aid.
How long he had remained thus absorbed in his meditations, he could not
afterwards have said; a minute or two perhaps at most, whilst he leaned
back in his chair with eyes closed, savouring the sweets of his own
thoughts, when suddenly the silence was interrupted by a loud and
pleasant laugh and a drawly voice speaking in merry accents:
“The lud live you, Monsieur Chaubertin, and pray how do you propose to
accomplish all these pleasant things?”
In a moment Chauvelin was on his feet and with eyes dilated, lips parted
in awed bewilderment, he was gazing towards the open window, where
astride upon the sill, one leg inside the room, the other out, and with
the moon shining full on his suit of delicate-coloured cloth, his wide
caped coat and elegant chapeau-bras, sat the imperturbable Sir Percy.
“I heard you muttering such pleasant words, Monsieur,” continued
Blakeney calmly, “that the temptation seized me to join in the
conversation. A man talking to himself is ever in a sorry plight... he
is either a mad man or a fool...”
He laughed his own quaint and inane laugh and added apologetically:
“Far be if from me, sir, to apply either epithet to you... demmed bad
form calling another fellow names... just when he does not quite feel
himself, eh?... You don't feel quite yourself, I fancy just now... eh,
Monsieur Chaubertin... er... beg pardon, Chauvelin...”
He sat there quite comfortably, one slender hand resting on the
gracefully-fashioned hilt of his sword--the sword of Lorenzo Cenci,--the
other holding up the gold-rimed eyeglass through which he was regarding
his avowed enemy; he was dressed as for a ball, and his perpetually
amiable smile lurked round the corners of his firm lips.
Chauvelin had undoubtedly for the moment lost his presence of mind. He
did not even think of calling to his picked guard, so completely taken
aback was he by this unforeseen move on the part of Sir Percy. Yet,
obviously, he should have been ready for this eventuality. Had he not
caused the town-crier to loudly proclaim throughout the city that if
ONE female prisoner escaped from Fort Gayole the entire able-bodied
population of Boulogne would suffer?
The moment Sir Percy entered the gates of the town, he could not help
but hear the proclamation, and hear at the same time that this one
female prisoner who was so precious a charge, was the wife of the
English spy: the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Moreover, was it not a fact that whenever or wherever the Scarlet
Pimpernel was least expected there and then would he surely appear?
Having once realized that it was his wife who was incarcerated in Fort
Gayole, was it not natural that he would go and prowl around the prison,
and along the avenue on the summit of the southern ramparts, which was
accessible to every passer-by? No doubt he had lain in hiding among
the trees, had perhaps caught snatches of Chauvelin's recent talk with
Collot.
Aye! it was all so natural, so simple! Strange that it should have been
so unexpected!
Furious at himself for his momentary stupor, he now made a vigorous
effort to face his impudent enemy with the same sang-froid of which the
latter had so inexhaustible a fund.
He walked quietly towards the window, compelling his nerves to perfect
calm and his mood to indifference. The situation had ceased to astonish
him; already his keen mind had seen its possibilities, its grimness and
its humour, and he was quite prepared to enjoy these to the full.
Sir Percy now was dusting the sleeve of his coat with a lace-edged
handkerchief, but just as Chauvelin was about to come near him, he
stretched out one leg, turning the point of a dainty boot towards the
ex-ambassador.
“Would you like to take hold of me by the leg, Monsieur Chaubertin?” he
said gaily. “'Tis more effectual than a shoulder, and your picked guard
of six stalwart fellows can have the other leg.... Nay! I pray you,
sir, do not look at me like that.... I vow that it is myself and not my
ghost.... But if you still doubt me, I pray you call the guard... ere I
fly out again towards that fitful moon...”
“Nay, Sir Percy,” said Chauvelin, with a steady voice, “I have no
thought that you will take flight just yet.... Methinks you desire
conversation with me, or you had not paid me so unexpected a visit.”
“Nay, sir, the air is too oppressive for lengthy conversation... I was
strolling along these ramparts, thinking of our pleasant encounter at
the hour of the Angelus to-morrow... when this light attracted me....
feared I had lost my way and climbed the window to obtain information.”
“As to your way to the nearest prison cell, Sir Percy?” queried
Chauvelin drily.
“As to anywhere, where I could sit more comfortably than on this demmed
sill.... It must be very dusty, and I vow 'tis terribly hard...”
“I presume, Sir Percy, that you did my colleague and myself the honour
of listening to our conversation?”
“An you desired to talk secrets, Monsieur... er... Chaubertin... you
should have shut this window... and closed this avenue of trees against
the chance passer-by.”
“What we said was no secret, Sir Percy. It is all over the town
to-night.”
“Quite so... you were only telling the devil your mind... eh?”
“I had also been having conversation with Lady Blakeney.... Pray did you
hear any of that, sir?”
But Sir Percy had evidently not heard the question, for he seemed quite
absorbed in the task of removing a speck of dust from his immaculate
chapeau-bras.
“These hats are all the rage in England just now,” he said airily, “but
they have had their day, do you not think so, Monsieur? When I return
to town, I shall have to devote my whole mind to the invention of a new
headgear...”
“When will you return to England, Sir Percy?” queried Chauvelin with
good-natured sarcasm.
“At the turn of the tide to-morrow eve, Monsieur,” replied Blakeney.
“In company with Lady Blakeney?”
“Certainly, sir... and yours if you will honour us with your company.”
“If you return to England to-morrow, Sir Percy, Lady Blakeney, I fear
me, cannot accompany you.”
“You astonish me, sir,” rejoined Blakeney with an exclamation of genuine
and unaffected surprise. “I wonder now what would prevent her?”
“All those whose death would be the result of her flight, if she
succeeded in escaping from Boulogne...”
But Sir Percy was staring at him, with wide open eyes expressive of
utmost amazement.
“Dear, dear, dear.... Lud! but that sounds most unfortunate...”
“You have not heard of the measures which I have taken to prevent Lady
Blakeney quitting this city without our leave?”
“No, Monsieur Chaubertin... no... I have heard nothing...” rejoined Sir
Percy blandly. “I lead a very retired life when I come abroad and...”
“Would you wish to hear them now?”
“Quite unnecessary, sir, I assure you... and the hour is getting
late...”
“Sir Percy, are you aware of the fact that unless you listen to what I
have to say, your wife will be dragged before the Committee of Public
Safety in Paris within the next twenty-four hours?” said Chauvelin
firmly.
“What swift horses you must have, sir,” quoth Blakeney pleasantly. “Lud!
to think of it!... I always heard that these demmed French horses would
never beat ours across country.”
But Chauvelin now would not allow himself to be ruffled by Sir Percy's
apparent indifference. Keen reader of emotions as he was, he had
not failed to note a distinct change in the drawly voice, a sound
of something hard and trenchant in the flippant laugh, ever since
Marguerite's name was first mentioned. Blakeney's attitude was
apparently as careless, as audacious as before, but Chauvelin's keen
eyes had not missed the almost imperceptible tightening of the jaw and
the rapid clenching of one hand on the sword hilt even whilst the other
toyed in graceful idleness with the filmy Mechlin lace cravat.
Sir Percy's head was well thrown back, and the pale rays of the moon
caught the edge of the clear-cut profile, the low massive brow, the
drooping lids through which the audacious plotter was lazily regarding
the man who held not only his own life, but that of the woman who was
infinitely dear to him, in the hollow of his hand.
“I am afraid, Sir Percy,” continued Chauvelin drily, “that you are under
the impression that bolts and bars will yield to your usual good luck,
now that so precious a life is at stake as that of Lady Blakeney.”
“I am a greater believer in impressions, Monsieur Chauvelin.”
“I told her just now that if she quitted Boulogne ere the Scarlet
Pimpernel is in our hands, we should summarily shoot one member of every
family in the town--the bread-winner.”
“A pleasant conceit, Monsieur... and one that does infinite credit to
your inventive faculties.”
“Lady Blakeney, therefore, we hold safely enough,” continued Chauvelin,
who no longer heeded the mocking observations of his enemy; “as for the
Scarlet Pimpernel...”
“You have but to ring a bell, to raise a voice, and he too will be under
lock and key within the next two minutes, eh?... Passons, Monsieur...
you are dying to say something further... I pray you proceed... your
engaging countenance is becoming quite interesting in its seriousness.”
“What I wish to say to you, Sir Percy, is in the nature of a proposed
bargain.”
“Indeed?... Monsieur, you are full of surprises... like a pretty
woman.... And pray what are the terms of this proposed bargain?”
“Your side of the bargain, Sir Percy, or mine? Which will you hear
first?”
“Oh yours, Monsieur... yours, I pray you.... Have I not said that you
are like a pretty woman?... Place aux dames, sir! always!”
“My share of the bargain, sir, is simple enough: Lady Blakeney, escorted
by yourself and any of your friends who might be in this city at
the time, shall leave Boulogne harbour at sunset to-morrow, free and
unmolested, if you on the other hand will do your share...”
“I don't yet know what my share in this interesting bargain is to be,
sir... but for the sake of argument let us suppose that I do not carry
it out.... What then?...”
“Then, Sir Percy... putting aside for the moment the question of the
Scarlet Pimpernel altogether... then, Lady Blakeney will be taken to
Paris, and will be incarcerated in the prison of the Temple lately
vacated by Marie Antoinette--there she will be treated in exactly the
same way as the ex-queen is now being treated in the Conciergerie.... Do
you know what that means, Sir Percy?... It does not mean a summary trial
and a speedy death, with the halo and glory of martyrdom thrown in... it
means days, weeks, nay, months, perhaps, of misery and humiliation...
it means, that like Marie Antoinette, she will never be allowed solitude
for one single instant of the day or night... it means the constant
proximity of soldiers, drunk with cruelty and with hate... the insults,
the shame...”
“You hound!... you dog!... you cur!... do you not see that I must
strangle you for this!...”
The attack had been so sudden and so violent that Chauvelin had not the
time to utter the slightest call for help. But a second ago, Sir Percy
Blakeney had been sitting on the window-sill, outwardly listening with
perfect calm to what his enemy had to say; now he was at the latter's
throat, pressing with long and slender hands the breath out of the
Frenchman's body, his usually placid face distorted into a mask of hate.
“You cur!... you cur!...” he repeated, “am I to kill you or will you
unsay those words?”
Then suddenly he relaxed his grip. The habits of a lifetime would not
be gainsaid even now. A second ago his face had been livid with rage
and hate, now a quick flush overspread it, as if he were ashamed of this
loss of self-control. He threw the little Frenchman away from him like
he would a beast which had snarled, and passed his hand across his brow.
“Lud forgive me!” he said quaintly, “I had almost lost my temper.”
Chauvelin was not slow in recovering himself. He was plucky and alert,
and his hatred for this man was so great that he had actually ceased to
fear him. Now he quietly readjusted his cravat, made a vigorous effort
to re-conquer his breath, and said firmly as soon as he could contrive
to speak at all:
“And if you did strangle me, Sir Percy, you would do yourself no
good. The fate which I have mapped out for Lady Blakeney, would then
irrevocably be hers, for she is in our power and none of my colleagues
are disposed to offer you a means of saving her from it, as I am ready
to do.”
Blakeney was now standing in the middle of the room, with his hands
buried in the pockets of his breeches, his manner and attitude once more
calm, debonnair, expressive of lofty self-possession and of absolute
indifference. He came quite close to the meagre little figure of his
exultant enemy, thereby forcing the latter to look up at him.
“Oh!... ah!... yes!” he said airily, “I had nigh forgotten... you were
talking of a bargain... my share of it... eh?... Is it me you want?...
Do you wish to see me in your Paris prisons?... I assure you, sir, that
the propinquity of drunken soldiers may disgust me, but it would in no
way disturb the equanimity of my temper.”
“I am quite sure of that, Sir Percy--and I can but repeat what I had the
honour of saying to Lady Blakeney just now--I do not desire the death of
so accomplished a gentleman as yourself.”
“Strange, Monsieur,” retorted Blakeney, with a return of his accustomed
flippancy. “Now I do desire your death very strongly indeed--there would
be so much less vermin on the face of the earth.... But pardon me--I was
interrupting you.... Will you be so kind as to proceed?”
Chauvelin had not winced at the insult. His enemy's attitude now left
him completely indifferent. He had seen that self-possessed man of
the world, that dainty and fastidious dandy, in the throes of an
overmastering passion. He had very nearly paid with his life for the
joy of having roused that supercilious and dormant lion. In fact he was
ready to welcome any insults from Sir Percy Blakeney now, since these
would be only additional evidences that the Englishman's temper was not
yet under control.
“I will try to be brief, Sir Percy,” he said, setting himself the
task of imitating his antagonist's affected manner. “Will you not sit
down?... We must try and discuss these matters like two men of the
world.... As for me, I am always happiest beside a board littered with
papers.... I am not an athlete, Sir Percy... and serve my country with
my pen rather than with my fists.”
Whilst he spoke he had reached the table and once more took the chair
whereon he had been sitting lately, when he dreamed the dreams which
were so near realization now. He pointed with a graceful gesture to the
other vacant chair, which Blakeney took without a word.
“Ah!” said Chauvelin with a sigh of satisfaction, “I see that we are
about to understand one another.... I have always felt it was a pity,
Sir Percy, that you and I could not discuss certain matters pleasantly
with one another.... Now, about this unfortunate incident of Lady
Blakeney's incarceration, I would like you to believe that I had no part
in the arrangements which have been made for her detention in Paris. My
colleagues have arranged it all... and I have vainly tried to protest
against the rigorous measures which are to be enforced against her in
the Temple prison.... But these are answering so completely in the
case of the ex-queen, they have so completely broken her spirit and her
pride, that my colleagues felt that they would prove equally useful in
order to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel--through his wife--to an humbler
frame of mind.”
He paused a moment, distinctly pleased with his peroration, satisfied
that his voice had been without a tremor and his face impassive, and
wondering what effect this somewhat lengthy preamble had upon Sir
Percy, who through it all had remained singularly quiet. Chauvelin was
preparing himself for the next effect which he hoped to produce, and
was vaguely seeking for the best words with which to fully express his
meaning, when he was suddenly startled by a sound as unexpected as it
was disconcerting.
It was the sound of a loud and prolonged snore. He pushed the candle
aside, which somewhat obstructed his line of vision, and casting a rapid
glance at the enemy, with whose life he was toying even as a cat doth
with that of a mouse, he saw that the aforesaid mouse was calmly and
unmistakably asleep.
An impatient oath escaped Chauvelin's lips, and he brought his fist
heavily down on the table, making the metal candlesticks rattle and
causing Sir Percy to open one sleepy eye.
“A thousand pardons, sir,” said Blakeney with a slight yawn. “I am so
demmed fatigued, and your preface was unduly long.... Beastly bad form,
I know, going to sleep during a sermon... but I haven't had a wink of
sleep all day.... I pray you to excuse me...”
“Will you condescend to listen, Sir Percy?” queried Chauvelin
peremptorily, “or shall I call the guard and give up all thoughts of
treating with you?”
“Just whichever you demmed well prefer, sir,” rejoined Blakeney
impatiently.
And once more stretching out his long limbs, he buried his hands in
the pockets of his breeches and apparently prepared himself for another
quiet sleep. Chauvelin looked at him for a moment, vaguely wondering
what to do next. He felt strangely irritated at what he firmly believed
was mere affectation on Blakeney's part, and although he was burning
with impatience to place the terms of the proposed bargain before this
man, yet he would have preferred to be interrogated, to deliver his
“either-or” with becoming sternness and decision, rather than to take
the initiative in this discussion, where he should have been calm and
indifferent, whilst his enemy should have been nervous and disturbed.
Sir Percy's attitude had disconcerted him, a touch of the grotesque had
been given to what should have been a tense moment, and it was terribly
galling to the pride of the ex-diplomatist that with this elusive
enemy and in spite of his own preparedness for any eventuality, it was
invariably the unforeseen that happened.
After a moment's reflection, however, he decided upon a fresh course of
action. He rose and crossed the room, keeping as much as possible an eye
upon Sir Percy, but the latter sat placid and dormant and evidently
in no hurry to move. Chauvelin having reached the door, opened it
noiselessly, and to the sergeant in command of his bodyguard who stood
at attention outside, he whispered hurriedly:
“The prisoner from No. 6.... Let two of the men bring her hither back to
me at once.”