Books: The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
B >>
Baroness Orczy >> The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 This eBook was produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
BY
BARONESS ORCZY
AUTHOR OF "FLOWER O' THE LILY," "LORD TONY'S WIFE,"
"THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL," ETC.
CONTENTS
I SIR PERCY EXPLAINS
II A QUESTION OF PASSPORTS
III TWO GOOD PATRIOTS
IV THE OLD SCARECROW
V A FINE BIT OF WORK
VI HOW JEAN PIERRE MET THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
VII OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH
VIII THE TRAITOR
IX THE CABARET DE LA LIBERTE
X "NEEDS MUST--"
XI A BATTLE OF WITS
I
SIR PERCY EXPLAINS
It was not, Heaven help us all! a very uncommon occurrence these days: a
woman almost unsexed by misery, starvation, and the abnormal excitement
engendered by daily spectacles of revenge and of cruelty. They were to
be met with every day, round every street corner, these harridans, 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 spectators, 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
buffoonery. Every time that she paused and solicited alms with her
tambourine 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?"
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
language which she understood), a pleasant laugh, and a brief but
violent scuffle. After that the hurrying retreat of many feet, the click
of sabots 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
burrows, 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 lifted
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 cochere. But she was not then fully
conscious.
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
another world--or so he appeared to the poor wretch who, since
uncountable time, had set eyes on none but the most miserable dregs of
struggling 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 being
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
masquerade. I have been a street-dancer all my life, and--"
By way of an answer he took her hand, always with that air of authority
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
patiently. 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.
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
emeutes 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 le 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 details
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 obstinate
silence and cruel indifference. No one would help me. No one ostensibly
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 patriots and no
longer pampered like so many lap-dogs.'
"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 disgraced
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, Monsieur,"
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 degraded in
the disease-haunted slums of indigent Paris; that, with the connivance
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 Revolution 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
bidding 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 inquiries have been in vain. At first I squandered money, tried
judicial means, set an army of sleuth-hounds on the track. I tried
bribery, corruption. 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 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
entirely 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
begin 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 before 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
human being. She was no longer a pariah, an outcast, a poor, half-
demented creature, insentient save for an infinite capacity for
suffering. She suffered still, but she no longer despaired. There had
been such marvellous 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 influence, 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.
Madame 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.
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 calendar), Jean Paul Marat took an additional man into his service,
at the instance 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.
There must also have been something about his whole wretched personality
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
before 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.
The demagogue held up his left hand--it was emaciated and disfigured 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.
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
unperceived. 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.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17