The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel

Orczy, Baroness Emma

Published: 1919
Categorie(s): Fiction, Action & Adventure, Historical, Short Stories
Source: http://www.gutenberg.org

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About Orczy:
Baroness Emma Orczy (full name: Emma ("Emmuska") Magdolna
Rozália Mária Jozefa Borbála Orczy de Orczi) (September 23, 1865 –
November 12, 1947) was a British novelist, playwright and artist of Hun-
garian noble origin. She was most notable for her series of novels featur-
ing the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of her paintings were exhibited at the
Royal Academy in London.

Also available on Feedbooks for Orczy:

• The Scarlet Pimpernel (1905)
• The Old Man in the Corner (1908)
• El Dorado (1913)
• The Elusive Pimpernel (1908)
• I Will Repay (1906)

Copyright: This work is available for countries where copyright is

Life+50 or in the USA (published before 1923).

Note: This book is brought to you by Feedbooks

http://www.feedbooks.com
Strictly for personal use, do not use this file for commercial purposes.

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 Part 1
SIR PERCY EXPLAINS

3
I.
It was not, Heaven help us all! a very uncommon occurrence these days:
a woman almost unsexed by misery, starvation, and the abnormal excite-
ment engendered by daily spectacles of revenge and of cruelty. They
were to be met with every day, round every street corner, these harrid-
ans, more terrible far than were the men.
This one was still comparatively young, thirty at most; would have
been good-looking too, for the features were really delicate, the nose
chiselled, the brow straight, the chin round and small. But the mouth!
Heavens, what a mouth! Hard and cruel and thin-lipped; and those eyes!
sunken and rimmed with purple; eyes that told tales of sorrow and, yes!
of degradation. The crowd stood round her, sullen and apathetic; poor,
miserable wretches like herself, staring at her antics with lack-lustre eyes
and an ever-recurrent contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
The woman was dancing, contorting her body in the small circle of
light formed by a flickering lanthorn which was hung across the street
from house to house, striking the muddy pavement with her shoeless
feet, all to the sound of a be-ribboned tambourine which she struck now
and again with her small, grimy hand. From time to time she paused,
held out the tambourine at arm’s length, and went the round of the spec-
tators, asking for alms. But at her approach the crowd at once seemed to
disintegrate, to melt into the humid evening air; it was but rarely that a
greasy token fell into the outstretched tambourine. Then as the woman
started again to dance the crowd gradually reassembled, and stood,
hands in pockets, lips still sullen and contemptuous, but eyes watchful of
the spectacle. There were such few spectacles these days, other than the
monotonous processions of tumbrils with their load of aristocrats for the
guillotine!
So the crowd watched, and the woman danced. The lanthorn overhead
threw a weird light on red caps and tricolour cockades, on the sullen
faces of the men and the shoulders of the women, on the dancer’s weird
antics and her flying, tattered skirts. She was obviously tired, as a poor,
performing cur might be, or a bear prodded along to uncongenial buf-
foonery. Every time that she paused and solicited alms with her tam-
bourine the crowd dispersed, and some of them laughed because she
insisted.
“Voyons,” she said with a weird attempt at gaiety, “a couple
of sous for the entertainment, citizen! You have stood here half an hour.
You can’t have it all for nothing, what?”

4
 The man— young, square-shouldered, thick-lipped, with the look of a
bully about his well-clad person— retorted with a coarse insult, which
the woman resented. There were high words; the crowd for the most
part ranged itself on the side of the bully. The woman backed against the
wall nearest to her, held feeble, emaciated hands up to her ears in a vain
endeavour to shut out the hideous jeers and ribald jokes which were the
natural weapons of this untamed crowd.
Soon blows began to rain; not a few fell upon the unfortunate woman.
She screamed, and the more she screamed the louder did the crowd jeer,
the uglier became its temper. Then suddenly it was all over. How it
happened the woman could not tell. She had closed her eyes, feeling sick
and dizzy; but she had heard a loud call, words spoken in English (a lan-
guage which she understood), a pleasant laugh, and a brief but violent
scuffle. After that the hurrying retreat of many feet, the click ofsabots on
the uneven pavement and patter of shoeless feet, and then silence.
She had fallen on her knees and was cowering against the wall, had
lost consciousness probably for a minute or two. Then she heard that
pleasant laugh again and the soft drawl of the English tongue.
“I love to see those beggars scuttling off, like so many rats to their bur-
rows, don’t you, Ffoulkes?”
“They didn’t put up much fight, the cowards!” came from another
voice, also in English. “A dozen of them against this wretched woman.
What had best be done with her?”
“I’ll see to her,” rejoined the first speaker. “You and Tony had best
find the others. Tell them I shall be round directly.”
It all seemed like a dream. The woman dared not open her eyes lest
reality— hideous and brutal— once more confronted her. Then all at
once she felt that her poor, weak body, encircled by strong arms, was lif-
ted off the ground, and that she was being carried down the street, away
from the light projected by the lanthorn overhead, into the sheltering
darkness of a yawning porte cochère. But she was not then fully conscious.

5
II.
When she reopened her eyes she was in what appeared to be the lodge of
a concierge. She was lying on a horsehair sofa. There was a sense of
warmth and of security around her. No wonder that it still seemed like a
dream. Before her stood a man, tall and straight, surely a being from an-
other world— or so he appeared to the poor wretch who, since uncount-
able time, had set eyes on none but the most miserable dregs of strug-
gling humanity, who had seen little else but rags, and faces either cruel
or wretched. This man was clad in a huge caped coat, which made his
powerful figure seem preternaturally large. His hair was fair and slightly
curly above his low, square brow; the eyes beneath their heavy lids
looked down on her with unmistakable kindness.
The poor woman struggled to her feet. With a quick and pathetically
humble gesture she drew her ragged, muddy skirts over her ankles and
her tattered kerchief across her breast.
“I had best go now, Monsieur… citizen,” she murmured, while a hot
flush rose to the roots of her unkempt hair. “I must not stop here… . I—
”
“You are not going, Madame,” he broke in, speaking now in perfect
French and with a great air of authority, as one who is accustomed to be-
ing implicitly obeyed, “until you have told me how, a lady of culture and
of refinement, comes to be masquerading as a street-dancer. The game is
a dangerous one, as you have experienced to-night.”
“It is no game, Monsieur… citizen,” she stammered; “nor yet a mas-
querade. I have been a street-dancer all my life, and— ”
By way of an answer he took her hand, always with that air of author-
ity which she never thought to resent.
“This is not a street-dancer’s hand; Madame,” he said quietly. “Nor is
your speech that of the people.”
She drew her hand away quickly, and the flush on her haggard face
deepened.
“If you will honour me with your confidence, Madame,” he insisted.
The kindly words, the courtesy of the man, went to the poor creature’s
heart. She fell back upon the sofa and with her face buried in her arms
she sobbed out her heart for a minute or two. The man waited quite pa-
tiently. He had seen many women weep these days, and had dried many
a tear through deeds of valour and of self-sacrifice, which were for ever
recorded in the hearts of those whom he had succoured.

6
 When this poor woman had succeeded in recovering some semblance
of self-control, she turned her wan, tear-stained face to him and said
simply:
“My name is Madeleine Lannoy, Monsieur. My husband was killed
during the émeutes at Versailles, whilst defending the persons of the
Queen and of the royal children against the fury of the mob. When I was
a girl I had the misfortune to attract the attentions of a young doctor
named Jean Paul Marat. You have heard of him, Monsieur?”
The other nodded.
“You know him, perhaps,” she continued, “for what he is: the most
cruel and revengeful of men. A few years ago he threw up his lucrative
appointment as Court physician to Monseigneur lé Comte d’Artois, and
gave up the profession of medicine for that of journalist and politician.
Politician! Heaven help him! He belongs to the most bloodthirsty section
of revolutionary brigands. His creed is pillage, murder, and revenge; and
he chooses to declare that it is I who, by rejecting his love, drove him to
these foul extremities. May God forgive him that abominable lie! The evil
we do, Monsieur, is within us; it does not come from circumstance. I, in
the meanwhile, was a happy wife. My husband, M. de Lannoy, who was
an officer in the army, idolised me. We had one child, a boy— ”
She paused, with another catch in her throat. Then she resumed, with
calmness that, in view of the tale she told, sounded strangely weird:
“In June last year my child was stolen from me— stolen by Marat in
hideous revenge for the supposed wrong which I had done him. The de-
tails of that execrable outrage are of no importance. I was decoyed from
home one day through the agency of a forged message purporting to
come from a very dear friend whom I knew to be in grave trouble at the
time. Oh! the whole thing was thoroughly well thought out, I can assure
you!” she continued, with a harsh laugh which ended in a heartrending
sob. “The forged message, the suborned servant, the threats of terrible
reprisals if anyone in the village gave me the slightest warning or clue.
When the whole miserable business was accomplished, I was just like a
trapped animal inside a cage, held captive by immovable bars of obstin-
ate silence and cruel indifference. No one would help me. No one ostens-
ibly knew anything; no one had seen anything, heard anything. The
child was gone! My servants, the people in the village— some of whom I
could have sworn were true and sympathetic— only shrugged their
shoulders. ’Que voulez-vous, Madame? Children of bourgeois as well as
of aristos were often taken up by the State to be brought up as true patri-
ots and no longer pampered like so many lap-dogs.’

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 “Three days later I received a letter from that inhuman monster, Jean
Paul Marat. He told me that he had taken my child away from me, not
from any idea of revenge for my disdain in the past, but from a spirit of
pure patriotism. My boy, he said, should not be brought up with the
same ideas of bourgeois effeteness and love of luxury which had dis-
graced the nation for centuries. No! he should be reared amongst men
who had realised the true value of fraternity and equality and the ideal
of complete liberty for the individual to lead his own life, unfettered by
senseless prejudices of education and refinement. Which means, Mon-
sieur,” the poor woman went on with passionate misery, “that my child
is to be reared up in the company of all that is most vile and most de-
graded in the disease-haunted slums of indigent Paris; that, with the con-
nivance of that execrable fiend Marat, my only son will, mayhap, come
back to me one day a potential thief, a criminal probably, a drink-sodden
reprobate at best. Such things are done every day in this glorious Re-
volution of ours— done in the sacred name of France and of Liberty.
And the moral murder of my child is to be my punishment for daring to
turn a deaf ear to the indign passion of a brute!”
Once more she paused, and when the melancholy echo of her broken
voice had died away in the narrow room, not another murmur broke the
stillness of this far-away corner of the great city.
The man did not move. He stood looking down upon the poor woman
before him, a world of pity expressed in his deep-set eyes. Through the
absolute silence around there came the sound as of a gentle flutter, the
current of cold air, mayhap, sighing through the ill-fitting shutters, or the
soft, weird soughing made by unseen things. The man’s heart was full of
pity, and it seemed as if the Angel of Compassion had come at his bid-
ding and enfolded the sorrowing woman with his wings.
A moment or two later she was able to finish her pathetic narrative.
“Do you marvel, Monsieur,” she said, “that I am still sane— still alive?
But I only live to find my child. I try and keep my reason in order to fight
the devilish cunning of a brute on his own ground. Up to now all my in-
quiries have been in vain. At first I squandered money, tried judicial
means, set an army of sleuth-hounds on the track. I tried bribery, corrup-
tion. I went to the wretch himself and abased myself in the dust before
him. He only laughed at me and told me that his love for me had died
long ago; he now was lavishing its treasures upon the faithful friend and
companion— that awful woman, Simonne Evrard— who had stood by
him in the darkest hours of his misfortunes. Then it was that I decided to
adopt different tactics. Since my child was to be reared in the midst of

8
murderers and thieves, I, too, would haunt their abodes. I became a
street-singer, dancer, what you will. I wear rags now and solicit alms. I
haunt the most disreputable cabarets in the lowest slums of Paris. I listen
and I spy; I question every man, woman, and child who might afford
some clue, give me some indication. There is hardly a house in these
parts that I have not visited and whence I have not been kicked out as an
importunate beggar or worse. Gradually I am narrowing the circle of my
investigations. Presently I shall get a clue. I shall! I know I shall! God
cannot allow this monstrous thing to go on!”
Again there was silence. The poor woman had completely broken
down. Shame, humiliation, passionate grief, had made of her a mere
miserable wreckage of humanity.
The man waited awhile until she was composed, then he said simply:
“You have suffered terribly, Madame; but chiefly, I think, because you
have been alone in your grief. You have brooded over it until it has
threatened your reason. Now, if you will allow me to act as your friend, I
will pledge you my word that I will find your son for you. Will you trust
me sufficiently to give up your present methods and place yourself en-
tirely in my hands? There are more than a dozen gallant gentlemen, who
are my friends, and who will help me in my search. But for this I must
have a free hand, and only help from you when I require it. I can find
you lodgings where you will be quite safe under the protection of my
wife, who is as like an angel as any man or woman I have ever met on
this earth. When your son is once more in your arms, you will, I hope,
accompany us to England, where so many of your friends have already
found a refuge. If this meets with your approval, Madame, you may
command me, for with your permission I mean to be your most devoted
servant.”
Dante, in his wild imaginations of hell and of purgatory and fleeting
glimpses of paradise, never put before us the picture of a soul that was
lost and found heaven, after a cycle of despair. Nor could Madeleine
Lannoy ever explain her feelings at that moment, even to herself. To be-
gin with, she could not quite grasp the reality of this ray of hope, which
came to her at the darkest hour of her misery. She stared at the man be-
fore her as she would on an ethereal vision; she fell on her knees and
buried her face in her hands.
What happened afterwards she hardly knew; she was in a state of
semi-consciousness. When she once more woke to reality, she was in
comfortable lodgings; she moved and talked and ate and lived like a hu-
man being. She was no longer a pariah, an outcast, a poor, half-

9
demented creature, insentient save for an infinite capacity for suffering.
She suffered still, but she no longer despaired. There had been such mar-
vellous power and confidence in that man’s voice when he said: “I
pledge you my word.” Madeleine Lannoy lived now in hope and a sweet
sense of perfect mental and bodily security. Around her there was an in-
fluence, too, a presence which she did not often see, but always felt to be
there: a woman, tall and graceful and sympathetic, who was always
ready to cheer, to comfort, and to help. Her name was Marguerite. Ma-
dame Lannoy never knew her by any other. The man had spoken of her
as being as like an angel as could be met on this earth, and poor
Madeleine Lannoy fully agreed with him.

10
III.
Even that bloodthirsty tiger, Jean Paul Marat, has had his apologists. His
friends have called him a martyr, a selfless and incorruptible exponent of
social and political ideals. We may take it that Simonne Evrard loved
him, for a more impassioned obituary speech was, mayhap, never
spoken than the one which she delivered before the National Assembly
in honour of that sinister demagogue, whose writings and activities will
for ever sully some of the really fine pages of that revolutionary era.
But with those apologists we have naught to do. History has talked its
fill of the inhuman monster. With the more intimate biographists alone
has this true chronicle any concern. It is one of these who tells us that on
or about the eighteenth day of Messidor, in the year I of the Republic (a
date which corresponds with the sixth of July, 1793, of our own calen-
dar), Jean Paul Marat took an additional man into his service, at the in-
stance of Jeannette Marechal, his cook and maid-of-all-work. Marat was
at this time a martyr to an unpleasant form of skin disease, brought on
by the terrible privations which he had endured during the few years
preceding his association with Simonne Evrard, the faithful friend and
housekeeper, whose small fortune subsequently provided him with
some degree of comfort.
The man whom Jeannette Marechal, the cook, introduced into the
household of No. 30, Rue des Cordeliers, that worthy woman had literally
picked one day out of the gutter where he was grabbing for scraps of
food like some wretched starving cur. He appeared to be known to the
police of the section, his identity book proclaiming him to be one Paul
Mole, who had served his time in gaol for larceny. He professed himself
willing to do any work required of him, for the merest pittance and some
kind of roof over his head. Simonne Evrard allowed Jeannette to take
him in, partly out of compassion and partly with a view to easing the
woman’s own burden, the only other domestic in the house— a man
named Bas— being more interested in politics and the meetings of
the Club des Jacobins than he was in his master’s ailments. The man
Mole, moreover, appeared to know something of medicine and of herbs
and how to prepare the warm baths which alone eased the unfortunate
Marat from pain. He was powerfully built, too, and though he muttered
and grumbled a great deal, and indulged in prolonged fits of sulkiness,
when he would not open his mouth to anyone, he was, on the whole,
helpful and good-tempered.

11
 There must also have been something about his whole wretched per-
sonality which made a strong appeal to the “Friend of the People,” for it
is quite evident that within a few days Paul Mole had won no small
measure of his master’s confidence.
Marat, sick, fretful, and worried, had taken an unreasoning dislike to
his servant Bas. He was thankful to have a stranger about him, a man
who was as miserable as he himself had been a very little while ago;
who, like himself, had lived in cellars and in underground burrows, and
lived on the scraps of food which even street-curs had disdained.
On the seventh day following Mole’s entry into the household, and
while the latter was preparing his employer’s bath, Marat said abruptly
to him:
“You’ll go as far as the Chemin de Pantin to-day for me, citizen. You
know your way?”
“I can find it, what?” muttered Mole, who appeared to be in one of his
surly moods.
“You will have to go very circumspectly,” Marat went on, in his
cracked and feeble voice. “And see to it that no one spies upon your
movements. I have many enemies, citizen… one especially… a woman…
. She is always prying and spying on me… .So beware of any woman
you see lurking about at your heels.”
Mole gave a half-audible grunt in reply.
“You had best go after dark,” the other rejoined after awhile. “Come
back to me after nine o’clock. It is not far to the Chemin de Pantin— just
where it intersects the Route de Meaux. You can get there and back be-
fore midnight. The people will admit you. I will give you a ring— the
only thing I possess… . It has little or no value,” he added with a harsh,
grating laugh. “It will not be worth your while to steal it. You will have
to see a brat and report to me on his condition— his appearance,
what? … Talk to him a bit… . See what he says and let me know. It is not
difficult.”
“No, citizen.”
Mole helped the suffering wretch into his bath. Not a movement, not a
quiver of the eyelid betrayed one single emotion which he may have
felt— neither loathing nor sympathy, only placid indifference. He was
just a half-starved menial, thankful to accomplish any task for the sake of
satisfying a craving stomach. Marat stretched out his shrunken limbs in
the herbal water with a sigh of well-being.
“And the ring, citizen?” Mole suggested presently.

12
 The demagogue held up his left hand— it was emaciated and dis-
figured by disease. A cheap-looking metal ring, set with a false stone,
glistened upon the fourth finger.
“Take it off,” he said curtly.
The ring must have all along been too small for the bony hand of the
once famous Court physician. Even now it appeared embedded in the
flabby skin and refused to slide over the knuckle.
“The water will loosen it,” remarked Mole quietly.
Marat dipped his hand back into the water, and the other stood beside
him, silent and stolid, his broad shoulders bent, his face naught but a
mask, void and expressionless beneath its coating of grime.
One or two seconds went by. The air was heavy with steam and a
medley of evil-smelling fumes, which hung in the close atmosphere of
the narrow room. The sick man appeared to be drowsy, his head rolled
over to one side, his eyes closed. He had evidently forgotten all about the
ring.
A woman’s voice, shrill and peremptory, broke the silence which had
become oppressive:
“Here, citizen Mole, I want you! There’s not a bit of wood chopped up
for my fire, and how am I to make the coffee without firing, I should like
to know?”
“The ring, citizen,” Mole urged gruffly.
Marat had been roused by the woman’s sharp voice. He cursed her for
a noisy harridan; then he said fretfully:
“It will do presently— when you are ready to start. I said nine
o’clock… it is only four now. I am tired. Tell citizeness Evrard to bring
me some hot coffee in an hour’s time… . You can go and fetch me the
Moniteur now, and take back these proofs to citizen Dufour. You will
find him at the ‘Cordeliers,’ or else at the printing works… . Come back
at nine o’clock… . I am tired now… too tired to tell you where to find the
house which is off the Chemin de Pantin. Presently will do… .”
Even while he spoke he appeared to drop into a fitful sleep. His two
hands were hidden under the sheet which covered the bath. Mole
watched him in silence for a moment or two, then he turned on his heel
and shuffled off through the ante-room into the kitchen beyond, where
presently he sat down, squatting in an angle by the stove, and started
with his usual stolidness to chop wood for the citizeness’ fire.
When this task was done, and he had received a chunk of sour bread
for his reward from Jeannette Marechal, the cook, he shuffled out of the
place and into the street, to do his employer’s errands.

13
IV.
Paul Mole had been to the offices of the Moniteur and to the printing
works of L’Ami du Peuple. He had seen the citizen Dufour at the Club
and, presumably, had spent the rest of his time wandering idly about the
streets of the quartier, for he did not return to the rue des Cordeliers until
nearly nine o’clock.
As soon as he came to the top of the street, he fell in with the crowd
which had collected outside No. 30. With his habitual slouchy gait and
the steady pressure of his powerful elbows, he pushed his way to the
door, whilst gleaning whisperings and rumours on his way.
“The citizen Marat has been assassinated.”
“By a woman.”
“A mere girl.”
“A wench from Caen. Her name is Corday.”
“The people nearly tore her to pieces awhile ago.”
“She is as much as guillotined already.”
The latter remark went off with a loud guffaw and many a ribald joke.
Mole, despite his great height, succeeded in getting through unper-
ceived. He was of no account, and he knew his way inside the house. It
was full of people: journalists, gaffers, women and men— the usual
crowd that come to gape. The citizen Marat was a great personage. The
Friend of the People. An Incorruptible, if ever there was one. Just look at
the simplicity, almost the poverty, in which he lived! Only the aristos
hated him, and the fat bourgeois who battened on the people. Citizen
Marat had sent hundreds of them to the guillotine with a stroke of his
pen or a denunciation from his fearless tongue.
Mole did not pause to listen to these comments. He pushed his way
through the throng up the stairs, to his late employer’s lodgings on the
first floor.
The anteroom was crowded, so were the other rooms; but the greatest
pressure was around the door immediately facing him, the one which
gave on the bathroom. In the kitchen on his right, where awhile ago he
had been chopping wood under a flood of abuse from Jeannette Mare-
chal, he caught sight of this woman, cowering by the hearth, her filthy
apron thrown over her head, and crying— yes! crying for the loathsome
creature, who had expiated some of his abominable crimes at the hands
of a poor, misguided girl, whom an infuriated mob was even now threat-
ening to tear to pieces in its rage.

14
 The parlour and even Simonne’s room were also filled with people:
men, most of whom Mole knew by sight; friends or enemies of the rant-
ing demagogue who lay murdered in the very bath which his casual ser-
vant had prepared for him. Every one was discussing the details of the
murder, the punishment of the youthful assassin. Simonne Evrard was
being loudly blamed for having admitted the girl into citizen Marat’s
room. But the wench had looked so simple, so innocent, and she said she
was the bearer of a message from Caen. She had called twice during the
day, and in the evening the citizen himself said that he would see her. Si-
monne had been for sending her away. But the citizen was peremptory.
And he was so helpless… in his bath … name of a name, the pitiable
affair!
No one paid much attention to Mole. He listened for a while to Si-
monne’s impassioned voice, giving her version of the affair; then he
worked his way stolidly into the bathroom.
It was some time before he succeeded in reaching the side of that aw-
ful bath wherein lay the dead body of Jean Paul Marat. The small room
was densely packed— not with friends, for there was not a man or wo-
man living, except Simonne Evrard and her sisters, whom the
bloodthirsty demagogue would have called “friend”; but his powerful
personality had been a menace to many, and now they came in crowds
to see that he was really dead, that a girl’s feeble hand had actually done
the deed which they themselves had only contemplated. They stood
about whispering, their heads averted from the ghastly spectacle of this
miserable creature, to whom even death had failed to lend his usual at-
tribute of tranquil dignity.
The tiny room was inexpressibly hot and stuffy. Hardly a breath of
outside air came in through the narrow window, which only gave on the
bedroom beyond. An evil-smelling oil-lamp swung from the low ceiling
and shed its feeble light on the upturned face of the murdered man.
Mole stood for a moment or two, silent and pensive, beside that
hideous form. There was the bath, just as he had prepared it: the board
spread over with a sheet and laid across the bath, above which only the
head and shoulders emerged, livid and stained. One hand, the left,
grasped the edge of the board with the last convulsive clutch of supreme
agony.
On the fourth finger of that hand glistened the shoddy ring which
Marat had said was not worth stealing. Yet, apparently, it roused the cu-
pidity of the poor wretch who had served him faithfully for these last

15
few days, and who now would once more be thrown, starving and
friendless, upon the streets of Paris.
Mole threw a quick, furtive glance around him. The crowd which had
come to gloat over the murdered Terrorist stood about whispering, with
heads averted, engrossed in their own affairs. He slid his hand surrepti-
tiously over that of the dead man. With dexterous manipulation he lifted
the finger round which glistened the metal ring. Death appeared to have
shrivelled the flesh still more upon the bones, to have contracted the
knuckles and shrunk the tendons. The ring slid off quite easily. Mole had
it in his hand, when suddenly a rough blow struck him on the shoulder.
“Trying to rob the dead?” a stern voice shouted in his ear. “Are you a
disguised aristo, or what?”
At once the whispering ceased. A wave of excitement went round the
room. Some people shouted, others pressed forward to gaze on the aban-
doned wretch who had been caught in the act of committing a gruesome
deed.
“Robbing the dead!”
They were experts in evil, most of these men here. Their hands were
indelibly stained with some of the foulest crimes ever recorded in his-
tory. But there was something ghoulish in this attempt to plunder that
awful thing lying there, helpless, in the water. There was also a great re-
lief to nerve-tension in shouting Horror and Anathema with self-right-
eous indignation; and additional excitement in the suggested “aristo in
disguise.”
Mole struggled vigorously. He was powerful and his fists were heavy.
But he was soon surrounded, held fast by both arms, whilst half a dozen
hands tore at his tattered clothes, searched him to his very skin, for the
booty which he was thought to have taken from the dead.
“Leave me alone, curse you!” he shouted, louder than his aggressors.
“My name is Paul Mole, I tell you. Ask the citizeness Evrard. I waited on
citizen Marat I prepared his bath. I was the only friend who did not turn
away from him in his sickness and his poverty. Leave me alone, I say!
Why,” he added, with a hoarse laugh, “Jean Paul in his bath was as na-
ked as on the day he was born!”
“’Tis true,” said one of those who had been most active in rummaging
through Mole’s grimy rags. “There’s nothing to be found on him.”
But suspicion once aroused was not easily allayed. Mole’s protesta-
tions became more and more vigorous and emphatic. His papers were all
in order, he vowed. He had them on him: his own identity papers, clear
for anyone to see. Someone had dragged them out of his pocket; they

16
were dank and covered with splashes of mud— hardly legible. They
were handed over to a man who stood in the immediate circle of light
projected by the lamp. He seized them and examined them carefully.
This man was short and slight, was dressed in well-made cloth clothes;
his hair was held in at the nape of the next in a modish manner with a
black taffeta bow. His hands were clean, slender, and claw-like, and he
wore the tricolour scarf of office round his waist which proclaimed him
to be a member of one of the numerous Committees which tyrannised
over the people.
The papers appeared to be in order, and proclaimed the bearer to be
Paul Mole, a native of Besancon, a carpenter by trade. The identity book
had recently been signed by Jean Paul Marat, the man’s latest employer,
and been counter-signed by the Commissary of the section.
The man in the tricolour scarf turned with some acerbity on the crowd
who was still pressing round the prisoner.
“Which of you here,” he queried roughly, “levelled an unjust accusa-
tion against an honest citizen?”
But, as usual in such cases, no one replied directly to the charge. It was
not safe these days to come into conflict with men like Mole. The Com-
mittees were all on their side, against the bourgeois as well as against the
aristos. This was the reign of the proletariat, and the sans-culotte always
emerged triumphant in a conflict against the well-to-do. Nor was it good
to rouse the ire of citizen Chauvelin, one of the most powerful, as he was
the most pitiless, members of the Committee of Public Safety. Quiet, sar-
castic rather than aggressive, something of the aristo, too, in his clean lin-
en and well-cut clothes, he had not even yielded to the defunct Marat in
cruelty and relentless persecution of aristocrats.
Evidently his sympathies now were all with Mole, the out-at-elbows,
miserable servant of an equally miserable master. His pale-coloured,
deep-set eyes challenged the crowd, which gave way before him, slunk
back into the corners, away from his coldly threatening glance. Thus he
found himself suddenly face to face with Mole, somewhat isolated from
the rest, and close to the tin bath with its grim contents. Chauvelin had
the papers in his hand.
“Take these, citizen,” he said curtly to the other. “They are all in
order.”
He looked up at Mole as he said this, for the latter, though his
shoulders were bent, was unusually tall, and Mole took the papers from
him. Thus for the space of a few seconds the two men looked into one
another’s face, eyes to eyes— and suddenly Chauvelin felt an icy sweat

17
coursing down his spine. The eyes into which he gazed had a strange,
ironical twinkle in them, a kind of good-humoured arrogance, whilst
through the firm, clear-cut lips, half hidden by a dirty and ill-kempt
beard, there came the sound— oh! a mere echo— of a quaint and inane
laugh.
The whole thing— it seemed like a vision— was over in a second.
Chauvelin, sick and faint with the sudden rush of blood to his head,
closed his eyes for one brief instant. The next, the crowd had closed
round him; anxious inquiries reached his re-awakened senses.
But he uttered one quick, hoarse cry:
“Hebert! A moi! Are you there?”
“Present, citizen!” came in immediate response. And a tall figure in the
tattered uniform affected by the revolutionary guard stepped briskly out
of the crowd. Chauvelin’s claw-like hand was shaking visibly.
“The man Mole,” he called in a voice husky with excitement. “Seize
him at once! And, name of a dog! do not allow a living soul in or out of
the house!”
Hebert turned on his heel. The next moment his harsh voice was heard
above the din and the general hubbub around:
“Quite safe, citizen!” he called to his chief. “We have the rogue right
enough!”
There was much shouting and much cursing, a great deal of bustle and
confusion, as the men of the Sûreté closed the doors of the defunct dem-
agogue’s lodgings. Some two score men, a dozen or so women, were
locked in, inside the few rooms which reeked of dirt and of disease. They
jostled and pushed, screamed and protested. For two or three minutes
the din was quite deafening. Simonne Evrard pushed her way up to the
forefront of the crowd.
“What is this I hear?” she queried peremptorily. “Who is accusing cit-
izen Mole? And of what, I should like to know? I am responsible for
everyone inside these apartments… and if citizen Marat were still
alive— ”
Chauvelin appeared unaware of all the confusion and of the woman’s
protestations. He pushed his way through the crowd to the corner of the
anteroom where Mole stood, crouching and hunched up, his grimy
hands idly fingering the papers which Chauvelin had returned to him a
moment ago. Otherwise he did not move.
He stood, silent and sullen; and when Chauvelin, who had succeeded
in mastering his emotion, gave the peremptory command: “Take this

18
man to the depot at once. And do not allow him one instant out of your
sight!” he made no attempt at escape.
He allowed Hebert and the men to seize him, to lead him away. He
followed without a word, without a struggle. His massive figure was
hunched up like that of an old man; his hands, which still clung to his
identity papers, trembled slightly like those of a man who is very
frightened and very helpless. The men of the Sûretéhandled him very
roughly, but he made no protest. The woman Evrard did all the protest-
ing, vowing that the people would not long tolerate such tyranny. She
even forced her way up to Hebert. With a gesture of fury she tried to
strike him in the face, and continued, with a loud voice, her insults and
objurgations, until, with a movement of his bayonet, he pushed her
roughly out of the way.
After that Paul Mole, surrounded by the guard, was led without cere-
mony out of the house. Chauvelin gazed after him as if he had been
brought face to face with a ghoul.

19
V.
Chauvelin hurried to the depot. After those few seconds wherein he had
felt dazed, incredulous, almost under a spell, he had quickly regained
the mastery of his nerves, and regained, too, that intense joy which anti-
cipated triumph is wont to give.
In the out-at-elbows, half-starved servant of the murdered Terrorist,
citizen Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety, had recognised his
arch enemy, that meddlesome and adventurous Englishman who chose
to hide his identity under the pseudonym of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He
knew that he could reckon on Hebert; his orders not to allow the prison-
er one moment out of sight would of a certainty be strictly obeyed.
Hebert, indeed, a few moments later, greeted his chief outside the
doors of the depot with the welcome news that Paul Mole was safely un-
der lock and key.
“You had no trouble with him?” Chauvelin queried, with ill-concealed
eagerness.
“No, no! citizen, no trouble,” was Hebert’s quick reply. “He seems to
be a well-known rogue in these parts,” he continued with a complacent
guffaw; “and some of his friends tried to hustle us at the corner of the
Rue de Tourraine; no doubt with a view to getting the prisoner away.
But we were too strong for them, and Paul Mole is now sulking in his
cell and still protesting that his arrest is an outrage against the liberty of
the people.”
Chauvelin made no further remark. He was obviously too excited to
speak. Pushing past Hebert and the men of the Sûreté who stood about
the dark and narrow passages of the depot, he sought the Commissary of
the Section in the latter’s office.
It was now close upon ten o’clock. The citizen Commissary Cuisinier
had finished his work for the day and was preparing to go home and to
bed. He was a family man, had been a respectable bourgeois in his day,
and though he was a rank opportunist and had sacrificed not only his
political convictions but also his conscience to the exigencies of the time,
he still nourished in his innermost heart a secret contempt for the revolu-
tionary brigands who ruled over France at this hour.
To any other man than citizen Chauvelin, the citizen Commissary
would, no doubt, have given a curt refusal to a request to see a prisoner
at this late hour of the evening. But Chauvelin was not a man to be
denied, and whilst muttering various objections in his ill-kempt beard,

20
Cuisinier, nevertheless, gave orders that the citizen was to be conducted
at once to the cells.
Paul Mole had in truth turned sulky. The turnkey vowed that the pris-
oner had hardly stirred since first he had been locked up in the common
cell. He sat in a corner at the end of the bench, with his face turned to the
wall, and paid no heed either to his fellow-prisoners or to the facetious
remarks of the warder.
Chauvelin went up to him, made some curt remark. Mole kept an ob-
stinate shoulder turned towards him— a grimy shoulder, which showed
naked through a wide rent in his blouse. This portion of the cell was
well-nigh in total darkness; the feeble shaft of light which came through
the open door hardly penetrated to this remote angle of the squalid bur-
row. The same sense of mystery and unreality overcame Chauvelin
again as he looked on the miserable creature in whom, an hour ago, he
had recognised the super-exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney. Now he could
only see a vague outline in the gloom: the stooping shoulders, the long
limbs, that naked piece of shoulder which caught a feeble reflex from the
distant light. Nor did any amount of none too gentle prodding on the
part of the warder induce him to change his position.
“Leave him alone,” said Chaufelin curly at last. “I have seen all that I
wished to see.”
The cell was insufferably hot and stuffy. Chauvelin, finical and
queasy, turned away with a shudder of disgust. There was nothing to be
got now out of a prolonged interview with his captured foe. He had seen
him: that was sufficient. He had seen the super-exquisite Sir Percy
Blakeney locked up in a common cell with some of the most scrubby and
abject rogues which the slums of indigent Paris could yield, having ap-
parently failed in some undertaking which had demanded for its fulfil-
ment not only tattered clothes and grimy hands, but menial service with
a beggarly and disease-ridden employer, whose very propinquity must
have been positive torture to the fastidious dandy.
Of a truth this was sufficient for the gratification of any revenge.
Chauvelin felt that he could now go contentedly to rest after an even-
ing’s work excellently done.
He gave order that Mole should be put in a separate cell, denied all in-
tercourse with anyone outside or in the depot, and that he should be
guarded on sight day and night. After that he went his way.

21
VI.
The following morning citizen Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public
Safety, gave due notice to citizen Fouquier-Tinville, the Public Prosec-
utor, that the dangerous English spy, known to the world as the Scarlet
Pimpernel, was now safely under lock and key, and that he must be
transferred to the Abbaye prison forthwith and to the guillotine as quickly
as might be. No one was to take any risks this time; there must be no
question either of discrediting his famous League or of obtaining other
more valuable information out of him. Such methods had proved dis-
astrous in the past.
There were no safe Englishmen these days, except the dead ones, and
it would not take citizen Fouquier-Tinville much thought or time to
frame an indictment against the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel, which
would do away with the necessity of a prolonged trial. The revolutionary
government was at war with England now, and short work could be
made of all poisonous spies.
By order, therefore, of the Committee of Public Safety, the prisoner,
Paul Mole, was taken out of the cells of the depot and conveyed in a
closed carriage to theAbbaye prison. Chauvelin had the pleasure of watch-
ing this gratifying spectacle from the windows of the Commissariat.
When he saw the closed carriage drive away, with Hebert and two men
inside and two others on the box, he turned to citizen Commissary
Cuisinier with a sigh of intense satisfaction.
“There goes the most dangerous enemy our glorious revolution has
had,” he said, with an accent of triumph which he did not attempt to
disguise.
Cuisinier shrugged his shoulders.
“Possibly,” he retorted curtly. “He did not seem to me to be very dan-
gerous and his papers were quite in order.”
To this assertion Chauvelin made no reply. Indeed, how could he ex-
plain to this stolid official the subtle workings of an intriguing brain?
Had he himself not had many a proof of how little the forging of identity
papers or of passports troubled the members of that accursed League?
Had he not seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, that exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney,
under disguises that were so grimy and so loathsome that they would
have repelled the most abject, suborned spy?
Indeed, all that was wanted now was the assurance that Hebert— who
himself had a deadly and personal grudge against the Scarlet Pimper-
nel— would not allow him for one moment out of his sight.

22
 Fortunately as to this, there was no fear. One hint to Hebert and the
man was as keen, as determined, as Chauvelin himself.
“Set your mind at rest, citizen,” he said with a rough oath. “I guessed
how matters stood the moment you gave me the order. I knew you
would not take all that trouble for a real Paul Mole. But have no fear!
That accursed Englishman has not been one second out of my sight, from
the moment I arrested him in the late citizen Marat’s lodgings, and by
Satan! he shall not be either, until I have seen his impudent head fall un-
der the guillotine.”
He himself, he added, had seen to the arrangements for the disposal of
the prisoner in the Abbaye: an inner cell, partially partitioned off in one of
the guard-rooms, with no egress of its own, and only a tiny grated air-
hole high up in the wall, which gave on an outside corridor, and through
which not even a cat could manage to slip. Oh! the prisoner was well
guarded! The citizen Representative need, of a truth, have no fear! Three
or four men— of the best and most trustworthy— had not left the guard-
room since the morning. He himself (Hebert) had kept the accursed Eng-
lishman in sight all night, had personally conveyed him to the Abbaye,
and had only left the guard-room a moment ago in order to speak with
the citizen Representative. He was going back now at once, and would
not move until the order came for the prisoner to be conveyed to the
Court of Justice and thence to summary execution.
For the nonce, Hebert concluded with a complacent chuckle, the Eng-
lishman was still crouching dejectedly in a corner of his new cell, with
little of him visible save that naked shoulder through his torn shirt,
which, in the process of transference from one prison to another, had be-
come a shade more grimy than before.
Chauvelin nodded, well satisfied. He commended Hebert for his zeal,
rejoiced with him over the inevitable triumph. It would be well to
avenge that awful humiliation at Calais last September. Nevertheless, he
felt anxious and nervy; he could not comprehend the apathy assumed by
the factitious Mole. That the apathy was assumed Chauvelin was keen
enough to guess. What it portended he could not conjecture. But that the
Englishman would make a desperate attempt at escape was, of course, a
foregone conclusion. It rested with Hebert and a guard that could neither
be bribed nor fooled into treachery, to see that such an attempt remained
abortive.
What, however, had puzzled citizen Chauvelin all along was the
motive which had induced Sir Percy Blakeney to play the rôle of menial
to Jean Paul Marat. Behind it there lay, undoubtedly, one of those subtle

23
intrigues for which that insolent Scarlet Pimpernel was famous; and with
it was associated an attempt at theft upon the murdered body of the
demagogue… an attempt which had failed, seeing that the supposititious
Paul Mole had been searched and nothing suspicious been found upon
his person.
Nevertheless, thoughts of that attempted theft disturbed Chauvelin’s
equanimity. The old legend of the crumpled roseleaf was applicable in
his case. Something of his intense satisfaction would pale if this final en-
terprise of the audacious adventurer were to be brought to a triumphant
close in the end.

24
VII.
That same forenoon, on his return from the Abbaye and the depot,
Chauvelin found that a visitor was waiting for him. A woman, who gave
her name as Jeannette Marechal, desired to speak with the citizen Rep-
resentative. Chauvelin knew the woman as his colleague Marat’s maid-
of-all-work, and he gave orders that she should be admitted at once.
Jeannette Marechal, tearful and not a little frightened, assured the cit-
izen Representative that her errand was urgent. Her late employer had
so few friends; she did not know to whom to turn until she bethought
herself of citizen Chauvelin. It took him some little time to disentangle
the tangible facts out of the woman’s voluble narrative. At first the
words: “Child… Chemin de Pantin… Leridan,” were only a medley of
sounds which conveyed no meaning to his ear. But when occasion de-
manded, citizen Chauvelin was capable of infinite patience. Gradually he
understood what the woman was driving at.
“The child, citizen!” she reiterated excitedly. “What’s to be done about
him? I know that citizen Marat would have wished— ”
“Never mind now what citizen Marat would have wished,” Chauvelin
broke in quietly. “Tell me first who this child is.”
“I do not know, citizen,” she replied.
“How do you mean, you do not know? Then I pray you, citizeness,
what is all this pother about?”
“About the child, citizen,” reiterated Jeannette obstinately.
“What child?”
“The child whom citizen Marat adopted last year and kept at that aw-
ful house on the Chemin de Pantin.”
“I did not know citizen Marat had adopted a child,” remarked
Chauvelin thoughtfully.
“No one knew,” she rejoined. “Not even citizeness Evrard. I was the
only one who knew. I had to go and see the child once every month. It
was a wretched, miserable brat,” the woman went on, her shrivelled old
breast vaguely stirred, mayhap, by some atrophied feeling of mother-
hood. “More than half-starved … and the look in its eyes, citizen! It was
enough to make you cry! I could see by his poor little emaciated body
and his nice little hands and feet that he ought never to have been put in
that awful house, where— ”
She paused, and that quick look of furtive terror, which was so often to
be met with in the eyes of the timid these days, crept into her wrinkled
face.

25
 “Well, citizeness,” Chauvelin rejoined quietly, “why don’t you pro-
ceed? That awful house, you were saying. Where and what is that awful
house of which you speak?”
“The place kept by citizen Leridan, just by Bassin de l’Ourcq,” the wo-
man murmured. “You know it, citizen.”
Chauvelin nodded. He was beginning to understand.
“Well, now, tell me,” he said, with that bland patience which had so
oft served him in good stead in his unavowable profession. “Tell me.
Last year citizen Marat adopted— we’ll say adopted— a child, whom he
placed in the Leridans’ house on the Pantin road. Is that correct?”
“That is just how it is, citizen. And I— ”
“One moment,” he broke in somewhat more sternly, as the woman’s
garrulity was getting on his nerves. “As you say, I know the Leridans’
house. I have had cause to send children there myself. Children of aristos
or of fat bourgeois, whom it was our duty to turn into good citizens.
They are not pampered there, I imagine,” he went on drily; “and if cit-
izen Marat sent his— er— adopted son there, it was not with a view to
having him brought up as an aristo, what?”
“The child was not to be brought up at all,” the woman said gruffly. “I
have often heard citizen Marat say that he hoped the brat would prove a
thief when he grew up, and would take to alcoholism like a duck takes to
water.”
“And you know nothing of the child’s parents?”
“Nothing, citizen. I had to go to Pantin once a month and have a look at
him and report to citizen Marat. But I always had the same tale to tell.
The child was looking more and more like a young reprobate every time
I saw him.”
“Did citizen Marat pay the Leridans for keeping the child?”
“Oh, no, citizen! The Leridans make a trade of the children by sending
them out to beg. But this one was not to be allowed out yet. Citizen Mar-
at’s orders were very stern, and he was wont to terrify the Leridans with
awful threats of the guillotine if they ever allowed the child out of their
sight.”
Chauvelin sat silent for a while. A ray of light had traversed the dark
and tortuous ways of his subtle brain. While he mused the woman be-
came impatient. She continued to talk on with the volubility peculiar to
her kind. He paid no heed to her, until one phrase struck his ear.
“So now,” Jeannette Marechal was saying, “I don’t know what to do.
The ring has disappeared, and the Leridans are suspicious.”
“The ring?” queried Chauvelin curtly. “What ring?”

26
 “As I was telling you, citizen,” she replied querulously, “when I went
to see the child, the citizen Marat always gave me this ring to show to the
Leridans. Without I brought the ring they would not admit me inside
their door. They were so terrified with all the citizen’s threats of the
guillotine.”
“And now you say the ring has disappeared. Since when?”
“Well, citizen,” replied Jeannette blandly, “since you took poor Paul
Mole into custody.”
“What do you mean?” Chauvelin riposted. “What had Paul Mole to do
with the child and the ring?”
“Only this, citizen, that he was to have gone to Pantin last night in-
stead of me. And thankful I was not to have to go. Citizen Marat gave
the ring to Mole, I suppose. I know he intended to give it to him. He
spoke to me about it just before that execrable woman came and
murdered him. Anyway, the ring has gone and Mole too. So I imagine
that Mole has the ring and— ”
“That’s enough!” Chauvelin broke in roughly. “You can go!”
“But, citizen— ”
“You can go, I said,” he reiterated sharply. “The matter of the child
and the Leridans and the ring no longer concerns you. You understand?”
“Y— y— yes, citizen,” murmured Jeannette, vaguely terrified.
And of a truth the change in citizen Chauvelin’s demeanour was
enough to scare any timid creature. Not that he raved or ranted or
screamed. Those were not his ways. He still sat beside his desk as he had
done before, and his slender hand, so like the talons of a vulture, was
clenched upon the arm of his chair. But there was such a look of inward
fury and of triumph in his pale, deep-set eyes, such lines of cruelty
around his thin, closed lips, that Jeannette Marechal, even with the pic-
ture before her mind of Jean Paul Marat in his maddest moods, fled, with
the unreasoning terror of her kind, before the sternly controlled, fierce
passion of this man.
Chauvelin never noticed that she went. He sat for a long time, silent
and immovable. Now he understood. Thank all the Powers of Hate and
Revenge, no thought of disappointment was destined to embitter the
overflowing cup of his triumph. He had not only brought his arch-en-
emy to his knees, but had foiled one of his audacious ventures. How
clear the whole thing was! The false Paul Mole, the newly acquired meni-
al in the household of Marat, had wormed himself into the confidence of
his employer in order to wrest from him the secret of the aristo’s child.
Bravo! bravo! my gallant Scarlet Pimpernel! Chauvelin now could see it

27
all. Tragedies such as that which had placed an aristo’s child in the
power of a cunning demon like Marat were not rare these days, and
Chauvelin had been fitted by nature and by temperament to understand
and appreciate an execrable monster of the type of Jean Paul Marat.
And Paul Mole, the grimy, degraded servant of the indigent dem-
agogue, the loathsome mask which hid the fastidious personality of Sir
Percy Blakeney, had made a final and desperate effort to possess himself
of the ring which would deliver the child into his power. Now, having
failed in his machinations, he was safe under lock and key— guarded on
sight. The next twenty-four hours would see him unmasked, awaiting
his trial and condemnation under the scathing indictment prepared by
Fouquier-Tinville, the unerring Public Prosecutor. The day after that, the
tumbril and the guillotine for that execrable English spy, and the bound-
less sense of satisfaction that his last intrigue had aborted in such a signal
and miserable manner.
Of a truth Chauvelin at this hour had every cause to be thankful, and it
was with a light heart that he set out to interview the Leridans.

28
VIII.
The Leridans, anxious, obsequious, terrified, were only too ready to obey
the citizen Representative in all things.
They explained with much complacency that, even though they were
personally acquainted with Jeannette Marechal, when the citizeness
presented herself this very morning without the ring they had refused
her permission to see the brat.
Chauvelin, who in his own mind had already reconstructed the whole
tragedy of the stolen child, was satisfied that Marat could not have
chosen more efficient tools for the execution of his satanic revenge than
these two hideous products of revolutionary Paris.
Grasping, cowardly, and avaricious, the Leridans would lend them-
selves to any abomination for a sufficiency of money; but no money on
earth would induce them to risk their own necks in the process. Marat
had obviously held them by threats of the guillotine. They knew the
power of the “Friend of the People,” and feared him accordingly.
Chauvelin’s scarf of office, his curt, authoritative manner, had an equally
awe-inspiring effect upon the two miserable creatures. They became ab-
solutely abject, cringing, maudlin in their protestations of good-will and
loyalty. No one, they vowed, should as much as see the child— ring or
no ring— save the citizen Representative himself. Chauvelin, however,
had no wish to see the child. He was satisfied that its name was Lan-
noy— for the child had remembered it when first he had been brought
to the Leridans. Since then he had apparently forgotten it, even though
he often cried after his “Maman!”
Chauvelin listened to all these explanations with some impatience. The
child was nothing to him, but the Scarlet Pimpernel had desired to res-
cue it from out of the clutches of the Leridans; had risked his all— and
lost it— in order to effect that rescue! That in itself was a sufficient in-
ducement for Chauvelin to interest himself in the execution of Marat’s
vengeance, whatever its original mainspring may have been.
At any rate, now he felt satisfied that the child was safe, and that the
Leridans were impervious to threats or bribes which might land them on
the guillotine.
All that they would own to was to being afraid.
“Afraid of what?” queried Chauvelin sharply.
That the brat may be kidnapped… stolen. Oh! he could not be de-
coyed… they were too watchful for that! But apparently there were mys-
terious agencies at work… .

29
 “Mysterious agencies!” Chauvelin laughed aloud at the suggestion.
The “mysterious agency” was even now rotting in an obscure cell at
the Abbaye. What other powers could be at work on behalf of the brat?
Well, the Leridans had had a warning!
What warning?
“A letter,” the man said gruffly. “But as neither my wife nor I can
read— ”
“Why did you not speak of this before?” broke in Chauvelin roughly.
“Let me see the letter.”
The woman produced a soiled and dank scrap of paper from beneath
her apron. Of a truth she could not read its contents, for they were writ
in English in the form of a doggerel rhyme which caused Chauvelin to
utter a savage oath.
“When did this come?” he asked. “And how?”
“This morning, citizen,” the woman mumbled in reply. “I found it out-
side the door, with a stone on it to prevent the wind from blowing it
away. What does it mean, citizen?” she went on, her voice shaking with
terror, for of a truth the citizen Representative looked as if he had seen
some weird and unearthly apparition.
He gave no reply for a moment or two, and the two catiffs had no con-
ception of the tremendous effort at self-control which was hidden behind
the pale, rigid mask of the redoubtable man.
“It probably means nothing that you need fear,” Chauvelin said
quietly at last. “But I will see the Commissary of the Section myself, and
tell him to send a dozen men of the Sûreté along to watch your house and
be at your beck and call if need be. Then you will feel quite safe, I hope.”
“Oh, yes! quite safe, citizen!” the woman replied with a sigh of genu-
ine relief. Then only did Chauvelin turn on his heel and go his way.

30
IX.
But that crumpled and soiled scrap of paper given to him by the woman
Leridan still lay in his clenched hand as he strode back rapidly city-
wards. It seemed to scorch his palm. Even before he had glanced at the
contents he knew what they were. That atrocious English doggerel, the
signature— a five-petalled flower traced in crimson! How well he knew
them!
“We seek him here, we seek him there!”
The most humiliating moments in Chauvelin’s career were associated
with that silly rhyme, and now here it was, mocking him even when he
knew that his bitter enemy lay fettered and helpless, caught in a trap, out
of which there was no escape possible; even though he knew for a posit-
ive certainty that the mocking voice which had spoken those rhymes on
that far-off day last September would soon be stilled for ever.
No doubt one of that army of abominable English spies had placed
this warning outside the Leridans’ door. No doubt they had done that
with a view to throwing dust in the eyes of the Public Prosecutor and
causing a confusion in his mind with regard to the identity of the prison-
er at the Abbaye, all to the advantage of their chief.
The thought that such a confusion might exist, that Fouquier-Tinville
might be deluded into doubting the real personality of Paul Mole,
brought an icy sweat all down Chauvelin’s spine. He hurried along the
interminably long Chemin de Pantin, only paused at the Barriere du Com-
bat in order to interview the Commissary of the Section on the matter of
sending men to watch over the Leridans’ house. Then, when he felt satis-
fied that this would be effectively and quickly done, an unconquerable
feeling of restlessness prompted him to hurry round to the lodgings of
the Public Prosecutor in the Rue Blanche— just to see him, to speak with
him, to make quite sure.
Oh! he must be sure that no doubts, no pusillanimity on the part of
any official would be allowed to stand in the way of the consummation
of all his most cherished dreams. Papers or no papers, testimony or no
testimony, the incarcerated Paul Mole was the Scarlet Pimpernel— of
this Chauvelin was as certain as that he was alive. His every sense had
testified to it when he stood in the narrow room of
the Rue des Cordeliers, face to face— eyes gazing into eyes— with his
sworn enemy.

31
 Unluckily, however, he found the Public Prosecutor in a surly and ob-
stinate mood, following on an interview which he had just had with cit-
izen Commissary Cuisinier on the matter of the prisoner Paul Mole.
“His papers are all in order, I tell you,” he said impatiently, in answer
to Chauvelin’s insistence. “It is as much as my head is worth to demand
a summary execution.”
“But I tell you that, those papers of his are forged,” urged Chauvelin
forcefully.
“They are not,” retorted the other. “The Commissary swears to his
own signature on the identity book. The concierge at the Abbaye swears
that he knows Mole, so do all the men of the Sûreté who have seen him.
The Commissary has known him as an indigent, good-for-nothing lub-
bard who has begged his way in the streets of Paris ever since he was re-
leased from gaol some months ago, after he had served a term for lar-
ceny. Even your own man Hebert admits to feeling doubtful on the
point. You have had the nightmare, citizen,” concluded Fouquier-Tin-
ville with a harsh laugh.
“But, name of a dog!” broke in Chauvelin savagely. “You are not pro-
posing to let the man go?”
“What else can I do?” the other rejoined fretfully. “We shall get into
terrible trouble if we interfere with a man like Paul Mole. You know
yourself how it is these days. We should have the whole of the rabble of
Paris clamouring for our blood. If, after we have guillotined him, he is
proved to be a good patriot, it will be my turn next. No! I thank you!”
“I tell you, man,” retorted Chauvelin desperately, “that the man is not
Paul Mole— that he is the English spy whom we all know as the Scarlet
Pimpernel.”
“Eh Bien!” riposted Fouquier-Tinville. “Bring me more tangible proof
that our prisoner is not Paul Mole and I’ll deal with him quickly enough,
never fear. But if by to-morrow morning you do not satisfy me on the
point … I must let him go his way.”
A savage oath rose to Chauvelin’s lips. He felt like a man who has
been running, panting to reach a goal, who sees that goal within easy
distance of him, and is then suddenly captured, caught in invisible
meshes which hold him tightly, and against which he is powerless to
struggle. For the moment he hated Fouquier-Tinville with a deadly
hatred, would have tortured and threatened him until he wrung a con-
sent, an admission, out of him.
Name of a name! when that damnable English spy was actually in his
power, the man was a pusillanimous fool to allow the rich prize to slip

32
from his grasp! Chauvelin felt as if he were choking; his slender fingers
worked nervily around his cravat; beads of perspiration trickled un-
heeded down his pallid forehead.
Then suddenly he had an inspiration— nothing less! It almost seemed
as if Satan, his friend, had whispered insinuating words into his ear. That
scrap of paper! He had thrust it awhile ago into the breast pocket of his
coat. It was still there, and the Public Prosecutor wanted a tangible
proof… . Then, why not… .?
Slowly, his thoughts still in the process of gradual coordination,
Chauvelin drew that soiled scrap of paper out of his pocket. Fouquier-
Tinville, surly and ill-humoured, had his back half-turned towards him,
was moodily picking at his teeth. Chauvelin had all the leisure which he
required. He smoothed out the creases in the paper and spread it out
carefully upon the desk close to the other man’s elbow. Fouquier-Tinville
looked down on it, over his shoulder.
“What is that?” he queried.
“As you see, citizen,” was Chauvelin’s bland reply. “A message, such
as you yourself have oft received, methinks, from our mutual enemy, the
Scarlet Pimpernel.”
But already the Public Prosecutor had seized upon the paper, and of a
truth Chauvelin had no longer cause to complain of his colleague’s indif-
ference. That doggerel rhyme, no less than the signature, had the power
to rouse Fouquier-Tinville’s ire, as it had that of disturbing Chauvelin’s
well-studied calm.
“What is it?” reiterated the Public Prosecutor, white now to the lips.
“I have told you, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin imperturbably. ’A mes-
sage from that English spy. It is also the proof which you have deman-
ded of me— the tangible proof that the prisoner, Paul Mole, is none oth-
er than the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“But,” ejaculated the other hoarsely, “where did you get this?”
“It was found in the cell which Paul Mole occupied in the depot of the
Rue de Tourraine, where he was first incarcerated. I picked it up there
after he was removed … the ink was scarcely dry upon it.”
The lie came quite glibly to Chauvelin’s tongue. Was not every method
good, every device allowable, which would lead to so glorious an end?
“Why did you not tell me of this before?” queried Fouquier-Tinville,
with a sudden gleam of suspicion in his deep-set eyes.
“You had not asked me for a tangible proof before,” replied Chauvelin
blandly. “I myself was so firmly convinced of what I averred that I had
well-nigh forgotten the existence of this damning scrap of paper.”

33
 Damning indeed! Fouquier-Tinville had seen such scraps of paper be-
fore. He had learnt the doggerel rhyme by heart, even though the Eng-
lish tongue was quite unfamiliar to him. He loathed the English— the en-
tire nation— with all that deadly hatred which a divergence of political
aims will arouse in times of acute crises. He hated the English govern-
ment, Pitt and Burke and even Fox, the happy-go-lucky apologist of the
young Revolution. But, above all, he hated that League of English
spies— as he was pleased to call them— whose courage, resourcefulness,
as well as reckless daring, had more than once baffled his own hideous
schemes of murder, of pillage, and of rape.
Thank Beelzebub and his horde of evil spirits, citizen Chauvelin had
been clear-sighted enough to detect that elusive Pimpernel under the dis-
guise of Paul Mole.
“You have deserved well of your country,” said Tinville with lusty fer-
vour, and gave Chauvelin a vigorous slap on the shoulder. “But for you I
should have allowed that abominable spy to slip through our fingers.”
“I have succeeded in convincing you, citizen?” Chauvelin retorted
dryly.
“Absolutely!” rejoined the other. “You may now leave the matter to
me. And ’twill be friend Mole who will be surprised to-morrow,” he ad-
ded with a harsh guffaw, “when he finds himself face to face with me,
before a Court of Justice.”
He was all eagerness, of course. Such a triumph for him! The indict-
ment of the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel on a charge of espionage would
be the crowning glory of his career! Let other men look to their laurels!
Those who brought that dangerous enemy of revolution to the guillotine
would for ever be proclaimed as the saviours of France.
“A short indictment,” he said, when Chauvelin, after a lengthy discus-
sion on various points, finally rose to take his leave, “but a scathing one!
I tell you, citizen Chauvelin, that to-morrow you will be the first to con-
gratulate me on an unprecedented triumph.”
He had been arguing in favour of a sensational trial and no less sensa-
tional execution. Chauvelin, with his memory harking back on many
mysterious abductions at the very foot of the guillotine, would have
liked to see his elusive enemy quietly put to death amongst a batch of
traitors, who would help to mask his personality until after the guillotine
had fallen, when the whole of Paris should ring with the triumph of this
final punishment of the hated spy.

34
 In the end, the two friends agreed upon a compromise, and parted
well pleased with the turn of events which a kind Fate had ordered for
their own special benefit.

35
X.
Thus satisfied, Chauvelin returned to the Abbaye. Hebert was safe and
trustworthy, but Hebert, too, had been assailed with the same doubts
which had well-nigh wrecked Chauvelin’s triumph, and with such
doubts in his mind he might slacken his vigilance.
Name of a name! every man in charge of that damnable Scarlet Pim-
pernel should have three pairs of eyes wherewith to watch his move-
ments. He should have the alert brain of a Robespierre, the physical
strength of a Danton, the relentlessness of a Marat. He should be a giant
in sheer brute force, a tiger in caution, an elephant in weight, and a
mouse in stealthiness!
Name of a name! but ’twas only hate that could give such powers to
any man!
Hebert, in the guard-room, owned to his doubts. His comrades, too,
admitted that after twenty-four hours spent on the watch, their minds
were in a whirl. The Citizen Commissary had been so sure— so was the
chief concierge of the Abbaye even now; and the men of the Sûreté! …
they themselves had seen the real Mole more than once … and this man
in the cell… . Well, would the citizen Representative have a final good
look at him?
“You seem to forget Calais, citizen Hebert,” Chauvelin said sharply,
“and the deadly humiliation you suffered then at the hands of this man
who is now your prisoner. Surely your eyes should have been, at least, as
keen as mine own.”
Anxious, irritable, his nerves well-nigh on the rack, he nevertheless
crossed the guard-room with a firm step and entered the cell where the
prisoner was still lying upon the palliasse, as he had been all along, and
still presenting that naked piece of shoulder through the hole in his shirt.
“He has been like this the best part of the day,” Hebert said with a
shrug of the shoulders. “We put his bread and water right under his
nose. He ate and he drank, and I suppose he slept. But except for a good
deal of swearing, he has not spoken to any of us.”
He had followed his chief into the cell, and now stood beside the palli-
asse, holding a small dark lantern in his hand. At a sign from Chauvelin
he flashed the light upon the prisoner’s averted head.
Mole cursed for awhile, and muttered something about “good patri-
ots” and about “retribution.” Then, worried by the light, he turned
slowly round, and with fish-like, bleary eyes looked upon his visitor.

36
 The words of stinging irony and triumphant sarcasm, all fully pre-
pared, froze on Chauvelin’s lips. He gazed upon the prisoner, and a
weird sense of something unfathomable and mysterious came over him
as he gazed. He himself could not have defined that feeling: the very
next moment he was prepared to ridicule his own cowardice— yes, cow-
ardice! because for a second or two he had felt positively afraid.
Afraid of what, forsooth? The man who crouched here in the cell was
his arch-enemy, the Scarlet Pimpernel— the man whom he hated most
bitterly in all the world, the man whose death he desired more than that
of any other living creature. He had been apprehended by the very side
of the murdered man whose confidence he had all but gained. He him-
self (Chauvelin) had at that fateful moment looked into the factitious
Mole’s eyes, had seen the mockery in them, the lazy insouciance which
was the chief attribute of Sir Percy Blakeney. He had heard a faint echo
of that inane laugh which grated upon his nerves. Hebert had then laid
hands upon this very same man; agents of the Sûreté had barred every
ingress and egress to the house, had conducted their prisoner straight-
way to the depot and thence to theAbbaye, had since that moment
guarded him on sight, by day and by night. Hebert and the other men as
well as the chief warder, all swore to that!
No, no! There could be no doubt! There was no doubt! The days of ma-
gic were over! A man could not assume a personality other than his own;
he could not fly out of that personality like a bird out of its cage. There
on the palliasse in the miserable cell were the same long limbs, the broad
shoulders, the grimy face with the three days’ growth of stubbly beard—
the whole wretched personality of Paul Mole, in fact, which hid the ex-
quisite one of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. And yet! …
A cold sweat ran down Chauvelin’s spine as he gazed, mute and im-
movable, into those fish-like, bleary eyes, which were not— no! they
were not those of the real Scarlet Pimpernel.
The whole situation became dreamlike, almost absurd. Chauvelin was
not the man for such a mock-heroic, melodramatic situation. Common-
sense, reason, his own cool powers of deliberation, would soon reassert
themselves. But for the moment he was dazed. He had worked too hard,
no doubt; had yielded too much to excitement, to triumph, and to hate.
He turned to Hebert, who was standing stolidly by, gave him a few curt
orders in a clear and well-pitched voice. Then he walked out of the cell,
without bestowing another look on the prisoner.

37
 Mole had once more turned over on his palliasse and, apparently, had
gone to sleep. Hebert, with a strange and puzzled laugh, followed his
chief out of the cell.

38
XI.
At first Chauvelin had the wish to go back and see the Public Prosec-
utor— to speak with him— to tell him— what? Yes, what? That he,
Chauvelin, had all of a sudden been assailed with the same doubts
which already had worried Hebert and the others?— that he had told a
deliberate lie when he stated that the incriminating doggerel rhyme had
been found in Mole’s cell? No, no! Such an admission would not only be
foolish, it would be dangerous now, whilst he himself was scarce pre-
pared to trust to his own senses. After all, Fouquier-Tinville was in the
right frame of mind for the moment. Paul Mole, whoever he was, was
safely under lock and key.
The only danger lay in the direction of the house on
the Chemin de Pantin. At the thought Chauvelin felt giddy and faint. But
he would allow himself no rest. Indeed, he could not have rested until
something approaching certainty had once more taken possession of his
soul. He could not— would not— believe that he had been deceived. He
was still prepared to stake his very life on the identity of the prisoner at
the Abbaye. Tricks of light, the flash of the lantern, the perfection of the
disguise, had caused a momentary illusion— nothing more.
Nevertheless, that awful feeling of restlessness which had possessed
him during the last twenty-four hours once more drove him to activity.
And although commonsense and reason both pulled one way, an eerie
sense of superstition whispered in his ear the ominous words, “If, after
all!”
At any rate, he would see the Leridans, and once more make sure of
them; and, late as was the hour, he set out for the lonely house on
the Pantin Road.
Just inside the Barriere du Combat was the Poste de Section, where
Commissary Burban was under orders to provide a dozen men of
the Sûreté, who were to be on the watch round and about the house of
the Leridans. Chauvelin called in on the Commissary, who assured him
that the men were at their post.
Thus satisfied, he crossed the Barriere and started at a brisk walk
down the long stretch of the Chemin de Pantin. The night was dark. The
rolling clouds overhead hid the face of the moon and presaged the
storm. On the right, the irregular heights of the Buttes Chaumont loomed
out dense and dark against the heavy sky, whilst to the left, on ahead, a
faintly glimmering, greyish streak of reflected light revealed the proxim-
ity of the canal.

39
 Close to the spot where the main Route de Meux intersects
the Chemin de Pantin, Chauvelin slackened his pace. The house of the
Leridans now lay immediately on his left; from it a small, feeble ray of
light, finding its way no doubt through an ill-closed shutter, pierced the
surrounding gloom. Chauvelin, without hesitation, turned up a narrow
track which led up to the house across a field of stubble. The next mo-
ment a peremptory challenge brought him to a halt.
“Who goes there?”
“Public Safety,” replied Chauvelin. “Who are you?”
“Of the Sûreté,” was the counter reply. “There are a dozen of us about
here.”
“When did you arrive?”
“Some two hours ago. We marched out directly after you left the or-
ders at the Commissariat.”
“You are prepared to remain on the watch all night?”
“Those are our orders, citizen,” replied the man.
“You had best close up round the house, then. And, name of a dog!”
he added, with a threatening ring in his voice. “Let there be no slacken-
ing of vigilance this night. No one to go in or out of that house, no one to
approach it under any circumstances whatever. Is that understood?”
“Those were our orders from the first, citizen,” said the man simply.
“And all has been well up to now?”
“We have seen no one, citizen.”
The little party closed in around their chief and together they marched
up to the house. Chauvelin, on tenterhooks, walked quicker than the oth-
ers. He was the first to reach the door. Unable to find the bell-pull in the
dark, he knocked vigorously.
The house appeared silent and wrapped in sleep. No light showed
from within save that one tiny speck through the cracks of an ill-fitting
shutter, in a room immediately overhead.
In response to Chauvelin’s repeated summons, there came anon the
sound of someone moving in one of the upstairs rooms, and presently
the light overhead disappeared, whilst a door above was heard to open
and to close and shuffling footsteps to come slowly down the creaking
stairs.
A moment or two later the bolts and bars of the front door were un-
fastened, a key grated in the rusty lock, a chain rattled in its socket, and
then the door was opened slowly and cautiously.

40
 The woman Leridan appeared in the doorway. She held a guttering
tallow candle high above her head. Its flickering light illumined
Chauvelin’s slender figure.
“Ah! the citizen Representative!” the woman ejaculated, as soon as she
recognised him. “We did not expect you again to-day, and at this late
hour, too. I’ll tell my man— ”
“Never mind your man,” broke in Chauvelin impatiently, and pushed
without ceremony past the woman inside the house. “The child? Is it
safe?”
He could scarcely control his excitement. There was a buzzing, as of an
angry sea, in his ears. The next second, until the woman spoke, seemed
like a cycle of years.
“Quite safe, citizen,” she said placidly. “Everything is quite safe. We
were so thankful for those men of the Sûreté. We had been afraid before,
as I told the citizen Representative, and my man and I could not rest for
anxiety. It was only after they came that we dared go to bed.”
A deep sigh of intense relief came from the depths of Chauvelin’s
heart. He had not realised himself until this moment how desperately
anxious he had been. The woman’s reassuring words appeared to lift a
crushing weight from his mind. He turned to the man behind him.
“You did not tell me,” he said, “that some of you had been here
already.”
“We have not been here before,” the sergeant in charge of the little pla-
toon said in reply. “I do not know what the woman means.”
“Some of your men came about three hours ago,” the woman retorted;
“less than an hour after the citizen Representative was here. I remember
that my man and I marvelled how quickly they did come, but they said
that they had been on duty at the Barriere du Combat when the citizen
arrived, and that he had dispatched them off at once. They said they had
run all the way. But even so, we thought it was quick work— ”
The words were smothered in her throat in a cry of pain, for, with an
almost brutal gesture, Chauvelin had seized her by the shoulders.
“Where are those men?” he queried hoarsely. “Answer!”
“In there, and in there,” the woman stammered, well-nigh faint with
terror as she pointed to two doors, one on each side of the passage.
“Three in each room. They are asleep now, I should say, as they seem so
quiet. But they were an immense comfort to us, citizen… we were so
thankful to have them in the house… .”
But Chauvelin had snatched the candle from her hand. Holding it high
above his head, he strode to the door on the right of the passage. It was

41
ajar. He pushed it open with a vicious kick. The room beyond was in
total darkness.
“Is anyone here?” he queried sharply.
Nothing but silence answered him. For a moment he remained there
on the threshold, silent and immovable as a figure carved in stone. He
had just a sufficiency of presence of mind and of will power not to drop
the candle, to stand there motionless, with his back turned to the woman
and to the men who had crowded in, in his wake. He would not let them
see the despair, the rage and grave superstitious fear, which distorted
every line of his pallid face.
He did not ask about the child. He would not trust himself to speak,
for he had realised already how completely he had been baffled. Those
abominable English spies had watched their opportunity, had worked on
the credulity and the fears of the Leridans and, playing the game at
which they and their audacious chief were such unconquerable experts,
they had made their way into the house under a clever ruse.
The men of the Sûreté, not quite understanding the situation, were
questioning the Leridans. The man, too, corroborated his wife’s story.
Their anxiety had been worked upon at the moment that it was most
acute. After the citizen Representative left them, earlier in the evening,
they had received another mysterious message which they had been un-
able to read, but which had greatly increased their alarm. Then, when
the men of the Sûreté came… . Ah! they had no cause to doubt that they
were men of the Sûreté! … their clothes, their speech, their appearance …
figure to yourself, even their uniforms! They spoke so nicely, so reassur-
ingly. The Leridans were so thankful to see them! Then they made them-
selves happy in the two rooms below, and for additional safety the Lan-
noy child was brought down from its attic and put to sleep in the one
room with the men of the Sûreté.
After that the Leridans went to bed. Name of a dog! how were they to
blame? Those men and the child had disappeared, but they (the Lerid-
ans) would go to the guillotine swearing that they were not to blame.
Whether Chauvelin heard all these jeremiads, he could not afterwards
have told you. But he did not need to be told how it had all been done. It
had all been so simple, so ingenious, so like the methods usually adop-
ted by that astute Scarlet Pimpernel! He saw it all so clearly before him.
Nobody was to blame really, save he himself— he, who alone knew and
understood the adversary with whom he had to deal.
But these people here should not have the gratuitous spectacle of a
man enduring the torments of disappointment and of baffled revenge.

42
Whatever Chauvelin was suffering now would for ever remain the secret
of his own soul. Anon, when the Leridans’ rasping voices died away in
one of the more distant portions of the house and the men of
the Sûreté were busy accepting refreshment and gratuity from the two
terrified wretches, he had put down the candle with a steady hand and
then walked with a firm step out of the house.
Soon the slender figure was swallowed up in the gloom as he strode
back rapidly towards the city.

43
XII.
Citizen Fouquier-Tinville had returned home from the Palais at a very
late hour that same evening. His household in his simple lodgings in the
Place Dauphiné was already abed: his wife and the twins were asleep.
He himself had sat down for a moment in the living-room, in dressing-
gown and slippers, and with the late edition of the Moniteur in his hand,
too tired to read.
It was half-past ten when there came a ring at the front door bell.
Fouquier-Tinville, half expecting citizen Chauvelin to pay him a final
visit, shuffled to the door and opened it.
A visitor, tall, well-dressed, exceedingly polite and urbane, requested
a few minutes’ conversation with citizen Fouquier-Tinville.
Before the Public Prosecutor had made up his mind whether to intro-
duce such a late-comer into his rooms, the latter had pushed his way
through the door into the ante-chamber, and with a movement as swift
as it was unexpected, had thrown a scarf round Fouquier-Tinville’s neck
and wound it round his mouth, so that the unfortunate man’s call for
help was smothered in his throat.
So dexterously and so rapidly indeed had the miscreant acted, that his
victim had hardly realised the assault before he found himself securely
gagged and bound to a chair in his own ante-room, whilst that dare-dev-
il stood before him, perfectly at his ease, his hands buried in the capa-
cious pockets of his huge caped coat, and murmuring a few casual words
of apology.
“I entreat you to forgive, citizen,” he was saying in an even and pleas-
ant voice, “this necessary violence on my part towards you. But my er-
rand is urgent, and I could not allow your neighbours or your household
to disturb the few minutes’ conversation which I am obliged to have
with you. My friend Paul Mole,” he went on, after a slight pause, “is in
grave danger of his life owing to a hallucination on the part of our mutu-
al friend citizen Chauvelin; and I feel confident that you yourself are too
deeply enamoured of your own neck to risk it wilfully by sending an in-
nocent and honest patriot to the guillotine.”
Once more he paused and looked down upon his unwilling inter-
locutor, who, with muscles straining against the cords that held him, and
with eyes nearly starting out of their sockets in an access of fear and of
rage, was indeed presenting a pitiful spectacle.
“I dare say that by now, citizen,” the brigand continued imperturb-
ably, “you will have guessed who I am. You and I have oft crossed

44
invisible swords before; but this, methinks, is the first time that we have
met face to face. I pray you, tell my dear friend M. Chauvelin that you
have seen me. Also that there were two facts which he left entirely out of
his calculations, perfect though these were. The one fact was that there
were two Paul Moles— one real and one factitious. Tell him that, I pray
you. It was the factitious Paul Mole who stole the ring and who stood for
one moment gazing into clever citizen Chauvelin’s eyes. But that same
factitious Paul Mole had disappeared in the crowd even before your col-
league had recovered his presence of mind. Tell him, I pray you, that the
elusive Pimpernel whom he knows so well never assumes a fanciful dis-
guise. He discovered the real Paul Mole first, studied him, learned his
personality, until his own became a perfect replica of the miserable
caitiff. It was the false Paul Mole who induced Jeannette Marechal to in-
troduce him originally into the household of citizen Marat. It was he
who gained the confidence of his employer; he, for a consideration, bor-
rowed the identity papers of his real prototype. He again who for a few
francs induced the real Paul Mole to follow him into the house of the
murdered demagogue and to mingle there with the throng. He who
thrust the identity papers back into the hands of their rightful owner
whilst he himself was swallowed up by the crowd. But it was the real
Paul Mole who was finally arrested and who is now lingering in
the Abbayeprison, whence you, citizen Fouquier-Tinville, must free him
on the instant, on pain of suffering yourself for the nightmares of your
friend.”
“The second fact,” he went on with the same good-humoured pleas-
antry, “which our friend citizen Chauvelin had forgotten was that,
though I happen to have aroused his unconquerable ire, I am but one
man amongst a league of gallant English gentlemen. Their chief, I am
proud to say; but without them, I should be powerless. Without one of
them near me, by the side of the murdered Marat, I could not have rid
myself of the ring in time, before other rough hands searched me to my
skin. Without them, I could not have taken Madeleine Lannoy’s child
from out that terrible hell, to which a miscreant’s lustful revenge had
condemned the poor innocent. But while citizen Chauvelin, racked with
triumph as well as with anxiety, was rushing from the Leridans’ house to
yours, and thence to the Abbayeprison, to gloat over his captive enemy,
the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel carefully laid and carried out its
plans at leisure. Disguised as men of the Sûreté, we took advantage of the
Leridans’ terror to obtain access into the house. Frightened to death by
our warnings, as well as by citizen Chauvelin’s threats, they not only

45
admitted us into their house, but actually placed Madeleine Lannoy’s
child in our charge. Then they went contentedly to bed, and we, before
the real men of theSûreté arrived upon the scene, were already safely out
of the way. My gallant English friends are some way out of Paris by now,
escorting Madeleine Lannoy and her child into safety. They will return
to Paris, citizen,” continued the audacious adventurer, with a laugh full
of joy and of unconquerable vitality, “and be my henchmen as before in
many an adventure which will cause you and citizen Chauvelin to gnash
your teeth with rage. But I myself will remain in Paris,” he concluded
lightly. “Yes, in Paris; under your very nose, and entirely at your
service!”
The next second he was gone, and Fouquier-Tinville was left to marvel
if the whole apparition had not been a hideous dream. Only there was no
doubt that he was gagged and tied to a chair with cords: and here his
wife found him, an hour later, when she woke from her first sleep,
anxious because he had not yet come to bed.

46
 Part 2
A QUESTION OF PASSPORTS

47
Bibot was very sure of himself. There never was, never had been, there
never would be again another such patriotic citizen of the Republic as
was citizen Bibot of the Town Guard.
And because his patriotism was so well known among the members of
the Committee of Public Safety, and his uncompromising hatred of the
aristocrats so highly appreciated, citizen Bibot had been given the most
important military post within the city of Paris.
He was in command of the Porte Montmartre, which goes to prove
how highly he was esteemed, for, believe me, more treachery had been
going on inside and out of the Porte Montmartre than in any other
quarter of Paris. The last commandant there, citizen Ferney, was guil-
lotined for having allowed a whole batch of aristocrats— traitors to the
Republic, all of them— to slip through the Porte Montmartre and to find
safety outside the walls of Paris. Ferney pleaded in his defence that these
traitors had been spirited away from under his very nose by the devil’s
agency, for surely that meddlesome Englishman who spent his time in
rescuing aristocrats— traitors, all of them— from the clutches of Ma-
dame la Guillotine must be either the devil himself, or at any rate one of
his most powerful agents.
“Nom de Dieu! just think of his name! The Scarlet Pimpernel they call
him! No one knows him by any other name! and he is preternaturally tall
and strong and superhumanly cunning! And the power which he has of
being transmuted into various personalities— rendering himself quite
unrecognisable to the eyes of the most sharp-seeing patriot of France,
must of a surety be a gift of Satan!”
But the Committee of Public Safety refused to listen to Ferney’s ex-
planations. The Scarlet Pimpernel was only an ordinary mortal— an ex-
ceedingly cunning and meddlesome personage it is true, and endowed
with a superfluity of wealth which enabled him to break the thin crust of
patriotism that overlay the natural cupidity of many Captains of the
Town Guard— but still an ordinary man for all that! and no true lover of
the Republic should allow either superstitious terror or greed to interfere
with the discharge of his duties which at the Porte Montmartre consisted
in detaining any and every person— aristocrat, foreigner, or otherwise
traitor to the Republic— who could not give a satisfactory reason for de-
siring to leave Paris. Having detained such persons, the patriot’s next
duty was to hand them over to the Committee of Public Safety, who
would then decide whether Madame la Guillotine would have the last
word over them or not.

48
 And the guillotine did nearly always have the last word to say, unless
the Scarlet Pimpernel interfered.
The trouble was, that that same accursed Englishman interfered at
times in a manner which was positively terrifying. His impudence,
certes, passed all belief. Stories of his daring and of his impudence were
abroad which literally made the lank and greasy hair of every patriot
curl with wonder. ’Twas even whispered— not too loudly, forsooth—
that certain members of the Committee of Public Safety had measured
their skill and valour against that of the Englishman and emerged from
the conflict beaten and humiliated, vowing vengeance which, of a truth,
was still slow in coming.
Citizen Chauvelin, one of the most implacable and unyielding mem-
bers of the Committee, was known to have suffered overwhelming
shame at the hands of that daring gang, of whom the so-called Scarlet
Pimpernel was the accredited chief. Some there were who said that cit-
izen Chauvelin had for ever forfeited his prestige, and even endangered
his head by measuring his well-known astuteness against that mysteri-
ous League of spies.
But then Bibot was different!
He feared neither the devil, nor any Englishman. Had the latter the
strength of giants and the protection of every power of evil, Bibot was
ready for him. Nay! he was aching for a tussle, and haunted the purlieus
of the Committees to obtain some post which would enable him to come
to grips with the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League.
Bibot’s zeal and perseverance were duly rewarded, and anon he was
appointed to the command of the guard at the Porte Montmartre.
A post of vast importance as aforesaid; so much so, in fact, that no less
a person than citizen Jean Paul Marat himself came to speak with Bibot
on that third day ofNivôse in the year I of the Republic, with a view to
impressing upon him the necessity of keeping his eyes open, and of sus-
pecting every man, woman, and child indiscriminately until they had
proved themselves to be true patriots.
“Let no one slip through your fingers, citizen Bibot,” Marat admon-
ished with grim earnestness. “That accursed Englishman is cunning and
resourceful, and his impudence surpasses that of the devil himself.”
“He’d better try some of his impudence on me!” commented Bibot
with a sneer, “he’ll soon find out that he no longer has a Ferney to deal
with. Take it from me, citizen Marat, that if a batch of aristocrats escape
out of Paris within the next few days, under the guidance of the d— d

49
Englishman, they will have to find some other way than the Porte
Montmartre.”
“Well said, citizen!” commented Marat. “But be watchful to-night…
to-night especially. The Scarlet Pimpernel is rampant in Paris just now.”
“How so?”
“The ci-devant Due and Duchesse de Montreux and the whole of their
brood— sisters, brothers, two or three children, a priest, and several ser-
vants— a round dozen in all, have been condemned to death. The guil-
lotine for them to-morrow at daybreak! Would it could have been to-
night,” added Marat, whilst a demoniacal leer contorted his face which
already exuded lust for blood from every pore. “Would it could have
been to-night. But the guillotine has been busy; over four hundred
executions to-day… and the tumbrils are full— the seats bespoken in ad-
vance— and still they come… . But to-morrow morning at daybreak Ma-
dame la Guillotine will have a word to say to the whole of the Montreux
crowd!”
“But they are in the Conciergerie prison surely, citizen! out of the reach
of that accursed Englishman?”
“They are on their way, an I mistake not, to the prison at this moment.
I came straight on here after the condemnation, to which I listened with
true joy. Ah, citizen Bibot! the blood of these hated aristocrats is good to
behold when it drips from the blade of the guillotine. Have a care, citizen
Bibot, do not let the Montreux crowd escape!”
“Have no fear, citizen Marat! But surely there is no danger! They have
been tried and condemned! They are, as you say, even now on their
way— well guarded, I presume— to the Conciergerie prison!— to-mor-
row at daybreak, the guillotine! What is there to fear?”
“Well! well!” said Marat, with a slight tone of hesitation, “it is best, cit-
izen Bibot, to be over-careful these times.”
Even whilst Marat spoke his face, usually so cunning and so vengeful,
had suddenly lost its look of devilish cruelty which was almost superhu-
man in the excess of its infamy, and a greyish hue— suggestive of ter-
ror— had spread over the sunken cheeks. He clutched Bibot’s arm, and
leaning over the table he whispered in his ear:
“The Public Prosecutor had scarce finished his speech to-day, judg-
ment was being pronounced, the spectators were expectant and still,
only the Montreux woman and some of the females and children were
blubbering and moaning, when suddenly, it seemed from nowhere, a
small piece of paper fluttered from out the assembly and alighted on the
desk in front of the Public Prosecutor. He took the paper up and glanced

50
at its contents. I saw that his cheeks had paled, and that his hand
trembled as he handed the paper over to me.”
“And what did that paper contain, citizen Marat?” asked Bibot, also
speaking in a whisper, for an access of superstitious terror was gripping
him by the throat.
“Just the well-known accursed device, citizen, the small scarlet flower,
drawn in red ink, and the few words: ’To-night the innocent men and
women now condemned by this infamous tribunal will be beyond your
reach!’”
“And no sign of a messenger?”
“None.”
“And when did—— ”
“Hush!” said Marat peremptorily, “no more of that now. To your post,
citizen, and remember— all are suspect! let none escape!”
The two men had been sitting outside a small tavern, opposite the
Porte Montmartre, with a bottle of wine between them, their elbows rest-
ing on the grimy top of a rough wooden table. They had talked in whis-
pers, for even the walls of the tumble-down cabaret might have had ears.
Opposite them the city wall— broken here by the great gate of Mont-
martre— loomed threateningly in the fast-gathering dusk of this winter’s
afternoon. Men in ragged red shirts, their unkempt heads crowned with
Phrygian caps adorned with a tricolour cockade, lounged against the
wall, or sat in groups on the top of piles of refuse that littered the street,
with a rough deal plank between them and a greasy pack of cards in
their grimy fingers. Guns and bayonets were propped against the wall.
The gate itself had three means of egress; each of these was guarded by
two men with fixed bayonets at their shoulders, but otherwise dressed
like the others, in rags— with bare legs that looked blue and numb in the
cold— the sans-culottes of revolutionary Paris.
Bibot rose from his seat, nodding to Marat, and joined his men.
From afar, but gradually drawing nearer, came the sound of a ribald
song, with chorus accompaniment sung by throats obviously surfeited
with liquor.
For a moment— as the sound approached— Bibot turned back once
more to the Friend of the People.
“Am I to understand, citizen,” he said, “that my orders are not to let
anyone pass through these gates to-night?”
“No, no, citizen,” replied Marat, “we dare not do that. There are a
number of good patriots in the city still. We cannot interfere with their
liberty or— ”

51
 And the look of fear of the demagogue— himself afraid of the human
whirlpool which he has let loose— stole into Marat’s cruel, piercing eyes.
“No, no,” he reiterated more emphatically, “we cannot disregard the
passports issued by the Committee of Public Safety. But examine each
passport carefully, citizen Bibot! If you have any reasonable ground for
suspicion, detain the holder, and if you have not—— ”
The sound of singing was quite near now. With another wink and a fi-
nal leer, Marat drew back under the shadow of the cabaret, and Bibot
swaggered up to the main entrance of the gate.
“Qui va la?” he thundered in stentorian tones as a group of some half-
dozen people lurched towards him out of the gloom, still shouting
hoarsely their ribald drinking song.
The foremost man in the group paused opposite citizen Bibot, and
with arms akimbo, and legs planted well apart tried to assume a rigidity
of attitude which apparently was somewhat foreign to him at this
moment.
“Good patriots, citizen,” he said in a thick voice which he vainly tried
to render steady.
“What do you want?” queried Bibot.
“To be allowed to go on our way unmolested.”
“What is your way?”
“Through the Porte Montmartre to the village of Barency.”
“What is your business there?”
This query delivered in Bibot’s most pompous manner seemed vastly
to amuse the rowdy crowd. He who was the spokesman turned to his
friends and shouted hilariously:
“Hark at him, citizens! He asks me what is our business. Ohé, citizen
Bibot, since when have you become blind? A dolt you’ve always been,
else you had not asked the question.”
But Bibot, undeterred by the man’s drunken insolence, retorted
gruffly:
“Your business, I want to know.” “Bibot! my little Bibot!” cooed the
bibulous orator now in dulcet tones, “dost not know us, my good Bibot?
Yet we all know thee, citizen— Captain Bibot of the Town Guard, eh, cit-
izens! Three cheers for the citizen captain!”
When the noisy shouts and cheers from half a dozen hoarse throats
had died down, Bibot, without more ado, turned to his own men at the
gate.
“Drive these drunken louts away!” he commanded; “no one is allowed
to loiter here.”

52
 Loud protest on the part of the hilarious crowd followed, then a slight
scuffle with the bayonets of the Town Guard. Finally the spokesman,
somewhat sobered, once more appealed to Bibot.
“Citizen Bibot! you must be blind not to know me and my mates! And
let me tell you that you are doing yourself a deal of harm by interfering
with the citizens of the Republic in the proper discharge of their duties,
and by disregarding their rights of egress through this gate, a right con-
firmed by passports signed by two members of the Committee of Public
Safety.”
He had spoken now fairly clearly and very pompously. Bibot, some-
what impressed and remembering Marat’s admonitions, said very
civilly:
“Tell me your business then, citizen, and show me your passports. If
everything is in order you may go your way.”
“But you know me, citizen Bibot?” queried the other.
“Yes, I know you— unofficially, citizen Durand.”
“You know that I and the citizens here are the carriers for citizen
Legrand, the market gardener of Barency?”
“Yes, I know that,” said Bibot guardedly, “unofficially.”
“Then, unofficially, let me tell you, citizen, that unless we get to Bar-
ency this evening, Paris will have to do without cabbages and potatoes
to-morrow. So now you know that you are acting at your own risk and
peril, citizen, by detaining us.”
“Your passports, all of you,” commanded Bibot.
He had just caught sight of Marat still sitting outside the tavern oppos-
ite, and was glad enough, in this instance, to shelve his responsibility on
the shoulders of the popular “Friend of the People.” There was general
searching in ragged pockets for grimy papers with official seals thereon,
and whilst Bibot ordered one of his men to take the six passports across
the road to citizen Marat for his inspection, he himself, by the last rays of
the setting winter sun, made close examination of the six men who de-
sired to pass through the Porte Montmartre.
As the spokesman had averred, he— Bibot— knew every one of these
men. They were the carriers to citizen Legrand, the Barency market
gardener. Bibot knew every face. They passed with a load of fruit and
vegetables in and out of Paris every day. There was really and absolutely
no cause for suspicion, and when citizen Marat returned the six pass-
ports, pronouncing them to be genuine, and recognising his own signa-
ture at the bottom of each, Bibot was at last satisfied, and the six bibulous
carriers were allowed to pass through the gate, which they did, arm in

53
arm, singing a wild curmagnole, and vociferously cheering as they
emerged out into the open.
But Bibot passed an unsteady hand over his brow. It was cold, yet he
was in a perspiration. That sort of thing tells on a man’s nerves. He re-
joined Marat, at the table outside the drinking booth, and ordered a fresh
bottle of wine.
The sun had set now, and with the gathering dusk a damp mist des-
cended on Montmartre. From the wall opposite, where the men sat play-
ing cards, came occasional volleys of blasphemous oaths. Bibot was feel-
ing much more like himself. He had half forgotten the incident of the six
carriers, which had occurred nearly half an hour ago.
Two or three other people had, in the meanwhile, tried to pass
through the gates, but Bibot had been suspicious and had detained them
all.
Marat having commended him for his zeal took final leave of him. Just
as the demagogue’s slouchy, grimy figure was disappearing down a side
street there was the loud clatter of hoofs from that same direction, and
the next moment a detachment of the mounted Town Guard, headed by
an officer in uniform, galloped down the ill-paved street.
Even before the troopers had drawn rein the officer had hailed Bibot.
“Citizen,” he shouted, and his voice was breathless, for he had evid-
ently ridden hard and fast, “this message to you from the citizen Chief
Commissary of the Section. Six men are wanted by the Committee of
Public Safety. They are disguised as carriers in the employ of a market
gardener, and have passports for Barency! … The passports are stolen:
the men are traitors— escaped aristocrats— and their spokesman is that
d— d Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Bibot tried to speak; he tugged at the collar of his ragged shirt; an aw-
ful curse escaped him.
“Ten thousand devils!” he roared.
“On no account allow these people to go through,” continued the of-
ficer. “Keep their passports. Detain them!… Understand?”
Bibot was still gasping for breath even whilst the officer, ordering a
quick “Turn!” reeled his horse round, ready to gallop away as far as he
had come.
“I am for the St. Denis Gate— Grosjean is on guard there!” he shouted.
“Same orders all round the city. No one to leave the gates!…
Understand?”
His troopers fell in. The next moment he would be gone, and those
cursed aristocrats well in safety’s way.

54
 “Citizen Captain!”
The hoarse shout at last contrived to escape Bibot’s parched throat. As
if involuntarily, the officer drew rein once more.
“What is it? Quick!— I’ve no time. That confounded Englishman may
be at the St. Denis Gate even now!”
“Citizen Captain,” gasped Bibot, his breath coming and going like that
of a man fighting for his life. “Here! … at this gate!… not half an hour
ago… six men… carriers… market gardeners… I seemed to know their
faces… .”
“Yes! yes! market gardener’s carriers,” exclaimed the officer gleefully,
“aristocrats all of them… and that d— d Scarlet Pimpernel. You’ve got
them? You’ve detained them? … Where are they? … Speak, man, in the
name of hell! … ” “Gone!” gasped Bibot. His legs would no longer bear
him. He fell backwards on to a heap of street debris and refuse, from
which lowly vantage ground he contrived to give away the whole miser-
able tale.
“Gone! half an hour ago. Their passports were in order!… I seemed to
know their faces! Citizen Marat was here… . He, too— ”
In a moment the officer had once more swung his horse round, so that
the animal reared, with wild forefeet pawing the air, with champing of
bit, and white foam scattered around.
“A thousand million curses!” he exclaimed. “Citizen Bibot, your head
will pay for this treachery. Which way did they go?”
A dozen hands were ready to point in the direction where the merry
party of carriers had disappeared half an hour ago; a dozen tongues gave
rapid, confused explanations.
“Into it, my men!” shouted the officer; “they were on foot! They can’t
have gone far. Remember the Republic has offered ten thousand francs
for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Already the heavy gates had been swung open, and the officer’s voice
once more rang out clear through a perfect thunder-clap of fast galloping
hoofs:
“Ventre a terre! Remember!— ten thousand francs to him who first
sights the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
The thunder-clap died away in the distance, the dust of four score
hoofs was merged in the fog and in the darkness; the voice of the captain
was raised again through the mist-laden air. One shout… a shout of tri-
umph… then silence once again.
Bibot had fainted on the heap of debris.

55
 His comrades brought him wine to drink. He gradually revived. Hope
came back to his heart; his nerves soon steadied themselves as the heavy
beverage filtrated through into his blood.
“Bah!” he ejaculated as he pulled himself together, “the troopers were
well-mounted… the officer was enthusiastic; those carriers could not
have walked very far. And, in any case, I am free from blame. Citoyen
Marat himself was here and let them pass!”
A shudder of superstitious terror ran through him as he recollected the
whole scene: for surely he knew all the faces of the six men who had
gone through the gate. The devil indeed must have given the mysterious
Englishman power to transmute himself and his gang wholly into the
bodies of other people.
More than an hour went by. Bibot was quite himself again, bullying,
commanding, detaining everybody now.
At that time there appeared to be a slight altercation going on, on the
farther side of the gate. Bibot thought it his duty to go and see what the
noise was about. Someone wanting to get into Paris instead of out of it at
this hour of the night was a strange occurrence.
Bibot heard his name spoken by a raucous voice. Accompanied by two
of his men he crossed the wide gates in order to see what was happen-
ing. One of the men held a lanthorn, which he was swinging high above
his head. Bibot saw standing there before him, arguing with the guard
by the gate, the bibulous spokesman of the band of carriers.
He was explaining to the sentry that he had a message to deliver to the
citizen commanding at the Porte Montmartre.
“It is a note,” he said, “which an officer of the mounted guard gave
me. He and twenty troopers were galloping down the great North Road
not far from Barency. When they overtook the six of us they drew rein,
and the officer gave me this note for citizen Bibot and fifty francs if I
would deliver it tonight.”
“Give me the note!” said Bibot calmly.
But his hand shook as he took the paper; his face was livid with fear
and rage.
The paper had no writing on it, only the outline of a small scarlet
flower done in red— the device of the cursed Englishman, the Scarlet
Pimpernel.
“Which way did the officer and the twenty troopers go,” he
stammered, “after they gave you this note?”

56
 “On the way to Calais,” replied the other, “but they had magnificent
horses, and didn’t spare them either. They are a league and more away
by now!”
All the blood in Bibot’s body seemed to rush up to his head, a wild
buzzing was in his ears… .
And that was how the Due and Duchesse de Montreux, with their ser-
vants and family, escaped from Paris on that third day of Nivôse in the
year I of the Republic.

57
 Part 3
TWO GOOD PATRIOTS

58
Being the deposition of citizeness Fanny Roussell, who was brought up,
together with her husband, before the Tribunal of the Revolution on a
charge of treason—both being subsequently acquitted.
My name is Fanny Roussell, and I am a respectable married woman,
and as good a patriot as any of you sitting there.
Aye, and I’ll say it with my dying breath, though you may send me to
the guillotine… as you probably will, for you are all thieves and murder-
ers, every one of you, and you have already made up your minds that I
and my man are guilty of having sheltered that accursed Englishman
whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel… and of having helped him to
escape.
But I’ll tell you how it all happened, because, though you call me a
traitor to the people of France, yet am I a true patriot and will prove it to
you by telling you exactly how everything occurred, so that you may be
on your guard against the cleverness of that man, who, I do believe, is a
friend and confederate of the devil… else how could he have escaped
that time?
Well! it was three days ago, and as bitterly cold as anything that my
man and I can remember. We had no travellers staying in the house, for
we are a good three leagues out of Calais, and too far for the folk who
have business in or about the harbour. Only at midday the coffee-room
would get full sometimes with people on their way to or from the port.
But in the evenings the place was quite deserted, and so lonely that at
times we fancied that we could hear the wolves howling in the forest of
St. Pierre.
It was close on eight o’clock, and my man was putting up the shutters,
when suddenly we heard the tramp of feet on the road outside, and then
the quick word, “Halt!”
The next moment there was a peremptory knock at the door. My man
opened it, and there stood four men in the uniform of the 9th Regiment
of the Line… the same that is quartered at Calais. The uniform, of course,
I knew well, though I did not know the men by sight.
“In the name of the People and by the order of the Committee of
Public Safety!” said one of the men, who stood in the forefront, and who,
I noticed, had a corporal’s stripe on his left sleeve.
He held out a paper, which was covered with seals and with writing,
but as neither my man nor I can read, it was no use our looking at it.
Hercule— that is my husband’s name, citizens— asked the corporal
what the Committee of Public Safety wanted with us poor hoteliers of a
wayside inn.

59
 “Only food and shelter for to-night for me and my men,” replied the
corporal, quite civilly.
“You can rest here,” said Hercule, and he pointed to the benches in the
coffee-room, “and if there is any soup left in the stockpot, you are wel-
come to it.”
Hercule, you see, is a good patriot, and he had been a soldier in his
day… . No! no… do not interrupt me, any of you… you would only be
saying that I ought to have known… but listen to the end.
“The soup we’ll gladly eat,” said the corporal very pleasantly. “As for
shelter… well! I am afraid that this nice warm coffee-room will not ex-
actly serve our purpose. We want a place where we can lie hidden, and
at the same time keep a watch on the road. I noticed an outhouse as we
came. By your leave we will sleep in there.”
“As you please,” said my man curtly.
He frowned as he said this, and it suddenly seemed as if some vague
suspicion had crept into Hercule’s mind.
The corporal, however, appeared unaware of this, for he went on quite
cheerfully:
“Ah! that is excellent! Entre nous, citizen, my men and I have a desper-
ate customer to deal with. I’ll not mention his name, for I see you have
guessed it already. A small red flower, what?… Well, we know that he
must be making straight for the port of Calais, for he has been traced
through St. Omer and Ardres. But he cannot possibly enter Calais city to-
night, for we are on the watch for him. He must seek shelter somewhere
for himself and any other aristocrat he may have with him, and, bar this
house, there is no other place between Ardres and Calais where he can
get it. The night is bitterly cold, with a snow blizzard raging round. I and
my men have been detailed to watch this road, other patrols are guard-
ing those that lead toward Boulogne and to Gravelines; but I have an
idea, citizen, that our fox is making for Calais, and that to me will fall the
honour of handing that tiresome scarlet flower to the Public Prosecutor
en route for Madame la Guillotine.”
Now I could not really tell you, citizens, what suspicions had by this
time entered Hercule’s head or mine; certainly what suspicions we did
have were still very vague.
I prepared the soup for the men and they ate it heartily, after which
my husband led the way to the outhouse where we sometimes stabled a
traveller’s horse when the need arose.

60
 It is nice and dry, and always filled with warm, fresh straw. The en-
trance into it immediately faces the road; the corporal declared that noth-
ing would suit him and his men better.
They retired to rest apparently, but we noticed that two men remained
on the watch just inside the entrance, whilst the two others curled up in
the straw.
Hercule put out the lights in the coffee-room, and then he and I went
upstairs— not to bed, mind you— but to have a quiet talk together over
the events of the past half-hour.
The result of our talk was that ten minutes later my man quietly stole
downstairs and out of the house. He did not, however, go out by the
front door, but through a back way which, leading through a cabbage-
patch and then across a field, cuts into the main road some two hundred
metres higher up.
Hercule and I had decided that he would walk the three leagues into
Calais, despite the cold, which was intense, and the blizzard, which was
nearly blinding, and that he would call at the post of gendarmerie at the
city gates, and there see the officer in command and tell him the exact
state of the case. It would then be for that officer to decide what was to
be done; our responsibility as loyal citizens would be completely
covered.
Hercule, you must know, had just emerged from our cabbage-patch on
to the field when he was suddenly challenged:
“Qui va la?”
He gave his name. His certificate of citizenship was in his pocket; he
had nothing to fear. Through the darkness and the veil of snow he had
discerned a small group of men wearing the uniform of the 9th Regiment
of the Line.
“Four men,” said the foremost of these, speaking quickly and com-
mandingly, “wearing the same uniform that I and my men are wear-
ing… have you seen them?”
“Yes,” said Hercule hurriedly.
“Where are they?”
“In the outhouse close by.”
The other suppressed a cry of triumph.
“At them, my men!” he said in a whisper, “and you, citizen, thank
your stars that we have not come too late.”
“These men… ” whispered Hercule. “I had my suspicions.”
“Aristocrats, citizen,” rejoined the commander of the little party, “and
one of them is that cursed Englishman— the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

61
 Already the soldiers, closely followed by Hercule, had made their way
through our cabbage-patch back to the house.
The next moment they had made a bold dash for the barn. There was a
great deal of shouting, a great deal of swearing and some firing, whilst
Hercule and I, not a little frightened, remained in the coffee-room,
anxiously awaiting events.
Presently the group of soldiers returned, not the ones who had first
come, but the others. I noticed their leader, who seemed to be exception-
ally tall.
He looked very cheerful, and laughed loudly as he entered the coffee-
room. From the moment that I looked at his face I knew, somehow, that
Hercule and I had been fooled, and that now, indeed, we stood eye to
eye with that mysterious personage who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel.
I screamed, and Hercule made a dash for the door; but what could two
humble and peaceful citizens do against this band of desperate men,
who held their lives in their own hands? They were four and we were
two, and I do believe that their leader has supernatural strength and
power.
He treated us quite kindly, even though he ordered his followers to
bind us down to our bed upstairs, and to tie a cloth round our mouths so
that our cries could not be distinctly heard.
Neither my man nor I closed an eye all night, of course, but we heard
the miscreants moving about in the coffee-room below. But they did no
mischief, nor did they steal any of the food or wines.
At daybreak we heard them going out by the front door, and their
footsteps disappearing toward Calais. We found their discarded uni-
forms lying in the coffee-room. They must have entered Calais by day-
light, when the gates were opened— just like other peaceable citizens.
No doubt they had forged passports, just as they had stolen uniforms.
Our maid-of-all-work released us from our terrible position in the
course of the morning, and we released the soldiers of the 9th Regiment
of the Line, whom we found bound and gagged, some of them
wounded, in the outhouse.
That same afternoon we were arrested, and here we are, ready to die if
we must, but I swear that I have told you the truth, and I ask you, in the
name of justice, if we have done anything wrong, and if we did not act
like loyal and true citizens, even though we were pitted against an emis-
sary of the devil?

62
 Part 4
THE OLD SCARECROW

63
I.
Nobody in the quartier could quite recollect when it was that the new
Public Letter-Writer first set up in business at the angle formed by
the Quai des Augustinsand the Rue Dauphiné, immediately facing the
Pont Neuf; but there he certainly was on the 28th day of February, 1793,
when Agnes, with eyes swollen with tears, a market basket on her arm,
and a look of dreary despair on her young face, turned that selfsame
angle on her way to the Pont Neuf, and nearly fell over the rickety con-
struction which sheltered him and his stock-in-trade.
“Oh, mon Dieu! citizen Lepine, I had no idea you were here,” she ex-
claimed as soon as she had recovered her balance.
“Nor I, citizeness, that I should have the pleasure of seeing you this
morning,” he retorted.
“But you were always at the other corner of the Pont Neuf,” she
argued.
“So I was,” he replied, “so I was. But I thought I would like a change.
The Faubourg St. Michel appealed to me; most of my clients came to me
from this side of the river— all those on the other side seem to know
how to read and write.”
“I was just going over to see you,” she remarked.
“You, citizeness,” he exclaimed in unfeigned surprise, “what should
procure a poor public writer the honour of— ”
“Hush, in God’s name!” broke in the young girl quickly as she cast a
rapid, furtive glance up and down the quai and the narrow streets which
converged at this angle.
She was dressed in the humblest and poorest of clothes, her skimpy
shawl round her shoulders could scarce protect her against the cold of
this cruel winter’s morning; her hair was entirely hidden beneath a
frilled and starched cap, and her feet were encased in coarse worsted
stockings and sabots, but her hands were delicate and fine, and her face
had that nobility of feature and look of patient resignation in the midst of
overwhelming sorrow which proclaimed a lofty refinement both of soul
and of mind.
The old Letter-Writer was surveying the pathetic young figure before
him through his huge horn-rimmed spectacles, and she smiled on him
through her fast-gathering tears. He used to have his pitch at the angle of
the Pont Neuf, and whenever Agnes had walked past it, she had nodded
to him and bidden him “Good morrow!” He had at times done little
commissions for her and gone on errands when she needed a messenger;

64
to-day, in the midst of her despair, she had suddenly thought of him and
that rumour credited him with certain knowledge which she would give
her all to possess.
She had sallied forth this morning with the express purpose of speak-
ing with him; but now suddenly she felt afraid, and stood looking at him
for a moment or two, hesitating, wondering if she dared tell him— one
never knew these days into what terrible pitfall an ill-considered word
might lead one.
A scarecrow he was, that old Public Letter-Writer, more like a great,
gaunt bird than a human being, with those spectacles of his, and his
long, very sparse and very lanky fringe of a beard which fell from his
cheeks and chin and down his chest for all the world like a crumpled
grey bib. He was wrapped from head to foot in a caped coat which had
once been green in colour, but was now of many hues not usually seen in
rainbows. He wore his coat all buttoned down the front, like a dressing-
gown, and below the hem there peeped out a pair of very large feet en-
cased in boots which had never been a pair. He sat upon a rickety, straw-
bottomed chair under an improvised awning which was made up of four
poles and a bit of sacking. He had a table in front of him— a table par-
tially and very insecurely propped up by a bundle of old papers and
books, since no two of its four legs were completely whole— and on the
table there was a neckless bottle half-filled with ink, a few sheets of pa-
per and a couple of quill pens.
The young girl’s hesitation had indeed not lasted more than a few
seconds.
Furtively, like a young creature terrified of lurking enemies, she once
more glanced to right and left of her and down the two streets and the
river bank, for Paris was full of spies these days— human bloodhounds
ready for a few sous to sell their fellow-creatures’ lives. It was middle
morning now, and a few passers-by were hurrying along wrapped to the
nose in mufflers, for the weather was bitterly cold.
Agnes waited until there was no one in sight, then she leaned forward
over the table and whispered under her breath:
“They say, citizen, that you alone in Paris know the whereabouts of
the English milor’— of him who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel… .”
“Hush-sh-sh!” said the old man quickly, for just at that moment two
men had gone by, in ragged coats and torn breeches, who had leered at
Agnes and her neat cap and skirt as they passed. Now they had turned
the angle of the street and the old man, too, sank his voice to a whisper.
“I know nothing of any Englishman,” he muttered.

65
 “Yes, you do,” she rejoined insistently. “When poor Antoine Carre
was somewhere in hiding and threatened with arrest, and his mother
dared not write to him lest her letter be intercepted, she spoke to you
about the English milor’, and the English milor’ found Antoine Carre
and took him and his mother safely out of France.Mme. Carre is my god-
mother… .I saw her the very night when she went to meet the English
milor’ at his commands. I know all that happened then… .I know that
you were the intermediary.”
“And if I was,” he muttered sullenly as he fiddled with his pen and
paper, “maybe I’ve had cause to regret it. For a week after that Carre
episode I dared not show my face in the streets of Paris; for nigh on a
fortnight I dared not ply my trade… I have only just ventured again to
set up in business. I am not going to risk my old neck again in a hurry…
.”
“It is a matter of life and death,” urged Agnes, as once more the tears
rushed to her pleading eyes and the look of misery settled again upon
her face.
“Your life, citizeness?” queried the old man, “or that of citizen-deputy
Fabrice?”
“Hush!” she broke in again, as a look of real terror now overspread her
face. Then she added under her breath: “You know?”
“I know that Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines is fiancee to the citizen-
deputy Arnould Fabrice,” rejoined the old man quietly, “and that it is
Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines who is speaking with me now.”
“You have known that all along?”
“Ever since mademoiselle first tripped past me at the angle of the
Pont Neuf dressed in winsey kirtle and wearing sabots on her feet… .”
“But how?” she murmured, puzzled, not a little frightened, for his
knowledge might prove dangerous to her. She was of gentle birth, and as
such an object of suspicion to the Government of the Republic and of the
Terror; her mother was a hopeless cripple, unable to move: this together
with her love for Arnould Fabrice had kept Agnes de Lucines in France
these days, even though she was in hourly peril of arrest.
“Tell me what has happened,” the old man said, unheeding her last
anxious query. “Perhaps I can help… ”
“Oh! you cannot— the English milor’ can and will if only we could
know where he is. I thought of him the moment I received that awful
man’s letter— and then I thought of you… .”

66
 “Tell me about the letter— quickly,” he interrupted her with some im-
patience. “I’ll be writing something— but talk away, I shall hear every
word. But for God’s sake be as brief as you can.”
He drew some paper nearer to him and dipped his pen in the ink. He
appeared to be writing under her dictation. Thin, flaky snow had begun
to fall and settled in a smooth white carpet upon the frozen ground, and
the footsteps of the passers-by sounded muffled as they hurried along.
Only the lapping of the water of the sluggish river close by broke the ab-
solute stillness of the air.
Agnes de Lucines’ pale face looked ethereal in this framework of white
which covered her shoulders and the shawl crossed over her bosom:
only her eyes, dark, appealing, filled with a glow of immeasurable des-
pair, appeared tensely human and alive.
“I had a letter this morning,” she whispered, speaking very rapidly,
“from citizen Heriot— that awful man— you know him?”
“Yes, yes!”
“He used to be valet in the service of deputy Fabrice. Now he, too, is a
member of the National Assembly… he is arrogant and cruel and vile.
He hates Arnould Fabrice and he professes himself passionately in love
with me.”
“Yes, yes!” murmured the old man, “but the letter?”
“It came this morning. In it he says that he has in his possession a
number of old letters, documents and manuscripts which are quite
enough to send deputy Fabrice to the guillotine. He threatens to place all
those papers before the Committee of Public Safety unless… unless I… .”
She paused, and a deep blush, partly of shame, partly of wrath, suf-
fused her pale cheeks.
“Unless you accept his grimy hand in marriage,” concluded the man
dryly.
Her eyes gave him answer. With pathetic insistence she tried now to
glean a ray of hope from the old scarecrow’s inscrutable face. But he was
bending over his writing: his fingers were blue with cold, his great
shoulders were stooping to his task.
“Citizen,” she pleaded.
“Hush!” he muttered, “no more now. The very snowflakes are made
up of whispers that may reach those bloodhounds yet. The English mi-
lor’ shall know of this. He will send you a message if he thinks fit.”
“Citizen— ”
“Not another word, in God’s name! Pay me five sous for this letter and
pray Heaven that you have not been watched.”

67
 She shivered and drew her shawl closer round her shoulders, then she
counted out five sous with elaborate care and laid them out upon the
table. The old man took up the coins. He blew into his fingers, which
looked paralysed with the cold. The snow lay over everything now; the
rough awning had not protected him or his wares.
Agnes turned to go. The last she saw of him, as she went up the rue
Dauphiné, was one broad shoulder still bending over the table, and clad
in the shabby, caped coat all covered with snow like an old Santa Claus.

68
II.
It was half-an-hour before noon, and citizen-deputy Heriot was prepar-
ing to go out to the small tavern round the corner where he habitually
took his dejeuner. Citizen Rondeau, who for the consideration of
ten sous a day looked after Heriot’s paltry creature-comforts, was busy
tidying up the squalid apartment which the latter occupied on the top
floor of a lodging-house in the Rue Cocatrice. This apartment consisted
of three rooms leading out of one another; firstly there was a dark and
narrow antichambre wherein slept the aforesaid citizen-servant; then
came a sitting-room sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a centre table
and an iron stove, and finally there was the bedroom wherein the most
conspicuous object was a large oak chest clamped with wide iron hinges
and a massive writing-desk; the bed and a very primitive washstand
were in an alcove at the farther end of the room and partially hidden by
a tapestry curtain.
At exactly half-past seven that morning there came a peremptory
knock at the door of the antichambre, and as Rondeau was busy in the
bedroom, Heriot went himself to see who his unexpected visitor might
be. On the landing outside stood an extraordinary-looking individual—
more like a tall and animated scarecrow than a man— who in a tremu-
lous voice asked if he might speak with the citizen Heriot.
“That is my name,” said the deputy gruffly, “what do you want?”
He would have liked to slam the door in the old scarecrow’s face, but
the latter, with the boldness which sometimes besets the timid, had
already stepped into the anti-chambre and was now quietly sauntering
through to the next room into the one beyond. Heriot, being a represent-
ative of the people and a social democrat of the most advanced type, was
supposed to be accessible to every one who desired speech with him.
Though muttering sundry curses, he thought it best not to go against his
usual practice, and after a moment’s hesitation he followed his unwel-
come visitor.
The latter was in the sitting-room by this time; he had drawn a chair
close to the table and sat down with the air of one who has a perfect right
to be where he is; as soon as Heriot entered he said placidly:
“I would desire to speak alone with the citizen-deputy.”
And Heriot, after another slight hesitation, ordered Rondeau to close
the bedroom door.
“Keep your ears open in case I call,” he added significantly.
“You are cautious, citizen,” merely remarked the visitor with a smile.

69
 To this Heriot vouchsafed no reply. He, too, drew a chair forward and
sat opposite his visitor, then he asked abruptly: “Your name and
quality?”
“My name is Lepine at your service,” said the old man, “and by pro-
fession I write letters at the rate of five sous or so, according to length, for
those who are not able to do it for themselves.”
“Your business with me?” queried Heriot curtly.
“To offer you two thousand francs for the letters which you stole from
deputy Fabrice when you were his valet,” replied Lepine with perfect
calm.
In a moment Heriot was on his feet, jumping up as if he had been
stung; his pale, short-sighted eyes narrowed till they were mere slits, and
through them he darted a quick, suspicious glance at the extraordinary
out-at-elbows figure before him. Then he threw back his head and
laughed till the tears streamed down his cheeks and his sides began to
ache.
“This is a farce, I presume, citizen,” he said when he had recovered
something of his composure.
“No farce, citizen,” replied Lepine calmly. “The money is at your dis-
posal whenever you care to bring the letters to my pitch at the angle of
the Rue Dauphiné and the Quai des Augustins, where I carry on my
business.”
“Whose money is it? Agnes de Lucines’ or did that fool Fabrice send
you?”
“No one sent me, citizen. The money is mine— a few savings I pos-
sess— I honour citizen Fabrice— I would wish to do him service by pur-
chasing certain letters from you.”
Then as Heriot, moody and sullen, remained silent and began pacing
up and down the long, bare floor of the room, Lepine added persuas-
ively, “Well! what do you say? Two thousand francs for a packet of let-
ters— not a bad bargain these hard times.”
“Get out of this room,” was Heriot’s fierce and sudden reply.
“You refuse?”
“Get out of this room!”
“As you please,” said Lepine as he, too, rose from his chair. “But be-
fore I go, citizen Heriot,” he added, speaking very quietly, “let me tell
you one thing. Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines would far sooner cut off
her right hand than let yours touch it even for one instant. Neither she
nor deputy Fabrice would ever purchase their lives at such a price.”

70
 “And who are you— you mangy old scarecrow?” retorted Heriot, who
was getting beside himself with rage, “that you should assert these
things? What are those people to you, or you to them, that you should
interfere in their affairs?”
“Your question is beside the point, citizen,” said Lepine blandly; “I am
here to propose a bargain. Had you not better agree to it?”
“Never!” reiterated Heriot emphatically.
“Two thousand francs,” reiterated the old man imperturbably.
“Not if you offered me two hundred thousand,” retorted the other
fiercely. “Go and tell that, to those who sent you. Tell them that I—
Heriot— would look upon a fortune as mere dross against the delight of
seeing that man Fabrice, whom I hate beyond everything in earth or hell,
mount up the steps to the guillotine. Tell them that I know that Agnes de
Lucines loathes me, that I know that she loves him. I know that I cannot
win her save by threatening him. But you are wrong, citizen Lepine,” he
continued, speaking more and more calmly as his passions of hatred and
of love seemed more and more to hold him in their grip; “you are wrong
if you think that she will not strike a bargain with me in order to save the
life of Fabrice, whom she loves. Agnes de Lucines will be my wife within
the month, or Arnould Fabrice’s head will fall under the guillotine, and
you, my interfering friend, may go to the devil, if you please.”
“That would be but a tame proceeding, citizen, after my visit to you,”
said the old man, with unruffled sang-froid. “But let me, in my turn, as-
sure you of this, citizen Heriot,” he added, “that Mlle. de Lucines will
never be your wife, that Arnould Fabrice will not end his valuable life
under the guillotine— and that you will never be allowed to use against
him the cowardly and stolen weapon which you possess.”
Heriot laughed— a low, cynical laugh and shrugged his thin
shoulders:
“And who will prevent me, I pray you?” he asked sarcastically.
The old man made no immediate reply, but he came just a step or two
closer to the citizen-deputy and, suddenly drawing himself up to his full
height, he looked for one brief moment down upon the mean and sordid
figure of the ex-valet. To Heriot it seemed as if the whole man had be-
come transfigured; the shabby old scarecrow looked all of a sudden like
a brilliant and powerful personality; from his eyes there flashed down a
look of supreme contempt and of supreme pride, and Heriot— unable to
understand this metamorphosis which was more apparent to his inner
consciousness than to his outward sight, felt his knees shake under him

71
and all the blood rush back to his heart in an agony of superstitious
terror.
From somewhere there came to his ear the sound of two words: “I
will!” in reply to his own defiant query. Surely those words uttered by a
man conscious of power and of strength could never have been spoken
by the dilapidated old scarecrow who earned a precarious living by writ-
ing letters for ignorant folk.
But before he could recover some semblance of presence of mind cit-
izen Lepine had gone, and only a loud and merry laugh seemed to echo
through the squalid room.
Heriot shook off the remnant of his own senseless terror; he tore open
the door of the bedroom and shouted to Rondeau, who truly was think-
ing that the citizen-deputy had gone mad:
“After him!— after him! Quick! curse you!” he cried.
“After whom?” gasped the man.
“The man who was here just now— an aristo.”
“I saw no one— but the Public Letter-Writer, old Lepine— I know him
well—– ”
“Curse you for a fool!” shouted Heriot savagely, “the man who was
here was that cursed Englishman— the one whom they call the Scarlet
Pimpernel. Run after him— stop him, I say!”
“Too late, citizen,” said the other placidly; “whoever was here before
is certainly half-way down the street by now.”

72
III.
“No use, Ffoulkes,” said Sir Percy Blakeney to his friend half-an-hour
later, “the man’s passions of hatred and desire are greater than his
greed.”
The two men were sitting together in one of Sir Percy Blakeney’s many
lodgings— the one in the Rue des Petits Peres— and Sir Percy had just
put Sir Andrew Ffoulkes au fait with the whole sad story of Arnould
Fabrice’s danger and Agnes de Lucines’ despair.
“You could do nothing with the brute, then?” queried Sir Andrew.
“Nothing,” replied Blakeney. “He refused all bribes, and violence
would not have helped me, for what I wanted was not to knock him
down, but to get hold of the letters.”
“Well, after all, he might have sold you the letters and then denounced
Fabrice just the same.”
“No, without actual proofs he could not do that. Arnould Fabrice is
not a man against whom a mere denunciation would suffice. He has the
grudging respect of every faction in the National Assembly. Nothing but
irrefutable proof would prevail against him— and bring him to the
guillotine.”
“Why not get Fabrice and Mlle. de Lucines safely over to England?”
“Fabrice would not come. He is not of the stuff that emigres are made
of. He is not an aristocrat; he is a republican by conviction, and a
demmed honest one at that. He would scorn to run away, and Agnes de
Lucines would not go without him.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Filch those letters from that brute Heriot,” said Blakeney calmly.
“House-breaking, you mean!” commented Sir Andrew Ffoulkes dryly.
“Petty theft, shall we say?” retorted Sir Percy. “I can bribe the lout
who has charge of Heriot’s rooms to introduce us into his master’s sanc-
tum this evening when the National Assembly is sitting and the citizen-
deputy safely out of the way.”
And the two men— one of whom was the most intimate friend of the
Prince of Wales and the acknowledged darling of London society—
thereupon fell to discussing plans for surreptitiously entering a man’s
room and committing larceny, which in normal times would entail, if
discovered, a long term of imprisonment, but which, in these days, in
Paris, and perpetrated against a member of the National Assembly,
would certainly be punished by death.

73
IV.
Citizen Rondeau, whose business it was to look after the creature com-
forts of deputy Heriot, was standing in the antichambre facing the two
visitors whom he had just introduced into his master’s apartments, and
idly turning a couple of gold coins over and over between his grimy
fingers.
“And mind, you are to see nothing and hear nothing of what goes on
in the next room,” said the taller of the two strangers; “and when we go
there’ll be another couple of louis for you. Is that understood?”
“Yes! it’s understood,” grunted Rondeau sullenly; “but I am running
great risks. The citizen-deputy sometimes returns at ten o’clock, but
sometimes at nine… . I never know.”
“It is now seven,” rejoined the other; “we’ll be gone long before nine.”
“Well,” said Rondeau surlily, “I go out now for my supper. I’ll return
in half an hour, but at half-past eight you must clear out.”
Then he added with a sneer:
“Citizens Legros and Desgas usually come back with deputy Heriot of
nights, and citizens Jeanniot and Bompard come in from next door for a
game of cards. You wouldn’t stand much chance if you were caught
here.”
“Not with you to back up so formidable a quintette of stalwarts,” as-
sented the tall visitor gaily. “But we won’t trouble about that just now.
We have a couple of hours before us in which to do all that we
want. So au revoir, friend Rondeau… two more louis for your complais-
ance, remember, when we have accomplished our purpose.”
Rondeau muttered something more, but the two strangers paid no fur-
ther heed to him; they had already walked to the next room, leaving
Rondeau in theantichambre.
Sir Percy Blakeney did not pause in the sitting-room where an oil lamp
suspended from the ceiling threw a feeble circle of light above the centre
table. He went straight through to the bedroom. Here, too, a small lamp
was burning which only lit up a small portion of the room— the
writing-desk and the oak chest— leaving the corners and the alcove,
with its partially drawn curtains, in complete shadow.
Blakeney pointed to the oak chest and to the desk.
“You tackle the chest, Ffoulkes, and I will go for the desk,” he said
quietly, as soon as he had taken a rapid survey of the room. “You have
your tools?”

74
 Ffoulkes nodded, and anon in this squalid room, ill-lit, ill-ventilated,
barely furnished, was presented one of the most curious spectacles of
these strange and troublous times: two English gentlemen, the acknow-
ledged dandies of London drawing-rooms, busy picking locks and filing
hinges like any common house-thieves.
Neither of them spoke, and a strange hush fell over the room— a hush
only broken by the click of metal against metal, and the deep breathing
of the two men bending to their task. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was working
with a file on the padlocks of the oak chest, and Sir Percy Blakeney, with
a bunch of skeleton keys, was opening the drawers of the writing-desk.
These, when finally opened, revealed nothing of any importance; but
when anon Sir Andrew was able to lift the lid of the oak chest, he dis-
closed an innumerable quantity of papers and documents tied up in neat
bundles, docketed and piled up in rows and tiers to the very top of the
chest.
“Quick to work, Ffoulkes,” said Blakeney, as in response to his friend’s
call he drew a chair forward and, seating himself beside the chest, star-
ted on the task of looking through the hundreds of bundles which lay be-
fore him. “It will take us all our time to look through these.”
Together now the two men set to work— methodically and quietly—
piling up on the floor beside them the bundles of papers which they had
already examined, and delving into the oak chest for others. No sound
was heard save the crackling of crisp paper and an occasional ejaculation
from either of them when they came upon some proof or other of Heri-
ot’s propensity for blackmail.
“Agnes de Lucines is not the only one whom this brute is terrorising,”
murmured Blakeney once between his teeth; “I marvel that the man ever
feels safe, alone in these lodgings, with no one but that weak-kneed Ron-
deau to protect him. He must have scores of enemies in this city who
would gladly put a dagger in his heart or a bullet through his back.”
They had been at work for close on half an hour when an exclamation
of triumph, quickly smothered, escaped Sir Percy’s lips.
“By Gad, Ffoulkes!” he said, “I believe I have got what we want!”
With quick, capable hands he turned over a bundle which he had just
extracted from the chest. Rapidly he glanced through them. “I have
them, Ffoulkes,” he reiterated more emphatically as he put the bundle
into his pocket; “now everything back in its place and— ”
Suddenly he paused, his slender hand up to his lips, his head turned
toward the door, an expression of tense expectancy in every line of his
face.

75
 “Quick, Ffoulkes,” he whispered, “everything back into the chest, and
the lid down.”
“What ears you have,” murmured Ffoulkes as he obeyed rapidly and
without question. “I heard nothing.”
Blakeney went to the door and bent his head to listen.
“Three men coming up the stairs,” he said; “they are on the landing
now.”
“Have we time to rush them?”
“No chance! They are at the door. Two more men have joined them,
and I can distinguish Rondeau’s voice, too.”
“The quintette,” murmured Sir Andrew. “We are caught like two rats
in a trap.”
Even as he spoke the opening of the outside door could be distinctly
heard, then the confused murmur of many voices. Already Blakeney and
Ffoulkes had with perfect presence of mind put the finishing touches to
the tidying of the room— put the chairs straight, shut down the lid of the
oak chest, closed all the drawers of the desk.
“Nothing but good luck can save us now,” whispered Blakeney as he
lowered the wick of the lamp. “Quick now,” he added, “behind that
tapestry in the alcove and trust to our stars.”
Securely hidden for the moment behind the curtains in the dark recess
of the alcove the two men waited. The door leading into the sitting-room
was ajar, and they could hear Heriot and his friends making merry irrup-
tion into the place. From out the confusion of general conversation they
soon gathered that the debates in the Chamber had been so dull and un-
interesting that, at a given signal, the little party had decided to adjourn
to Heriot’s rooms for their habitual game of cards. They could also hear
Heriot calling to Rondeau to bring bottles and glasses, and vaguely they
marvelled what Rondeau’s attitude might be like at this moment. Was he
brazening out the situation, or was he sick with terror?
Suddenly Heriot’s voice came out more distinctly.
“Make yourselves at home, friends,” he was saying; “here are cards,
dominoes, and wine. I must leave you to yourselves for ten minutes
whilst I write an important letter.”
“All right, but don’t be long,” came in merry response.
“Not longer than I can help,” rejoined Heriot. “I want my revenge
against Bompard, remember. He did fleece me last night.”
“Hurry on, then,” said one of the men. “I’ll play Desgas that return
game of dominoes until then.”
“Ten minutes and I’ll be back,” concluded Heriot.

76
 He pushed open the bedroom door. The light within was very dim.
The two men hidden behind the tapestry could hear him moving about
the room muttering curses to himself. Presently the light of the lamp was
shifted from one end of the room to the other. Through the opening
between the two curtains Blakeney could just see Heriot’s back as he
placed the lamp at a convenient angle upon his desk, divested himself of
his overcoat and muffler, then sat down and drew pen and paper closer
to him. He was leaning forward, his elbow resting upon the table, his fin-
gers fidgeting with his long, lank hair. He had closed the door when he
entered, and from the other room now the voices of his friends sounded
confused and muffled. Now and then an exclamation: “Double!” “Je …
tiens!” “Cinq-deux!” an oath, a laugh, the click of glasses and bottles came
out more clearly; but the rest of the time these sounds were more like a
droning accompaniment to the scraping of Heriot’s pen upon the paper
when he finally began to write his letter.
Two minutes went by and then two more. The scratching of Heriot’s
pen became more rapid as he appeared to be more completely immersed
in his work. Behind the curtain the two men had been waiting: Blakeney
ready to act, Ffoulkes equally ready to interpret the slightest signal from
his chief.
The next minute Blakeney had stolen out of the alcove, and his two
hands— so slender and elegant looking, and yet with a grip of steel—
had fastened themselves upon Heriot’s mouth, smothering within the
space of a second the cry that had been half-uttered. Ffoulkes was ready
to complete the work of rendering the man helpless: one handkerchief
made an efficient gag, another tied the ankles securely. Heriot’s own
coat-sleeves supplied the handcuffs, and the blankets off the bed tied
around his legs rendered him powerless to move. Then the two men lif-
ted this inert mass on to the bed and Ffoulkes whispered anxiously:
“Now, what next?”
Heriot’s overcoat, hat, and muffler lay upon a chair. Sir Percy, placing
a warning finger upon his lips, quickly divested himself of his own coat,
slipped that of Heriot on, twisted the muffler round his neck, hunched
up his shoulders, and murmuring: “Now for a bit of luck!” once more
lowered the light of the lamp and then went to the door.
“Rondeau!” he called. “Hey, Rondeau!” And Sir Percy himself was
surprised at the marvellous way in which he had caught the very inflec-
tion of Heriot’s voice.
“Hey, Rondeau!” came from one of the players at the table, “the
citizen-deputy is calling you!”

77
 They were all sitting round the table: two men intent upon their game
of dominoes, the other two watching with equal intentness. Rondeau
came shuffling out of theantichambre. His face, by the dim light of the oil
lamp, looked jaundiced with fear.
“Rondeau, you fool, where are you?” called Blakeney once again.
The next moment Rondeau had entered the room. No need for a signal
or an order this time. Ffoulkes knew by instinct what his chief’s bold
scheme would mean to them both if it succeeded. He retired into the
darkest corner of the room as Rondeau shuffled across to the writing-
desk. It was all done in a moment. In less time than it had taken to bind
and gag Heriot, his henchman was laid out on the floor, his coat had
been taken off him, and he was tied into a mummy-like bundle with Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes’ elegant coat fastened securely round his arms and
chest. It had all been done in silence. The men in the next room were
noisy and intent on their game; the slight scuffle, the quickly smothered
cries had remained unheeded.
“Now, what next?” queried Sir Andrew Ffoulkes once more.
“The impudence of the d—– l, my good Ffoulkes,” replied Blakeney in
a whisper, “and may our stars not play us false. Now let me make you
look as like Rondeau as possible— there! Slip on his coat— now your
hair over your forehead— your coat-collar up— your knees bent— that’s
better!” he added as he surveyed the transformation which a few deft
strokes had made in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’ appearance. “Now all you
have to do is to shuffle across the room— here’s your prototype’s
handkerchief— of dubious cleanliness, it is true, but it will serve— blow
your nose as you cross the room, it will hide your face. They’ll not heed
you—keep in the shadows and God guard you— I’ll follow in a moment
or two… but don’t wait for me.”
He opened the door, and before Sir Andrew could protest his chief
had pushed him out into the room where the four men were still intent
on their game. Through the open door Sir Percy now watched his friend
who, keeping well within the shadows, shuffled quietly across the room.
The next moment Sir Andrew was through and in the antichambre.
Blakeney’s acutely sensitive ears caught the sound of the opening of the
outer door. He waited for a while, then he drew out of his pocket the
bundle of letters which he had risked so much to obtain. There they were
neatly docketed and marked: “The affairs of Arnould Fabrice.”
Well! if he got away to-night Agnes de Lucines would be happy and
free from the importunities of that brute Heriot; after that he must per-
suade her and Fabrice to go to England and to freedom.

78
 For the moment his own safety was terribly in jeopardy; one false
move— one look from those players round the table… .Bah! even
then—!
With an inward laugh he pushed open the door once more and
stepped into the room. For the moment no one noticed him; the game
was at its most palpitating stage; four shaggy heads met beneath the
lamp and four pairs of eyes were gazing with rapt attention upon the in-
tricate maze of the dominoes.
Blakeney walked quietly across the room; he was just midway and on
a level with the centre table when a voice was suddenly raised from that
tense group beneath the lamp: “Is it thou, friend Heriot?”
Then one of the men looked up and stared, and another did likewise
and exclaimed: “It is not Heriot!”
In a moment all was confusion, but confusion was the very essence of
those hair-breadth escapes and desperate adventures which were as the
breath of his nostrils to the Scarlet Pimpernel. Before those four men had
had time to jump to their feet, or to realise that something was wrong
with their friend Heriot, he had run across the room, his hand was on the
knob of the door— the door that led to the antichambre and to freedom.
Bompard, Desgas, Jeanniot, Legros were at his heels, but he tore open
the door, bounded across the threshold, and slammed it to with such a
vigorous bang that those on the other side were brought to a momentary
halt. That moment meant life and liberty to Blakeney; already he had
crossed the antichambre. Quite coolly and quietly now he took out the key
from the inner side of the main door and slipped it to the outside. The
next second— even as the four men rushed helter-skelter into
the antichambre he was out on the landing and had turned the key in the
door.
His prisoners were safely locked in— in Heriot’s apartments— and Sir
Percy Blakeney, calmly and without haste, was descending the stairs of
the house in the Rue Cocatrice.
The next morning Agnes de Lucines received, through an anonymous
messenger, the packet of letters which would so gravely have comprom-
ised Arnould Fabrice. Though the weather was more inclement than
ever, she ran out into the streets, determined to seek out the old Public
Letter-Writer and thank him for his mediation with the English milor,
who surely had done this noble action.
But the old scarecrow had disappeared.

79
 Part 5
A FINE BIT OF WORK

80
I.
“Sh!… sh!… It’s the Englishman. I’d know his footstep anywhere— ”
“God bless him!” murmured petite maman fervently.
Pere Lenegre went to the door; he stepped cautiously and with that
stealthy foot-tread which speaks in eloquent silence of daily, hourly
danger, of anguish and anxiety for lives that are dear.
The door was low and narrow— up on the fifth floor of one of the
huge tenement houses in the Rue Jolivet in the Montmartre quarter of
Paris. A narrow stone passage led to it— pitch-dark at all times, but
dirty, and evil-smelling when the concierge— a free citizen of the new
democracy— took a week’s holiday from his work in order to spend
whole afternoons either at the wineshop round the corner, or on the
Place du Carrousel to watch the guillotine getting rid of some twenty ar-
istocrats an hour for the glorification of the will of the people.
But inside the small apartment everything was scrupulously neat and
clean. Petite maman was such an excellent manager, and Rosette was busy
all the day tidying and cleaning the poor little home, which Pere Lenegre
contrived to keep up for wife and daughter by working fourteen hours a
day in the government saddlery.
When Pere Lenegre opened the narrow door, the entire framework of
it was filled by the broad, magnificent figure of a man in heavy caped
coat and high leather boots, with dainty frills of lace at throat and wrist,
and elegant chapeau-bras held in the hand.
Pere Lenegre at sight of him, put a quick finger to his own quivering
lips.
“Anything wrong, vieux papa?” asked the newcomer lightly.
The other closed the door cautiously before he made reply.
But petite maman could not restrain her anxiety.
“My little Pierre, milor?” she asked as she clasped her wrinkled hands
together, and turned on the stranger her tear-dimmed restless eyes.
“Pierre is safe and well, little mother,” he replied cheerily. “We got
him out of Paris early this morning in a coal cart, carefully hidden
among the sacks. When he emerged he was black but safe. I drove the
cart myself as far as Courbevoie, and there handed over your Pierre and
those whom we got out of Paris with him to those of my friends who
were going straight to England. There’s nothing more to be afraid
of, petite maman,” he added as he took the old woman’s wrinkled hands
in both his own; “your son is now under the care of men who would die

81
rather than see him captured. So make your mind at ease, Pierre will be
in England, safe and well, within a week.”
Petite maman couldn’t say anything just then because tears were chok-
ing her, but in her turn she clasped those two strong and slender
hands— the hands of the brave Englishman who had just risked his life
in order to save Pierre from the guillotine— and she kissed them as fer-
vently as she kissed the feet of the Madonna when she knelt before her
shrine in prayer.
Pierre had been a footman in the household of unhappy Marie An-
toinette. His crime had been that he remained loyal to her in words as
well as in thought. A hot-headed but nobly outspoken harangue on be-
half of the unfortunate queen, delivered in a public place, had at once
marked him out to the spies of the Terrorists as suspect of intrigue
against the safety of the Republic. He was denounced to the Committee
of Public Safety, and his arrest and condemnation to the guillotine would
have inevitably followed had not the gallant band of Englishmen, known
as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, succeeded in effecting his escape.
What wonder that petite maman could not speak for tears when she
clasped the hands of the noble leader of that splendid little band of her-
oes? What wonder that Pere Lenegre, when he heard that his son was
safe murmured a fervent: “God bless you, milor, and your friends!” and
that Rosette surreptitiously raised the fine caped coat to her lips, for Pi-
erre was her twin-brother, and she loved him very dearly.
But already Sir Percy Blakeney had, with one of his characteristic
cheery words, dissipated the atmosphere of tearful emotion which op-
pressed these kindly folk.
“Now, Papa Lenegre,” he said lightly, “tell me why you wore such a
solemn air when you let me in just now.”
“Because, milor,” replied the old man quietly, “that d—— d concierge,
Jean Baptiste, is a black-hearted traitor.”
Sir Percy laughed, his merry, infectious laugh.
“You mean that while he has been pocketing bribes from me, he has
denounced me to the Committee.”
Pere Lenegre nodded: “I only heard it this morning,” he said, “from
one or two threatening words the treacherous brute let fall. He knows
that you lodge in thePlace des Trois Maries, and that you come here fre-
quently. I would have given my life to warn you then and there,” contin-
ued the old man with touching earnestness, “but I didn’t know where to
find you. All I knew was that you were looking after Pierre.”

82
 Even while the man spoke there darted from beneath the English-
man’s heavy lids a quick look like a flash of sudden and brilliant light
out of the lazy depths of his merry blue eyes; it was one of those glances
of pure delight and exultation which light up the eyes of the true soldier
when there is serious fighting to be done.
“La, man,” he said gaily, “there was no cause to worry. Pierre is safe,
remember that! As for me,” he added with that wonderful insouciance
which caused him to risk his life a hundred times a day with a shrug of
his broad shoulders and a smile upon his lips; “as for me, I’ll look after
myself, never fear.”
He paused awhile, then added gravely: “So long as you are safe, my
good Lenegre, and petite maman, and Rosette.”
Whereupon the old man was silent, petite maman murmured a short
prayer, and Rosette began to cry. The hero of a thousand gallant rescues
had received his answer.
“You, too, are on the black list, Pere Lenegre?” he asked quietly.
The old man nodded.
“How do you know?” queried the Englishman.
“Through Jean Baptiste, milor.”
“Still that demmed concierge,” muttered Sir Percy.
“He frightened petite maman with it all this morning, saying that he
knew my name was down on the Sectional Committee’s list as a
‘suspect.’ That’s when he let fall a word or two about you, milor. He said
it is known that Pierre has escaped from justice, and that you helped him
to it.
“I am sure that we shall get a domiciliary visit presently,” continued
Pere Lenegre, after a slight pause. “The gendarmes have not yet been, but
I fancy that already this morning early I saw one or two of the Commit-
tee’s spies hanging about the house, and when I went to the workshop I
was followed all the time.”
The Englishman looked grave: “And tell me,” he said, “have you got
anything in this place that may prove compromising to any of you?”
“No, milor. But, as Jean Baptiste said, the Sectional Committee know
about Pierre. It is because of my son that I am suspect.”
The old man spoke quite quietly, very simply, like a philosopher who
has long ago learned to put behind him the fear of death. Nor
did petite maman cry or lament. Her thoughts were for the brave milor
who had saved her boy; but her fears for her old man left her dry-eyed
and dumb with grief.

83
 There was silence in the little room for one moment while the angel of
sorrow and anguish hovered round these faithful and brave souls, then
the Englishman’s cheery voice, so full of spirit and merriment, rang out
once more— he had risen to his full, towering height, and now placed a
kindly hand on the old man’s shoulder:
“It seems to me, my good Lenegre,” he said, “that you and I haven’t
many moments to spare if we mean to cheat those devils by saving your
neck. Now, petitemaman,” he added, turning to the old woman, “are you
going to be brave?”
“I will do anything, milor,” she replied quietly, “to help my old man.”
“Well, then,” said Sir Percy Blakeney in that optimistic, light-hearted
yet supremely authoritative tone of which he held the secret, “you and
Rosette remain here and wait for the gendarmes. When they come, say
nothing; behave with absolute meekness, and let them search your place
from end to end. If they ask you about your husband say that you be-
lieve him to be at his workshop. Is that clear?”
“Quite clear, milor,” replied petite maman.
“And you, Pere Lenegre,” continued the Englishman, speaking now
with slow and careful deliberation, “listen very attentively to the instruc-
tions I am going to give you, for on your implicit obedience to them de-
pends not only your own life but that of these two dear women. Go at
once, now, to the Rue Ste. Anne, round the corner, the second house on
your right, which is numbered thirty-seven. The porte cochère stands open,
go boldly through, past the concierge’s box, and up the stairs to apart-
ment number twelve, second floor. Here is the key of the apartment,” he
added, producing one from his coat pocket and handing it over to the
old man. “The rooms are nominally occupied by a certain Maitre Turan-
dot, maker of violins, and not even the concierge of the place knows that
the hunchbacked and snuffy violin-maker and the meddlesome Scarlet
Pimpernel, whom the Committee of Public Safety would so love to lay
by the heels, are one and the same person. The apartment, then, is mine;
one of the many which I occupy in Paris at different times,” he went on.
“Let yourself in quietly with this key, walk straight across the first room
to a wardrobe, which you will see in front of you. Open it. It is hung full
of shabby clothes; put these aside, and you will notice that the panels at
the back do not fit very closely, as if the wardrobe was old or had been
badly put together. Insert your fingers in the tiny aperture between the
two middle panels. These slide back easily: there is a recess immediately
behind them. Get in there; pull the doors of the wardrobe together first,
then slide the back panels into their place. You will be perfectly safe

84
there, as the house is not under suspicion at present, and even if the re-
volutionary guard, under some meddle-some sergeant or other, chooses
to pay it a surprise visit, your hiding-place will be perfectly secure. Now
is all that quite understood?”
“Absolutely, milor,” replied Lenegre, even as he made ready to obey
Sir Percy’s orders, “but what about you? You cannot get out of this
house, milor,” he urged; “it is watched, I tell you.”
“La!” broke in Blakeney, in his light-hearted way, “and do you think I
didn’t know that? I had to come and tell you about Pierre, and now I
must give those worthygendarmes the slip somehow. I have my rooms
downstairs on the ground floor, as you know, and I must make certain
arrangements so that we can all get out of Paris comfortably this even-
ing. The demmed place is no longer safe either for you, my good
Lenegre, or for petite maman and Rosette. But wherever I may be, mean-
while, don’t worry about me. As soon as the gendarmes have been and
gone, I’ll go over to the Rue Ste. Anne and let you know what arrange-
ments I’ve been able to make. So do as I tell you now, and in Heaven’s
name let me look after myself.”
Whereupon, with scant ceremony, he hustled the old man out of the
room.
Pere Lenegre had contrived to kiss petite maman and Rosette before he
went. It was touching to see the perfect confidence with which these
simple-hearted folk obeyed the commands of milor. Had he not saved
Pierre in his wonderful, brave, resourceful way? Of a truth he would
know how to save Pere Lenegre also. But, nevertheless, anguish gripped
the women’s hearts; anguish doubly keen since the saviour of Pierre was
also in danger now.
When Pere Lenegre’s shuffling footsteps had died away along the
flagged corridor, the stranger once more turned to the two women.
“And now, petite maman,” he said cheerily, as he kissed the old woman
on both her furrowed cheeks, “keep up a good heart, and say your pray-
ers with Rosette. Your old man and I will both have need of them.”
He did not wait to say good-bye, and anon it was his firm footstep that
echoed down the corridor. He went off singing a song, at the top of his
voice, for the whole house to hear, and for that traitor, Jean Baptiste, to
come rushing out of his room marvelling at the impudence of the man,
and cursing the Committee of Public Safety who were so slow in sending
the soldiers of the Republic to lay this impertinent Englishman by the
heels.

85
II.
A quarter of an hour later half dozen men of the Republican Guard, with
corporal and sergeant in command, were in the small apartment on the
fifth floor of the tenement house in the Rue Jolivet. They had demanded
an entry in the name of the Republic, had roughly
hustled petite maman and Rosette, questioned them to Lenegre’s where-
abouts, and not satisfied with the reply which they received, had turned
the tidy little home topsy-turvy, ransacked every cupboard, dislocated
every bed, table or sofa which might presumably have afforded a hiding
place for a man.
Satisfied now that the “suspect” whom they were searching for was
not on the premises, the sergeant stationed four of his men with the cor-
poral outside the door, and two within, and himself sitting down in the
centre of the room ordered the two women to stand before him and to
answer his questions clearly on pain of being dragged away forthwith to
the St. Lazare house of detention.
Petite maman smoothed out her apron, crossed her arms before her,
and looked the sergeant quite straight in the face. Rosette’s eyes were full
of tears, but she showed no signs of fear either, although her shoulder—
where one of the gendarmes had seized it so roughly— was terribly
painful.
“Your husband, citizeness,” asked the sergeant peremptorily, “where
is he?”
“I am not sure, citizen,” replied petite maman. “At this hour he is gener-
ally at the government works in the Quai des Messageries.”
“He is not there now,” asserted the sergeant. “We have knowledge
that he did not go back to his work since dinner-time.”
Petite maman was silent.
“Answer,” ordered the sergeant.
“I cannot tell you more, citizen sergeant,” she said firmly. “I do not
know.”
“You do yourself no good, woman, by this obstinacy,” he continued
roughly. “My belief is that your husband is inside this house, hidden
away somewhere. If necessary I can get orders to have every apartment
searched until he is found: but in that case it will go much harder with
you and with your daughter, and much harder too with your husband
than if he gave us no trouble and followed us quietly.”

86
 But with sublime confidence in the man who had saved Pierre and
who had given her explicit orders as to what she should do, petite maman,
backed by Rosette, reiterated quietly:
“I cannot tell you more, citizen sergeant, I do not know.”
“And what about the Englishman?” queried the sergeant more
roughly, “the man they call the Scarlet Pimpernel, what do you know of
him?”
“Nothing, citizen,” replied petite maman, “what should we poor folk
know of an English milor?”
“You know at any rate this much, citizeness, that the English milor
helped your son Pierre to escape from justice.”
“If that is so,” said petite maman quietly, “it cannot be wrong for a
mother to pray to God to bless her son’s preserver.”
“It behooves every good citizen,” retorted the sergeant firmly, “to de-
nounce all traitors to the Republic.”
“But since I know nothing about the Englishman, citizen sergeant—?”
And petite maman shrugged her thin shoulders as if the matter had
ceased to interest her.
“Think again, citizeness,” admonished the sergeant, “it is your hus-
band’s neck as well as your daughter’s and your own that you are risk-
ing by so much obstinacy.”
He waited a moment or two as if willing to give the old woman time
to speak: then, when he saw that she kept her thin, quivering lips resol-
utely glued together he called his corporal to him.
“Go to the citizen Commissary of the Section,” he commanded, “and
ask for a general order to search every apartment in No. 24 Rue Jolivet.
Leave two of our men posted on the first and third landings of this house
and leave two outside this door. Be as quick as you can. You can be back
here with the order in half an hour, or perhaps the committee will send
me an extra squad; tell the citizen Commissary that this is a big house,
with many corridors. You can go.”
The corporal saluted and went.
Petite maman and Rosette the while were still standing quietly in the
middle of the room, their arms folded underneath their aprons, their
wide-open, anxious eyes fixed into space. Rosette’s tears were falling
slowly, one by one down her cheeks, but petite maman was dry-eyed. She
was thinking, and thinking as she had never had occasion to think
before.
She was thinking of the brave and gallant Englishman who had saved
Pierre’s life only yesterday. The sergeant, who sat there before her, had

87
asked for orders from the citizen Commissary to search this big house
from attic to cellar. That is what made petite maman think and think.
The brave Englishman was in this house at the present moment: the
house would be searched from attic to cellar and he would be found,
taken, and brought to the guillotine.
The man who yesterday had risked his life to save her boy was in im-
minent and deadly danger, and she—petite maman— could do nothing to
save him.
Every moment now she thought to hear milor’s firm tread resounding
on stairs or corridor, every moment she thought to hear snatches of an
English song, sung by a fresh and powerful voice, never after to-day to
be heard in gaiety again.
The old clock upon the shelf ticked away these seconds and minutes
while petite maman thought and thought, while men set traps to catch a
fellow-being in a deathly snare, and human carnivorous beasts lay lurk-
ing for their prey.

88
III.
Another quarter of an hour went by. Petite maman and Rosette had
hardly moved. The shadows of evening were creeping into the narrow
room, blurring the outlines of the pieces of furniture and wrapping all
the corners in gloom.
The sergeant had ordered Rosette to bring in a lamp. This she had
done, placing it upon the table so that the feeble light glinted upon the
belt and buckles of the sergeant and upon the tricolour cockade which
was pinned to his hat. Petite maman had thought and thought until she
could think no more.
Anon there was much commotion on the stairs; heavy footsteps were
heard ascending from below, then crossing the corridors on the various
landings. The silence which reigned otherwise in the house, and which
had fallen as usual on the squalid little street, void of traffic at this hour,
caused those footsteps to echo with ominous power.
Petite maman felt her heart beating so vigorously that she could hardly
breathe. She pressed her wrinkled hands tightly against her bosom.
There were the quick words of command, alas! so familiar in France
just now, the cruel, peremptory words that invariably preceded an ar-
rest, preliminaries to the dragging of some wretched— often wholly
harmless— creature before a tribunal that knew neither pardon nor
mercy.
The sergeant, who had become drowsy in the close atmosphere of the
tiny room, roused himself at the sound and jumped to his feet. The door
was thrown open by the men stationed outside even before the authorit-
ative words, “Open! in the name of the Republic!” had echoed along the
narrow corridor.
The sergeant stood at attention and quickly lifted his hand to his fore-
head in salute. A fresh squad of some half-dozen men of the Republican
Guard stood in the doorway; they were under the command of an officer
of high rank, a rough, uncouth, almost bestial-looking creature, with
lank hair worn the fashionable length under his greasy chapeau-bras,
and unkempt beard round an ill-washed and bloated face. But he wore
the tricolour sash and badge which proclaimed him one of the military
members of the Sectional Committee of Public Safety, and the sergeant,
who had been so overbearing with the women just now, had assumed a
very humble and even obsequious manner.
“You sent for a general order to the sectional Committee,” said the
new-comer, turning abruptly to the sergeant after he had cast a quick,

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searching glance round the room, hardly condescending to look
on petite maman and Rosette, whose very souls were now gazing out of
their anguish-filled eyes.
“I did, citizen commandant,” replied the sergeant.
“I am not a commandant,” said the other curtly. “My name is Rouget,
member of the Convention and of the Committee of Public Safety. The
sectional Committee to whom you sent for a general order of search
thought that you had blundered somehow, so they sent me to put things
right.”
“I am not aware that I committed any blunder, citizen,” stammered
the sergeant dolefully. “I could not take the responsibility of making a
domiciliary search all through the house. So I begged for fuller orders.”
“And wasted the Committee’s time and mine by such nonsense,” re-
torted Rouget harshly. “Every citizen of the Republic worthy of the name
should know how to act on his own initiative when the safety of the na-
tion demands it.”
“I did not know— I did not dare— ” murmured the sergeant, obvi-
ously cowed by this reproof, which had been delivered in the rough,
overbearing tones peculiar to these men who, one and all, had risen from
the gutter to places of importance and responsibility in the newly-mod-
elled State.
“Silence!” commanded the other peremptorily. “Don’t waste any more
of my time with your lame excuses. You have failed in zeal and initiat-
ive. That’s enough. What else have you done? Have you got the man
Lenegre?”
“No, citizen. He is not in hiding here, and his wife and daughter will
not give us any information about him.”
“That is their look-out,” retorted Rouget with a harsh laugh. “If they
give up Lenegre of their own free will the law will deal leniently with
them, and even perhaps with him. But if we have to search the house for
him, then it means the guillotine for the lot of them.”
He had spoken these callous words without even looking on the two
unfortunate women; nor did he ask them any further questions just then,
but continued speaking to the sergeant:
“And what about the Englishman? The sectional Committee sent
down some spies this morning to be on the look-out for him on or about
this house. Have you got him?”
“Not yet, citizen. But— ”

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 “Ah ca, citizen sergeant,” broke in the other brusquely, “meseems that
your zeal has been even more at fault than I had supposed. Have you
done anything at all, then, in the matter of Lenegre or the Englishman?”
“I have told you, citizen,” retorted the sergeant sullenly, “that I believe
Lenegre to be still in this house. At any rate, he had not gone out of it an
hour ago— that’s all I know. And I wanted to search the whole of this
house, as I am sure we should have found him in one of the other apart-
ments. These people are all friends together, and will always help each
other to evade justice. But the Englishman was no concern of mine. The
spies of the Committee were ordered to watch for him, and when they
reported to me I was to proceed with the arrest. I was not set to do any of
the spying work. I am a soldier, and obey my orders when I get them.”
“Very well, then, you’d better obey them now, citizen sergeant,” was
Rouget’s dry comment on the other man’s surly explanation, “for you
seem to have properly blundered from first to last, and will be hard put
to it to redeem your character. The Republic, remember, has no use for
fools.”
The sergeant, after this covert threat, thought it best, apparently, to
keep his tongue, whilst Rouget continued, in the same aggressive, per-
emptory tone:
“Get on with your domiciliary visits at once. Take your own men with
you, and leave me the others. Begin on this floor, and leave your sentry
at the front door outside. Now let me see your zeal atoning for your past
slackness. Right turn! Quick march!”
Then it was that petite maman spoke out. She had thought and thought,
and now she knew what she ought to do; she knew that that cruel, inhu-
man wretch would presently begin his tramp up and down corridors
and stairs, demanding admittance at every door, entering every apart-
ment. She knew that the man who had saved her Pierre’s life was in hid-
ing somewhere in the house— that he would be found and dragged to
the guillotine, for she knew that the whole governing body of this abom-
inable Revolution was determined not to allow that hated Englishman to
escape again.
She was old and feeble, small and thin— that’s why everyone called
her petite maman— but once she knew what she ought to do, then her
spirit overpowered the weakness of her wizened body.
Now she knew, and even while that arrogant member of an execrated
murdering Committee was giving final instructions to the ser-
geant, petite maman said, in a calm, piping voice:

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 “No need, citizen sergeant, to go and disturb all my friends and neigh-
bours. I’ll tell you where my husband is.”
In a moment Rouget had swung round on his heel, a hideous gleam of
satisfaction spread over his grimy face, and he said, with an ugly sneer:
“So! you have thought better of it, have you? Well, out with it! You’d
better be quick about it if you want to do yourselves any good.”
“I have my daughter to think of,” said petite maman in a feeble, quer-
ulous way, “and I won’t have all my neighbours in this house made un-
happy because of me. They have all been kind neighbours. Will you
promise not to molest them and to clear the house of soldiers if I tell you
where Lenegre is?”
“The Republic makes no promises,” replied Rouget gruffly. “Her cit-
izens must do their duty without hope of a reward. If they fail in it, they
are punished. But privately I will tell you, woman, that if you save us the
troublesome and probably unprofitable task of searching this rabbit-war-
ren through and through, it shall go very leniently with you and with
your daughter, and perhaps— I won’t promise, remember— perhaps
with your husband also.”
“Very good, citizen,” said petite maman calmly. “I am ready.”
“Ready for what?” he demanded.
“To take you to where my husband is in hiding.”
“Oho! He is not in the house, then?”
“No.”
“Where is he, then?”
“In the Rue Ste. Anne. I will take you there.”
Rouget cast a quick, suspicious glance on the old woman, and ex-
changed one of understanding with the sergeant.
“Very well,” he said after a slight pause. “But your daughter must
come along too. Sergeant,” he added, “I’ll take three of your men with
me; I have half a dozen, but it’s better to be on the safe side. Post your
fellows round the outer door, and on my way to the rue Ste. Anne I will
leave word at the gendarmerie that a small reinforcement be sent on to
you at once. These can be here in five minutes; until then you are quite
safe.”
Then he added under his breath, so that the women should not hear:
“The Englishman may still be in the house. In which case, hearing us de-
part, he may think us all gone and try to give us the slip. You’ll know
what to do?” he queried significantly.
“Of course, citizen,” replied the sergeant.
“Now, then, citizeness— hurry up.”

92
 Once more there was tramping of heavy feet on stone stairs and cor-
ridors. A squad of soldiers of the Republican Guard, with two women in
their midst, and followed by a member of the Committee of Public
Safety, a sergeant, corporal and two or three more men, excited much
anxious curiosity as they descended the steep flights of steps from the
fifth floor.
Pale, frightened faces peeped shyly through the doorways at sound of
the noisy tramp from above, but quickly disappeared again at sight of
the grimy scarlet facings and tricolour cockades.
The sergeant and three soldiers remained stationed at the foot of the
stairs inside the house. Then citizen Rouget roughly gave the order to
proceed. It seemed strange that it should require close on a dozen men to
guard two women and to apprehend one old man, but as the member of
the Committee of Public Safety whispered to the sergeant before he fi-
nally went out of the house: “The whole thing may be a trap, and one
can’t be too careful. The Englishman is said to be very powerful; I’ll get
the gendarmerie to send you another half-dozen men, and mind you
guard the house until my return.”

93
IV.
Five minutes later the soldiers, directed by petite maman, had reached No.
37 Rue Ste. Anne. The big outside door stood wide open, and the whole
party turned immediately into the house.
The concierge, terrified and obsequious, rushed— trembling— out of
his box.
“What was the pleasure of the citizen soldiers?” he asked.
“Tell him, citizeness,” commanded Rouget curtly.
“We are going to apartment No. 12 on the second floor,”
said petite maman to the concierge.
“Have you a key of the apartment?” queried Rouget.
“No, citizen,” stammered the concierge, “but— ”
“Well, what is it?” queried the other peremptorily.
“Papa Turandot is a poor, harmless maker of volins,” said the conci-
erge. “I know him well, though he is not often at home. He lives with a
daughter somewhere Passy way, and only uses this place as a workshop.
I am sure he is no traitor.”
“We’ll soon see about that,” remarked Rouget dryly.
Petite maman held her shawl tightly crossed over her bosom: her hands
felt clammy and cold as ice. She was looking straight out before her,
quite dry-eyed and calm, and never once glanced on Rosette, who was
not allowed to come anywhere near her mother.
As there was no duplicate key to apartment No. 12, citizen Rouget
ordered his men to break in the door. It did not take very long: the house
was old and ramshackle and the doors rickety. The next moment the
party stood in the room which a while ago the Englishman had so accur-
ately described to pere Lenegre in petite maman’s hearing.
There was the wardrobe. Petite maman, closely surrounded by the sol-
diers, went boldly up to it; she opened it just as milor had directed, and
pushed aside the row of shabby clothes that hung there. Then she poin-
ted to the panels that did not fit quite tightly together at the
back. Petite maman passed her tongue over her dry lips before she spoke.
“There’s a recess behind those panels,” she said at last. “They slide
back quite easily. My old man is there.”
“And God bless you for a brave, loyal soul,” came in merry, ringing
accent from the other end of the room. “And God save the Scarlet
Pimpernel!”
These last words, spoken in English, completed the blank amazement
which literally paralysed the only three genuine Republican soldiers

94
there— those, namely, whom Rouget had borrowed from the sergeant.
As for the others, they knew what to do. In less than a minute they had
overpowered and gagged the three bewildered soldiers.
Rosette had screamed, terror-stricken, from sheer astonishment,
but petite maman stood quite still, her pale, tear-dimmed eyes fixed upon
the man whose gay “God bless you!” had so suddenly turned her des-
pair into hope.
How was it that in the hideous, unkempt and grimy Rouget she had
not at once recognised the handsome and gallant milor who had saved
her Pierre’s life? Well, of a truth he had been unrecognisable, but now
that he tore the ugly wig and beard from his face, stretched out his fine
figure to its full height, and presently turned his lazy, merry eyes on her,
she could have screamed for very joy.
The next moment he had her by the shoulders and had imprinted two
sounding kisses upon her cheeks.
“Now, petite maman,” he said gaily, “let us liberate the old man.”
Pere Lenegre, from his hiding-place, had heard all that had been going
on in the room for the last few moments. True, he had known exactly
what to expect, for no sooner had he taken possession of the recess be-
hind the wardrobe than milor also entered the apartment and then and
there told him of his plans not only for pere’s own safety, but for that
of petite maman and Rosette who would be in grave danger if the old man
followed in the wake of Pierre.
Milor told him in his usual light-hearted way that he had given the
Committee’s spies the slip.
“I do that very easily, you know,” he explained. “I just slip into my
rooms in the Rue Jolivet, change myself into a snuffy and hunchback
violin-maker, and walk out of the house under the noses of the spies. In
the nearest wine-shop my English friends, in various disguises, are all
ready to my hand: half a dozen of them are never far from where I am in
case they may be wanted.”
These half-dozen brave Englishmen soon arrived one by one: one
looked like a coal-heaver, another like a seedy musician, a third like a
coach-driver. But they all walked boldly into the house and were soon all
congregated in apartment No. 12. Here fresh disguises were assumed,
and soon a squad of Republican Guards looked as like the real thing as
possible.
Pere Lenegre admitted himself that though he actually saw milor
transforming himself into citizen Rouget, he could hardly believe his
eyes, so complete was the change.

95
 “I am deeply grieved to have frightened and upset you
so, petite maman,” now concluded milor kindly, “but I saw no other way
of getting you and Rosette out of the house and leaving that stupid ser-
geant and some of his men behind. I did not want to arouse in him even
the faintest breath of suspicion, and of course if he had asked me for the
written orders which he was actually waiting for, or if his corporal had
returned sooner than I anticipated, there might have been trouble. But
even then,” he added with his usual careless insouciance, “I should have
thought of some way of baffling those brutes.”
“And now,” he concluded more authoritatively, “it is a case of getting
out of Paris before the gates close. Pere Lenegre, take your wife and
daughter with you and walk boldly out of this house. The sergeant and
his men have not vacated their post in the Rue Jolivet, and no one else
can molest you. Go straight to the Porte de Neuilly, and on the other side
wait quietly in the little cafe at the corner of the Avenue until I come.
Your old passes for the barriers still hold good; you were only placed on
the ‘suspect’ list this morning, and there has not been a hue and cry yet
about you. In any case some of us will be close by to help you if needs
be.”
“But you, milor,” stammered pere Lenegre, “and your friends—?”
“La, man,” retorted Blakeney lightly, “have I not told you before never
to worry about me and my friends? We have more ways than one of giv-
ing the slip to this demmed government of yours. All you’ve got to think
of is your wife and your daughter. I am afraid that petite maman cannot
take more with her than she has on, but we’ll do all we can for her com-
fort until we have you all in perfect safety— in England— with Pierre.”
Neither pere Lenegre, nor petite maman, nor Rosette could speak just
then, for tears were choking them, but anon when milor stood near-
er, petite maman knelt down, and, imprisoning his slender hand in her
brown, wrinkled ones, she kissed it reverently.
He laughed and chided her for this.
“’Tis I should kneel to you in gratitude, petite maman,” he said earn-
estly, “you were ready to sacrifice your old man for me.”
“You have saved Pierre, milor,” said the mother simply.
A minute later pere Lenegre and the two women were ready to go.
Already milor and his gallant English friends were busy once more
transforming themselves into grimy workmen or seedy middle-class
professionals.
As soon as the door of apartment No. 12 finally closed behind the
three good folk, my lord Tony asked of his chief:

96
 “What about these three wretched soldiers, Blakeney?”
“Oh! they’ll be all right for twenty-four hours. They can’t starve till
then, and by that time the concierge will have realised that there’s
something wrong with the door of No. 12 and will come in to investigate
the matter. Are they securely bound, though?”
“And gagged! Rather!” ejaculated one of the others. “Odds life,
Blakeney!” he added enthusiastically, “that was a fine bit of work!”

97
 Part 6
HOW JEAN PIERRE MET THE
SCARLET PIMPERNEL

98
I.
Ah, monsieur! the pity of it, the pity! Surely there are sins which lé bon
Dieu Himself will condone. And if not— well, I had to risk His displeas-
ure anyhow. Could I see them both starve, monsieur? I ask you! and
M. lé Vicomte had become so thin, so thin, his tiny, delicate bones were
almost through his skin. And Mme. la Marquise! an angel, monsieur!
Why, in the happy olden days, before all these traitors and assassins
ruled in France, M. and Mme. la Marquise lived only for the child, and
then to see him dying— yes, dying, there was no shutting one’s eyes to
that awful fact— M. lé Vicomte de Mortain was dying of starvation and of
disease.
There we were all herded together in a couple of attics— one of which
little more than a cupboard— at the top of a dilapidated half-ruined
house in the Rue desPipots— Mme. la Marquise, M. lé Vicomte and I—
just think of that, monsieur! M. lé Marquis had his chateau, as no doubt
you know, on the outskirts of Lyons. A loyal high-born gentleman; was
it likely, I ask you, that he would submit passively to the rule of those ex-
ecrable revolutionaries who had murdered their King, outraged their
Queen and Royal family, and, God help them! had already perpetrated
every crime and every abomination for which of a truth there could be
no pardon either on earth or in Heaven? He joined that plucky but, alas!
small and ill-equipped army of royalists who, unable to save their King,
were at least determined to avenge him.
Well, you know well enough what happened. The counter-revolution
failed; the revolutionary army brought Lyons down to her knees after a
siege of two months. She was then marked down as a rebel city, and
after the abominable decree of October 9th had deprived her of her very
name, and Couthon had exacted bloody reprisals from the entire popula-
tion for its loyalty to the King, the infamous Laporte was sent down in
order finally to stamp out the lingering remnants of the rebellion. By that
time, monsieur, half the city had been burned down, and one-tenth and
more of the inhabitants— men, women, and children— had been mas-
sacred in cold blood, whilst most of the others had fled in terror from the
appalling scene of ruin and desolation. Laporte completed the execrable
work so ably begun by Couthon. He was a very celebrated and skilful
doctor at the Faculty of Medicine, now turned into a human hyena in the
name of Liberty and Fraternity.
M. lé Marquis contrived to escape with the scattered remnant of the
Royalist army into Switzerland. But Mme la Marquise throughout all

99
these strenuous times had stuck to her post at the chateau like the valiant
creature that she was. When Couthon entered Lyons at the head of the
revolutionary army, the whole of her household fled, and I was left alone
to look after her and M. lé Vicomte.
Then one day when I had gone into Lyons for provisions, I suddenly
chanced to hear outside an eating-house that which nearly froze the mar-
row in my old bones. A captain belonging to the Revolutionary Guard
was transmitting to his sergeant certain orders, which he had apparently
just received.
The orders were to make a perquisition at ten o’clock this same evening
in the chateau of Mortaine as the Marquis was supposed to be in hiding
there, and in any event to arrest every man, woman, and child who was
found within its walls.
“Citizen Laporte,” the captain concluded, “knows for a certainty that
the ci-devant Marquise and her brat are still there, even if the Marquis has
fled like the traitor that he is. Those cursed English spies who call them-
selves the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel have been very active in Ly-
ons of late, and citizen Laporte is afraid that they might cheat the guillot-
ine of the carcase of those aristos, as they have already succeeded in do-
ing in the case of a large number of traitors.”
I did not, of course, wait to hear any more of that abominable talk. I
sped home as fast as my old legs would carry me. That self-same even-
ing, as soon as it was dark, Mme. la Marquise, carrying M. lé Vicomte in
her arms and I carrying a pack with a few necessaries on my back, left
the ancestral home of the Mortaines never to return to it again: for within
an hour of our flight a detachment of the revolutionary army made a
descent upon the chateau; they ransacked it from attic to cellar, and find-
ing nothing there to satisfy their lust of hate, they burned the stately
mansion down to the ground.
We were obliged to take refuge in Lyons, at any rate for a time. Great
as was the danger inside the city, it was infinitely greater on the high
roads, unless we could arrange for some vehicle to take us a considerable
part of the way to the frontier, and above all for some sort of passports—
forged or otherwise— to enable us to pass the various toll-gates on the
road, where vigilance was very strict. So we wandered through the
ruined and deserted streets of the city in search of shelter, but found
every charred and derelict house full of miserable tramps and destitutes
like ourselves. Half dead with fatigue, Mme. la Marquise was at last ob-
liged to take refuge in one of these houses which was situated in
the Rue des Pipots. Every room was full to overflowing with a miserable

100
wreckage of humanity thrown hither by the tide of anarchy and of
bloodshed. But at the top of the house we found an attic. It was empty
save for a couple of chairs, a table and a broken-down bedstead on
which were a ragged mattress and pillow.
Here, monsieur, we spent over three weeks, at the end of which time
M. lé Vicomte fell ill, and then there followed days, monsieur, through
which I would not like my worst enemy to pass.
Mme. la Marquise had only been able to carry away in her flight what
ready money she happened to have in the house at the time. Securities,
property, money belonging to aristocrats had been ruthlessly confiscated
by the revolutionary government in Lyons. Our scanty resources rapidly
became exhausted, and what was left had to be kept for milk and delic-
acies for M. lé Vicomte. I tramped through the streets in search of a doc-
tor, but most of them had been arrested on some paltry charge or other
of rebellion, whilst others had fled from the city. There was only that in-
famous Laporte— a vastly clever doctor, I knew-but as soon take a lamb
to a hungry lion as the Vicomte de Mortaine to that bloodthirsty cut-
throat.
Then one day our last franc went and we had nothing left. Mme. la
Marquise had not touched food for two days. I had stood at the corner of
the street, begging all the day until I was driven off by the gendarmes. I
had only obtained three sous from the passers-by. I bought some milk
and took it home for M. lé Vicomte. The following morning when I
entered the larger attic I found that Mme. la Marquise had fainted from
inanition.
I spent the whole of the day begging in the streets and dodging the
guard, and even so I only collected four sous. I could have got more per-
haps, only that at about midday the smell of food from an eating-house
turned me sick and faint, and when I regained consciousness I found
myself huddled up under a doorway and evening gathering in fast
around me. If Mme. la Marquise could go two days without food I ought
to go four. I struggled to my feet; fortunately I had retained possession of
my four sous, else of a truth I would not have had the courage to go back
to the miserable attic which was the only home I knew.
I was wending my way along as fast as I could— for I knew that Mme.
la Marquise would be getting terribly anxious— when, just as I turned
into the Rue Blanche, I spied two gentlemen— obviously strangers, for
they were dressed with a luxury and care with which we had long
ceased to be familiar in Lyons— walking rapidly towards me. A moment
or two later they came to a halt, not far from where I was standing, and I

101
heard the taller one of the two say to the other in English— a language
with which I am vaguely conversant: “All right again this time, what,
Tony?”
Both laughed merrily like a couple of schoolboys playing truant, and
then they disappeared under the doorway of a dilapidated house, whilst
I was left wondering how two such elegant gentlemen dared be abroad
in Lyons these days, seeing that every man, woman and child who was
dressed in anything but threadbare clothes was sure to be insulted in the
streets for an aristocrat, and as often as not summarily arrested as a
traitor.
However, I had other things to think about, and had already dismissed
the little incident from my mind, when at the bottom of the Rue Blanche
I came upon a knot of gaffers, men and women, who were talking and
gesticulating very excitedly outside the door of a cook-shop. At first I did
not take much notice of what was said: my eyes were glued to the front
of the shop, on which were displayed sundry delicacies of the kind
which makes a wretched, starved beggar’s mouth water as he goes by; a
roast capon especially attracted my attention, together with a bottle of
red wine; these looked just the sort of luscious food which Mme. la Mar-
quise would relish.
Well, sir, the law of God says: “Thou shalt not covet!” and no doubt
that I committed a grievous sin when my hungry eyes fastened upon
that roast capon and that bottle of Burgundy. We also know the stories of
Judas Iscariot and of Jacob’s children who sold their own brother Joseph
into slavery— such a crime, monsieur, I took upon my conscience then;
for just as the vision of Mme. la Marquise eating that roast capon and
drinking that Burgundy rose before my eyes, my ears caught some frag-
ments of the excited conversation which was going on all around me.
“He went this way!” someone said.
“No; that!” protested another.
“There’s no sign of him now, anyway.”
The owner of the shop was standing on his own doorstep, his legs
wide apart, one arm on his wide hip, the other still brandishing the knife
wherewith he had been carving for his customers.
“He can’t have gone far,” he said, as he smacked his thick lips.
“The impudent rascal, flaunting such fine clothes— like the aristo that
he is.”
“Bah! these cursed English! They are aristos all of them! And this one
with his followers is no better than a spy!”

102
 “Paid by that damned English Government to murder all our patriots
and to rob the guillotine of her just dues.”
“They say he had a hand in the escape of the ci-devant Due de Sermeuse
and all his brats from the very tumbril which was taking them to
execution.”
A cry of loathing and execration followed this statement. There was
vigorous shaking of clenched fists and then a groan of baffled rage.
“We almost had him this time. If it had not been for these confounded,
ill-lighted streets— ”
“I would give something,” concluded the shopkeeper, “if we could lay
him by the heels.”
“What would you give, citizen Dompierre?” queried a woman in the
crowd, with a ribald laugh, “one of your roast capóns?”
“Aye, little mother,” he replied jovially, “and a bottle of my best Bur-
gundy to boot, to drink confusion to that meddlesome Englishman and
his crowd and a speedy promenade up the steps of the guillotine.”
Monsieur, I assure you that at that moment my heart absolutely stood
still. The tempter stood at my elbow and whispered, and I deliberately
smothered the call of my conscience. I did what Joseph’s brethren did,
what brought Judas Iscariot to hopeless remorse. There was no doubt
that the hue and cry was after the two elegantly dressed gentlemen
whom I had seen enter the dilapidated house in the Rue Blanche. For a
second or two I closed my eyes and deliberately conjured up the vision
of Mme. la Marquise fainting for lack of food, and of M. lé Vicomte dying
for want of sustenance; then I worked my way to the door of the shop
and accosted the burly proprietor with as much boldness as I could
muster.
“The two Englishmen passed by me at the top of the Rue Blanche,” I
said to him. “They went into a house … I can show you which it is—– ”
In a moment I was surrounded by a screeching, gesticulating crowd. I
told my story as best I could; there was no turning back now from the
path of cowardice and of crime. I saw that brute Dompierre pick up the
largest roast capon from the front of his shop, together with a bottle of
that wine which I had coveted; then he thrust both these treasures into
my trembling hands and said:
“En avant!”
And we all started to run up the street, shouting: “Death to the English
spies!” I was the hero of the expedition. Dompierre and another man car-
ried me, for I was too weak to go as fast as they wished. I was hugging
the capon and the bottle of wine to my heart; I had need to do that, so as

103
to still the insistent call of my conscience, for I felt a coward— a mean,
treacherous, abominable coward!
When we reached the house and I pointed it out to Dompierre, the
crowd behind us gave a cry of triumph. In the topmost storey a window
was thrown open, two heads appeared silhouetted against the light with-
in, and the cry of triumph below was answered by a merry, prolonged
laugh from above.
I was too dazed to realise very clearly what happened after that.
Dompierre, I know, kicked open the door of the house, and the crowd
rushed in, in his wake. I managed to keep my feet and to work my way
gradually out of the crowd. I must have gone on mechanically, almost
unconsciously, for the next thing that I remember with any distinctness
was that I found myself once more speeding down the Rue Blanche, with
all the yelling and shouting some little way behind me.
With blind instinct, too, I had clung to the capon and the wine, the
price of my infamy. I was terribly weak and felt sick and faint, but I
struggled on for a while, until my knees refused me service and I came
down on my two hands, whilst the capon rolled away into the gutter,
and the bottle of Burgundy fell with a crash against the pavement, scat-
tering its precious contents in every direction.
There I lay, wretched, despairing, hardly able to move, when suddenly
I heard rapid and firm footsteps immediately behind me, and the next
moment two firm hands had me under the arms, and I heard a voice
saying:
“Steady, old friend. Can you get up? There! Is that better?”
The same firm hands raised me to my feet. At first I was too dazed to
see anything, but after a moment or two I was able to look around me,
and, by the light of a street lanthorn immediately overhead, I recognised
the tall, elegantly dressed Englishman and his friend, whom I had just
betrayed to the fury of Dompierre and a savage mob.
I thought that I was dreaming, and I suppose that my eyes betrayed
the horror which I felt, for the stranger looked at me scrutinisingly for a
moment or two, then he gave the quaintest laugh I had ever heard in all
my life, and said something to his friend in English, which this time I
failed to understand.
Then he turned to me:
“By my faith,” he said in perfect French— so that I began to doubt if
he was an English spy after all— “I verily believe that you are the clever
rogue, eh? who obtained a roast capon and a bottle of wine from that
fool Dompierre. He and his boon companions are venting their wrath on

104
you, old compeer; they are calling you liar and traitor and cheat, in the
intervals of wrecking what is left of the house, out of which my friend
and I have long since escaped by climbing up the neighbouring gutter-
pipes and scrambling over the adjoining roofs.”
Monsieur, will you believe me when I say that he was actually saying
all this in order to comfort me? I could have sworn to that because of the
wonderful kindliness which shone out of his eyes, even through the
good-humoured mockery wherewith he obviously regarded me. Do you
know what I did then, monsieur? I just fell on my knees and loudly
thanked God that he was safe; at which both he and his friend once again
began to laugh, for all the world like two schoolboys who had escaped a
whipping, rather than two men who were still threatened with death.
“Then it was you!” said the taller stranger, who was still laughing so
heartily that he had to wipe his eyes with his exquisite lace handkerchief.
“May God forgive me,” I replied.
The next moment his arm was again round me. I clung to him as to a
rock, for of a truth I had never felt a grasp so steady and withal so gentle
and kindly, as was his around my shoulders. I tried to murmur words of
thanks, but again that wretched feeling of sickness and faintness over-
came me, and for a second or two it seemed to me as if I were slipping
into another world. The stranger’s voice came to my ear, as it were
through cotton-wool.
“The man is starving,” he said. “Shall we take him over to your
lodgings, Tony? They are safer than mine. He may be able to walk in a
minute or two, if not I can carry him.”
My senses at this partly returned to me, and I was able to protest
feebly:
“No, no! I must go back— I must— kind sirs,” I murmured. “Mme. la
Marquise will be getting so anxious.”
No sooner were these foolish words out of my mouth than I could
have bitten my tongue out for having uttered them; and yet, somehow, it
seemed as if it was the stranger’s magnetic personality, his magic voice
and kindly act towards me, who had so basely sold him to his enemies,
which had drawn them out of me. He gave a low, prolonged whistle.
“Mme. la Marquise?” he queried, dropping his voice to a whisper.
Now to have uttered Mme. la Marquise de Mortaine’s name here in Ly-
ons, where every aristocrat was termed a traitor and sent without trial to
the guillotine, was in itself an act of criminal folly, and yet— you may
believe me, monsieur, or not— there was something within me just at
that moment that literally compelled me to open my heart out to this

105
stranger, whom I had so basely betrayed, and who requited my abomin-
able crime with such gentleness and mercy. Before I fully realised what I
was doing, monsieur, I had blurted out the whole history of Mme. la
Marquise’s flight and of M. lé Vicomte’s sickness to him. He drew me un-
der the cover of an open doorway, and he and his friend listened to me
without speaking a word until I had told them my pitiable tale to the
end.
When I had finished he said quietly:
“Take me to see Mme. la Marquise, old friend. Who knows? perhaps I
may be able to help.”
Then he turned to his friend.
“Will you wait for me at my lodgings, Tony,” he said, “and let
Ffoulkes and Hastings know that I may wish to speak with them on my
return?”
He spoke like one who had been accustomed all his life to give com-
mand, and I marvelled how his friend immediately obeyed him. Then
when the latter had disappeared down the dark street, the stranger once
more turned to me.
“Lean on my arm, good old friend,” he said, “and we must try and
walk as quickly as we can. The sooner we allay the anxieties of Mme. la
Marquise the better.”
I was still hugging the roast capon with one arm, with the other I
clung to him as together we walked in the direction of the Rue des Pipots.
On the way we halted at a respectable eating-house, where my protector
gave me some money wherewith to buy a bottle of good wine and sun-
dry provisions and delicacies which we carried home with us.

106
II.
Never shall I forget the look of horror which came in Mme. la Marquise’s
eyes when she saw me entering our miserable attic in the company of a
stranger. The last of the little bit of tallow candle flickered in its socket.
Madame threw her emaciated arms over her child, just like some poor
hunted animal defending its young. I could almost hear the cry of terror
which died down in her throat ere it reached her lips. But then, mon-
sieur, to see the light of hope gradually illuminating her pale, wan face
as the stranger took her hand and spoke to her— oh! so gently and so
kindly— was a sight which filled my poor, half-broken heart with joy.
“The little invalid must be seen by a doctor at once,” he said, “after
that only can we think of your ultimate safety.”
Mme. la Marquise, who herself was terribly weak and ill, burst out cry-
ing. “Would I not have taken him to a doctor ere now?” she murmured
through her tears. “But there is no doctor in Lyons. Those who have not
been arrested as traitors have fled from this stricken city. And my little
Jose is dying for want of medical care.”
“Your pardon, madame,” he rejoined gently, “one of the ablest doctors
in France is at present in Lyons—– ”
“That infamous Laporte,” she broke in, horrified. “He would snatch
my sick child from my arms and throw him to the guillotine.”
“He would save your boy from disease,” said the stranger earnestly,
“his own professional pride or professional honour, whatever he might
choose to call it, would compel him to do that. But the moment the doc-
tor’s work was done, that of the executioner would commence.”
“You see, milor,” moaned Madame in pitiable agony, “that there is no
hope for us.”
“Indeed there is,” he replied. “We must get M. lé Vicomte well first—
after that we shall see.”
“But you are not proposing to bring that infamous Laporte to my
child’s bedside!” she cried in horror.
“Would you have your child die here before your eyes,” retorted the
stranger, “as he undoubtedly will this night?”
This sounded horribly cruel, and the tone in which it was said was
commanding. There was no denying its truth. M. lé Vicomte was dying. I
could see that. For a moment or two madame remained quite still, with
her great eyes, circled with pain and sorrow, fixed upon the stranger. He
returned her gaze steadily and kindly, and gradually that frozen look of
horror in her pale face gave place to one of deep puzzlement, and

107
through her bloodless lips there came the words, faintly murmured:
“Who are you?”
He gave no direct reply, but from his little finger he detached a ring
and held it out for her to see. I saw it too, for I was standing close
by Mme. la Marquise, and the flickering light of the tallow candle fell full
upon the ring. It was of gold, and upon it there was an exquisitely
modelled, five-petalled little flower in vivid red enamel.
Madame la Marquise looked at the ring, then once again up into his
face. He nodded assent, and my heart seemed even then to stop its beat-
ing as I gazed upon his face. Had we not— all of us— heard of the gal-
lant Scarlet Pimpernel? And did I not know— far better than Mme. la
Marquise herself— the full extent of his gallantry and his self-sacrifice?
The hue and cry was after him. Human bloodhounds were even now on
his track, and he spoke calmly of walking out again in the streets of Ly-
ons and of affronting that infamous Laporte, who would find glory in
sending him to death. I think he guessed what was passing in my mind,
for he put a finger up to his lip and pointed significantly to M. lé Vicomte.
But it was beautiful to see how completely Mme. la Marquise now
trusted him. At his bidding she even ate a little of the food and drank
some wine— and I was forced to do likewise. And even when anon he
declared his intention of fetching Laporte immediately, she did not
flinch. She kissed M. lé Vicomte with passionate fervour, and then gave
the stranger her solemn promise that the moment he returned she would
take refuge in the next room and never move out of it until after Laporte
had departed.
When he went I followed him to the top of the stairs. I was speechless
with gratitude and also with fears for him. But he took my hand and
said, with that same quaint, somewhat inane laugh which was so charac-
teristic of him:
“Be of good cheer, old fellow! Those confounded murderers will not
get me this time.”

108
III.
Less than half an hour later, monsieur, citizen Laporte, one of the most
skilful doctors in France and one of the most bloodthirsty tyrants this ex-
ecrable Revolution has known, was sitting at the bedside of
M. lé Vicomte de Mortaine, using all the skill, all the knowledge he pos-
sessed in order to combat the dread disease of which the child was dy-
ing, ere he came to save him— as he cynically remarked in my hearing—
for the guillotine.
I heard afterwards how it all came about.
Laporte, it seems, was in the habit of seeing patients in his own house
every evening after he had settled all his business for the day. What a
strange contradiction in the human heart, eh, monsieur? The tiger turned
lamb for the space of one hour in every twenty-four— the butcher turned
healer. How well the English milor had gauged the strange personality
of that redoubtable man! Professional pride— interest in intricate
cases— call it what you will— was the only redeeming feature in La-
porte’s abominable character. Everything else in him, every thought,
every action was ignoble, cruel and vengeful.
Milor that night mingled with the crowd who waited on the human
hyena to be cured of their hurts. It was a motley crowd that filled the
dreaded pro-consul’s ante-chamber— men, women and children— all of
them too much preoccupied with their own troubles to bestow more
than a cursory glance on the stranger who, wrapped in a dark mantle,
quietly awaited his turn. One or two muttered curses were flung at the
aristo, one or two spat in his direction to express hatred and contempt,
then the door which gave on the inner chamber would be flung open— a
number called— one patient would walk out, another walk in— and in
the ever-recurring incident the stranger for the nonce was forgotten.
His turn came— his number being called— it was the last on the list,
and the ante-chamber was now quite empty save for him. He walked in-
to the presence of the pro-consul. Claude Lemoine, who was on guard in
the room at the time, told me that just for the space of two seconds the
two men looked at one another. Then the stranger threw back his head
and said quietly:
“There’s a child dying of pleurisy, or worse, in an attic in
the Rue des Pipots. There’s not a doctor left in Lyons to attend on him,
and the child will die for want of medical skill. Will you come to him, cit-
izen doctor?”
It seems that for a moment or two Laporte hesitated.

109
 “You look to me uncommonly like an aristo, and therefore a traitor,”
he said, “and I’ve half a mind— ”
“To call your guard and order my immediate arrest,” broke in milor
with a whimsical smile, “but in that case a citizen of France will die for
want of a doctor’s care. Let me take you to the child’s bedside, citizen
doctor, you can always have me arrested afterwards.”
But Laporte still hesitated.
“How do I know that you are not one of those English spies?” he
began.
“Take it that I am,” rejoined milor imperturbably, “and come and see
the patient.”
Never had a situation been carried off with so bold a hand. Claude
Lemoine declared that Laporte’s mouth literally opened for the call
which would have summoned the sergeant of the guard into the room
and ordered the summary arrest of this impudent stranger. During the
veriest fraction of a second life and death hung in the balance for the gal-
lant English milor. In the heart of Laporte every evil passion fought the
one noble fibre within him. But the instinct of the skilful healer won the
battle, and the next moment he had hastily collected what medicaments
and appliances he might require, and the two men were soon speeding
along the streets in the direction of the Rue des Pipots.
******
During the whole of that night, milor and Laporte sat together by the
bedside of M. lé Vicomte. Laporte only went out once in order to fetch
what further medicaments he required. Mme. la Marquise took the op-
portunity of running out of her hiding-place in order to catch a glimpse
of her child. I saw her take milor’s hand and press it against her heart in
silent gratitude. On her knees she begged him to go away and leave her
and the boy to their fate. Was it likely that he would go? But she was so
insistent that at last he said:
“Madame, let me assure you that even if I were prepared to play the
coward’s part which you would assign to me, it is not in my power to do
so at this moment. Citizen Laporte came to this house under the escort of
six picked men of his guard. He has left these men stationed on the land-
ing outside this door.”
Madame la Marquise gave a cry of terror, and once more that pathetic
look of horror came into her face. Milor took her hand and then pointed
to the sick child.

110
 “Madame,” he said, “M. lé Vicomte is already slightly better. Thanks to
medical skill and a child’s vigorous hold on life, he will live. The rest is
in the hands of God.”
Already the heavy footsteps of Laporte were heard upon the creaking
stairs. Mme. la Marquise was forced to return to her hiding-place.
Soon after dawn he went. M. lé Vicomte was then visibly easier. La-
porte had all along paid no heed to me, but I noticed that once or twice
during his long vigil by the sick-bed his dark eyes beneath their over-
hanging brows shot a quick suspicious look at the door behind which
cowered Mme. la Marquise. I had absolutely no doubt in my mind then
that he knew quite well who his patient was.
He gave certain directions to milor— there were certain fresh medica-
ments to be got during the day. While he spoke there was a sinister glint
in his eyes— half cynical, wholly menacing— as he looked up into the
calm, impassive face of milor.
“It is essential for the welfare of the patient that these medicaments be
got for him during the day,” he said dryly, “and the guard have orders
to allow you to pass in and out. But you need have no fear,” he added
significantly, “I will leave an escort outside the house to accompany you
on your way.”
He gave a mocking, cruel laugh, the meaning of which was unmistak-
able. His well-drilled human bloodhounds would be on the track of the
English spy, whenever the latter dared to venture out into the streets.
Mme. la Marquise and I were prisoners for the day. We spent it in
watching alternately beside M. lé Vicomte. But milor came and went as
freely as if he had not been carrying his precious life in his hands every
time that he ventured outside the house.
In the evening Laporte returned to see his patient, and again the fol-
lowing morning, and the next evening. M. lé Vicomte was making rapid
progress towards recovery.
The third day in the morning Laporte pronounced his patient to be out
of danger, but said that he would nevertheless come again to see him at
the usual hour in the evening. Directly he had gone, milor went out in
order to bring in certain delicacies of which the invalid was now allowed
to partake. I persuaded Madame to lie down and have a couple of hours’
good sleep in the inner attic, while I stayed to watch over the child.
To my horror, hardly had I taken up my stand at the foot of the bed
when Laporte returned; he muttered something as he entered about hav-
ing left some important appliance behind, but I was quite convinced that

111
he had been on the watch until milor was out of sight, and then slipped
back in order to find me and Madame here alone.
He gave a glance at the child and another at the door of the inner attic,
then he said in a loud voice:
“Yes, another twenty-four hours and my duties as doctor will cease
and those of patriot will re-commence. But Mme. la Marquise de Mor-
taine need no longer be in any anxiety about her son’s health, nor
will Mme. la Guillotine be cheated of a pack of rebels.”
He laughed, and was on the point of turning on his heel when the
door which gave on the smaller attic was opened and Mme. la Marquise
appeared upon the threshold.
Monsieur, I had never seen her look more beautiful than she did now
in her overwhelming grief. Her face was as pale as death, her eyes, large
and dilated, were fixed upon the human monster who had found it in his
heart to speak such cruel words. Clad in a miserable, threadbare gown,
her rich brown hair brought to the top of her head like a crown, she
looked more regal than any queen.
But proud as she was, monsieur, she yet knelt at the feet of that
wretch. Yes, knelt, and embraced his knees and pleaded in such pitiable
accents as would have melted the heart of a stone. She pleaded, mon-
sieur— ah, not for herself. She pleaded for her child and for me, her
faithful servant, and she pleaded for the gallant gentleman who had
risked his life for the sake of the child, who was nothing to him.
“Take me!” she said. “I come of a race that have always known how to
die! But what harm has that innocent child done in this world? What
harm has poor old Jean-Pierre done, and, oh … is the world so full of
brave and noble men that the bravest of them all be so unjustly sent to
death?”
Ah, monsieur, any man, save one of those abject products of that
hideous Revolution, would have listened to such heartrending accents.
But this man only laughed and turned on his heel without a word.
******
Shall I ever forget the day that went by? Mme. la Marquise was well-
nigh prostrate with terror, and it was heartrending to watch the noble ef-
forts which she made to amuse M. lé Vicomte. The only gleams of sun-
shine which came to us out of our darkness were the brief appearances
of milor. Outside we could hear the measured tramp of the guard that
had been set there to keep us close prisoners. They were relieved every
six hours, and, in fact, we were as much under arrest as if we were
already incarcerated in one of the prisons of Lyons.

112
 At about four o’clock in the afternoon milor came back to us after a
brief absence. He stayed for a little while playing with M. lé Vicomte. Just
before leaving he took Madame’s hand in his and said very earnestly,
and sinking his voice to the merest whisper:
“To-night! Fear nothing! Be ready for anything! Remember that the
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel have never failed to succour, and that I
hereby pledge you mine honour that you and those you care for will be
out of Lyons this night.”
He was gone, leaving us to marvel at his strange words. Mme. la Mar-
quise after that was just like a person in a dream. She hardly spoke to
me, and the only sound that passed her lips was a quaint little lullaby
which she sang to M. lé Vicomte ere he dropped off to sleep.
The hours went by leaden-footed. At every sound on the stairs Ma-
dame started like a frightened bird. That infamous Laporte usually paid
his visits at about eight o’clock in the evening, and after it became quite
dark, Madame sat at the tiny window, and I felt that she was counting
the minutes which still lay between her and the dreaded presence of that
awful man.
At a quarter before eight o’clock we heard the usual heavy footfall on
the stairs. Madame started up as if she had been struck. She ran to the
bed— almost like one demented, and wrapping the one poor blanket
round M. lé Vicomte, she seized him in her arms. Outside we could hear
Laporte’s raucous voice speaking to the guard. His usual query: “Is all
well?” was answered by the brief: “All well, citizen.” Then he asked if
the English spy were within, and the sentinel replied: “No, citizen, he
went out at about five o’clock and has not come back since.”
“Not come back since five o’clock?” said Laporte with a loud curse.
“Pardi! I trust that that fool Caudy has not allowed him to escape.”
“I saw Caudy about an hour ago, citizen,” said the man.
“Did he say anything about the Englishman then?”
It seemed to us, who were listening to this conversation with bated
breath, that the man hesitated a moment ere he replied; then he spoke
with obvious nervousness.
“As a matter of fact, citizen,” he said, “Caudy thought then that the
Englishman was inside the house, whilst I was equally sure that I had
seen him go downstairs an hour before.”
“A thousand devils!” cried Laporte with a savage oath, “if I find that
you, citizen sergeant, or Caudy have blundered there will be trouble for
you.”

113
 To the accompaniment of a great deal more swearing he suddenly
kicked open the door of our attic with his boot, and then came to a stand-
still on the threshold with his hands in the pockets of his breeches and
his legs planted wide apart, face to face with Mme. la Marquise, who con-
fronted him now, herself like a veritable tigress who is defending her
young.
He gave a loud, mocking laugh.
“Ah, the aristos!” he cried, “waiting for that cursed Englishman, what?
to drag you and your brat out of the claws of the human tiger… . Not so,
my fine ci-devantMarquise. The brat is no longer sick— he is well enough,
anyhow, to breathe the air of the prisons of Lyons for a few days
pending a final rest in the arms of Mme. la Guillotine. Citizen sergeant,”
he called over his shoulder, “escort these aristos to my carriage down-
stairs. When the Englishman returns, tell him he will find his friends un-
der the tender care of Doctor Laporte. En avant, little mother,” he added,
as he gripped Mme. la Marquise tightly by the arm, “and you, old scare-
crow,” he concluded, speaking to me over his shoulder, “follow the cit-
izen sergeant, or—— ”
Mme. la Marquise made no resistance. As I told you, she had been,
since dusk, like a person in a dream; so what could I do but follow her
noble example? Indeed, I was too dazed to do otherwise.
We all went stumbling down the dark, rickety staircase, Laporte lead-
ing the way with Mme. la Marquise, who had M. lé Vicomte tightly
clasped in her arms. I followed with the sergeant, whose hand was on
my shoulder; I believe that two soldiers walked behind, but of that I can-
not be sure.
At the bottom of the stairs through the open door of the house I caught
sight of the vague outline of a large barouche, the lanthorns of which
threw a feeble light upon the cruppers of two horses and of a couple of
men sitting on the box.
Mme. la Marquise stepped quietly into the carriage. Laporte followed
her, and I was bundled in in his wake by the rough hands of the soldiery.
Just before the order was given to start, Laporte put his head out of the
window and shouted to the sergeant:
“When you see Caudy tell him to report himself to me at once. I will
be back here in half an hour; keep strict guard as before until then, cit-
izen sergeant.”
The next moment the coachman cracked his whip, Laporte called
loudly, “En avant!” and the heavy barouche went rattling along the ill-
paved streets.

114
 Inside the carriage all was silence. I could hear Mme. la Marquise softly
whispering to M. lé Vicomte, and I marvelled how wondrously calm—
nay, cheerful, she could be. Then suddenly I heard a sound which of a
truth did make my heart stop its beating. It was a quaint and prolonged
laugh which I once thought I would never hear again on this earth. It
came from the corner of the barouche next to where Mme. la Marquise
was so tenderly and gaily crooning to her child. And a kindly voice said
merrily:
“In half an hour we shall be outside Lyons. To-morrow we’ll be across
the Swiss frontier. We’ve cheated that old tiger after all. What say
you, Mme. la Marquise?”
It was milor’s voice, and he was as merry as a school-boy.
“I told you, old Jean-Pierre,” he added, as he placed that firm hand
which I loved so well upon my knee, “I told you that those confounded
murderers would not get me this time.”
And to think that I did not know him, as he stood less than a quarter
of an hour ago upon the threshold of our attic in the hideous guise of
that abominable Laporte. He had spent two days in collecting old clothes
that resembled those of that infamous wretch, and in taking possession
of one of the derelict rooms in the house in the Rue des Pipots. Then
while we were expecting every moment that Laporte would order our
arrest, milor assumed the personality of the monster, hoodwinked the
sergeant on the dark staircase, and by that wonderfully audacious coup
saved Mme. la Marquise, M. lé Vicomte and my humble self from the
guillotine.
Money, of which he had plenty, secured us immunity on the way, and
we were in safety over the Swiss frontier, leaving Laporte to eat out his
tigerish heart with baffled rage.

115
 Part 7
OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH

116
Being a fragment from the diary of Valentine Lemercier, in the posses-
sion of her great-granddaughter.
We were such a happy family before this terrible Revolution broke
out; we lived rather simply, but very comfortably, in our dear old home
just on the borders of the forest of Compiègne. Jean and Andre were the
twins; just fifteen years old they were when King Louis was deposed
from the throne of France which God had given him, and sent to prison
like a common criminal, with our beautiful Queen Marie Antoinette and
the Royal children, and Madame Elizabeth, who was so beloved by the
poor!
Ah! that seems very, very long ago now. No doubt you know better
than I do all that happened in our beautiful land of France and in lovely
Paris about that time: goods and property confiscated, innocent men,
women, and children condemned to death for acts of treason which they
had never committed.
It was in August last year that they came to “Mon Repos” and arrested
papa, and maman, and us four young ones and dragged us to Paris,
where we were imprisoned in a narrow and horribly dank vault in
the Abbaye, where all day and night through the humid stone walls we
heard cries and sobs and moans from poor people, who no doubt were
suffering the same sorrows and the same indignities as we were.
I had just passed my nineteenth birthday, and Marguerite was only
thirteen. Maman was a perfect angel during that terrible time; she kept
up our courage and our faith in God in a way that no one else could have
done. Every night and morning we knelt round her knee and papa sat
close beside her, and we prayed to God for deliverance from our own af-
flictions, and for the poor people who were crying and moaning all the
day.
But of what went on outside our prison walls we had not an idea,
though sometimes poor papa would brave the warder’s brutalities and
ask him questions of what was happening in Paris every day.
“They are hanging all the aristos to the street-lamps of the city,” the
man would reply with a cruel laugh, “and it will be your turn next.”
We had been in prison for about a fortnight, when one day— oh! shall
I ever forget it?— we heard in the distance a noise like the rumbling of
thunder; nearer and nearer it came, and soon the sound became less con-
fused, cries and shrieks could be heard above that rumbling din; but so
weird and menacing did those cries seem that instinctively— though
none of us knew what they meant— we all felt a nameless terror grip our
hearts.

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 Oh! I am not going to attempt the awful task of describing to you all
the horrors of that never-to-be-forgotten day. People, who to-day cannot
speak without a shudder of the September massacres, have not the re-
motest conception of what really happened on that awful second day of
that month.
We are all at peace and happy now, but whenever my thoughts fly
back to that morning, whenever the ears of memory recall those hideous
yells of fury and of hate, coupled with the equally horrible cries for pity,
which pierced through the walls behind which the six of us were crouch-
ing, trembling, and praying, whenever I think of it all my heart still beats
violently with that same nameless dread which held it in its deathly grip
then.
Hundreds of men, women, and children were massacred in the pris-
ons of that day— it was a St. Bartholomew even more hideous than the
last.
Maman was trying in vain to keep our thoughts fixed upon God—
papa sat on the stone bench, his elbows resting on his knees, his head
buried in his hands; butmaman was kneeling on the floor, with her dear
arms encircling us all and her trembling lips moving in continuous
prayer.
We felt that we were facing death— and what a death, O my God!
Suddenly the small grated window— high up in the dank wall— be-
came obscured. I was the first to look up, but the cry of terror which rose
from my heart was choked ere it reached my throat.
Jean and Andre looked up, too, and they shrieked, and so did Mar-
guerite, and papa jumped up and ran to us and stood suddenly between
us and the window like a tiger defending its young.
But we were all of us quite silent now. The children did not even cry;
they stared, wide-eyed, paralysed with fear.
Only maman continued to pray, and we could hear papa’s rapid and
stertorous breathing as he watched what was going on at that window
above.
Heavy blows were falling against the masonry round the grating, and
we could hear the nerve-racking sound of a file working on the iron bars;
and farther away, below the window, those awful yells of human beings
transformed by hate and fury into savage beasts.
How long this horrible suspense lasted I cannot now tell you; the next
thing I remember clearly is a number of men in horrible ragged clothing
pouring into our vault-like prison from the window above; the next mo-
ment they rushed at us simultaneously— or so it seemed to me, for I was

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just then recommending my soul to God, so certain was I that in that
same second I would cease to live.
It was all like a dream, for instead of the horrible shriek of satisfied
hate which we were all expecting to hear, a whispering voice, command-
ing and low, struck our ears and dragged us, as it were, from out the
abyss of despair into the sudden light of hope.
“If you will trust us,” the voice whispered, “and not be afraid, you will
be safely out of Paris within an hour.”
Papa was the first to realise what was happening; he had never lost his
presence of mind even during the darkest moment of this terrible time,
and he said quite calmly and steadily now:
“What must we do?”
“Persuade the little ones not to be afraid, not to cry, to be as still and
silent as may be,” continued the voice, which I felt must be that of one of
God’s own angels, so exquisitely kind did it sound to my ear.
“They will be quiet and still without persuasion,” said papa; “eh,
children?”
And Jean, Andre, and Marguerite murmured: “Yes!”
whilst maman and I drew them closer to us and said everything we could
think of to make them still more brave.
And the whispering, commanding voice went on after awhile:
“Now will you allow yourselves to be muffled and bound, and, after
that, will you swear that whatever happens, whatever you may see or
hear, you will neither move nor speak? Not only your own lives, but
those of many brave men will depend upon your fulfilment of this oath.”
Papa made no reply save to raise his hand and eyes up to where God
surely was watching over us all. Maman said in her gentle, even voice:
“For myself and my children, I swear to do all that you tell us.”
A great feeling of confidence had entered into her heart, just as it had
done into mine. We looked at one another and knew that we were both
thinking of the same thing: we were thinking of the brave Englishman
and his gallant little band of heroes, about whom we had heard many
wonderful tales— how they had rescued a number of innocent people
who were unjustly threatened with the guillotine; and we all knew that
the tall figure, disguised in horrible rags, who spoke to us with such a
gentle yet commanding voice, was the man whom rumour credited with
supernatural powers, and who was known by the mysterious name of
“The Scarlet Pimpernel.”
Hardly had we sworn to do his bidding than his friends most uncere-
moniously threw great pieces of sacking over our heads, and then

119
proceeded to tie ropes round our bodies. At least, I know that that is
what one of them was doing to me, and from one or two whispered
words of command which reached my ear I concluded that papa
and maman and the children were being dealt with in the same summary
way.
I felt hot and stifled under that rough bit of sacking, but I would not
have moved or even sighed for worlds. Strangely enough, as soon as my
eyes and ears were shut off from the sounds and sights immediately
round me, I once more became conscious of the horrible and awful din
which was going on, not only on the other side of our prison walls, but
inside the whole of the Abbaye building and in the street beyond.
Once more I heard those terrible howls of rage and of satisfied hatred,
uttered by the assassins who were being paid by the government of our
beautiful country to butcher helpless prisoners in their hundreds.
Suddenly I felt myself hoisted up off my feet and slung up on to a pair
of shoulders that must have been very powerful indeed, for I am no light
weight, and once more I heard the voice, the very sound of which was
delight, quite close to my ear this time, giving a brief and comprehensive
command:
“All ready!— remember your part— en avant!”
Then it added in English. “Here, Tony, you start kicking against the
door whilst we begin to shout!”
I loved those few words of English, and hoped that maman had heard
them too, for it would confirm her— as it did me— in the happy know-
ledge that God and a brave man had taken our rescue in hand.
But from that moment we might have all been in the very ante-cham-
ber of hell. I could hear the violent kicks against the heavy door of our
prison, and our brave rescuers seemed suddenly to be transformed into a
cageful of wild beasts. Their shouts and yells were as horrible as any that
came to us from the outside, and I must say that the gentle, firm voice
which I had learnt to love was as execrable as any I could hear.
Apparently the door would not yield, as the blows against it became
more and more violent, and presently from somewhere above my
head— the window presumably— there came a rough call, and a rauc-
ous laugh:
“Why? what in the name of —— is happening here?”
And the voice near me answered back equally roughly: “A quarry of
six— but we are caught in this confounded trap— get the door open for
us, citizen— we want to get rid of this booty and go in search for more.”

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 A horrible laugh was the reply from above, and the next instant I
heard a terrific crash; the door had at last been burst open, either from
within or without, I could not tell which, and suddenly all the din, the
cries, the groans, the hideous laughter and bibulous songs which had
sounded muffled up to now burst upon us with all their hideousness.
That was, I think, the most awful moment of that truly fearful hour. I
could not have moved then, even had I wished or been able to do so; but
I knew that between us all and a horrible, yelling, murdering mob there
was now nothing— except the hand of God and the heroism of a band of
English gentlemen.
Together they gave a cry— as loud, as terrifying as any that were
uttered by the butchering crowd in the building, and with a wild rush
they seemed to plunge with us right into the thick of the awful melee.
At least, that is what it all felt like to me, and afterwards I heard from
our gallant rescuer himself that that is exactly what he and his friends
did. There were eight of them altogether, and we four young ones had
each been hoisted on a pair of devoted shoulders, whilst maman and
papa were each carried by two men.
I was lying across the finest pair of shoulders in the world, and close to
me was beating the bravest heart on God’s earth.
Thus burdened, these eight noble English gentlemen charged right
through an army of butchering, howling brutes, they themselves howl-
ing with the fiercest of them.
All around me I heard weird and terrific cries: “What ho! citizens—
what have you there?”
“Six aristos!” shouted my hero boldly as he rushed on, forging his way
through the crowd.
“What are you doing with them?” yelled a raucous voice.
“Food for the starving fish in the river,” was the ready response.
“Stand aside, citizen,” he added, with a round curse; “I have my orders
from citizen Danton himself about these six aristos. You hinder me at
your peril.”
He was challenged over and over again in the same way, and so were
his friends who were carrying papa and maman and the children; but
they were always ready with a reply, ready with an invective or a curse;
with eyes that could not see, one could imagine them as hideous, as
vengeful, as cruel as the rest of the crowd.
I think that soon I must have fainted from sheer excitement and terror,
for I remember nothing more till I felt myself deposited on a hard floor,

121
propped against the wall, and the stifling piece of sacking taken off my
head and face.
I looked around me, dazed and bewildered; gradually the horrors of
the past hour came back to me, and I had to close my eyes again, for I felt
sick and giddy with the sheer memory of it all.
But presently I felt stronger and looked around me again. Jean and
Andre were squatting in a corner close by, gazing wide-eyed at the
group of men in filthy, ragged clothing, who sat round a deal table in the
centre of a small, ill-furnished room.
Maman was lying on a horsehair sofa at the other end of the room,
with Marguerite beside her, and papa sat in a low chair by her side,
holding her hand.
The voice I loved was speaking in its quaint, somewhat drawly
cadence:
“You are quite safe now, my dear Monsieur Lemercier,” it said; “after
Madame and the young people have had a rest, some of my friends will
find you suitable disguises, and they will escort you out of Paris, as they
have some really genuine passports in their possessions, which we ob-
tain from time to time through the agency of a personage highly placed
in this murdering government, and with the help of English banknotes.
Those passports are not always unchallenged, I must confess,” added my
hero with a quaint laugh; “but to-night everyone is busy murdering in
one part of Paris, so the other parts are comparatively safe.”
Then he turned to one of his friends and spoke to him in English:
“You had better see this through, Tony,” he said, “with Hastings and
Mackenzie. Three of you will be enough; I shall have need of the others.”
No one seemed to question his orders. He had spoken, and the others
made ready to obey. Just then papa spoke up:
“How are we going to thank you, sir?” he asked, speaking broken
English, but with his habitual dignity of manner.
“By leaving your welfare in our hands, Monsieur,” replied our gallant
rescuer quietly.
Papa tried to speak again, but the Englishman put up his hand to stop
any further talk.
“There is no time now, Monsieur,” he said with gentle courtesy. “I
must leave you, as I have much work yet to do.”
“Where are you going, Blakeney?” asked one of the others.
“Back to the Abbaye prison,” he said; “there are other women and chil-
dren to be rescued there!”

122
 Part 8
THE TRAITOR

123
I.
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 mem-
bers, 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 Kulms-
ted’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 An-
toinette’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 atti-
tude on a rickety chair, with elbows leaning on the rough deal table be-
fore 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—– ”

124
 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 de-
voted little mother. My only desire is that you should earn the gratitude
of your country by denouncing her most bitter enemy— an act of patriot-
ism 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 echo-
ing 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 fly-
ing from the derelict house with her family and seeking shelter else-
where; 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 mu-
sic 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

125
aristocrats, and in the evening she cooked them some broth. Oh! they
gave her money lavishly; but she quite understood that they were in hid-
ing, 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 cit-
izen 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 su-
perstitious 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.

126
 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 Eng-
lishman’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 go-
ing, 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 pre-
pare 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 Dauphiné— 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.

127
 “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 ar-
dently 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.

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II.
Silence reigned in the low-raftered room on the ground floor of the
house in the Rue Dauphiné.
Citizen Robespierre, chairman of the Cordeliers Club, the most
bloodthirsty, most Evolutionary club of France, had just re-entered the
room.
He walked up to the centre table, and through the close atmosphere,
thick with tobacco smoke, he looked round on his assembled friends.
“We have got him,” he said at last curtly.
“Got him! Whom?” came in hoarse cries from every corner of the
room.
“That Englishman,” replied the demagogue, “the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
A prolonged shout rose in response— a shout not unlike that of a
caged herd of hungry wild beasts to whom a succulent morsel of flesh
has unexpectedly been thrown.
“Where is he?” “Where did you get him?” “Alive or dead?” And many
more questions such as these were hurled at the speaker from every side.
Robespierre, calm, impassive, immaculately neat in his tightly fitting
coat, his smart breeches, and his lace cravat, waited awhile until the din
had somewhat subsided. Then he said calmly:
“The Scarlet Pimpernel is in hiding in one of the derelict houses in the
Rue Berthier.”
Snarls of derision as vigorous as the former shouts of triumph
drowned the rest of his speech.
“Bah! How often has that cursed Scarlet Pimpernel been said to be
alone in a lonely house? Citizen Chauvelin has had him at his mercy sev-
eral times in lonely houses.”
And the speaker, a short, thick-set man with sparse black hair
plastered over a greasy forehead, his shirt open at the neck, revealing a
powerful chest and rough, hairy skin, spat in ostentatious contempt
upon the floor.
“Therefore will we not boast of his capture yet, citizen Roger,” re-
sumed Robespierre imperturbably. “I tell you where the Englishman is.
Do you look to it that he does not escape.”
The heat in the room had become intolerable. From the grimy ceiling
an oil-lamp, flickering low, threw lurid, ruddy lights on tricolour cock-
ades, on hands that seemed red with the blood of innocent victims of lust
and hate, and on faces glowing with desire and with anticipated savage
triumph.

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 “Who is the informer?” asked Roger at last.
“A girl,” replied Robespierre curtly. “Yvonne Lebeau, by name; she
and her family live by begging. There are a blind father and two boys;
they herd together at night in the derelict house in the Rue Berthier. Five
Englishmen have been in hiding there these past few days. One of them
is their leader. The girl believes him to be the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“Why has she not spoken of this before?” muttered one of the crowd,
with some scepticism.
“Frightened, I suppose. Or the Englishman paid her to hold her
tongue.”
“Where is the girl now?”
“I am sending her straight home, a little ahead of us. Her presence
should reassure the Englishman whilst we make ready to surround the
house. In the meanwhile, I have sent special messengers to every gate of
Paris with strict orders to the guard not to allow anyone out of the city
until further orders from the Committee of Public Safety. And now,” he
added, throwing back his head with a gesture of proud challenge,
“citizens, which of you will go man-hunting to-night?”
This time the strident roar of savage exultation was loud and deep
enough to shake the flickering lamp upon its chain.
A brief discussion of plans followed, and Roger— he with the broad,
hairy chest and that gleam of hatred for ever lurking in his deep-set,
shifty eyes— was chosen the leader of the party.
Thirty determined and well-armed patriots set out against one man,
who mayhap had supernatural powers. There would, no doubt, be some
aristocrats, too, in hiding in the derelict house— the girl Lebeau, it
seems, had spoken of a woman and two children. Bah! These would not
count. It would be thirty to one, so let the Scarlet Pimpernel look to
himself.
From the towers of Notre Dame the big bell struck the hour of six, as
thirty men in ragged shirts and torn breeches, shivering beneath a cold
November drizzle, began slowly to wend their way towards the Rue
Berthier.
They walked on in silence, not heeding the cold or the rain, but with
eyes fixed in the direction of their goal, and nostrils quivering in the
evening air with the distant scent of blood.

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III.
At the top of the Rue Berthier the party halted. On ahead— some two
hundred metres farther— Yvonne Lebeau’s little figure, with her ragged
skirt pulled over her head and her bare feet pattering in the mud, was
seen crossing one of those intermittent patches of light formed by occa-
sional flickering street lamps, and then was swallowed up once more by
the inky blackness beyond.
The Rue Berthier is a long, narrow, ill-paved and ill-lighted street,
composed of low and irregular houses, which abut on the line of fortific-
ations at the back, and are therefore absolutely inaccessible save from the
front.
Midway down the street a derelict house rears ghostly debris of roofs
and chimney-stacks upward to the sky. A tiny square of yellow light,
blinking like a giant eye through a curtainless window, pierced the wall
of the house. Roger pointed to that light.
“That,” he said, “is the quarry where our fox has run to earth.”
No one said anything; but the dank night air seemed suddenly alive
with all the passions of hate let loose by thirty beating hearts.
The Scarlet Pimpernel, who had tricked them, mocked them, fooled
them so often, was there, not two hundred metres away; and they were
thirty to one, and all determined and desperate.
The darkness was intense.
Silently now the party approached the house, then again they halted,
within sixty metres of it.
“Hist!”
The whisper could scarce be heard, so low was it, like the sighing of
the wind through a misty veil.
“Who is it?” came in quick challenge from Roger.
“I— Yvonne Lebeau!”
“Is he there?” was the eager whispered query.
“Not yet. But he may come at any moment. If he saw a crowd round
the house, mayhap he would not come.”
“He cannot see a crowd. The night is as dark as pitch.”
“He can see in the darkest night,” and the girl’s voice sank to an awed
whisper, “and he can hear through a stone wall.”
Instinctively, Roger shuddered. The superstitious fear which the mys-
terious personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel evoked in the heart of every
Terrorist had suddenly seized this man in its grip.

131
 Try as he would, he did not feel as valiant as he had done when first
he emerged at the head of his party from under the portico of the Cor-
deliers Club, and it was with none too steady a voice that he ordered the
girl roughly back to the house. Then he turned once more to his men.
The plan of action had been decided on in the Club, under the presid-
ency of Robespierre; it only remained to carry the plans through with
success.
From the side of the fortifications there was, of course, nothing to fear.
In accordance with military regulations, the walls of the houses there
rose sheer from the ground without doors or windows, whilst the
broken-down parapets and dilapidated roofs towered forty feet above
the ground.
The derelict itself was one of a row of houses, some inhabited, others
quite abandoned. It was the front of that row of houses, therefore, that
had to be kept in view. Marshalled by Roger, the men flattened their
meagre bodies against the walls of the houses opposite, and after that
there was nothing to do but wait.
To wait in the darkness of the night, with a thin, icy rain soaking
through ragged shirts and tattered breeches, with bare feet frozen by the
mud of the road— to wait in silence while turbulent hearts beat well-
nigh to bursting— to wait for food whilst hunger gnaws the bowels— to
wait for drink whilst the parched tongue cleaves to the roof of the
mouth— to wait for revenge whilst the hours roll slowly by and the cries
of the darkened city are stilled one by one!
Once— when a distant bell tolled the hour of ten— a loud prolonged
laugh, almost impudent in its suggestion of merry insouciance, echoed
through the weird silence of the night.
Roger felt that the man nearest to him shivered at that sound, and he
heard a volley or two of muttered oaths.
“The fox seems somewhere near,” he whispered. “Come within. We’ll
wait for him inside his hole.”
He led the way across the street, some of the men following him.
The door of the derelict house had been left on the latch. Roger pushed
it open.
Silence and gloom here reigned supreme; utter darkness, too, save for
a narrow streak of light which edged the framework of a door on the
right. Not a sound stirred the quietude of this miserable hovel, only the
creaking of boards beneath the men’s feet as they entered.

132
 Roger crossed the passage and opened the door on the right. His
friends pressed closely round to him and peeped over his shoulder into
the room beyond.
A guttering piece of tallow candle, fixed to an old tin pot, stood in the
middle of the floor, and its feeble, flickering light only served to accentu-
ate the darkness that lay beyond its range. One or two rickety chairs and
a rough deal table showed vaguely in the gloom, and in the far corner of
the room there lay a bundle of what looked like heaped-up rags, but
from which there now emerged the sound of heavy breathing and also a
little cry of fear.
“Yvonne,” came in feeble, querulous accents from that same bundle of
wretchedness, “are these the English milors come back at last?”
“No, no, father,” was the quick whispered reply.
Roger swore a loud oath, and two puny voices began to whimper
piteously.
“It strikes me the wench has been fooling us,” muttered one of the
men savagely.
The girl had struggled to her feet. She crouched in the darkness, and
two little boys, half-naked and shivering, were clinging to her skirts. The
rest of the human bundle seemed to consist of an oldish man, with long,
gaunt legs and arms blue with the cold. He turned vague, wide-open
eyes in the direction whence had come the harsh voices.
“Are they friends, Yvonne?” he asked anxiously.
The girl did her best to reassure him.
“Yes, yes, father,” she whispered close to his ear, her voice scarce
above her breath; “they are good citizens who hoped to find the English
milor here. They are disappointed that he has not yet come.”
“Ah! but he will come, of a surety,” said the old man in that querulous
voice of his. “He left his beautiful clothes here this morning, and surely
he will come to fetch them.” And his long, thin hand pointed towards a
distant corner of the room.
Roger and his friends, looking to where he was pointing, saw a parcel
of clothes, neatly folded, lying on one of the chairs. Like so many wild
cats snarling at sight of prey, they threw themselves upon those clothes,
tearing them out from one another’s hands, turning them over and over
as if to force the cloth and satin to yield up the secret that lay within their
folds.
In the skirmish a scrap of paper fluttered to the ground. Roger seized
it with avidity, and, crouching on the floor, smoothed the paper out
against his knee.

133
 It contained a few hastily scrawled words, and by the feeble light of
the fast-dying candle Roger spelt them out laboriously:
“If the finder of these clothes will take them to the cross-roads oppos-
ite the foot-bridge which leads straight to Courbevoie, and will do so be-
fore the clock of Courbevoie Church has struck the hour of midnight, he
will be rewarded with the sum of five hundred francs.”
“There is something more, citizen Roger,” said a raucous voice close to
his ear.
“Look! Look, citizen— in the bottom corner of the paper!”
“The signature.”
“A scrawl done in red,” said Roger, trying to decipher it.
“It looks like a small flower.”
“That accursed Scarlet Pimpernel!”
And even as he spoke the guttering tallow candle, swaying in its sock-
et, suddenly went out with a loud splutter and a sizzle that echoed
through the desolate room like the mocking laugh of ghouls.

134
IV.
Once more the tramp through the dark and deserted streets, with the
drizzle— turned now to sleet— beating on thinly clad shoulders. Fifteen
men only on this tramp. The others remained behind to watch the house.
Fifteen men, led by Roger, and with a blind old man, a young girl carry-
ing a bundle of clothes, and two half-naked children dragged as camp-
followers in the rear.
Their destination now was the sign-post which stands at the cross-
roads, past the footbridge that leads to Courbevoie.
The guard at the Maillot Gate would have stopped the party, but Ro-
ger, member of the Committee of Public Safety, armed with his papers
and his tricolour scarf, overruled Robespierre’s former orders, and the
party mached out of the gate.
They pressed on in silence, instinctively walking shoulder to shoulder,
vaguely longing for the touch of another human hand, the sound of a
voice that would not ring weirdly in the mysterious night.
There was something terrifying in this absolute silence, in such intense
darkness, in this constant wandering towards a goal that seemed for ever
distant, and in all this weary, weary fruitless waiting; and these men,
who lived their life through, drunken with blood, deafened by the cries
of their victims, satiated with the moans of the helpless and the innocent,
hardly dared to look around them, lest they should see ghoulish forms
flitting through the gloom.
Soon they reached the cross-roads, and in the dense blackness of the
night the gaunt arms of the sign-post pointed ghostlike towards the
north.
The men hung back, wrapped in the darkness as in a pall, while Roger
advanced alone.
“Holà! Is anyone there?” he called softly.
Then, as no reply came, he added more loudly:
“Holà! A friend— with some clothes found in the Rue Berthier. Is any-
one here? Holà! A friend!”
But only from the gently murmuring river far away the melancholy
call of a waterfowl seemed to echo mockingly:
“A friend!”
Just then the clock of Courbevoie Church struck the midnight hour.
“It is too late,” whispered the men.
They did not swear, nor did they curse their leader. Somehow it
seemed as if they had expected all along that the Englishman would

135
evade their vengeance yet again, that he would lure them out into the
cold and into the darkness, and then that he would mock them, fool
them, and finally disappear into the night.
It seemed futile to wait any longer. They were so sure that they had
failed again.
“Who goes there?”
The sound of naked feet and of wooden sabots pattering on the distant
footbridge had caused Roger to utter the quick challenge.
“Holà! Holà! Are you there?” was the loud, breathless response.
The next moment the darkness became alive with men moving quickly
forward, and raucous shouts of “Where are they?” “Have you got
them?” “Don’t let them go!” filled the air.
“Got whom?” “Who are they?” “What is it?” were the wild counter-
cries.
“The man! The girl! The children! Where are they?”
“What? Which? The Lebeau family? They are here with us.”
“Where?”
Where, indeed? To a call to them from Roger there came no answer,
nor did a hasty search result in finding them— the old man, the two
boys, and the girl carrying the bundle of clothes had vanished into the
night.
“In the name of—– , what does this mean?” cried hoarse voices in the
crowd.
The new-comers, breathless, terrified, shaking with superstitious fear,
tried to explain.
“The Lebeau family— the old man, the girl, the two boys— we dis-
covered after your departure, locked up in the cellar of the house—
prisoners.”
“But, then— the others?” they gasped.
“The girl and the children whom you saw must have been some aristo-
crats in disguise. The old man who spoke to you was that cursed Eng-
lishman— the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
And as if in mocking confirmation of these words there suddenly
rang, echoing from afar, a long and merry laugh.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” cried Roger. “In rags and barefooted! At him,
citizens; he cannot have got far!”
“Hush! Listen!” whispered one of the men, suddenly gripping him by
the arm.

136
 And from the distance— though Heaven only knew from what direc-
tion— came the sound of horses’ hoofs pawing the soft ground; the next
moment they were heard galloping away at breakneck speed.
The men turned to run in every direction, blindly, aimlessly, in the
dark, like bloodhounds that have lost the trail.
One man, as he ran, stumbled against a dark mass prone upon the
ground. With a curse on his lips, he recovered his balance.
“Hold! What is this?” he cried.
Some of his comrades gathered round him. No one could see any-
thing, but the dark mass appeared to have human shape, and it was
bound round and round with cords. And now feeble moans escaped
from obviously human lips.
“What is it? Who is it?” asked the men.
“An Englishman,” came in weak accents from the ground.
“Your name?”
“I am called Kulmsted.”
“Bah! An aristocrat!”
“No! An enemy of the Scarlet Pimpernel, like yourselves. I would have
delivered him into your hands. But you let him escape you. As for me, he
would have been wiser if he had killed me.”
They picked him up and undid the cords from round his body, and
later on took him with them back into Paris.
But there, in the darkness of the night, in the mud of the road, and be-
neath the icy rain, knees were shaking that had long ago forgotten how
to bend, and hasty prayers were muttered by lips that were far more ac-
customed to blaspheme.

137
 Part 9
THE CABARET DE LA LIBERTE

138
I.
“Eight!”
“Twelve!”
“Four!”
A loud curse accompanied this last throw, and shouts of ribald
laughter greeted it.
“No luck, Guidal!”
“Always at the tail end of the cart, eh, citizen?”
“Do not despair yet, good old Guidal! Bad beginnings oft make splen-
did ends!”
Then once again the dice rattled in the boxes; those who stood around
pressed closer round the gamesters; hot, avid faces, covered with sweat
and grime, peered eagerly down upon the table.
“Eight and eleven— nineteen!”
“Twelve and zero! By Satan! Curse him! Just my luck!”
“Four and nine— thirteen! Unlucky number!”
“Now then— once more! I’ll back Merri! Ten assignats of the most
worthless kind! Who’ll take me that Merri gets the wench in the end?”
This from one of the lookers-on, a tall, cadaverous-looking creature,
with sunken eyes and broad, hunched-up shoulders, which were per-
petually shaken by a dry, rasping cough that proclaimed the ravages of
some mortal disease, left him trembling as with ague and brought beads
of perspiration to the roots of his lank hair. A recrudescence of excite-
ment went the round of the spectators. The gamblers sitting round a nar-
row deal table, on which past libations had left marks of sticky rings, had
scarce room to move their elbows.
“Nineteen and four— twenty-three!”
“You are out of it, Desmonts!”
“Not yet!”
“Twelve and twelve!”
“There! What did I tell you?”
“Wait! wait! Now, Merri! Now! Remember I have backed you for
ten assignats, which I propose to steal from the nearest Jew this very
night.”
“Thirteen and twelve! Twenty-five, by all the demons and the ghouls!”
came with a triumphant shout from the last thrower.
“Merri has it! Vive Merri!” was the unanimous and clamorous
response.

139
 Merri was evidently the most popular amongst the three gamblers.
Now he sprawled upon the bench, leaning his back against the table, and
surveyed the assembled company with the air of an Achilles having van-
quished his Hector.
“Good luck to you and to your aristo!” began his backer lustily—
would, no doubt, have continued his song of praise had not a violent fit
of coughing smothered the words in his throat. The hand which he had
raised in order to slap his friend genially on the back now went with a
convulsive clutch to his own chest.
But his obvious distress did not apparently disturb the equanimity of
Merri, or arouse even passing interest in the lookers-on.
“May she have as much money as rumour avers,” said one of the men
sententiously.
Merri gave a careless wave of his grubby hand.
“More, citizen; more!” he said loftily.
Only the two losers appeared inclined to scepticism.
“Bah!” one of them said— it was Desmonts. “The whole matter of the
woman’s money may be a tissue of lies!”
“And England is a far cry!” added Guidal.
But Merri was not likely to be depressed by these dismal croakings.
“’Tis simple enough,” he said philosophically, “to disparage the goods
if you are not able to buy.”
Then a lusty voice broke in from the far corner of the room:
“And now, citizen Merri, ’tis time you remembered that the evening is
hot and your friends thirsty!”
The man who spoke was a short, broad-shouldered creature, with
crimson face surrounded by a shock of white hair, like a ripe tomato
wrapped in cotton wool.
“And let me tell you,” he added complacently, “that I have a cask of
rum down below, which came straight from that accursed country, Eng-
land, and is said to be the nectar whereon feeds that confounded Scarlet
Pimpernel. It gives him the strength, so ’tis said, to intrigue successfully
against the representatives of the people.”
“Then by all means, citizen,” concluded Merri’s backer, still hoarse
and spent after his fit of coughing, “let us have some of your nectar. My
friend, citizen Merri, will need strength and wits too, I’ll warrant, for,
after he has married the aristo, he will have to journey to England to
pluck the rich dowry which is said to lie hidden there.”
“Cast no doubt upon that dowry, citizen Rateau, curse you!” broke in
Merri, with a spiteful glance directed against his former rivals, “or

140
Guidal and Desmonts will cease to look glum, and half my joy in the ar-
isto will have gone.”
After which, the conversation drifted to general subjects, became hil-
arious and ribald, while the celebrated rum from England filled the close
atmosphere of the narrow room with its heady fumes.

141
II.
Open to the street in front, the locality known under the pretentious title
of “Cabaret de la Liberte” was a favoured one among the flotsam and jet-
sam of the population of this corner of old Paris; men and sometimes
women, with nothing particular to do, no special means of livelihood
save the battening on the countless miseries and sorrows which this Re-
volution, which was to have been so glorious, was bringing in its train;
idlers and loafers, who would crawl desultorily down the few worn and
grimy steps which led into the cabaret from the level of the street. There
was always good brandy or eau de vie to be had there, and no questions
asked, no scares from the revolutionary guards or the secret agents of the
Committee of Public Safety, who knew better than to interfere with the
citizen host and his dubious clientele. There was also good Rhine wine or
rum to be had, smuggled across from England or Germany, and no inter-
ference from the spies of some of those countless Committees, more
autocratic than any ci-devant despot. It was, in fact, an ideal place
wherein to conduct those shady transactions which are unavoidable co-
rollaries of an unfettered democracy. Projects of burglary, pillage, rapine,
even murder, were hatched within this underground burrow, where, as
soon as evening drew in, a solitary, smoky oil-lamp alone cast a dim
light upon faces that liked to court the darkness, and whence no sound
that was not meant for prying ears found its way to the street above. The
walls were thick with grime and smoke, the floor mildewed and cracked;
dirt vied with squalor to make the place a fitting abode for thieves and
cut-throats, for some of those sinister night-birds, more vile even than
those who shrieked with satisfied lust at sight of the tumbril, with its
daily load of unfortunates for the guillotine.
On this occasion the project that was being hatched was one of the
most abject. A young girl, known by some to be possessed of a fortune,
was the stake for which these workers of iniquity gambled across one of
mine host’s greasy tables. The latest decree of the Convention, encour-
aging, nay, commanding, the union of aristocrats with so-called patriots,
had fired the imagination of this nest of jail-birds with thoughts of glori-
ous possibilities. Some of them had collected the necessary information;
and the report had been encouraging.
That self-indulgent aristo, the ci-devant banker Amede Vincent, who
had expiated his villainies upon the guillotine, was known to have been
successful in abstracting the bulk of his ill-gotten wealth and concealing

142
it somewhere— it was not exactly known where, but thought to be in
England— out of the reach, at any rate, of deserving patriots.
Some three or four years ago, before the glorious principles of Liberty,
Equality, and Fraternity had made short shrift of all such pestilential ar-
istocrats, the ci-devantbanker, then a widower with an only daughter, Es-
ther, had journeyed to England. He soon returned to Paris, however, and
went on living there with his little girl in comparative retirement, until
his many crimes found him out at last and he was made to suffer the
punishment which he so justly deserved. Those crimes consisted for the
most part in humiliating the aforesaid deserving patriots with his bene-
volence, shaming them with many kindnesses, and the simplicity of his
home-life, and, above all, in flouting the decrees of the Revolutionary
Government, which made every connection with ci-devant churches and
priests a penal offence against the security of the State.
Amede Vincent was sent to the guillotine, and the representatives of
the people confiscated his house and all his property on which they
could lay their hands; but they never found the millions which he was
supposed to have concealed. Certainly his daughter Esther— a young
girl, not yet nineteen— had not found them either, for after her father’s
death she went to live in one of the poorer quarters of Paris, alone with
an old and faithful servant named Lucienne. And while the Committee
of Public Safety was deliberating whether it would be worth while to
send Esther to the guillotine, to follow in her father’s footsteps, a certain
number of astute jail-birds plotted to obtain possession of her wealth.
The wealth existed, over in England; of that they were ready to take
their oath, and the project which they had formed was as ingenious as it
was diabolic: to feign a denunciation, to enact a pretended arrest, to
place before the unfortunate girl the alternative of death or marriage
with one of the gang, were the chief incidents of this inquitous project,
and it was in the Cabaret de la Liberte that lots were thrown as to which
among the herd of miscreants should be the favoured one to play the
chief rôle in the sinister drama.
The lot fell to Merri; but the whole gang was to have a share in the pu-
tative fortune— even Rateau, the wretched creature with the hacking
cough, who looked as if he had one foot in the grave, and shivered as if
he were stricken with ague, put in a word now and again to remind his
good friend Merri that he, too, was looking forward to his share of the
spoils. Merri, however, was inclined to repudiate him altogether.
“Why should I share with you?” he said roughly, when, a few hours
later, he and Rateau parted in the street outside the Cabaret de la Liberte.

143
“Who are you, I would like to know, to try and poke your ugly nose into
my affairs? How do I know where you come from, and whether you are
not some crapulent spy of one of those pestilential committees?”
From which eloquent flow of language we may infer that the friend-
ship between these two worthies was not of very old duration. Rateau
would, no doubt, have protested loudly, but the fresh outer air had evid-
ently caught his wheezy lungs, and for a minute or two he could do
nothing but cough and splutter and groan, and cling to his unresponsive
comrade for support. Then at last, when he had succeeded in recovering
his breath, he said dolefully and with a ludicrous attempt at dignified
reproach:
“Do not force me to remind you, citizen Merri, that if it had not been
for my suggestion that we should all draw lots, and then play hazard as
as to who shall be the chosen one to woo the ci-devant millionairess, there
would soon have been a free fight inside the cabaret, a number of broken
heads, and no decision whatever arrived at; whilst you, who were never
much of a fighter, would probably be lying now helpless, with a broken
nose, and deprived of some of your teeth, and with no chance of entering
the lists for the heiress. Instead of which, here you are, the victor by a
stroke of good fortune, which you should at least have the good grace to
ascribe to me.”
Whether the poor wretch’s argument had any weight with citizen
Merri, or whether that worthy patriot merely thought that procrastina-
tion would, for the nonce, prove the best policy, it were impossible to
say. Certain it is that in response to his companion’s tirade he contented
himself with a dubious grunt, and without another word turned on his
heel and went slouching down the street.

144
III.
For the persistent and optimistic romanticist, there were still one or two
idylls to be discovered flourishing under the shadow of the grim and re-
lentless Revolution. One such was that which had Esther Vincent and
Jack Kennard for hero and heroine. Esther, the orphaned daughter of one
of the richest bankers of pre-Revolution days, now a daily governess and
household drudge at ten francs a week in the house of a retired butcher
in the Rue Richelieu, and Jack Kennard, formerly the representative of a
big English firm of woollen manufacturers, who had thrown up his em-
ployment and prospects in England in order to watch over the girl
whom he loved. He, himself an alien enemy, an Englishman, in deadly
danger of his life every hour that he remained in France; and she, unwill-
ing at the time to leave the horrors of revolutionary Paris while her fath-
er was lingering at the Conciergerie awaiting condemnation, as such for-
bidden to leave the city. So Kennard stayed on, unable to tear himself
away from her, and obtained an unlucrative post as accountant in a
small wine shop over by Montmartre. His life, like hers, was hanging by
a thread; any day, any hour now, some malevolent denunciation might,
in the sight of the Committee of Public Safety, turn the eighteen years old
“suspect” into a living peril to the State, or the alien enemy into a dan-
gerous spy.
Some of the happiest hours these two spent in one another’s company
were embittered by that ever-present dread of the peremptory knock at
the door, the portentous: “Open, in the name of the Law!”
the perquisition, the arrest, to which the only issue, these days, was the
guillotine.
But the girl was only just eighteen, and he not many years older, and
at that age, in spite of misery, sorrow, and dread, life always has its com-
pensations. Youth cries out to happiness so insistently that happiness is
forced to hear, and for a few moments, at the least, drives care and even
the bitterest anxiety away.
For Esther Vincent and her English lover there were moments when
they believed themselves to be almost happy. It was in the evenings
mostly, when she came home from her work and he was free to spend an
hour or two with her. Then old Lucienne, who had been Esther’s nurse
in the happy, olden days, and was an unpaid maid-of-all-work and a
loved and trusted friend now, would bring in the lamp and pull the well-
darned curtains over the windows. She would spread a clean cloth upon
the table and bring in a meagre supper of coffee and black bread,

145
perhaps a little butter or a tiny square of cheese. And the two young
people would talk of the future, of the time when they would settle
down in Kennard’s old home, over in England, where his mother and
sister even now were eating out their hearts with anxiety for him.
“Tell me all about the South Downs,” Esther was very fond of saying;
“and your village, and your house, and the rambler roses and
the clematis arbour.”
She never tired of hearing, or he of telling. The old Manor House,
bought with his father’s savings; the garden which was his mother’s
hobby; the cricket pitch on the village green. Oh, the cricket! She thought
that so funny— the men in high, sugar-loaf hats, grown-up men, spend-
ing hours and hours, day after day, in banging at a ball with a wooden
bat!
“Oh, Jack! The English are a funny, nice, dear, kind lot of people. I
remember— ”
She remembered so well that happy summer which she had spent
with her father in England four years ago. It was after the Bastille had
been stormed and taken, and the banker had journeyed to England with
his daughter in something of a hurry. Then her father had talked of re-
turning to France and leaving her behind with friends in England. But
Esther would not be left. Oh, no! Even now she glowed with pride at the
thought of her firmness in the matter. If she had remained in England
she would never have seen her dear father again. Here remembrances
grew bitter and sad, until Jack’s hand reached soothingly, consolingly
out to her, and she brushed away her tears, so as not to sadden him still
more.
Then she would ask more questions about his home and his garden,
about his mother and the dogs and the flowers; and once more they
would forget that hatred and envy and death were already stalking their
door.

146
IV.
“Open, in the name of the Law!”
It had come at last. A bolt from out the serene blue of their happiness.
A rough, dirty, angry, cursing crowd, who burst through the heavy door
even before they had time to open it. Lucienne collapsed into a chair,
weeping and lamenting, with her apron thrown over her head. But Esth-
er and Kennard stood quite still and calm, holding one another by the
hand, just to give one another courage.
Some half dozen men stalked into the little room. Men? They looked
like ravenous beasts, and were unspeakably dirty, wore soiled tricolour
scarves above their tattered breeches in token of their official status. Two
of them fell on the remnants of the meagre supper and devoured
everything that remained on the table— bread, cheese, a piece of home-
made sausage. The others ransacked the two attic-rooms which had been
home for Esther and Lucienne: the little living-room under the sloping
roof, with the small hearth on which very scanty meals were wont to be
cooked, and the bare, narrow room beyond, with the iron bedstead, and
the palliasse on the floor for Lucienne.
The men poked about everywhere, struck great, spiked sticks through
the poor bits of bedding, and ripped up the palliasse. They tore open the
drawers of the rickety chest and of the broken-down wardrobe, and did
not spare the unfortunate young girl a single humiliation or a single
indignity.
Kennard, burning with wrath, tried to protest.
“Hold that cub!” commanded the leader of the party, almost as soon as
the young Englishman’s hot, indignant words had resounded above the
din of overturned furniture. “And if he opens his mouth again throw
him into the street!” And Kennard, terrified lest he should be parted
from Esther, thought it wiser to hold his peace.
They looked at one another, like two young trapped beasts— not des-
pairing, but trying to infuse courage one into the other by a look of con-
fidence and of love. Esther, in fact, kept her eyes fixed on her good-look-
ing English lover, firmly keeping down the shudder of loathing which
went right through her when she saw those awful men coming nigh her.
There was one especially whom she abominated worse than the others, a
bandy-legged ruffian, who regarded her with a leer that caused her an
almost physical nausea. He did not take part in the perquisition, but sat
down in the centre of the room and sprawled over the table with the air
of one who was in authority. The others addressed him as “citizen

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Merri,” and alternately ridiculed and deferred to him. And there was an-
other, equally hateful, a horrible, cadaverous creature, with huge bare
feet thrust into sabots, and lank hair, thick with grime. He did most of the
talking, even though his loquacity occasionally broke down in a racking
cough, which literally seemed to tear at his chest, and left him panting,
hoarse, and with beads of moisture upon his low, pallid forehead.
Of course, the men found nothing that could even remotely be termed
compromising. Esther had been very prudent in deference to Kennard’s
advice; she also had very few possessions. Nevertheless, when the
wretches had turned every article of furniture inside out, one of them
asked curtly:
“What do we do next, citizen Merri?”
“Do?” broke in the cadaverous creature, even before Merri had time to
reply. “Do? Why, take the wench to— to— ”
He got no further, became helpless with coughing. Esther, quite in-
stinctively, pushed the carafe of water towards him.
“Nothing of the sort!” riposted Merri sententiously. “The wench stays
here!”
Both Esther and Jack had much ado to suppress an involuntary cry of
relief, which at this unexpected pronouncement had risen to their lips.
The man with the cough tried to protest.
“But— ” he began hoarsely.
“I said, the wench stays here!” broke in Merri peremptorily. “Ah ca!”
he added, with a savage imprecation. “Do you command here, citizen
Rateau, or do I?”
The other at once became humble, even cringing.
“You, of course, citizen,” he rejoined in his hollow voice. “I would
only remark— ”
“Remark nothing,” retorted the other curtly. “See to it that the cub is
out of the house. And after that put a sentry outside the wench’s door.
No one to go in and out of here under any pretext whatever.
Understand?”
Kennard this time uttered a cry of protest. The helplessness of his posi-
tion exasperated him almost to madness. Two men were holding him
tightly by his sinewy arms. With an Englishman’s instinct for a fight, he
would not only have tried, but also succeeded in knocking these two
down, and taken the other four on after that, with quite a reasonable
chance of success. That tuberculous creature, now! And that bandy-
legged ruffian! Jack Kennard had been an amateur middle-weight cham-
pion in his day, and these brutes had no more science than an enraged

148
bull! But even as he fought against that instinct he realised the futility of
a struggle. The danger of it, too— not for himself, but for her. After all,
they were not going to take her away to one of those awful places from
which the only egress was the way to the guillotine; and if there was that
amount of freedom there was bound to be some hope. At twenty there is
always hope!
So when, in obedience to Merri’s orders, the two ruffians began to
drag him towards the door, he said firmly:
“Leave me alone. I’ll go without this unnecessary struggling.”
Then, before the wretches realised his intention, he had jerked himself
free from them and run to Esther.
“Have no fear,” he said to her in English, and in a rapid whisper. “I’ll
watch over you. The house opposite. I know the people. I’ll manage it
somehow. Be on the look-out.”
They would not let him say more, and she only had the chance of re-
sponding firmly: “I am not afraid, and I’ll be on the look-out.” The next
moment Merri’s compeers seized him from behind— four of them this
time.
Then, of course, prudence went to the winds. He hit out to the right
and left. Knocked two of those recreants down, and already was pre-
pared to seize Esther in his arms, make a wild dash for the door, and run
with her, whither only God knew, when Rateau, that awful consumptive
reprobate, crept slyly up behind him and dealt him a swift and heavy
blow on the skull with his weighted stick. Kennard staggered, and the
bandits closed upon him. Those on the floor had time to regain their feet.
To make assurance doubly sure, one of them emulated Rateau’s tactics,
and hit the Englishman once more on the head from behind. After that,
Kennard became inert; he had partly lost consciousness. His head ached
furiously. Esther, numb with horror, saw him bundled out of the room.
Rateau, coughing and spluttering, finally closed the door upon the un-
fortunate and the four brigands who had hold of him.
Only Merri and that awful Rateau had remained in the room. The lat-
ter, gasping for breath now, poured himself out a mugful of water and
drank it down at one draught. Then he swore, because he wanted rum,
or brandy, or even wine. Esther watched him and Merri, fascinated. Poor
old Lucienne was quietly weeping behind her apron.
“Now then, my wench,” Merri began abruptly, “suppose you sit down
here and listen to what I have to say.”
He pulled a chair close to him and, with one of those hideous leers
which had already caused her to shudder, he beckoned her to sit. Esther

149
obeyed as if in a dream. Her eyes were dilated like those of one in a wak-
ing trance. She moved mechanically, like a bird attracted by a serpent,
terrified, yet unresisting. She felt utterly helpless between these two vil-
lainous brutes, and anxiety for her English lover seemed further to numb
her senses. When she was sitting she turned her gaze, with an involun-
tary appeal for pity, upon the bandy-legged ruffian beside her. He
laughed.
“No! I am not going to hurt you,” he said with smooth condescension,
which was far more loathsome to Esther’s ears than his comrades’ sav-
age oaths had been. “You are pretty and you have pleased me. ’Tis no
small matter, forsooth!” he added, with loud-voiced bombast, “to have
earned the good-will of citizen Merri. You, my wench, are in luck’s way.
You realise what has occurred just now. You are amenable to the law
which has decreed you to be suspect. I hold an order for your arrest. I
can have you seized at once by my men, dragged to the Conciergerie, and
from thence nothing can save you— neither your good looks nor the pro-
tection of citizen Merri. It means the guillotine. You understand that,
don’t you?”
She sat quite still; only her hands were clutched convulsively together.
But she contrived to say quite firmly:
“I do, and I am not afraid.”
Merri waved a huge and very dirty hand with a careless gesture.
“I know,” he said with a harsh laugh. “They all say that, don’t they,
citizen Rateau?”
“Until the time comes,” assented that worthy dryly.
“Until the time comes,” reiterated the other. “Now, my wench,” he ad-
ded, once more turning to Esther, “I don’t want that time to come. I don’t
want your pretty head to go rolling down into the basket, and to receive
the slap on the face which the citizen executioner has of late taken to be-
stowing on those aristocratic cheeks which Mme. la Guillotine has finally
blanched for ever. Like this, you see.”
And the inhuman wretch took up one of the round cushions from the
nearest chair, held it up at arm’s length, as if it were a head which he
held by the hair, and then slapped it twice with the palm of his left hand.
The gesture was so horrible and withal so grotesque, that Esther closed
her eyes with a shudder, and her pale cheeks took on a leaden hue. Merri
laughed aloud and threw the cushion down again.
“Unpleasant, what? my pretty wench! Well, you know what to ex-
pect… unless,” he added significantly, “you are reasonable and will
listen to what I am about to tell you.”

150
 Esther was no fool, nor was she unsophisticated. These were not times
when it was possible for any girl, however carefully nurtured and ten-
derly brought up, to remain ignorant of the realities and the brutalities of
life. Even before Merri had put his abominable proposition before her,
she knew what he was driving at. Marriage— marriage to him! that ig-
noble wretch, more vile than any dumb creature! In exchange for her life!
It was her turn now to laugh. The very thought of it was farcical in its
very odiousness. Merri, who had embarked on his proposal with grandi-
loquent phraseology, suddenly paused, almost awed by that strange,
hysterical laughter.
“By Satan and all his ghouls!” he cried, and jumped to his feet, his
cheeks paling beneath the grime.
Then rage seized him at his own cowardice. His egregious vanity,
wounded by that laughter, egged him on. He tried to seize Esther by the
waist. But she, quick as some panther on the defence, had jumped up,
too, and pounced upon a knife— the very one she had been using for
that happy little supper with her lover a brief half hour ago. Unguarded,
unthinking, acting just with a blind instinct, she raised it and cried
hoarsely:
“If you dare touch me, I’ll kill you!”
It was ludicrous, of course. A mouse threatening a tiger. The very next
moment Rateau had seized her hand and quietly taken away the knife.
Merri shook himself like a frowsy dog.
“Whew!” he ejaculated. “What a vixen! But,” he added lightly, “I like
her all the better for that— eh, Rateau? Give me a wench with a tempera-
ment, I say!”
But Esther, too, had recovered herself. She realised her helplessness,
and gathered courage from the consciousness of it! Now she faced the in-
famous villain more calmly.
“I will never marry you,” she said loudly and firmly. “Never! I am not
afraid to die. I am not afraid of the guillotine. There is no shame attached
to death. So now you may do as you please— denounce me, and send
me to follow in the footsteps of my dear father, if you wish. But whilst I
am alive you will never come nigh me. If you ever do but lay a finger
upon me, it will be because I am dead and beyond the reach of your pol-
luting touch. And now I have said all that I will ever say to you in this
life. If you have a spark of humanity left in you, you will, at least, let me
prepare for death in peace.”
She went round to where poor old Lucienne still sat, like an insentient
log, panic-stricken. She knelt down on the floor and rested her arm on

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the old woman’s knees. The light of the lamp fell full upon her, her pale
face, and mass of chestnut-brown hair. There was nothing about her at
this moment to inflame a man’s desire. She looked pathetic in her help-
lessness, and nearly lifeless through the intensity of her pallor, whilst the
look in her eyes was almost maniacal.
Merri cursed and swore, tried to hearten himself by turning on his
friend. But Rateau had collapsed— whether with excitement or the rav-
ages of disease, it were impossible to say. He sat upon a low chair, his
long legs, his violet-circled eyes staring out with a look of hebetude and
overwhelming fatigue. Merri looked around him and shuddered. The at-
mosphere of the place had become strangely weird and uncanny; even
the tablecloth, dragged half across the table, looked somehow like a
shroud.
“What shall we do, Rateau?” he asked tremulously at last.
“Get out of this infernal place,” replied the other huskily. “I feel as if I
were in my grave-clothes already.”
“Hold your tongue, you miserable coward! You’ll make the aristo
think that we are afraid.”
“Well?” queried Rateau blandly. “Aren’t you?”
“No!” replied Merri fiercely. “I’ll go now because … because … well!
because I have had enough to-day. And the wench sickens me. I wish to
serve the Republic by marrying her, but just now I feel as if I should nev-
er really want her. So I’ll go! But, understand!” he added, and turned
once more to Esther, even though he could not bring himself to go nigh
her again. “Understand that to-morrow I’ll come again for my answer. In
the meanwhile, you may think matters over, and, maybe, you’ll arrive at
a more reasonable frame of mind. You will not leave these rooms until I
set you free. My men will remain as sentinels at your door.”
He beckoned to Rateau, and the two men went out of the room
without another word.

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V.
The whole of that night Esther remained shut up in her apartment in the
Petite Rue Taranne. All night she heard the measured tramp, the move-
ments, the laughter and loud talking of men outside her door. Once or
twice she tried to listen to what they said. But the doors and walls in
these houses of old Paris were too stout to allow voices to filter through,
save in the guise of a confused murmur. She would have felt horribly
lonely and frightened but for the fact that in one window on the third
floor in the house opposite the light of a lamp appeared like a glimmer of
hope. Jack Kennard was there, on the watch. He had the window open
and sat beside it until a very late hour; and after that he kept the light in,
as a beacon, to bid her be of good cheer.
In the middle of the night he made an attempt to see her, hoping to
catch the sentinels asleep or absent. But, having climbed the five stories
of the house wherein she dwelt, he arrived on the landing outside her
door and found there half a dozen ruffians squatting on the stone floor
and engaged in playing hazard with a pack of greasy cards. That
wretched consumptive, Rateau, was with them, and made a facetious re-
mark as Kennard, pale and haggard, almost ghostlike, with a white
bandage round his head, appeared upon the landing.
“Go back to bed, citizen,” the odious creature said, with a raucous
laugh. “We are taking care of your sweetheart for you.”
Never in all his life had Jack Kennard felt so abjectly wretched as he
did then, so miserably helpless. There was nothing that he could do, save
to return to the lodging, which a kind friend had lent him for the occa-
sion, and from whence he could, at any rate, see the windows behind
which his beloved was watching and suffering.
When he went a few moments ago, he had left the porte cochère ajar.
Now he pushed it open and stepped into the dark passage beyond. A
tiny streak of light filtrated through a small curtained window in the
concierge’s lodge; it served to guide Kennard to the foot of the narrow
stone staircase which led to the floors above. Just at the foot of the stairs,
on the mat, a white paper glimmered in the dim shaft of light. He
paused, puzzled, quite certain that the paper was not there five minutes
ago when he went out. Oh! it may have fluttered in from the courtyard
beyond, or from anywhere, driven by the draught. But, even so, with
that mechanical action peculiar to most people under like circumstances,
he stooped and picked up the paper, turned it over between his fingers,
and saw that a few words were scribbled on it in pencil. The light was

153
too dim to read by, so Kennard, still quite mechanically, kept the paper
in his hand and went up to his room. There, by the light of the lamp, he
read the few words scribbled in pencil:
“Wait in the street outside.”
Nothing more. The message was obviously not intended for him, and
yet… . A strange excitement possessed him. If it should be! If … ! He
had heard— everyone had— of the mysterious agencies that were at
work, under cover of darkness, to aid the unfortunate, the innocent, the
helpless. He had heard of that legendary English gentleman who had be-
fore now defied the closest vigilance of the Committees, and snatched
their intended victims out of their murderous clutches, at times under
their very eyes.
If this should be … ! He scarce dared put his hope into words. He
could not bring himself really to believe. But he went. He ran downstairs
and out into the street, took his stand under a projecting doorway nearly
opposite the house which held the woman he loved, and leaning against
the wall, he waited.
After many hours— it was then past three o’clock in the morning, and
the sky of an inky blackness— he felt so numb that despite his will a
kind of trance-like drowsiness overcame him. He could no longer stand
on his feet; his knees were shaking; his head felt so heavy that he could
not keep it up. It rolled round from shoulder to shoulder, as if his will no
longer controlled it. And it ached furiously. Everything around him was
very still. Even “Paris-by-Night,” that grim and lurid giant, was for the
moment at rest. A warm summer rain was falling; its gentle, pattering
murmur into the gutter helped to lull Kennard’s senses into somnolence.
He was on the point of dropping off to sleep when something suddenly
roused him. A noise of men shouting and laughing— familiar sounds
enough in these squalid Paris streets.
But Kennard was wide awake now; numbness had given place to in-
tense quivering of all his muscles, and super-keenness of his every sense.
He peered into the darkness and strained his ears to hear. The sound cer-
tainly appeared to come from the house opposite, and there, too, it
seemed as if something or things were moving. Men! More than one or
two, surely! Kennard thought that he could distinguish at least three dis-
tinct voices; and there was that weird, racking cough which proclaimed
the presence of Rateau.
Now the men were quite close to where he— Kennard— still stood
cowering. A minute or two later they had passed down the street. Their
hoarse voices soon died away in the distance. Kennard crept cautiously

154
out of his hiding-place. Message or mere coincidence, he now blessed
that mysterious scrap of paper. Had he remained in his room, he might
really have dropped off to sleep and not heard these men going away.
There were three of them at least— Kennard thought four. But, anyway,
the number of watch-dogs outside the door of his beloved had consider-
ably diminished. He felt that he had the strength to grapple with them,
even if there were still three of them left. He, an athlete, English, and
master of the art of self-defence; and they, a mere pack of drink-sodden
brutes! Yes! He was quite sure he could do it. Quite sure that he could
force his way into Esther’s rooms and carry her off in his arms— whith-
er? God alone knew. And God alone would provide.
Just for a moment he wondered if, while he was in that state of somno-
lence, other bandits had come to take the place of those that were going.
But this thought he quickly dismissed. In any case, he felt a giant’s
strength in himself, and could not rest now till he had tried once more to
see her. He crept very cautiously along; was satisfied that the street was
deserted.
Already he had reached the house opposite, had pushed open
the porte cochère, which was on the latch— when, without the slightest
warning, he was suddenly attacked from behind, his arms seized and
held behind his back with a vice-like grip, whilst a vigorous kick against
the calves of his legs caused him to lose his footing and suddenly
brought him down, sprawling and helpless, in the gutter, while in his ear
there rang the hideous sound of the consumptive ruffian’s racking
cough.
“What shall we do with the cub now?” a raucous voice came out of the
darkness.
“Let him lie there,” was the quick response. “It’ll teach him to interfere
with the work of honest patriots.”
Kennard, lying somewhat bruised and stunned, heard this decree with
thankfulness. The bandits obviously thought him more hurt than he was,
and if only they would leave him lying here, he would soon pick himself
up and renew his attempt to go to Esther. He did not move, feigning un-
consciousness, even though he felt rather than saw that hideous Rateau
stooping over him, heard his stertorous breathing, the wheezing in his
throat.
“Run and fetch a bit of cord, citizen Desmonts,” the wretch said
presently. “A trussed cub is safer than a loose one.”
This dashed Kennard’s hopes to a great extent. He felt that he must act
quickly, before those brigands returned and rendered him completely

155
helpless. He made a movement to rise— a movement so swift and sud-
den as only a trained athlete can make. But, quick as he was, that odious,
wheezing creature was quicker still, and now, when Kennard had turned
on his back, Rateau promptly sat on his chest, a dead weight, with long
legs stretched out before him, coughing and spluttering, yet wholly at his
ease.
Oh! the humiliating position for an amateur middle-weight champion
to find himself in, with that drink-sodden— Kennard was sure that he
was drink-sodden—consumptive sprawling on the top of him!
“Don’t trouble, citizen Desmonts,” the wretch cried out after his re-
treating companions. “I have what I want by me.”
Very leisurely he pulled a coil of rope out of the capacious pocket of
his tattered coat. Kennard could not see what he was doing, but felt it
with supersensitive instinct all the time. He lay quite still beneath the
weight of that miscreant, feigning unconsciousness, yet hardly able to
breathe. That tuberculous caitiff was such a towering weight. But he
tried to keep his faculties on the alert, ready for that surprise spring
which would turn the tables, at the slightest false move on the part of
Rateau.
But, as luck would have it, Rateau did not make a single false move. It
was amazing with what dexterity he kept Kennard down, even while he
contrived to pinion him with cords. An old sailor, probably, he seemed
so dexterous with knots.
My God! the humiliation of it all. And Esther a helpless prisoner, in-
side that house not five paces away! Kennard’s heavy, wearied eyes
could perceive the light in her window, five stories above where he lay,
in the gutter, a helpless log. Even now he gave a last desperate shriek:
“Esther!”
But in a second the abominable brigand’s hand came down heavily
upon his mouth, whilst a raucous voice spluttered rather than said, right
through an awful fit of coughing:
“Another sound, and I’ll gag as well as bind you, you young fool!”
After which, Kennard remained quite still.

156
VI.
Esther, up in her little attic, knew nothing of what her English lover was
even then suffering for her sake. She herself had passed, during the
night, through every stage of horror and of fear. Soon after midnight that
execrable brigand Rateau had poked his ugly, cadaverous face in at the
door and peremptorily called for Lucienne. The woman, more dead than
alive now with terror, had answered with mechanical obedience.
“I and my friends are thirsty,” the man had commanded. “Go and
fetch us a litre of eau-de-vie.”
Poor Lucienne stammered a pitiable: “Where shall I go?”
“To the house at the sign of ‘Le fort Samson,’ in the Rue de Seine,”
replied Rateau curtly. “They’ll serve you well if you mention my name.”
Of course Lucienne protested. She was a decent woman, who had nev-
er been inside a cabaret in her life.
“Then it’s time you began,” was Rateau’s dry comment, which was
greeted with much laughter from his abominable companions.
Lucienne was forced to go. It would, of course, have been futile and
madness to resist. This had occurred three hours since. The Rue de Seine
was not far, but the poor woman had not returned. Esther was left with
this additional horror weighing upon her soul. What had happened to
her unfortunate servant? Visions of outrage and murder floated before
the poor girl’s tortured brain. At best, Lucienne was being kept out of the
way in order to make her— Esther— feel more lonely and desperate! She
remained at the window after that, watching that light in the house op-
posite and fingering her prayer-book, the only solace which she had. Her
attic was so high up and the street so narrow, that she could not see what
went on in the street below. At one time she heard a great to-do outside
her door. It seemed as if some of the bloodhounds who were set to watch
her had gone, or that others came. She really hardly cared which it was.
Then she heard a great commotion coming from the street immediately
beneath her: men shouting and laughing, and that awful creature’s rasp-
ing cough.
At one moment she felt sure that Kennard had called to her by name.
She heard his voice distinctly, raised as if in a despairing cry.
After that, all was still.
So still that she could hear her heart beating furiously, and then a tear
falling from her eyes upon her open book. So still that the gentle patter of
the rain sounded like a soothing lullaby. She was very young, and was
very tired. Out, above the line of sloping roofs and chimney pots, the

157
darkness of the sky was yielding to the first touch of dawn. The rain
ceased. Everything became deathly still. Esther’s head fell, wearied,
upon her folded arms.
Then, suddenly, she was wide awake. Something had roused her. A
noise. At first she could not tell what it was, but now she knew. It was
the opening and shutting of the door behind her, and then a quick,
stealthy footstep across the room. The horror of it all was unspeakable.
Esther remained as she had been, on her knees, mechanically fingering
her prayer-book, unable to move, unable to utter a sound, as if para-
lysed. She knew that one of those abominable creatures had entered her
room, was coming near her even now. She did not know who it was,
only guessed it was Rateau, for she heard a raucous, stertorous wheeze.
Yet she could not have then turned to look if her life had depended upon
her doing so.
The whole thing had occurred in less than half a dozen heart-beats.
The next moment the wretch was close to her. Mercifully she felt that her
senses were leaving her. Even so, she felt that a handkerchief was being
bound over her mouth to prevent her screaming. Wholly unnecessary
this, for she could not have uttered a sound. Then she was lifted off the
ground and carried across the room, then over the threshold. A vague,
subconscious effort of will helped her to keep her head averted from that
wheezing wretch who was carrying her. Thus she could see the landing,
and two of those abominable watchdogs who had been set to guard her.
The ghostly grey light of dawn came peeping in through the narrow
dormer window in the sloping roof, and faintly illumined their sprawl-
ing forms, stretched out at full length, with their heads buried in their
folded arms and their naked legs looking pallid and weird in the dim
light. Their stertorous breathing woke the echoes of the bare, stone walls.
Esther shuddered and closed her eyes. She was now like an insentient
log, without power, or thought, or will— almost without feeling.
Then, all at once, the coolness of the morning air caught her full in the
face. She opened her eyes and tried to move, but those powerful arms
held her more closely than before. Now she could have shrieked with
horror. With returning consciousness the sense of her desperate position
came on her with its full and ghastly significance, its awe-inspiring de-
tails. The grey dawn, the abandoned wretch who held her, and the still-
ness of this early morning hour, when not one pitying soul would be
astir to lend her a helping hand or give her the solace of mute sympathy.
So great, indeed, was this stillness that the click of the man’s sabots upon
the uneven pavement reverberated, ghoul-like and weird.

158
 And it was through that awesome stillness that a sound suddenly
struck her ear, which, in the instant, made her feel that she was not really
alive, or, if alive, was sleeping and dreaming strange and impossible
dreams. It was the sound of a voice, clear and firm, and with a wonder-
ful ring of merriment in its tones, calling out just above a whisper, and in
English, if you please:
“Look out, Ffoulkes! That young cub is as strong as a horse. He will
give us all away if you are not careful.”
A dream? Of course it was a dream, for the voice had sounded very
close to her ear; so close, in fact, that … well! Esther was quite sure that
her face still rested against the hideous, tattered, and grimy coat which
that repulsive Rateau had been wearing all along. And there was the
click of his sabots upon the pavement all the time. So, then, the voice and
the merry, suppressed laughter which accompanied it, must all have
been a part of her dream. How long this lasted she could not have told
you. An hour and more, she thought, while the grey dawn yielded to the
roseate hue of morning. Somehow, she no longer suffered either terror or
foreboding. A subtle atmosphere of strength and of security seemed to
encompass her. At one time she felt as if she were driven along in a car
that jolted horribly, and when she moved her face and hands they came
in contact with things that were fresh and green and smelt of the coun-
try. She was in darkness then, and more than three parts unconscious,
but the handkerchief had been removed from her mouth. It seemed to
her as if she could hear the voice of her Jack, but far away and indistinct;
also the tramp of horses’ hoofs and the creaking of cart-wheels, and at
times that awful, rasping cough, which reminded her of the presence of a
loathsome wretch, who should not have had a part in her soothing
dream.
Thus many hours must have gone by.
Then, all at once, she was inside a house— a room, and she felt that
she was being lowered very gently to the ground. She was on her feet,
but she could not see where she was. There was furniture; a carpet; a
ceiling; the man Rateau with the sabots and the dirty coat, and the merry
English voice, and a pair of deep-set blue eyes, thoughtful and lazy and
infinitely kind.
But before she could properly focus what she saw, everything began to
whirl and to spin around her, to dance a wild and idiotic saraband,
which caused her to laugh, and to laugh, until her throat felt choked and
her eyes hot; after which she remembered nothing more.

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VII.
The first thing of which Esther Vincent was conscious, when she re-
turned to her senses, was of her English lover kneeling beside her. She
was lying on some kind of couch, and she could see his face in profile,
for he had turned and was speaking to someone at the far end of the
room.
“And was it you who knocked me down?” he was saying, “and sat on
my chest, and trussed me like a fowl?”
“La! my dear sir,” a lazy, pleasant voice riposted, “what else could I
do? There was no time for explanations. You were half-crazed, and
would not have understood. And you were ready to bring all the night-
watchmen about our ears.”
“I am sorry!” Kennard said simply. “But how could I guess?”
“You couldn’t,” rejoined the other. “That is why I had to deal so sum-
marily with you and with Mademoiselle Esther, not to speak of good old
Lucienne, who had never, in her life, been inside a cabaret. You must all
forgive me ere you start upon your journey. You are not out of the wood
yet, remember. Though Paris is a long way behind, France itself is no
longer a healthy place for any of you.”
“But how did we ever get out of Paris? I was smothered under a pile
of cabbages, with Lucienne on one side of me and Esther, unconscious,
on the other. I could see nothing. I know we halted at the barrier. I
thought we would be recognised, turned back! My God! how I
trembled!”
“Bah!” broke in the other, with a careless laugh. “It is not so difficult as
it seems. We have done it before— eh, Ffoulkes? A market-gardener’s
cart, a villainous wretch like myself to drive it, another hideous object
like Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart., to lead the scraggy nag, a couple of
forged or stolen passports, plenty of English gold, and the deed is done!”
Esther’s eyes were fixed upon the speaker. She marvelled now how
she could have been so blind. The cadaverous face was nothing but a
splendid use of grease paint! The rags! the dirt! the whole assumption of
a hideous character was masterly! But there were the eyes, deep-set, and
thoughtful and kind. How did she fail to guess?
“You are known as the Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said suddenly.
“Suzanne de Tournai was my friend. She told me. You saved her and her
family, and now… oh, my God!” she exclaimed, “how shall we ever re-
pay you?”

160
 “By placing yourselves unreservedly in my friend Ffoulkes’ hands,” he
replied gently. “He will lead you to safety and, if you wish it, to
England.”
“If we wish it!” Kennard sighed fervently.
“You are not coming with us, Blakeney?” queried Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes, and it seemed to Esther’s sensitive ears as if a tone of real anxi-
ety and also of entreaty rang in the young man’s voice.
“No, not this time,” replied Sir Percy lightly. “I like my character of
Rateau, and I don’t want to give it up just yet. I have done nothing to
arouse suspicion in the minds of my savoury compeers up at the Cabaret
de la Liberte. I can easily keep this up for some time to come, and frankly
I admire myself as citizen Rateau. I don’t know when I have enjoyed a
character so much!”
“You mean to return to the Cabaret de la Liberte!” exclaimed Sir
Andrew.
“Why not?”
“You will be recognised!”
“Not before I have been of service to a good many unfortunates, I
hope.”
“But that awful cough of yours! Percy, you’ll do yourself an injury
with it one day.”
“Not I! I like that cough. I practised it for a long time before I did it to
perfection. Such a splendid wheeze! I must teach Tony to do it some day.
Would you like to hear it now?”
He laughed, that perfect, delightful, lazy laugh of his, which carried
every hearer with it along the path of light-hearted merriment. Then he
broke into the awful cough of the consumptive Rateau. And Esther Vin-
cent instinctively closed her eyes and shuddered.

161
 Part 10
“NEEDS MUST— ”

162
I.
The children were all huddled up together in one corner of the room.
Etienne and Valentine, the two eldest, had their arms round the little
one. As for Lucile, she would have told you herself that she felt just like a
bird between two snakes— terrified and fascinated— oh! especially by
that little man with the pale face and the light grey eyes and the slender
white hands unstained by toil, one of which rested lightly upon the desk,
and was only clenched now and then at a word or a look from the other
man or from Lucile herself.
But Commissary Lebel just tried to browbeat her. It was not difficult,
for in truth she felt frightened enough already, with all this talk of
“traitors” and that awful threat of the guillotine.
Lucile Clamette, however, would have remained splendidly loyal in
spite of all these threats, if it had not been for the children. She was little
mother to them; for father was a cripple, with speech and mind already
impaired by creeping paralysis, and maman had died when little
Josephine was born. And now those fiends threatened not only her, but
Etienne who was not fourteen, and Valentine who was not much more
than ten, with death, unless she— Lucile— broke the solemn word
which she had given to M. lé Marquis. At first she had tried to deny all
knowledge of M. lé Marquis’ whereabouts.
“I can assure M. lé Commissaire that I do not know,” she had persisted
quietly, even though her heart was beating so rapidly in her bosom that
she felt as if she must choke.
“Call me citizen Commissary,” Lebel had riposted curtly. “I should
take it as a proof that your aristocratic sentiments are not so deep-rooted
as they appear to be.”
“Yes, citizen!” murmured Lucile, under her breath.
Then the other one, he with the pale eyes and the slender white hands,
leaned forward over the desk, and the poor girl felt as if a mighty and
unseen force was holding her tight, so tight that she could neither move,
nor breathe, nor turn her gaze away from those pale, compelling eyes. In
the remote corner little Josephine was whimpering, and Etienne’s big,
dark eyes were fixed bravely upon his eldest sister.
“There, there! little citizeness,” the awful man said, in a voice that
sounded low and almost caressing, “there is nothing to be frightened of.
No one is going to hurt you or your little family. We only want you to be
reasonable. You have promised to your former employer that you would

163
never tell anyone of his whereabouts. Well! we don’t ask you to tell us
anything.
“All that we want you to do is to write a letter to M. lé Marquis— one
that I myself will dictate to you. You have written to M. lé Marquis be-
fore now, on business matters, have you not?”
“Yes, monsieur— yes, citizen,” stammered Lucile through her tears.
“Father was bailiff to M. lé Marquis until he became a cripple and now
I—– ”
“Do not write any letter, Lucile,” Etienne suddenly broke in with
forceful vehemence. “It is a trap set by these miscreants to entrap
M. lé Marquis.”
There was a second’s silence in the room after this sudden outburst on
the part of the lad. Then the man with the pale face said quietly:
“Citizen Lebel, order the removal of that boy. Let him be kept in cus-
tody till he has learned to hold his tongue.”
But before Lebel could speak to the two soldiers who were standing on
guard at the door, Lucile had uttered a loud cry of agonised protest.
“No! no! monsieur!— that is citizen!” she implored. “Do not take
Etienne away. He will be silent… . I promise you that he will be silent…
only do not take him away! Etienne, my little one!” she added, turning
her tear-filled eyes to her brother, “I entreat thee to hold thy tongue!”
The others, too, clung to Etienne, and the lad, awed and subdued, re-
lapsed into silence.
“Now then,” resumed Lebel roughly, after a while, “let us get on with
this business. I am sick to death of it. It has lasted far too long already.”
He fixed his blood-shot eyes upon Lucile and continued gruffly:
“Now listen to me, my wench, for this is going to be my last word. Cit-
izen Chauvelin here has already been very lenient with you by allowing
this letter business. If I had my way I’d make you speak here and now.
As it is, you either sit down and write the letter at citizen Chauvelin’s
dictation at once, or I send you with that impudent brother of yours and
your imbecile father to jail, on a charge of treason against the State, for
aiding and abetting the enemies of the Republic; and you know what the
consequences of such a charge usually are. The other two brats will go to
a House of Correction, there to be detained during the pleasure of the
Committee of Public Safety. That is my last word,” he reiterated fiercely.
“Now, which is it to be?”
He paused, the girl’s wan cheeks turned the colour of lead. She
moistened her lips once or twice with her tongue; beads of perspiration
appeared at the roots of her hair. She gazed helplessly at her tormentors,

164
not daring to look on those three huddled-up little figures there in the
corner. A few seconds sped away in silence. The man with the pale eyes
rose and pushed his chair away. He went to the window, stood there
with his back to the room, those slender white hands of his clasped be-
hind him. Neither the commissary nor the girl appeared to interest him
further. He was just gazing out of the window.
The other was still sprawling beside the desk, his large, coarse hand—
how different his hands were!— was beating a devil’s tatoo upon the
arm of his chair.
After a few minutes, Lucile made a violent effort to compose herself,
wiped the moisture from her pallid forehead and dried the tears which
still hung upon her lashes. Then she rose from her chair and walked res-
olutely up to the desk.
“I will write the letter,” she said simply.
Lebel gave a snort of satisfaction; but the other did not move from his
position near the window. The boy, Etienne, had uttered a cry of pas-
sionate protest.
“Do not give M. lé Marquis away, Lucile!” he said hotly. “I am not
afraid to die.”
But Lucile had made up her mind. How could she do otherwise, with
these awful threats hanging over them all? She and Etienne and poor
father gone, and the two young ones in one of those awful Houses of
Correction, where children were taught to hate the Church, to shun the
Sacraments, and to blaspheme God!
“What am I to write?” she asked dully, resolutely closing her ears
against her brother’s protest.
Lebel pushed pen, ink and paper towards her and she sat down, ready
to begin.
“Write!” now came in a curt command from the man at the window.
And Lucile wrote at his dictation:

“Monsieur le Marquis,— We are in grave trouble. My brother

Etienne and I have been arrested on a charge of treason. This
means the guillotine for us and for poor father, who can no
longer speak; and the two little ones are to be sent to one of those
dreadful Houses of Correction, where children are taught to deny
God and to blaspheme. You alone can save us, M. lé Marquis; and
I beg you on my knees to do it. The citizen Commissary here says
that you have in your possession certain papers which are of
great value to the State, and that if I can persuade you to give

165
 these up, Etienne, father and I and the little ones will be left un-
molested. M. lé Marquis, you once said that you could never ad-
equately repay my poor father for all his devotion in your service.
You can do it now, M. lé Marquis, by saving us all. I will be at the
chateau a week from to-day. I entreat you, M. lé Marquis, to come
to me then and to bring the papers with you; or if you can devise
some other means of sending the papers to me, I will obey your
behests.— I am, M. lé Marquis’ faithful and devoted servant,
Lucile Clamette.”

The pen dropped from the unfortunate girl’s fingers. She buried her
face in her hands and sobbed convulsively. The children were silent,
awed and subdued— tired out, too. Only Etienne’s dark eyes were fixed
upon his sister with a look of mute reproach.
Lebel had made no attempt to interrupt the flow of his colleague’s dic-
tation. Only once or twice did a hastily smothered “What the —– !” of
astonishment escape his lips. Now, when the letter was finished and
duly signed, he drew it to him and strewed the sand over it. Chauvelin,
more impassive than ever, was once more gazing out of the window.
“How are the ci-devant aristos to get this letter?” the commissary
asked.
“It must be put in the hollow tree which stands by the side of the
stable gate at Montorgueil,” whispered Lucile.
“And the aristos will find it there?”
“Yes. M. lé Vicomte goes there once or twice a week to see if there is
anything there from one of us.”
“They are in hiding somewhere close by, then?”
But to this the girl gave no reply. Indeed, she felt as if any word now
might choke her.
“Well, no matter where they are!” the inhuman wretch resumed, with
brutal cynicism. “We’ve got them now— both of them. Marquis!
Vicomte!” he added, and spat on the ground to express his contempt of
such titles. “Citizens Montorgueil, father and son— that’s all they are!
And as such they’ll walk up in state to make their bow to Mme. la
Guillotine!”
“May we go now?” stammered Lucile through her tears.
Lebel nodded in assent, and the girl rose and turned to walk towards
the door. She called to the children, and the little ones clustered round
her skirts like chicks around the mother-hen. Only Etienne remained
aloof, wrathful against his sister for what he deemed her treachery.

166
“Women have no sense of honour!” he muttered to himself, with all the
pride of conscious manhood. But Lucile felt more than ever like a bird
who is vainly trying to evade the clutches of a fowler. She gathered the
two little ones around her. Then, with a cry like a wounded doe she ran
quickly out of the room.

167
II.
As soon as the sound of the children’s footsteps had died away down the
corridor, Lebel turned with a grunt to his still silent companion.
“And now, citizen Chauvelin,” he said roughly, “perhaps you will be
good enough to explain what is the meaning of all this tomfoolery.”
“Tomfoolery, citizen?” queried the other blandly. “What tomfoolery,
pray?”
“Why, about those papers!” growled Lebel savagely. “Curse you for
an interfering busybody! It was I who got information that those pesti-
lential aristos, the Montorgueils, far from having fled the country are in
hiding somewhere in my district. I could have made the girl give up
their hiding-place pretty soon, without any help from you. What right
had you to interfere, I should like to know?”
“You know quite well what right I had, citizen Lebel,” replied
Chauvelin with perfect composure. “The right conferred upon me by the
Committee of Public Safety, of whom I am still an unworthy member.
They sent me down here to lend you a hand in an investigation which is
of grave importance to them.”
“I know that!” retorted Lebel sulkily. “But why have invented the
story of the papers?”
“It is no invention, citizen,” rejoined Chauvelin with slow emphasis.
“The papers do exist. They are actually in the possession of the Mon-
torgueils, father and son. To capture the two aristos would be not only a
blunder, but criminal folly, unless we can lay hands on the papers at the
same time.”
“But what in Satan’s name are those papers?” ejaculated Lebel with a
fierce oath.
“Think, citizen Lebel! Think!” was Chauvelin’s cool rejoinder.
“Methinks you might arrive at a pretty shrewd guess.” Then, as the oth-
er’s bluster and bounce suddenly collapsed upon his colleague’s calm,
accusing gaze, the latter continued with impressive deliberation:
“The papers which the two aristos have in their possession, citizen, are
receipts for money, for bribes paid to various members of the Committee
of Public Safety by Royalist agents for the overthrow of our glorious Re-
public. You know all about them, do you not?”
While Chauvelin spoke, a look of furtive terror had crept into Lebel’s
eyes; his cheeks became the colour of lead. But even so, he tried to keep
up an air of incredulity and of amazement.

168
 “I?” he exclaimed. “What do you mean, citizen Chauvelin? What
should I know about it?”
“Some of those receipts are signed with your name, citizen Lebel,” re-
torted Chauvelin forcefully. “Bah!” he added, and a tone of savage con-
tempt crept into his even, calm voice now. “Heriot, Foucquier, Ducros
and the whole gang of you are in it up to the neck: trafficking with our
enemies, trading with England, taking bribes from every quarter for
working against the safety of the Republic. Ah! if I had my way, I would
let the hatred of those aristos take its course. I would let the Mon-
torgueils and the whole pack of Royalist agents publish those infamous
proofs of your treachery and of your baseness to the entire world, and
send the whole lot of you to the guillotine!”
He had spoken with so much concentrated fury, and the hatred and
contempt expressed in his pale eyes were so fierce that an involuntary
ice-cold shiver ran down the length of Lebel’s spine. But, even so, he
would not give in; he tried to sneer and to keep up something of his
former surly defiance.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, and with a lowering glance gave hatred for
hatred, and contempt for contempt. “What can you do? An I am not mis-
taken, there is no more discredited man in France to-day than the unsuc-
cessful tracker of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
The taunt went home. It was Chauvelin’s turn now to lose counten-
ance, to pale to the lips. The glow of virtuous indignation died out of his
eyes, his look became furtive and shamed.
“You are right, citizen Lebel,” he said calmly after a while.
“Recriminations between us are out of place. I am a discredited man, as
you say. Perhaps it would have been better if the Committee had sent me
long ago to expiate my failures on the guillotine. I should at least not
have suffered, as I am suffering now, daily, hourly humiliation at
thought of the triumph of an enemy, whom I hate with a passion which
consumes my very soul. But do not let us speak of me,” he went on
quietly. “There are graver affairs at stake just now than mine own.”
Lebel said nothing more for the moment. Perhaps he was satisfied at
the success of his taunt, even though the terror within his craven soul
still caused the cold shiver to course up and down his spine. Chauvelin
had once more turned to the window; his gaze was fixed upon the dis-
tance far away. The window gave on the North. That way, in a straight
line, lay Calais, Boulogne, England— where he had been made to suffer
such bitter humiliation at the hands of his elusive enemy. And immedi-
ately before him was Paris, where the very walls seemed to echo that

169
mocking laugh of the daring Englishman which would haunt him even
to his grave.
Lebel, unnerved by his colleague’s silence, broke in gruffly at last:
“Well then, citizen,” he said, with a feeble attempt at another sneer, “if
you are not thinking of sending us all to the guillotine just yet, perhaps
you will be good enough to explain just how the matter stands?”
“Fairly simply, alas!” replied Chauvelin dryly. “The two Mon-
torgueils, father and son, under assumed names, were the Royalist
agents who succeeded in suborning men such as you, citizen— the
whole gang of you. We have tracked them down, to this district, have
confiscated their lands and ransacked the old chateau for valuables and
so on. Two days later, the first of a series of pestilential anonymous let-
ters reached the Committee of Public Safety, threatening the publication
of a whole series of compromising documents if the Marquis and the
Vicomte de Montorgueil were in any way molested, and if all the Mon-
torgueil property is not immediately restored.”
“I suppose it is quite certain that those receipts and documents do ex-
ist?” suggested Lebel.
“Perfectly certain. One of the receipts, signed by Heriot, was sent as a
specimen.”
“My God!” ejaculated Lebel, and wiped the cold sweat from his brow.
“Yes, you’ll all want help from somewhere,” retorted Chauvelin
coolly. “From above or from below, what? if the people get to know
what miscreants you are. I do believe,” he added, with a vicious snap of
his thin lips, “that they would cheat the guillotine of you and, in the end,
drag you out of the tumbrils and tear you to pieces limb from limb!”
Once more that look of furtive terror crept into the commissary’s
bloodshot eyes.
“Thank the Lord,” he muttered, “that we were able to get hold of the
wench Clamette!”
“At my suggestion,” retorted Chauvelin curtly. “I always believe in
threatening the weak if you want to coerce the strong. The Montorgueils
cannot resist the wench’s appeal. Even if they do at first, we can apply
the screw by clapping one of the young ones in gaol. Within a week we
shall have those papers, citizen Lebel; and if, in the meanwhile, no one
commits a further blunder, we can close the trap on the Montorgueils
without further trouble.”
Lebel said nothing more, and after a while Chauvelin went back to the
desk, picked up the letter which poor Lucile had written and watered

170
with her tears, folded it deliberately and slipped it into the inner pocket
of his coat.
“What are you going to do?” queried Lebel anxiously.
“Drop this letter into the hollow tree by the side of the stable gate at
Montorgueil,” replied Chauvelin simply.
“What?” exclaimed the other. “Yourself?”
“Why, of course! Think you I would entrust such an errand to another
living soul?”

171
III.
A couple of hours later, when the two children had had their dinner and
had settled down to play in the garden, and father been cosily tucked up
for his afternoon sleep, Lucile called her brother Etienne to her. The boy
had not spoken to her since that terrible time spent in the presence of
those two awful men. He had eaten no dinner, only sat glowering, star-
ing straight out before him, from time to time throwing a look of burning
reproach upon his sister. Now, when she called to him, he tried to run
away, was halfway up the stairs before she could seize hold of him.
“Etienne, mon petit!” she implored, as her arms closed around his
shrinking figure.
“Let me go, Lucile!” the boy pleaded obstinately.
“Mon petit, listen to me!” she pleaded. “All is not lost, if you will
stand by me.”
“All is lost, Lucile!” Etienne cried, striving to keep back a flood of pas-
sionate tears. “Honour is lost. Your treachery has disgraced us all. If
M. lé Marquis and M. léVicomte are brought to the guillotine, their blood
will be upon our heads.”
“Upon mine alone, my little Etienne,” she said sadly. “But God alone
can judge me. It was a terrible alternative: M. lé Marquis, or you and
Valentine and little Josephine and poor father, who is so helpless! But
don’t let us talk of it. All is not lost, I am sure. The last time that I spoke
with M. lé Marquis— it was in February, do you remember?— he was
full of hope, and oh! so kind. Well, he told me then that if ever I or any of
us here were in such grave trouble that we did not know where to turn,
one of us was to put on our very oldest clothes, look as like a bare-footed
beggar as we could, and then go to Paris to a place called the Cabaret de
la Liberte in the Rue Christine. There we were to ask for the citizen Rat-
eau, and we were to tell him all our troubles, whatever they might be.
Well! we are in such trouble now, mon petit, that we don’t know where
to turn. Put on thy very oldest clothes, little one, and run bare-footed in-
to Paris, find the citizen Rateau and tell him just what has happened: the
letter which they have forced me to write, the threats which they held
over me if I did not write it— everything. Dost hear?”
Already the boy’s eyes were glowing. The thought that he individually
could do something to retrieve the awful shame of his sister’s treachery
spurred him to activity. It needed no persuasion on Lucile’s part to in-
duce him to go. She made him put on some old clothes and stuffed a
piece of bread and cheese into his breeches pocket.

172
 It was close upon a couple of leagues to Paris, but that run was one of
the happiest which Etienne had ever made. And he did it bare-footed,
too, feeling neither fatigue nor soreness, despite the hardness of the road
after a two weeks’ drought, which had turned mud into hard cakes and
ruts into fissures which tore the lad’s feet till they bled.
He did not reach the Cabaret de la Liberte till nightfall, and when he
got there he hardly dared to enter. The filth, the squalor, the hoarse
voices which rose from that cellar-like place below the level of the street,
repelled the country-bred lad. Were it not for the desperate urgency of
his errand he never would have dared to enter. As it was, the fumes of
alcohol and steaming, dirty clothes nearly choked him, and he could
scarce stammer the name of “citizen Rateau” when a gruff voice
presently demanded his purpose.
He realised now how tired he was and how hungry. He had not
thought to pause in order to consume the small provision of bread and
cheese wherewith thoughtful Lucile had provided him. Now he was
ready to faint when a loud guffaw, which echoed from one end of the
horrible place to the other, greeted his timid request.
“Citizen Rateau!” the same gruff voice called out hilariously. “Why,
there he is! Here, citizen! there’s a blooming aristo to see you.”
Etienne turned his weary eyes to the corner which was being indicated
to him. There he saw a huge creature sprawling across a bench, with
long, powerful limbs stretched out before him. Citizen Rateau was
clothed, rather than dressed, in a soiled shirt, ragged breeches and
tattered stockings, with shoes down at heel and faded crimson cap. His
face looked congested and sunken about the eyes; he appeared to be
asleep, for stertorous breathing came at intervals from between his par-
ted lips, whilst every now and then a racking cough seemed to tear at his
broad chest.
Etienne gave him one look, shuddering with horror, despite himself, at
the aspect of this bloated wretch from whom salvation was to come. The
whole place seemed to him hideous and loathsome in the extreme. What
it all meant he could not understand; all that he knew was that this
seemed like another hideous trap into which he and Lucile had fallen,
and that he must fly from it— fly at all costs, before he betrayed
M. lé Marquis still further to these drink-sodden brutes. Another mo-
ment, and he feared that he might faint. The din of a bibulous song rang
in his ears, the reek of alcohol turned him giddy and sick. He had only
just enough strength to turn and totter back into the open. There his

173
senses reeled, the lights in the houses opposite began to dance wildly be-
fore his eyes, after which he remembered nothing more.

174
IV.
There is nothing now in the whole countryside quite so desolate and for-
lorn as the chateau of Montorgueil, with its once magnificent park, now
overgrown with weeds, its encircling walls broken down, its terraces
devastated, and its stately gates rusty and torn.
Just by the side of what was known in happier times as the stable gate
there stands a hollow tree. It is not inside the park, but just outside, and
shelters the narrow lane, which skirts the park walls, against the blaze of
the afternoon sun.
Its beneficent shade is a favourite spot for an afternoon siesta, for there
is a bit of green sward under the tree, and all along the side of the road.
But as the shades of evening gather in, the lane is usually deserted,
shunned by the neighbouring peasantry on account of its eerie loneli-
ness, so different to the former bustle which used to reign around the
park gates when M. lé Marquis and his family were still in residence. Nor
does the lane lead anywhere, for it is a mere loop which gives on the
main road at either end.
Henri de Montorgueil chose a peculiarly dark night in mid-September
for one of his periodical visits to the hollow-tree. It was close on nine
o’clock when he passed stealthily down the lane, keeping close to the
park wall. A soft rain was falling, the first since the prolonged drought,
and though it made the road heavy and slippery in places, it helped to
deaden the sound of the young man’s furtive footsteps. The air, except
for the patter of the rain, was absolutely still. Henri de Montorgueil
paused from time to time, with neck craned forward, every sense on the
alert, listening, like any poor, hunted beast, for the slightest sound which
might betray the approach of danger.
As many a time before, he reached the hollow tree in safety, felt for
and found in the usual place the letter which the unfortunate girl Lucile
had written to him. Then, with it in his hand, he turned to the stable
gate. It had long since ceased to be kept locked and barred. Pillaged and
ransacked by order of the Committee of Public Safety, there was nothing
left inside the park walls worth keeping under lock and key.
Henri slipped stealthily through the gates and made his way along the
drive. Every stone, every nook and cranny of his former home was famil-
iar to him, and anon he turned into a shed where in former times wheel-
barrows and garden tools were wont to be kept. Now it was full of
debris, lumber of every sort. A more safe or secluded spot could not be
imagined. Henri crouched in the furthermost corner of the shed. Then

175
from his belt he detached a small dark lanthorn, opened its shutter, and
with the aid of the tiny, dim light read the contents of the letter. For a
long while after that he remained quite still, as still as a man who has re-
ceived a stunning blow on the head and has partly lost consciousness.
The blow was indeed a staggering one. Lucile Clamette, with the invin-
cible power of her own helplessness, was demanding the surrender of a
weapon which had been a safeguard for the Montorgueils all this while.
The papers which compromised a number of influential members of the
Committee of Public Safety had been the most perfect arms of defence
against persecution and spoliation.
And now these were to be given up: Oh! there could be no question of
that. Even before consulting with his father, Henri knew that the papers
would have to be given up. They were clever, those revolutionaries. The
thought of holding innocent children as hostages could only have origin-
ated in minds attuned to the villainies of devils. But it was unthinkable
that the children should suffer.
After a while the young man roused himself from the torpor into
which the suddenness of this awful blow had plunged him. By the light
of the lanthorn he began to write upon a sheet of paper which he had
torn from his pocket-book.
“My dear Lucile,” he wrote, “As you say, our debt to your father and to
you all never could be adequately repaid. You and the children shall
never suffer whilst we have the power to save you. You will find the pa-
pers in the receptacle you know of inside the chimney of what used to be
my mother’s boudoir. You will find the receptacle unlocked. One day be-
fore the term you name I myself will place the papers there for you. With
them, my father and I do give up our lives to save you and the little ones
from the persecution of those fiends. May the good God guard you all.”
He signed the letter with his initials, H. de M. Then he crept back to
the gate and dropped the message into the hollow of the tree.
A quarter of an hour later Henri de Montorgueil was wending his way
back to the hiding place which had sheltered him and his father for so
long. Silence and darkness then held undisputed sway once more
around the hollow tree. Even the rain had ceased its gentle pattering.
Anon from far away came the sound of a church bell striking the hour of
ten. Then nothing more.
A few more minutes of absolute silence, then something dark and furt-
ive began to move out of the long grass which bordered the roadside—
something that in movement was almost like a snake. It dragged itself
along close to the ground, making no sound as it moved. Soon it reached

176
the hollow tree, rose to the height of a man and flattened itself against
the tree-trunk. Then it put out a hand, felt for the hollow receptacle and
groped for the missive which Henri de Montorgueil had dropped in
there a while ago.
The next moment a tiny ray of light gleamed through the darkness like
a star. A small, almost fragile, figure of a man, dressed in the mud-
stained clothes of a country yokel, had turned up the shutter of a small
lanthorn. By its flickering light he deciphered the letter which Henri de
Montorgueil had written to Lucile Clamette.
“One day before the term you name I myself will place the papers
there for you.”
A sigh of satisfaction, quickly suppressed, came through his thin, col-
ourless lips, and the light of the lanthorn caught the flash of triumph in
his pale, inscrutable eyes.
Then the light was extinguished. Impenetrable darkness swallowed up
that slender, mysterious figure again.

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V.
Six days had gone by since Chauvelin had delivered his cruel “either—
or” to poor little Lucile Clamette; three since he had found Henri de
Montorgueil’s reply to the girl’s appeal in the hollow of the tree. Since
then he had made a careful investigation of the chateau, and soon was
able to settle it in his own mind as to which room had been Madame la
Marquise’s boudoir in the past. It was a small apartment, having direct
access on the first landing of the staircase, and the one window gave on
the rose garden at the back of the house. Inside the monumental hearth,
at an arm’s length up the wide chimney, a receptacle had been contrived
in the brickwork, with a small iron door which opened and closed with a
secret spring. Chauvelin, whom his nefarious calling had rendered profi-
cient in such matters, had soon mastered the workings of that spring. He
could now open and close the iron door at will.
Up to a late hour on the sixth night of this weary waiting, the recept-
acle inside the chimney was still empty. That night Chauvelin had de-
termined to spend at the chateau. He could not have rested elsewhere.
Even his colleague Lebel could not know what the possession of those
papers would mean to the discredited agent of the Committee of Public
Safety. With them in his hands, he could demand rehabilitation, and
could purchase immunity from those sneers which had been so galling
to his arrogant soul— sneers which had become more and more marked,
more and more unendurable, and more and more menacing, as he piled
up failure on failure with every encounter with the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Immunity and rehabilitation! This would mean that he could once
more measure his wits and his power with that audacious enemy who
had brought about his downfall.
“In the name of Satan, bring us those papers!” Robespierre himself had
cried with unwonted passion, ere he sent him out on this important mis-
sion. “We none of us could stand the scandal of such disclosures. It
would mean absolute ruin for us all.”
And Chauvelin that night, as soon as the shades of evening had drawn
in, took up his stand in the chateau, in the small inner room which was
contiguous to the boudoir.
Here he sat, beside the open window, for hour upon hour, his every
sense on the alert, listening for the first footfall upon the gravel path be-
low. Though the hours went by leaden-footed, he was neither excited
nor anxious. The Clamette family was such a precious hostage that the

178
Montorgueils were bound to comply with Lucile’s demand for the pa-
pers by every dictate of honour and of humanity.
“While we have those people in our power,” Chauvelin had reiterated
to himself more than once during the course of his long vigil, “even that
meddlesome Scarlet Pimpernel can do nothing to save those cursed
Montorgueils.”
The night was dark and still. Not a breath of air stirred the branches of
the trees or the shrubberies in the park; any footsteps, however wary,
must echo through that perfect and absolute silence. Chauvelin’s keen,
pale eyes tried to pierce the gloom in the direction whence in all probab-
ility the aristo would come. Vaguely he wondered if it would be Henri
de Montorgueil or the old Marquis himself who would bring the papers.
“Bah! whichever one it is,” he muttered, “we can easily get the other,
once those abominable papers are in our hands. And even if both the ar-
istos escape,” he added mentally, “’tis no matter, once we have the
papers.”
Anon, far away a distant church bell struck the midnight hour. The
stillness of the air had become oppressive. A kind of torpor born of in-
tense fatigue lulled the Terrorist’s senses to somnolence. His head fell
forward on his breast… .

179
VI.
Then suddenly a shiver of excitement went right through him. He was
fully awake now, with glowing eyes wide open and the icy calm of per-
fect confidence ruling every nerve. The sound of stealthy footsteps had
reached his ear.
He could see nothing, either outside or in; but his fingers felt for the
pistol which he carried in his belt. The aristo was evidently alone; only
one solitary footstep was approaching the chateau.
Chauvelin had left the door ajar which gave on the boudoir. The stair-
case was on the other side of that fateful room, and the door leading to
that was closed. A few minutes of tense expectancy went by. Then
through the silence there came the sound of furtive foot-steps on the
stairs, the creaking of a loose board and finally the stealthy opening of
the door.
In all his adventurous career Chauvelin had never felt so calm. His
heart beat quite evenly, his senses were undisturbed by the slightest
tingling of his nerves. The stealthy sounds in the next room brought the
movements of the aristo perfectly clear before his metal vision. The latter
was carrying a small dark lanthorn. As soon as he entered he flashed its
light about the room. Then he deposited the lanthorn on the floor, close
beside the hearth, and started to feel up the chimney for the hidden
receptacle.
Chauvelin watched him now like a cat watches a mouse, savouring
these few moments of anticipated triumph. He pushed open the door
noiselessly which gave on the boudoir. By the feeble light of the lanthorn
on the ground he could only see the vague outline of the aristo’s back,
bending forward to his task; but a thrill went through him as he saw a
bundle of papers lying on the ground close by.
Everything was ready; the trap was set. Here was a complete victory at
last. It was obviously the young Vicomte de Montorgueil who had come
to do the deed. His head was up the chimney even now. The old Mar-
quis’s back would have looked narrower and more fragile. Chauvelin
held his breath; then he gave a sharp little cough, and took the pistol
from his belt.
The sound caused the aristo to turn, and the next moment a loud and
merry laugh roused the dormant echoes of the old chateau, whilst a
pleasant, drawly voice said in English:
“I am demmed if this is not my dear old friend M. Chambertin!
Zounds, sir! who’d have thought of meeting you here?”

180
 Had a cannon suddenly exploded at Chauvelin’s feet he would, I
think, have felt less unnerved. For the space of two heart-beats he stood
there, rooted to the spot, his eyes glued on his arch-enemy, that exec-
rated Scarlet Pimpernel, whose mocking glance, even through the inter-
vening gloom, seemed to have deprived him of consciousness. But that
phase of helplessness only lasted for a moment; the next, all the marvel-
lous possibilities of this encounter flashed through the Terrorist’s keen
mind.
Everything was ready; the trap was set! The unfortunate Clamettes
were still the bait which now would bring a far more noble quarry into
the mesh than ever he—Chauvelin— had dared to hope.
He raised his pistol, ready to fire. But already Sir Percy Blakeney was
on him, and with a swift movement, which the other was too weak to
resist, he wrenched the weapon from his enemy’s grasp.
“Why, how hasty you are, my dear M. Chambertin,” he said lightly.
“Surely you are not in such a hurry to put a demmed bullet into me!”
The position now was one which would have made even a braver man
than Chauvelin quake. He stood alone and unarmed in face of an enemy
from whom he could expect no mercy. But, even so, his first thought was
not of escape. He had not only apprised his own danger, but also the im-
mense power which he held whilst the Clamettes remained as hostages
in the hands of his colleague Lebel.
“You have me at a disadvantage, Sir Percy,” he said, speaking every
whit as coolly as his foe. “But only momentarily. You can kill me, of
course; but if I do not return from this expedition not only safe and
sound, but with a certain packet of papers in my hands, my colleague
Lebel has instructions to proceed at once against the girl Clamette and
the whole family.”
“I know that well enough,” rejoined Sir Percy with a quaint laugh. “I
know what venomous reptiles you and those of your kidney are. You
certainly do owe your life at the present moment to the unfortunate girl
whom you are persecuting with such infamous callousness.”
Chauvelin drew a sigh of relief. The situation was shaping itself more
to his satisfaction already. Through the gloom he could vaguely discern
the Englishman’s massive form standing a few paces away, one hand
buried in his breeches pockets, the other still holding the pistol. On the
ground close by the hearth was the small lanthorn, and in its dim light
the packet of papers gleamed white and tempting in the darkness.
Chauvelin’s keen eyes had fastened on it, saw the form of receipt for
money with Heriot’s signature, which he recognised, on the top.

181
 He himself had never felt so calm. The only thing he could regret was
that he was alone. Half a dozen men now, and this impudent foe could
indeed be brought to his knees. And this time there would be no risks
taken, no chances for escape. Somehow it seemed to Chauvelin as if
something of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s audacity and foresight had gone
from him. As he stood there, looking broad and physically powerful,
there was something wavering and undecided in his attitude, as if the
edge had been taken off his former recklessness and enthusiasm. He had
brought the compromising papers here, had no doubt helped the Mon-
torgueils to escape; but while Lucile Clamette and her family were under
the eye of Lebel no amount of impudence could force a successful
bargaining.
It was Chauvelin now who appeared the more keen and the more
alert; the Englishman seemed undecided what to do next, remained si-
lent, toying with the pistol. He even smothered a yawn. Chauvelin saw
his opportunity. With the quick movement of a cat pouncing upon a
mouse he stooped and seized that packet of papers, would then and
there have made a dash for the door with them, only that, as he seized
the packet, the string which held it together gave way and the papers
were scattered all over the floor.
Receipts for money? Compromising letters? No! Blank sheets of paper,
all of them— all except the one which had lain tantalisingly on the top:
the one receipt signed by citizen Heriot. Sir Percy laughed lightly:
“Did you really think, my good friend,” he said, “that I would be such
a demmed fool as to place my best weapon so readily to your hand?”
“Your best weapon, Sir Percy!” retorted Chauvelin, with a sneer.
“What use is it to you while we hold Lucile Clamette?”
“While I hold Lucile Clamette, you mean, my dear Monsieur Chamb-
ertin,” riposted Blakeney with elaborate blandness.
“You hold Lucile Clamette? Bah! I defy you to drag a whole family like
that out of our clutches. The man a cripple, the children helpless! And
you think they can escape our vigilance when all our men are warned!
How do you think they are going to get across the river, Sir Percy, when
every bridge is closely watched? How will they get across Paris, when at
every gate our men are on the look-out for them?”
“They can’t do it, my dear Monsieur Chambertin,” rejoined Sir Percy
blandly, “else I were not here.”
Then, as Chauvelin, fuming, irritated despite himself, as he always
was when he encountered that impudent Englishman, shrugged his

182
shoulders in token of contempt, Blakeney’s powerful grasp suddenly
clutched his arm.
“Let us understand one another, my good M. Chambertin,” he said
coolly. “Those unfortunate Clamettes, as you say, are too helpless and
too numerous to smuggle across Paris with any chance of success. There-
fore I look to you to take them under your protection. They are all
stowed away comfortably at this moment in a conveyance which I have
provided for them. That conveyance is waiting at the bridgehead now.
We could not cross without your help; we could not get across Paris
without your august presence and your tricolour scarf of office. So you
are coming with us, my dear M. Chambertin,” he continued, and, with
force which was quite irresistible, he began to drag his enemy after him
towards the door. “You are going to sit in that conveyance with the
Clamettes, and I myself will have the honour to drive you. And at every
bridgehead you will show your pleasing countenance and your scarf of
office to the guard and demand free passage for yourself and your fam-
ily, as a representative member of the Committee of Public Safety. And
then we’ll enter Paris by the Porte d’Ivry and leave it by the Batignolles;
and everywhere your charming presence will lull the guards’ suspicions
to rest. I pray you, come! There is no time to consider! At noon to-mor-
row, without a moment’s grace, my friend Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who has
the papers in his possession, will dispose of them as he thinks best unless
I myself do claim them from him.”
While he spoke he continued to drag his enemy along with him, with
an assurance and an impudence which were past belief. Chauvelin was
trying to collect his thoughts; a whirl of conflicting plans were running
riot in his mind. The Scarlet Pimpernel in his power! At any point on the
road he could deliver him up to the nearest guard… then still hold the
Clamettes and demand the papers… .
“Too late, my dear Monsieur Chambertin!” Sir Percy’s mocking voice
broke in, as if divining his thoughts. “You do not know where to find my
friend Ffoulkes, and at noon to-morrow, if I do not arrive to claim those
papers, there will not be a single ragamuffin in Paris who will not be cry-
ing your shame and that of your precious colleagues upon the
housetops.”
Chauvelin’s whole nervous system was writhing with the feeling of
impotence. Mechanically, unresisting now, he followed his enemy down
the main staircase of the chateau and out through the wide open gates.
He could not bring himself to believe that he had been so completely

183
foiled, that this impudent adventurer had him once more in the hollow
of his hand.
“In the name of Satan, bring us back those papers!” Robespierre had
commanded. And now he— Chauvelin— was left in a maze of doubt;
and the vital alternative was hammering in his brain: “The Scarlet Pim-
pernel— or those papers—– ” Which, in Satan’s name, was the more im-
portant? Passion whispered “The Scarlet Pimpernel!” but common sense
and the future of his party, the whole future of the Revolution mayhap,
demanded those compromising papers. And all the while he followed
that relentless enemy through the avenues of the park and down the
lonely lane. Overhead the trees of the forest of Sucy, nodding in a gentle
breeze, seemed to mock his perplexity.
He had not arrived at a definite decision when the river came in sight,
and when anon a carriage lanthorn threw a shaft of dim light through
the mist-laden air. Now he felt as if he were in a dream. He was thrust
unresisting into a closed chaise, wherein he felt the presence of several
other people— children, an old man who was muttering ceaselessly. As
in a dream he answered questions at the bridge to a guard whom he
knew well.
“You know me— Armand Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public
Safety!”
As in a dream, he heard the curt words of command:
“Pass on, in the name of the Republic!”
And all the while the thought hammered in his brain: “Something
must be done! This is impossible! This cannot be! It is not I—
Chauvelin— who am sitting here, helpless, unresisting. It is not that im-
pudent Scarlet Pimpernel who is sitting there before me on the box, driv-
ing me to utter humiliation!”
And yet it was all true. All real. The Clamette children were sitting in
front of him, clinging to Lucile, terrified of him even now. The old man
was beside him—imbecile and not understanding. The boy Etienne was
up on the box next to that audacious adventurer, whose broad back ap-
peared to Chauvelin like a rock on which all his hopes and dreams must
for ever be shattered.
The chaise rattled triumphantly through the Batignolles. It was then
broad daylight. A brilliant early autumn day after the rains. The sun, the
keen air, all mocked Chauvelin’s helplessness, his humiliation. Long be-
fore noon they passed St. Denis. Here the barouche turned off the main
road, halted at a small wayside house—nothing more than a cottage.
After which everything seemed more dreamlike than ever. All that

184
Chauvelin remembered of it afterwards was that he was once more alone
in a room with his enemy, who had demanded his signature to a number
of safe-conducts, ere he finally handed over the packet of papers to him.
“How do I know that they are all here?” he heard himself vaguely
muttering, while his trembling fingers handled that precious packet.
“That’s just it!” his tormentor retorted airily. “You don’t know. I don’t
know myself,” he added, with a light laugh. “And, personally, I don’t
see how either of us can possibly ascertain. In the meanwhile, I must bid
you au revoir, my dear M. Chambertin. I am sorry that I cannot provide
you with a conveyance, and you will have to walk a league or more ere
you meet one, I fear me. We, in the meanwhile, will be well on our way
to Dieppe, where my yacht, the Day Dream, lies at anchor, and I do not
think that it will be worth your while to try and overtake us. I thank you
for the safe-conducts. They will make our journey exceedingly pleasant.
Shall I give your regards to M. lé Marquis de Montorgueil or to
M. lé Vicomte? They are on board the Day Dream, you know. Oh! and I
was forgetting! Lady Blakeney desired to be remembered to you.”
The next moment he was gone. Chauvelin, standing at the window of
the wayside house, saw Sir Percy Blakeney once more mount the box of
the chaise. This time he had Sir Andrew Ffoulkes beside him. The
Clamette family were huddled together— happy and free— inside the
vehicle. After which there was the usual clatter of horses’ hoofs, the
creaking of wheels, the rattle of chains. Chauvelin saw and heard noth-
ing of that. All that he saw at the last was Sir Percy’s slender hand, wav-
ing him a last adieu.
After which he was left alone with his thoughts. The packet of papers
was in his hand. He fingered it, felt its crispness, clutched it with a fierce
gesture, which was followed by a long-drawn-out sigh of intense
bitterness.
No one would ever know what it had cost him to obtain these papers.
No one would ever know how much he had sacrificed of pride, revenge
and hate in order to save a few shreds of his own party’s honour.

185
 Part 11
A BATTLE OF WITS

186
I.
What had happened was this:
Tournefort, one of the ablest of the many sleuth-hounds employed by
the Committee of Public Safety, was out during that awful storm on the
night of the twenty-fifth. The rain came down as if it had been poured
out of buckets, and Tournefort took shelter under the portico of a tall,
dilapidated-looking house somewhere at the back of St. Lazare. The
night was, of course, pitch dark, and the howling of the wind and beat-
ing of the rain effectually drowned every other sound.
Tournefort, chilled to the marrow, had at first cowered in the angle of
the door, as far away from the draught as he could. But presently he
spied the glimmer of a tiny light some little way up on his left, and tak-
ing this to come from the concierge’s lodge, he went cautiously along the
passage intending to ask for better shelter against the fury of the ele-
ments than the rickety front door afforded.
Tournefort, you must remember, was always on the best terms with
every concierge in Paris. They were, as it were, his subordinates; without
their help he never could have carried on his unavowable profession
quite so successfully. And they, in their turn, found it to their advantage
to earn the good-will of that army of spies, which the Revolutionary
Government kept in its service, for the tracking down of all those unfor-
tunates who had not given complete adhesion to their tyrannical and
murderous policy.
Therefore, in this instance, Tournefort felt no hesitation in claiming the
hospitality of the concierge of the squalid house wherein he found him-
self. He went boldly up to the lodge. His hand was already on the latch,
when certain sounds which proceeded from the interior of the lodge
caused him to pause and to bend his ear in order to listen. It was Tourne-
fort’s metier to listen. What had arrested his attention was the sound of a
man’s voice, saying in a tone of deep respect:
“Bien, Madame la Comtesse, we’ll do our best.”
No wonder that the servant of the Committee of Public Safety re-
mained at attention, no longer thought of the storm or felt the cold blast
chilling him to the marrow. Here was a wholly unexpected piece of good
luck. “Madame la Comtesse!” Peste! There were not many such left in Paris
these days. Unfortunately, the tempest of the wind and the rain made
such a din that it was difficult to catch every sound which came from the
interior of the lodge. All that Tournefort caught definitely were a few
fragments of conversation.

187
 “My good M. Bertin… ” came at one time from a woman’s voice.
“Truly I do not know why you should do all this for me.”
And then again: “All I possess in the world now are my diamonds.
They alone stand between my children and utter destitution.”
The man’s voice seemed all the time to be saying something that soun-
ded cheerful and encouraging. But his voice came only as a vague mur-
mur to the listener’s ears. Presently, however, there came a word which
set his pulses tingling. Madame said something about “Gentilly,” and
directly afterwards: “You will have to be very careful, my dear M. Bertin.
The chateau, I feel sure, is being watched.”
Tournefort could scarce repress a cry of joy.
“Gentilly? Madame la Comtesse? The chateau?” Why, of course, he held all
the necessary threads already. Theci-devant Comte de Sucy— a pestilential
aristo if ever there was one!— had been sent to the guillotine less than a
fortnight ago. His chateau, situated just outside Gentilly, stood empty, it
having been given out that the widow Sucy and her two children had es-
caped to England. Well! she had not gone apparently, for here she was,
in the lodge of the concierge of a mean house in one of the desolate quar-
ters of Paris, begging some traitor to find her diamonds for her, which
she had obviously left concealed inside the chateau. What a haul for
Tournefort! What commendation from his superiors! The chances of a
speedy promotion were indeed glorious now! He blessed the storm and
the rain which had driven him for shelter to this house, where a poison-
ous plot was being hatched to rob the people of valuable property, and
to aid a few more of those abominable aristos in cheating the guillotine
of their traitorous heads.
He listened for a while longer, in order to get all the information that
he could on the subject of the diamonds, because he knew by experience
that those perfidious aristos, once they were under arrest, would sooner
bite out their tongues than reveal anything that might be of service to the
Government of the people. But he learned little else. Nothing was re-
vealed of where Madame la Comtesse was in hiding, or how the diamonds
were to be disposed of once they were found. Tournefort would have
given much to have at least one of his colleagues with him. As it was, he
would be forced to act single-handed and on his own initiative. In his
own mind he had already decided that he would wait un-
til Madame la Comtesse came out of the concierge’s lodge, and that he
would follow her and apprehend her somewhere out in the open streets,
rather than here where her friend Bertin might prove to be a stalwart as
well as a desperate man, ready with a pistol, whilst he— Tournefort—

188
was unarmed. Bertin, who had, it seemed, been entrusted with the task
of finding the diamonds, could then be shadowed and arrested in the
very act of filching property which by decree of the State belonged to the
people.
So he waited patiently for a while. No doubt the aristo would remain
here under shelter until the storm had abated. Soon the sound of voices
died down, and an extraordinary silence descended on this miserable,
abandoned corner of old Paris. The silence became all the more marked
after a while, because the rain ceased its monotonous pattering and the
soughing of the wind was stilled. It was, in fact, this amazing stillness
which set citizen Tournefort thinking. Evidently the aristo did not intend
to come out of the lodge to-night. Well! Tournefort had not meant to
make himself unpleasant inside the house, or to have a quarrel just yet
with the traitor Bertin, whoever he was; but his hand was forced and he
had no option.
The door of the lodge was locked. He tugged vigorously at the bell
again and again, for at first he got no answer. A few minutes later he
heard the sound of shuffling footsteps upon creaking boards. The door
was opened, and a man in night attire, with bare, thin legs and tattered
carpet slippers on his feet, confronted an exceedingly astonished servant
of the Committee of Public Safety. Indeed, Tournefort thought that he
must have been dreaming, or that he was dreaming now. For the man
who opened the door to him was well known to every agent of the Com-
mittee. He was an ex-soldier who had been crippled years ago by the
loss of one arm, and had held the post of concierge in a house in the
Ruelle du Paradis ever since. His name was Grosjean. He was very old,
and nearly doubled up with rheumatism, had scarcely any hair on his
head or flesh on his bones. At this moment he appeared to be suffering
from a cold in the head, for his eyes were streaming and his narrow,
hooked nose was adorned by a drop of moisture at its tip. In fact, poor
old Grosjean looked more like a dilapidated scarecrow than a dangerous
conspirator. Tournefort literally gasped at sight of him, and Grosjean
uttered a kind of croak, intended, no doubt, for complete surprise.
“Citizen Tournefort!” he exclaimed. “Name of a dog! What are you do-
ing here at this hour and in this abominable weather? Come in! Come
in!” he added, and, turning on his heel, he shuffled back into the inner
room, and then returned carrying a lighted lamp, which he set upon the
table. “Amelie left a sup of hot coffee on the hob in the kitchen before she
went to bed. You must have a drop of that.”
He was about to shuffle off again when Tournefort broke in roughly:

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 “None of that nonsense, Grosjean! Where are the aristos?”
“The aristos, citizen?” queried Grosjean, and nothing could have
looked more utterly, more ludicrously bewildered than did the old con-
cierge at this moment. “What aristos?”
“Bertin and Madame la Comtesse,” retorted Tournefort gruffly. “I heard
them talking.”
“You have been dreaming, citizen Tournefort,” the old man said, with
a husky little laugh. “Sit down, and let me get you some coffee— ”
“Don’t try and hoodwink me, Grosjean!” Tournefort cried now in a
sudden access of rage. “I tell you that I saw the light. I heard the aristos
talking. There was a man named Bertin, and a woman he called
’Madame la Comtesse,’ and I say that some devilish royalist plot is being
hatched here, and that you, Grosjean, will suffer for it if you try and
shield those aristos.”
“But, citizen Tournefort,” replied the concierge meekly, “I assure you
that I have seen no aristos. The door of my bedroom was open, and the
lamp was by my bedside. Amelie, too, has only been in bed a few
minutes. You ask her! There has been no one, I tell you— no one! I
should have seen and heard them— the door was open,” he reiterated
pathetically.
“We’ll soon see about that!” was Tournefort’s curt comment.
But it was his turn indeed to be utterly bewildered. He searched—
none too gently— the squalid little lodge through and through, turned
the paltry sticks of furniture over, hauled little Amelie, Grosjean’s grand-
daughter, out of bed, searched under the mattresses, and even poked his
head up the chimney.
Grosjean watched him wholly unperturbed. These were strange times,
and friend Tournefort had obviously gone a little off his head. The
worthy old concierge calmly went on getting the coffee ready. Only
when presently Tournefort, worn out with anger and futile exertion,
threw himself, with many an oath, into the one armchair, Grosjean re-
marked coolly:
“I tell you what I think it is, citizen. If you were standing just by the
door of the lodge you had the back staircase of the house immediately
behind you. The partition wall is very thin, and there is a disused door
just there also. No doubt the voices came from there. You see, if there
had been any aristos here,” he added naively, “they could not have
flown up the chimney, could they?”
That argument was certainly unanswerable. But Tournefort was out of
temper. He roughly ordered Grosjean to bring the lamp and show him

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the back staircase and the disused door. The concierge obeyed without a
murmur. He was not in the least disturbed or frightened by all this blus-
tering. He was only afraid that getting out of bed had made his cold
worse. But he knew Tournefort of old. A good fellow, but inclined to be
noisy and arrogant since he was in the employ of the Government. Gros-
jean took the precaution of putting on his trousers and wrapping an old
shawl round his shoulders. Then he had a final sip of hot coffee; after
which he picked up the lamp and guided Tournefort out of the lodge.
The wind had quite gone down by now. The lamp scarcely flickered as
Grosjean held it above his head.
“Just here, citizen Tournefort,” he said, and turned sharply to his left.
But the next sound which he uttered was a loud croak of astonishment.
“That door has been out of use ever since I’ve been here,” he muttered.
“And it certainly was closed when I stood up against it,” rejoined
Tournefort, with a savage oath, “or, of course, I should have noticed it.”
Close to the lodge, at right angles to it, a door stood partially open.
Tournefort went through it, closely followed by Grosjean. He found him-
self in a passage which ended in a cul de sac on his right; on the left was
the foot of the stairs. The whole place was pitch dark save for the feeble
light of the lamp. The cul de sac itself reeked of dirt and fustiness, as if it
had not been cleaned or ventilated for years.
“When did you last notice that this door was closed?” queried Tourne-
fort, furious with the sense of discomfiture, which he would have liked
to vent on the unfortunate concierge.
“I have not noticed it for some days, citizen,” replied Grosjean meekly.
“I have had a severe cold, and have not been outside my lodge since
Monday last. But we’ll ask Amelie!” he added more hopefully.
Amelie, however, could throw no light upon the subject. She certainly
kept the back stairs cleaned and swept, but it was not part of her duties
to extend her sweeping operations as far as the cul de sac. She had quite
enough to do as it was, with grandfather now practically helpless. This
morning, when she went out to do her shopping, she had not noticed
whether the disused door did or did not look the same as usual.
Grosjean was very sorry for his friend Tournefort, who appeared
vastly upset, but still more sorry for himself, for he knew what endless
trouble this would entail upon him.
Nor was the trouble slow in coming, not only on Grosjean, but on
every lodger inside the house; for before half an hour had gone by
Tournefort had gone and come back, this time with the local commissary
of police and a couple of agents, who had every man, woman and child

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in that house out of bed and examined at great length, their identity
books searchingly overhauled, their rooms turned topsy-turvy and their
furniture knocked about.
It was past midnight before all these perquisitions were completed. No
one dared to complain at these indignities put upon peaceable citizens
on the mere denunciation of an obscure police agent. These were times
when every regulation, every command, had to be accepted without a
murmur. At one o’clock in the morning, Grosjean himself was thankful
to get back to bed, having satisfied the commissary that he was not a
dangerous conspirator.
But of anyone even remotely approaching the description of
the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy, or of any man called Bertin, there was not
the faintest trace.

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II.
But no feeling of discomfort ever lasted very long with citizen Tourne-
fort. He was a person of vast resource and great buoyancy of
temperament.
True, he had not apprehended two exceedingly noxious aristos, as he
had hoped to do; but he held the threads of an abominable conspiracy in
his hands, and the question of catching both Bertin
and Madame la Comtesse red-handed was only a question of time. But
little time had been lost. There was always someone to be found at the
offices of the Committee of Public Safety, which were open all night. It
was possible that citizen Chauvelin would be still there, for he often took
on the night shift, or else citizen Gourdon.
It was Gourdon who greeted his subordinate, somewhat ill-hu-
mouredly, for he was indulging in a little sleep, with his toes turned to
the fire, as the night was so damp and cold. But when he heard Tourne-
fort’s story, he was all eagerness and zeal.
“It is, of course, too late to do anything now,” he said finally, after he
had mastered every detail of the man’s adventures in the Ruelle du
Paradis; “but get together half a dozen men upon whom you can rely,
and by six o’clock in the morning, or even five, we’ll be on our way to
Gentilly. Citizen Chauvelin was only saying to-day that he strongly sus-
pected the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy of having left the bulk of her valu-
able jewellery at the chateau, and that she would make some effort to get
possession of it. It would be rather fine, citizen Tournefort,” he added
with a chuckle, “if you and I could steal a march on citizen Chauvelin
over this affair, what? He has been extraordinarily arrogant of late and
marvellously in favour, not only with the Committee, but with citizen
Robespierre himself.”
“They say,” commented Tournefort, “that he succeeded in getting
hold of some papers which were of great value to the members of the
Committee.”
“He never succeeded in getting hold of that meddlesome Englishman
whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel,” was Gourdon’s final dry
comment.
Thus was the matter decided on. And the following morning at day-
break, Gourdon, who was only a subordinate officer on the Committee
of Public Safety, took it upon himself to institute a perquisition in the
chateau of Gentilly, which is situated close to the commune of that name.

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He was accompanied by his friend Tournefort and a gang of half a dozen
ruffians recruited from the most disreputable cabarets of Paris.
The intention had been to steal a march on citizen Chauvelin, who had
been over arrogant of late; but the result did not come up to expecta-
tions. By midday the chateau had been ransacked from attic to cellar;
every kind of valuable property had been destroyed, priceless works of
art irretrievably damaged. But priceless works of art had no market in
Paris these days; and the property of real value— the Sucy diamonds
namely— which had excited the cupidity or the patriotic wrath of cit-
izens Gourdon and Tournefort could nowhere be found.
To make the situation more deplorable still, the Committee of Public
Safety had in some unexplainable way got wind of the affair, and the
two worthies had the mortification of seeing citizen Chauvelin presently
appear upon the scene.
It was then two o’clock in the afternoon. Gourdon, after he had
snatched a hasty dinner at a neighbouring cabaret, had returned to the
task of pulling the chateau of Gentilly about his own ears if need be, with
a view to finding the concealed treasure.
For the nonce he was standing in the centre of the finely proportioned
hall. The rich ormolu and crystal chandelier lay in a tangled, broken
heap of scraps at his feet, and all around there was a confused medley of
pictures, statuettes, silver ornaments, tapestry and brocade hangings, all
piled up in disorder, smashed, tattered, kicked at now and again by
Gourdon, to the accompaniment of a savage oath.
The house itself was full of noises; heavy footsteps tramping up and
down the stairs, furniture turned over, curtains torn from their poles,
doors and windows battered in. And through it all the ceaseless ham-
mering of pick and axe, attacking these stately walls which had with-
stood the wars and sieges of centuries.
Every now and then Tournefort, his face perspiring and crimson with
exertion, would present himself at the door of the hall. Gourdon would
query gruffly: “Well?”
And the answer was invariably the same: “Nothing!”
Then Gourdon would swear again and send curt orders to continue
the search, relentlessly, ceaselessly.
“Leave no stone upon stone,” he commanded. “Those diamonds must
be found. We know they are here, and, name of a dog! I mean to have
them.”

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 When Chauvelin arrived at the chateau he made no attempt at first to
interfere with Gourdon’s commands. Only on one occasion he remarked
curtly:
“I suppose, citizen Gourdon, that you can trust your search party?”
“Absolutely,” retorted Gourdon. “A finer patriot than Tournefort does
not exist.”
“Probably,” rejoined the other dryly. “But what about the men?”
“Oh! they are only a set of barefooted, ignorant louts. They do as they
are told, and Tournefort has his eye on them. I dare say they’ll contrive
to steal a few things, but they would never dare lay hands on valuable
jewellery. To begin with, they could never dispose of it. Imagine
a va-nu-pieds peddling a diamond tiara!”
“There are always receivers prepared to take risks.”
“Very few,” Gourdon assured him, “since we decreed that trafficking
with aristo property was a crime punishable by death.”
Chauvelin said nothing for the moment. He appeared wrapped in his
own thoughts, listened for a while to the confused hubbub about the
house, then he resumed abruptly:
“Who are these men whom you are employing, citizen Gourdon?”
“A well-known gang,” replied the other. “I can give you their names.”
“If you please.”
Gourdon searched his pockets for a paper which he found presently
and handed to his colleague. The latter perused it thoughtfully.
“Where did Tournefort find these men?” he asked.
“For the most part at the Cabaret de la Liberte— a place of very evil re-
pute down in the Rue Christine.”
“I know it,” rejoined the other. He was still studying the list of names
which Gourdon had given him. “And,” he added, “I know most of these
men. As thorough a set of ruffians as we need for some of our work.
Merri, Guidal, Rateau, Desmonds. Tiens!” he exclaimed. “Rateau! Is Rat-
eau here now?”
“Why, of course! He was recruited, like the rest of them, for the day.
He won’t leave till he has been paid, you may be sure of that. Why do
you ask?”
“I will tell you presently. But I would wish to speak with citizen Rat-
eau first.”
Just at this moment Tournefort paid his periodical visit to the hall. The
usual words, “Still nothing,” were on his lips, when Gourdon curtly
ordered him to go and fetch the citizen Rateau.

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 A minute or two later Tournefort returned with the news that Rateau
could nowhere be found. Chauvelin received the news without any com-
ment; he only ordered Tournefort, somewhat roughly, back to his work.
Then, as soon as the latter had gone, Gourdon turned upon his colleague.
“Will you explain— ” he began with a show of bluster.
“With pleasure,” replied Chauvelin blandly. “On my way hither, less
than an hour ago, I met your man Rateau, a league or so from here.”
“You met Rateau!” exclaimed Gourdon impatiently. “Impossible! He
was here then, I feel sure. You must have been mistaken.”
“I think not. I have only seen the man once, when I, too, went to re-
cruit a band of ruffians at the Cabaret de la Liberte, in connection with
some work I wanted doing. I did not employ him then, for he appeared
to me both drink-sodden and nothing but a miserable, consumptive
creature, with a churchyard cough you can hear half a league away. But I
would know him anywhere. Besides which, he stopped and wished me
good morning. Now I come to think of it,” added Chauvelin thought-
fully, “he was carrying what looked like a heavy bundle under his arm.”
“A heavy bundle!” cried Gourdon, with a forceful oath. “And you did
not stop him!”
“I had no reason for suspecting him. I did not know until I arrived
here what the whole affair was about, or whom you were employing. All
that the Committee knew for certain was that you and Tournefort and a
number of men had arrived at Gentilly before daybreak, and I was then
instructed to follow you hither to see what mischief you were up to. You
acted in complete secrecy, remember, citizen Gourdon, and without first
ascertaining the wishes of the Committee of Public Safety, whose servant
you are. If the Sucy diamonds are not found, you alone will be held re-
sponsible for their loss to the Government of the People.”
Chauvelin’s voice had now assumed a threatening tone, and Gourdon
felt all his audacity and self-assurance fall away from him, leaving him a
prey to nameless terror.
“We must round up Rateau,” he murmured hastily. “He cannot have
gone far.”
“No, he cannot,” rejoined Chauvelin dryly. “Though I was not spe-
cially thinking of Rateau or of diamonds when I started to come hither. I
did send a general order forbidding any person on foot or horseback to
enter or leave Paris by any of the southern gates. That order will serve us
well now. Are you riding?”
“Yes. I left my horse at the tavern just outside Gentilly. I can get to
horse within ten minutes.”

196
 “To horse, then, as quickly as you can. Pay off your men and dismiss
them— all but Tournefort, who had best accompany us. Do not lose a
single moment. I’ll be ahead of you and may come up with Rateau before
you overtake me. And if I were you, citizen Gourdon,” he concluded,
with ominous emphasis, “I would burn one or two candles to your com-
peer the devil. You’ll have need of his help if Rateau gives us the slip.”

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III.
The first part of the road from Gentilly to Paris runs through the valley
of the Biere, and is densely wooded on either side. It winds in and out
for the most part, ribbon-like, through thick coppice of chestnut and
birch. Thus it was impossible for Chauvelin to spy his quarry from afar;
nor did he expect to do so this side of theHôpital de la Santé. Once past
that point, he would find the road quite open and running almost
straight, in the midst of arid and only partially cultivated land.
He rode at a sharp trot, with his caped coat wrapped tightly round his
shoulders, for it was raining fast. At intervals, when he met an occasional
wayfarer, he would ask questions about a tall man who had a con-
sumptive cough, and who was carrying a cumbersome burden under his
arm.
Almost everyone whom he thus asked remembered seeing a person-
age who vaguely answered to the description: tall and with a decided
stoop— yes, and carrying a cumbersome-looking bundle under his arm.
Chauvelin was undoubtedly on the track of the thief.
Just beyond Meuves he was overtaken by Gourdon and Tournefort.
Here, too, the man Rateau’s track became more and more certain. At one
place he had stopped and had a glass of wine and a rest, at another he
had asked how close he was to the gates of Paris.
The road was now quite open and level; the irregular buildings of the
hospital appeared vague in the rain-sodden distance. Twenty minutes
later Tournefort, who was riding ahead of his companions, spied a tall,
stooping figure at the spot where the Chemin de Gentilly forks, and
where stands a group of isolated houses and bits of garden, which be-
long to la Santé. Here, before the days when the glorious Revolution
swept aside all such outward signs of superstition, there had stood a Cal-
vary. It was now used as a signpost. The man stood before it, scanning
the half-obliterated indications.
At the moment that Tournefort first caught sight of him he appeared
uncertain of his way. Then for a while he watched Tournefort, who was
coming at a sharp trot towards him. Finally, he seemed to make up his
mind very suddenly and, giving a last, quick look round, he walked rap-
idly along the upper road. Tournefort drew rein, waited for his col-
leagues to come up with him. Then he told them what he had seen.
“It is Rateau, sure enough,” he said. “I saw his face quite distinctly and
heard his abominable cough. He is trying to get into Paris. That road

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leads nowhere but to the barrier. There, of course, he will be stopped,
and— ”
The other two had also brought their horses to a halt The situation had
become tense, and a plan for future action had at once to be decided on.
Already Chauvelin, masterful and sure of himself, had assumed com-
mand of the little party. Now he broke in abruptly on Tournefort’s vapid
reflections.
“We don’t want him stopped at the barrier,” he said in his usual curt,
authoritative manner. “You, citizen Tournefort,” he continued, “will ride
as fast as you can to the gate, making a detour by the lower road. You
will immediately demand to speak with the sergeant who is in com-
mand, and you will give him a detailed description of the man Rateau.
Then you will tell him in my name that, should such a man present him-
self at the gate, he must be allowed to enter the city unmolested.”
Gourdon gave a quick cry of protest.
“Let the man go unmolested? Citizen Chauvelin, think what you are
doing!”
“I always think of what I am doing,” retorted Chauvelin curtly, “and
have no need of outside guidance in the process.” Then he turned once
more to Tournefort. “You yourself, citizen,” he continued, in sharp, de-
cisive tones which admitted of no argument, “will dismount as soon as
you are inside the city. You will keep the gate under observation. The
moment you see the man Rateau, you will shadow him, and on no ac-
count lose sight of him. Understand?”
“You may trust me, citizen Chauvelin,” Tournefort replied, elated at
the prospect of work which was so entirely congenial to him. “But will
you tell me— ”
“I will tell you this much, citizen Tournefort,” broke in Chauvelin with
some acerbity, “that though we have traced the diamonds and the thief
so far, we have, through your folly last night, lost complete track of
the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and of the man Bertin. We want Rateau to
show us where they are.”
“I understand,” murmured the other meekly.
“That’s a mercy!” riposted Chauvelin dryly. “Then quickly man. Lose
no time! Try to get a few minutes’ advance on Rateau; then slip in to the
guard-room to change into less conspicuous clothes. Citizen Gourdon
and I will continue on the upper road and keep the man in sight in case
he should think of altering his course. In any event, we’ll meet you just
inside the barrier. But if, in the meanwhile, you have to get on Rateau’s

199
track before we have arrived on the scene, leave the usual indications as
to the direction which you have taken.”
Having given his orders and satisfied himself that they were fully un-
derstood, he gave a curt command, “En avant,” and once more the three
of them rode at a sharp trot down the road towards the city.

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IV.
Citizen Rateau, if he thought about the matter at all, must indeed have
been vastly surprised at the unwonted amiability or indifference of ser-
geant Ribot, who was in command at the gate of Gentilly. Ribot only
threw a very perfunctory glance at the greasy permit which Rateau
presented to him, and when he put the usual query, “What’s in that par-
cel?” and Rateau gave the reply: “Two heads of cabbage and a bunch of
carrots,” Ribot merely poked one of his fingers into the bundle, felt that a
cabbage leaf did effectually lie on the top, and thereupon gave the formal
order: “Pass on, citizen, in the name of the Republic!” without any
hesitation.
Tournefort, who had watched the brief little incident from behind the
window of a neighbouring cabaret, could not help but chuckle to him-
self. Never had he seen game walk more readily into a trap. Rateau, after
he had passed the barrier, appeared undecided which way he would go.
He looked with obvious longing towards the cabaret, behind which the
keenest agent on the staff of the Committee of Public Safety was even
now ensconced. But seemingly a halt within those hospitable doors did
not form part of his programme, and a moment or two later he turned
sharply on his heel and strode rapidly down the Rue de l’Oursine.
Tournefort allowed him a fair start, and then made ready to follow.
Just as he was stepping out of the cabaret he spied Chauvelin and
Gourdon coming through the gates. They, too, had apparently made a
brief halt inside the guard-room, where— as at most of the gates— a
store of various disguises was always kept ready for the use of the
numerous sleuth-hounds employed by the Committee of Public Safety.
Here the two men had exchanged their official garments for suits of
sombre cloth, which gave them the appearance of a couple of humble
bourgeois going quietly about their business. Tournefort had donned an
old blouse, tattered stockings, and shoes down at heel. With his hands
buried in his breeches’ pockets, he, too, turned into the long narrow Rue
de l’Oursine, which, after a sharp curve, abuts on the Rue Mouffetard.
Rateau was walking rapidly, taking big strides with his long legs.
Tournefort, now sauntering in the gutter in the middle of the road, now
darting in and out of open doorways, kept his quarry well in sight.
Chauvelin and Gourdon lagged some little way behind. It was still rain-
ing, but not heavily— a thin drizzle, which penetrated almost to the mar-
row. Not many passers-by haunted this forlorn quarter of old Paris. To

201
right and left tall houses almost obscured the last, quickly-fading light of
the grey September day.
At the bottom of the Rue Mouffetard, Rateau came once more to a halt.
A network of narrow streets radiated from this centre. He looked all
round him and also behind. It was difficult to know whether he had a
sudden suspicion that he was being followed; certain it is that, after a
very brief moment of hesitation, he plunged suddenly into the nar-
row Rue Contrescarpe and disappeared from view.
Tournefort was after him in a trice. When he reached the corner of the
street he saw Rateau, at the further end of it, take a sudden sharp turn to
the right. But not before he had very obviously spied his pursuer, for at
that moment his entire demeanour changed. An air of furtive anxiety
was expressed in his whole attitude. Even at that distance Tournefort
could see him clutching his bulky parcel close to his chest.
After that the pursuit became closer and hotter. Rateau was in and out
of that tight network of streets which cluster around the Place de Fourci,
intent, apparently, on throwing his pursuers off the scent, for after a
while he was running round and round in a circle. Now up
the Rue des Poules, then to the right and to the right again; back in the
Place de Fourci. Then straight across it once more to the Rue Contrescarpe,
where he presently disappeared so completely from view that Tourne-
fort thought that the earth must have swallowed him up.
Tournefort was a man capable of great physical exertion. His calling
often made heavy demands upon his powers of endurance; but never be-
fore had he grappled with so strenuous a task. Puffing and panting, now
running at top speed, anon brought to a halt by the doubling-up tactics
of his quarry, his great difficulty was the fact that citizen Chauvelin did
not wish the man Rateau to be apprehended; did not wish him to know
that he was being pursued. And Tournefort had need of all his wits to
keep well under the shadow of any projecting wall or under cover of
open doorways which were conveniently in the way, and all the while
not to lose sight of that consumptive giant, who seemed to be playing
some intricate game which well-nigh exhausted the strength of citizen
Tournefort.
What he could not make out was what had happened to Chauvelin
and to Gourdon. They had been less than three hundred metres behind
him when first this wild chase in and out of the Rue Contrescarpe had be-
gun. Now, when their presence was most needed, they seemed to have
lost track both of him— Tournefort— and of the very elusive quarry. To
make matters more complicated, the shades of evening were drawing in

202
very fast, and these narrow streets of the Faubourg were very sparsely
lighted.
Just at this moment Tournefort had once more caught sight of Rateau,
striding leisurely this time up the street. The worthy agent quickly took
refuge under a doorway and was mopping his streaming forehead, glad
of this brief respite in the mad chase, when that awful churchyard cough
suddenly sounded so close to him that he gave a great jump and well-
nigh betrayed his presence then and there. He had only just time to with-
draw further still into the angle of the doorway, when Rateau passed by.
Tournefort peeped out of his hiding-place, and for the space of a
dozen heart beats or so, remained there quite still, watching that broad
back and those long limbs slowly moving through the gathering gloom.
The next instant he perceived Chauvelin standing at the end of the street.
Rateau saw him too— came face to face with him, in fact, and must
have known who he was for, without an instant’s hesitation and just like
a hunted creature at bay, he turned sharply on his heel and then ran back
down the street as hard as he could tear. He passed close to within half a
metre of Tournefort, and as he flew past he hit out with his left fist so
vigorously that the worthy agent of the Committee of Public Safety,
caught on the nose by the blow, staggered and measured his length upon
the flagged floor below.
The next moment Chauvelin had come by. Tournefort, struggling to
his feet, called to him, panting:
“Did you see him? Which way did he go?”
“Up the Rue Bordet. After him, citizen!” replied Chauvelin grimly,
between his teeth.
Together the two men continued the chase, guided through the intric-
ate mazes of the streets by their fleeing quarry. They had Rateau well in
sight, and the latter could no longer continue his former tactics with suc-
cess now that two experienced sleuth-hounds were on his track.
At a given moment he was caught between the two of them. Tourne-
fort was advancing cautiously up the Rue Bordet; Chauvelin, equally
stealthily, was coming down the same street, and Rateau, once more
walking quite leisurely, was at equal distance between the two.

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V.
There are no side turnings out of the Rue Bordet, the total length of
which is less than fifty metres; so Tournefort, feeling more at his ease, en-
sconced himself at one end of the street, behind a doorway, whilst
Chauvelin did the same at the other. Rateau, standing in the gutter, ap-
peared once more in a state of hesitation. Immediately in front of him the
door of a small cabaret stood invitingly open; its signboard,
“Le Bon Copain,” promised rest and refreshment. He peered up and
down the road, satisfied himself presumably that, for the moment, his
pursuers were out of sight, hugged his parcel to his chest, and then sud-
denly made a dart for the cabaret and disappeared within its doors.
Nothing could have been better. The quarry, for the moment, was safe,
and if the sleuth-hounds could not get refreshment, they could at least
get a rest. Tournefort and Chauvelin crept out of their hiding-places.
They met in the middle of the road, at the spot where Rateau had stood a
while ago. It was then growing dark and the street was innocent of lan-
terns, but the lights inside the cabaret gave a full view of the interior. The
lower half of the wide shop-window was curtained off, but above the
curtain the heads of the customers of “Le Bon Copain,” and the general
comings and goings, could very clearly be seen.
Tournefort, never at a loss, had already climbed upon a low projection
in the wall of one of the houses opposite. From this point of vantage he
could more easily observe what went on inside the cabaret, and in short,
jerky sentences he gave a description of what he saw to his chief.
“Rateau is sitting down… he has his back to the window… he has put
his bundle down close beside him on the bench… he can’t speak for a
minute, for he is coughing and spluttering like an old walrus… . A
wench is bringing him a bottle of wine and a hunk of bread and cheese…
. He has started talking… is talking volubly… the people are laughing…
some are applauding… . And here comes Jean Victor, the landlord… you
know him, citizen… a big, hulking fellow, and as good a patriot as I ever
wish to see… . He, too, is laughing and talking to Rateau, who is
doubled up with another fit of coughing— ”
Chauvelin uttered an exclamation of impatience:
“Enough of this, citizen Tournefort. Keep your eye on the man and
hold your tongue. I am spent with fatigue.”
“No wonder,” murmured Tournefort. Then he added insinuatingly:
“Why not let me go in there and apprehend Rateau now? We should
have the diamonds and— ”

204
 “And lose the ci-devant Comtesse de Sucy and the man Bertin,” retorted
Chauvelin with sudden fierceness. “Bertin, who can be none other than
that cursed Englishman, the— ”
He checked himself, seeing Tournefort was gazing down on him, with
awe and bewilderment expressed in his lean, hatchet face.
“You are losing sight of Rateau, citizen,” Chauvelin continued calmly.
“What is he doing now?”
But Tournefort felt that this calmness was only on the surface;
something strange had stirred the depths of his chief’s keen, masterful
mind. He would have liked to ask a question or two, but knew from ex-
perience that it was neither wise nor profitable to try and probe citizen
Chauvelin’s thoughts. So after a moment or two he turned back obedi-
ently to his task.
“I can’t see Rateau for the moment,” he said, “but there is much talk-
ing and merriment in there. Ah! there he is, I think. Yes, I see him!… He
is behind the counter, talking to Jean Victor… and he has just thrown
some money down upon the counter… . gold too! name of a dog… .”
Then suddenly, without any warning, Tournefort jumped down from
his post of observation. Chauvelin uttered a brief:
“What the——are you doing, citizen?”
“Rateau is going,” replied Tournefort excitedly. “He drank a mug of
wine at a draught and has picked up his bundle, ready to go.”
Once more cowering in the dark angle of a doorway, the two men
waited, their nerves on edge, for the reappearance of their quarry.
“I wish citizen Gourdon were here,” whispered Tournefort. “In the
darkness it is better to be three than two.”
“I sent him back to the Station in the Rue Mouffetard,” was
Chauvelin’s curt retort; “there to give notice that I might require a few
armed men presently. But he should be somewhere about here by now,
looking for us. Anyway, I have my whistle, and if— ”
He said no more, for at that moment the door of the cabaret was
opened from within and Rateau stepped out into the street, to the accom-
paniment of loud laughter and clapping of hands which came from the
customers of the “Bon Copain.”
This time he appeared neither in a hurry nor yet anxious. He did not
pause in order to glance to right or left, but started to walk quite leis-
urely up the street. The two sleuth-hounds quietly followed him.
Through the darkness they could only vaguely see his silhouette, with
the great bundle under his arm. Whatever may have been Rateau’s fears
of being shadowed awhile ago, he certainly seemed free of them now. He

205
sauntered along, whistling a tune, down the Montagne Ste. Genevieve to
the Place Maubert, and thence straight towards the river.
Having reached the bank, he turned off to his left, sauntered past
the Ecole de Médecine and went across the Petit Pont, then through the
New Market, along theQuai des Orfèvres. Here he made a halt, and for
awhile looked over the embankment at the river and then round about
him, as if in search of something. But presently he appeared to make up
his mind, and continued his leisurely walk as far as the Pont Neuf, where
he turned sharply off to his right, still whistling, Tournefort and
Chauvelin hard upon his heels.
“That whistling is getting on my nerves,” muttered Tournefort irrit-
ably; “and I haven’t heard the ruffian’s churchyard cough since he
walked out of the ‘BonCopain.’”
Strangely enough, it was this remark of Tournefort’s which gave
Chauvelin the first inkling of something strange and, to him, positively
awesome. Tournefort, who walked close beside him, heard him sud-
denly mutter a fierce exclamation.
“Name of a dog!”
“What is it, citizen?” queried Tournefort, awed by this sudden out-
burst on the part of a man whose icy calmness had become proverbial
throughout the Committee.
“Sound the alarm, citizen!” cried Chauvelin in response. “Or, by Satan,
he’ll escape us again!”
“But— ” stammered Tournefort in utter bewilderment, while, with fin-
gers that trembled somewhat, he fumbled for his whistle.
“We shall want all the help we can,” retorted Chauvelin roughly. “For,
unless I am much mistaken, there’s more noble quarry here than even I
could dare to hope!”
Rateau in the meanwhile had quietly lolled up to the parapet on the
right-hand side of the bridge, and Tournefort, who was watching him
with intense keenness, still marvelled why citizen Chauvelin had sud-
denly become so strangely excited. Rateau was merely lolling against the
parapet, like a man who has not a care in the world. He had placed his
bundle on the stone ledge beside him. Here he waited a moment or two,
until one of the small craft upon the river loomed out of the darkness im-
mediately below the bridge. Then he picked up the bundle and threw it
straight into the boat. At that same moment Tournefort had the whistle
to his lips. A shrill, sharp sound rang out through the gloom.
“The boat, citizen Tournefort, the boat!” cried Chauvelin. “There are
plenty of us here to deal with the man.”

206
 Immediately, from the quays, the streets, the bridges, dark figures
emerged out of the darkness and hurried to the spot. Some reached the
bridgehead even as Rateau made a dart forward, and two men were
upon him before he succeeded in running very far. Others had
scrambled down the embankment and were shouting to some unseen
boatman to “halt, in the name of the people!”
But Rateau gave in without a struggle. He appeared more dazed than
frightened, and quietly allowed the agents of the Committee to lead him
back to the bridge, where Chauvelin had paused, waiting for him.

207
VI.
A minute or two later Tournefort was once more beside his chief. He was
carrying the precious bundle, which, he explained, the boatman had giv-
en up without question.
“The man knew nothing about it,” the agent said. “No one, he says,
could have been more surprised than he was when this bundle was sud-
denly flung at him over the parapet of the bridge.”
Just then the small group, composed of two or three agents of the
Committee, holding their prisoner by the arms, came into view. One
man was walking ahead and was the first to approach Chauvelin. He
had a small screw of paper in his hand, which he gave to his chief.
“Found inside the lining of the prisoner’s hat, citizen,” he reported
curtly, and opened the shutter of a small, dark lantern which he wore at
his belt.
Chauvelin took the paper from his subordinate. A weird, unexplain-
able foreknowledge of what was to come caused his hand to shake and
beads of perspiration to moisten his forehead. He looked up and saw the
prisoner standing before him. Crushing the paper in his hand he
snatched the lantern from the agent’s belt and flashed it in the face of the
quarry who, at the last, had been so easily captured.
Immediately a hoarse cry of disappointment and of rage escaped his
throat.
“Who is this man?” he cried.
One of the agents gave reply:
“It is old Victor, the landlord of the ‘Bon Copain.’
He is just a fool, who has been playing a practical joke.”
Tournefort, too, at sight of the prisoner had uttered a cry of dismay
and of astonishment.
“Victor!” he exclaimed. “Name of a dog, citizen, what are you doing
here?”
But Chauvelin had gripped the man by the arm so fiercely that the lat-
ter swore with the pain.
“What is the meaning of this?” he queried roughly.
“Only a bet, citizen,” retorted Victor reproachfully. “No reason to fall
on an honest patriot for a bet, just as if he were a mad dog.”
“A joke? A bet?” murmured Chauvelin hoarsely, for his throat now
felt hot and parched. “What do you mean? Who are you, man? Speak, or
I’ll— ”

208
 “My name is Jean Victor,” replied the other. “I am the landlord of the
‘Bon Copain.’ An hour ago a man came into my cabaret. He was a queer,
consumptive creature, with a churchyard cough that made you shiver.
Some of my customers knew him by sight, told me that the man’s name
was Rateau, and that he was anhabitue of the ‘Liberte,’ in the Rue
Christine. Well; he soon fell into conversation, first with me, then with
some of my customers— talked all sorts of silly nonsense, made absurd
bets with everybody. Some of these he won, and others he lost; but I
must say that when he lost he always paid up most liberally. Then we all
got excited, and soon bets flew all over the place. I don’t rightly know
how it happened at the last, but all at once he bet me that I would not
dare to walk out then and there in the dark, as far as the Pont Neuf, wear-
ing his blouse and hat and carrying a bundle the same as his under my
arm. I not dare?… I, Jean Victor, who was a fine fighter in my day! I bet
him a gold piece that I would and he said that he would make it five if I
came back without my bundle, having thrown it over the parapet into
any passing boat. Well, citizen!” continued Jean Victor with a laugh, “I
ask you, what would you have done? Five gold pieces means a fortune
these hard times, and I tell you the man was quite honest and always
paid liberally when he lost. He slipped behind the counter and took off
his blouse and hat, which I put on. Then we made up a bundle with
some cabbage heads and a few carrots, and out I came. I didn’t think
there could be anything wrong in the whole affair— just the tomfoolery
of a man who has got the betting mania and in whose pocket money is
just burning a hole. And I have won my bet,” concluded Jean Victor, still
unabashed, “and I want to go back and get my money. If you don’t be-
lieve me, come with me to my cabaret. You will find the citizen Rateau
there, for sure; and I know that I shall find my five gold pieces.”
Chauvelin had listened to the man as he would to some weird dream-
story, wherein ghouls and devils had played a part. Tournefort, who was
watching him, was awed by the look of fierce rage and grim hopeless-
ness which shone from his chief’s pale eyes. The other agents laughed.
They were highly amused at the tale, but they would not let the prisoner
go.
“If Jean Victor’s story is true, citizen,” their sergeant said, speaking to
Chauvelin, “there will be witnesses to it over at ‘Le Bon Copain.’ Shall we
take the prisoner straightway there and await further orders?”
Chauvelin gave a curt acquiescence, nodding his head like some insen-
tient wooden automaton. The screw of paper was still in his hand; it
seemed to sear his palm. Tournefort even now broke into a grim laugh.

209
He had just undone the bundle which Jean Victor had thrown over the
parapet of the bridge. It contained two heads of cabbage and a bunch of
carrots. Then he ordered the agents to march on with their prisoner, and
they, laughing and joking with Jean Victor, gave a quick turn, and soon
their heavy footsteps were echoing down the flagstones of the bridge.
*****
Chauvelin waited, motionless and silent, the dark lantern still held in
his shaking hand, until he was quite sure that he was alone. Then only
did he unfold the screw of paper.
It contained a few lines scribbled in pencil— just that foolish rhyme
which to his fevered nerves was like a strong irritant, a poison which
gave him an unendurable sensation of humiliation and impotence:

“We seek him here, we seek him there!

Chauvelin seeks him everywhere!
Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel!”

He crushed the paper in his hand and, with a loud groan, of misery,
fled over the bridge like one possessed.

210
VII.
Madame la Comtesse de Sucy never went to England. She was one of those
French women who would sooner endure misery in their own beloved
country than comfort anywhere else. She outlived the horrors of the Re-
volution and speaks in her memoirs of the man Bertin. She never knew
who he was nor whence he came. All that she knew was that he came to
her like some mysterious agent of God, bringing help, counsel, a semb-
lance of happiness, at the moment when she was at the end of all her re-
sources and saw grim starvation staring her and her children in the face.
He appointed all sorts of strange places in out-of-the-way Paris where
she was wont to meet him, and one night she confided to him the history
of her diamonds, and hardly dared to trust his promise that he would
get them for her.
Less than twenty-four hours later he brought them to her, at the poor
lodgings in the Rue Blanche which she occupied with her children under
an assumed name. That same night she begged him to dispose of them.
This also he did, bringing her the money the next day.
She never saw him again after that.
But citizen Tournefort never quite got over his disappointment of that
night. Had he dared, he would have blamed citizen Chauvelin for the
discomfiture. It would have been better to have apprehended the man
Rateau while there was a chance of doing so with success.
As it was, the impudent ruffian slipped clean away, and was never
heard of again either at the “Bon Copain” or at the “Liberte.” The custom-
ers at the cabaret certainly corroborated the story of Jean Victor. The man
Rateau, they said, had been honest to the last. When time went on and
Jean Victor did not return, he said that he could no longer wait, had
work to do for the Government over the other side of the water and was
afraid he would get punished if he dallied. But, before leaving, he laid
the five gold pieces on the table. Every one wondered that so humble a
workman had so much money in his pocket, and was withal so lavish
with it. But these were not the times when one inquired too closely into
the presence of money in the pocket of a good patriot.
And citizen Rateau was a good patriot, for sure.
And a good fellow to boot!
They all drank his health in Jean Victor’s sour wine; then each went his
way.

211
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