And gradually all noises died away around the old Fort Gayole. The
shouts and laugher of the merrymakers, who had quickly recovered from
their fright, now came only as the muffled rumble of a distant storm,
broken here and there by the shrill note of a girl's loud laughter, or a
vigorous fanfare from the brass trumpets.
The room where so much turmoil had taken place, where so many hearts had
beaten with torrent-like emotions, where the awesome tragedy of revenge
and hate, of love and passion had been consummated, was now silent and
at peace.
The soldiers had gone: some in pursuit of the revellers, some with
Collot d'Herbois, others with Hebert and the calotin who was to ring the
Angelus.
Chauvelin, overcome with the intensity of his exultation and the agony
of the suspense which he had endured, sat, vaguely dreaming, hardly
conscious, but wholly happy and content. Fearless, too, for his triumph
was complete, and he cared not now if he lived or died.
He had lived long enough to see the complete annihilation and dishonour
of his enemy.
What had happened to Sir Percy Blakeney now, what to Marguerite, he
neither knew nor cared. No doubt the Englishman had picked himself up
and got away through the window or the door: he would be anxious to get
his wife out of the town as quickly as possible. The Angelus would
ring directly, the gates would be opened, the harbour made free to
everyone....
And Collot was a league outside Boulogne by now... a league nearer to
Paris.
So what mattered the humbled wayside English flower?--the damaged and
withered Scarlet Pimpernel?...
A slight noise suddenly caused him to start. He had been dreaming, no
doubt, having fallen into some kind of torpor, akin to sleep, after the
deadly and restless fatigue of the past four days. He certainly had been
unconscious of everything around him, of time and of place. But now he
felt fully awake.
And again he heard that slight noise, as if something or someone was
moving in the room.
He tried to peer into the darkness, but could distinguish nothing.
He rose and went to the door. It was still open, and close behind it
against the wall a small oil lamp was fixed which lit up the corridor.
Chauvelin detached the lamp and came back with it into the room. Just
as he did so there came to his ears the first sound of the little church
bell ringing the Angelus.
He stepped into the room holding the lamp high above his head; its
feeble rays fell full upon the brilliant figure of Sir Percy Blakeney.
He was smiling pleasantly, bowing slightly towards Chauvelin, and in his
hand he held the sheathed sword, the blade of which had been fashioned
in Toledo for Lorenzo Cenci, and the fellow of which was lying
now--Chauvelin himself knew not where.
“The day and hour, Monsieur, I think,” said Sir Percy with courtly
grace, “when you and I are to cross swords together; those are the
southern ramparts, meseems. Will you precede, sir? and I will follow.”
At sight of this man, of his impudence and of his daring, Chauvelin felt
an icy grip on his heart. His cheeks became ashen white, his thin lips
closed with a snap, and the hand which held the lamp aloft trembled
visibly. Sir Percy stood before him, still smiling and with a graceful
gesture pointing towards the ramparts.
From the Church of St. Joseph the gentle, melancholy tones of the
Angelus sounding the second Ave Maria came faintly echoing in the
evening air.
With a violent effort Chauvelin forced himself to self-control,
and tried to shake off the strange feeling of obsession which had
overwhelmed him in the presence of this extraordinary man. He walked
quite quietly up to the table and placed the lamp upon it. As in a flash
recollection had come back to him.. the past few minutes!... the letter!
and Collot well on his way to Paris!
Bah! he had nothing to fear now, save perhaps death at the hand of this
adventurer turned assassin in his misery and humiliation!
“A truce on this folly, Sir Percy,” he said roughly, “as you well know,
I had never any intention of fighting you with these poisoned swords of
yours and...”
“I knew that, M. Chauvelin.... But do YOU know that I have the intention
of killing you now... as you stand... like a dog!...”
And throwing down the sword with one of those uncontrolled outbursts of
almost animal passion, which for one instant revealed the real, inner
man, he went up to Chauvelin and towering above him like a great
avenging giant, he savoured for one second the joy of looking down on
that puny, slender figure which he could crush with sheer brute force,
with one blow from his powerful hands.
But Chauvelin at this moment was beyond fear.
“And if you killed me now, Sir Percy,” he said quietly and looking the
man whom he so hated fully in the eyes, “you could not destroy that
letter which my colleague is taking to Paris at this very moment.”
As he had anticipated, his words seemed to change Sir Percy's mood in
an instant. The passion in the handsome, aristocratic face faded in
a trice, the hard lines round the jaw and lips relaxed, the fire of
revenge died out from the lazy blue eyes, and the next moment a long,
loud, merry laugh raised the dormant echoes of the old fort.
“Nay, Monsieur Chaubertin,” said Sir Percy gaily, “but this is
marvellous... demmed marvellous... do you hear that, m'dear?...
Gadzooks! but 'tis the best joke I have heard this past
twelve-months.... Monsieur here thinks... Lud! but I shall die of
laughing.... Monsieur here thinks... that 'twas that demmed letter which
went to Paris... and that an English gentleman lay scuffling on the
floor and allowed a letter to be filched from him...”
“Sir Percy!...” gasped Chauvelin, as an awful thought seemed suddenly to
flash across his fevered brain.
“Lud, sir, you are astonishing!” said Sir Percy, taking a very much
crumpled sheet of paper from the capacious pocket of his elegant caped
coat, and holding it close to Chauvelin's horror-stricken gaze. “THIS is
the letter which I wrote at that table yonder in order to gain time and
in order to fool you.... But, by the Lord, you are a bigger demmed fool
than ever I took you to be, if you thought it would serve any other
purpose save that of my hitting you in the face with it.”
And with a quick and violent gesture he struck Chauvelin full in the
face with the paper.
“You would like to know, Monsieur Chaubertin, would you not?...” he
added pleasantly, “what letter it is that your friend, Citizen Collot,
is taking in such hot haste to Paris for you.... Well! the letter is
not long and 'tis written in verse.... I wrote it myself upstairs to-day
whilst you thought me sodden with brandy and three-parts asleep. But
brandy is easily flung out of the window.... Did you think I drank it
all?... Nay! as you remember, I told you that I was not so drunk as you
thought?... Aye! the letter is writ in English verse, Monsieur, and it
reads thus:
“We seek him here! we seek him there! Those Frenchies seek him
everywhere! Is he in heaven? is he in hell? That demmed elusive
Pimpernel?
“A neat rhyme, I fancy, Monsieur, and one which will, if rightly
translated, greatly please your friend and ruler, Citizen
Robespierre.... Your colleague Citizen Collot is well on his way to
Paris with it by now. ... No, no, Monsieur... as you rightly said just
now... I really could not kill you... God having blessed me with the
saving sense of humour...”
Even as he spoke the third Ave Maria of the Angelus died away on the
morning air. From the harbour and the old Chateau there came the loud boom
of cannon.
The hour of the opening of the gates, of the general amnesty and free
harbour was announced throughout Boulogne.
Chauvelin was livid with rage, fear and baffled revenge. He made a
sudden rush for the door in a blind desire to call for help, but Sir
Percy had toyed long enough with his prey. The hour was speeding on:
Hebert and some of the soldiers might return, and it was time to think
of safety and of flight. Quick as a hunted panther, he had interposed
his tall figure between his enemy and the latter's chance of calling for
aid, then, seizing the little man by the shoulders, he pushed him back
into that portion of the room where Marguerite and the Abbe Foucquet had
been lately sitting.
The gag, with cloth and cord, which had been intended for a woman were
lying on the ground close by, just where Hebert had dropped them, when
he marched the old Abbe off to the Church.
With quick and dexterous hands, Sir Percy soon reduced Chauvelin to
an impotent and silent bundle. The ex-ambassador after four days of
harrowing nerve-tension, followed by so awful a climax, was weakened
physically and mentally, whilst Blakeney, powerful, athletic and always
absolutely unperturbed, was fresh in body and spirit. He had slept
calmly all the afternoon, having quietly thought out all his plans, left
nothing to chance, and acted methodically and quickly, and invariably
with perfect repose.
Having fully assured himself that the cords were well fastened, the gag
secure and Chauvelin completely helpless, he took the now inert mass up
in his arms and carried it into the adjoining room, where Marguerite for
twelve hours had endured a terrible martyrdom.
He laid his enemy's helpless form upon the couch, and for one moment
looked down on it with a strange feeling of pity quite unmixed with
contempt. The light from the lamp in the further room struck vaguely
upon the prostrate figure of Chauvelin. He seemed to have lost
consciousness, for the eyes were closed, only the hands, which were tied
securely to his body, had a spasmodic, nervous twitch in them.
With a good-natured shrug of the shoulders the imperturbable Sir Percy
turned to go, but just before he did so, he took a scrap of paper from
his waistcoat pocket, and slipped it between Chauvelin's trembling
fingers. On the paper were scribbled the four lines of verse which in
the next four and twenty hours Robespierre himself and his colleagues
would read.
Then Blakeney finally went out of the room.