THE DEATH-TRAP
The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly. In the
room downstairs, Brogard had for a while busied himself with clearing
the table, and re-arranging it for another guest.
It was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite found the
time slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that this semblance
of supper was being got ready. Evidently Brogard had a certain amount
of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to take some trouble
in making the place look a trifle less uninviting than it had done
before.
He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser, what
actually looked like a table-cloth; and when he spread it out, and saw
it was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while, then was
at much pains so to spread it over the table as to hide most of its
blemishes.
Then he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but possessing some
measure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully wiped the glasses,
spoons and plates, which he put on the table.
Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched all these
preparations, which Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment of
muttered oaths. Clearly the great height and bulk of the Englishman, or
perhaps the weight of his fist, had overawed this free-born citizen of
France, or he would never have been at such trouble for any _sacrré
aristo_.
When the table was set—such as it was—Brogard surveyed it with evident
satisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the corner of his
blouse, gave a stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots
on to the fire, and slouched out of the room.
Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She had spread her
travelling cloak over the straw, and was sitting fairly comfortably, as
the straw was fresh, and the evil odours from below came up to her only
in a modified form.
But, momentarily, she was almost happy; happy because, when she peeped
through the tattered curtains, she could see a rickety chair, a torn
table-cloth, a glass, a plate and a spoon; that was all. But those mute
and ugly things seemed to say to her that they were waiting for Percy;
that soon, very soon, he would be here, that the squalid room being
still empty, they would be alone together.
That thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed her eyes in order
to shut out everything but that. In a few minutes she would be alone
with him; she would run down the ladder, and let him see her; then he
would take her in his arms, and she would let him see that, after that,
she would gladly die for him, and with him, for earth could hold no
greater happiness than that.
And then what would happen? She could not even remotely conjecture. She
knew, of course, that Sir Andrew was right, that Percy would do
everything he had set out to accomplish; that she—now she was
here—could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious, since
Chauvelin himself was on his track. After having cautioned him, she
would perforce have to see him go off upon his terrible and daring
mission; she could not even with a word or look, attempt to keep him
back. She would have to obey, whatever he told her to do, even perhaps
have to efface herself, and wait, in indescribable agony, whilst he,
perhaps, went to his death.
But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the thought that he
should never know how much she loved him—that at any rate would be
spared her; the squalid room itself, which seemed to be waiting for
him, told her that he would be here soon.
Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of distant footsteps
drawing near; her heart gave a wild leap of joy! Was it Percy at last?
No! the step did not seem quite as long, nor quite as firm as his; she
also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of footsteps. Yes!
that was it! two men were coming this way. Two strangers perhaps, to
get a drink, or . . .
But she had not time to conjecture, for presently there was a
peremptory call at the door, and the next moment it was violently
thrown open from the outside, whilst a rough, commanding voice
shouted,—
“Hey! Citoyen Brogard! Holá!”
Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through a hole in one of
the curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below.
She heard Brogard’s shuffling footsteps, as he came out of the inner
room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the strangers,
however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within range of
Marguerite’s vision, looked at them, with even more withering contempt
than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered, “_Sacrrrée
soutane!_”
Marguerite’s heart seemed all at once to stop beating; her eyes, large
and dilated, had fastened on one of the newcomers, who, at this point,
had taken a quick step forward towards Brogard. He was dressed in the
soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual to the French
_curé_, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw open his
soutane for a moment, displaying the tricolour scarf of officialism,
which sight immediately had the effect of transforming Brogard’s
attitude of contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.
It was the sight of this French _curé_, which seemed to freeze the very
blood in Marguerite’s veins. She could not see his face, which was
shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognised the thin, bony
hands, the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man! It was Chauvelin!
The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical blow; the
awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made her very
senses reel, and she needed almost superhuman effort, not to fall
senseless beneath it all.
“A plate of soup and a bottle of wine,” said Chauvelin imperiously to
Brogard, “then clear out of here—understand? I want to be alone.”
Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed.
Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall
Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him,
dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered
with Chauvelin and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close
by the door.
At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogard had hurried back to the inner
room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had accompanied him.
In him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, Chauvelin’s secretary and
confidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris, in the days
gone by. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened
attentively at the Brogards’ door.
“Not listening?” asked Chauvelin, curtly.
“No, citoyen.”
For a second Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order Desgas to
search the place; what would happen if she were to be discovered, she
hardly dared to imagine. Fortunately, however, Chauvelin seemed more
impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid of spies, for he called
Desgas quickly back to his side.
“The English schooner?” he asked.
“She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen,” replied Desgas, “but was
then making west, towards Cap Gris Nez.”
“Ah!—good!—” muttered Chauvelin, “and now, about Captain Jutley?—what
did he say?”
“He assured me that all the orders you sent him last week have been
implicitly obeyed. All the roads which converge to this place have been
patrolled night and day ever since: and the beach and cliffs have been
most rigorously searched and guarded.”
“Does he know where this ‘Père Blanchard’s hut’ is?”
“No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that name. There are any
amount of fishermen’s huts all along the coast, of course . . . but . .
.”
“That’ll do. Now about to-night?” interrupted Chauvelin, impatiently.
“The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual, citoyen, and Captain
Jutley awaits further orders.”
“Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send reinforcements to the
various patrols; and especially to those along the beach—you
understand?”
Chauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every word he uttered
struck at Marguerite’s heart like the death-knell of her fondest hopes.
“The men,” he continued, “are to keep the sharpest possible look-out
for any stranger who may be walking, riding, or driving, along the road
or the beach, more especially for a tall stranger, whom I need not
describe further, as probably he will be disguised; but he cannot very
well conceal his height, except by stooping. You understand?”
“Perfectly, citoyen,” replied Desgas.
“As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, two of them are to
keep him in view. The man who loses sight of the tall stranger, after
he is once seen, will pay for his negligence with his life; but one man
is to ride straight back here and report to me. Is that clear?”
“Absolutely clear, citoyen.”
“Very well, then. Go and see Jutley at once. See the reinforcements
start off for the patrol duty, then ask the captain to let you have
half-a-dozen more men and bring them here with you. You can be back in
ten minutes. Go—”
Desgas saluted and went to the door.
As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin’s directions to
his underling, the whole of the plan for the capture of the Scarlet
Pimpernel became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the
fugitives should be left in false security waiting in their hidden
retreat until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter was to be
surrounded and caught red-handed, in the very act of aiding and
abetting royalists, who were traitors to the republic. Thus, if his
capture were noised abroad, even the British Government could not
legally protest in his favour; having plotted with the enemies of the
French Government, France had the right to put him to death.
Escape for him and them would be impossible. All the roads patrolled
and watched, the trap well set, the net, wide at present, but drawing
together tighter and tighter, until it closed upon the daring plotter,
whose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him from its meshes now.
Desgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him back.
Marguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he could have
formed, in order to entrap one brave man, alone, against two-score of
others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to Desgas; she could
just see his face beneath the broad-brimmed _curé’s_ hat. There was at
that moment so much deadly hatred, such fiendish malice in the thin
face and pale, small eyes, that Marguerite’s last hope died in her
heart, for she felt that from this man she could expect no mercy.
“I had forgotten,” repeated Chauvelin, with a weird chuckle, as he
rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one against the other, with a gesture
of fiendish satisfaction. “The tall stranger may show fight. In any
case no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want that tall
stranger alive . . . if possible.”
He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at sight of the
torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by now she had lived
through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that human heart could
bear; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she remained alone in
this lonely, squalid room, with that fiend for company, she felt as if
all that she had suffered was nothing compared with this. He continued
to laugh and chuckle to himself for a while, rubbing his hands together
in anticipation of his triumph.
His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph! Not a loophole was
left, through which the bravest, the most cunning man might escape.
Every road guarded, every corner watched, and in that lonely hut
somewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their
rescuer, and leading him to his death—nay! to worse than death. That
fiend there, in a holy man’s garb, was too much of a devil to allow a
brave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of
duty.
He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who had so long
baffled him, helpless in his power; he wished to gloat over him, to
enjoy his downfall, to inflict upon him what moral and mental torture a
deadly hatred alone can devise. The brave eagle, captured, and with
noble wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of the rat. And
she, his wife, who loved him, and who had brought him to this, could do
nothing to help him.
Nothing, save to hope for death by his side, and for one brief moment
in which to tell him that her love—whole, true and passionate—was
entirely his.
Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table; he had taken off his hat,
and Marguerite could just see the outline of his thin profile and
pointed chin, as he bent over his meagre supper. He was evidently quite
contented, and awaited events with perfect calm; he even seemed to
enjoy Brogard’s unsavoury fare. Marguerite wondered how so much hatred
could lurk in one human being against another.
Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught her ear, which
turned her very heart to stone. And yet that sound was not calculated
to inspire anyone with horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of
a gay, fresh voice singing lustily, “God save the King!”