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Title: Sir Percy Leads the Band
Author: Baroness Orczy [Orczy, Emmuska] (1865-1947)
Illustrator: Anonymous
Date of first publication [novel]: 1936
Date of first publication [illustrations]: 1953
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1953
Date first posted: 7 October 2012
Date last updated: 7 October 2012
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #999

This ebook was produced by Al Haines






  SIR PERCY LEADS
  THE BAND

  by
  Baroness Orczy



  THE EIGHTH ADVENTURE OF
  THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL



  published by
  Hodder and Stoughton
  ST. PAUL'S HOUSE, LONDON, E.C.4




  BARONESS ORCZY


  _The Scarlet Pimpernel Novels_

  THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
  THE TRIUMPH OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
  THE WAY OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
  ELDORADO
  I WILL REPAY
  LORD TONY'S WIFE
  SIR PERCY HITS BACK
  SIR PERCY LEADS THE BAND
  MAM'ZELLE GUILLOTINE


  _Omnibus Volumes_

  THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL OMNIBUS
  THE GALLANT PIMPERNEL OMNIBUS
  (Each over 1000 pages)


  _Other Books_

  NO GREATER LOVE
  THE DIVINE FOLLY
  THE UNCROWNED KING
  THE TURBULENT DUCHESS
  A SPY OF NAPOLEON
  A JOYOUS ADVENTURE
  BLUE EYES AND GREY
  SKIN O' MY TOOTH
  THE CELESTIAL CITY
  THE HONOURABLE JIM
  THE EMPEROR'S CANDLESTICKS
  BY THE GODS BELOVED
  BEAU BROCADE
  A SON OF THE PEOPLE
  THE TANGLED SKEIN
  THE OLD MAN IN THE CORNER
  THE NEST OF THE SPARROWHAWK
  UNTO CAESAR
  THE LAUGHING CAVALIER
  THE BRONZE EAGLE
  LEATHERFACE
  FLOWER O' THE LILY
  HER MAJESTY'S WELL BELOVED
  THE FIRST SIR PERCY
  NICOLETTE: A TALE OF OLD PROVENCE




[Illustration: Title]




  FIRST PUBLISHED, SEPTEMBER 1936
  NINTH IMPRESSION, NOVEMBER 1949
  THIS EDITION RESET, 1953


  Printed and Bound in England for
  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd., London by
  C. Tinling & Co. Ltd., Liverpool, London and Prescot




BOOK I

THE ABB




CHAPTER ONE

_The King on His Trial_

The Hall of the Pas Perdus, the precincts of the House of Justice, the
corridors, the bureaux of the various officials, judges and advocates
were all thronged that day as they had been during all the week, ever
since Tuesday when the first question was put to the vote: "Is Louis
Capet guilty of conspiring against liberty?"  Louis Capet! otherwise
Louis XVI, descendant of a long line of kings of the Grand Monarque of
Saint Louis, himself the anointed, the crowned King of France!  And
now!  Arraigned at the bar before his fellow-men, before his one-time
devoted subjects, or supposedly devoted, standing before them like any
criminal, accused not of murder, or forgery or theft, but of conspiring
against liberty.

A king on his trial!  And for his life!  Let there be no doubt about
that.  It is a matter of life or death for the King of France.  There
has been talk, endless talk and debate in the Hall of Justice ever
since the eleventh day of December--over a month ago now when Louis
first appeared before the bar of the Convention.  Fifty-seven questions
were put to the accused.  "Louis Capet, didst thou do this, that or the
other?  Didst thou conspire against liberty?"  Louis to all the
questions gave the simple reply: "No!  I did not do that, nor did I do
the other.  If I did, it was in accordance with the then existing laws
of France."

A king on his trial!  Heavens above, what a stupendous event!  One that
had only occurred once before in history--a hundred and fifty years ago
when Charles I, King of England, stood at the bar before his people and
Parliament, accused by them of conspiring against their liberty.  The
end of that was regicide.  And now once again a king stood before his
people accused of conspiring against their liberty.  What the end would
be, no one doubted for a moment.  The paramount significance of the
tragedy, the vital importance of what was at stake was reflected in the
grave demeanour of the crowd that gathered day after day inside the
precincts of the House of Justice.  Men of all ages, of all creeds, of
every kind of political opinion foregathered in the Salle des Pas
Perdus, waited mostly in silence for scraps of news that came filtering
through from the hall where a king--once their King--was standing his
trial.

They waited for news, longing to see the end of this nerve-racking
suspense, yet dreading to hear what the end would be.

On the Monday evening, one month after the opening of this momentous
trial, the fifty-seven questions were finally disposed of.  Advocate
Barrre in a three-hours' speech, summed up the case and then invited
Louis Capet to withdraw.  And Louis the unfortunate, once Louis XVI,
King of France, now just Louis Capet, was taken back to the Temple
Prison where, separated from his wife and children, he could do nothing
but await with patience and resignation the final issue of his judges'
deliberations, and assist his legal counsels in the preparation of his
defence.

And on Tuesday the 15th of January, 1793, the question of whether a
King of France was guilty or not guilty of conspiracy was put to the
vote.  Not one question but three questions were put forward, each to
be voted on separately and by every one of the seven hundred and
forty-nine members of the National Convention.  Is Louis Capet guilty
of conspiring against liberty?  Shall the sentence pronounced by the
National Convention be final, or shall appeal be made to the people?
If Louis Capet be found guilty what punishment should be meted out to
him?  The first two questions were disposed of on the Tuesday.  By
midday Louis Capet had been voted guilty by an immense majority.  The
second question took rather longer; the afternoon wore on, the shades
of a midwinter evening blotted out the outside world and spread its
gloomy mantle over this assembly of men, gathered here to indict their
King and to pronounce sentence upon him.  It was midnight before the
voting on this second question was ended.  By a majority of two to one
the House decided that its verdict shall be final and that no appeal
shall be made to the people.  Such an appeal would mean civil war, cry
the Extremists, the loud and turbulent Patriots, while the Moderates,
the Girondins will have it that the people must not be ignored.  But
they are outvoted two to one and at the close of this memorable
Tuesday, Louis Capet stands definitely guilty of conspiring against the
liberty of the people and whatever sentence the National Convention may
pronounce upon him shall be final, without appeal.

The loud and turbulent Patriots are full of hope.  Marat, the people's
friend, has apostrophied them from his bed of sickness, lashed them
with his biting tongue: "O crowd of chatterers, can you not _act_?"
And they are going to act.  Let the third question be put to the vote,
and the whole world shall see that Patriots can act as well as talk.
So on this Wednesday, January 16th, 1793, they muster up in full force
and swarm over the floors of the Salle des Pas Perdus, and of the
corridors and committee rooms of the House of Justice.  But somehow
they are no longer turbulent now.  Certain of triumph they appear
almost overawed by the immensity of the tragedy which they have brought
to a head.

Beyond the precincts of the Hall of Justice, the whole of Paris stands
on the tiptoe of expectation.  It is a raw midwinter day.  The city is
wrapped in a grey fog, through which every sound of voice or traffic
comes muffled, as if emitted through cotton-wool.  Like the noisy
elements inside the hall, the people of Paris wait in silence, hushed
into a kind of grim stupefaction at this stupendous thing which is
going on inside there, and which they, in a measure, have brought about.

In the hall itself the seven hundred and forty-nine deputies are all at
their posts.  After some talk and "orders of the day" put forward by
one Patriot or another, Danton's proposal that the Convention shall sit
in permanent session till the whole business of Louis Capet is finished
and done with, is passed by a substantial majority.  After which the
voting on the third question begins.  It is close on eight o'clock in
the evening.  The ushers in loud shrill voices call up the deputies by
name and constituency, one by one: summon each one to mount the tribune
and say, on his soul and conscience, what punishment shall be meted out
to the accused.  And one by one seven hundred and forty-nine men then
mounted the tribune, said their say, justified their verdict and
recorded their vote.  The whole of that night and subsequent days and
nights, from Wednesday evening until Friday afternoon, the procedure
went on.  Evening faded into night, night yielded to day and day to
night again while a king's life hung in the balance.  In the grey light
of day, through the weary hours of the night, the three portentous
words came muffled through the thin curtain of fog which pervaded the
hall and dimmed the feeble flickering light of candles.  Death!
Banishment!  Imprisonment till peace with the rest of Europe be signed.
The word that came most often from the tribune was death, though often
tempered with weak recommendations for mercy; but all day Thursday and
most of Friday the balance trembled between banishment and death.  Some
of the votes were never in doubt, Robespierre's for instance, or that
of Danton who disdained to justify his verdict; he stood only for one
minute on the tribune, just long enough to say curtly: "_La Mort sans
phrases!_" then resumed his seat, folded his arms and went quietly to
sleep.  "Death without so much talk!"  Why talk?  Louis Capet has got
to die, so why argue?

Was there ever so strange a proceeding?  Eye-witnesses, men like Sieys
and Roland have described the scene as one of the most remarkable ever
witnessed in the history of the Revolution, and the moment when
Philippe d'Orlans, now nicknamed Philippe Egalit, and own kinsman of
the accused, boldly voted death on his soul and conscience, the most
tense in any history.  A strange proceeding indeed!  Philippe d'Orlans
the traitor, the profligate, casting his vote against his kinsman; and
up in the galleries among a privileged crowd a number of smartly
dressed ladies, flaunting their laces and tricolour cockades and
munching chocolates, while the honourable deputies who had already
recorded their votes came to entertain them with small talk and bring
them ices and refreshments.  Some have cards and pins and prick down
the deaths or banishments or imprisonments as they occur, something
like race-cards on which with many a giggle they record their bets.
Here in the galleries there is quite an element of fashion.  No gloom
here, no sense of foreboding or impending tragedy.  Smart ladies! the
beautiful Troigne de Mricourt, the austere Madame Roland, the
youthful Teresia Cabarrus.

At dusk on Friday evening the voting was done.  The secretaries sorted
the papers and made the count.  When this was over President Vergniaud
demanded silence.  And in a hush so profound that the rustle of a silk
dress up in the gallery caused everyone to give a start, he made the
solemn declaration: "In the name of the Convention I declare that the
punishment it pronounces on Louis Capet is that of death."




CHAPTER TWO

_Sentence_

Scarcely were the words out of the President's mouth than the King's
advocates came running in.  They lodged a protest in his name.  They
demanded delay and appeal to the people.  The latter was promptly
rejected--unanimously.  Appeal to the people had been put to the vote
last Tuesday, and been definitely settled then.  Delay might be
granted, but for the moment nothing more could be done.  Everyone was
sick to death of the whole thing.  Nerve-racked.  To-morrow should
decide.

And it did.  Delay or no delay?  Patriots said "No."  Philippe
d'Orlans, kinsman of the accused, said "No!"  A few said "Yes!"  But
finally, during the small hours of Sunday morning, that point--perhaps
the grimmest of the lot--was also settled.  "No delay!  Death within
twenty-four hours."  The final count showed a majority of seventy.

The Minister of Justice was sent to the Temple to break the news to the
accused.  To his credit be it said that he did not like the errand.
"What a horrible business!" he was heard to say.  But Louis received
the news calmly, as a king should.  He asked for a delay of three days
to prepare himself for death, also for a confessor.  The latter request
was granted on condition that the confessor should be a man of the
Convention's own choosing: but not delay.  The verdict had been: "Death
within twenty-four hours."  There could be no question of respite.

Paris that Sunday morning woke to the news and was appalled.  It had
been expected, but there are events in this world that are expected,
that are known to be certain to come, and yet when they do come they
cause stupefaction.  And Paris was stupefied.  The Extremists rejoiced:
the rowdy elements went about shouting "_Vive la Libert!_" waving
tricolour flags, carrying spikes crowned with red caps, but Paris as a
whole did not respond.  It pondered over the verdict, and shuddered at
the murder of Lepelletier the deputy who had put forward the proposal:
"No delay!  Death within twenty-four hours!"  His proposal had been
carried by a majority of seventy.  It was then two o'clock in the
morning, and he went on to Fvrier's in the Palais Royal to get some
supper.  He had finished eating and was paying his bill, when he was
suddenly attacked by an unknown man, said to have once belonged to the
King's Guard, who plunged a dagger in the deputy's breast shouting:
"Regicide! take that!" and in the confusion that ensued made good his
escape.  And the six hundred and ninety-six deputies who had voted for
death without a recommendation for mercy shut themselves up in the
apartments, being in fear of their lives.

The cafs and restaurants on the other hand did a roaring trade all
that day, Sunday.  Paris, though stupefied, had to be fed, and did feed
too, and talked only in whispers--but talked nevertheless.  Groups
lingered over their coffee and _Fine_, and said the few things that
were safe to say, in view of those turbulent Patriots who proclaimed
every man, woman or child to be a traitor who showed any sympathy for
the "conspirator" Louis Capet.  There was also talk of war.  England
... Spain.  Especially England, with Burke demanding sanctions against
the regicide Republic.  It could only be a matter of days now before
she declared war.  She had been itching to do so ever since Louis Capet
had been deprived of his throne.  Ambassador Chauvelin was still in
London, but soon he would be recalled and his papers handed courteously
to him, for undoubtedly war was imminent.  English families residing in
France were preparing to leave the country.

But a good many stayed on: men in business, journalists or merely
idlers.  They mostly dined at Fvrier's in the Palais Royal, the
restaurant _ la mode_, where those deputies who were most in the
public eye could always be met with on a Sunday.  Robespierre and his
friend Desmoulins, the elegant Saint-Just, President Vergniaud and
others dined there regularly and foreign newspaper correspondents
frequented the place in the hope of picking up bits of gossip for their
journals.  On this particular Sunday there were about a dozen strangers
gathered round the large table in the centre, where a somewhat meagre
dinner was being served in view of the existing shortage of provisions
and the penury that already stalked the countryside and more
particularly the cities.  But in spite of the meagreness of the fare,
good temper was not lacking round the board where the strangers were
sitting.  Most of them were English and they tackled the scraggy meat
and thin wine put before them, with the happy-go-lucky tolerance that
is so essentially English.

"What say you to beef with mustard?" one of the men quoted while he
struggled with a tough piece of boiled pork garnished with haricot
beans.

"I like it passing well," his neighbour completed the quotation, "but
for the moment I have a fancy for a Lancashire hot-pot, such as my old
lady makes at home."

"Well!" broke in a man obviously from the north, "Sunday at my home is
the day for haggis, and with a wineglassful of good Scotch whisky
poured over it, I tell you my friends..."

Two men were sitting together at a table close by.  One of them said,
speaking in French and with a contemptuous shrug:

"These English!  Their one subject of conversation is food."

The other, without commenting on this, merely remarked:

"You understand English then, Monsieur le Baron?"

"Yes.  Don't you?"

"I never had any lessons," the other replied vaguely.

The two men were a strange contrast both in appearance and in speech.
The one who had been addressed as Monsieur le Baron--it was not yet a
crime to use a title in Republican France--was short and
broad-shouldered.  He had a florid face, sensual lips and prominent
eyes.  He spoke French with a hardly perceptible guttural accent, which
to a sensitive ear might have betrayed his German or Austrian origin.
His manner and way of speaking were abrupt and fussy: his short, fat
hands with the spatulated fingers were for ever fidgeting with
something, making bread pellets or drumming with obvious nervosity on
the table.  The other was tall, above the average at any rate in this
country: his speech was deliberate, almost pedantic in its purity of
expression like a professor delivering a lecture at the Sorbonne: his
hands, though slender, betrayed unusual strength.  He scarcely ever
moved them.  Both men were very simply dressed, in black coats and
cloth breeches, but while Monsieur le Baron's coat fitted him where it
touched, the other's complete suit was nothing short of a masterpiece
of the tailor's art.

Just then there rose a general clatter in the room: chairs scraping
against the tiled floor, calls for hats and coats, comprehensive
leave-takings, and more or less noisy exodus through the swing-doors.
Robespierre and Desmoulins as they went out passed the time of day with
Monsieur le Baron.

"_Eh bien_, de Batz," Robespierre said to him with a laugh, "I have won
my bet, haven't I?  Louis Capet has got his deserts."

De Batz shrugged his fat shoulders.

"Not yet," he retorted dryly.

When those two had gone, and were immediately followed by Vergniaud and
St. Just, he who was called de Batz leaned back in his chair and gave a
deep sigh of relief.

"Ah!" he said, "the air is purer now that filthy crowd has gone."

"You appeared to be on quite friendly terms with Monsieur Robespierre
anyway," the other remarked with a cool smile.

"Appearances are often deceptive, my dear Professor," De Batz retorted.

"Ah?"

"Now take your case.  I first met you at a meeting of the Jacobin Club,
or was it the Feuillants?  I forget which of those pestiferous
gatherings you honoured with your presence; but anyway, had I only
judged by appearances I would have avoided you like the plague, like I
avoid that dirty crowd of assassins...."

"But you were there yourself, Monsieur le Baron," the Professor
observed.

"I went out of curiosity, my friend, as you did and as a number of
respectable-looking people did also.  I sized up those respectable
people very quickly.  I had no use for them.  They were just the sort
of nincompoops whom Danton's oratory soon turns into potential
regicides.  But I accosted you that evening because I saw that you were
different."

"Why different?"

"Your cultured speech and the cleanliness of your collar."

"You flatter me, sir."

"We talked of many things at first, if you remember.  We touched on
philosophy and on the poets, on English rhetoric and Italian art: and I
went home that night convinced that I had met a kindred spirit, whom I
hoped to meet again.  When you entered this place an hour ago, and
honoured me by allowing me to sit at your table, I felt that Chance had
been benign to me."

"Again you flatter me, sir."

The room in the meanwhile had soon become deserted.  There remained
only de Batz and the Professor at one table, and in the farther corner
a group of three men, two of whom were playing dominoes and the third
reading a newspaper.  De Batz's restless eyes took a quick survey of
the room, then he leaned over the table and fixed his gaze on the
other's placid face.

"I propose to flatter you still more, my friend," he said, sinking his
voice to a whisper.  "Nay!  I may say to honour you...."

"Indeed?"

"By asking you to help me...."

"To do what?"

"To save the King."

"A heavy task, sir."

"But not impossible.  Listen.  I have five hundred friends who will be
posted to-morrow in different houses along the route between the Temple
and the Place de la Rvolution.  At a signal from me, they will rush
the carriage in which only His Majesty and his confessor will be
sitting, they will drag the King out of it, and in the mle smuggle
him into a house close by, all the inhabitants of which are in my pay.
You are silent, sir?" de Batz went on, his thick guttural voice hoarse
with emotion.  "Of what are you thinking?" he added impatiently, seeing
that the other remained impassive, almost motionless.

"Of General Santerre," the Professor replied, "and his eighty thousand
armed men.  Are they also in your pay?"

"Eighty thousand?" de Batz rejoined with a sneer: "Bah!"

"Do you doubt the figure?"

"No!  I do not.  I know all about Santerre and his eighty thousand
armed men, his bristling cannon that are already being set up on the
Place de la Rvolution, and his cannoneers who will stand by with match
burning.  But you must take surprise into consideration.  The
unexpected.  The sudden panic.  The men off their guard.  As a matter
of fact I could tell you of things that occurred before my very eyes
when that daredevil Englishman whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel
snatched condemned prisoners from the very tumbrils that took them to
execution.  Surely you know about that?"

"I do," the Professor put in quietly, "but I don't suppose that those
tumbrils were escorted by eighty thousand armed men.  There is such a
thing in this world as the impossible, you know, Monsieur le Baron:
things that are beyond man's power to effect."

"Then you won't help me?"

"You have not yet told me what you want me to do."

"I am not going to ask you to risk your life," de Batz said, trying to
keep the suspicion of a sneer out of his tone.  "There are five hundred
of us for that, and one more or less wouldn't make any difference to
our chance of success.  But there is one little matter in which you
could render our cause a signal service, and incidentally help to save
His Majesty the King."

"What may that be, sir?"

A pause, after which Batz resumed with seeming irrelevance:

"There is an Irish priest, the Abb Edgeworth, you have met him
perhaps?"

"Yes!  I know him."

"He is known by renown to the King.  The Convention, as perhaps you are
aware, has acceded to His Majesty's desire for a confessor, but those
inhuman brutes have made it a condition that that confessor shall be of
their own choosing.  We know what that means.  Some apostate priest
whose presence would distress and perhaps unnerve His Majesty when he
will have need of all his courage.  You agree with me?"

"Of course."

"Equally, of course, we want someone to be by the side of His Majesty
during that harrowing drive from the Temple, and to prepare and
encourage him for the _coup_ which we are contemplating.

"The Abb Edgeworth is the man we want for this mission.  His loyalty
is unquestioned, so is his courage.  Clry, the King's devoted valet,
has tried to get in touch with him, and so have His Majesty's
advocates, but they failed to find him.  He is hiding somewhere in
Paris, that we know.  Until fairly recently he was a lecturer at the
Sorbonne.  I understand that you too, Monsieur le Professeur, have
graced that seat of learning.  Anyway, I thought that you might make
enquiries in that direction.  If you succeed," de Batz concluded, his
voice thick with excitement, "you will have done your share in saving
our King."

There was a moment's pause while de Batz, taking out his handkerchief
from his pocket, wiped his moist hands and his forehead which was
streaming with perspiration.  Seeing that the Professor still sat
silent and impassive he said, with obvious impatience:

"Surely you are not hesitating, Monsieur le Professeur!  A little thing
like that!  And for such a cause!  I would scour Paris myself, only
that my hands are full.  And my five hundred adherents----"

"You should apply to one of them, Monsieur le Baron," the other broke
in quietly.

Monsieur le Baron gave a jump.

"You don't mean to say that you hesitate?" he uttered in a hoarse
whisper.

"I do more than that, Monsieur le Baron.  I refuse."

"Refuse? ... ref----"

De Batz was choking.  His passed his thick finger round the edge of his
cravat.

"Refuse what?" he queried, trying to speak calmly.

"To lend a hand in dragging the Abb Edgeworth into this affair."

De Batz was striving to control his temper: under his breath he
muttered the words "Poltroon!  Coward!" once or twice.  Aloud he said:

"You are afraid?"

"I am a man of peace," the Professor replied.

"I don't believe it," de Batz protested.  "No man with decent feeling
in him would refuse to render this service.  Good God, man! you are not
risking your life, not like I and my friends are willing to do.  You
can help us, I know.  You must have a reason--a valid reason--for
refusing to do so.  As I say, you wouldn't be risking your life----"

"Not mine, but that of an innocent and a good man."

"What the devil do you mean?"

"You are proposing to throw the Abb Edgeworth to the wolves."

"I am not.  I am proposing to give him the chance of doing his bit in
the work of saving the life of his King.  He will thank me on his knees
for this."

"He probably would, for he is of the stuff that martyrs are made.  But
I will not help you to send him to his death."

With that he rose, ready to go, and reached for his hat and coat.  They
hung on a peg just above de Batz's head, and de Batz made no movement
to get out of the way.

"Don't go, man," he said earnestly, "not yet.  Listen to me.  You don't
understand.  It is all perfectly easy.  In less than an hour I shall
know who the apostate priest is whom the Convention are sending to His
Majesty.  I know all those fellows.  Most of them are in my pay.  They
are useful, if distinctly dirty, tool.  To substitute our abb for the
man chosen by the Convention will entail no risk, present no
difficulties, and will cost me less than the price of a good dinner.
Now what do you say?"

"What I said before," the other rejoined firmly.  "Whoever accompanies
Louis XVI to the guillotine, if he be other than the one chosen by the
Convention, will be a marked man.  His life will not be worth twelve
hours' purchase!"

"The guillotine?  The guillotine?" de Batz retorted hotly.  "Who talks
of the guillotine and of Louis XVI in one breath?  I tell you, man,
that our King will never mount the steps of the guillotine.  There are
five hundred of us worth a hundred thousand of Santerre's armed men who
will drag him out of the clutches of those assassins."

"May I have my coat?" was the Professor's quiet rejoinder.

His calmness brought de Batz's temper to boiling point.  He jumped to
his feet, snatched down the Professor's coat from its peg and threw it
down with a vicious snarl on the nearest chair.  The Professor,
seemingly quite unperturbed, picked it up, put it on and with a polite
"_Au revoir_, Monsieur le Baron!" to which the latter did not deign to
respond, he walked quietly out of the restaurant.




CHAPTER THREE

_The League_

It was about an hour or two later.  In a sparsely furnished room on the
second floor of an apartment house in the Rue du Bac five men had met:
four of them were sitting about on more or less rickety chairs, while
the fifth stood by the window, gazing out into the dusk and on the
gloomy outlook of the narrow street.  He was tall above the average,
was this individual, still dressed in the black, well-tailored suit
which he had worn during his dinner in company with the Austrian Baron
at Fvrier's, and which suggested a professional man: a professor
perhaps, at the university.

The outlook through the window was indeed gloomy.  But outside
depression did not apparently weigh on the spirits of the men.  There
was no look of despondency on their faces, rather the reverse, they
looked eager and excited, and the back of the tall man in black with
the broad shoulders and narrow hips suggested energy rather than
dejection.  After a time he turned away from the window and found a
perch on the edge of a broken-down truckle bed that stood in a corner
of the room.

"Well!" he began addressing the others collectively, "you heard what
that madman said?"

"Most of it," one of them replied.

"He has a crack-brained scheme of stirring up five hundred madcaps into
shouting and rushing the carriage in which the King will be driven from
prison to the scaffold.  Five hundred lunatics egged on by that
candidate for Bedlam, trying to reach that carriage which will be
escorted by eighty thousand armed men!  It would be ludicrous if it
were not so tragic."

"One wonders," remarked one of them, "who those wretched five hundred
are."

"Young royalists," the other replied, "all of them known to the
Committees.  As a matter of fact I happen to know that most of them, if
not all, will receive a visit from the police during the early hours of
the morning, and will not be allowed to leave their apartments till
after the execution of the King."

"Heavens, man!" the eldest of the four men exclaimed, "how did you know
that?"

"It was quite simple, my dear fellow, and quite easy.  The crowd filed
out as you know directly the final verdict was proclaimed.  It was
three o'clock in the morning.  Everybody there was almost delirious
with excitement.  No one took notice of anybody else.  The President
and the other judges went into the refreshment-room which is reserved
for them.  You know the one I mean.  It is in the Tour de Csar, at the
back of the Hall of Justice.  It has no door, only an archway.  There
was still quite a crowd moving along the corridors.  I got as near the
archway as I could, and I heard Vergniaud give the order that every
inhabitant of the city, known to have royalist or even moderate
tendencies, must be under police surveillance in their own apartments
until midday."

"Percy, you are wonderful!" the young man exclaimed fervently.

"Tony, you are an idiot!" the other retorted with a laugh.

"Then we may take it that our Austrian friend's scheme will just fizzle
out like a damp squib?"

"You had never thought, had you, Blakeney, that we...."

"God forbid!" Sir Percy broke in emphatically.  "I wouldn't risk your
precious lives in what common sense tells me is an impossible scheme.
It may be quixotic.  I dare say it is; but what in Heaven's name does
that megalomaniac hope to accomplish?  To break through a cordon of
troops ten deep?  Folly, of course!  But even supposing he and his five
hundred did succeed in approaching the carriage, what do they hope to
do _afterwards_!  Do they propose to fight the entire garrison of the
city which is a hundred and thirty thousand strong?  Does he imagine
for a moment that the entire population of Paris will rise as one man
and suddenly take up the cause of kingship?  Folly, of course!  Folly
of the worst type, because the first outcome of a hand-to-hand fight in
the streets would be the murder of the King in the open street by some
unknown hand.  Isn't that so?"

They all agreed.  Their chief was not in the habit of talking lengthily
on any point.  That he did so on this occasion was proof of how keenly
he felt about the whole thing.  Did he wish to justify before these
devoted followers of his, his inaction with regard to the condemned
King?  I do not think so.  He was accustomed to blind obedience--that
was indeed the factor that held the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel so
indissolubly together--and three of the four men who were here with him
to-day, Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Hastings,
were his most enthusiastic followers.

Be that as it may, he did speak lengthily on this occasion, and placed
before his friends a clear expos of the situation on the morrow as far
as any attempt at rescuing the King was concerned.  But there was
something more.  The others knew there was something else coming, or
their chief would not have given them the almost imperceptible signal
when he left the restaurant to wait for him in this squalid apartment,
which had for some time been their accustomed meeting place.  They
waited in silence and presently Sir Percy spoke again:

"Putting, therefore, aside the question of the King whose fate, of
course, horrifies us all, the man we have got to think of now is that
unfortunate priest whom de Batz wants to drag forcibly into this
scheme, and who will surely lose his head if our League does not
intervene."

"The Abb Edgeworth?" one of them said.

"Exactly.  Edgeworth is of Irish extraction, which adds to our interest
in him.  Still! that isn't the point.  He is a very good man, who has
worked unremittingly in the slums of Paris.  Anyway, we are not going
to throw him to the wolves, are we?"

They all nodded assent.  And Ffoulkes added: "Of course not if you say
so, Percy."

"I shall know towards morning whether de Batz has arranged to
substitute him for the man whom the Convention has chosen as confessor
for the King.  As soon as I do get definite information about that I
will get in touch with you.  We will take our stand at seven o'clock on
the Place de la Rvolution, at the angle of the Rue Egalit which used
to be the Rue Royale.  That will be the nearest point we can get to the
guillotine.  After the King's head has fallen there will be an immense
commotion in the crowd and a rush for those horrible souvenirs which
the executioner will sell to the highest bidder.  It makes one's gorge
rise even to think of that.  But it will be our opportunity.  Between
the five of us we'll soon get hold of Edgeworth and get him to safety."

"Where do you think of taking him?" Lord Tony asked.

"To Choisy.  You remember the Levets?"

"Of course.  I like old Levet.  He is a sportsman."

"I like him too," Sir Andrew added, "and I am terribly sorry for the
poor old mother.  I don't mind the girl either, but I don't trust that
sweetheart of hers."

"Which one?" Blakeney queried with a smile.  "Pretty little Blanche
Levet has quite a number."

"Ffoulkes means that doctor fellow," here interposed the youngest of
the three men, Lord St. John Devinne, who had sat silently and
obviously morose up to now, taking no part in the conversation between
his chief and his other friends.  He was a good-looking, tall young man
of the usual high-bred English type, and could have been called
decidedly handsome but for a certain look of obstinacy coupled with
weakness, which lurked in his grey eyes and was accentuated by the
somewhat effeminate curve of his lips.

"Pradel isn't a bad sort really," Sir Andrew responded.  "Perhaps a
little to fond of spouting about _Libert, galit_, and all the rest
of it."

"I can't stand the brute," Devinne muttered sullenly.  "He is always
talking and arguing and telling the unwashed crowds what fine fellows
they really are, if only they knew it, and what good times they are
going to have in the future."

He shrugged and added with bitter contempt:

"Libert?  galit?  What consummate rot!"

"Well!" Sir Percy interposed in his quiet, incisive voice, "isn't there
just something to be said for it?  The under-dog has had a pretty bad
time in France.  He is snarling now, and biting.  But Pradel--I know
him--is an intellectual, he will never be an assassin."

Devinne shrugged again and murmured: "I am not so sure about that."
While Lord Tony broke in with his cheery laugh and said:

"I'll tell you what's the matter with our friend Pradel."

"What?" Sir Andrew asked.

"He is in love."

"Of course.  With little Blanche Levet."

"Not he.  He is in love with Ccile de la Rodire."

This was received with derision and incredulity.

"What rubbish!" Sir Andrew said.

"Not really?" Hastings queried.

But Blakeney assented: "I am _afraid_ it's true."  While Devinne broke
in hotly:

"He wouldn't dare!"

"There's nothing very daring in being in love, my dear fellow," Sir
Percy remarked dryly.

"Then why did you say you were afraid it was true," the other retorted.

"Because that sort of thing invariably leads to trouble even in these
days."

"Can you see Madame la Marquise," was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' somewhat
bitter comment on the situation, "and her son Franois, if they should
happen to find out that the village doctor is in love with Mademoiselle
de la Rodire?"

"I can," Devinne remarked spitefully.  "There would be the good old
story, which I must say has something to be said for it: a sound
thrashing for Monsieur Pradel at the hands of Monsieur le Marquis,
and..."

He paused, and a dark flush spread over his good-looking face.
Chancing to look up he had met his chief's glance which rested upon him
with an expression that was difficult to define.  It was good-humoured,
pitying, slightly sarcastic, and, anyway, reduced the obstinate young
man to silence.

There was silence for a moment or two.  Somehow Lord St. John Devinne's
attitude, his curt argument with the chief, seemed to have thrown a
kind of damper on the eagerness of the others.  Blakeney after a time
consulted his watch and then said very quietly:

"It is time we got back to business."

At once they were ready to listen.  The word "business" meant so much
to them: excitement, adventure, the spice of their lives.  Only Devinne
remained silent and sullen, never once looking up in the direction of
his chief.

"Listen, you fellows," Blakeney now resumed in his firm, most
authoritative tone, "if you hear nothing from me between now and
to-morrow morning, it will mean that they have roped in that
unfortunate abb.  Well! we are not going to allow that.  He is a
splendid chap, who does a great deal of good work among the poor, and
if he allows himself to be roped in, it will be from an exaggerated
sense of duty.  Anyway, if you don't hear from me, we'll meet, as I
said, at seven o'clock sharp at the angle of the Rue galit and the
Place de la Rvolution.  After that, all you'll have to do will be to
stick to me as closely as you can, and if we get separated we meet
again at Choisy.  Make yourselves look as demmed a set of ruffians as
you can.  That shouldn't be difficult."

Again he paused before concluding:

"If on the other hand, the King is not to be accompanied to the
scaffold by the Abb Edgeworth, I will bring or send word to you here,
not later than five o'clock in the morning.  Remember that my orders to
you all for the night are: don't get yourselves caught.  If you do,
there will be trouble for us all."

The others smiled.  He then nodded to them, said briefly: "That is all.
Good night!  Bless you!" and the next moment was gone.  The others
listened intently for a while, trying to catch the sound of his
footsteps down the stone staircase, but none came, and they went over
to the window, and looked out into the street.  Through the fog and
driving sleet they could just perceive the tall figure of their chief
as he went across the road and then disappeared in the night.  With one
accord three gallant English gentlemen murmured a fervent: "God guard
him!"  But Devinne still remained silent, and after a little while went
out of the room.

Lord Tony said, speaking to both the others:

"Do you trust that fellow Devinne?" and then added emphatically: "I do
not."

My Lord Hastings shook his head thoughtfully.

"I wonder what is the matter with him."

"I can tell you that," Lord Tony observed.  "He is in love with
Mademoiselle de la Rodire.  He met her in Paris five years ago, before
all this revolutionary trouble had begun.  Her mother and, of course,
her brother won't hear of her marrying a foreigner, any more than a
village doctor, and Devinne, you know, is a queer-tempered fellow.  He
cannot really look on that fellow Pradel as a serious rival, and yet,
as you could see just now, he absolutely hates him and vents his spleen
upon him.  His attitude to the chief I call unpardonable.  That is why
I do not trust him."

Whereupon Sir Andrew murmured under his breath: "If we have a traitor
in the camp, then God help the lot of us."




CHAPTER FOUR

_January Twenty-first_

The streets of Paris on that morning were silent as the grave: only at
the gate of the Temple prison, when the King stepped out into the
street, accompanied by the Abb Edgeworth, and entered the carriage
that was waiting for him, were there a few feeble cries of "Mercy!
Mercy!" uttered mostly by women.  No other sound came from the crowd
that had assembled round the Temple gate.  All along the route too,
there was silence.  No one dared speak or utter a cry of compassion,
for every man was in terror of his neighbour, who might denounce him as
a traitor to the Republic.  The windows of all the houses were closed,
and no face was to be seen at them, peering out into the street.
Eighty thousand men at arms stood aligned, between the prison and the
Place de la Rvolution, where the guillotine awaited the royal victim
of this glorious revolution.  Through that cordon no man or body could
break, and at every street corner cannons bristled and the cannoneers
stood waiting with match burning, silent and motionless like stone
statues rather than men.  Nor was there sound of wheel traffic along
the streets, only the rumble of one carriage, in which sat the
descendant of sixteen kings about to die a shameful death by the
sentence of his people.  Louis sat in the carriage listening to Abb
Edgeworth who read out to him the Prayers for the Dying.

At the angle of the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle and the Rue de la Lune on
a hillock made up of debris from recent excavations, a short stout,
florid man was standing, wrapped in a dark cape.  It was the Baron de
Batz.  He had been standing here for the past three hours, trying
vainly to keep himself warm by stamping his feet on the frozen ground.
Two hours ago a couple of young men came down the narrow Rue de la Lune
and joined the lonely watcher.  There was some whispered conversation
between the three of them, after which they all remained silent at
their post, and from the height on which they stood, they scanned the
crowd to right and left of them with ever increasing anxiety.  But
there was no sign of any of the five hundred accomplices who were to
aid de Batz in his crazy scheme of saving the King.  As a matter of
fact de Batz didn't know that in the early hours of the morning most of
those five hundred had been roused from sleep by peremptory knocks at
their door.  A couple of gendarmes had then entered their apartment
with orders to keep them under observation, and not to allow them
outside their houses until past midday.  De Batz and the two friends
who were with him now had spent the night talking and scheming in a
tavern on the Boulevard and thus escaped this domiciliary visit.  They
could not understand what had happened, and as time went on they fell
to cursing their fellow-conspirators for their treachery or cowardice.
Time went on, leaden-footed but inexorable.  From the direction of the
Temple prison there had already come the ominous sound of the roll of
drums, soon followed by the rumble of carriage wheels.

Fog and sleet blurred the distant outline of the Boulevard but soon
through the vaporous mist de Batz and his friends could perceive the
vanguard of the military cortge.  First the mounted gendarmerie,
barring the whole width of the street, then the grenadiers of the
National Guard, then the artillery, followed by the drummers, and
finally the carriage itself, hermetically closed with shutters against
the windows, and round it and behind it more and more troops, more
cannon and drummers and grenadiers.  De Batz and his friends saw the
march past.  Luckily for them their five hundred adherents were not
there to shout and wave their arms and attempt to break through a
cordon of soldiery stronger than any that had ever marched through the
streets of a city before.  The three men were soon submerged in the
crowd that moved and surged in the direction of the Place de la
Rvolution.

Here in front of the guillotine the carriage came to a halt.  The Place
de la Rvolution behind the troops was crowded with idlers who were
trying to get a view of the awe-inspiring spectacle.  It was a great
thing to see a king on trial for his life.  It was a still greater
thing to see him die.

The carriage door was opened.  General Santerre commanded a general
beating of drums as the King of France mounted the steps of the
guillotine.  The Abb Edgeworth was close beside his King, still
murmuring the Prayers for the Dying.

It was all over in a moment.  Louis tried to say a few words to his
people protesting his innocence, but Santerre cried "_Tambours!_" once
more and the roll of drums drowned those last words of the dying
monarch.  The axe fell.  There were shouts of "_Vive la Rpublique!_"
there were caps raised on bayonets, hats were waved, and an excited
crowd made a rush for the scaffold as the executioner held up the dead
monarch's head.  Handkerchiefs were dipped in the blood.  Locks of hair
were cut off the head and sold by the executioner for pieces of silver.
There followed half an hour of frantic excitement, during which men
shrieked and women screamed, men tumbled over one another trying to
rush up the steps of the guillotine, and were hurled down again by the
executioner and his aides, while missiles of every kind flew over the
heads of this singing, waving, tumultuous mob.  The din was incessant
and drowned the intermittent roll of drums and the shouts of command
from the officers to the soldiery.

And throughout all this uproar the Abb Edgeworth remained on his
knees, on the spot where last he had had a sight of his King, and had
urged this son of St. Louis to mount serenely up to heaven.  He paid no
attention to all the wild screaming and roaring, or to the occasional
cries: "_ la lanterne le calotin!_" which were hurled threateningly at
his calm kneeling figure.

"_ mot le calotin!_" came at one time with a roar like that of an
unchained bull, quite close to his ear.

"_Non,  moi!_"

"_ moi!  moi!_"

It just went through the abb's mind that some in the crowd were
thirsting for his blood, that they would presently drag him to the
guillotine, and that he would be sent to his death in just the same way
as his King had been.  But the thought did not frighten him.  He went
on mumbling his prayers, until suddenly he felt himself seized round
the shoulders and lifted off his knees, while a frantic crowd still
cried: "_ lanterne le calotin!_" in the intervals of roaring with
laughter.

In the excitement of securing relics the tumultuous crowd forgot the
calotin, so wild a rush was there for the platform of the guillotine,
where the gruesome auction was about to take place.  The abb by now
was only half conscious.  He felt the pushing and the jostling all
round him, and then a heavy cloak or shawl was wrapped all round him,
through which all the hideous sounds became more and more muffled and
subdued, till they ceased altogether, and he finally completely lost
consciousness.

On the Place de la Rvolution, this half-hour of frantic excitement
gradually passed away.  Presently the troops departed and the crowd
gradually dispersed.  Men returned to their usual avocations, went to
restaurants and to cafs, bought, sold and bartered, as if this 21st
day of January, 1793 had not been one of the most stupendous ones in
the whole course of history.

In the Hall of the Convention members of the Government rubbed their
hands together, and deputies called to one another across the room:
"_C'est fait, c'est fait!_"  "It is done!"  The great thing is done.  A
king has died on the scaffold like a common criminal for having
conspired against the liberty of his people.

It was not until evening that the Convention in Committee decided that
the priest who had received the last confession of Louis Capet had
better be put out of the way.  He was not the man whom the Government
had chosen for the purpose.  Who knows what strange and uncomfortable
things Louis Capet may have confided to him at the last?  Anyway he was
better dead than alive, the committee decided, and the police was
instructed to proceed at once with his arrest.

But somehow or other in the turmoil which immediately followed the
execution of Louis Capet, the Abb Edgeworth had disappeared.




CHAPTER FIVE

_The Levets of Choisy_

The Levet family at this time was composed of four members.  The old
man Charles--he was actually not more than fifty but had always been
known as "old Levet" as against his eldest son "young Levet," of whom
more anon.  The old man, then, was by profession a herbalist; his work
took him out into the meadows and the mountains and along river banks
to collect the medicinal herbs required by the druggists.  This kind of
life--lonely of necessity for the most part--had made him silent and
introspective.  He had lived with Nature and knew her every mood:
nothing in her frightened him: frosts, snows, thunderstorms were his
friends.  He did not fear them: he communed with them.  Outside nature,
two loves had filled his life: his wife and his eldest son.  "Young
Levet," who was a lieutenant in the Royal Guard, was killed while
defending the Tuileries attacked by the mob in August '92.  "Old Levet"
was never the same man after that.  Sparing of words before, he became
taciturn and morose.  His wife never recovered from the shock.  She had
a paralytic stroke and had hovered between life and death ever since,
unable to speak, unable to move, her great dark eyes alone reflecting
the mental anguish which news from Paris of the horrors of the
Revolution caused to her enfeebled mind.  Both she and her husband,
like the beloved eldest son, were ardent royalists, and poor Henriette
Levet had very nearly died when she heard other members of her family
or friends speak of the trial of the King and the possibility of his
death.

The second and now only son of the Levets, Augustin, was a priest,
attached to Saint-Sulpice.  Like his father he was sparing of words
save in the exercise of his calling.  Whatever time he was able to
spare from his duties in the parish, he spent with his mother, reading
to her from books of devotion or the Lives of the Saints, in a dull,
dispassionate voice from which the poor sick woman did not seem to
derive much comfort.  On the other hand, Blanche, the daughter of the
Levets, did her best to bring an atmosphere not exactly of
cheerfulness, as that seemed impossible, but of distraction and of
brightness into the Levet household.  She was pretty, not yet twenty,
and young men gathered round her like flies round a honey-pot.  Her
brother's constant admonitions that she should take life seriously had
little effect on her mercurial temperament.  In order not to come in
conflict with her family and most of the friends who frequented her
father's house, she professed enthusiasm for the royalist cause, and as
she had a quick, inventive brain she knew how to exhibit loyalty for
the King and horror at his misfortunes.  But it was all very much on
the surface; her political views, such as they were, did not interfere
with her ready acceptance of the homage of young men of avowedly
revolutionary opinions such, for instance, as Louis Maurin, the young
lawyer who was very much in love with Blanche and very much in awe of
her papa, two reasons which caused him to keep his way of thinking to
himself.  "Old Levet" did not actually forbid Louis Maurin the house,
but he did not encourage the young man's visits; however, when he did
come, which was as often as he dared, Louis was very discreet, and
Blanche's provocative smile caused him to endure patiently the old
man's wrathful glances, whenever politics cropped up as subject of
conversation.

As a matter of fact Blanche did no more than flirt with young Maurin,
as she did with anything that wore breeches and avowed admiration for
her.  The youth of Choisy mostly did.  All except the local doctor,
Simon Pradel of Provenal parentage, erudite, good-looking, athletic,
and immensely popular in the commune where, with a small fortune left
to him by an uncle whom he had never seen, he had founded and endowed a
hospital for sick children.  He came frequently to the house in his
capacity as doctor to Madame Levet: the poor woman's large eyes spoke
the welcome that her lips could not utter, and he was the only man with
whom "old Levet" cared to have what he called a talk, which meant that
he listened with sympathy and even an occasional smile to what the
young doctor had to say.

Blanche did more than listen on those occasions, and both with smiles
and glances she showed Pradel that his visits were welcome, although,
as with all her admirers, she did no more than flirt with this one
also.  But strangely enough the young man remained impervious to the
spoilt beauty's blandishments, and his manner towards her was no
different to that which he displayed towards Marie Bachelier, the maid
of all work.  In Choisy itself Pradel was called by some a misanthrope
and even a woman-hater, but there were others who declared that they
had seen Dr. Pradel roaming o' nights in the purlieus of the Chteau de
la Rodire, in the hope, so they said, of catching a glimpse of
Mademoiselle Ccile.  Some of this tittle-tattle did not fail to reach
pretty Blanche Levet's ears, and it is an uncontrovertible axiom that
pique will always enkindle love.  Jealousy too played its part in this
sudden wakening of Blanche's unsophisticated heart.  Certain it is that
what had been at first little else than warm-hearted sympathy for the
young doctor became something very like infatuation, almost in the turn
of a hand.




CHAPTER SIX

_News_

This 21st day of January had been one of unmitigated terror and despair
for the inmates of the Levets' house at Choisy.  Old Levet had gone out
quite early in the morning.  With snow on the ground and a fog lying
thick over the river and the meadows he could not gather herbs and
simples and follow his usual avocation.  What he wanted above all,
however, was to be alone, and then to wander into the town in search of
news.  And he knew that he would have to break that news to his wife.
If he didn't tell her, she would guess, and when she knew she would
surely die.

And so the old man--really old now though he was no more than
fifty--wandered out into the streets of Choisy alone, communing with
himself, trying all in vain to steel himself against the awful blow
that was sure to fall.  All the morning he wandered aimlessly.  But at
ten o'clock he came to a halt.  There was something in the air that
told him that the awesome deed was accomplished: it was a distant
rumbling that sounded like the roll of thunder; but Levet knew in his
heart that it was the roll of drums, announcing to the world that the
head of a King of France had fallen under the guillotine.  And in his
heart he felt acute physical pain, and a sudden intense hatred for the
people all around him.  Old Levet fled down the street.  It led to the
river and the bridge.  At the bridge-head he stopped.  There was a
cornerstone there he sat down on it; and waited.  He had risen very
early in the morning, and when he opened the front door of his house,
he saw a note weighted down with a stone lying on the doorstep.  He
stooped and picked it up and read it, well knowing where the note came
from.  He had had several like it before, usually giving him
instructions how to help in a deed of mercy.  He had always been ready
to help and to obey those instructions for they came from a man whom he
only knew vaguely as a professor at some university, but whom he
respected above all men he had ever come across.  Charles Levet had
always given what help he could, often at considerable risk to himself.

The note to-day also gave him instructions, very simple ones this time.
All it said was: "Wait at the bridge-head from noon till dusk."  It was
only ten o'clock as yet, but old Levet didn't care.  What were hours to
him, now that such an awful calamity had sullied the fair name of
France for ever?  He was numb with cold and fatigue, but he didn't
care.  He just sat there, waiting and watching, with lacklustre eyes,
the stream of traffic go by over the bridge.

A distant church clock had struck four when out of the crowd of
passers-by two figures detached themselves and made straight for the
corner-stone where old Levet was sitting, waiting patiently.  A tall
figure and a short one: two men, both dressed in black and wrapped in
heavy capes against the cold.  Levet shook himself out of his torpor.
The taller of the two men helped him to struggle to his feet, and then
said:

"This is the Abb Edgeworth, Charles.  He was with His Majesty until
the last."

"We'll go straight home," Levet responded simply.  "It is cold here,
and Monsieur l'Abb is welcome."

Without another word the three men started to walk back through the
town.  It was characteristic of Levet that he made no further comment,
nor did he ask a question.  He walked briskly, ahead of the other two,
looking neither to right nor left.  The priest appeared to be in a
state of exhaustion; his tall friend held him tightly by the arm, to
enable him to walk at all.  At a distance of some hundred metres or so
from his house old Levet came to a halt.  He waited till the other two
came close to him, then he said simply:

"My wife is very ill.  She knows nothing yet.  Perhaps she guesses.
But I must prepare her.  Will you wait here?"

It was quite dark now, and the fog very dense.  Levet's shrunken figure
was quickly lost to view.




CHAPTER SEVEN

_Monsieur le Professeur_

The Levet's house stood about four metres back from the road, behind a
low wall which was surmounted by an iron railing.  An iron grille gave
access to a tiny front garden, intersected by a narrow brick path which
led to the front door.  Charles Levet went into the house, closing the
door noiselessly.  He took off his cloak, and went straight into the
sitting-room.  It adjoined his wife's bedroom.  The double
communicating doors were wide open, and he could see the invalid
stretched out on her bed, with her thin arms spread outside the
coverlet.  Her great dark eyes looked agonisingly expectant.  Her son
Augustin was on his knees beside the bed, murmuring half-audible
prayers.  As soon as she caught sight of her husband, she guessed that
all was over, and that the unforgivable crime had been committed.  Old
Levet knew that she guessed.  He came quickly to the bedside.  An
ashen-grey hue spread over the dying woman's face and a film gathered
over her eyes.

"The doctor," old Levet commanded, speaking to his son.

"Too late," Augustin responded without rising from his knees: "her soul
has fled to God!"  He turned over a page in his book of devotion and
began reciting the Prayers for the Dead.

Levet stooped and kissed his dead wife's forehead.  Then he reverently
closed her eyes.  The shock, even though she had expected it, had
killed her.  The death of her eldest son had stretched her on a bed of
sickness, the death of her King had brought about the end.  The horror
of the deed the knowledge of the appalling sacrilege had snapped the
attenuated thread that held her to life.

Levet broke in, with some impatience, on his son's orisons:

"Where is your sister?" he asked.

"She went out a few moments ago to fetch Pradel.  I could see that my
mother was passing away, so I sent her."

"She shouldn't have gone out alone at night, in this fog, too...."

"She wasn't alone," the young priest rejoined, "Louis Maurin was with
her."

At the mention of the name the old man flared up: "You don't mean to
tell me that to-day of all days, that renegade was in my house?"

Augustin gave an indifferent shrug.  His father went on with unabated
vehemence: "With your mother lying on the point of death, Augustin, you
should not have allowed this outrage."

"Communion with the dying," the priest retorted, "was of greater import
than political quarrels.  Maurin didn't stay long," he went on; "I had
to send for Pradel, I wanted him to go.  But Blanche insisted on going
herself.  But what does it all matter, father?  In face of what
happened to-day what does anything matter in this sinful world?"

Charles Levet remained standing, silent and almost motionless by the
bedside of his dead wife.  Then he turned abruptly and went through the
sitting-room out into the street.  Some two hundred metres up the road
he came on Blakeney and the priest who were waiting for him.  The
latter by now was scarcely able to stand; he was leaning heavily
against the Englishman's shoulder.

Levet said simply: "My wife is dead," and then added: "Come, Monsieur
l'Abb, you are welcome!  And you too, Monsieur le Professeur."

Between them the two men supported the tottering footsteps of the abb,
almost carried him, in fact, as far as the grille.  Here the three men
came to a halt, and Blakeney said:

"I think Monsieur l'Abb will be all right now.  When he has had some
food and a short rest, he will be able to come with me as far as the
chteau.  Monsieur le Marquis will look after him the rest of the night
and," he added speaking to the priest, "we hope within the next
twenty-four hours, Monsieur l'Abb, to have you well on the way to
permanent safety."

"I don't know," the abb murmured feebly, "how to show my gratitude to
you, sir.  You and your friends were heroic in dragging me away from
that cruel mob.  I don't even know who you are--yet you saved my life
at risk of your own--why you did it I cannot guess----"

"Don't try, Monsieur l'Abb," Blakeney broke in quietly, "and reserve
your gratitude for my friend Charles Levet, without whose loyalty my
friends and I would have been helpless."

He gave Levet's hand a friendly squeeze and opened the grille for the
two men to pass through.  He waited a moment or two till they reached
the front door, and was on the point of turning to go when he was
confronted by two figures which had just emerged out of the fog.  One
of them was Blanche Levet.  Blakeney raised his hat and she exclaimed:

"If it isn't Monsieur le Professor?  Why! what are you doing in Choisy,
monsieur, at this time of night?"

She turned to her companion and went on still lightly and
inconsequently:

"Louis, don't you know Monsieur le Professeur----"

"D'Arblay," Blakeney put in, as Blanche had paused, not knowing the
name of her father's friend, who had always been referred to in the
house as _Monsieur le Professeur_.  "No," he continued, turning to the
young lawyer, "I have not yet had the honour of meeting Monsieur----I
mean citizen----'

"Maurin," Blanche broke in, "Louis Maurin, and now you know each
other's names, will you both come in and----"

"Not now, mademoiselle," Blakeney said, "Madame Levet is too ill to----"

"My mother is dead," Blanche rejoined quietly.  "I went to fetch
Docteur Pradel, because Augustin wished me to, but I knew then already
that she was dead."

She spoke without any emotion.  Evidently no great tie of filial love
bound her to her sick mother.  She murmured a quick "Good night,"
however.  Blakeney held the grille open for her, and she ran swiftly
into the house.

The two men waited a moment or two until they heard the door of the
house close behind the young girl.  Then Maurin said:

"Are you going back to Choisy, citizen?"  When Blakeney replied with a
curt "Yes!" the lawyer continued: "May I walk with you part of the way?
I am going into the town myself."

On the way down the street, Louis Maurin did most of the talking, he
spoke of the great event of the day, but did so in a sober, quiet
manner.  Evidently he did not belong to the Extremist Party, or at any
rate did not wish to appear as anything but a moderate and patriotic
Republican.  Blakeney answered in monosyllables.  He knew little, he
said, about politics; science, he said, was a hard taskmaster who
monopolised all his time.  Arrived opposite the Caf Tison on the
Grand' Place, he was about to take his leave when Maurin insisted that
they should drink a _Fine_ together.  Blakeney hesitated for a few
seconds; then he suddenly made up his mind and he and the young lawyer
went into the caf together.

Louis Maurin had begun to interest him.




CHAPTER EIGHT

_Maurin the Lawyer_

There was quite a crowd in the caf.  A number of idlers and quidnuncs
had drifted out by now from Paris bringing with them news of the great
event, and of the minor happenings that clustered round it.  Philipe
d'Orlans, now known as Philipe galit, Louis Capet's own cousin, had
driven in a smart cabriolet to the Place de la Rvolution, and watched
his kinsman's head fall under the guillotine.  "A good patriot, what?"
was the universal comment on his attitude.  The priest who had been
with Capet to the last had mysteriously disappeared at the very moment
when, in the Hall of Justice, a decree had been promulgated ordering
his arrest.  He was, it seems, a dangerous conspirator whom traitors in
the pay of Austria had sent to the Temple prison as a substitute for
the priest chosen by the Convention to attend on Louis Capet.  This
news was received with execration.  But the priest could not have gone
far.  The police would soon get him, and he would then pay his second
visit to Madame la Guillotine with no chance of paying her a third.

That was the general trend of conversation in the Caf Tison: the
telling of news and the comments thereon.  Louis Maurin and Blakeney
had secured a table in a quiet corner of the room; they ordered coffee
and _Fine_, and the lawyer told the waiter to bring him pen, ink and
paper.  These were set before him.  He said a polite "Will you excuse
me?" to his _vis--vis_ before settling down to write.  When he had
finished what appeared to be a longish letter, he slipped it into an
envelope, closed and addressed it, and then summoned the waiter back.
He handed him the letter together with some small money, and said
peremptorily:

"There is a commissionaire outside.  Give him this and tell him to take
it at once to the Town Hall."

The waiter said: "Yes, citizen!" and went out with the letter, after
which short incident the two men sat on silently opposite one another
for a time, sipping their coffee and _Fine_, watching the bustling
crowd around them, and listening to the chatter and comments and
expressions of approval and disapproval more or less earsplitting, as
the news of the quidnuncs brought were welcome or the reverse.

And suddenly Maurin came out with an abrupt question:

"Who was that with old Levet just now, Monsieur le Professeur?" he
asked.  "Do you happen to know?  He was dressed like a priest.  I am
sure I saw a cassock."

He blurted this out in a loud, rasping voice, almost as if he felt
irritated by Monsieur le Professeur's composure and desired to upset
it.  He did not know, astute lawyer though he was, that he was sitting
opposite a man whom no power on earth could ever ruffle or disturb.
The man to him was just a black-coated worker like himself, a professor
at some university or other, a Frenchman, of course, judging from his
precise and highly cultured speech.

"I saw no one," Blakeney replied simply.  "Perhaps it was a priest
called in to attend Madame Levet.  You heard Mademoiselle Blanche say
that her mother was dying."

"Dead, I understood," Maurin commented dryly.  "But Levet, anyhow, had
no need to send for a priest.  His own son is a _calotin_."

"Indeed?  Then it must have been the doctor."

"The doctor?  No, Blanche and I went to fetch Dr. Pradel but he was not
in."

Maurin remained silent for a minute or two and then said decisively:

"I am sure--or nearly sure that it was not Pradel.  Of course the fog
was very dense and I may have been mistaken.  But I don't think I was.
At any rate..."

He paused, and thoughtfully sipped his coffee over the rim of his cup;
he seemed to be watching his _vis--vis_ very intently.

Suddenly he said:

"I shall be going to the Town Hall presently.  Will you accompany me,
Monsieur le Professeur?"

"To the Town Hall?  I regret but I..."

"It won't take up much of your time," the young lawyer insisted, "and
your presence would be very helpful to me."

"How so?"

"As a witness."

"Would you mind explaining?  I don't quite understand."

Maurin called for another _Fine_, drank it down at a gulp and went on:

"Should I be boring you, Monsieur le Professeur, if I were to tell you
something of my own sentimental history.  You are, I know, an intimate
friend of the Levets, and my story is closely connected with theirs.
Shall I be boring you?" he reiterated.

"Not in the least," Blakeney answered courteously.

The young man leaned across the table and lowering his voice to a
whisper he began:

"I love Blanche Levet.  My great desire is to make her my wife.
Unfortunately her father hates me like poison.  Though I am a moderate,
if convinced Republican, he classes me with all those whom he calls
assassins and regicides."  He paused a moment, then once more insisted:
"You are quite sure that this does not bore you, Monsieur le
Professeur?"

"Quite sure," Blakeney replied.

"You are very kind.  I was hoping to enlist your sympathy, perhaps your
co-operation, because Blanche has often told me that old Levet has a
great regard for you."

"And I for him."

"Quite so.  Now, my dear Professeur," the lawyer went on
confidentially, "when I saw just now old Levet introducing a man
surreptitiously into his house, a scheme suggested itself to me which I
fervently hope will bring about my union with the woman of my choice.
I cannot tell you what put it into my head that Levet was acting
surreptitiously, all I know is that the thought did occur to me, and
that it gave rise in my mind to the scheme which, with your permission,
I will now put before you, as I say, with a view to soliciting your
kind co-operation.  Will you allow me to proceed?"

"Please do," Blakeney responded.  "You interest me enormously."

"You are very kind."

Once more the lawyer paused.  The noise in the room made conversation
difficult.  He leaned further over the table, and went on still in a
subdued tone of voice:

"Whether the man who was with Charles Levet just now, and whom he took
into his house was a genuine priest or not, I neither know nor care.
He may be the fugitive Abb Edgeworth for aught it matters to me.  I am
practically certain that it wasn't the doctor, but anyway he is just a
pawn in the close game which I propose to play, a game, the ultimate
stakes of which are my future welfare and success in my career.  Old
Levet has more money than you would think," he added unblushingly, "and
Blanche, besides being very attractive--I am really in love with
her--will have a considerable _dot_, whilst I...."

He gave a significant shrug and added: "Well! we understand one
another, do we not, Monsieur le Professeur?  With us black-coated
workers money is the only ladder to success."

"Quite so," Blakeney assented imperturbably.

"Anyway what I am going to do is this.  I have just sent a letter to
the Chief of Section at the Town Hall, denouncing the Levet family as
harbouring a traitor in their house.  I enjoy a great deal of prestige
with our local authorities and they will take my word for it that the
Levets' guest is a dangerous conspirator against the Republic.  Now do
you guess my purpose?"

"Not exactly."

"It is really quite simple.  Just think for a moment how we shall all
stand within the next few hours.  Levet, his daughter, his son and his
guest arrested.  I, Louis Maurin, using my influence with the
authorities to get the family liberated.  Levet's gratitude expressed
by granting me his daughter's hand in marriage.  Surely you can see how
splendidly it will all work."

"Not quite," Blakeney remarked after a slight pause.

"Where's the hitch?"

"I was thinking of the guest.  Will your influence be extended towards
his liberation also?"

"Oh!" the lawyer replied airily, "I am not going to trouble myself
about him.  If nothing is proved against him, if he is really just a
constitutional priest called in to administer the sacraments to a dying
woman, he will get his release without interference on my part."

"He may not."

The lawyer shrugged.  "Anyway he will have to take his chance.  My dear
friend," he went on with an affected sigh, "a great many heads will
fall within the next few days, weeks, months perhaps; are we not on the
eve of far bigger things than have occurred as yet?  One head more or
less ... what does it matter?"

To this Blakeney made no immediate reply, and presently the young
lawyer resumed, putting all the persuasiveness he could command into
his tone:

"You will not refuse me your co-operation, will you, Monsieur le
Professeur."

"You will pardon me," Blakeney responded, "but you have not yet told me
what you desire me to do."

"Just for the moment, only to come with me as far as the Town Hall, and
bear witness to the fact that old Levet introduced a man
surreptitiously into his house this afternoon."

"But I don't know that he did."

Maurin shrugged.  "Does that matter?" he queried blandly, "between
friends?"

Then as Monsieur le Professeur made no comment on this amazing
suggestion, he continued glibly:

"It is all perfectly simple, my dear Professeur, as you will see, and
nothing that will happen need upset your over-sensitive conscience.  I
will merely call upon you to confirm with a word or two, my statement
that Charles Levet introduced someone furtively into his house, at the
very time when his wife was breathing her last.  There will be no
question of an oath or anything of the sort, just a few words.  But we
will both insist that Levet's actions were furtive.  Won't we?  I can
reckon on you for this can I not, my dear friend?  I may call you my
friend, may I not?"

"If you like."

"You really are most kind.  And you will plead my cause with old Levet
when my marriage with Blanche comes on the _tapis_ presently, won't
you, my friend?  Funnily enough I felt you were going to be my friend
the moment I sat down at this table opposite to you.  But then Blanche
had often spoken to me about you, and in what high regard her father
held you ...  Well!" he concluded, after he had paused for breath for a
few seconds, "what do you say?" and his eyes glowing and eager,
fastened themselves on the other's face.

By way of answer Blakeney rose.

"That the doors of the Town Hall will be closed against us, unless we
hurry," he replied with a smile.

Maurin drew a deep sigh of satisfaction.

"Then you really are coming with me?" he exclaimed, and jumped to his
feet.  He beckoned to the waiter, and there ensued a friendly little
dispute as to who should pay the bill, a dispute from which the lawyer
gracefully retired, leaving his newly-found friend to settle both the
bill and the gratuity.  While he reached for his hat and cloak he just
went on talking, talking as if something in his brain had let loose a
veritable flood-gate of eloquence.  He talked and he talked, and never
noticed that Monsieur le Professeur, in the interval of settling with
the waiter had scribbled a few lines on the back of the bill, and kept
the crumpled bit of paper in the hollow of his hand.  He piloted the
voluble talker through the shrieking and gesticulating crowd as far as
the door.

The next moment the two men were out in the Place.  The fog seemed more
dense than ever.  As the Town Hall was at some distance from the Caf
Tison they started to walk briskly across the wide-open space.  It was
almost deserted, everyone having taken refuge against the cold and the
damp in the brilliantly-lighted restaurants and cafs: all except a
group of three or four slouchy-looking fellows clad in the promiscuous
garments affected by the irregular Republican Guard.  They were
standing outside the Caf Tison, very much in the way of the customers
who went in or out, and had to be jostled and pushed aside by Monsieur
le Professeur before he and Louis Maurin could get past.




CHAPTER NINE

_Orders from the Chief_

Maurin was walking on ahead while he and Monsieur le Professeur crossed
the Grand' Place.  In the centre of the open space there was at that
time a monumental fountain to which a short flight of circular steps
gave access.  In addition to the fog, a sharp frost now made progress
difficult.  The ground covered with a thin layer of half-melted snow,
was very slippery, especially around the fountain which, though not
playing at this hour had been going all day, and had scattered spray
all around, so that the steps and the pavement around it were covered
with a sheet of ice.

Maurin was treading warily.  He nearly slipped at one point, and was
just in time to save himself from falling.  He called out a quick "Take
care!" to his companion.  But the warning came, apparently, just a few
seconds too late for in answer to his call there came a sudden cry
accompanied by a few vigorous swear words, quite unlike the usual
pedantic speech of Monsieur le Professeur.  The lawyer turned round at
once and saw that learned gentleman sprawling on the ground.

"Whatever has happened?" he queried with ill-disguised impatience.

It was pretty obvious.  Monsieur le Professeur lay, groaning, across
the steps.

"Can't you get up?" the lawyer asked tartly.

"I'll try," the other replied.  Apparently he made a genuine effort to
rise, but fell back again groaning piteously.

"But," Maurin insisted with distinct acerbity, "I have to be at the
Town Hall before six.  It is ten minutes to now, and it is a good step
down the Rue Haute.  Can't you make an effort?"

"I'm afraid not.  I think I have broken my ankle.  I couldn't walk,
unless you supported me."

"Then we should get to the Town Hall too late," the other retorted.
"What's to be done?"

"You go, my friend, and I will follow as soon as I can.  I dare say I
can enlist the assistance of a passer-by to find me a cabriolet, and
you can keep the Chief of Section talking till I come."

"Well, if you don't mind being left..."

"No, no!  You go!  I'll come along as quickly as possible."

"There's a fellow coming this way now.  Shall I call him?"

"Thank you.  If you will."

He seemed in great pain, and unable to move.  A man in blouse and
tattered breeches, apparently one of the irregular Republican Guard who
had been hanging round the caf loomed out of the fog, and came
slouching along towards the fountain.  Maurin hailed him.

"My friend is hurt," he said quickly; "will you look after him and
bring him to the Town Hall as soon as you can?  He will pay you well."

The man came nearer.  He mumbled something about a cabriolet.

"Yes, yes!" Maurin acquiesced eagerly.  "Try and get one.  Don't wait!
Run!"

After which peremptory order he turned once more to Monsieur le
Professeur.

"You will not fail me, will you?" he insisted.

"No, no!  I'll be with you as soon as I can.  I promise."

Whereupon the lawyer finally went his way.  The fog soon wrapped him
up, out of sight, for he crossed the Place now almost at a run.  How
surprised, not to say gravely disturbed, he would have been if he had
been gifted with second sight, and seen Monsieur le Professeur rise at
once and without any effort to his feet, apparently quite unhurt.  The
fellow in blouse and tattered breeches was quite close to him again,
and asked anxiously:

"You are not really hurt, are you, Percy?"

"Of course not, you idiot," Blakeney replied with a light laugh.  "Tell
me! have the others gone?"

"Tony and Hastings went straight to the Levets, according to your
orders.  I suppose you scribbled the note while you were in the caf."

"As best I could.  You deciphered it all right?"

"Yes!  Tony and Hastings will take charge of the abb.  The three of us
are dressed in these rags as Irregulars of the Republican Guard.  Tony
has actually got a tricolour scarf round his middle.  He and Hastings
will formally arrest the abb and take him at once to La Rodire.
Devinne went first to headquarters to change into his own clothes and
then will go on straight to the chteau in a cabriolet to prepare the
Marquis and his family for the arrival of the priest.  Hastings or Tony
will try to get in a word with old man Levet to assure him that
everything is by your orders.  That is right, isn't it?"

"Quite all right.  Now you go on to the chteau yourself, my good
fellow, and wait for me there.  Tell the others as soon as they have
seen the abb safely in the bosom of the La Rodire family, to take up
their stand with you just outside the chteau gates.  I will be there
too as soon as I possibly can."

"Right!"

"You know your way?"

"I'll find it."

And so they parted: one going to the right, the other to the left.
Both were soon swallowed up by the fog.  A cabriolet came lumbering
along presently.  Blakeney hailed him, and ordered the driver to take
him to the Town Hall.




CHAPTER TEN

_The Abb Edgeworth_

Chance favoured the two members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
my Lord Hastings and Lord Anthony Dewhurst.  They had their orders from
the chief and went straight to the Levets' house, and it was Levet
himself who opened the door to them in answer to their ring at the
outside bell.  Briefly they told him who had sent them and what their
orders were, and the old man went at once in search of his guest.  The
Abb Edgeworth had in the meanwhile enjoyed Charles Levet's
hospitality: he had had food, a little drink and a short rest, but he
still appeared dazed and aghast, as if moonstruck and awed by
everything that had happened to him since dawn.

And now this kind old man telling him that all was well: powerful
friends would take him to La Rodire where he would be received with
open arms, and where he could remain until such time as a more
permanent refuge could be found for him.  The abb was bewildered.
Who, he asked, were those wonderful friends who had rescued him at
peril of their own lives, and now continued their work of mercy?  But
Levet couldn't tell him.  He spoke vaguely of a man who was professor
at a university and seemed to have marvellous courage, and limitless
resources.  He himself had only known him a little while.  Who he was,
he couldn't say.  He came and went mysteriously and equally
mysteriously would invariably be on the spot when innocent men, women
or children's lives were threatened.  His dead wife had looked upon the
man as a messenger from heaven.  There was no time to say more just
now.  Old Levet urged the abb to hurry.

A moment or two later he was standing once again at the gate of his
house, watching three figures move away up the road.  They looked like
shadows in the fog.  One of them was the Abb Edgeworth.  Levet didn't
know the others.

These two, who were emissaries of the Professeur, had spoken French
with a foreign accent.  Levet thought they must have been English.  But
then it seemed incredible that foreigners would take any interest in
the sufferings of Frenchmen who were loyal to their King.  Englishmen
especially.  Why should they care?  This awful revolution over here had
nothing to do with them.  Some people went so far as to assert that the
English would soon declare war against France--that is to say, not
against France but against this abominable Republic which had
established itself on a foundation of outrage and of murder.  Anyway,
it was all quite un-understandable.  Old Levet went indoors, very
perplexed and shaking his head.  He went straight into the room where
his wife lay dead.

Augustin was still in the room when Levet entered.  He was talking in a
subdued tone to a tall young man who had a tablet in his hand on which
he was apparently making notes with a point of black lead.  He was
dressed in black from head to foot, with plain white frills at throat
and wrist: he wore high boots, and his own hair, innocent of wig, was
tied at the nape of the neck with a black bow.  Apparently Levet knew
that he was there, for he took no notice of him when he entered the
room.

The young man, however, at once put tablet and pencil into his pocket
and turned as if to go.

"Don't go, Pradel," Levet said curtly; "supper will be ready directly."

"If you will pardon me, Monsieur Levet," the other responded, "I will
just say good night to Mademoiselle Blanche.  I have been summoned to
the chteau, and am already rather late."

"Someone ill up there?" the old man queried.

"Seemingly."

"Who is it?"

"They didn't tell me.  Monsieur le Marquis's pet dog perhaps," the
young doctor added with stinging bitterness, "or his favourite horse."

Levet made no remark on this.  He moved to his wife's bedside, and
Simon Pradel, after bidding him and Augustin good night, went out of
the room.

Blanche was in the sitting-room, apparently waiting for him.

"You are not going, Simon?" she asked eagerly as soon as he came
through the door.

"I am afraid I must, mademoiselle."

"Can't you stay and have supper with us?" she insisted so earnestly
this time, that her voice shook a little and a few tears gathered in
her eyes.

"I am sorry," he replied gently, "but I really must go."

"Why?"

He gave a slight shrug.  "Professional visit, mademoiselle," he said.

"You are going to the chteau," she retorted.

"What makes you say that?" he countered with a smile.

"You have your best clothes on, and your finest linen."

His smile broadened.  It was a pleasant smile, which lent to his
somewhat stern face a great deal of charm.  He looked down ruefully at
his well-worn suit of black.

"I have only this one," he said, "and I have great regard for clean
linen."

Blanche said nothing for a moment or two.  She was very obviously
fighting a wave of emotion which caused her lips to quiver, and tears
to gather thick and fast in her eyes.  And all at once she moved up,
close to him, and placed a hand on his arm.

"Don't go to the chteau, Simon," she entreated.

"My dear, I must.  Madame la Marquise might be ill.  Besides..."

"Besides what?"  And as Simon didn't reply to this challenge, she went
on vehemently: "You only go there because you hope to have a word or
two with Ccile de la Rodire.  You, a distinguished medical man, with
medals and degrees from the great universities of Europe, you demean
yourself by attending on these people's horses and dogs like any common
veterinary lout.  Have you no pride, Simon?  And all the time you must
know that that aristocrat's daughter can never be anything to you."

Pradel had remained silent during this vehement tirade.  He appeared
detached and indifferent, as if the girl's lashing words were not
addressed to him.  Only the smile had vanished from his face leaving it
rather pale and stern.  When Blanche had finished speaking, chiefly
because the words were choked in her throat, she sank into a chair and
dissolved in tears.  She cried and sobbed in a veritable paroxism of
grief.  Pradel waited in silence till the worst of that paroxism had
passed, then he said gently:

"Mademoiselle Blanche, I am sure you meant kindly by me, when you
struck at me with so much contempt and cruelty.  I assure you that I
bear you no ill-will for what you said just now.  With your permission
I will call in to-night on my way back from the chteau to see how your
dear father is bearing up.  Frankly I am a little anxious about him.
He is no age, but he has a tired heart, and he has had a great deal to
endure to-day.  Good night, mademoiselle."

After he had gone, Blanche roused herself sufficiently to go into the
kitchen and order supper to be brought in at once.  They all sat down
to table and the old man said grace before he served the soup.  They
had just begun to eat, when a cabriolet drove up to the grille.  A
vigorous pull at the outside bell caused old Levet to rise.  The family
only kept one maid of all work and she was busy dishing up, so he went
himself to the door as he most usually did: before he had time to reach
the grille, the bell was pulled again.

"I wonder who that can be," Blanche remarked.

"Whoever it is seems in a great hurry," observed her brother.

Old Levet opened the door.  Louis Maurin stepped over the threshold.
He appeared breathless with excitement.  Before Levet could formulate a
question he thrust the old man back into the vestibule, exclaiming:

"Ah! my good friend!  Such a calamity!  Thank God I am just in time."

"In time for what?" Levet muttered.  He had disliked the lawyer at all
times, for he looked on him as a traitor and now a regicide, but never
had he hated him so bitterly as he did to-day.

"I chanced to be at the Town Hall," Maurin went on, still breathlessly,
"and heard that there is an order out for your arrest and I am afraid
that the order includes your family--and your guest," he concluded
significantly.

Levet appeared to take the news with complete indifference.  The mock
arrest of the Abb Edgeworth by two emissaries of Monsieur le
Professeur had assured him that the priest at any rate had nothing to
fear.  He gave a slight shrug and said quietly:

"Let them arrest me and my family, if they want to.  We are willing to
share the fate of our King."

"Don't talk like that, my dear friend," the lawyer admonished
earnestly, "such talk has become really dangerous now.  And you have
your son and daughter to think of."

"They are of one mind with me," Levet retorted gruffly, "and if that is
all you have come to say..."

Instinct of hospitality, which with old Levet amounted to a virtue, did
prevent his ordering this "traitor" summarily out of his house.

"I came from pure motives of friendship," the young man rejoined, in a
tone of gentle reproach, "to warn you of what was impending.  The
matter is far more serious than you seem to realise."

"I needed no warning.  Loyal people like ourselves must be prepared
these days for any calamity."

"But there is your guest..." Maurin put in.

"My guest?  What guest?"

"The man you brought to your house this afternoon.  The authorities
have got to know of this surreptitious visit.  It has aroused their
suspicion.  Hence the order for your arrest--and his."

Old Levet gave another shrug.

"There's no one here," he said coolly, "except my son and daughter and
the maid."

"Come, come, my dear friend," the lawyer retorted, and his tone became
more reproachful, and more gentle like that of a father admonishing his
obstinate child, "you must not incriminate yourself by denying
indisputable facts.  I myself saw you introducing a stranger into your
house, and your friend the professor can also bear witness to this."

"I tell you there's no stranger here," old Levet reasserted harshly.
"And now I pray you to excuse me.  My family waits with supper for me."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the sound of a rumble of
wheels accompanied by the tramping of measured footsteps was heard
approaching the house.  There was a cry of "Halt!" outside the grille
and then the usual summons: "In the name of the Republic!" the grille
was thrust open, there was more tramping of heavy feet over the stone
path to the house, and loud banging on the massive front door.

"What did I tell you?" Maurin queried.  He pushed past old Levet and
strode quickly across the vestibule to the dining-room, where at sound
of that ominous call Blanche and Augustin had jumped to their feet.
The lawyer put one finger to his lips and murmured rapidly:

"Do not be afraid.  I am watching over you all.  You have nothing to
fear.  But tell me quickly, where is the stranger?"

"The stranger?" Augustin responded.  "What stranger?"

"You know quite well," the other retorted.  "Your father's guest, whom
he brought here this afternoon."

"There has been no one here all day," Augustin rejoined quietly.  "My
mother died.  Dr. Pradel was here to certify.  There has been no one
else."

Maurin turned sharply to the girl.

"Blanche," he said earnestly, "tell me the truth.  Where is your
father's guest?"

"Augustin has told you, Louis," she replied, "there is no one here but
ourselves."

"They will search the house you know," he insisted.

"Let them."

"And question your maid."

"She can only tell them the truth."

The lawyer was decidedly nonplussed.  Looking about him, he could not
help noticing that only three places were laid round the table, and
that there were only three half-empty soup plates there, while the
tureen still stood on the sideboard.

Through the door, which was ajar, he could hear old Levet give
categorical replies to the questions which the sergeant of the guard
put to him.

"There is no one here."

"Only the doctor came this afternoon."

"He came to certify."

"My son and daughter are at supper.  My wife is dead.  You can question
the maid."

Maurin spoke once more to Blanche.

"Mademoiselle," he entreated, "for your own sake, tell me the truth."

"I have told you," she reasserted, "there is no one here except
ourselves."

The lawyer smothered the harsh word which came to his lips: he said
nothing more, however, turned on his heel and went out of the room.

"What is all this?" he asked curtly of the sergeant.

"You know best, citizen lawyer," was the soldier's equally curt reply.

"I?" Maurin retorted unblushingly.  "What the devil has it got to do
with me?"

"Well! it was you, I understand, who denounced these people."

"That is a lie," the other protested hotly.

"Who did then?"

"A friend of the family, Professor d'Arblay."

"Where is he?"

"He had an accident in the road.  Sprained his ankle.  He had to drive
home."

"Where is his home?

"I don't know.  I hardly know him."

"But you were with him in the Town Hall.  You were seen coming out of
the Chief Commissary's cabinet."

"I was there on professional business," the lawyer retorted tartly,
"and you have no right to question me like that.  I had nothing to do
with this denunciation, as I have the honour of being on friendly terms
with this family.  And I may as well tell you that I shall use all the
influence I possess to clear the whole of this matter up.  So you had
better behave decently while you are in this house.  It won't be good
for you if you do not."

He raised his voice and spoke peremptorily like one accustomed to be
listened to with deference.  But the sergeant seemed unimpressed.  All
he said was:

"Very well, citizen.  You will act, no doubt, as you think best in your
own interests.  I have only my duty to perform."

He gave a quick order to two of his men, who immediately stepped
forward and took up their stand one on each side of Charles Levet.  The
sergeant then crossed the vestibule, and taking no further notice of
the lawyer, he went into the dining-room.  Blanche and Augustin had
resumed their seats at the table.  Blanche sat with her chin cupped in
her hand.  Augustin, his eyes closed his fingers twined together,
seemed absorbed in prayer.  In the background Marie, the maid of all
work, stood agape like a frightened hen.

The sergeant took a comprehensive survey of the room.  He was a
stolid-looking fellow, obviously a countryman and not over-endowed with
intelligence, and he gave the impression that what he lacked in
personality he strove to counterbalance by bluster: the sort of bumpkin
in fact whom the Revolution had dragged out of obscurity and thrust
into some measure of prominence, and who was determined to make the
most of his unexpected rise to fortune.  He took no further notice of
the lawyer, cleared his throat, and announced with due pompousness:

"In the name of the Republic!"

He then unfolded a paper which he had in his hand, and continued:

"I have here a list of all the inmates of this house, as given to the
Chief of Section this afternoon, either by Citizen Maurin or his friend
the Professeur with the sprained ankle, whose address is not known.  I
will read aloud the names on this list, and each one of you on hearing
your name, say the one word, 'Present' and stand at attention.  Now
then!"

He then proceeded to read and to interpolate comments of his own after
every name.

"Charles Levet, herbalist!  We have got him safely already.  Henriette
his wife!  She is dead, I understand.  Augustin Levet, priest! ... Why
don't you answer?" he interposed peremptorily as Augustin had not made
the required reply, "and why don't you rise?  Have you also got a
sprained ankle?"

Augustin then rose obediently and spoke the word:

"Present."

"Blanche Levet, daughter of Charles," the solder continued.

"Present."

"Marie Bachelier, _aide mnage_."

"Here I am, citizen sergeant," quoth Marie, nearly scared out of her
wits.

"And a guest, identity unknown," the solder concluded; "where is he?"
He rolled up the paper and thrust it into his belt.

"Where is the guest?" he reiterated gruffly, and still receiving no
answer, he asked once more: "Where is he?"

He looked round from one to the other, rolling his eyes and clearing
his throat in a manner destined to impress these "traitors."

Augustin thereupon said emphatically: "There is no one here."

And Blanche shook her pretty head and declared: "No one has been here
all day except Citizen Maurin and the citizen doctor."

By way of response to these declarations the sergeant of the Republican
Guard turned on his heel and called to the small squad who were
standing at attention, in the vestibule, some outside the front door.
To Blanche and Augustin he merely remarked: "We'll soon see about
that."  And to old Levet, who was standing patiently between the two
soldiers, seemingly quite unmoved by what was going on in his house, he
said sternly:

"I am about to order this house to be searched.  So let me warn you,
Citizen Levet, that if any stranger is found on your premises it will
be a far more serious matter for you and your family than if you had
given him up of your own accord."

Old Levet merely shook his head and reiterated simply:

"There is no one here."

The sergeant then ordered his men to proceed with the search.  It was
thorough.  The soldiers did not mince matters.  They even invaded the
room where Henriette Levet lay dead.  They looked under her bed and
lifted the sheet which covered her.  Old Levet stood by, while this
sacrilege was being committed, a silent figure as rigid as the dead.
In the dining-room Augustin had once more taken refuge in prayer, while
Blanche, half-dazed by all that she had gone through, sank back into a
chair, her elbows resting on the table, and her eyes staring into
vacancy.

Louis Maurin, as soon as the soldiers were out of the way, came and sat
down opposite the young girl.  He had remained silent and aloof while
this last short episode was going on, but now he leaned over the table
and began talking in an impressive whisper:

"Do not be afraid, Mademoiselle Blanche," he said.  "I give you my word
that nothing serious will happen to your father or to any of you, even
if this meddlesome sergeant should discover your anonymous friend in
this house.  Please, please," he went on earnestly, as Blanche was
obviously on the point of renewing her protest that there was no one
here, "please say no more.  I do firmly believe that you know nothing
of what happened here this afternoon.  I tell you I can, and will make
the safety of those you care for a personal matter with the
authorities.  It might prove a little more difficult if your father has
been sheltering someone surreptitiously instead of giving him up at
once to the guard, but even so I can do it.  My word on it,
Mademoiselle Blanche."

He was very persuasive and very earnest.  The ghost of a smile flitted
round Blanche's pretty mouth.

"You are very kind, Louis," she said.

"I would do anything for you, mademoiselle," the young man responded
earnestly.

She sighed and murmured: "I cannot understand the whole thing."

"What can't you understand, mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur le Professeur.  He seemed such a friend.  Do you really think
that it was he?"

"Who caused all this trouble, you mean?"

"Yes!"

"Well!  I am not sure," Maurin replied vaguely.  "One never knows.  He
may be a spy of the revolutionary government and he may have denounced
your father.  They are very clever, those fellows.  They worm
themselves into your confidence, and then betray you for a mere
pittance.  I wish your father had not made such a friend of him.  But
as I assured you just now, mademoiselle, you have no cause for worry.
While I live, no possible harm shall come to you or to your family.
You do trust me, don't you?"

She murmured a timid "Yes!" and gave him her hand, which he raised to
his lips.

The soldiers in the meanwhile had continued their search on the floor
above.  Whilst this went on overhead, Maurin shot searching glances at
the young girl to see if she betrayed any anxiety for the guest whom he
firmly believed to be still in the house.  But Blanche remained
seemingly unmoved and, much to his chagrin, Maurin was forced to come
to the conclusion that he had brought a squad of Republican Guards out
on a fool's errand and that his well-laid plan would end in a manner
not altogether to his credit and not in accordance with his hopes.

A few moments later the sergeant and his men came clattering downstairs
again, all of them obviously ill-tempered at having been dragged out of
barracks at this hour and in such abominable weather.  The sergeant
kicked the dining-room door open with his boot, and addressed the
lawyer in a harsh, almost insulting tone:

"I don't know what you were thinking of, citizen lawyer," he said,
"when you stated before the Chief of Section that a suspicious stranger
was lurking in this house.  We have searched it from attic to cellar
and there's no one in it except the family, one of whom is dead, and
the others seemingly daft.  At any rate I can't get anything out of
them.  I don't know if you can."

"It's no business of mine, as you well know, citizen sergeant," Maurin
responded coolly, "to question these people any more than it is your
business to question me.  I attend to my duties, you had better attend
to yours."

"My duty is to arrest the inmates of this house," the soldier
countered, "and if they are wise they will come along quietly.  Now
then you," he added, addressing them all collectively: "Charles Levet,
Augustin and Blanche Levet, and Marie Bachelier, I have a carriage
waiting for you.  Go and get ready quickly.  I don't want to waste any
more time."

Obediently and silently Blanche and Augustin made for the door.
Blanche called to the maid who seemed by now more dead than alive.

"But this is an outrage," Maurin suddenly interposed vehemently, "you
cannot leave the dead unguarded.  Someone must remain in the house to
prevent any sacrilege being committed."

The sergeant shrugged.  "Sacrilege?" he put in with a sneer.  "What is
sacrilege?  And why shouldn't the dead woman be alone in the house.
She can't run away.  Anyway if you feel like that, citizen lawyer, why
don't you stay and look after her?  Come on!" he concluded roughly,
addressing the others, "didn't you hear me say I didn't want to waste
any more time?"

He marshalled the three out of the room.  As Blanche went past the
lawyer, she threw him an appealing glance.  He murmured under his
breath: "I will look after her.  I promise you."

Ten minutes later Charles Levet with his son and daughter and the maid
were seated in the chaise, and were driven under arrest to the Town
Hall, there to be charged with treason--or intended treason--against
the Republic.




CHAPTER ELEVEN

_The Morning After_

But the very next day all was well.  Charles Levet with his daughter
and son, and the maid, had certainly passed a very uncomfortable night
in the cells of the municipal prison, and the next morning had been
conducted before the Chief of Section, where they had to submit to a
searching examination.  And here things did not go any too well.
Charles Levet was taciturn and obstinate, Blanche voluble and tearful,
and Augustin detached, and Marie the maid was so scared that she said
first one thing then another, and all things untrue.  The Chief of
Section was impatient.  He was desirous of doing the right thing, but
he was a local man and the Levets were people of his own class: nothing
"aristocratic" about them and, therefore, not likely to plot against
the Republic, or to favour fugitive _aristos_.  Indeed, he was very
much annoyed that Maurin the lawyer--a personal friend of his and also
of his own class--should have taken it upon himself to make
incriminating statements against the Levets.  To have indicted the
Levet family for treason would have been a very unpopular move in
Choisy where the old herbalist was highly respected and his pretty
daughter courted by half the youth of the commune.

After the interrogation of the accused, the worthy Chief of Section had
an interview with Maurin.  The latter, as supple as an eel, wriggled
out of his awkward position with his usual skill, and in a few moments
had succeeded in persuading his friend that he, individually, had
nothing to do with the false accusation brought against the Levets.  He
had, he said, been foolish enough to listen to the insinuations brought
against these good people by a man whom he had met casually that day.
A professor, so he understood, at the University of Grenoble.

"But why," the chief asked with some acerbity, "did you allow yourself
to be led by the nose, by a man whom you hardly knew at all?"

"I said," the lawyer responded, "that I had met him casually that day,
but I had often heard old Levet speak about him.  He seemed to be a
friend of the family and so----"

"A friend?" the other broke in.  "But you say that it was he who
denounced these people."

"It was."

"How do you make that out?"

"Between you and me, my friend," the lawyer replied confidentially, "I
have come to the conclusion that that so-called university professor
was just an _agent provocateur_, in other words a spy of the
government.  There are a good many of those about, so I am told: the
Convention makes use of them to ferret out obscure conspiracies, and
treasonable associations.  They get a small pittance for every plot
they discover, and so much for every head that they bring to the
guillotine."

"And so you think that this professor----"

"Was just such another.  I do.  I met him outside the Levet's house.
He took me by the arm and led me to the Caf Tison, where he began his
long story of how he had seen old Levet bring a man surreptitiously
into the house.  I, of course, thought it my duty to let you know at
once.  You would have blamed me if I had not, wouldn't you?"

"Of course."

"One thing is very certain," Maurin now put in persuasively; "when your
squad came to arrest the Levets there was no one in the house but
themselves."

"They may have smuggled someone out."

"Where to, my friend?" the lawyer argued.  And he added lightly: "Now
you are crediting old Levet with more brains than he has got."

He paused a moment, then finally went on:

"I don't know what you feel about it all, my good man, but I am
convinced in my own mind that Charles Levet had no other visitor in his
house ... except, of course, Dr. Pradel," he added as if in an
afterthought.

"Ah, yes!  Dr. Pradel ... I hadn't thought about him."

"Nor had I ... Till just now...."

Maurin rose and stretched out his hand to his friend who shook it
warmly.

"Well!" he said glibly, "will you allow me to convey the good news to
the Levets?"

"What good news?"

"That you have gone into the matter and have decided that the charge of
treason against them has not been proved."

"Yes!" the chief responded after a moment's hesitation, "you may go and
tell them that if you wish.  I won't follow up the matter just
now--but, of course, I shall bear it in mind.  In the meanwhile," he
concluded as he saw his friend to the door, "I will just send for Dr.
Pradel and have a talk with him."

Louis Maurin came away from that interview much elated.  He had gained
his point, and a very little clever wordy manipulation on his part
would easily convince the Levets that they owed their freedom to him.
The Professeur had fortunately kept out of the way.  Maurin devoutly
hoped that he really had broken his ankle and would be laid up for some
days; by that time his own wooing of the lovely Blanche, with the
consent of her irascible papa, would be well on the way to a happy
issue.  But there was another matter that added greatly to his elation,
and this was that he had put a spoke in the wheel of Simon Pradel, the
one man in Choisy who, in his opinion, might prove a serious rival in
the affections of Blanche.  He was far too astute not to have scented
this rivalry before now, and Blanche herself had unwittingly given to
his sharp eyes more than one indication of the state of her feelings
towards the young doctor.

Everything then was for the best in the best possible world, and Louis
Maurin made his way to the prison cells where the Levet family were
still awaiting their fate, there to tell them that he and no one else
had persuaded the Chief of Section to order their immediate liberation.
Whether he quite succeeded in so persuading them, is somewhat doubtful,
certainly as far as Charles Levet was concerned, for the old man
remained as taciturn as ever in spite of the young man's eloquent
protestations, whilst Augustin murmured something about good deeds
being their own reward.  But their lack of enthusiasm was countered by
Blanche's outspoken gratitude.  With tears in her eyes she thanked
Louis again and again for all that he had done for them all.

"We all tried to be brave," she said, "but, frankly, I for one was very
frightened; as for poor Marie, she spent the night lamenting and
calling on all the saints to protect her."

Later, when they reached the portal of the prison-house she said to her
father:

"Let us drive home, father.  I am so anxious to know if everything has
been all right in the house, with _maman_ lying there alone."

It was a bright, frosty morning, but a thin layer of snow still lay on
the ground.  In this outlying part of the town, there were few
passers-by and no cabriolets in sight, but a poor wretch in thin blouse
and tattered breeches stood shivering in the middle of the road.  He
was an old man, with arched back and wrinkled, grimy face; from under
his shabby red cap wisps of white hair fluttered in the wind.  His
teeth were chattering as he murmured a prayer for charity.  Maurin
called to him:

"See if you can find a cabriolet, citizen, and bring it along.  You
might get one in the Place Verte and there will be five sous for you.
We'll wait for it at the tavern over the way."

The man raised a finger to his forelock and shuffled off in the
direction of the Place Verte, his sabots made no sound on the thin
carpet of snow.

"What misery, _mon Dieu_," Blanche sighed while she watched the old
caitiff's retreating figure.  "And this is what they call Equality and
Fraternity.  Can't anything be done for a poor wretch like that?  He
seems almost a cripple with that humped back."

"He could go to the _Assistance Publique_," Maurin replied dryly, "but
some of these fellows seem to prefer begging in the streets.  This one,
I should say, has been a soldier in----"

He was about to say "In Louis Capet's army," but with Charles Levet
within hearing, he thought better of it.  This was obviously not the
moment to irritate the old man.

"Come and drink a mug of hot ale with me while we wait," he suggested
cheerily to the whole party.  They were all very cold, having only had
a meagre prison breakfast in the early hours of the morning: a small
tavern over the way, at a short distance looked inviting.  Old Levet
would have demurred: he wore his most obstinate expression: but Blanche
was obviously both weary and cold and the maid looked ready to faint
with inanition; even Augustin cast longing eyes across the road.  Louis
Maurin without another word led the way, Levet followed reluctantly,
the others with alacrity, and presently they were all seated at a table
in a small stuffy room that reeked of lamp-oil and stale food, but
sipping with gusto the hot ale which the landlord, surly and
out-at-elbows, had placed before them.




CHAPTER TWELVE

_A False Move_

It was after the first ten minutes of desultory conversation among the
party, that Louis Maurin made what he called afterwards the greatest
mistake of his life.  Indeed he often cursed himself afterwards for
that twinge of jealousy, coupled with boastfulness, which prompted him
to speak of Simon Pradel at all.  It was just one of those false moves
which even an experienced chess-player might make with a view to
protecting his queen, only to find himself check-mated in the end.
Little did the astute lawyer guess that by a few words carelessly
spoken he was actually precipitating the ruin of his cherished hopes
and helping to bring about that extraordinary series of events which
caused so many heartburnings, set all the quidnuncs of Choisy gossiping
and remained the chief topic of conversation round local firesides for
many weeks to come.

Blanche had drunk the ale, said a few pleasant words to Maurin, chaffed
her brother and the maid, and relapsed into silence.  Maurin, who was
feeling at peace with all the world and very pleased with himself,
queried after a time:

"Thoughtful, mademoiselle?"

It seemed almost as if she had dropped to sleep for she gave no sign of
response, and Maurin insisted.

"Of what are you thinking, mademoiselle?"

She roused herself, gave a shrug, a sigh, a feeble smile and replied:

"Friends."

"Why friends?" he asked again.

"I was just wondering how many of our friends will have to suffer as we
did last night ... as innocently I mean ... arrest ... imprisonment ...
anxiety ... These are terrible times, Louis!"

"And there are worse to come, mademoiselle," he declared
ostentatiously; "happy are those who have powerful friends to save them
from disaster."

This hint was obvious, but neither old Levet nor Augustin responded to
it.  It was left for Blanche to say:

"You have been very kind, Louis."

Silence once more, until Augustin remarked:

"We were, of course, innocent."

"That helped a little, of course," Maurin was willing to admit, "but
you have no idea how obstinate the Committee are, once there has been
actual denunciation of treason.  And we must always remember those poor
wretches who for a miserable pittance will ferret out the secrets of
some who have not been clever enough to keep their political opinions
to themselves."

"I suppose it was one of those wretches who trumped up a charge against
us," Blanche remarked.

"Undoubtedly.  And I had all the difficulty in the world--in fact I had
to pledge my good name--before I could persuade the Chief of Section
that the charge was trumped up."

He paused a moment, then added self-complacently:

"I shall find it still more difficult in the case of Simon Pradel, I'm
afraid."

Blanche gave a start.

"Simon?" she queried.  "What about Simon?"

"Didn't you know?"

"Know what?"

Already Maurin realised that he had made a false move when he mentioned
Pradel.  Blanche all at once had become the living representation of
eager, feverish anxiety.  Her cheeks were aflame, her eyes glittered,
her voice positively quavered when she insisted on getting an
explanation from the lawyer.

"Why don't you answer, Louis?  What is there to know about Simon?"

Why, oh, why had he brought the doctor's name on the _tapis_?  He had
done it primarily for his own glorification, and in order to stand
better and better with the Levets because of his influence and his
zeal.  Never had he intended to rouse dormant passion in the girl by
speaking of the danger which threatened Pradel.  Women are queer, he
commented with bitterness to himself.  Let a man be sick or in any way
in need of their help, and at once he becomes an object of interest,
or, as in this case, simple friendship at once flames into love.

Old Levet, who had hardly opened his mouth all this while, and had
seemed to be too deeply absorbed in his own thoughts to take notice
what was said around him, now put in a word:

"Don't worry, my girl," he said; "Simon is no fool, and there is no one
in Choisy who would dare touch him."

By this time, Maurin had succeeded in turning his thoughts in another
direction.  Self-reproach gave place to his usual self-complacency and
self-exaltation.  He had made a false move, but he thanked his stars
that he was in a position to retrieve it.

"I am afraid you are wrong there, Monsieur Levet," he observed
unctuously.  "As a matter of fact I happen to know that the Section has
its eye on Dr. Pradel.  His mysterious comings and goings yesterday,
and his constant visits at the Chteau de la Rodire, which often
extend late into the night, have aroused suspicion, and, as you know,
from suspicion to denunciation there is only one step--and that one
sometimes leads as far as the guillotine.  However, as I had the
pleasure of telling you just now, I will do my best for the doctor,
seeing that he is your friend."

"And that he is innocent," Blanche asserted vehemently.  "There was
nothing mysterious about Simon's comings and goings yesterday.  He only
goes to the chteau when he is sent for professionally, nor does he
extend his visits late into the night."

Maurin shrugged.

"I can only repeat what I have been told, mademoiselle," he said, "I
can assure you...."

He felt that he had made another false move by saying that which was
sure to arouse the girl's jealousy.  Indeed he was beginning to think
that luck had not attended him in the manner he had hoped, and was
quite relieved when the sound of shuffling sabots over the sanded floor
cut this awkward conversation short.  Maurin looked round to see the
old beggar of a while ago standing in the middle of the room, waiting
at a respectful distance till he was spoken to.

Maurin queried sharply:

"What do you want?"

The man raised a hand stiff with cold to his white forelock.

"The cabriolet, citizen," he murmured.

The poor wretch seemed unable to say more than that.  With trembling
finger he pointed to the door behind him.  A ramshackle vehicle drawn
by a miserable nag was waiting outside.  Levet paid for the drinks and
the whole party made their way to the door.  At the last, when the
family had crowded into the cabriolet, old Levet pressed a piece of
silver into the beggar's shaky hand.

Maurin remained in the road outside the tavern until the vehicle had
disappeared at a turning of the street.  He was not the man ever to
admit, even to himself, that he was in the wrong, but in this case he
had, perhaps, been somewhat injudicious, and he felt that he must take
an early opportunity to retrieve whatever blunder he may have
committed.  Blanche was very young, he commented to himself; she
scarcely knew her own mind, and Pradel was the man whom she met the
most constantly.  But after this, gratitude would be sure to play an
important role in the girl's attitude towards the friend who had helped
her and her family out of a very difficult situation.  Maurin prided
himself on the fact that he had persuaded the girl, if not the others,
that it was his influence and his alone that had brought about their
liberation after a few hours' detention.  She was already inclined to
be grateful and affectionate for that.  It would be his task after this
to work unceasingly on her emotions and to his own advantage.

And reflecting thus, lawyer Maurin made final tracks for home.




BOOK II

THE DOCTOR




CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_The Chteau de la Rodire_

It had always been a stately chteau ever since the day when Luc de la
Rodire, returning from the war with Holland after the peace of
Ryswick, received this quasi-regal residence at the hands of Louis XIV
in recognition for his gallantry in the field.  It was still stately in
this year 1793, even though it bore the indelible marks of four years
of neglect following the riots of 1789 when the populace of Choisy,
carried away by the events up in Paris and the storming of the
Bastille, and egged on by paid agitators, marched in a body up to the
chteau, smashed a quantity of furniture and a few windows and mirrors,
tore curtains down and carpets up, ransacked the larders and cellars,
and then marched down again with lusty shouts of the new popular cry:
"_ la lanterne les aristos!_"

When the young Marquis with Madame, his mother, and Mademoiselle Ccile
returned to La Rodire three days later, they found the chteau in the
state in which the riotous crowd had left it; the stately hall on the
ground floor, the banqueting room, the monumental staircase, the
cellars and larders, were a mass of wreckage.  The terrified personnel
of lackeys and female servants had run away, leaving the ballroom where
their late master had lain dead, still a litter of dead flowers and
linen clothes, of torn lace and stumps of wax candles.  Only Paul
Leroux and his wife Marie had remained.  They were old people--very
old--who had served _feu_ Monsieur le Marquis and his father and mother
before him, first as kitchen wench and scullion, then on through the
hierarchy of maid and valet, to that of butler and housekeeper.  They
had never known any other home but La Rodire: if they left it, they
would not have known where to go: they had no children, no family, no
kindred.  And so they stayed on, after the mob had cleared away, and
one by one the chteau staff--young and old, indoors and out of doors,
garden and stablemen--had packed up their belongings and betaken
themselves to their own homes wherever these might be.  Paul and Marie
stayed on and did their best to feed the horses and dogs that had been
left behind, and to get a few rooms tidy and warm for the occupation of
Madame la Marquise.  And thus the widow and the young Marquis and
Mademoiselle Ccile found them and their devastated home.

Thanks to the goodwill of Paul and Marie some semblance of order had
been brought into the devastated part of the chteau: broken
window-panes were replaced and torn carpets and curtains put out of
sight.  In the stables most of the horses and valuable dogs were sold
or destroyed: Monsieur le Marquis only kept a couple of sporting dogs
and two or three horses for his own use.  Then, as the winter grew
severe and fuel and food became scarce and dear, three pairs of willing
hands were recruited from Choisy to supplement the exiguous staff of
the once luxurious household.  These willing hands, two outdoor men to
help in the garden and stables and a girl in the house were now called
_aides-mnage_, the appellation servant or groom being thought
derogatory to the dignity of free-born citizens of France.  Even then,
special permission for employing these _aides_ had to be obtained from
the government: and this was only granted in consideration of the fact
that Paul and Marie Leroux were old and infirm, and that it was they
and not the __ci-devants__ who required help.

This, then, was the house to which the Abb Edgeworth was conducted in
the evening of that horrible day when he had seen his anointed King
perish on the guillotine like a common criminal.  Ever since that early
hour in the morning when he had been called in to administer the
sacraments to the man who had once been Louis XVI, King of France, he
had lived in a constant state of nerve-strain, and as the afternoon and
evening wore on he felt that strain more and more acutely.  Towards
seven o'clock two men who looked more like cut-throats than any
voluntary revolutionary guards the abb had ever seen had conducted him
to La Rodire.  Before he started out with them old Levet had assured
him that everything was being done to ensure his safety: the same
powerful and generous friend who had rescued him from the hands of a
howling mob had further engineered the final means for his escape out
of France.

The old priest accepted this explanation in perfect faith and trust.
He assured his kind host that he was not the least bit afraid.  He had
gone through such a terrible experience that nothing could occur now to
frighten him.  Nor did anything untoward happen on the way.  He got
very tired stumping up the rugged track which was a short cut to the
chteau.  The monumental gates, no longer closed against intruders,
were wide open.  The abb and his escort passed through unchallenged
and walked up the stately avenue.  The front door of the mansion was
opened to them by Paul, who stood by deferentially in his threadbare
but immaculately brushed suit of black, whilst the old priest stepped
over the threshold.

Tired though he was the abb did not fail to turn immediately in order
to express his gratitude to the two enigmatic ruffians who had guided
his footsteps so carefully, but they had gone.  Their footsteps in the
clumsy sabots echoed down the long avenue for a time but they
themselves had already disappeared in the gloom.

But this is by the way.  The priest who by now was on the verge of
exhaustion both mentally and physically, sank into an armchair which
Paul offered him, and here he waited patiently with eyes closed and
lips murmuring a feeble prayer while his arrival was being announced to
Monsieur le Marquis.

A few moments later a young man came running down the stairs with arms
outstretched, shouting a welcome even before he had caught sight of the
priest.

Franois de la Rodire was the only son of the late Marquis.  He had
inherited the title and estates four years ago on the death of his
father; he was a well-set-up, athletic-looking youth, who might have
been called handsome but for an arrogant, not to say cruel, expression
round his thin-lipped mouth, and a distinctly receding chin.  He was
dressed with utmost elegance, in the mode that had prevailed before the
present regime of Equality had made tattered breeches, threadbare coats
and soiled linen, the fashion.

The abb rose at once to greet him.

"We were expecting you, Monsieur l'Abb," the young man said cheerily.
"My mother and sister are upstairs.  I hope you are not too tired."

The abb was certainly tired, but he contrived to smile and to ask with
some surprise:

"You were expecting me?  But how could you know...?"

"It is all a long story, Father," Franois de la Rodire replied
thoughtfully; "we are all of us under its spell for the moment.  But
never mind about that now.  We'll tell you all about it when you have
had supper and a rest."

The welcome which Madame la Marquise extended to the priest was no less
cordial than that of her son.  The Abb Edgeworth, by virtue of his
holy office, and because he had been privileged to attend the royal
martyr during the last hours of his life, stood on an altogether
different plane in the eyes of Madame from the rest of the despicable
bourgeoisie.  Thus Mademoiselle Ccile, her daughter, was ceremoniously
presented to Monsieur l'Abb, and so was the young English gentlemen,
my lord Devinne, a friend of the family, who had ridden over from Paris
that afternoon, bringing news of the terrible doings there.  He had, it
seems, also brought tidings of the Abb Edgeworth's early arrival at La
Rodire.

It was while the family and their guest were seated round the
supper-table that Mademoiselle Ccile related to the priest the
mysterious occurrence which had puzzled them all since morning.

"It was all so wonderful!" she explained, "and I cannot tell you,
Father, how excited I am, because the first intimation we had that you
were coming was addressed to me."

"To you, mademoiselle?"

"Yes! to me," she replied, "and you shall judge for yourself whether
the whole thing is not enough to excite the most placid person, and I
am anything but placid.  Early this morning," she continued, "when I
took my usual walk in the park, I saw down the avenue a scrubby-looking
man coming slowly towards me from the direction of the gate.  He was at
some distance from where I was so I didn't really see him well, but
somehow I knew that he had nothing to do with our own small staff.  We
are accustomed nowadays," she added with a pathetic little sigh, "to
all sorts of people invading our privacy.  This man, however, was
obviously doing no harm; he just walked along, quite slowly, with his
hands in his pockets, looking neither to right nor left.  I didn't take
any more notice of him until he came to one of the stone seats in the
avenue.  Then I saw him take a paper out of his pocket and lay it down
on the seat, after which he gave me a distinct sign, drawing my
attention to the paper; he then turned and went back the way he came
and I lost sight of him behind the shrubbery."  She paused a moment,
almost out of breath with excitement, then she went on: "You may
imagine, Father, how I hurried to the seat and picked up the mysterious
message.  Here it is," she said, and drew from the folds of her fichu a
crumpled piece of paper.  "I have not parted from it since I picked it
up and read its contents.  Listen what it says: 'The Abb Edgeworth,
vicaire of St. Andr, who accompanied the King of France to the
scaffold will claim your hospitality to-day for the night.'  Look at
it, Monsieur l'Abb.  Isn't it extraordinary?  I have shown it to
_maman_, of course, and to Franois.  They couldn't understand at all
where it came from, until milord Devinne threw a still more puzzling
light on the whole thing."

She held the paper out to the priest who took it from her, put his
spectacles on his nose and glanced down on the mysterious note.

"It certainly is very curious," he said, "and it is not signed."

"Only with a rough drawing of a small scarlet flower," the girl
observed.  The priest handed the paper back to her.  She took it,
folded it together almost reverently and replaced it in the folds of
her fichu.  The abb turned to the young Englishman.

"And you, milord," he asked, "can actually throw some light on the
sender of this anonymous message?"

"Not exactly that," Devinne protested, "but I can tell you this: that
small scarlet flower is a device adopted by the chief of a band of
English gentlemen who have pledged themselves to save innocent men and
women and children from the tragic fate that befell the King of France
to-day."

The old priest hastily crossed himself.

"May God forgive the sacrilege," he murmured.  Then he went on: "But
what a high ideal, milord!  Saving the innocent!  And Englishmen, you
say?  Are you a member of that heroic band yourself?"

"I have that honour."

"And your chief?  Who is he?"

"Ah!" Devinne replied, "that is our secret--and his."

"Your pardon, milord!  I had not thought to be indiscreet.  The whole
thing simply amazes me.  It is so wonderful to do such noble deeds, to
risk one's life for the sake of others who may be nothing to you, and
do it all unknown, probably unthanked!  And to think that I owe my life
to such men as you, milord, to your friends and to your chief!  And
that little red flower?  It is a Scarlet Pimpernel, is it not?"

"Yes!"

"I seem to have heard something about it.  But only vaguely.  The
police here speak of an anonymous English spying organisation."

"We do no spying, Monsieur l'Abb.  The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
has nothing to do with politics."

"I am sure it has not.  But I understand that even the government is
greatly disturbed by its activities, and has offered a large reward for
the apprehension, milord, of your chief.  But God will protect him,
never fear."

It was after this that the old priest seemed to collapse.  He gave a
gasp and sank back in his chair in a faint.  Franois de la Rodire
hastily called to Paul, and together the two men carried the old man
upstairs to the room which had been prepared for him and put him to
bed.  When they came back and explained that Monsieur l'Abb appeared
to be very ill, Madame la Marquise gave orders to Paul that Dr. Pradel
be fetched at once.

"The doctor is in the house now, Madame la Marquise," Paul observed.

"Doing what?" Madame asked.

"I sent for him, _maman_," Franois put in; "Stella needed a purge, and
Csar got a splinter in his paw.  But I thought he would be gone by
now."

"And why hasn't he gone?"

"Marie had one of her bad attacks of rheumatism, Madame la Marquise,
and Berthe the kitchen girl had a poisoned finger.  The doctor has been
seeing to them."

"Tell him to go up to Monsieur l'Abb at once," Franois commanded.

When Paul had gone, he turned to Lord Devinne.

"This is very unfortunate," he said.  "I do hope it won't be a long
affair.  I don't mind the abb being here, say, a day or two, but you
didn't say anything about his being a sick man."

"I didn't know that he was," the Englishman observed.

"Your wonderful chief should have told you," the other retorted with
obvious ill-humour.  "It won't be over-safe either for _maman_ or for
the rest of us to be harbouring a man who is under the ban of this
murdering government.  Believe me, milord, I----"

He was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of Simon
Pradel.  Madame la Marquise gave him a gracious nod, and Ccile a
kindly glance.  Franois, on the other hand, did not take the trouble
to greet him.

"It is upstairs you have got to go," he said curtly; "a friend of ours
who was here at supper was suddenly taken ill."

Simon took no notice of the insolence of the young man's tone.  He only
frowned slightly, took his professional tablet and pencil from his
pocket and asked:

"What is the name of your friend, Monsieur le Marquis?"

"His name has nothing to do with you," the other retorted tartly.

"I am afraid it has, Monsieur le Marquis.  I am bound by law to report
to the local Section every case I attend within this area."

Madame la Marquise sighed and turned her head away; the word "Section"
or "law" invariably upset her.  But Franois suffered contradiction
badly, especially on the part of this fellow Pradel whom he knew to
hold democratic if not revolutionary views.

"You can go and report to the devil," he said with growing
exasperation.  He was still in a fume over the affair of the abb's
inconvenient sickness, and now, what he considered presumption on the
part of this purveyor of pills and purges, turned his annoyance into
fury.

"Either," he went on, not attempting to control his temper, "either you
go and attend to my guest upstairs or you clear out of my house in
double quick time."

There was not much meekness in Simon Pradel either.  The arrogance of
these aristocrats exasperated him just as much as his own attitude
exasperated them.  His face went very white, and he was on the point of
making a retort which probably would have had unpleasant consequences
for everyone concerned when he caught a glance, an appealing glance,
levelled at him out of Ccile's beautiful eyes.

"Our friend is old, Monsieur le Docteur," she said gently, "and very
ill.  I am sure he will tell you his name himself, for he has no reason
to hide it."

The glance and the words froze the sharp retort on Pradel's lips.  He
succeeded in keeping his rising temper under control and without
another word, and just a slight inclination of the head he went out of
the room.  Franois on the other hand made no attempt to swallow his
wrath: he turned on his sister and said acidly:

"You were a fool, Ccile.  What that fellow wanted was a sound
thrashing: your amiability will only encourage him in his insolence.
All his like ought to have tasted the whip-lash long ago.  If they had,
we shouldn't be in the plight we are in to-day.  Don't you agree with
me, _maman_?" he concluded, appealing to his stately mother.

But Madame la Marquise who was very much upset by the incident had
already sailed out of the room.




CHAPTER FOURTEEN

_An Outrage_

It was at daybreak the following morning that Simon Pradel left the
chteau.  He had spent the whole night at the bedside of the Abb
Edgeworth, fighting a stubborn fight against a tired heart, which
threatened any moment to cease beating.  The old priest was hardly
conscious during all those hours, only swallowing mechanically at
intervals the cordials and restoratives which the doctor forced between
his lips.  Just before six he rallied a little.  His first request was
for a priest to hear his confession.

"You are no longer in danger now," Pradel said to him gently.

But the abb insisted.

"I must see a priest," he said; "It is three days since I made
confession."

"You have nothing on your conscience, I am sure, Monsieur 'Abb, and I
am afraid of too much mental effort for you."

"Concern at being deprived of a brother's ministrations will be worse
for me than any effort," the old man declared with serene obstinacy.

There was nothing for it but to humour the sick man.  Pradel
immediately thought of Augustin Levet and decided to go and fetch him.
He collected his impedimenta, left instructions with the woman who was
in charge of the invalid, and made his way, with much relief, out of
this inhospitable chteau.  The morning was clear and cold, the sun
just rising above the woods of Charenton, flooded the valley with its
pale, wintry light.  In the park one or two labourers were at work, and
in the stableyard away to the left Pradel saw three men, one of whom, a
groom, was holding a horse by the bridle with another, presumably Lord
Devinne, was about to mount; the third had his back turned towards the
avenue and Pradel couldn't see who it was.  He was walking quickly now
in the direction of the gate, and suddenly became aware of a woman's
figure walking in the same direction as himself, some distance ahead of
him.  For the moment he came to a halt, and stood stockstill, hardly
crediting his own eyes.  It was not often that such a piece of good
fortune came his way.  The joy of meeting Mademoiselle Ccile, alone,
of speaking with her unobserved, had only occurred twice during these
last twelve months when first he had learned to love her.

Pradel was no fool.  He knew well enough that his love was absolutely
hopeless: that is to say he had known it until recently when the
greatest social upheaval the world had ever seen, turned the whole
fabric of society topsy-turvy.  He would hardly have been human if he
had not since then begun, not exactly to hope, but to wonder.
Opposition on the part of these arrogant patricians who constituted
Mademoiselle Ccile's family would probably continue, but there was no
knowing what the next few months, even weeks, might bring in the way of
drawing these aristocrats out of their fortresses of pride, and leaving
them more completely at the mercy of the much despised middle class.

Pradel, of course, didn't think of all this at the moment when he saw
Ccile de la Rodire walking alone in the park.  He only marvelled at
his own good fortune and hastened to overtake her.  She was wrapped in
an ample cloak from neck to ankles, but its hood had fallen away from
her head and that same wintry sun that glistened on the river, touched
the loose curls above her ears and made them shine like tiny streaks of
gold.

All down the length of the avenue there were stone seats at intervals;
the last of these was not very far from the entrance gate.  Ccile came
to a halt beside it, looked all round her almost, Pradel thought, as if
she was expecting someone, and then sat down.  At sound of the young
man's footsteps she turned, and seeing him she rose, obviously a little
confused.  He came near, took off his hat, bowed low and said smiling:

"Up betimes, mademoiselle?"

"The sunrise looked so beautiful from my window," she murmured, "I was
tempted."

"I don't wonder.  This morning air puts life into one."

Ccile sat down again.  Without waiting for permission Simon sat down
beside her.

"I might echo your question, Monsieur le Docteur," the girl resumed
with a smile: "Up betimes?"

"Not exactly, mademoiselle.  As a matter of fact I am ready for bed
now."

"You have been up all night?"

"With my patient."

"The dear old man!  How is he?"

"Better now.  But he has had a bad night."

"And you were with him all the time?"

"Of course."

"That was kind.  And," the girl added with a smile, "did he confess to
you?"

"No.  But I guessed."

"Was he raving then, in delirium?"

"No.  He was very weak, but quite conscious."

"Then how could you guess?"

"He is a priest, for he has a tonsure.  He is a fugitive since his name
is withheld.  It was not very difficult."

"You won't..." she implored impulsively.

"Mademoiselle!" he retorted with gentle reproach.

"I know.  I know," she rejoined quickly.  "I ought not to have asked.
You would not be capable of such a mean action.  Everyone knows how
noble and generous you always are, and you must try and forgive me."

She gave a quaint little sigh, and added with a curious strain of
bitterness:

"We all seem a little unhinged these days.  Nothing seems the same as
it was just a few years ago.  Our poor country has gone mad and so have
we, in a way.  But," she resumed more evenly, "I must not keep you from
your rest.  You lead such a busy life, you must not overtire yourself."

"Rest?" he exclaimed involuntarily.  "Overtire myself?  As if there was
anything in the world...."

He contrived to check himself in time.  The torrent of words which were
about to rise from his heart to his lips would have had consequences,
the seriousness of which it had been difficult to overestimate.  Ccile
de la Rodire was woman enough to realise this also, but womanlike too,
she didn't want the interview to end abruptly like this.  So she rose
and turned to walk towards the gate.  He followed, thinking the while
how gladly he would have lingered on, how gladly he would have
prolonged this _tte--tte_ which to her probably was banal enough but
which for him had been one of the happiest moments of his lonely life.
Ccile, however, said nothing till they reached the postern gate.  Here
she came to a standstill, and while he was in the act of opening the
gate, she stretched her hand out to him.

"Am I forgiven?" she asked, and gave him a glance that would have
addled a stoic's brain.  What could a man in love do, but bend the knee
and kiss the little hand.  It was a moment of serenity and of peace,
with the wintry sun touching the bare branches of sycamore and chestnut
with its silvery light.  Out of the depths of the shrubbery close by
there came the sound of pattering tiny feet, the scarce perceptible
movements of small rodents on the prowl.  Then the beating of a horse's
hoof in the near distance on the frozen ground, and a man's voice
saying:

"A pleasant journey, my friend, and come and see us soon again,"
followed almost immediately by a loud curse and a shout.

"What is that lout doing there?"

Ccile snatched her hand away, and turned frightened eyes in the
direction whence the shout had come.  But before Simon Pradel could
jump to his feet, before Ccile could intervene, the young doctor was
felled to the ground by a stunning blow from a riding-crop on the top
of his head.  All he heard as his senses reeled was Ccile's cry of
horror and distress and her brother's infuriated shouts of "How dare
you?  How dare you?"

The crop was raised again and another blow came down, this time on the
unfortunate young doctor's shoulders.  But Pradel was not quite
conscious now: he felt dizzy and sick and utterly helpless.  All he
could do was to put up one arm to shield his head from being hit again.
He could just see Ccile's little feet beneath her skirt, and the edge
of her cloak: he heard her agonised cry for help and Lord Devinne's
voice calling out:

"Franois!  For God's sake stop!  You might kill him."

He tried to struggle to his feet, cursing himself for his helplessness,
when suddenly a curious sound came from somewhere close by.  Was it
from the shrubbery, or from the road opposite?  Or from the cypress
trees that stood sentinel outside the park gates?  Impossible to say:
but it had a curious paralysing effect on everyone there, on that
madman blind with fury as well as on his helpless victim.  And yet the
sound had nothing terrifying in it; it was just a prolonged, drawly,
rather inane laugh; but the fact that it appeared to come from nowhere
in particular and that there was no one in sight who could possibly
have laughed at this moment, lent to the sound something peculiar and
eerie.  The age of superstition had not yet died away.  Franois's
curses froze on his lips, his cheeks became ashen grey, his arm
brandishing the crop remained poised above his head as if suddenly
turned to stone.

"What was that?" he continued to murmur.

"Some yokel in the road," Lord Devinne suggested, and then added
lightly: "Anyway, my friend, it saved you from committing a murder."

The spell only lasted a few moments.  Already Franois had recovered
his senses, and with them, his rage.

"Committed a murder?" he retorted roughly.  "I wish I had killed the
brute."

He turned to his sister.  "Come, Ccile!" he commanded.

She wouldn't come; she desired nothing else but to minister to the
stricken man.  He was lying huddled up on the ground and a gash across
his forehead caused the blood to stream down his face; he had quite
lost consciousness.  Franois gave the prone helpless form a vicious
kick.

"Franois," the girl cried, herself roused to fury by his cowardice, "I
forbid you...."

"And I swear to you that I will kill him, unless you come away with me
at once."

Ccile, horrified and indignant and afraid that the boy might do some
greater mischief still, turned to Lord Devinne and said coolly:

"Milord, my brother is not responsible for his actions, so I must look
to you to act as a Christian and a gentleman.  If you need help, please
call to Antoine in the stables.  He will attend to Docteur Pradel,
until he is able to get home."

She gave him a curt nod.  Indeed, she did not attempt to conceal the
contempt which she felt for his attitude during the whole of this
infamous episode, for with the exception of the one call to Franois:
"For God's sake, that's enough! you might kill him!" he had stood there
beside his horse, with the reins over his arm, seemingly quite detached
and indifferent to the abominable outrage perpetrated on a defenceless
man.  Even now as Franois by sheer force succeeded in dragging his
sister away, he made a movement as if to get to horse again, until he
met a last look from Ccile and apparently thought it better to make
some show of human feeling.

"I'll get Antoine to give me a hand," he said, and leading his horse,
he turned in the direction of the stables.

Chance, however, intervened.  Antoine did not happen to be in the
stables at the moment.  Devinne tethered his horse in the yard, and
then, after a few seconds' hesitation, he seemed to make up his mind to
a certain course, and made his way round the shrubbery back to the
chteau.  His train of thought during those few seconds had been: "If I
don't see Ccile now, she will brood over the whole thing, and imagine
all sorts of things that didn't really happen."

Paul opened the door to him.  He asked to see Mademoiselle.  Paul took
the message upstairs, but returned with a word from Mademoiselle that
she was not feeling well and couldn't see anybody.  Devinne sent up
again, and again was refused.  He asked when he might have the
privilege of calling and was told that Mademoiselle could not say
definitely.  It would depend on the state of her health.

Useless to insist further.  Devinne, very much chagrined, went back the
way he came, feeling anything but at peace with the world in general
and in particular with Simon Pradel, who was the primary cause of all
this trouble.  Back in the stable yard he found Antoine at work there;
but all he did was to mount his horse and ride away without saying a
word about a man lying unconscious by the roadside.  However, when he
rode past the gate he noted, rather to his surprise, that there was no
sign of Simon Pradel.

"That sort of riff-raff is very tough," was my Lord Devinne's mental
comment, as he put his horse to a trot down the road.




CHAPTER FIFTEEN

_Alarming News_

When Simon Pradel came back to complete consciousness, he found himself
sitting propped up against a willow tree by the side of the little
stream that runs winding its turbulent way for three or four hundred
metres parallel with the road.  His cloak was wrapped round him and his
hat was at the back of his head.  His head ached furiously and it took
him some time to collect his senses and to remember what had happened.
He put his hand to his forehead: it encountered a handkerchief tied
round it underneath his hat.

Then he remembered everything, and insane fury took possession of him,
body and soul.  Nothing would do but he must at once to wreak vengeance
on the coward who had reduced him to such a humiliating pass.  How he
could best get a private interview with Franois de la Rodire at a
spot where the young miscreant could not call anyone to his aid, was
the puzzle that, for the moment, defied solution.  The order had
probably been given already that if he, Pradel, called at the chteau,
the door should be slammed in his face.  And he laughed aloud with rage
and bitterness at the thought that the man whose worthless life he
could squeeze out with his own powerful hands was so hemmed in, even in
these days, that nothing but mere chance would deliver him up to his
victim's just revenge.

It was his own outburst of laughter that brought back to the young
doctor's mind the curious incident which, as a matter of fact, had
probably saved his life.  There was no knowing to what lengths that
madman would have gone in his senseless rage, had not that eerie
laughter roused the echoes of the dawn and paralysed his murderous arm.
But Pradel had no more idea than the others whence that laugh had come;
all he knew was that it had saved his life, and that it remained as
mysterious, as unaccountable, as the fact that here he was, propped up
against a willow tree by the side of the stream, with his forehead
bandaged, his hands and face wiped clean of blood and his clothes
carefully freed from dirt.  He did remember, but only vaguely, that he
had been lifted off the ground by arms that seemed to be very powerful,
and that he was being carried along in those same arms, he supposed
across the road.  A few seconds, and he remembered Ccile, the beloved
hand extended to him, the kindly glance, the delicious _tte--tte_ in
the avenue.  And he also remembered the Abb Edgeworth and the old
man's earnest request for the ministrations of a brother priest and his
own determination to fetch Augustin Levet for this task.

Vengeance, then, would have to wait for that mere chance which might
never come.  God Himself had said "Vengeance is mine.  I will repay!"
What then?

With a last shrug of bitter contempt at his own impotence, Pradel
turned his back finally on that chteau of evil.  He was on the point
of wending his way down the rough track which is a short cut into
Choisy, when he saw a shabbily dressed little man who seemed to be
lurking desultorily at the angle of the road.  He took no notice,
however, not even when he became aware that as soon as he himself had
started to follow the track, the man immediately turned and went
leisurely down the other way.

Walking downhill on slippery frozen ground was a painful process, with
every step a jar, and every movement a strain on aching limbs: but
will-power is a sturdy crutch, and so many different thoughts were
running riot in Simon Pradel's mind that they left no room in his brain
for self-pity.  Less than an hour later he was outside the Levets'
house, ringing the front door bell.  There was no answer.  He rang
again and again.  It seemed strange, he thought, that there should be
no one astir in the house to watch over the dead.  Old Levet with his
habit of wandering about the countryside was a very early riser, so was
Marie the maid.  Augustin, of course, might have gone to church, but
there was Blanche also; surely the two women would not have left the
dead unguarded.

Vaguely apprehensive, not knowing what to think, Simon thought he would
go to the church close by where he knew the Levets worshipped, hoping
to find Augustin there.  As he turned out of the gate he met the Widow
Dupont, a neighbour of the Levets, who, at sight of him, threw up her
arms and exclaimed:

"Ah, citizen doctor, what a calamity!"

Pradel frowned enquiringly.

"Calamity?  What calamity?"

"Didn't you know?"

"Know what?"

"The poor Levets!  And the citizeness lying there dead, all alone!  I
and my girl would have gone in and kept watch as is only fitting, but
we didn't know about it all until afterwards; and then the house was
shut up like you see it now."

She talked on with the volubility peculiar to her kind.  It was some
time before Simon could get in a word edgeways:

"But in God's name, what has happened?" he broke in at last.

"They were arrested last night."

"Arrested?"

"And they are all going to be guillotined," the worthy widow concluded,
with that curious mixture of awe and complacency so characteristic of a
certain type of countrywoman.  "All of them!  Poor old Levet, his
saintly son, pretty little Blanche and Marie, the maid.  Not that I
would care about Marie as a maid.  She is a good girl, but she is not
thorough in her work, if you know what I mean----"

"I know, I know.  But tell me, how do you know all this, about the
Levets?  Did you see it happen?"

"No, citizen, I did not.  But I did see Citizen Maurin, the lawyer,
afterwards--after they had all gone, that is, in a carriage and pair
and lots of soldiers.  I asked Citizen Maurin if they were really going
to be guillotined, one never knows what may happen these days: like
that poor King now--I should say Louis Capet--one never knows.  Does
one?"

But Pradel had heard enough.  With a hasty word of thanks to the
voluble widow, he turned and walked rapidly up the street.  It was no
use trying to find Augustin now, but he went into the nearest church,
saw the cur, asked him or his coadjutor to go at once to La Rodire to
see a sick man, and then, anxious to get first-hand news, he went on to
Maurin's office.  There he was told by the servant that the citizen
lawyer was out for the moment but was expected back for _djeuner_.  It
was now close on ten o'clock and there would be two hours to kill; time
enough to go back home, swallow a cup of coffee and get some rest
before attending to his correspondence and professional work.  As he
walked away from Maurin's house, Simon happened to look back and saw
the shabby little man of a while ago go up to the front door and ring
the bell.  The same servant opened the door, but the shabby little man
was at once admitted.




CHAPTER SIXTEEN

_Rumour and Counter-Rumour_

There is nothing like a village or a small provincial town for
disseminating news.  Within a few hours of its occurrence it was known
all over Choisy that a dastardly outrage had been committed on the
person of the much-beloved and highly respected citizen, Dr. Pradel, by
the _ci-devant_ Marquis de la Rodire up at the chteau.  Some of these
rumours went even so far as to assert that it was a case of murder:
this, however, was later on automatically contradicted, when Dr. Pradel
was seen crossing the Grand' Place, looking pale and severe but
certainly not dead.

When and how the rumour originated nobody knew but by evening it was
all over the place and the principal subject of conversation at street
corners and in the cafs.  Even the tragic event of the day before was
relegated to the background while various versions of the story, more
or less contradictory, went from mouth to mouth.  Louis Maurin was one
of the first to hear of it, and it made him very angry indeed.  His
_aide-mnage_, Henri, related to a crony afterwards that the citizen
lawyer had had two visits from a seedy-looking individual, who often
came to the office on business but whom he, Henri, didn't know by name.
It was during this man's second visit that the citizen lawyer had flown
into a rage.  Henri had been quite frightened, and though he was not
the least inquisitive by nature, he could not help overhearing what
went on in the office.

"You consummate fool..." he heard his employer say.

And: "You told me to spread any rumours that were derogatory to him..."

Then again: "This is not derogatory, you idiot ... it will just make a
hero of him..."

All of which was very mysterious, as the crony was bound to admit.
What a pity that the worthy _aide-mnage_ could not hear more.  It
seems that the seedy-looking individual went away soon afterwards,
looking very down in the mouth.

No wonder that Louis Maurin was furious.  Everything he had planned
recently for his wooing of Blanche Levet seemed to be going wrong.  To
spread rumours that were derogatory to Pradel's moral character was one
thing.  Blanche would be sure to hear of it, so would old Levet, and
there was a good chance that the doctor would, in consequence, be
forbidden the house.  But to represent the man as the victim of
aristocratic brutality and arrogance, to give, in fact, the whole
incident a political significance, was to excite any young girl's
imagination in favour of what she would call a martyr to his
convictions.  For that is the turn which rumour had now taken.  Docteur
Pradel, so said the gossips, had professed liberal views: the
_ci-devants_ up at the chteau, enraged at the execution of Louis
Capet, had lost all sense of restraint, and had vented their fury on
the first victim who came to their hand.  In the cafs and at street
corners there was talk among the hot-headed youths of Choisy to go up
to La Rodire in a body and extract vengeance from those insolent
_aristos_ for the outrage committed on a respected member of the
community.  If this project was put into execution Simon Pradel would,
of course, at once become the most important personage in Choisy.  He
would be elected mayor without doubt, even perhaps member of the
Convention; a second Danton or Robespierre, there was no knowing.  In
spite of the cold on this frosty January evening, Maurin perspired
profusely at the prospect of seeing Blanche dazzled by the doctor's
glory, and old Levet thinking it prudent perhaps to have such a
progressive politician for his son-in-law.

The thought was maddening.  Maurin didn't feel that he could endure it
in solitude with only that fool of an _aide-mnage_ for company.  He
saw the rosy future which he had mapped out for himself turning to
darkly gathering clouds.  It was now seven o'clock.  The Levets would
be at supper.  He, Maurin, had every excuse for calling on them to
enquire after their health after the trying ordeals of the past
twenty-four hours, and to offer his services in connection with the
funeral arrangements which could no longer be delayed.

Well wrapped up in a cosy mantle, the lawyer sallied forth.  The Levets
were at supper when he arrived.  He was quite observant enough to note
at once that there was an element of disturbance in the family circle.
Blanche had evidently been crying: her eyes were heavy, and her cheeks
aflame.  She had pushed aside her plate of soup untasted.  Augustin,
serene and detached as usual, with his breviary propped up against a
glass in front of him, was quietly finishing his, whilst Charles
Levet's expression of face was inscrutable.  Maurin had a shrewd
suspicion, however, of what went on in the old royalist's mind.
Pradel, in a sense, was his friend, and he was probably shocked at the
story of the outrage, but deep down in his heart, the herbalist had
kept a feeling of loyalty not only to his King, but to the _seigneur_.
He had been born and bred in this loyalty, and in the belief that a
_seigneur_, an aristocrat who was the prop and mainstay of the throne
could do no wrong, or if he did, there was certainly a reason and an
explanation for his misdoing.  Augustin would look upon the outrage as
the will of God, or a visitation of the devil, and would pray humbly
and earnestly that Monsieur le Marquis de la Rodire be forgiven for
his outburst of temper.  Only Blanche would be indignant.  Maurin's
egoism merely attributed this to casual interest in a friend, the
thought that the girl was seriously in love with the doctor, he
dismissed as disturbing and certainly unlikely.

He had always prided himself on his tact.  It was only his tact, so he
believed, that enabled him ever to enter this house as a welcome guest,
even though his political views were as abhorrent to old Levet as the
plague.  He entered the room now with hand outstretched and an air of
debonnaire geniality, coupled with the solemnity due to a house wherein
its mistress lay dead.  He was asked to sit down and was offered a
glass of wine.  He talked of funeral arrangements, and volunteered to
take upon himself all the trouble connected with legal formalities; he
asked after everyone's health, professed to be the bearer of official
apologies for the family's arrest and detention, and apparently was not
aware that his volubility was countered by silence on the part of his
three listeners.  Blanche still looked very distressed, in fact, she
seemed to have the greatest difficulty in restraining her tears.
Maurin was on the point of broaching the subject of Pradel, when there
was a ring at the bell.

"That'll be the citizen doctor," Marie remarked, and went waddling off
like a duck to open the door.

"I'll see him outside," old Levet said, as he rose from the table.
"Come, Augustin!" he called to his son.

To Maurin, who had been watching Blanche keenly, it seemed as if it had
been at a sign from her that her father had called to Augustin and with
him had gone out of the room.  A moment or two later he could hear two
of the men talking together in the passage, after which all three went
into the sitting-room.  There was no mistaking the expression in the
girl's face now.  It was all eagerness and excitement, and in her eyes
there was just that look which only comes in a woman's eyes when the
man she loves is near.  Maurin cursed himself for his lack of
judgement.  He should have guessed which way the land lay and played
his cards differently.  It was not by involving Pradel in political
imbroglios that he would succeed in turning Blanche against him.  There
were other means by which the budding love of a young and inexperienced
girl could be changed first to pique and thence perhaps to hatred.  And
pique would surely throw Blanche into the arms of the man who knew how
to play his cards well, that man, of course, being himself.
Fortunately Louis Maurin did, in his own estimation, hold the trump
card now, and he made up his mind to play it at once.  He nodded in the
direction whence the sound of men talking came as a faint and confused
murmur, and said blandly:

"Our young friend in there has got over his trouble of this morning
quite quickly.  He----"

"Don't speak of that outrage, Louis," Blanche broke in vehemently; "I
can't bear it."

"My dear," he retorted suavely, "I was only going to say, that, like
most men who are in love, he seems willing to endure both physical and
moral humiliation, for the sake of the short glimpses he has of the
lady of his choice.  I don't blame him.  We are all of us like that,
you know, all of us who know what love is.  I would endure anything for
your sake, Blanche ... even blows."

"And now you are talking nonsense," the girl rejoined dryly.  "There
was no question of love in the unprovoked insult which that abominable
aristo put upon Simon."

The lawyer gave a light shrug and echoed with something of a sneer:

"Unprovoked?  My dear Blanche!"

"Certainly it was unprovoked.  Simon had been sitting up with a sick
man all night.  He was returning home in the small hours of the morning
when that devil of a Marquis, coward as well as bully, fell on him from
behind and knocked him senseless before he could defend himself."

Maurin gave a superior little smile.

"A very pretty story, my dear.  May I ask from whom you had it?"

"Everyone in Choisy will tell you the same.  Every detail is known----"

"No, dear, not every detail; nor will everyone in Choisy tell the
pretty tale, for there is a man who stood by while the whole episode
was going on, and who saw everything from the beginning."

"Some liar, I suppose," she retorted.

"No, not a liar.  A man of integrity, of position, an official, in
fact."

"And what did he tell you?"

Maurin smiled once more.  Imperceptibly this time.  Blanche plied him
with questions.  She wanted to know.  She did not, as older women would
have done, refuse to hear another word that might prove derogatory to
the man she loved.

"Simon Pradel, my dear Blanche, was discovered by Franois de la
Rodire making love to his sister, in the early dawn ... after a night
spent at the chteau, but not with a sick man.  He was, in fact,
kneeling at Mademoiselle's feet, kissing her hand in farewell.  No
wonder the _ci-devant_ lost his temper."

"It's not true!" the girl cried, hot with indignation.

"I pledge you my word that it is," the lawyer responded calmly.

Already Blanche had jumped to her feet.  She went to the door, threw it
open, and pointed to it with a dramatic gesture.

"Out of the house, Citizen Louis Maurin," she said, speaking as calmly
as he had done, "and never dare set foot into it again.  You are a liar
and a traducer and I hate you worse than anyone I have ever known in
all my life."

She remained standing by the door, a forbidding, almost tragic figure.
Maurin remained for a time where he was, his eyes fixed upon her,
pondering within himself what he should do.  The girl's sudden
revulsion had struck him with dismay.  It was so unexpected.  Once
again Fate, or a false move on his part perhaps, had upset all his
plans.

For the moment, however, there was nothing for him to do but to obey.
He rose slowly, picked up his hat and coat and went to the door.
Striding past the girl he made her a low bow.  As soon as he had gone
through the door she slammed it to behind him.




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

_Timely Warning_

It was in the early morning of the day following the outrage on Dr.
Pradel that a cabriolet, more ramshackle perhaps than any that plied in
Choisy, turned into the great gates of La Rodire and came to a halt at
the front door of the chteau.  A tall man, dressed in sober black,
alighted from the vehicle and rang the outside bell.  To Paul who
opened the door to him, the tall man gave his name as d'Arblay,
Professor at the University of Louvain in Belgium, and added that he
desired to speak with Monsieur l'Abb.

Paul was a little doubtful: one had to be so careful nowadays with so
many spies of that murdering government about.  The visitor looked
respectable enough, but there was never any knowing, and Paul thought
it wisest to shut the door in the "Professor's" face whilst he went to
consult his better half.  Marie too was doubtful.  For months past now,
no visitor had called at the chteau, and, of course, one never did
know.  In the end the two old people decided that the only thing to do
was to report the whole matter to Monsieur le Marquis, and he would
decide whether the "Professeur" was to be introduced into Monsieur
l'Abb's presence or not.

To their astonishment Monsieur le Marquis was overjoyed when he heard
of the visit, and commanded that Monsieur le Professeur be shown at
once into his own private room.  Never had Monsieur le Marquis shown
such condescension towards a member of the despised "bourgeoisie," and
Paul ushered in the visitor with as much deference as he would have
shown to one who had a handle to his name.

Franois de la Rodire was indeed more than condescending.  He greeted
the tall Professor most cordially.

"Your visit is more than welcome, sir," he said.  "I have been
expecting it ever since yesterday at noon, when I received one of those
mysterious messages signed with the device of a small red flower which
have already puzzled us.  You, I suppose, know all about it."

"All?" the Professor replied.  "Not exactly, Monsieur le Marquis.  But
I have been asked to call here in a cabriolet for Monsieur l'Abb
Edgeworth, and to drive with him as far as Vitry, where friends of his
who are of Belgian nationality and therefore safe from interference by
the revolutionary government, will convey him safely to the frontier."

Franois could not help being impressed by the grave and dignified
demeanour of this learned man, as well as by his exquisitely cut
clothes and fine linen.  To begin with he spoke French with a precision
that amounted to pedantry, and this was strange in a Belgian: their
French was usually execrable.  He was tall and obviously powerful, and
he had beautiful hands, one of which rested on the ivory knob of his
cane.  There was nothing Belgian about all that either, the Belgians
being for the most part short and stocky and, with their Flemish
ancestry, were of a very different fibre to the aristocracy of France.
Puzzled, Franois remarked casually:

"You are a Belgian, are you not, Professor?"

"Cosmopolitan would be a better word, Monsieur le Marquis," the other
replied coolly.  "I trust Monsieur l'Abb is in a better state of
health.  The journey might be trying for an invalid."

"Oh! he is much better.  Much, much better," Franois replied, then
went on in a confidential manner: "_Entre nous_, my good Professor, his
being ill here was somewhat inconvenient, not to say dangerous for the
safety of Madame la Marquise and all of us.  I shall be really thankful
to have him out of the way."

"I am sure.  Especially in view of the fact that the people down in
Choisy are none too friendly towards your family."

"Oh! the riff-raff down in Choisy do not frighten me.  Riff-raff! that
is all they are.  They shout and yell and break a window or two.  No!
no, I am not afraid of that rabble.  Let them come.  They will get
their deserts."

"It is sometimes best to be prepared."

"I am prepared.  With powder and shot.  The first man who sets foot on
the perron is a dead man, so are all who follow him."

"Retreat before a powerful enemy is sometimes more prudent and often
more brave than assured resistance."

"You mean run away before that _canaille_.  Not I.  I'll see them all
in hell first."

"I was thinking of Madame la Marquise and Mademoiselle Ccile."

"Then, pray," Franois retorted with supreme arrogance, "cease thinking
of aught but your own business, which is to look after the welfare of
Monsieur l'Abb Edgeworth."

With that, he turned his back on his visitor and stalked out of the
room, leaving the Professor standing there motionless, a thoughtful
look in his deep blue eyes and a sarcastic curl round his firm lips.  A
moment or two later Paul came in.

"Monsieur l'Abb is waiting to see Monsieur le Professeur," he said.

The latter gave a short, impatient sigh and followed Paul out of the
room.  His interview with the old priest was short.  The Abb with that
patient acceptance of fate which he had shown since the one
catastrophic event two days ago, was ready to follow this unknown
friend as he had followed the two ruffianly guards the other day from
the Levets' home to the chteau.  He made his adieux to the family who
had so generously sheltered him, expressed his thanks to them, as well
as to Paul and Marie, who had looked after him, and finally stepped
into the cabriolet which he understood would take him on to Vitry
first, there to meet Belgian friends who would drive him by coach to
the frontier.  Monsieur le Professeur sat by his side and drove with
him for about a kilometre or so; he then called to the driver to stop,
alighted from the vehicle and bade the old priest farewell.

"The friends, Monsieur l'Abb," he said finally, "who will take care of
you at Vitry and convey you to the frontier, are kind and generous.
The head of the family has held an official position in Paris for the
Belgian Government.  He has a safe-conduct for you.  Try and think of
no one but yourself until you are over the border.  God guard you."

He then spoke a word or two to the driver which the abb failed to
hear.  There were two men on the box.  One of them now got down and
took his seat under the hood of the carriage.  He looked something of a
ruffian, but the abb did not mind his looks.  He was used to friendly
ruffians by now.  He took a last look at the mysterious Professor, saw
him standing bareheaded at the side of the road, his black cloak
wrapped round his tall figure, one slender hand resting on the knob of
his cane, his face a reflection of lofty thoughts within a noble soul.

It was a face and form the Abb Edgeworth knew that he would never
forget, even though he was destined never to see them again.  As the
driver whipped up his nag, the priest murmured a prayer to God to bless
and guard this mysterious friend to whom he owed his safety and his
life.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

_Impending Trouble_

Three days had gone by since the incident at La Rodire, and excitement
in Choisy over the outrage on Dr. Pradel was working itself up to
fever-pitch.  In the evenings, men and women who had been at work in
the government factories all day, would pour out in their hundreds and
invade the cafs and restaurants, eager to hear further details of the
abominable assault which by now had inflamed the passions of every
adult in the commune.  A devilish aristocrat had shown his hatred and
contempt for the people by making a cowardly attack on one of the most
respected citizens of Choisy, on a man who spent his life and fortune
in ministering to the poor and doing good to every man, woman or child
who called to him for help.  Such an affront called aloud for
vengeance.  It was directed against the people, against the rights and
privileges of every free-born citizen of France.

And paid agitators came down from Paris, and stood at street corners or
on tables in cafs and restaurants and harangued the excited crowds
that readily enough gathered round them to hear them speak.

The chief centre of this growing agitation was the restaurant Tison
adjoining the caf of the same name on the Grand' Place; a great number
of people, women as well as men, usually crowded in there in the
evenings because it was known that the hero of the hour, Dr. Pradel,
usually took his supper in the restaurant.  People wanted to see him,
to shake him by the hand and to explain to him how ready everyone was
in Choisy to avenge his wrongs on those arrogant _ci-devants_ up at La
Rodire.

Unfortunately Simon Pradel did not see eye to eye with that agitated
crowd.  He resented his own impotence bitterly enough, but he didn't
want other people--certainly not a lot of rioters--to make trouble up
at the chteau and God help them, strike perhaps at Mademoiselle Ccile
whilst trying to punish her brother.  Up to now he had succeeded in
keeping the more aggressive hotheads within bounds.  He had a great
deal of influence with his fellow-citizens, was very highly respected
and they did listen to him when he first begged, then commanded them to
mind their own business and let him manage his own.  In this, strangely
enough, he had an ally in a man he detested, Louis Maurin, the lawyer,
who appeared just as anxious as he was himself to put a stop to the
insane project advocated by the agents of the government; this was to
march in a body to La Rodire, there to loot or destroy the contents of
the chteau as had already been done once, four years ago, and if not
actually to murder the family of _aristos_, at any rate to give them a
wholesome fright followed by exemplary punishment.

After Louis Maurin had been ignominiously turned out of the Levets'
house by Blanche, he did not attempt to set foot in it again.  He took
to frequenting the restaurant Tison more assiduously than ever before,
there to use what influence he possessed to moderate the inflammatory
harangues of the agitators, since he was hand in glove with most of
these gentlemen.  As a matter of fact the last thing in the world
Maurin desired was an armed raid on La Rodire with Simon Pradel the
centre of an admiring crowd, and the glorification of the one man who
stood in the way of his cherished matrimonial schemes.

"You don't want to set the whole commune by the ears, Citizen Conty,"
he argued with the orator who had just ended an impassioned harangue
amidst thunderous applause.  "It is too soon for that sort of thing.
The government wants you to incite the people to patriotism, to inflame
their love for their country, not to work on this silly sentiment for
one man, who, before you can put a stop to it, would become a sort of
hero of the commune, be elected mayor and presently be sent to the
Convention, there to become a dictator and rival to Robespierre or
Danton, and what will you gain by that?  Whereas if you will only bide
your time..."

"Well, what should I gain by biding my time according to you, citizen
lawyer?"

"Give those _aristos_ up at the chteau enough rope, and presently you
will be able to denounce them and get a big reward if they are
condemned.  I have known as much as twenty livres being paid for the
apprehension of a _ci-devant_ Marquis and thirty for his womenfolk.  As
for a prominent citizen like that fellow Pradel, I know that I can get
you fifty livres the day he is brought to trial for treason."

The other man shrugged, spat and gave a coarse laugh.

"Do you hate him so much as all that, citizen lawyer?" he queried.

"I do not hate Docteur Pradel," Maurin replied loftily, "more than I do
all traitors of the Republic, and I know that Pradel is a traitor."

"How do you know that?"

"He is constantly up at the chteau.  He puts his professional pride in
his pocket and gives purges to the _ci-devants'_ horses and dogs.  And
do you know why he was thrashed the other morning?  Because he had
spent the night with the wench Ccile, and was bidding her a fond
farewell in the early dawn, when they were both caught in a
compromising position by her brother, who took the law in his own hands
and broke his riding-crop over the shoulders of the amorous young
doctor."

Conversation was difficult in this atmosphere of noisy excitement.  In
the farther corner of the crowded restaurant a small troupe of
musicians were scraping the catgut, blowing down brass instruments and
banging on drums to their own obvious satisfaction, for they made a
great noise, wagged their heads and perspired profusely while they
supplemented their ear-splitting attempts at a tune by singing lustily
in accompaniment.  They had struck up the opening bars of the old
French ditty:

  "_Il tait une bergre,
  Et ron et ron petit pataplan._"


"These cursed catgut scrapers," cried Conty in exasperation.  "I'll
have them turned out.  One can't do anything with these fools while
this row is going on."

The leader of the band was particularly active.  Where he had got his
fiddle from it was difficult to imagine: it gave forth sounds now
creaking, now wheezing, anon screeching or howling and always
discordant, provoking either laughter or the throwing of miscellaneous
missiles at his head.  They were all of them a scrubby lot, these
musicians, unwashed, unshaven, in ragged breeches above their bare
legs, shoes down-at-heel or else sabots, and grubby Phrygian caps
adorned with tricolour cockades on their unkempt heads.  They called
themselves an itinerant orchestra whom the proprietor of the restaurant
had enticed into the place under promise of a hot supper, and they were
obviously doing their best to earn it:

  "_Le chat qui la regarde,
  Et ron et ron petit pataplon._"


"That rascal over there should be made to do honest work," Conty
grunted, after he had made several vain attempts to shout the musicians
down.  "I call it an outrage on the country for a big hulking fellow
like that to scrape a fiddle and ogle the girls when he should be
training to fight the English."

"To fight the English?" Maurin interposed.  "What do you mean, citizen?"

He and Conty had a tureen of hot soup on the table between them.  Each
dipped into it with a big ladle and filled up his plate to the rim.
The soup was very hot and they blew on their spoons before conveying
them to their mouths.

The musicians lifted up their cracked voices with a hoot and a cheer,
whilst the chorus took up the lively tune:

  "_Le chat qui la regarde
  D'un petit air fripon, pon, pon,
  D'un petit air fripon,_"

and the leader of the band, suiting the action to the word, cast side
glances on the girls with an air as roguish as that of the
cheese-maker's cat.

"What do you mean, Citizen Conty," the young lawyer reiterated, "by
talking about fighting the English?"

"Just what I say," Conty replied.  "We shall be at war with those
barbarians before the month is out."

"Who told you that?"

"You'll hear of it, citizen lawyer.  Ill news travels apace."

"But how did you know?" Maurin insisted.

"We government agents," Conty observed loftily, "know these things long
before you ordinary people do."

"But..."

"As a matter of fact," the other now condescended to explain, "I was in
Paris this morning.  I met a number of deputies.  There will be a
debate about the whole affair in the Convention to-night.  Citizen
Chauvelin," he went on confidentially, "is back from London since the
twenty-first.  His work over there is finished, and he is travelling
round the country on propaganda work for the government.  Secret
service, you know.  I spoke with him.  He told me he would be in Choisy
to-night to have a look round.  Now, you see," Conty concluded, as he
attacked the savoury onion pie, "why I want to get all these fools into
the right frame of mind.  We want to show Paris what Choisy can do.
What?"

"Chauvelin?" Maurin mused.  "I've heard about him."

"And you'll see him presently.  A clever fellow, but hard as steel.  He
was sent to England to represent our government, but he didn't stay
long, and, name of a dog, how he does hate the English!"

The musicians had just led off with the last verse of the popular ditty:

  "_La bergre en colre,
  Et ron, et ron, petit pataplon,_"

when Conty jumped to his feet, and with a hasty: "There he is!" pushed
his way through the crowd towards the door.

Arman Chauvelin, ex-envoy of the revolutionary government at the Court
of St. James, had just returned from England, a sadder and wider man:
somewhat discredited perhaps, owing to his repeated failures in
bringing the noted English spy, known as the Scarlet Pimpernel, to
book, but nevertheless still standing high in the Councils of the
various Committees, not only because of his great abilities, but
because of his well-known hatred for the spy who had baffled him.  He
was still an important member of the Central Committee of Public
Safety, and as such both respected and feared wherever he went.

Conty, the political agitator, was all obsequiousness when greeting
this important personage.  He conducted Citizen Chauvelin to the table
where Louis Maurin had also finished eating, presented him to the
lawyer, after which the two men pressed the newcomer to partake of
supper as their guest.  Chauvelin refused.  He was not staying in
Choisy this night, having other business to attend to, he said, in the
Loiret district.  He wouldn't even sit down.  Despite his small, spare
figure, he looked strangely impressive in his quietude, and, dressed as
he was in sober black, amidst this noisy, excited crowd, many
inquisitive glances were turned on him as he stood there.  His thin
white hands were clasped behind his back and he was listening to the
answers which Conty and Maurin gave him in reply to his enquiries about
the temper of the people in Choisy, and to their story of the outrage
perpetrated on Docteur Pradel by the _ci-devant_ Marquis up at La
Rodire.  This story interested him; he encouraged Conty in his efforts
to keep the excitement of the populace at boiling point, and to inflame
as far as possible the hatred of the people against the _aristos_.  An
armed raid on the chteau, he thought, would be a good move, if
properly engineered, and as he intended to be back in Choisy in a
couple of days, he desired the project to be put off until his return.
He wouldn't listen to Maurin's objections to the raid.

"Those _aristos_ at La Rodire interest me," he said.  "There is an old
woman, you say?"

"Yes," Conty informed him; "the _ci-devant_ Marquise, the mother of the
present young cub who thrashed Dr. Pradel."

"And there is a girl?  A young girl?"

"Yes, citizen, and two old _aides-mnage_.  But they are harmless
enough."

"It would be so much better----" Maurin ventured to say.

"I was not asking your opinion, citizen lawyer," Chauvelin broke in
haughtily.  "What I've said, I've said.  Prepare the way, Citizen
Conty," he went on, "and as soon as I am back in Choisy I will let you
know.  If I mistake not," he added under his breath, almost as if he
didn't wish the others to hear what he was saying, "we shall have some
fun over that raid at La Rodire.  An old woman, a young girl, two old
servants!  The very people to arouse the sympathy of our gallant
English spies."

He nodded to the two men and turned to go.  The crowd in the small
restaurant was more dense than ever.  People were sitting on the
tables, the sideboards, and on the top of one another.  The musicians
had just played the last bar of the favoured tune, the chorus of which
was bawled out by the enthusiastic crowd, to the accompaniment of
thunderous handclaps and banging of miscellaneous tools on any surface
that happened to be handy:

  "_La bergre en colre,
  Tua son petit chaton, ton, ton,
  Tua son petit chaton._"


Chauvelin had real difficulty in pushing his way through this dense
throng.  He felt dazed, what with the noise and with the smell of stale
food and of unwashed humanity; at any rate he put his curious
experience down to an addled state of his brain, for while he was being
pushed and jostled, and only saw individual faces through a kind of
haze made of dust and fumes, he suddenly felt as if a pair of eyes, one
pair only, was looking at him out of the hundred that were there.  Of
course, it was only a hallucination: he was sure it was, and yet for
some reason or other he felt a cold shiver running down his spine.  He
tried to recapture the glance of those eyes, but no one now in the
crowd seemed to be looking at him.  The musicians had finished playing,
or rather they tried to finish playing, but their audience wouldn't
allow them to.  Everyone was shouting at the top of his voice:

  "_Il tait une bergre._"

They wanted the whole of the six verses all over again.

Chauvelin got as far as the door, was on the point of opening it when a
sound--the sound he hated more than any on earth--reached his ear above
the din: it was a loud, prolonged, rather inane burst of laughter.
Chauvelin did not swear, nor did he shiver again: his nerves were
suddenly quite steady and if he could have translated his thoughts into
words, he would have said with a chuckle: "I was right, then!  and you
are here, my gallant friend, at your old tricks again.  Well, since you
wish it, _ nous deux_ once more, and I think I may promise you some
fun, as you would call it, at La Rodire."




CHAPTER NINETEEN

_The League_

Although Choisy is only twelve or fifteen kilometres from Paris, it was
in those days just a small provincial town with its Htel de Ville and
its Committee of Public Safety sitting there, its Grand' Place, its
ancient castle then used as a prison, and its famous bridge across the
Seine.  To the South and West of the Grand' Place there were two or
three residential streets with a few substantial, stone-built houses,
the homes of professional men, or of tradespeople who had retired on a
competence, and farther along a few isolated, poorer-looking houses,
such a one as old Levet's, lying back from the road behind a small
grille and a tiny front garden.  But all these features only covered a
small area, round which stretched fields and spinneys, with here and
there a cottage for the most part roofless and derelict.

It was in one of these dilapidated cottages which stood in a meadow
about half-way between Choisy and the height on which was perched the
Chteau de La Rodire, that what looked like a troupe of itinerant
musicians had sought shelter against the cold.  They had made up a fire
in the wide open hearth; the smoke curled up the chimney, and they sat
round with their knees drawn up to their chins and their arms
encircling their knees.  There were four of them altogether inside the
cottage, and one sat outside on a broken-down stool propped against the
wall, apparently on the watch.  In a corner of the room a number of
musical instruments were piled up, a miscellaneous collection of
violin, guitar, trumpet and drum.  Precariously perched on the top of
this pile of rubbish sat Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., the most fastidious
dandy fashionable London had ever known, the arbiter of elegance, the
friend of the Prince of Wales, the adored of every woman in England.
He too was unwashed, unkempt, unshaved, his slender hands, those hands
a queen had once termed exquisite, were covered with grime, his nails
were in the deepest mourning.  He wore a tattered blouse, on his head a
Phrygian cap which had once been red.  At the moment he was scraping a
fiddle, drawing from it wailing sounds that provoked loud groans from
his friends and an occasional missile hurled at his head.

"We are in for some fine sport, I imagine, what?" Lord Anthony Dewhurst
remarked, and dug his teeth into a hard apple, which he had just
extracted from his breeches' pocket.

"Tony," one of the others demanded--it was my Lord Hastings, "where did
you get that apple?"

"My sweetheart gave it me.  She stole it from her neighbour's garden
..."

My Lord Tony got no further.  He was attacked all at once from three
sides.  Three pairs of hands were stretched out to wrest the apple from
him.

"We are in for some fine sport!" Lord Tony had declared before the
attack on his apple was launched.  He held it up at arm's length,
trying to rescue it from his assailants who made grabs at it and
invariably got in one another's way, until a firm hand finally seized
it and Blakeney's pleasant drawly voice was raised to say:

"I'll toss you all for this precious thing ... what there is left of
it."

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes won the toss, and the apple, which had suffered
wreckage during the fight, was finally hurled at the head of the
revered chief, who had resumed his attempts at getting a tune out of
his cracked fiddle.  A distant church clock had struck eleven a few
minutes ago.  The man on the watch outside put his head in at the door
and announced curtly:

"Here he comes."

And presently Devinne came in.  He was dressed in his ordinary clothes
with dark coat, riding breeches and boots.  His face wore a sullen look
and he scarcely glanced either at his friends or at his chief, just
flung himself on the ground in front of the fire and muttered between
his teeth:

"God!  I'm tired!"

After a moment or two while no one else spoke he added as if grudgingly:

"I'm sorry I'm late, Percy.  I had to put up my horse and..."

"Listen to this, you fellows," Blakeney said with a chuckle as he
scraped his fiddle and extracted from it a wailing version of the
_Marseillaise_.

Young Devinne jumped to his feet, strode across the floor and snatched
the fiddle out of Blakeney's hand.

"Percy!" he cried hoarsely.

"You don't like it, my dear fellow?  Well, I don't blame you, but----"

"Percy," the young man rejoined, "you've got to be serious ... you have
got to help me ... it is all damnable ... damnable ... I shall go mad
if this goes on much longer ... and if you don't help me."

He was obviously beside himself with excitement, strode up and down the
place, his hand pressed tightly against his forehead.  The words came
tumbling out through his lips, whilst his voice was raucous with
agitation.

Blakeney watched him for a moment or two without speaking.  His face
through all the grime and disfigurement wore that expression of
infinite sympathy and understanding of which he, of all men, appeared
to hold the secret, the understanding of other people's troubles and
difficulties, and that wordless sympathy which so endeared him to his
friends.

"Help you, my dear fellow," he now said.  "Of course, we'll all help
you, if you want us.  What are we here for but to help each other, as
well as those poor wretches who are in trouble through no fault of
their own?"

Then, as Devinne said nothing for the moment, just continued to pace up
and down, up and down like a trapped feline, he went on:

"Tell us all about it, boy.  It is this La Rodire business, isn't it?"

"It is.  And a damnable business it will be, unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless you do something about it in double quick time.  Those ruffians
in Choisy are planning mischief.  You knew that two days ago, and you
have done nothing.  I wanted to go up to La Rodire to warn them of
what was in the wind.  I could have done it yesterday, gone up there
this morning.  It wouldn't have interfered with any of your plans: and
it would have meant all the world to me.  But what did you do?  You
took me along with Stowmarries to drive that old abb as far as Vitry,
a job any fool could have done."

"But you did it so admirably, my dear fellow," Sir Percy put in
quietly, when young Devinne paused for want of breath.  He had come to
a halt in front of his chief, glaring at him with eyes that held
anything but deference; his face was flushed, beads of perspiration
stood on his forehead and glued his matted hair to his temples.

"You did the fool's job, as you call it, as admirably as you have
always done everything the League set you to do; and you did it because
you happen to have been born a gentleman and the son of a very great
gentleman who honoured me with his friendship, and because you have
always remembered that you swore to me on your word of honour that,
while we are all of us engaged on the business of the League, you would
obey me in all things."

"An oath of that sort," the young man retorted vehemently, "does not
bind a man when----"

"When he is in love, and the woman he loves is in danger..." Sir Percy
broke in gently.  "That is what you were going to say, was it not, lad?"

He rose and put a kindly hand on Devinne's shoulder.

"Don't think I don't understand, my dear fellow," he said earnestly.
"I do.  God knows I do.  But you know that the word of honour of an
English gentleman is a big thing.  A very, very big thing and a very
hard one sometimes.  So hard that nothing on earth can break it: but if
by the agency of some devil, that word should be broken, then honour is
irretrievably shattered too.

"Now tell me," he resumed more lightly, "did you on your way back from
Vitry call in on Charles Levet and tell him that the Abb Edgeworth is
by now safely on his way to the Belgian frontier?"

Devinne looked sullen.

"I forgot," he said curtly.

Blakeney gave a quaint little laugh:

"Gad!  That is a pity," he said.  "Fancy forgetting a little thing like
that.  But we have no control over our memory, have we?  Well, dear
lad, you have a long walk before you, so you'd best start right away
now.  Tell Charles Levet that the abb is now with some Belgian friends
who are looking after him.  I promised the old man that I would let him
know, he has been very good to us, and we must keep in touch with him.
I have an idea that he and his family may have need of us one day."

Devinne still looked sulky.

"You want me to go to the Levets' house?  Now?"

"Well, you did forget to call in on your way.  Didn't you?"

"Then don't expect me back here--I shall go straight on to La Rodire."

There was a slight pause, during which no human sound disturbed the
kind of awed hush that had fallen over this squalid derelict place.
Blakeney had scarcely made a movement when young Devinne thus flung
defiance in his face.  Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, the man who perhaps
among all the others knew every line around the mouth of his chief, and
every expression in the deep-set lazy blue eyes, noted a certain
stiffening of the massive figure, and a tightening of the firm lips.
But this only lasted for a few seconds.  The very next moment Blakeney
threw back his head and his prolonged inimitable laugh raised the echo
of the dilapidated walls.  The humour of the situation had tickled his
fancy.  This boy!! ...  Well! ... It was absolutely priceless.  Those
flaming eyes, the obstinate mouth, the attitude of a schoolboy in the
act of defying his schoolmaster, and half afraid of the cane in the
dominie's hand seemed to him ludicrous in the extreme.

"My dear fellow," he said, and once again the friendly hand was laid on
Devinne's shoulder, and the kindliest of lazy blue eyes looked down on
this contumacious boy, "you really are a marvel.  But don't let me keep
you," he went on airily.  "I don't suppose the Levets will invite you
to dinner, and if they don't it will be hours before you are there and
back and able to get something to eat.  Anyway, you will meet us again
in the restaurant, without fail, at one o'clock."

This, of course, was a command.  Blakeney had been standing between
Devinne and the direct access to the door.  He now stepped a little to
one side, leaving the way free for the young man to go out.  There was
an awkward moment.  Devinne, half-ashamed but still half-defiant, would
not meet the chief's gently ironical glance.  The others said nothing,
and after a minute or two, he finally strode out of the cottage.  A
thin layer of snow lay on the field and road, and deadened the sound of
his footsteps.  Glynde after a time put his head in at the door.

"He is out of sight," he announced.

Lord Hastings jumped to his feet.

"My turn to watch," he said.  "Glynde is frozen stiff."

"Never mind about the watch now," Sir Percy interrupted.  "We are
fairly safe here, and there are one or two things I want to talk over
with you fellows.

"We are agreed, are we not, that for the next day or two we must
concentrate on those wretched people up at La Rodire?  Monsieur le
Marquis Franois we care nothing about, it is true, but there is the
old lady, there is the young girl and there are the two old people who
have been faithful servants and are, therefore, just as much in danger
as their masters.  We cannot leave Franois out of our calculations
because neither his mother nor his sister would go away without him.
So it will be five people--not to say six--whom we shall have to get
over to England as soon as danger becomes really imminent.  That might
be even no later than this evening.  We shall be up there with the
riotous crowd during the afternoon, and we shall have our fiddle, our
trumpets and our drums, not to mention our melodious voices with which
we can always divert their thoughts from unprofitable mischiefs, to
some equally boisterous but less dangerous channels.  You all know the
ropes now: we have played that game successfully before and can do it
again, what?"

There was unanimous assent to the project.

"Yes, by gad!" came from one of them.

"It is a game I particularly affection," from another.

"Always makes me think of tally-ho!"--this from that keen sportsman,
Lord Anthony Dewhurst.

And: "Go on, Percy!  This is violently exciting,"--from them all.

"We'll bide our time, of course," Blakeney now continued.  "Our
friends, the worst of the hotheads, once they have accomplished their
purpose and asserted their rights and privileges to make themselves
unpleasant to the _aristos_, will turn their backs on La Rodire, their
spirits slightly damped perhaps.  They will then crowd into the nearest
cabaret, there is one close to the chteau, they will talk things over,
eat and drink and allow those hellish agitators to talk their heads
off, while we shall continue to addle their brains with strains of
sentimental music.  And all the time we'll be watching the opportunity
for action.  Of course, during the course of a long afternoon a number
of incidents are certain to occur which we cannot foresee and which
will either aid or hinder us.  You know my favourite motto, to take
Chance by the one hair on his head and force him to do my bidding.  In
a small place like this by far our best plan will be to proceed once
more to La Rodire as soon as the crowd has made its way back to Choisy
and we find the coast fairly clear.  We'll go in the guise of a squad
of Gendarmerie Nationale and there arrest Monsieur le Marquis, his
mother, his sister and the two faithful old servants.  With a little
luck, those tactics are sure to succeed."

He paused a moment, striding up and down the narrow room, a set look on
his face.  His followers who watched him waited in silence, knowing
that through that active brain the plan for the daring rescue of those
innocents was gradually being elaborated and matured.  After a time
Blakeney resumed.

"I am not taking Devinne with us at any time this afternoon.  The crowd
up at the chteau is certain to deal harshly with the family, and if
Mademoiselle Ccile is rough-handled he might do or say something rash
which would compromise us all.  So I shall send him to our headquarters
outside Corbeil, to instruct Galveston and Holte to have horses ready
and generally to be prepared for our arrival with a certain number of
refugees, among whom there will be two ladies.  Galveston is very
expert in making all arrangements.  I know I can trust him and Holte to
do the necessary as far as lies in their power."

"At what time do you think you will carry the whole thing through,
Percy?" one of the others asked.  "The arrest, I mean, and the flight
from La Rodire?"

"I cannot tell you that just yet.  Sometime during the night, of
course.  I would prefer the early dawn for many reasons, if only for
the sake of the light.  The night might be very dark, bad for fast
driving.  But I will give you instructions about that later.  It will
only be by hearing the talk around us that I shall be able to decide
finally.  I shall also have to ascertain exactly how much help mine
host of the cabaret will be willing to give us."

"You mean the cabaret on the Corbeil road, not far from La Rodire?"

"A matter of two or three hundred yards, yes.  It boasts the poetic
sign: 'The Dog Without a Tail.'  I have been in touch with mine host
and his Junoesque wife already."

"Percy, you are wonderful!"

"Glynde, you are an ass."

Laughter all round and then Blakeney resumed once more:

"There will also be Pradel to consider."

"Pradel?" one of them asked.  "Why?"

"If we leave him here, we'd only have to come back and get him later.
They'll have him, you may be sure of that.  He has one or two bitter
enemies, as men of his outstanding worth always have, and there are
always petty jealousies both male and female that make for mischief.
Anyhow, he is too fine a fellow to be left for these wolves to devour.
But I shall be better able to judge of all this after I have gauged the
temper of the crowd both at La Rodire and afterwards."

"That young Marquis was a fool not to have got away before now."

"He wouldn't hear of it.  You know their ways.  They are all alike.
Some of them quite fine fellows, but they have not yet learned to
accept the inevitable, and the women, poor dears, have no influence
over their menfolk."

"Then we are going up to La Rodire with the crowd, I take it," Lord
Hastings observed.

"Certainly we are."

"You haven't forgotten, Percy, by any chance...?" Sir Andrew suggested.

"I think not.  You mean, my dear friend Monsieur Chambertin, beg
pardon, Chauvelin?" Blakeney rejoined gaily.  "No, by gad, I had not
forgotten him.  I am pining for his agreeable society.  I wonder now
whether during his last stay in London he has learned how to tie his
cravat as a gentleman should."

"Percy! will you be..." Lord Tony hazarded.

"Careful, was the word you were going to say, eh, Tony?  Of course, I
won't be careful, but I give you my word that my friend Chambertin is
not going to get me--not this time."

A soft look stole into his deep-set eyes.  It seemed as if he had seen
a vision of his exquisite wife Marguerite wandering lonely and anxious,
in her garden at Richmond waiting for him, her husband and lover, who
was her one absorbing thought, whilst he ... She too was his absorbing
thought, the great thought, that filled his mind and warmed his heart:
but it was not all-absorbing.  Foremost in his mind were all those
innocents, little children, men and women, young and old who, unknown
to themselves, seemed to call to him, to stretch out imploring arms
towards him for comfort and for help: those were the moments when
Marguerite's lovely face appeared blurred by the rain of tears shed in
devastated homes and inside prison walls, and when he, the adoring
husband and devoted lover, dismissed with a sigh of longing, all
thoughts of holding her in his arms.

"And now," he said, his voice perfectly firm and incisive, "it is time
that we collected our goods and saw whether our friends down at Choisy
are ready for the fight."

They set to, to collect their musical instruments, their fiddles and
drums and trumpets.  Just for a moment the glamour of the coming
adventure faded before one hideous fear of which not one of them had
ever spoken yet, but which troubled them all.

Blakeney was humming the tune of the _Marseillaise_.

"I wish I could remember the words of the demmed thing," he said.
"What comes after: '_Aux armes citoyens!_'?  Ffoulkes, you ought to
know."

Sir Andrew replied almost gruffly: "I don't," and Lord Tony called
suddenly to his chief:

"Percy."

"Yes!  What is it?"

"That fellow, Devinne..."

"What about him?"

"You don't trust him, do you?"

"The son of old Gery Rudford, the straightest rider to hounds I ever
knew?  Of course I trust him."

"I wish you wouldn't," Hastings put in.

"The father may have been a sportsman," Glynde added; "the son
certainly is not."

"Don't say that, my dear fellow," Blakeney rejoined; "it sounds like
treason to the rest of us.  The boy is all right.  Just mad with
jealousy, that's all.  He has offended his lady love and she will have
nothing more to do with him.  I dare say he is sorry that he behaved
quite so badly the other morning.  I'll admit that he did behave like a
cad.  He is only a boy, and jealousy ... well! we know what a bad
counsellor jealousy can be.  But between that and doing what you all
have in your minds ... Egad!  I'll not believe it!"

Hastings murmured savagely: "He'd better not."

Sir Phillip Glynde nearly punched a hole in the drum, trying to express
his feelings, and Lord Tony muttered a murderous oath.  Sir Andrew
alone said nothing.  He knew--they all did, in fact--that Blakeney was
one of those men who are so absolutely loyal and straight, that they
simply cannot conceive treachery in a friend.  Not one of them trusted
Devinne.  It was all very well making allowances for a boy thwarted in
love, but there had been an expression in this one's face which
suggested something more sinister than petty jealousy, and though
nothing more was said at the moment, they all registered a vow to keep
a close eye on his movements until this adventure in Choisy, which
promised to be so exciting, had come to a successful issue, and they
were all back in England once more, when they hoped to enlist Lady
Blakeney's support in persuading Percy not to rely on young Devinne
again.




CHAPTER TWENTY

_A Likely Ally_

Heavy hearted and still sullen and rebellious, St. John Devinne,
familiarly known as Johnny, made his way through the town towards
Levets' house.  All sorts of wild schemes chased one another through
his brain, schemes which had the one main objective in view, to see
Ccile de la Rodire, and, by giving her and her family warning of the
mischief contemplated against them by the rabble of Choisy, to worm
himself once more into her good graces and regain the love which he had
forfeited so foolishly.

Chance has a very funny way of shuffling the cards in the game of life.
Here were two men, Louis Maurin, the French lawyer, and Lord St. John
Devinne, son of an English Duke, both deadly enemies of Simon Pradel,
the local doctor, who hardly knew either of them, but who was looked
upon by both as a serious rival to their love, a rival who must
incontinently be swept out of the way.  Maurin desired his moral and
physical downfall in order to find his way clear for the wooing of
Blanche Levet, whilst Devinne had reluctantly come to the conclusion
that Ccile de la Rodire had so far demeaned herself as to fall in
love with the fellow.  She certainly had turned her back on him,
Devinne, ever since that fatal morning, and unless he now took strong
measures on his own behalf, he might lose all chance of ever winning
her.

Devinne hurried along, hoping to deliver his message at the Levets and
be well on the way to La Rodire before the crowd had been stirred into
an organised march on the chteau.  He pulled the collar of his
greatcoat up to his ears and his hat down to meet it, for the wind
blowing right across the Grand' Place was cutting.  At the angle of the
Rue Verte he suddenly became aware of the man who at the moment was
foremost in this thoughts.  Simon Pradel was standing at the corner of
the street, talking to a girl whose head was swathed in a shawl.
Devinne thought that in her he recognised Levet's daughter, whom he had
once seen at the chteau.  She was talking heatedly and appeared
distressed, for her voice shook as she spoke and she had one hand on
Pradel's arm as if she were either entreating or restraining him.  As
he went past them, Devinne heard the girl say:

"Don't go up there, Simon!  Those _aristos_ hate you.  They will only
think that you are fawning on them....  Don't go, Simon.

"You will regret it, and they will despise you for it ... they will...."

She seemed to be working herself up into a state of excitement and kept
on raising her voice until it sounded quite shrill.

Pradel tried to pacify her.  "Hush, my dear," he said; "don't talk so
loud: anyone might hear you."

But she was not to be pacified:

"I don't care who hears me," she retorted; "those _aristos_ are devils
who deserve all they will get.  Why should you care what happens to
them? ... You only care because you are in love with Ccile...."

She burst into tears.  Pradel put an arm round her shoulders.

"And now you talk like a foolish child...."

Devinne had instinctively halted within earshot, but now he was in
danger of being seen, and this he did not wish, so, rather reluctantly,
he turned and went his way.  It was too soon yet to gauge the
importance of what he had heard, but already he felt that in this girl,
who was obviously half crazy with jealousy, he might find a useful
ally, should he fail to obtain an interview with Ccile on his own
initiative.  In any case, she must have the same desire that he had,
namely, to keep Ccile and Pradel apart.  This thought elated him, and
it was with a more springy step that he strode briskly down the Rue
Verte and after a few minutes rang the outside bell of the Levets'
house.

Charles Levet opened the door to him, received the message sent to him
by his friend Professor d'Arblay, expressed his satisfaction at hearing
that Monsieur l'Abb Edgeworth was safely on his way to Belgium, asked
his visitor to join the family at dinner, and on the latter's courteous
refusal, bade him a friendly farewell.  Back the other side of the
gate, Devinne paused a moment to reconsider the whole situation.
Should he continue his protest against an irksome discipline, which he
felt was incompatible with his dignity as a man of action and of
thought, or should he make a virtue of necessity, meet Blakeney and the
others in the Restaurant Tison, hear their plans and then act in
accordance with his own schemes and in his own interest?

On the whole he felt inclined to adopt the latter course.  He didn't
want to quarrel with Blakeney, not just yet, nor yet with the others
who were all influential and popular men about town, who might, if the
split came, make his position extremely uncomfortable in London.  There
was nothing he desired more at the moment than to extricate himself
from the entanglement of the League, but he was wise enough to realise
that if this was done at this juncture, he would, on his return to
England, find the doors of more than one smart hostess closed against
him.  So for the moment there was nothing for it but to keep his
appointment with Percy and the others in the Restaurant Tison, and in
any case learn what plans were being evolved for this afternoon.  If
nothing was going to be done right away for the safety of Ccile, then
he would act on his own.  To this he had fully made up his mind.  All
this would mean going back now to that horrible cottage and getting
once more into those filthy rags which he had come to hate, but he
didn't really care now that he knew he could count on the co-operation
of a jealous woman, whom he had heard cry out in a voice shrill with
emotion: "You only care because you are in love with Ccile!"




BOOK III

MADEMOISELLE




CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

_Citizen Chauvelin_

It must not be thought for a moment that authority as represented by
the Gendarmerie Nationale, regular or volunteer, in any way approved,
let alone aided and abetted, the insurrectionary movements that were
such a feature of the first two years of the Revolution.  Authority did
not even wink at them, did its best, in fact, to put a stop to these
marches and raids on neighbouring chteaux which only ended in a number
of broken heads, in loot and unnecessary violence, and a severe
remonstrance from the government who had its eye on all property owned
by _ci-devants_ and strongly disapproved of its wanton destruction at
the hands of an irresponsible mob.

Thus it was that as soon as Simon Pradel became aware of the imminence
of the mischief contemplated against the _aristos_ up at La Rodire,
and thinking only of Ccile and her safety, he went straight to the
Htel de Ville and drew the attention of the Chief Commissary of the
Gendarmerie to what was in the wind.

"Citizen Conty," he explained, "has inflamed everyone's temper to such
an extent that there is hardly a man or woman in Choisy to-day who will
not march up to La Rodire, and even if they do not commit murder, will
certainly destroy a great deal of property which rightly belongs to the
nation."

He was clever enough to know that it was this argument that would
prevail.  The Chief Commissary looked grave.  He was mindful of his own
position, not to say his own head, and therefore took the one drastic
course which was most likely to minimize the mischief.  He gave it out
through a proclamation blazoned by the town crier, that by order of the
government there would be no Day of Rest this Sunday, and that the work
in the factories would be carried on as usual.  This meant that
four-fifths of the male population of Choisy and one-third of its
womenfolk would be kept at work until seven o'clock in the evening and
that the plans for the afternoon's holiday would have to be
considerably modified or abandoned altogether.

In the Restaurant Tison, which was to be the starting point for the
march on La Rodire, turbulence had given place to gloom.  Even the
troupe of musicians who were working with a will to try and revive
drooping spirits failed to bring about that state of excitement so
essential to the success of the proposed plan.  Citizen Conty, too, had
received his orders.  "Let the people simmer down," the Chief
Commissary had commanded, "the government does not want a riot in
Choisy just now."  Conty didn't care one way or the other.  He was paid
to carry out government orders, and knew how to steer clear of trouble
if these happened to be contradictory.  It was close on two o'clock
already.  The factory bell calling the workers back would ring in half
an hour, and Conty was getting anxious.

Once the workers had gone back to the factory it would be too late to
carry out the original plan, which had been approved of by Chauvelin,
and Conty didn't relish the idea of having to shoulder the
responsibility of what might or might not occur in that case.  He would
have preferred to receive final orders from a member of an influential
committee, one who alone could issue orders over the head of the Chief
Commissary.

It was then with a feeling of intense relief that precisely at twenty
minutes past two he saw the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin working his
way towards him through the crowd.

"Well?  And what have you done?" Chauvelin queried curtly, and refused
the chair which Conty had obsequiously offered him.

"You have heard the proclamation, citizen?" Conty responded; "about
work at the factory this afternoon?"

"I have.  But I am asking you what you have done."

"Nothing, citizen.  I was waiting for you."

"You didn't carry out my orders?"

"I hadn't any, citizen."

"Two days ago I gave you my commands to prepare the way for an armed
raid on the chteau as soon as I was back in Choisy.  Yesterday I sent
you word that I would be back to-day.  But I see no sign of a raid
being organised either by you or anyone else."

"The decree was only promulgated a couple of hours ago.  All the
able-bodied men and women will have to go back to work in a few
minutes; there was nothing to be done."

"How do you mean?  There was nothing to be done?  What about all these
people here?  I can see at least a hundred that do not work in the
factory, more than enough for what I want."

Conty gave a contemptuous shrug.

"The halt and the maimed," he retorted acidly; "the weaklings and the
women.  I thought every moment you would come, Citizen Chauvelin, and
issue a counter decree giving the workers their usual Day of Rest.  As
you didn't come, I didn't know what to do."

"So you let them all get into the doldrums."

"What could I do, citizen?" Conty reiterated sullenly.  "I had no
orders."

"You had no initiative, you mean?  If you had you would have realised
that if half the population of Choisy will in a moment or two go to
work, the other half will still be here and ready for any mischief."

"Those bumpkins...!"

"Yes, louts and muckworms and cinderwenches.  And let me tell you,
Citizen Conty, that it is not for you to sneer at such excellent
material, rather see that you utilise it as I directed you to do in the
name of the government who know how to punish slackness as well as to
reward energy."

Having said this, Chauvelin turned his back abruptly on the discomfited
Conty and made for the door.  Even as he did so an outside bell clanged
out the summons for the workers to return to the factory.  There was a
general hubbub, chairs pushed aside and scraping against the stone
floor, the tramp of feet all making for the door, voices shouting from
one end of the room to the other.  And right through the din, there
came to Chauvelin's ears, at the very moment that he passed through the
swing-doors, a sound that dominated every other, just a prolonged
merry, irritatingly inane laugh.

Hardly had the last able-bodied man gone out of the place than Citizen
Conty had climbed on the top of a table, and begun his harangue by
apostrophising the musicians.

"What mean you, rascals," he cried lustily, "by scraping your fiddles
to give us nothing but sentimental ballads fit only for weaklings to
hear?  Our fine men have gone to work for their country, and here you
are trying to make us sing about shepherdesses and their cats.
_Mordieu!_ have you never heard of the air that every patriotic
Frenchman should know, an air that puts fire into our blood, not water:
'_Allons enfants de la patrie!  Le jour de gloire est arriv!_"

At first the people did not take much notice of Conty; the men had gone
and there was nothing much to do but go back to one's own hovels and
mope there till they returned.  But when presently the musicians, in
response to the speaker's challenge, took up the strains of the
revolutionary song, they straightened out their backs, turned about the
better to hear the impassioned oratory which now poured from Citizen
Conty's lips.

He was in his element.  He held all these poor, half-starved people in
a fever by the magic of his oratory, and he would not allow their fever
to cool down again.  From an abstract reference to any chteau to the
actual mention of La Rodire did not take him long.  Now he was
speaking of Docteur Pradel, the respected citizen of Choisy, the friend
of the poor, who had dared to express his political opinions in the
presence of those arrogant _ci-devants_, and what had happened?  He had
been insulted, outraged, thrashed like a dog!

"And you, citizens," he once more bellowed, "though the government has
not called upon you to fashion bayonets and sabres, are you going to
sit still and allow your sworn enemies, the enemies of France, to ride
rough-shod over you now that our glorious revolution has levelled all
ranks and brought the most exalted heads down under the guillotine?
You have no sabres or bayonets, it is true, but you have your scythes
and your axes and you have your fists.  Are you going to sit still, I
say, and not show those traitors up there on the hill that there is
only one sovereignty in the world that counts and which they must obey,
the sovereignty of the people?"

The magic words had their usual effect.  A perfect storm of applause
greeted them, and all at once they began to sing: "_Allons enfants de
la patrie!_" and the musicians blew their trumpets and banged their
drums and soon there reigned in the restaurant the sort of mighty row
beloved by agitators.




CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

_At the Chteau_

It did not take Conty long after that to persuade a couple of hundred
people who were down in the dumps and saw no prospect of getting out of
them that it was their duty to go at once to the Chteau de la Rodire
and show those arrogant _ci-devants_ that when the sovereignty of the
people was questioned, it would know how to turn the tables on those
who dared to flout it.  So most of what was left of the population of
Choisy assembled on the Grand' Place, there formed itself into a
compact body and started to march through the town, and thence up the
hill, headed by a band of musicians who had sprung up from nowhere a
few days ago and had since then greatly contributed to the gaiety
inside the cafs and restaurants by their spirited performance of
popular airs.  On this great occasion they headed the march with their
fiddles and trumpets and drum.  There were five of them altogether and
their leader, a great hulking fellow who should have been fighting for
his country instead of scraping the catgut, was soon very popular with
the crowd.  His rendering of the "Marseillaise" might be somewhat
faulty, but he was such a lively kind of vagabond that he put everyone
into good humour long before they reached the chteau.

And they remained in rare good humour.  For them this march, this
proposed baiting of the _aristos_ was just an afternoon's holiday,
something to take them out of themselves, to help them to forget their
misery, their squalor, the ever-present fear that conditions of life
would get worse rather than better.  Above all, it lured them into the
belief that this glorious revolution had done something stupendous for
them--they didn't quite know what, poor things, but there it was: the
millennium, so the men from Paris kept on assuring them.

Actually a mob--an angry mob--say in England, in Russia or Germany, is
usually just a mass of dull, tenacious and probably vindictive
humanity; but in France, even during the fiercest days of revolution,
there was always an element of inventiveness, almost of genius, in the
crowd of men and women that went hammering at the gates of chteaux,
insisted on seeing its owners, even when, as in Versailles, these were
still their King and Queen, and devised a score of ways of humiliating
and baiting them without necessarily resorting to violence.  Thus, a
French mob is unlike any other in the world.

And so it was in this instance with the hundred or two of women and
derelicts who marched up the hill to La Rodire in the wake of an
unwashed, out-at-elbows, raffish troupe of musicians.  They stumped
along, those, at any rate who were able-bodied, shouting and singing
snatches of the "Marseillaise," not feeling the cold, which was bitter,
nor the fatigue of breasting the incline up to the chteau, on a road
slippery with ice and snow.  They were as lively as they could be, not
knowing exactly what they were going to do once they got up there and
came face to face with the _ci-devant_ Marquis and Marquise, for whom
they had worked in the past and from whom they had received alternately
many kindnesses and many blows.

And right in the rear of them all there walked two men.  One of them
was Citizen Conty, the paid agent of the government; the other was
small and spare, was dressed from head to foot in sober black, his
voluminous black cloak effectually concealing the tri-colour scarf
which he wore round his waist.  He never spoke to his companion while
they both trudged up the road in the wake of the crowd, but now and
then he would throw quick, searching glances on the surrounding
landscape and up at the cloud-covered sky, almost as if he were seeking
to wrest from the heavens or the earth some secret which Nature alone
could reveal.  This was Citizen Chauvelin, at one time representative
of the revolutionary government at the English Court, now a member of
the newly constituted Committee of Public Safety, the most powerful
organisation in the country, created for the suppression of treason and
the unmasking of traitors and of spies.

At the top of the hill there, where the narrow footpath abuts on the
main road, the two men came to a halt.  Chauvelin said curtly to his
companion:

"You may go back now, Citizen Conty."

Conty was only too thankful to obey; he turned down the path and was
soon out of sight and out of earshot.

Chauvelin walked on in the direction of the chteau.  The crowd was a
long way ahead now, even the stragglers had caught up with them, and
there was lusty cheering when the gates of La Rodire first came into
view.

Chauvelin came to a halt once more.  There was no one in sight, and the
perfect quietude of the place was only disturbed by the sound of
revellings gradually dying away in the distance.  Chauvelin now gave a
soft, prolonged whistle, and a minute or two later a man in the uniform
of the Gendarmerie Nationale, but wrapped in a huge cloak from head to
foot so that his accoutrements could not be seen, came out cautiously
from the thicket close by.  Chauvelin beckoned to him to approach.

"Well, citizen sergeant," he demanded, "did you notice any man who
might be that damnable English spy?"

"No, citizen, I can't say that I did.  I was well placed, too, and
could see the whole crowd file past me, but I couldn't spot any man who
appeared abnormally tall or who looked like an Englishman."

"I expect you were too dense to notice," Chauvelin retorted dryly.
"But, anyway, it makes no matter.  I will spot him soon enough.  As
soon as I do I will give the signal we agreed on.  You remember it?"

"Yes, citizen.  A long whistle twice and then one short one."

"How many men have you got?"

"Thirty, citizen, and three corporals."

"Where are they?"

"Twenty, with two corporals, in the stables.  Ten with one corporal in
the coach-house."

"Any outdoor workers about?  Grooms or gardeners?"

"Two gardeners, citizen, and one in the stables."

"They understand?"

"Yes, Citizen.  I have promised them fifty livres each if they keep
their eyes and mouth shut, and certain arrest and death if they do not.
They are terrified and quite safe to hold their tongue."

"My orders, citizen sergeant, are that the men remain where they are
till they hear the signal, two prolonged whistles, followed by one
short one.  Like this"--and he took a toy whistle out of his waistcoat
pocket and blew softly into it, twice and once again, in the manner
which he had described.

"As soon as they hear the whistle, but not before, they are to come out
of their hiding-place and make their way in double quick time to the
house.  Ten men with one corporal will then take up their stand outside
each of the three entrances of the chteau.  You know where these are?"

"Quite well, citizen."

"No one must be allowed to go out of the chteau until I give the
order."

"I quite understand, citizen."

"It will be the worse for you if you do not.  I suppose the men know
that we are after that damnable English spy who calls himself the
Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"They know it, citizen."

"And that there is a government reward of fifty livres for every
soldier of the Republic who aids in his capture?"

"The men are not likely to shirk their duty, citizen."

"Very well, then.  And now about the _aristos_ up there.  There is the
_ci-devant_ Marquis with his mother and sister, also two _aides-mnage_
who are not ashamed to serve those traitors to their country.  Those
five, then, will be under arrest, but remain in the chteau till we are
ready for them.  I will give you further orders as to them.  We shall
convey them under escort to Choisy some time between the later
afternoon, after we have packed the rabble off, and early dawn
to-morrow; I have not decided which, but will let you know later.  You
have a coach handy?"

"Yes, citizen.  There is a cabaret close by here, farther up the road.
We put up the coach there in the yard, and left two of our men in
charge.  The place is quiet and quite handy."

"That is all, citizen sergeant.  You may go and transmit my orders to
your corporals.  As soon as you have done that, go as unobtrusively as
you can into the house.  No one will notice you.  They will be too busy
baiting the _aristos_ by then.  Keep as near as you can to the room
where the crowd is at its thickest--the noise will guide you--and wait
for me there."

Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety, was not the man one could
ever argue or plead with.  The sergeant, resigned and submissive,
saluted and turned on his heel.  He walked away in the direction of the
stables.  Chauvelin remained for quite a long while standing there
alone, his thoughts running riot in his brain.  Twice the Scarlet
Pimpernel had slipped through his fingers since that memorable night
four months ago at Lord Grenville's ball in London when he, Chauvelin,
had first realised that that daring and adventurous spy was none other
than Sir Percy Blakeney, the arbiter of fashion, the seemingly inane
fop who kept London society in a perpetual ripple of laughter at his
foolish antics, the most fastidious exquisite in sybaritic England.

"You were part of that unwashed crowd in the Restaurant Tison, my fine
friend," he murmured to himself, "for I heard you laugh and felt your
eyes daring to mock me again.  Mock me?  Aye! but not for long, my
gallant fellow.  The trap is laid and you won't escape me this time,
let me assure you of that, and it will be your 'dear Monsieur
Chambertin' who will mock you when you are brought down and gagged and
trussed like a fowl ready for roasting."




CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

_The Rigaudon_

Now then "_allons enfants de la patri-i-i-e_."  The crowd in a high
state of excitement had pushed open the great gates of La
Rodire--these were never bolted these days--and marched up the stately
avenue bordered by a double row of gigantic elms which seemed to be
waving and nodding their majestic crowns at sight of the motley throng.
Ahead of them all marched the musicians, blowing with renewed gusto
into their brass trumpets or sending forth into the frosty atmosphere
prolonged rolls of drums.  Only the fiddler was not in his usual place.
He had dropped back on the other side of the gate in order to fit a
fresh length of catgut on his violin to replace a broken one.  But he
was not missed at this juncture, for the other musicians appeared bent
on proving the fact that a fiddle was not of much value as a
noise-maker when there were trumpets and drums in the orchestra.

Up the crowd marched and mounted the perron steps to the front door of
the mansion.  They pulled the chain and the bell responded with a loud
clang--once, twice and three times.  They were themselves making such a
noise, shouting and singing, that probably poor old Paul, rather scared
but trying to be brave, did not actually hear the bell.  However, he
did hear it after a time and with shaking knees and trembling voice
went to get his orders from Monsieur le Marquis.  By this time those in
the forefront of the crowd had tugged so hard at the bell-pull that it
snapped and came down with a clatter on the marble floor of the perron;
whereupon they set to with their fists and nearly brought the solid
front door down with their hammerings and their kicks.  They didn't
hear Paul's shuffling footsteps coming down the great staircase, nor
yet his drawing of the bolts, so that when after a minute or two, while
they were still hammering and kicking, the door was opened abruptly,
the foremost in the ranks tumbled over one another into the hall.  This
caused great hilarity.  Hurrah!  Hurrah!  This was going to be a
wonderful afternoon's holiday!  Onward children of _la patrie_, the day
of glory has certainly arrived.  Striving, pushing, laughing, singing,
waving arms and stamping feet the bulk of the crowd made its way up the
grand staircase.  Poor old Paul!  As well attempt to stem the course of
an avalanche as to stop this merry jostling crowd from going where it
listed.  Some of them indeed wandered into the reception-rooms to right
and left of the hall, the larger and smaller dining-rooms, the library,
the long gallery and so on, but they found nothing worth destroying.

Upstairs the rest of the merry party, after wandering from room to
room, arrived in the grand _salon_ where close on four years ago now
the remains of the late Marquis de la Rodire had rested for three days
before being removed for interment in Paris.  On that occasion they had
all come to a halt, awed in spite of themselves, by the somewhat eerie
atmosphere of the place, the dead flowers, the torn laces, the smell of
guttering candles and of stale incense.  The crowd to-day, more jaunty
than they were then, had also come to a halt, but only for a few
moments.  They stared wide-eyed at the objects ranged against the
walls, the gilded consols, the mirrors, the crystal sconces and the
chairs, and presently they spied the platform whereon in the happy
olden days the musicians used to stand playing dance music for Monsieur
le Marquis and his guests.  The spinet was still there and the desk of
the conductor, and a number of stands in gilded wood which were used
for holding the pieces of music.

Amid much excitement and laughter the musicians were called up to mount
the platform.  This they were quite willing to do, but where was the
leader, the fiddler with the grimy face and toothless mouth whose
stentorian voice would have raised the dead?  A small group who had
wandered up to the window saw him stumping up the avenue.  They gave a
warning shout, the window was thrown open, and cries of "_Allons!_
hurry up!" soon galvanised him into activity.  He was lame, and dragged
his left leg, but the infirmity did not appear to worry him.  As soon
as he had reached the perron he started scraping his fiddle.  He was
met at the foot of the staircase by an enthusiastic throng who carried
him shoulder high, and dropped him down all of a heap on the musicians'
platform.  And a queer sight did this vagabond orchestra look up there
in their rags and tatters, unwashed, unkempt, wielding their ramshackle
fiddles and trumpets and drumsticks.

The musicians struck up "_Sur le Pont d'Avignon_," the only dance tune
they knew, and that one none too well.

  "_Sur le pont d'Avignon,
  On y danse, on y danse,
  Sur le pont d'Avignon,
  On y danse tout en rond._"


It was at this point that the outburst of laughter rose to such a high
pitch that the thrifty housewives down below were tempted to abandon
their loot.  What had caused the uproar was the sudden appearance of
the _ci-devant_ Marquis through what seemed to be a hole in the wall.
As a matter of fact this was a door masked by tapestry which gave first
on a vestibule and thence on a small boudoir where Madame la Marquise
had been sitting with Franois and Ccile, and with poor Marie huddled
up in a corner like a frightened rabbit, all fully expecting that the
tumultuous crowd would soon tire, and content itself as it had done
four years ago with breaking a few windows, carrying off what portable
furniture there was left in the _salon_, and ending its unpleasant
visitation in the cellar and the larder, where there was little enough
to tempt its greed.

Franois de la Rodire was for facing the rabble with a riding-whip.
For a time his sister was able to restrain him from such a palpable act
of folly, but presently the sound of ribald laughter coming from the
grand _salon_ where his father had once lain in state, surrounded by
flowers and ecclesiastical appurtenances, so outraged him that he lost
all control over himself and all sense of prudence.  He shook off
Ccile's detaining hand, and strode out of the room.  Madame la
Marquise had offered no protest or advice, she was one of those women,
the product of generations of French high-born ladies who, entrenched
as it were in their own dignity, never gave a single thought to such a
matter as a social upheaval.  "It will all pass away," was their
dictum, "God will punish them all in His own time!"  So she turned a
deaf ear to the rioting of the rabble, and went on with her crochet
work with perfect serenity.

Ccile, on the other hand, was all for conciliation.  She knew her
brother's violent temper and genuinely feared for his safety should he
provoke the crowd, who at present seemed good-tempered enough, either
by word or gesture.  She followed him into the vestibule, and saw him
take a riding-whip off the wall and throw open the narrow door which
gave on the grand _salon_.  The moment he did that the uproar in the
_salon_ which had been deafening up to now suddenly died down.
Complete silence ensued, but only for a few seconds; the next moment
Franois had closed the door behind him and at once the hubbub in the
next room rose louder than ever and there came a terrific outburst of
hilarious shouting and laughter and vigorous clapping of hands.  Ccile
stood there listening, terrified and undecided, longing to go to her
brother's assistance, yet feeling the futility of any intervention on
her part should the crowd turn ugly.  For a moment they appeared
distinctly amused, for the laughter went on louder than ever, and it
was accompanied by the measured stamping of feet, the clapping of hands
and the strains of dance music.  What was going on in there?  Ccile,
terrified at first, felt a little more reassured.  She couldn't hear
her brother's voice, and apparently the people were enjoying
themselves, for they were dancing and laughing and the music never
ceased.  At last anxiety got the better of prudence.  Tentatively she
in her turn opened the communicating door, and exactly the same thing
happened that had greeted Franois de la Rodire's appearance in the
crowded _salon_.  Absolute silence for a few seconds, and then a
terrific, uproarious shout.

What Ccile saw did indeed turn her almost sick with horror, for there
was her brother in the middle of the room, dishevelled, with his
necktie awry and his cheeks the colour of ashes, in the centre of a
ring made up of the worst type of ragamuffins and cinderwenches she had
ever seen, all holding hands and twirling round and round him to the
tune of a wild _rigaudon_.  His riding-whip was lying broken in half
across the threshold at Ccile's feet.  The crowd had seized upon him
directly they were aware of his presence, torn the whip out of his
hand, broken it and thrown it on the floor.  They had dragged him and
pushed him to the centre of the room, formed a ring round him, shouted
injurious epithets and made rude gestures at him; and the more pale he
got with rage, the more helpless he found himself, the louder was their
laughter and the wilder their dance.

Ccile felt as if she were paralysed.  She couldn't move, her knees
were shaking under her, and before she could recover herself two women
had seized her, one by each hand, and dragged her across the room,
where she was thrust into the centre of another ring of uproarious
females who danced and capered round her, holding hands and laughing at
her obvious terror.  It was all like a terrible nightmare.  Ccile,
trying in vain to control herself, could only put her hands up to her
face so as to hide from the mocking crowd the blush of indignation and
shame that flooded her cheeks at the sound of the obscene words that
men and women, apparently all in right good-humour, flung at her, while
they danced what seemed to the poor girl like a saraband of witches.
Suddenly she heard a cry:

"Make her dance, Jacques!  Make the _aristo_ step it with you!  I'll
warrant she has never danced the _rigaudon_ with such a handsome
partner before."

And Ccile was conscious first of a whiff of garlic, then of a clammy
hand seizing her own, and finally of a shoulder pressed against her
side and of an arm around her waist.  With a shudder she looked down
and saw the grinning, puckish face and misshapen, dwarfish body of
Jacques, the son of the local butcher, whom she had often befriended
when he was baited by boys bigger and stronger than himself.  He was
leering up at her and clinging to her waist, trying to make her foot a
measure with him.  Now unlike her brother, Ccile de la Rodire was
possessed of a good deal of sound common sense.  She knew well enough
that to try and run one's head against a stone wall could only result
in bruises, if not worse.  Here they were both of them, she and
Franois, not to mention _maman_, at the mercy of a couple of hundred
people who, though fairly good-tempered at the moment, might soon turn
ugly if provoked.  She rather felt as if she had been thrust into a
cage full of wild beasts and that to humour them was the only chance of
safety.  She looked about her helplessly, hoping against hope that she
might encounter a face that was neither cruel nor mocking, and in her
heart prayed, prayed to God to deliver her from this nightmare.

And then suddenly the miracle happened.  It was a miracle in very
truth, for there un the wide-open doorway was the one man in the world,
her world, on whom she could rely, the man who alone next to God could
save her from this awful humiliation.  Pradel!  Simon Pradel!  He
looked flushed and anxious; he was panting as if he had been running
hard for goodness knows how long.  His dark, deep-set eyes roamed
rapidly round the room till they encountered hers.  Thank God!  Thank
God, that he was here!  The scar across his forehead where Franois had
hit him still showed crimson across the pale, damp skin, but his eyes
were kind and reassuring.  Hers were fastened on him with a look of
appeal, and in a moment he was half across the room pushing his way
towards her through the crowd.

All at once the crowd saw him.  Docteur Pradel!  Simon! their Simon!
The hero of the hour!  A lusty cheer roused the echo of the vast hall
at sight of him.  Now indeed would the fun be fast and furious!
Pradel, in the meanwhile, had reached the centre of the room, he broke
through the cordon that surrounded Ccile quite good-naturedly but very
firmly he thrust Jacques the butcher's son to one side, took hold of
the girl's trembling hand and put his strong arms round her waist.

"_Allons_," he shouted to the musicians, "put some verve into your
playing.  'Tis I will dance the _rigaudon_ with the _aristo_!"

Nothing loth, the musicians blew their trumpets and beat their drums
with renewed vigour:

  "_Sur le pont d'Avignon,
  On y danse, on y danse,
  Sur le pont d'Avignon,
  On y danse tout en rond!_"


A hundred couples were formed and soon they were all of them dancing
and singing, not hoarsely or stridently, but just with immense gusto,
as if they desired nothing but to enjoy a real jollity.

"Try to smile," Pradel whispered in Ccile's ear.  "Be brave! don't
show that you are afraid!"

Ccile said: "I am not afraid."  And indeed, with her hand in his, she
tripped the _rigaudon_ step by step and was no longer afraid.  It
seemed to her as if with Pradel's nearness the nightmare had become
just a dream.  Everything now was gay, almost happy.  Cruelty and
mockery, the desire to humiliate had faded from the faces of the crowd.
Everyone was smiling at everybody else.  One woman called out loudly
across the room to Ccile: "Well chosen, my pretty!  Our Simon will
make you a fine husband!  And you will give France some splendid sons!"

"Smile!" Pradel commanded.  "Smile to them and nod!  For God's sake,
smile!"

And Ccile smiled and nodded while the cry was taken up.  "Our Simon
and the _aristo_!  And a quiverful of handsome sons!  Hurrah!  Hurrah!"

In this wild saturnalia even Franois de la Rodire was forgotten.

It was he who suddenly became aware of a curiously incongruous figure
of a man who at this point was working his way unobtrusively through
the throng.  Short, spare, dressed in sober black from head to foot, he
had the tricolour scarf round his waist.  No one in the crowd took any
notice of him.  Only Franois saw him, and in spite of the tell-tale
tricolour scarf which proclaimed the man to be in the service of the
revolutionary government, he felt that some sort of rescue from this
devil's carnival could be effected through one who at any rate looked
as if he had washed and brushed his clothes.  Franois tried to attract
his attention, but the man walked quietly on, till he was quite close
to the spot where Ccile de la Rodire was still dancing with Simon
Pradel.  She and her partner had become mere units in the twirling,
twisting, whirling crowd.  Ccile was trying bravely to keep up the
role of good-humour and even gaiety which Pradel had enjoined her to
assume.  She continued to step it, wondering how all this would end.
She saw the little man in black wind his way in and out among the
dancers, and she saw the leader of the musicians, the unkept, unshaved,
toothless fiddler step down from the platform and, always playing his
fiddle, follow on the heels of the little man in black.  She was so
fascinated by the sight of those two figures in such strange contrast,
one to the other, one so spruce and trim, the other so grimy, one so
stern and the other grinning all over his face, that she lost step and
had to cling with both hands to her partner's arm.

Then it was that there occurred the strangest of all the strange events
of this memorable day.  The little man in black was now quite close to
her, and the fiddler was immediately behind him and Ccile watched them
both, fascinated.  All of a sudden the fiddler threw back his head and
laughed.  Such curious laughter it was, quite merry, but somehow it
suggested the merriment of a fool.  Ccile stared at the man, for there
was something almost eerie about him now, and Pradel too stared at him
as amazed, as fascinated as was the girl herself, for the fiddler had
thrown down his fiddle.  He straightened his back and stretched out his
arms till he appeared preternaturally tall, like a Titan or like a
Samson about to shatter the marble pillars of the old chteau and to
hurl them down with a thunderous crash in the midst of the revellers.

The little man in black also stared at the fiddler, and very slowly the
whole expression of his face underwent a change, from surprise to
horror and thence to triumph mixed with a kind of awe.  His thin lips
curled into a mocking smile and through them there came words spoken in
English, a language which Ccile understood.  What he said was:

"So, my valiant Scarlet Pimpernel, we meet again at last!" and at the
same time he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and drew out what
looked like an ordinary whistle which he was about to put to his mouth
when the fiddler, with another outburst of inane laughter, knocked it
out of his hand.

"A spy! a spy!" the fiddler cried in a stentorian voice.  "We are
betrayed.  We shall be massacred!  _Sauve qui peut!_"

And with a sudden stretch of his powerful arms he picked up the little
man in black and threw him over his shoulder as if he were a bale of
goods and ran with his struggling and kicking burden across the room
towards the door.  And all the time he continued to shout: "A spy!  A
spy!  We shall all be massacred!  Remember Paris last September!"  And
the crowd took up the cry as a crowd will, for are not one hundred
humans the counterpart of one hundred sheep?  They took up the cry and
shouted: "A spy!  A spy!" and ran in a body helter-skelter on the heels
of the fiddler and his sable-clad load, out of the room across the
marble vestibule, down the grand staircase and down below that, through
the servants' old quarters, through the kitchen and the pantry, the
washhouse and the buttery, and down by the winding staircase which led
to the cellar.  And behind him there was the crowd, no longer
good-tempered now, or intent on holiday-making, but a real rabble this
time, and a frightened crowd at that, jostling, pushing, tumbling over
one another.  An angry crowd is fearsome, but a frightened crowd is
worse, for it is ready for anything--bloodshed, carnage, butchery.

Chauvelin felt himself carried in through the cellar door and then
thrown none too gently down on a heap of dank straw.  The next moment
he heard that horrible, hideous, hated laugh, the mocking words: "_
bientt_, my dear Monsieur Chambertin!"  Then the banging to of a heavy
door, the pushing of bolts, the clang of a chain and the grating of a
rusty key in the lock, and nothing more.  He was crouching on a heap of
damp straw, in almost total darkness, sore in body, humiliated to the
very depths of his soul, burning with rage and the bitterness of his
disappointment.

He heard the talking and the laughter growing more and more indistinct
and finally dying away altogether.  The rabble had gone, but what was
to become of him now?  Would he be left to die of inanition, shut up in
a cellar like a savage dog or cat?  No! he felt quite sure that he need
not fear that kind of revenge at the hands of the man whom he had
pursued with such relentless hate.  Instinctively he did pay this
tribute to the most gallant foe he had ever pitted his wits against.

What then?  He was left wondering.  For how long he did not know.  Was
it for a few minutes or several hours?  When presently he heard the
rusty key grate once more in the lock, and once more the drawing of
bolts, the clanking of a chain, instinctively he dragged himself away
from the door.  A shaft of yellow light from a lantern cut through the
gloom of his prison, the door was opened, and that hateful mocking
voice said:

"Company for you, my dear Monsieur Chambertin!"  And a bundle which
turned out to be a man wrapped in a cloak and wearing the uniform of
the Gendarmerie Nationale was thrust into the cellar, and landed on the
damp straw beside him.  The humble sergeant of gendarmerie had fared no
better than the powerful and influential member of the Committee of
Public Safety.




CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

_A Strange Proposal_

After a time Ccile gradually felt as if she had suddenly wakened from
an ugly dream, during which every one of her senses had been put to
torture.  Her eyes, her ears, her nostrils had been outraged by evil
smells and ribald words, and the wild antics of King Mob.  Then all at
once silence, almost peace.  The sound of those unruly masses,
shouting, singing, stumping, was gradually dying away.  A few
stragglers, yielding to curiosity, were even now going out of the room.
In another remote corner Franois was struggling to his feet.  He
appeared dazed and like a man broken in body and spirit.  He staggered
as far as the tapestried door which led to vestibule and boudoir.

Pradel and Ccile were alone.

They were both silent.  Constrained.  She wanted to say something to
him, but somehow the words would not come.  She knew so little about
this man who had, as a matter of fact, saved her reason.  At one moment
during this wild saraband she had felt as if she were going mad.  Then
he had come and a sense of security had descended into her soul.  But
why she should have felt comforted, she couldn't say.  She knew that he
loved her, at any rate had loved her until that awful hour when he had
suffered a terrible outrage at her brother's hands.  He couldn't
continue to love her after that.  Could not.  He must hate her and all
her family.  But if he did, why had he come running all the way from
Choisy and stopped this hysterical multitude from doing her bodily
harm?  There was no ignoring the fact that he had come running along
all the way from Choisy, and that he had saved her and _maman_ and
Franois from disaster.  Then why did he look so aloof, so entirely
indifferent?  Of course, he belonged to the party that deposed the
King, and proclaimed the Republic; that, in fact, was Francis's chief
grievance against him.  She had never heard him discuss politics, and
she and _maman_ lived such a secluded life she didn't know much of what
went on.  She hated all murderers and regicides--oh! regicides above
all!--but somehow she didn't believe that Pradel was one of these.
Even before the beginnings of this awful revolution he had always spent
most of his time--and people said half his private fortune--in doing
good to the needy and keeping up the children's hospital in Choisy.
Ccile knew all that.  She had even done her best in a small way in the
past to help him with some of his charitable work when knowledge of it
came her way.  No, no, a man of that type was no murderer, no regicide.
But it was all very puzzling, especially as he neither spoke nor moved,
apparently leaving the initiative to her.

At last she was able to take it.  She mastered her absurd diffidence
and steadied her voice as best she could.

"I wish I knew how to thank you, Monsieur le Docteur," she said.  "You
have saved my reason.  I think if you had not interfered when you did I
should have gone mad."

"Not so bad as that, citizeness, I think," he responded with the ghost
of a smile.

Ccile liked his smile.  It was kind.  But she hated his calling her
"citizeness."  She stiffened at the word and went on more coolly:

"You have remarkable influence over the people here.  They love you."

"They are not a bad crowd really," he said and then added after a
second's pause: "Not yet."

"It is strange how they followed that fiddler.  Did you see him?"

"Yes!"

"To me he did not seem human.  More like a giant out of a fairytale.
Did you hear what that funny little man in black said to him?"

"I heard, citizeness.  But unfortunately, I did not understand.  He
spoke in English, I think."

"Yes! and he called the fiddler 'my valiant Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

"What is that?"

"You have never heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"Only as a mythical personage."

"He really does exist though.  It was he, who----"

She paused abruptly, for she had been on the point of naming the Abb
Edgeworth and his escape from La Rodire.  No news of the safety of the
old priest had as yet been received and until it was definitely known
that he was safe in Belgium, the secret of the escape must on no
account be revealed.  To Ccile's astonishment, however, Pradel himself
alluded to it.

"Who engineered the escape of our mutual friend, Abb Edgeworth you
mean?"

"You knew?"

"I only guessed."

"And I can tell you definitely that it was the English spy whom they
call the Scarlet Pimpernel who made every arrangement for the abb's
safety."

"Then why do you call him a spy?  An ugly word, meseems, for the noble
work which he does."

"You are right there, Monsieur le Docteur.  It is always fine to serve
your country, or to serve humanity in whichever way seems to you best.
I only used the word 'spy' because the Scarlet Pimpernel, so I have
heard said, is never seen as himself, but always in disguise.  That is
why I thought that the fiddler----"

"Yes, citizeness?"

She shook her head.

"No, no," she said, "it can't be.  He made no attempt to save me from
those awful women.  I suppose he does not think that we up here are in
immediate danger.  Do you think that we are?" she added abruptly and
raised eyes shining with sudden fear up at Pradel.

He made no reply.  What could he say?  As a matter of fact it was all
over Choisy that the arrest of the _aristos_ up at La Rodire was only
a question of hours.  That was why he had come running up to the
chteau, not so much in terror for her of a boisterous crowd, as of the
decree of the Committee of Public Safety, and the inevitable
Gendarmerie Nationale.

"I don't mind for myself," Ccile went on after a moment or two, "but
_maman_ and ... and ... Franois ... I know you hate him, and I dare
say he deserves your hatred.  But he is my brother ... and _maman_ ...
You don't think they would dare do anything to _maman_? ... Do you?"

She couldn't go on for the tears were choking her.  She turned away,
half ashamed that he should see those tears, and walked across to the
window.  She stood in the embrasure for a time looking out at first
into vacancy, then gradually becoming aware of what was going on down
below.  The perron and the long avenue were all thronged with that same
abominable multitude who had insulted and humiliated her before the
advent of Pradel.  They were all going away in a body now, quite
good-tempered, rather noisy, still singing and shouting.  The shades of
evening were drawing in fast.  It was close on five o'clock, and they
were all going home ready to tell of their many adventures to the
workers when they came out of the factories, and to the few who had not
been fortunate enough to join in the revels of this memorable
afternoon.  Five o'clock and it was half-past three when first that
unruly mass of humanity had invaded the chteau.  One hour and a half
of mental torture.  To Ccile it seemed an eternity.  And now they were
going away.  Silence would once more reign in the ancestral home of the
La Rodires, silence but not peace, for terror of death would from this
hour be always present within its walls, the nameless dread which holds
its greatest sway o' nights, banishes sleep, and rears its head at
every chance word spoken by careless lips: arrest, denunciation,
imprisonment, the guillotine.

"Citizeness!"

Citizeness!  Another of those chance words that brought the nameless
dread striking at one's heart.  It roused Ccile de la Rodire out of
her sombre mood.  The noise of the crowd below was growing fainter and
fainter.  Most of the rioters were out of sight already.  They had gone
quietly enough, and now only a few laggards, men who were lame and
women who were feeble, could be seen making their way down the avenue
in the fast gathering gloom.

"Citizeness!"

The voice was kindly, rather hoarse, perhaps, and authoritative, but
kindly nevertheless.  Pradel had come up close to her.  He it was who
had spoken the chance word.  Ccile turned to him.

"Yes, Monsieur le Docteur?"

"You asked me a straight question just now, and I ought to have
answered it at once, knowing you to be proud and brave.  But I wanted
you to collect yourself a little.  You are young and have gone through
a great deal.  Naturally enough, you are slightly unnerved.  At the
same time I feel that it is best for you and for you all that you
should know the truth."

"The truth?"

"The authorities at Choisy have decided on the arrest of your mother,
your brother, yourself and your two servants.  Directly I learned their
decision I ran up here to see what I, as a single individual, could do
to save you.  I was on my way up already, because I knew that I could
do a great deal to prevent a lot of irresponsible women and weaklings
from doing more than, perhaps, frightening you, and I would have been
here earlier only I could not leave the hospital, where I was attending
a really serious case.  I thank Heaven that I could not leave sooner,
and that I was obliged to call in at the Town Hall, where I learned, by
the merest chance, that the Committee of Public Safety had ordered your
arrest at the instance of one of its members, the order to be executed
within the next twenty-four hours."

Ccile had listened to all this without making any movement or any sign
that she understood the meaning of what Pradel had just told her.  She
had turned to face him and while he talked, her glance never wavered.
She looked him straight in the eyes.  It was quite dark in the room
now, only here in the window embrasure the last lingering evening light
sent its dying shaft on the slim figure of Docteur Pradel.  Never for
one second did Ccile de la Rodire doubt that he spoke the truth.  She
could not have explained even to herself how it was she knew, but she
was absolutely convinced that when he spoke of this awful danger of
death to those she cared for, he was speaking the truth.

For some time after Pradel had finished speaking Ccile said nothing
and made no movement.  Slowly the purport of what he said penetrated
into her brain.  Arrest!  Within twenty-four hours!  It meant death, of
course.  The guillotine for them all.  For _maman_ and Franois and for
Paul and Marie.  The guillotine!  The horrible thing that happened to
others, even to the King.  And now to oneself!

"Docteur Pradel," she murmured appealingly, "can nothing be done?"

"Yes, citizeness," he replied coldly; "something can be done, and it
rests with you, I have told you the worst, but I earnestly believe that
it is in my power to get you and your family and your two servants out
of this trouble.  If I am right in this belief, then I shall thank God
on my knees for the privilege of being of service to you.  May I
proceed?"

"If you please, monsieur."

"I am afraid that what I am about to say will shock you, wound you,
perhaps in your most cherished prejudices.  Believe me, if I could see
any other way of averting this terrible calamity, I would take it.  I
have, as perhaps you know, a certain amount of influence in the
commune, not great enough, alas! to obtain a safe-conduct for you and
those you care for now that an order for your arrest has been issued by
an actual member of the Committee for Public Safety, but I could demand
one for my wife."

Ccile could not smother a gasp nor smother a cry:

"Your wife, monsieur?"

"I pray you do not misunderstand me," Pradel rejoined calmly, even
though at the sound of that cry of protest a shadow had spread over his
face, leaving it more wan, more stern, too, than it had been before.
"By a recent decree of the existing government marriage between
citizens of this country only means going before the Mayor of the
Commune and there reciting certain formulas which will bind them in
matrimony for as long or as short a time as they desire.  Should you
decide to go through this ceremony with me, I swear to you that never
through any fault of mine will you have cause to regret it.  Once you
are nominally my wife, I, as an important member of this commune, can
protect you, your family and your servants until such time as I find it
expedient and safe to convey you all out of this unfortunate country
into Switzerland or Belgium, where you could remain until these
troublesome times are past.  Until then you will all live under my roof
as honoured guests.  I am a busy man, hardly ever at home.  You will
hardly ever see me; you need never speak to me unless you wish.  And
now, with your permission, I will leave you to think it all over
quietly and perhaps, to consult with your family.  Tomorrow at ten
o'clock I will be back to receive your answer.  We will then either go
at once to the _Mairie_ or I will offer you and the citizeness, your
mother, my respectful adieux."

And he was gone.  Ccile never heard him cross the room to go
downstairs.  All she heard were the strains of that ramshackle fiddle
and the soft, wordless humming of the old, old tune:

  "_Ma chandelle est morte,
  Je n'ai plus de feu,
  Ouvre moi ta ports,
  Pour l'amour de Dieu!_"


Well! the door was open for her to pass through from the fear of death
to promised security for all those whom she loved.  Oh! if it had only
been a question of herself, she would not have wasted a moment's
reflection on that outrageous proposition.

Outrageous?  Was it really outrageous?  A proposition couched in terms
of dignified respect, and one calculated to safeguard the lives of all
those she cared for, could not in all fairness be stigmatised as
outrageous.  Bold, perhaps, unique certainly: no girl, she supposed,
had ever had such a remarkable proposal of marriage.  But then the man
who made it was nothing if not bold, and the situation was, of course,
unique.  Nor did she doubt him for an instant.  From the first there
had been something in his attitude and in the way he spoke that bore
the imprint of absolute truth.  No, she assuredly did not doubt him.
The danger, she knew, was real enough; the way out of it she was
convinced, was the only one possible.  She was quite sorry now that
Pradel had gone so quickly.  There were so many things she would have
liked to have asked him.  The decision which she would have to make was
one that should be made on the spur of the moment.  The delay would
give her a long, sleepless night and a great deal of nerve strain.  And
then there was the great question.  Should she consult with _maman_ or
confront her with the accomplished fact?  And there was Franois, too.
He, with the impulse of youth and prejudice, would say: "Better death
than dishonour," and would continue to look on the transaction as a
perpetual blot on the escutcheon of the La Rodires.

She thought, anyhow, that she had best go back to _maman_ now.  As a
matter of fact, she ought not to have left _maman_ alone quite so long.
But _maman_ had Franois with her, as well as Marie and Paul too,
probably.  Whereas she, Ccile, was alone.  She had no one to advise
her, no one to help her analyse that strange mixture inside of her, of
doubt and fear and, yes, elation, which was so unaccountable, so
strange, so different to anything she had ever felt before.  And why
had Pradel made such a proposition to her?  He loved her.  She was
woman enough to know that, then why...? why not...?  Again she sighed,
longed somehow to be older, more experienced in the ways of men ... or
the ways of lovers.

And what in God's name was she going to say to _maman_ and to Franois?




BOOK IV

THE TRAITOR




CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

_Mutiny_

In the meanwhile the cabaret up the road was doing a roaring trade.  A
goodly number of revellers, not satisfied with the excitement of the
afternoon, had turned in there for a drink and a gossip.  There was
such a lot to talk about, and the company quickly formed itself into
groups round separate tables, some talking over one thing, some
another.  Jacques the butcher's boy was there; he was baited for having
allowed his partner, the _aristo_, to be taken from him by the citizen
doctor.

"He was handsomer than you, Jacques," he was told; "that's what it was."

And Jacques, full of vanity, as many undersized boys and girls often
are, declared most emphatically that he would bring the _aristo_ to her
knees, and that within the next three days.

"How wilt thou do that, thou ugly young moke?" he was asked, all in
good humour.

"I shall make her marry me," he replied, puffing out his chest like a
small turkey-cock.

Laughter all round, then someone queried:

"Thou'll make love to the _aristo_?"

"I will."

"And ask her in marriage?"

"Yes!"

"And if she says 'No!'"

"If she does, I'll warn her that I will go straight to the Chief
Commissary and denounce her and her family as traitors, which will mean
the guillotine for the lot of them.  So what now?" he concluded with a
ludicrous air of triumph.

"A splendid idea, Jacques," a lusty voice cried gaily, and a
none-too-gentle hand gave the boy a vigorous slap on the back.  "And
we'll play a march at thy wedding."

It was the fiddler who had just come in with the other musicians.  It
seems they had accompanied the bulk of the crowd part of the way down
to Choisy, and then felt woefully thirsty, and came to the "_Chien sans
Queue_," which was so much nearer for a drink than the first cabaret
down the other way.  They certainly looked very weary, very grubby and
very dry, which was small wonder, seeing that they had been on the go,
marching with the crowd and blowing their trumpets, since before noon.
Apparently, poor things, they had no money, for though they professed
to have mouths as dry as lime-kilns, they did not order drinks, but
took their stand in a corner of the room and proceeded to tune up their
instruments, which means that they made the kind of noise one usually
associates in concert halls with tuning-up, but when they had finished
the process and started to play what might be called a tune, the sounds
which their instruments emitted had no relation whatever to correct
harmony.  But when the woes of the shepherdess and her cat had been
proclaimed in song from beginning to end once, twice and three times
and the musicians, more weary and thirsty than ever, deputed their
fiddler to go round and hold out his Phrygian cap in a mute appeal for
sous wherewith to pay for drinks, the whole crowd suddenly discovered
that it was getting late and that wives and mothers were waiting for
them at home.

And one by one, or in groups of threes and fours they all filed out of
the "_Chien sans Queue_."  Only six sous had been thrown into the
Phrygian cap.  Polycarpe the landlord stood at his own front door for
some time exchanging a few last words with his departing customers.
His wife, the Junoesque Victoria, was clearing away the empty mugs in
the tap-room.  The fiddler put his long arm round her capacious waist
and drew her, giggling and smirking, on his knee.  She smacked his face
with elephantine playfulness.

"You couldn't run about with me on your shoulder," she said, "as you
did with that poor little man this afternoon."

"He was just a dirty spy," the fiddler retorted, "but if you will
challenge me, my Juno, I will have a try with you also."

"Take me upstairs, then, to my room," she said, with a simper.  "I am
dog-tired after all that dancing and Polycarpe can finish clearing
away."

"What will you give me if I do?"

"Free drinks, my beauty," she replied, and pinched his cheeks with her
plump fingers, "if you do not drop me on the way."

To her great amazement, and no less to her delight, the fiddler did
heave her up, not as if she were a feather or even a bale of goods
certainly, but he did hold her in his arms and carry her not only to
the door, but up the narrow staircase, whence she directed him to her
bedroom, where she demanded to be deposited on the bed, which gave a
loud creak under her goodly weight.  She laughed when she saw him give
a loud puff of exhaustion.

"Give the musicians free drinks all round," she commanded her husband.

Thus it was that presently five tired musicians were seated round one
of the tables in a corner of the tap-room of the cabaret "_Le Chien
sans Queue_."  With them was Citizen Polycarpe the landlord who, for
the moment, was sprawling across the table, his head buried in his arms
and snoring like a grampus.  The fiddler bent over him, turned his head
over and with delicate, if very grimy finger, lifted the lid of one of
his eyes.

"As drunk as a lord," he declared; "that stuff is very potent."

He had a smallish bottle in his hand which he now slipped back into his
pocket.

"And the gargantuan lady upstairs," he went on, "is sleeping the sleep
of the just.  So as soon as Devinne is here we can get on with
business."

"He is here," one of the others said, "I am sure I heard his footsteps
outside."

He rose and went to the door, called out softly into the night:
"Devinne!  All serene!"

A minute or two later St. John Devinne came in.  He was dressed in
ordinary clothes, had clean face and hands, but though normally he
would not by his appearance have attracted any attention, here in this
squalid tap-room in the midst of his friends all grimy and clad in
nothing but rags, he looked strangely conspicuous and, as it were, out
of key.  A pair of lazy eyes, slightly sarcastic in expression, looked
him up and down.  Devinne caught the glance and something of a blush
mounted to his cheeks, nor did he after that meet the eyes of his
chief.  He took his seat at the table, edging away as far as he could
from the sprawling form of Polycarpe the landlord.

"May I know what has happened this afternoon?" he asked curtly.

"Of course you may, my dear fellow," Blakeney replied.  "Here," he
added, and pushed a mug and jug of wine nearer to St. John, "have a
drink."

"No thanks."

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, that young dandy, was busy polishing a tin
trumpet.  He looked up from his work, glanced up at the chief who gave
him a slight nod, whereupon he proceeded to give a short succinct
account of the stirring events at the chteau.

"I thought something of the sort was in the wind," Devinne said with
dry sarcasm, "or I should not have been sent up to Paris on that futile
errand."

There was complete silence for a moment or two after that.  Lord Tony's
fist clenched until the knuckles shone smooth and white.  Glynde was
seen to swallow hard as if to choke words that had risen to his throat.
They all looked up at their chief who had not moved a muscle, had not
even frowned.  Now he gave a light little laugh.

"Do have a drink, Johnny," he said; "it will do you good."

Sir Andrew blew a subdued blast in his tin trumpet and Tony, Glynde and
Hastings only swore under their breath.  But the tension was eased for
the moment, and Blakeney presently resumed:

"The errand, lad," he rejoined simply, "was not futile.  One of us had
to let Galveston and Holte know that they will have to meet us at
headquarters on the St. Gif-Le Perrey Road any time within the next
twenty-four hours.  You would have been wiser, I think, for their sakes
as well as your own, to have assumed some inconspicuous disguise, but
you got through all right, I take it, so we won't say any more about
that."

"Yes!  I got through all right," Devinne mumbled sulkily.  "I am not a
fool."

"I am sure you are not, dear lad," Blakeney responded still very
quietly, though to anyone who knew him as intimately as did Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes or Lord Tony, there was just a _soupon_ of hardness now in
the tone of his usually pleasant voice.  "You were spared, at any rate,
the painful sight of seeing your friends up at La Rodire baited by
that unruly crowd."

"Yes!  Damn them!"

"And then you know, Johnny, you are nothing of a musician really.  Now
you should have heard Ffoulkes on his trumpet, or Hastings who played
second fiddle; they were demmed marvellous, I tell you.  If I were not
afraid of waking my Juno upstairs, I would give you a specimen of our
performance, right up to the time when our friend Monsieur Chambertin
appeared upon the scene."

"By the way," Lord Tony now put in, "what did you do ultimately with
that worthy man?"

"I locked him and his sergeant up in the cellar.  It won't hurt them to
starve for a bit.  We'll arrange for them to be let out as soon as we
feel that they cannot do us any harm."

"I suppose I shall be told off to do that," Devinne muttered peevishly.

"That's an idea, Johnny," Blakeney responded with imperturbable good
humour.  "Splendid!  But cheer up, lad.  We have splendid work before
us.  When dawn breaks over the hills yonder, we will be out for sport
which is fit for the gods.  Sport which you all love.  Break-neck rides
across country, with those poor innocents to save from the wolves who
will be howling at us close to our heels.  By gad! you will all feel
like gods yourselves.  You will have lived, all of you.  Lived, I tell
you!  My God!  I thank Thee for the chance!  That is what you will say."

Sir Percy now stood in his favourite attitude leaning against the wall,
facing the five glowing pairs of eyes, his own fixed on something that
he alone saw, something beyond these four squalid walls, the open
country perhaps, the break-neck ride that lay ahead of him and his
followers, or was it the flower-garden at Richmond, the banks of the
Thames, the blue eyes of Marguerite calling to him, asking him to come
back to her arms?

"You remember," he began after a few moments during which he seemed to
be collecting his thoughts, "that there came a time when I allowed the
crowd to get ahead of me and I remained behind ostensibly to put a new
string to my fiddle.  I hid in the dense shrubbery just inside the
gates, and, after a few minutes, five, perhaps, I heard the welcome
voice of our dear Monsieur Chauvelin.  He gave that egregious agitator
Conty the go-by, then he called to a soldier who had evidently been
waiting for him, and gave him instructions for his well-conceived
damnable plot which embraced the arrest of the whole La Rodire family
and their two faithful servants, as well as the capture of mine humble
self.  I could hear every word he said.  I learned that a squad of
gendarmerie, thirty in number, was posted in the stables, and that at a
certain signal given by my engaging friend, the men were to make their
way up to the chteau and there to await further orders.  As soon as
this pair of blackguards had parted company, Chauvelin to go straight
to the chteau, and the sergeant to transmit his orders, I slipped out
of the gate and came on here.

"Worthy landlord Polycarpe is, of course, an old friend of ours.  The
place was deserted for the moment.  I got him to open a couple of
jorums of wine, into which I poured a good measure of this potent
stuff, which that splendid fellow Barstow of York gave me recently.
Look at old Polycarpe.  You can see what a wonderful sleep it induces.
With a jorum in each hand, my fiddle and a bunch of tin mugs, slung
over my shoulder, I made my way to the stables, where, as you may well
suppose, I was made extremely welcome.  I stayed just long enough to
see the wine poured out and handed round, then out I slipped, locking
the stable and coach-house doors after me.  Then back I went to join
the merry throng in the chteau.  The rest you know, and so much for
the past.  Now for the future.  Give me some of this abominable vinegar
to drink and I'll go on.

"Just before dawn we'll go up to La Rodire.  I have the key of the
stables in my pocket, and I want to give those nice soldiers another
drink.  That will keep them quiet till far into the morning.  By that
time we shall be well away.  We'll divest some of them of their
accoutrements, which will save us the trouble of going all the way to
headquarters to get our own.  I have thought the matter well over and,
as I said this morning, I am quite positive that in this part of the
country, and far from a large city, a mock arrest is by far our best
plan.  Fortune has favoured us, let me tell you, for there is a coach
and pair here in the yard.  I learned this also while I was
eavesdropping.  It was designed to accommodate the five prisoners.  Now
it will serve the same purpose for us with two of us on the box and the
others freezing on the top, for it will be cold, I tell you.  As soon
as we have effected the arrest, we'll make for the St. Gif-Le Perrey
Road.  At St. Gif, Galveston and Holte will be at our usual quarters,
ready with fresh horses to continue the journey to the coast."

"Then we don't start till dawn?" one of them asked.

"Just before dawn.  The night will, I am afraid, be very dark, except
at rare intervals, for there is a heavy bank of clouds coming over the
mountains.  We want the light, as we shall have to drive like the devil
until well past Le Perrey."

"And we make for the coast?"

"For that little hole Trouville, this side of the Loire.  You remember
it, Ffoulkes?  But we'll talk all that over before I leave you."

"You are not coming all the way?"

"No, only as far as St. Gif.  Directly I have seen you all safely on
the road I shall have to turn my attention to one other prisoner, and
that will be a difficult task.  I don't mean that it will be so
materially, but Pradel, I feel, will be obstinate.  He has his hospital
here, and his poor patients.  How am I going to persuade him that
anyhow when those murderers have done away with him, his hospital and
his poor patients will still have to exist somehow?"

While the chief spoke and the others hung as usual breathless on his
lips, Devinne's expression of face became more and more glowering.  A
dark frown deepened between his eyes.  Once or twice he tried to speak,
but it was not until Blakeney paused that he suddenly banged his fist
on the table.

"Pradel?" he cried.  "What the devil do you mean?"

"Just what I said, my dear fellow," Sir Percy replied, with just the
slightest possible lifting of his eyebrows.  "The others understood.
Why not you?"

"The others?  The others?  I don't care about the others.  All I know
is that that insolent brute Pradel----"

Up went Blakeney's slender, commanding hand.

"Do not call that man a brute, my lad.  He is a fine fellow, and his
life is in immediate danger, though he does not know it.  He has a
bitter and very influential enemy in the lawyer Maurin, who has put up
a trumpery charge against him.  I learned as lately as last night that
his arrest has been finally decided on by the Chief Commissary and is
only a matter of a couple of days, till enough false evidence, I
suppose, has been collected against him."

"Well! and why not?" Devinne retorted hotly.

"There is no time to go into that now, my dear fellow," Blakeney
replied with unruffled patience.

"Why not?"

At sound of this curt challenge to their chief, at the defiant tone of
the boy's voice, the others lost all patience, and there was a chorus
which should have been a warning to Devinne, that though Blakeney
himself was as usual extraordinarily patient and understanding, they in
a body, Ffoulkes, Tony, Hastings, Glynde, would not tolerate
effrontery, let alone insubordination.

"You young cub!"

"Insolent worm!  Wait till you feel my glove on your face."

"By gad!  I'll wring his neck!" were some of the threats and epithets
they hurled at Devinne.  But the latter was now in one of those
obstinate moods that opposition soon turns into open revolt, and this,
in spite of the fact that Percy now put a firm, but still friendly,
hand on his shoulder.

"If I didn't know, lad, what is at the back of your mind," he said
gently, "I might remind you once again that you promised me obedience,
just like the others, in all matters connected with our League.  We
should never accomplish the good work which we have all of us
undertaken if there was mutiny in our small camp."

Devinne shook the kindly hand off his shoulder.

"Oh! you'll never understand," he muttered glumly.

"What?  That you are in love with Ccile de la Rodire and jealous of
Simon Pradel?"

"Don't talk of love, Blakeney.  You don't know what it means."

A slight pause.  Only a second or two, while a curious shadow seemed to
flit over those deep-set eyes that held such a wealth of suppressed
emotion in their glance, of sorrow and of doubt and of visions of
ecstasy that mayhap the daring adventurer would never taste again.  He
gave a quick sigh and said simply:

"Perhaps not, dear lad.  You may be right.  But we are not here to
discuss matters of sentiment, and the knife which I am now about to
wield will cut into your wounded vanity, and, I fear me, will hurt
terribly.  Ccile de la Rodire," he went on, and now his tone was very
firm and he spoke very slowly, letting every word sink into the boy's
consciousness, "is not and never will be in love with you.  She is half
in love with Pradel already----"

Devinne jumped to his feet.

"And that's a lie----" he cried hoarsely, and would have said more only
that Glynde struck him full on the mouth.

The others, too, were beside themselves with fury.  They laid rough
hands on his shoulders.  Lord Tony flung an insult in his face, and
Hastings called out:

"On your knees, you----"

Blakeney alone remained quite undisturbed.  He only spoke when Hastings
and Tony between them had nearly forced Devinne down on his knees; then
he said with a light laugh:

"Leave the boy alone, Hastings.  You, too, Tony.  Four against one is
not a sporting proposition, is it?"

He took Devinne firmly under the arm, helped him to raise himself, and
said quietly:

"You are not quite yourself just now, are you, Johnny?  Come out into
the fresh air a bit.  It will do you good."

Devinne tried to shake himself free, but held in Percy's iron grip, he
was compelled to move with him across the room.  The others naturally
did not interfere.  They were nursing their indignation, while they
watched their chief lead the recalcitrant Johnny out of the room.

Now and then they cast anxious looks in the direction of the door,
whenever St. John Devinne's rasping voice reached their ears.




CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

_Open Revolt_

Outside, in the cold frosty night, a strange clash of wills was taking
place with the issue never for a moment in doubt.  Devinne, goaded by
jealousy, had lost all sense of proportion and all sense of loyalty and
honour.  It was not only a question of a lover's hatred for a rival
whom he still affected to despise, it was also jealousy of the power
and influence of his chief, against whose orders he was determined to
rebel.

St. John Devinne was an only son.  His father, the old Duke of Rudford,
a fine old sportsman as everyone acknowledged, had been inordinately
proud of a boy born to him when he was past middle age.  His mother did
her best to spoil the child.  She gave in to every one of his many
caprices.  When presently he went to school she loaded him with
presents both of money and of "tuck," with the result that he became a
little king among his schoolmates.  The boy came down from Harrow
rather more spoilt and certainly more arrogant than he was when he went
up.

There followed, however, a rather better time for him morally, when he
came under the direct influence of his father.  He became quite a good
sportsman, rode straight to hounds, was a fine boxer and fencer.
During the fashionable seasons in London and in Bath he was a great
favourite with the ladies, for he was an amusing talker and an elegant
partner in the minuet.  When in '90 Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.,
accompanied by his beautiful young wife, made his dazzling entry in
English society after a long sojourn in France, he became St. John
Devinne's beau ideal.  The boy's one aim in life was to emulate that
perfect gentleman in all things.  And when, after a time, he was
actually admitted into the intimate circle of young exquisites of whom
Sir Percy was the acknowledged leader, he felt that life could hold no
greater happiness for him.

Then the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel was formed and in August '91
St. John Devinne was enrolled as a member and swore the prescribed oath
of allegiance, secrecy and obedience to the chief.  From certain
correspondence that came to light subsequently, it has been established
that Blakeney first spoke of his scheme for the establishment of the
League with the old Duke, for there is a letter still extant written by
the latter to his friend Percy, in which he says:


"Alas, that my two enemies old age and rheumatism prevent my becoming a
member of that glorious League which you are contemplating.  Gladly
would I have sworn allegiance and obedience to you, my dear Percy, whom
I love and respect more than any man I have ever known.  If you on the
other hand do really bear me the affection which you have expressed so
beautifully in your letter to me, then allow my boy St. John to be one
of your followers and to take what should have been my place by your
side, proud to obey you in all things and swearing allegiance to you,
second only to that which he owes to his King."


That, then, was the man who in these early days of '93 had gradually
allowed his boyish vices to get the better of his finer nature.  The
devils of arrogance, obstinacy and rebellion against authority had been
the overlords that presided over his development from youth to manhood.
They were held in check during the first few months of an adventurous
life, fuller and more glorious than he had ever dreamed of, but those
three devils in him had got the upper hand over him again.

"You may talk as much as you like, Percy," he said, when he found
himself alone with his chief, "you will never induce me to lend a hand
in that wild scheme of yours."

"What wild scheme do you mean, Johnny?"

"Risking all our lives to save that upstart from getting his deserts."

"You are still alluding to Simon Pradel?"

"Of course I am.  You don't know him as I do.  You weren't there when
he thrust his attentions on Ccile de la Rodire and was soundly
thrashed by Franois for his pains."

"As it happens, my dear fellow, I was there and I saw and heard
everything that went on.  You gave me the lie just now when I told you
what I know to be a fact, that Ccile de la Rodire is half in love
with Simon Pradel.  Hers is a simple, thoroughly fine nature which
could not help being touched by the man's silent devotion to her.  He
has a scheme for saving her and her family from disaster, very much, in
my opinion, at risk of his own life."

"A scheme?" Devinne retorted with a sneer.  "He has a scheme, too, has
he?"

"A scheme," Blakeney rejoined earnestly, "which has for its keystone
his marriage with Mademoiselle Ccile."

"The devil!"

"No, not the devil, my dear fellow, only the little pagan god who has
had a shot at you, too, with his arrow, but has not, methinks, wounded
you very deeply."

"Anyhow, Ccile would not marry without her family's consent and they
would never allow such a damnable _msalliance_."

"The word has not much meaning with us in England these days when
foreign princes and dukes earn their living as best they can.  And as I
have already told you, our League has taken Simon Pradel under its
protection along with the La Rodire family."

"You mean that _you_ have taken him under your protection."

"Put it that way if you like."

"And that... in England----?"

"In England, too, of course.  Don't we always look after our protgs
once we have them over there?"

"Then let me tell you this, Blakeney," Devinne retorted, emboldened
probably by the patient way in which his chief continued to speak with
him.  He was being treated like a child, certainly, but like a child of
whom the stern schoolmaster was half afraid.  "Let me tell you this,
now that we are alone and those bullies in there are not here to
interfere, that I resent your hectoring me in the manner you have done
these last few days.  You talk a lot about honour and obedience and all
that sort of thing, but I am not a child and you are not a
schoolmaster.  I will do all I can to help you save Ccile de la
Rodire and her mother, and even her brother, though I care less for
him than for a brass farthing.  But help save Pradel I will not, and
that is my last word."

Blakeney had let him talk on without interruption.  He tried with all
the patience at his command to understand and to sympathise or, at any
rate, to find some sort of an explanation for what seemed to him an
inconceivable situation.  He said very quietly:

"Look here, Johnny, you tell me that you will not lend a hand in saving
Pradel, that you intend, in fact, to go against my orders, which means
going back on your word of honour.  Now that is a very big thing to do,
as I told you once before.  I won't qualify it any other way, I'll just
say that it is a big thing.  Will you then tell me why you think of
doing it?  What is your excuse?  Or explanation?  You'll want a
cast-iron one, my dear fellow, you know, to make me understand it."

Devinne shrugged.

"Excuse?  I might refuse to give you one, for I don't admit your right
to question me like this.  But I will try and remember that we were
friends once, and, as far as I am concerned, we can go on being
friends.  I have two cast-iron reasons why I refuse to risk my life in
order to save Pradel, who is my enemy.  He has tried to alienate
Ccile's love from me.  Thank Heaven, he has not succeeded, but he has
tried and will go on trying, once he is out of this country, in safety
in England.  And you expect me to help him in that?  You must think I
am a fool.  My second reason is that in my opinion we must concentrate
on saving Madame la Marquise and Mademoiselle Ccile, Franois, too, if
you insist, but to hamper ourselves with those two old servants, not to
mention that damned doctor fellow, is sheer madness to my mind, and I
contend that I can make better use of my life than lose it perhaps in
the pursuit of such folly."

Now that Devinne had paused for lack of breath and still panting with
excitement, Blakeney gave him answer, with utmost calm, never once
raising his voice.

"I thank you, my good fellow, for this explanation.  I am beginning to
understand now.  As to your last remark, that is as may be.  A man must
judge for himself what his own life is worth, and to what use he can
put it.  It is impossible for any members of the League to arrange for
you to return to England for at least another day or two.  I am taking
it that you would prefer to travel alone rather than in the company of
those whom we are going to do our utmost to save from death.  If I can
possibly arrange it, I will get in touch with Everingham and Aincourt,
who know nothing of your treachery----"

"Percy!" the other cried in angry protest.

"Who know nothing of your treachery," Blakeney reiterated with
deliberate emphasis.  "If they did," he added, with a short laugh,
"they would possibly wring your neck."

"You needn't worry about me," Devinne retorted sullenly.  "I can look
after myself."

"Then do, my good fellow.  It is the best thing you can do.  Good
night."

Did some feeling akin to shame assail St. John Devinne then?  It is
impossible to say.  Certain it is that without another word or backward
glance he started to walk away down the hill.  And Blakeney with a
bitter sigh went to rejoin his comrades in the tap-room.  They asked
him no questions, for they guessed, if only vaguely, what had happened,
and that after this they would have to face that most deadly of all
dangers, a traitor in the camp.

"If we have a traitor in the camp," Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had once said,
"then God help the lot of us."




CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

_Treachery_

It is a little difficult to analyse the feelings of a man like St. John
Devinne, for he was not really by nature an out and out blackguard.
Vanity more than anything else was at the root of his present
dishonourable actions.  He imagined himself more deeply in love with
Ccile de la Rodire than he had ever been before, and more deeply than
he actually was.  Love in a man of Devinne's type does not really mean
much, except the satisfaction of vanity, and, looking back on the pages
of history in every civilised land, one cannot help but admit that
vanity in men and women has caused more mischief, more misery and
greater disasters than any other frailty to which humanity is heir.

He had formed a plan, of course, and all the way between the heights of
La Rodire and the outskirts of Choisy, running when he could,
stumbling often, falling more than once, he elaborated this plan.  He
covered the ground quickly enough, for the way was downhill all the
time and it was no longer very dark, now that a pale moon shed its cold
silvery light on the carpet of snow.  Somewhere in the far distance a
church clock struck the half-hour.  Half-past eight it must be,
reckoned Devinne, and the Levets would have finished supper.  There was
their house just in sight.  Now for a lucky chance to find the girl
alone, the girl who in an access of jealousy as great as his own had
cried out: "You only care because you are in love with Ccile!"  He
paused a moment outside the grille in order to shake the snow and dirt
off his clothes, to straighten his hat and adjust his cravat.  Then he
walked up to the front door and rang the bell.  It was old man Levet
who opened the door.  Devinne raised his hat and said:

"I have come with a message from Professeur d'Arblay.  May I enter?"

"Certainly, monsieur," the old man replied, and as soon as Devinne
stood beside him in the vestibule he added: "What can I do for
Professeur d'Arblay?"

"The message is actually for your daughter, Monsieur Levet.  But if you
wish, I will deliver it to you."

"I will call my daughter," was Levet's simple response.  He called to
Blanche, who came out from the kitchen, a dishcloth still in her hand.
Seeing a stranger, she quickly put the dishcloth down and wiped her
hands on her apron.

"What is it, father?" she asked.

"A message for you from Professeur d'Arblay.  If you want me, you can
call.  Monsieur," he added, with a slight bow to Devinne, "at your
service."

He went into the sitting-room.  Blanche and Devinne were alone.  She
turned anxious, enquiring eyes on him.  He said:

"It is very important and urgent, mademoiselle.  It means life and
death to Madame la Marquise up at the chteau and to Mademoiselle
Ccile."

He noted with satisfaction that at mention of Ccile's name the young
girl's figure appeared to stiffen, and that an expression almost of
hostility crept into her eyes.  She was silent for a moment or two.
Then she turned and said coldly:

"Will you come in here, monsieur?" and led the way into the small
dining-room, closing the door behind him.  Chance, then, was bestowing
her favours upon the traitor.  He could talk to the girl undisturbed.
Everything else would be easy.  She offered him a chair by the table
and sat down opposite him with a small oil-lamp between them, and
Devinne, who studied her face closely, did not fail to see that the
look of cold hostility still lingered in her eyes, and that her lips
were tightly pressed together.

"I had best come at once to the point, mademoiselle," he began, "for my
time is short.  The question which I must put to you first of all is
this: would you have sufficient courage to go up to La Rodire
to-night?  I would accompany you, but only as far as the gate, and you
would then go on to the chteau and transmit Professeur d'Arblay's
message to Mademoiselle Ccile."

Blanche hesitated a moment, then she said coldly:

"That depends, monsieur."

"On what?"

"I must know something more about the message."

"You shall, mademoiselle, you shall.  But first will you tell me this?
Have you ever heard speak of the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"Only vaguely."

"What have you heard?"

"That he is a dangerous English spy.  The sworn enemy of our country.
His activities, they say, chiefly consist in helping traitors to escape
from justice."

"Would you be very surprised, then, to learn that Professeur d'Arblay
is none other than the Scarlet Pimpernel himself?"

Once again Blanche paused before she answered.  When she did, she spoke
very slowly, almost as if she were searching her memory for facts which
had been relegated up to now to the back of her mind.

"No, it would not surprise me.  I always looked on Professeur d'Arblay
as somewhat mysterious.  Father liked him, and they often had long
talks together, and _maman_, _pauvre maman_! looked upon him, I often
thought, as a messenger of God.  As a matter of fact, I never knew his
name till quite lately, the day when the King was executed and the Abb
Edgeworth----"

"Yes?  The Abb Edgeworth?  You knew about him and his escape from the
mob who tried to murder him?"

"Yes.  It was Professeur d'Arblay who brought him to this house."

"It was the Scarlet Pimpernel, mademoiselle."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel?" the girl murmured, "and you know him,
monsieur?"

"I am English, mademoiselle, and we Englishmen all know him.  We work
together in the secret service of our country.  I told him that I
should be going past your house this evening, so he asked me to bring
you the message which he desires you to convey to Mademoiselle de la
Rodire."

"A verbal message?"

"No.  I will write it if you will allow me.  It would not have been
over safe for a lonely wayfarer as I was to carry a compromising paper
about his person.  There are many spies and vagabonds about."

"But when we go up to La Rodire?"

"I am going down into Choisy first, and will hire a chaise.  We will
drive up to the chteau, with a couple of men on the box."

Blanche looked intently at the young man for a second or two, then she
rose, fetched paper, ink and pen from a side table and placed them
before him.

"Will you write your message, monsieur?" she said simply.

"Will you promise to take it?" he retorted.

"I will make no promise.  It will depend on the message."

"Then I must take the chance that it meets with your approval," he
decided, and with a smile he took up the pen and began to write.
Blanche, her elbow resting on the table, her chin cupped in her hand,
watched him while he wrote a dozen lines.  In the end he made a rough
drawing which looked like a device.

"What is that?" she asked.

"The Scarlet Pimpernel, mademoiselle, a small five-petalled flower.  We
always use it in our service."

"May I see what you have written?"

"Certainly."

He handed her the paper; she glanced down on it and frowned.

"It is in English," she remarked.

"Yes! my written French is very faulty.  But Mademoiselle Ccile will
understand."

"But I do not."

"Shall I translate?"

"If you please."

She handed him back the missive and he translated it as he read:


"'MADEMOISELLE,

"'Will you and your august family honour the League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel by accepting its protection.  Your arrest is only a question
of hours.  A coach waits for you outside your gate.  It will convey you
and Madame la Marquise with all possible speed to a place of safety and
then return to fetch Monsieur le Marquis, your two servants and Docteur
Simon Pradel."


The girl gave a violent start.

"Simon Pradel?"

"You know him, mademoiselle?"

"Yes! ... yes! ... I know him....  But why?"

"He and Mademoiselle Ccile have arranged to get married as soon as
they are in England."

"It's not true!" Blanche exclaimed vehemently.  She then appeared to
make an effort to control herself and went on more quietly: "I mean ...
Docteur Pradel has so many interests here ... I cannot imagine that he
would leave them and become an exile in England ... even if his life
were in danger, which I pray to God is not the case."

"I can reassure you as to that, mademoiselle," Devinne said with deep
earnestness.  "Only to-day did I hear that the charge of treason
preferred against the doctor before the Chief Commissary has been
dismissed as non-proven.  He is held in high esteem in the commune, and
like yourself, I cannot believe that he would leave his philanthropic
work over here except under constraint."

"What do you mean by constraint?" the girl asked, frowning.

He gave a smile and a shrug.

"Well!" he rejoined, "we all know that when a woman is in love, and
sees that her lover is not as ardent as she would wish, she will
exercise pressure which a mere man cannot always resist."

"Then you do not think----" the girl cried impulsively, and quickly
checked herself, realising that she was giving herself away before a
stranger.  A blush, that was almost one of shame, flooded her cheeks,
and tears of mortification came to her eyes.

"I don't know what you will think of me, monsieur..." she murmured.

"Only that you are a wonderfully loyal friend, mademoiselle, and that
you are grieved to see a man of Docteur Pradel's worth throw up his
career for a futile reason.  After all these troublous days will soon
be over.  Mademoiselle de la Rodire will then return from England, and
if she and the doctor are still of the same mind, they could be
affianced then."

Blanche's eager, enquiring eyes searched the young man's face, almost
as if she tried to gather in its expression comfort and hope in this
awful calamity which threatened to ruin her life.

There followed a few moments silence, while Devinne scrutinised the
girl's face, aware though he was too young to be a serious
psychologist, of the terrible battle which her better nature was waging
against pride and jealousy.  He had no cause now to doubt the issue of
the conflict.  Blanche Levet would be his ally in the act of treachery
which he was about to commit.  Ignorant and unsuspecting, she did not
realise that she was on the point of sacrificing the man she loved, and
depriving him of the protection of the one man who had resolved to save
him.  Jealousy won the day by letting her fall headlong into the trap
which a traitor had so cunningly set for her.  She was about to become
the instrument which would deliver Simon Pradel into the hands of the
revolutionary government.

"I will tell you what I can do, mademoiselle," Devinne resumed after a
time, "and I hope my plan will meet your wishes.  I am going straight
into Choisy now, and will call on Docteur Pradel and use all the
eloquence I possess to persuade him to put off his journey to England,
at any rate for a few days.  I shall be able to assure him that in his
case it is not a matter of life and death, whilst, in any event,
Mademoiselle de la Rodire and her family are perfectly safe under the
aegis of the Scarlet Pimpernel.  And then I hope to bring you news
within the hour that your friend will do nothing rash until after he
has seen you again."

Blanche listened to him with glowing eyes.  In every line of her pretty
face the speaker could trace the mastery of hope over the doubts and
fears of a while ago.

"You really would do that for me, monsieur?" she exclaimed, and clasped
her little hands together, while tears of emotion and gratitude
gathered in her eyes.

"Of course I would, mademoiselle.  I shall only be doing what our brave
Scarlet Pimpernel himself would have suggested."

Blanche's heart now felt so warm, so full of joy that she broke into a
happy little laugh.

"It is my turn to write," she said almost gaily, and took up the pen
and drew paper towards her.  She only wrote a few lines:


"MY DEAR SIMON,

"The bearer of this note is a gallant English gentleman who was
instrumental in saving the Abb Edgeworth from being murdered by the
mob.  You know all about that, don't you?  And cannot wonder therefore,
that I beg you to trust him in everything he may tell you."


She signed the short missive with her name, strewed sand over the wet
ink, folded the paper into a small compass and handed it to Devinne,
who rose as he took it from her.

"I will fly on the wings of friendship, mademoiselle," he said, and
picked up his hat.  "On my return I will pay my respects to Monsieur
Levet.  Will you tell him everything, and prepare him for my visit of
adieu?  _Au revoir_, mademoiselle."

She went to the door and opened it for him.

"God guard you, monsieur!" she said fervently, "and send an angel from
heaven to watch over you, on your errand of mercy."

She accompanied him to the front door.  As he was passing out into the
cold and the gloom, she asked navely:

"Your name, monsieur?  You never told me your name."

"My name is Collin, mademoiselle," he replied with hardly a moment's
hesitation, "a humble satellite of the brilliant Scarlet Pimpernel."




CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

_Check_

Everything then had worked out to the entire satisfaction of this young
traitor, who, unlike Judas, had no qualms of conscience for his
shameful betrayal of his comrades and his chief.  Not yet, at any rate.
He had, of course, no intention of interviewing his enemy Pradel; in
fact, he blotted the doctor entirely out from his scheme.  It was good
to think of him as remaining behind in Choisy while the girl whom he
had planned to marry was safely on her way to England without any help
from him.

A few minor details suggested themselves to him that would make his
plan work more smoothly.  He would stop the chaise at the smaller
grille of La Rodire, the one opposite to the main gate, which gave on
the narrow and less frequented cross-road to Alfort.  Blanche Levet
would take his message to Ccile, help her and Madame la Marquise to
put a few things together, and accompany them to the chaise.  She would
have strict injunctions when going through the park with the two ladies
to talk and move as if they were merely taking a stroll for the sake of
fresh air.  He certainly could reckon on Blanche to follow his
instructions to the letter, she had as much at stake as he had himself,
and jealousy, coupled with the desire to keep Simon Pradel in France,
would be a powerful goad.

With the two ladies safely inside the chaise, he would then drive along
to St. Gif as far as headquarters, where Galveston and Holte would be
on the look-out for the chief and the refugees.  This was a derelict
house which had once been a wayside hostelry in the prosperous coaching
days, but it had long fallen into disrepair, the landlord and his
family having fled the country at the outbreak of the Revolution.  It
was now used as headquarters by the League whenever its activities
required the presence of its members in this part of France.  It had
the great advantage of stables and barns which, though in the last
stages of dilapidation, offered some sort of shelter for man and beast.
Three or four horses were usually kept there in case they were wanted,
and two members of the League took it in turns to remain in charge.
There was always, of course, a certain element of risk in all that, but
what were risks and dangers to these young madcaps but the very spice
of their lives?

Luck had favoured St. John Devinne from the start, since it was he who
had been deputed to seek out Galveston and Holte, who were in charge at
St. Gif, and give them the chief's instructions for the provision of
horses, of fresh disguises and above all of passports, some of them
forged, others purchased from venal officials or merely stolen, of
everything, in fact, that was required to ensure the success of the
expedition that was contemplated for the rescue of the La Rodires and
their servants and their ultimate flight to England.  Mention had been
made of the coach, but not of the likely number of its occupants nor of
the size of the escort, and whether it would be headed by the chief
himself or not.  Galveston was to remain on the lookout at headquarters
with horses ready saddled, and Holte was to make for Le Perrey with all
speed and make provision there for relays.

And chance continued to favour the traitor's plans.  He had no
difficulty in hiring a coach in the town, giving himself out as an
American merchant, a friend of General La Fayette, desirous to join a
ship at St. Nazaire, and having no time to lose.  The first halt would
be made at Dreux.  His manner, his well-cut clothes, his money of which
he was not sparing, gave verisimilitude to his story and enabled him to
secure what he wanted.  He required, he said, an extra man on the box
beside the driver, as his sister would be travelling with him; he
understood that the road past Le Perrey was lonely, and she was
inclined to be nervous.  His papers were in order, as papers in the
possession of members of the League always were, and forty minutes
after his departure from the Levets' house he was back there again and
ringing the bell at the front door.

Blanche was on the look-out for him.  As soon as she had opened the
door he stretched both his hands out to her, and in a quick whisper
said:

"Everything is well!  I have seen Docteur Pradel.  He laughed the idea
to scorn that he was in any danger, and assured me that he had no
intention of emigrating.  Not just yet, at all events.  I did not
mention Mademoiselle de la Rodire's name, but he himself spoke of you
and announced his intention of coming over to see you to-morrow."

The girl was dumb with emotion.  All she could do was to allow her hand
to respond to the pressure of his.  He asked permission to pay his
respects to Monsieur Levet.  But father, it seems, was not in a mood to
see anyone just now.

"I told him about the message which I was to take up to Mademoiselle,"
Blanche explained, "and he quite approved of my doing it.  I told him
that you were escorting me and that you were a friend of Professeur
d'Arblay.  This he already knew.  He had also guessed, before I told
him, that Professeur d'Arblay was in reality the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"Did you mention Docteur Pradel, also?"

"No, I did not.  That is a matter which will remain between Simon and
myself.  I shall be eternally grateful to you for what you have done
for him.  But for you he would have made shipwreck of his life.  Now he
will, I know, take up its threads with his usual energy as soon as all
this matter is past and forgotten."

"You are the best friend any man ever had," Devinne concluded as he
escorted the girl to the coach; "Docteur Pradel is indeed a lucky man."

Devinne ordered the driver to pull up on the Alfort road at a couple of
hundred metres from the small grille of La Rodire.  Grilles and gates
were never bolted these days, by an order of the government which
decreed that all parks and pleasure grounds were as much the property
of the people as of those _aristos_ who had stolen them, and that every
citizen had the right to use them for pleasure or convenience.  Devinne
jumped out of the chaise and helped Blanche to alight.  Together they
walked up to the grille, and the girl passed through into the park.
The young man remained standing by the low wall close to the gate in
the shadow of tall bordering trees.  He strained his ears to listen to
Blanche's light footstep treading the frozen ground.

Nearly half an hour went by before his ear once more caught the sound
of a light footstep treading the frozen garden path.  One step only.
He heard it a long way off, but tripping very quickly.  Running now.
It must, he thought, be Blanche returning for something she may have
forgotten or, perhaps, with a message for him from the chteau.  It was
Blanche, of course.  The clouds overhead rolled slowly away.  The pale
light of the moon revealed the dark figure of the young girl against
the white background of frozen lawn.  And she was running.  Running.
She was alone, and Devinne felt that his heart suddenly froze inside
his breast.  He held open the grille.  Blanche almost fell into his
arms.

"They have gone," she gasped.

"Gone?  Who?"

"All of them.  There is no one in the chteau.  Not a soul.  The doors
are all left open.  I ran upstairs, downstairs, everywhere.  There is
no one.  Madame la Marquise, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Ccile, Paul,
Marie.  They have all gone.  What does it mean?"

Aye!  What did it mean, but the one thing?  The one awful terrible
thing, that it was his treachery that had been frustrated by the man
whom he had betrayed.  What had happened exactly, he could not
conjecture.  The plan was to effect the mock arrest of the La Rodires
in the early dawn, and it was not yet midnight.  Had suspicion of
treachery lurked in the mind of the Scarlet Pimpernel?  He was not the
man to change his plans once he had mapped them out, for every phase of
them fitted one into the other, like the pieces of those puzzles that
children love to play with.  Or had a real arrest been effected by
soldiers of the Republic?  Had Chauvelin contrived to escape?  To
liberate the men imprisoned in the stables?

As Devinne said nothing, Blanche began to cry.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked and tried to swallow her tears.

Devinne roused himself from his torpor.  What chivalry there was left
in him urged him first of all to see to the girl's safety.

"We'll drive back to your house, of course.  Come."

He took hold of her arm and led her back to the chaise.  She climbed in
and he gave instructions to the driver.

"Straight back to Citizen Levet's house in the Rue Micheline."

Not a word was spoken between the two of them on the way home.
Blanche's delicate form was trembling as if in a fit of ague.  A name
and eager questions were forming on her lips, but for some inexplicable
reason she felt averse to uttering them.  It was only when the chaise
drew up outside her house, and Devinne, after he had escorted her to
the front door, was taking his leave of her, that she spoke the name
that was foremost in her thoughts.

"Docteur Pradel?" she murmured.

But apparently he didn't hear her, for he made no reply.  The next
moment the door was opened.  Old Levet had been sitting up, waiting for
his daughter.  At sight of her he took hold of her hand and drew her
into the house.  She turned to say a last word to Devinne, but he had
already crossed the short path that led to the gate.  Blanche could
hear his voice speaking to the driver, but it was dark and she could
not see him.  The next moment there was the crack of the driver's whip,
the jingle of harness, the snorting of horses and, finally, the rumble
of wheels.  She was left with heart full of anxiety and fear for the
man she loved.  Many hours must go by before she could hope to glean
information as to what had happened to him.  And here was her father
waiting to hear what had occurred at the chteau.  She tried to tell
him, but she knew so little.  The family had gone, that was all she
knew.  Were they under arrest, awaiting trial, and, perhaps, death?  Or
was their mysterious departure connected in any way with that strange
personage the Scarlet Pimpernel?

In either case, where was Simon now?  In the cells of the Old Castle,
awaiting the same fate as Ccile and the others?  Or was he on his way
to England and to safety, gone out of her life for ever?




CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

_Checkmate_

Devinne did not re-enter the chaise.  He gave money to the two men, the
driver saluted with his whip, clicked his tongue, whipped up his
horses, and the vehicle went rattling down the cobbled street, leaving
the young man standing by the Levets' gate.  And here he remained for
several minutes, until he heard the clock in the tower of the Town Hall
strike midnight.  This seemed to shake him out of his trance-like
state.  He started to walk up the street in an aimless sort of way.
The whole town appeared deserted.  Shutters tightly closed everywhere.
Not a soul in sight.  Two cats, chasing one another, raced across his
path.  But not a human sound to break the stillness of the night.

Devinne shivered.  He was inured to cold weather as a rule; considered
himself hard as nails, and he had on a thick mantle, but, somehow, he
felt the cold to-night right in the marrow of his bones, right into the
depth of his heart.  Still walking aimlessly, he reached the Grand'
Place.  There on the right were the Caf Tison and the Restaurant, the
scene of one of Blakeney's maddest frolics.  Blakeney! the leader, the
comrade, the friend whom he, St. John Devinne, was about to betray!
His plan, however, had failed.  He had been forestalled.  How?  Why?
By what devilish agency, he did not know.  But he was no longer in
doubt now.  The more he thought about it all, the more convinced he was
that it was Blakeney who had forestalled him as a counterblast to his
insubordination.  And a coach driven at breakneck speed was even now
outstripping the wind on the road to St. Gif and Le Perrey.

An insensate rage took possession of Devinne's soul, for he had
remembered Pradel.  Pradel in that same carriage with Ccile, under the
aegis of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who had never failed in a single one of
his undertakings.  Pradel and Ccile!  The thought was maddening.  It
hammered in the young man's brain like blows from a weighted stick.
Pradel and Ccile!  Thrown together in England under the protection of
Sir Percy Blakeney, the friend of the Prince of Wales, the arbiter of
style and fashion.  And then marriage.  Of course, the marriage would
follow.  In England fellows like this Pradel, doctors, lawyers, and so
on, were often held in high esteem, and if His Royal Highness approved,
the marriage would come about as a matter of course.

He didn't know where Pradel lived or he would have gone there, rung the
bell, asked to see the doctor.  If he was in, he would kill him.  That
would be the best way out of this trouble.  Kill him and get away.
Nobody would know.  But if Pradel was gone, that would mean that he was
on his way to England with Ccile and the others, under the protection
of the League, and he, Devinne, would have no longer any compunction in
doing what he had already made up his mind to do.  No compunction now,
and no remorse in the future.

After a time he turned his back on the Town Hall, and on the Rue Haute,
crossed the Grand' Place once more, and almost against his will his
footsteps led him in the direction of the derelict cottage, the
headquarters of the League, where he had first dreamt of mutiny, and
Glynde and the others had been ready to knock him down.  There it was,
looming out of the darkness, a pale, moon mist covered, outlined its
broken walls and tumbledown chimney.  Devinne went in, groping his way
about for the tinder-box, knowing where it was always kept.  His
fingers came in contact with it.  It was in its usual place, so was the
piece of tallow candle in its pewter sconce.  He struck a light, put it
to the wick and then looked about him.  He picked up the guttering
candle and holding it high above his head he wandered round the room.
Seeking for what?  He couldn't say.  Unless it was for the broken
fragments of an English gentleman's honour.

What he did come across was a pile of garments in one corner.  Coats,
hats, Phrygian caps, rags, tattered bits of uniforms and accoutrements,
the whole paraphernalia so often used in the pursuit of those stirring
adventures the like of which he would never witness again after he had
accomplished his final purpose.  He would have to make his way back to
England unaided by his comrades, lacking the advice of his chief.
Well, he had papers and money, both of which would help him on his
route.  He had gained experience, too, under the guidance of the
Scarlet Pimpernel, of how to travel through a country seething with
insurrection and suspicious of strangers.  He spoke the language well.
Oh! he would get on all right without help from anyone.  His clothes,
perhaps, were rather too tidy and too well-tailored for the adventurous
journey.  He turned over the pile of garments.  Found what he wanted.
Clothes, boots and hat such as a well-to-do farmer might wear going
from market-place to market-place.  He would hire a cabriolet when he
could, or a cart; avoid big cities and frequented roads.  Oh, yes! he
had experience now, he would get on all right.

He dressed himself up in the clothes he had selected.  In this too, he
had experience, gained through the teaching of a veritable master in
the art of disguise: he knew the importance of minor details, the
discarding of a fine linen shirt, the use of mud and sand to hide the
delicacy of the hands and face.  By the time the tallow candle ceased
to flicker and died out, he had become the well-to-do farmer right down
to his skin.  He was left in total darkness, his eyes were heavy with
want of sleep and his head ached furiously.  There were yet some hours
to live through before the dawn when he could make his way back to
Choisy and the Town Hall.  So he threw himself down on the pile of
garments and tried to woo sleep which refused to come.  His brain was
so alert that all through the night he heard the tower clock strike
every hour.  Sleep does not come when the mind is busy evolving a plan
of treason and dishonour.  Seven o'clock.  Aching in every limb,
half-perished with cold, my Lord St. John Devinne, Earl Welhaven, son
and heir of the Duke of Rudford, went forth on an errand, which, for
perfidy, was perhaps only rivalled once, nineteen hundred years ago.
He had sworn to himself that he would have no compunction, if, on
calling at Pradel's house, he was told that the doctor had gone away.
He didn't know where Pradel lived, but it was morning now and he would
find out.

His first objective was the Caf Tison, for, besides being cold, he was
also hungry.  These sort of places, mostly new to provincial towns,
usually opened their doors very early, and were frequented by men and
women on their way to work: here for a few sous they could get a plate
of hot soup, or, if they were more sophisticated, a cup of coffee.
Devinne, in his rough clothes and with grimy hands and face, attracted
no attention.  There were a dozen or so workmen sitting at different
tables noisily consuming their _crote-au-pot_.  The Englishman sat
down and ordered coffee.  This he sipped slowly and munched a piece of
stale bread.  The municipal offices in the Town Hall, he was told on
enquiry, opened at eight o'clock.  He then asked to be directed to the
house of Docteur Pradel.

"Rue du Chemin Neuf, citizen," someone told him, "corner of the Rue
Verte.  You will find him at home for certain."

Devinne paid his account and went out.  He found the house at the
corner of the Rue du Chemin Neuf.  A painted sign hung before the door
stating that Citizen Docteur Pradel _de la Facult de Paris_ lived here
and received callers between the hours of eight and ten in the morning,
and two and three in the afternoon.  Devinne rang the bell, a
middle-aged woman opened the door.

"The citizen doctor?" he demanded.

"He is not in," the woman answered curtly.

"Not in?"

"As I have told you, citizen."

"Where can I find him?  It is for an urgent case."

"I cannot tell you, citizen.  The doctor was sent for late last night
for an urgent case.  He has not yet returned."

The woman was apparently becoming impatient and was on the point of
closing the door in the visitor's face, when something in the
expression of his eyes seemed to arouse her compassion, for she added,
not unkindly:

"It is probably a confinement, citizen.  These cases often keep the
doctor out all night.  He was fetched away in a cabriolet.  I expect
him back every moment.  Would you care to wait?"

While Devinne parleyed with her a few callers had assembled on the
doctor's doorstep.  He thanked the woman, but no, he would not wait.
He would have liked to ask one more question, but thought better of it
and, turning on his heel, went his way.

Why should he wait?  What for?  Pradel had gone and Percy had done his
worst.  It was up to him, Devinne, now to show that arrogant chief of a
league of sycophants, who was the better man.




CHAPTER THIRTY

_Dishonour_

Although it was only a few minutes after eight, Devinne found the
waiting-hall of the municipal building crowded with visitors waiting
for an interview with the Chief Commissary.  Men and women of all
sorts, country bumpkins and townsfolk, ragamuffins scantily clothed,
shivering with cold, business men in threadbare coats, women with a
child in their arms and another clinging to their skirts.

When Devinne entered he was told to give in his name to a clerk who sat
making entries at a desk.  On the spur of the moment he gave his name
as Collins and his nationality as Canadian.

"Your occupation?" the clerk asked him curtly.

"Farmer."

"What are you doing in Choisy?"

"I will explain it to the Citizen Commissary."

The clerk looked up at him and said peremptorily:

"You will explain it to me, and state your business with the Citizen
Commissary."

"My business is secret," Devinne retorted; "the Commissary himself will
tell you so.  Give me pen and paper," he demanded, "and I will write it
down."

The clerk appeared to hesitate.  He scrutinised the face of the visitor
for a moment or two and seemed on the point of meeting the demand with
a definite refusal, when something in the expression of this Canadian
farmer's face caused him to change his mind.  He pushed a paper towards
Devinne and held out his own pen to him.

Pen in hand Devinne paused a moment, seeking for the right words
wherewith to arrest the attention of the Chief Commissary.  Finally he
wrote:


"Citizen Chauvelin and a squad of Republican Guard are held in durance,
the writer will tell you where.  The _aristos_ up at La Rodire have
made good their escape.  The writer will tell you how."


He put down the pen, read the missive through, was satisfied that it
was to the point, strewed sand over the wet ink, then demanded curtly:

"Wax."

The clerk gave him the wax, he took his ring off his finger and sealed
the note down.  When handing it over to the clerk, he slipped a gold
coin into the latter's hand.  This settled the matter.  The clerk
became at once quite amenable, almost obsequious.

"One moment, citizen," he said; "I will see to it that the Chief
Commissary receives you without delay."

A few minutes later St. John Devinne was sitting in the Chief
Commissary's private office, opposite that important personage, once
again giving his name, nationality and occupation, which the Commissary
duly noted down.

"Mathieu Collin, Citizen Commissary.  Of Canadian nationality and
French parentage.  Spent most of my life farming in Canada, hence my
foreign intonation in speaking your language."

The Commissary was fingering Devinne's note, the seal of which he had
broken.  He read and re-read it two or three times over, gave the
Canadian farmer a searching glance, then said:

"And you have come to give me certain information relating to Citizen
Chauvelin, member of the Committee of Public Safety?"

"Yes!"

"What is it?"

"As I have had the honour to inform you in my note, Citizen Chauvelin
and a squad of Republican Guard are prisoners since yesterday
afternoon."

"Where?"

"In the Chteau de la Rodire.  Citizen Chauvelin and a sergeant of the
Guard in the cellar, the men in the stables."

"But who dared to arrest Citizen Chauvelin?" the Commissary queried,
almost beside himself with horror at this amazing statement.

"He was not arrested, citizen.  He was just thrust into the cellar with
the sergeant and locked in."

"But by whom?" the other insisted.

"By the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"The devil!" cried the Commissary, and gave a mighty jump, causing
every article on his desk to rattle.

"No, citizen, not the devil, the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"One and the same."

"Not exactly.  We do not believe in the devil in this free and
enlightened country, but the Scarlet Pimpernel really does exist.  He
is just a spy in the pay of the English Government, and has set himself
the task of aiding the enemies of the Republic to escape from justice.
It was in order thus to aid the _aristos_ up at La Rodire that he and
his followers, among whom must be reckoned that abominable traitor
Docteur Pradel, plied the soldiers with drugged wine, and when they
were helpless locked them up in the stables, then proceeded to kidnap
Citizen Chauvelin."

The Chief Commissary appeared almost ludicrous in the excess of his
stupefaction; he puffed and he snorted like an old seal, took out his
handkerchief and mopped his perspiring brow.

"And do you mean to tell me," he gasped, "that all this is true?"

"As I live, citizen."

"And ... and ... the citizen doctor...?  You mentioned him just now.
Surely----"

"I called Pradel an abominable traitor," Devinne asserted firmly, "for
I know him to be a follower of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"But how do you know all that, Citizen ... er ... Collin?  What proof
have you----?"

"I will tell you, Citizen Commissary," Devinne replied, but got no
further, because the clerk came in at the moment and announced that
Citizen Maurin had just come into the building and desired to speak
with the Chief Commissary.  The latter gave a great sigh of relief.
Lawyer Maurin was a man of resource.  His advice in this terrible
emergency would be invaluable.  The harassed Commissary gave orders
that Citizen Maurin be admitted at once, and no sooner had the lawyer
entered the room and the door been closed behind him than he was put
_au fait_ of the appalling event.  The whole story was retold by the
Canadian farmer at command of the Commissary--the soldiers of the Guard
drugged and locked up in the stables, a member of the Committee of
Public Safety kidnapped and held in durance in the cellar, and finally
the escape from justice of the _ci-devant_ La Rodires when the order
of their arrest had already been signed, and all through the agency of
that limb of Satan, the English spy, the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel,
and his followers, including that abominable traitor, Docteur Pradel.

It was Maurin's turn to give a jump.

"Pradel?"  He then added more soberly: "What makes you think that the
citizen doctor is a member of the English gang of spies?"

"The simple fact," Devinne replied, "that he, too, has fled from
justice, which he knew was about to overtake him and punish him for his
crime."

"What do you mean?"

"Only this.  All that I have told you I learned through listening to
the talk of a group of vagabonds in the cabaret of the _Chien sans
Queue_ on the Corbeil road.  They were the musicians who had scraped
their catgut and blown their trumpets all afternoon up at La Rodire.
I was one of the crowd who had gone up there to see the fun, and then
adjourned to the _Chien sans Queue_ for a mug of ale.  The vagrants
were talking in whispers.  I caught a word or two.  To my astonishment
those ragamuffins were speaking English, which I, as a Canadian, know
well.  I edged closer to them and heard every word they said.  That is
how I know everything and how I knew all about their plans.  And," he
concluded, with slow emphasis, measuring every word, "they spoke of
Pradel as being a member of their gang and of their resolve to take him
along with the La Rodires to England."

After Devinne had finished speaking there fell a stillness over this
banal office, in the centre of which, round the desk littered with
papers and paraphernalia, three men sat pondering over what would
follow the amazing events of the previous night.  The Chief Commissary
perspired more freely than ever and kept on muttering in tones almost
of despair:

"What are we going to do?  _Nom d'un nom_, what are we going to do?"

Maurin said nothing.  He was thinking.  Thinking very deeply indeed,
and at the same time trying to keep a mask of indifference over his
face, so as not to allow that fool of a Commissary to guess that he
felt neither doubt nor bewilderment at this turn of events, but only
satisfaction.  Pradel, his enemy, was disarmed.  No longer could he be
a rival in the affections of Blanche Levet.  Neither as an _emigr_
flying to England to save his skin, nor standing at the bar of the Hall
of Justice under an accusation of treasonable association with a gang
of English spies, could he ever hope to capture the glamour which had
dazzled an unsophisticated young girl.  And when the Commissary
reiterated his complaint for the third time: "_Nom d'un nom_, what am I
to do?" the lawyer responded dryly:

"It is too late to do anything now.  That wily Scarlet Pimpernel with
his drove of traitors and _aristos_ will be half-way to the coast by
now."

"Not so bad as that, citizen lawyer," Devinne put in.  "They will have
to make a forced halt at Le Perrey for relays.  Of course, they will
drive like Satan himself as far as there, but the coach with its heavy
load will be slow of progress."

A ray of hope glistened in the eyes of the Commissary at this
suggestion.

"You are certain about Le Perrey?" he asked.

"Quite certain.  I heard the gang discuss the question of relays and
the enforced halt there.  At any rate, it might be worth your while,
Citizen Commissary," he went on in an insinuating manner, "to send a
squad of mounted men in pursuit.  They could get fresh horses at Le
Perrey and ride like the wind.  They are bound to come up with the
lumbering coach."

"Do you know which route they mean to take beyond Le Perrey?"

"Yes, I do.  They will make straight for Dreux, Pont Audemer and
Trouville.  The Scarlet Pimpernel has established headquarters all
along that route and it is the nearest way from here to the coast."

The Commissary brought his fist down with a crash upon the desk.

"_Pardieu!_" he said lustily.  "Citizen Collin is right.  There is time
and to spare to be at the heels of those cursed spies.  What say you,
citizen lawyer?"

But the citizen lawyer really didn't care one way or the other.
Whether Pradel was caught in the company of English spies, or was still
in Choisy, when of a surety he would be arrested for treason on the
evidence of this Canadian farmer, mattered nothing to Louis Maurin, the
prospective husband of Blanche Levet.  He gave a shrug of indifference
and said casually: "You must do as you think best, Citizen Commissary."

The latter by way of an answer tinkled his hand-bell furiously.  The
clerk entered, looking scared.

"Send Citizen Captain Cabel to me at once," the Commissary commanded.
He was feeling decidedly better.  Much relieved.  He mopped his still
streaming forehead, picked up a pen and started tap-tapping it against
the top of the desk.  And while he did so a look of absolute beatitude
crept slowly all over his face.  He had just remembered that a reward
of five hundred louis was offered by the government for the capture of
the Scarlet Pimpernel.

To Captain Cabel, who entered the office a few minutes later he gave
quick orders:

"A gang of English spies, probably in disguise, and escorting a coach
in which are the _aristos_ from La Rodire, are speeding towards the
coast by way of Le Perrey, Dreux and Pont Audemer.  They will probably
make for Trouville.  Take a mounted squad of sixteen picked men and
ride like hell in pursuit.  The leader of the gang is the famous
Scarlet Pimpernel.  There is a reward of five hundred louis for his
apprehension.  Fifty louis will be for you if you get him, and another
twenty to be distributed among the men.  Lose no time, citizen captain;
your promotion and your whole future depend on your success."

Captain Cabel, dumb with emotion, gave the salute, and turning on his
heel, marched out of the room.  There was no mistaking the expression
of his face as he did so.  If it was humanly possible to accomplish
such a thing, he would bring that audacious Scarlet Pimpernel back to
Choisy in chains.  The Commissary rubbed his hands together with glee.
He had never done a better morning's work in all his life.  Five
hundred, or what would be left of it after he had shared it with the
captain and the men, was a fortune in these days of penury.  Yes, Chief
Commissary Lacaune had reason to be elated.  He rose and with an
inviting gesture begged his distinguished visitors to join him in a
_vin d'honneur_ at the Caf Tison.

Maurin accepted with pleasure.  He liked to be on friendly terms with
the Commissary, who was the most important personage in the Commune.
But Devinne asked politely to be excused.  He was heartily sick of all
these people, the like of whom in his own country he would not have
touched with a barge pole.  He longed to be back in England, where
rabble such as ruled France to-day would be sent to gaol for venality
and corruption.  He took his leave with as polite a bow as he could
force himself to make.  The Commissary tinkled his bell, the clerk
re-entered and ushered Citizen Collin out of the place.

Maurin gazed thoughtfully on the door that had closed behind the pseudo
Canadian farmer.

"A strange person that," he remarked to his friend Lacaune.  "Do you
suppose he spoke the truth?"

The Commissary gave a gasp.  He did not relish this sudden onslaught on
his newly risen hopes.

"I'll soon ascertain," he replied tartly, "for I'll send up to La
Rodire to liberate Citizen Chauvelin and the men from durance.  If
they are not there, it will give the lie to our Canadian; in which
case----" he went on, and completed the sentence by drawing the edge of
his hand across his throat.

"And, anyway, I am having him watched.  You may be sure of that, my
friend."  After which he gave a short laugh and added lightly:

"But I am more than hopeful that my men will find the distinguished
member of the Committee of Public Safety locked up in the cellar of the
chteau, as our friend the Canadian has truly informed us."

With that the worthy Commissary took his friend the lawyer by the arm
and together the two compeers adjourned for a _vin d'honneur_ at the
Caf Tison.




BOOK V

THE CHIEF




CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

_The Dream_

To Ccile de la Rodire that January day and night always seemed to her
afterwards more like a dream than a reality.  She certainly lived
through those twenty-four hours more intensely than she had ever lived
before.  It seemed as if everything that the world could hold of
emotion and excitement all came to her during that short space of time.

There was that awful rioting to begin with, the invasion of her stately
home by that turbulent mob who shouted and sang and danced, and mocked
and baited her in a manner that for years to come would always bring a
rush of blood to her cheeks.  And then the amazing, appalling and
mysterious figure of that fiddler, who had suddenly grown in stature,
and become a sort of giant, endowed with superhuman strength.  She
could see him at any time just by closing her eyes, stretching out his
immense arms and picking up that small, sable-clad man as if he were a
bale of goods, throwing him over his shoulder and carrying him away
through the hall and down the grand staircase, followed by the yelling
and cheering crowd.  Ccile could see it all as a vision.  Never would
she forget it.  She had by that time been worked up to such a pitch of
excitement that the whole world appeared as if it tottered round her,
and that at any moment she and all that awful rabble would be engulfed
in the debris of the chteau.

After that intensely vivid picture, what followed was more dim and
equally unreal.  She remembered seeing poor Franois, who was nothing
but a wreck of his former proud self, dragging himself out of the room
and desiring her to come with him.  But this she did not do.  She
remained in the great hall where a strange silence reigned after the
din and hurly-burly of a while ago.  The shades of evening were drawing
in, and she was alone with Simon Pradel.  He talked to her at great
length in a quiet measured voice, and she listened.  He told her of the
danger in which she stood, she and all those she cared for.  Strangely
enough it never entered her head to doubt him.  He said so, therefore
it must be true.  He then pointed out to her the way, the one and only
way by which she could save _maman_ and Franois and faithful old Paul
and Marie from that awful, awful guillotine.  Again she listened, and
never doubted him for an instant.  There was to be a mock marriage.
She would have to bear his name, and nothing more, until such time as
France and the people of France were granted a return to sanity.  She
and _maman_ and Franois, and the two old servants, would have to live
under his roof and accept his hospitality, for his name and his house
would be a protection for them all against danger of death.

After that he went away and she was left alone to ponder over these
matters.  Since then so many more things had happened that she had no
time to analyse her feelings.  But now she was alone, and she could
think things over, all those things that seemed so like a dream.  One
thing was certain.  After Pradel had left her, she did not feel
altogether unhappy.  Very excited, yes, but not unhappy.  She had gone
back to _maman_ and Franois.  _Maman_ was quite placid, doing her
usual crochet-work, not the least bit interested in hearing what had
happened during those two hours of nightmare when what she termed the
lowest dregs of humanity had polluted the old chteau with their
presence.  Franois, tired out with emotion which he had been forced to
suppress for so long, sat by sulky and taciturn, obviously pondering on
what he could do to have his revenge.

All was quiet in the chteau then.  After a time Paul and Marie
gathered their old wits together and prepared and served supper for the
family.  It was taken almost in silence, all three of them being
absorbed in thoughts they could not share one with the other.  At nine
o'clock they all assembled for prayers in the small boudoir, and at
half-past nine came bedtime, and Paul was on the point of going
downstairs to put out lights and bolt the front door, when the sound of
heavy footsteps coming up the grand staircase caused terror to descend
once again like a thundercloud upon these five unfortunates.  Franois
cursed under his breath as was his wont.  Madame la Marquise raised
aristocratic eyebrows, and, with a sigh of resignation, resumed her
crochet-work.  Marie shrank into a remote corner of the room, while
Ccile strained her ears to listen to those footsteps which had halted
on the threshold of the grand _salon_ for a moment, only to resume
their march in the direction of the concealed door of the boudoir.

What did it all mean?  Pradel had, of course, warned her of danger, but
had also declared that danger was not imminent.  He was to call for her
to-morrow morning at ten o'clock and go with her to the _mairie_ where,
if she consented, the formalities connected with the new form of civil
marriage would immediately take place.  She, Ccile de la Rodire,
would after that become nominally Madame Simon Pradel, and _maman_ and
the others would be safe against such awful contingencies as those
ominous footsteps now foreshadowed.  Paul, with the instinct of the old
retainer, set to guard the welfare of his masters, slipped out into the
vestibule ready to face a whole crowd of miscreants, if they dared
interfere with them.  Before closing the door behind him he said to
Franois in a half-audible whisper:

"While I parley with them, Monsieur le Marquis, take the ladies down
the back staircase to the _sous-sol_.  I will say that Marie and I are
alone in the chteau, and that you all drove away an hour ago in the
direction of Corbeil."

Franois saw the force of this advice.  There were several good hiding
places in the vast area below the ground.  There was even an
underground passage which led to a dependency of the chteau, where the
laundry, the buttery and so on were situated.  At any rate the advice
was worth taking.

"Come, _maman_," he said curtly to his mother, and with scant ceremony
took crochet-needle and wool out of her hands, even while from the
grand _salon_ there rang out the harsh word of command:

"Open in the name of the Republic!"

"How did those devils know where we were," Franois muttered between
his teeth: "and how did they find the door behind the tapestry?"

There was no time, however, to speculate over that.  Suddenly there was
a terrific bang, a deal of cursing and swearing and an agonised cry of
protest from Paul.  The door had been broken open.  Madame la Marquise,
aided by her son and Ccile, was struggling to rise, but she was old
and heavy.  She got entangled in the wool and fell back in her chair
dragging Ccile down with her.

Paul now slipped back into the room, but remained standing with his
back to the door, holding it against the intruders.

"Quick, Madame la Marquise," he urged in a hoarse whisper, "the
staircase."

It was too late.  Franois wasted a few moments in fumbling in a drawer
for a pistol and seeing that it was loaded, and he had just got the
ladies as far as the opposite door, when Paul was violently thrown
forward and sent sprawling right across the room.  Four men pushed
their way in.  They wore shabby military uniforms and each carried a
pistol.  Franois levelled his, but one of the men who appeared to be
the sergeant in command said sharply in a tone of authority.

"Put that down or I give the order to fire."

By way of a retort Franois cocked his pistol.  It was promptly knocked
out of his hand, and he was left standing like an animal at bay,
glaring at the soldiers, the ladies and the old servants crowding round
him.  Even his facility for cursing and swearing had deserted him.
Madame la Marquise was speechless and dignified.  She would not allow
that rabble to think that she was afraid.  Paul and Marie took refuge
in murmuring their prayers.  Ccile alone kept a level head.

When the sergeant rapped out the order:

"Arrest these people in the name of the Republic," and all four men
stepped forward, each to put a hand on her and those she cared for, she
said, with as much pride as she could call to her aid:

"I pray you not to put hands on us.  We will follow you quietly."  And
seeing that the sergeant then gave a sign to his men to step back
again, she added:

"I hope you will allow Madame la Marquise and myself, also our maid, to
put a few things together which we may need."

"I regret citizeness," the sergeant replied firmly, but not unkindly;
"time is short and my orders are strict.  I have a coach waiting
outside to convey you to Choisy without a moment's delay.  Your
requirements will be attended to to-morrow."

"But my man..." Madame la Marquise protested.  They were the first
words she had uttered since this unwarrantable incursion by these
insolent plebeians into her privacy, but she did not get any farther
with what she would have liked to say.  She had a great deal of
dignity, had this foolish old lady, and a goodly measure of sound
French common sense.  The fact that the sergeant stood by like a wooden
dummy, obviously just a slave to his duty, with no feeling or humanity
in him, helped her to realise that neither resistance, nor hauteur nor
abuse, would be of the slightest use.  The insolent plebeians stood now
for Fate, inexorable Fate, and the decree of _le bon Dieu_ who had
chosen to inflict this calamity on her and her children, and against
whose commandments there was no appeal.

Ccile did not speak again either.  She picked up a shawl and wrapped
it round her mother.  She looked a pathetic little figure in her thin
silk dress.  The small room was warm with a wood fire burning in the
grate, but it looked as if she would have to go and face a long drive
with no protection against the cold save her lace fichu.  She heard the
sergeant say curtly:

"There are shawls and wraps in plenty downstairs, citizeness."

That seemed a strange thing for a revolutionary soldier to say, for
they had not the reputation of being considerate to state prisoners.
Ccile glanced up at the sergeant, her lips framing a word or two of
gratitude, but he stood back in the shadow and she could not see his
face.

Franois had remained silent all this time, with still that look of a
baffled tiger in his eyes.  His teeth were tightly clenched, so were
his fists.  Ccile was thankful that he did not make matters worse by
indulging in violent curses or loud abuse.  At one moment he made a
movement and raised his fist as if he meant to strike that insolent
sergeant in the face first and then make a dash for freedom, but
immediately four arms were raised and four pistols were levelled at
him.  Madame la Marquise said dryly: "No use, my son.  You would,
anyhow, have to leave me behind."

Each of the soldiers now took a prisoner by the arm.  The sergeant
leading the way with Madame la Marquise and poor old Marie left to
follow on alone.  The small procession then marched out of the room in
close formation.  They traversed the wide _salon_ and descended the
grand staircase.  Staircase and hall were only dimly lighted by one
oil-lamp placed in a convenient spot on a consol table.  Ccile was
walking immediately behind her mother.  In the dim light she could
vaguely see the tall sergeant walking in front of her.  She could see
his broad shoulders, one arm and the hand which held a pistol; the rest
of him was in shadow.

Down in the hall, on the centre table--a masterpiece of Italian art
left untouched after two raids by riotous mobs, because of its size and
weight--there was a pile of rugs and coats and shawls.  Madame la
Marquise and Franois took it as a matter of course that these things
should have been provided for their comfort by the same men, police or
military, who had chosen this late evening hour for the arrest of three
women and two men against whom no accusation of treason had yet been
formulated.  Marie fussed round her old mistress with shawl and mantle,
and Paul round his young master with a thick coat.  Ccile saw the
sergeant pick up a cloak and hood.  He came behind her and put it round
her shoulders.  She looked up at him while he did this and met his
eyes, kind, deep-set eyes they were, with heavy lids, and in their
depths a gentle look of humour which for some unaccountable reason gave
her a feeling of confidence.

But there was no time now to ponder over things, however strange they
might appear.  Within a very few moments all five of them, _maman_,
Franois, the two servants and Ccile herself were bundled out of the
front door and into a coach which was waiting at the bottom of the
perron.  A man, dressed like the others in military uniform, stood at
the horses' heads.  He stepped aside when all the prisoners were
installed in the coach.  Looking through the carriage window Ccile saw
the sergeant talking for a moment to one of the men; he then climbed up
to the box-seat and took the reins.  It was very dark, and the carriage
lanterns had not been lighted.  One of the men led the horses all the
way down the avenue and through the main gate.  The others had
evidently climbed up to the roof, for there was much heavy tramping
overhead.

Surely all that had been a dream.  It couldn't all have happened, not
just like that and not in the space of a few hours.  And the dream did
not stop there.  There were more happenings all through the night and
the next day, all of which partook of the character of a dream.
Outside the main gate of La Rodire the coach did not turn in the
direction of Choisy, but to the right.  It went on for a little while
and then drew up.  Someone lighted the carriage lanterns, and after
that the horses went on at a trot.  Ccile, whenever she looked out of
the window, saw the snow-carpeted road gliding swiftly past.  The moon
had come out again and the road glistened like a narrow sheet of white
crystals.




CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

_Stratagem_

Ccile was wide awake for a long time.  Her mother was asleep in the
farther corner of the carriage, so was Franois, who sat between them,
leaning against the back cushions.  Paul and Marie had spent some time
murmuring their prayers until they, too, fell asleep.  She herself must
have dozed off at one time, for presently she was roused with a jerk
when the coach wheels went rattling over cobblestones.  This must be
St. Gif, she thought, for she could see houses and shuttered shops on
either side and an occasional street lamp.  At one time there was a
peremptory call of "Halt!" followed by some parleying between the
sergeant-driver and what was probably a police patrol.  Ccile caught
the words "citizen" and "papers" and "only my duty, citizen sergeant."
And presently the call:

"Right.  Pass on."

And the wearying drive went on along the jolting road.  Progress was
slow, because the ground was slippery for the horses, and the night
intermittently very dark when heavy snow-laden clouds, driven by the
north-easterly wind, obscured the pale face of the moon.  The coach
went lumbering on for hours and hours, an eternity, so it seemed to the
unfortunate inmates, until presently the first streak of a cold grey
dawn came creeping in through the carriage windows.  After which the
pace became less slow.  The ground was, of course, as slippery as
before, but there was obviously a very firm hand on the reins, and
nothing untoward occurred to interrupt progress.

It was not yet daylight when once again the carriage wheels rattled
over a cobbled street.  There were gleams of light to be seen through
shuttered windows on either side, and here and there a passer-by: men
in blouses, women with shawls over their heads.  Le Perrey in all
probability, thought Ccile.  The others were still asleep.  Poor
_maman_, she must be terribly stiff and tired, and Franois looked more
dead than alive.  Paul and Marie were muttering even in their sleep,
words that were either prayers to God or protests against the cruel
fate that befell their master and mistress.  Ccile had no idea whither
they were being driven, or whether this flight through the night would
end in safety or disaster.  Fortunately _maman_ was obviously not
thinking on the matter at all, whilst Franois effectually hid his own
doubts and fears behind a mask of sullen indifference.

Le Perrey was soon left behind, and after a time the coach was again
pulled up, this time in open country.  There was a good deal of
scrambling overhead, and a minute or two later the carriage door was
opened and a pleasant cultured voice said:

"I am afraid there is a piece of rough ground to walk over.  Can you do
it, mademoiselle?"

This, of course, was still part of the dream.  Ccile heard herself
replying: "Yes, I can," and then adding tentatively: "But _maman_----"

And the pleasant voice responded: "I will carry Madame la Marquise if
she will allow me.  Will you and Monsieur le Marquis descend,
mademoiselle?"

Whereupon Ccile obeyed without demur.  It seemed quite natural that
she should.  Franois appeared too dazed to raise his voice.  He got
down, and was followed by Paul and Marie, still mumbling prayers to _le
bon Dieu_.  Madame la Marquise did not apparently care what happened to
her.  She allowed herself to be lifted out of the coach without protest
and Ccile heard that same pleasant voice saying in English:

"Cloaks and rugs, Tony, for the ladies, and, Hastings and Glynde, take
the coach a couple of kilometres down that other road.  Take out the
horses and bring them along with you to headquarters."

She understood what was said, though not quite all.  A man put a shawl
round her shoulders, over her cloak, whilst another busied himself by
wrapping a rug round _maman_, who was lying snugly in the arms of the
tall sergeant.  After which the little procession was formed, the
sergeant on ahead carrying _maman_, who was no light weight.  Franois
came next with Paul and Marie, and finally she, Ccile, walked between
two soldiers, one of whom had her by the elbow to guide her over the
rough ground, while the other, after a minute or two, performed the
same kindly office to poor old Marie.

And walking thus, in the rear of the little procession, the girl all at
once understood what was happening.  These soldiers had nothing to do
with the Gendarmerie Nationale, the uniform of which they only wore as
a disguise.  They were friends who were helping them all to escape from
death, the same friends who had saved the Abb Edgeworth from that
awful, awful guillotine.  And the sergeant on ahead was none other than
the fiddler who had carried that small sable-clad form of a man on his
shoulder as if he were a bale of goods, and was carrying _maman_ now as
if she were a child.  She gazed almost awestruck on the silhouette of
that broad back ahead of her, for, if her conjectures were correct,
then that pseudo-fiddler or pseudo-sergeant was none other than the
legendary Scarlet Pimpernel himself.

After which surmises and reflections Ccile de la Rodire was entirely
unconscious of the roughness of the road, of cold or hunger.  She
became like a sleep-walker, moving without consciousness.  Presently a
solid mass loomed out of the frosty mist.  It was a house with trees
clustered round it.  Its aspect, as it gradually was revealed to her,
appeared familiar to Ccile, but her brain was too tired to ponder over
this.  The place looked deserted, the house in a state of dilapidation.
It had evidently been suddenly abandoned and left to the mercy of rust
and decay.  The time-worn faade and crumbling stonework told the usual
pitiable tale of summary arrest and its awful corollary.

The way up to the front door was along a short drive, bordered by
Lombardy poplars.  There was a low perron of three or four steps.  To
Ccile's intense astonishment she presently perceived that the place
was not deserted, as she thought, for two men were standing on the
perron.  At sight of the approaching party they came down the steps,
and called out in English: "All well?" to which her own escort replied
lustily: "Splendid!"  They stood aside while the pseudo-sergeant
carried Madame la Marquise into the house.  The others, including
herself, followed him.  He crossed a narrow vestibule and went into
what might have been a small _salon_ at one time, but now presented a
shocking spectacle of wreckage: windows broken, doors off their hinges,
panelling stripped from the walls.  There was no furniture in the room
except a few chairs, a horsehair sofa and a kitchen table.  The only
cheerful thing about the place, and that was very cheerful indeed, was
a log fire in the open hearth.  In spite of the broken window the room
was deliciously warm.

The sergeant deposited _maman_ on the sofa, asked her in perfect French
how she felt, and on receiving a grateful smile in response, he turned
to Ccile.

"And now, mademoiselle," he said, "we will get you some hot wine, after
which you can all have a short rest.  But I am afraid we must make a
fresh start within the hour, and I shall have to ask you and Madame la
Marquise, as well as Monsieur le Marquis, to don the country clothes
which you will find in the chest in the next room, together with all
requirements to make yourselves look as like as possible to a company
of worthy yokels and bumpkins on their way to the nearest market town.
One of us will, with your permission, put the finishing touches on your
disguise."

And the next moment he was gone, leaving behind him an atmosphere of
cheerfulness and of security.  Even Franois reacted to that.  The
ladies trooped into the next room, burning with curiosity to see the
dresses which they were ordered to wear.  _Maman_ said quite seriously:
"I think God has sent one of His angels to protect us."  Marie murmured
a fervent: "Amen!"

But Ccile didn't speak.  She was under the spell of the marvellous
discovery she had made, namely, that _maman_, she and Francis, and all
of them, in fact, had been rescued from death by that marvel of God's
creation, the Scarlet Pimpernel.




CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

_The Bald Pate of Chance_

How surprised they would all have been could they have seen through the
dilapidated walls of this ramshackle abode their rescuers sitting on
the table in what was presumably the kitchen.  They were sipping hot
wine and talking over their impressions of this last glorious
adventure.  Their noses and hands were blue with the cold, and they
were all going through the process of getting shaved.  One of them had
served the fugitives with the hot wine, and presently they were joined
by Glynde and Hastings.

"Where did you leave the coach?" the chief asked them as soon as they
appeared.

"Do you know Moulins?" Glynde responded.

"Quite well."

"Just the other side of it.  Past the church.  We rode back, of course,
and Hastings was nearly thrown when his horse slipped on a sheet of
ice."

"No other accident?"

"No."

"Good.  Now, any news here?"  He turned to my Lord Galveston.

"Yes.  Rather strange.  When Holte and I got here about an hour ago, we
saw to our surprise smoke coming put of one of the chimneys.  To make a
long story short, we found that a vagabond had quartered himself in the
place.  We couldn't very well turn him out, and we felt that he was
less dangerous here than at large.  So we let him stay where he was."

"And where is he now?"

"In the room next to this with a fire, a chair and a bottle of wine."

"Let's have a look at him."

Blakeney and Galveston went into the room to have a look at the
intruder.  He was just a miserable wreck of humanity, of the type
found, alas! all too frequently on the high roads these days.  There
were a few dying embers in the hearth and three empty bottles on the
floor beside it.

"The miserable muckworm," my Lord Galveston muttered and swore lustily;
"he has ferreted out our stores and stolen two bottles of our best."

The "miserable muckworm", however, was impervious to his lordship's
curses.  He was squatting on the floor, his head resting precariously
on the hard seat of the chair, fast asleep.

Galveston was for shaking the fellow up and throwing him out of the
place.  But Blakeney took his friend by the arm and dragged him back
forcibly into the kitchen.

"You lay a hand on that gossoon at your peril," he said, with his
infectious laugh.  "Do you know what he really is?"

"No, I do not."

"He is the one hair on the bald pate of Chance which you and Holte have
enabled me to seize."

"I don't understand."

"No, but you will by and by.  Is there a key to that door?"

"Yes, on the inside."

"Get it, my dear fellow, will you?  Then lock the door and give me the
key."

"Everything all right here?" he asked, turning to Holte (Viscount Holte
of Frogham, familiarly known as "Froggie").

"I think everything."

"Horses?"

"With the two out of the coach we have six.  Those here are quite
fresh."

"And vehicles?"

"Two light carts.  Covered."

"Good.  Tony, you must take charge.  You and Hastings on one cart.
Glynde and Galveston on the other.  I want Froggie to remain here with
four horses which we shall want later.  You fellows must drive by way
of Dreux to that little village we all know they call Trouville.  Avoid
the main road and you will find the side tracks quite safe.  Tony has
all the necessary papers.  I bought them of a poor caitiff in Choisy
who works in the commissariat, and, as a matter of fact, the country on
this side of the Loire is not yet infested by that murdering
Gendarmerie Nationale.  When you get to Trouville make straight for the
Cabaret Le Paradis, a filthy hole, but the landlord is my friend to the
death.  He is noted in the district as a rabid revolutionary, but, as a
matter of fact, he battens on me and is exceedingly rich.  He is grimy
and stinks of garlic like the devil, but he'll look after you till I
come, which won't be long.  Of course, there are risks.  You all know
them and are prepared to face them.  Bless you all."

There was silence amongst them after that for a moment or two.  Four of
them there had one name on their lips which they were loth to
utter--Devinne.  But Jimmy Holte and Tom Galveston, knowing nothing of
the young's traitor's mutiny, asked where he was.

"Back in Choisy," the chief replied simply.

There were one or two more details of the expedition to discuss.  The
present military uniforms must be discarded and simple country clothes
donned.

"I have already told the ladies about that," Blakeney explained, "and I
imagine you will find the whole party quite excited to play their role
of country bumpkins.  Froggie, who is such a dandy, will see that they
have not forgotten any important detail.  Madame la Marquise is quite
capable of playing the part of a labourer's wife with a dainty patch
under her left eye and her finger-nails carefully tended."

"But what are _you_ going to do, Percy?"

"Ffoulkes and I have a little piece of business to transact here.  He
doesn't know it yet--that is why he looks such an ass, ain't it,
Ffoulkes?  But he'll know presently.  As a matter of fact, we are going
back to Choisy to get hold of Pradel.  He must be in a tight corner by
now, poor fellow.  But that one hair on the bald pate of Chance is
going to work miracles for us.  I have all sorts of plans in my head
and Ffoulkes and I are going to have a rattling day, eh, Ffoulkes?"

"I am sure we are if you say so," Sir Andrew replied simply.

After which the party broke up on a note of gaiety and excitement.  The
refugees were found to have donned the required disguises.  Madame la
Marquise looked an old market woman to the life, Ccile was a very
presentable cinder-wench, and even Franois had taken pains to enter
into the spirit of the adventure and was as grimy and as unkempt as any
vagabond might be.  A few small details here and there suggested by my
Lord Holte and the transformation from _aristos_ to out-at-elbows
patriots was complete, which does not by any means tend to suggest that
elegance of mien is entirely a matter of clothes and cleanliness, but
that it goes very near it.

The start was made at nine o'clock.  Two covered carts had been got
ready and their drivers were waiting in the road.  Madame la Marquise
was again carried over the rough ground by the pseudo-sergeant, who to
her mind was more than ever a messenger from God.  The whole party was
bundled in the two carts, the drivers cracked their whips and away they
went.

The last picture that Ccile saw when she ventured to peep round the
hood of the cart remained engraved in her memory for the rest of her
life.  This was the tall figure of the pseudo-sergeant standing by the
roadside, his slender hand up to the salute, looking for all the world
like one of those representations of the heroes of old which she had
admired in the museums of Paris--tall, erect, a leader of men, the
mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.




CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

_The English Spy_

Long before midday the whole of Choisy was seething with excitement.
All sorts of rumours had been flying about for the past two hours and
now they had received confirmation, and the most amazing happenings
ever known even in these revolutionary times were freely discussed in
the open streets, in every home and more especially in the cafs and
restaurants of the commune.

It seems that no less a personage than Citizen Chauvelin, who, it
appears, was an influential member of the Committee of Public Safety,
had been discovered in the Chteau de la Rodire, locked up with a
sergeant of the Gendarmerie Nationale in the cellar, and that thirty
men of the same military corps were found to have been locked up in the
adjoining stables.  And the person who had single-handed perpetrated
this abominable outrage was none other than that legendary English spy,
that messenger of the devil known as the Scarlet Pimpernel.  And would
you believe it, he was the fiddler who with his band of musicians had
played the _rigaudon_ all the afternoon at the chteau!  Of course
everybody remembered how he had shouted: "A spy!  A spy!" and "We shall
all be massacred.  Remember Paris!" and how he had picked a little man
up as if he were a bale of goods and had carried him on his shoulder
down the stairs and locked him up in the cellar.  Well, that little man
was no spy at all, but a very important personage indeed, member of the
Committee of Public Safety, Citizen Chauvelin.  The men of the
Gendarmerie Nationale, when they were liberated from the stables, had
hardly recovered from a drugged sleep.  A large jorum of wine and a
number of empty mugs all containing the dregs of some potent drug were
scattered about the floor.  The men knew nothing of what had happened
to them.  They understood that Citizen Chauvelin, under whose orders
they were, had sent them some wine to keep them warm.  They were not
fully in their senses yet when presently they were marched back to
Choisy, there to give an account of how they came to have neglected
their duty in such a flagrant manner by drinking and falling asleep.

These remarkable events, however, were not by any means the only ones
that excited the population of Choisy almost to frenzy.  There was the
rumour, now amounting to a certainty, of what had happened to the
citizen Dr. Simon Pradel.  It appears that he had been out all night,
having been called to a serious maternity case in the late evening.  By
the time he was free it was past nine o'clock and he went straight to
the hospital situated about three kilometres outside Choisy in the
little village of Manderieu.  His regular time for attending there was
seven o'clock, so he went straight there without going home first.
But, mark what happened--and this was authentic--Docteur Pradel,
founder and chief supporter of this hospital for sick children, was
refused admission into the building.  The gates were held by armed
sentinels who crossed their bayonets in front of him.  On his demanding
an explanation an officer came across the forecourt and coolly informed
him that the government had taken over the hospital, that no doctor,
save those nominated by the National Convention, would be allowed to
practise there, and that if there were any reclamations to be made,
these must be addressed directly to them.

Of course, no one could say exactly what Citizen Pradel thought of this
insult to the dignity of his profession.  What was known, however, was
that he went straight back to Choisy and lodged a formal protest with
the Chief Commissary at the Town Hall against what he called this
outrageous action on the part of the government.  It was also known
that he was there and then put under arrest and conveyed under escort
back to Manderieu, there to remain in charge of the Commissary of the
Commune, until such time as it was decided what course should be taken
with regard to conduct that was nothing short of an insult directed
against the Republic.  As a matter of fact, those in the know asserted
with a wink that the Chief Commissary of the district desired to hand
over the responsibility of dealing with Citizen Pradel to his
subordinate at Manderieu.  The young doctor was so well known in Choisy
that there was no knowing what the populace, already in ebullition over
the incidents at La Rodire, might not do when it heard of the arrest
of their popular townsman.

But even this extraordinary event paled before what really and truly
was the most astonishing, the most marvellous, the most miraculous and
most unexpected of all.  The English spy, the mysterious and elusive
Scarlet Pimpernel, who for over two years had led the police of France
by the nose, who was the greatest and most dangerous enemy the Republic
had yet known, was captured, caught on his way to the coast.  Yes!
captured, laid by the heels, trussed and manacled, and was now under
lock and key in the dungeons of the old castle.  And there was a big
reward to come from the government for his apprehension.  Five hundred
louis to be divided between the Chief Commissary, who had ordered the
pursuit, Captain Cabel, who had effected the arrest, and the men who
had co-operated in it with unexampled valour.  What had actually
happened was this: Captain Cabel at the head of a squad of Gendarmerie
Nationale was in hot pursuit of the spy and the _aristos_ from La
Rodire who were fleeing from justice.  Half-way between St. Gif and Le
Perrey, they spied coming towards them, two horsemen who were riding
like the wind.  Captain Cabel, seized with suspicion, drew his men
across the road, and was on the point of crying "Halt", when the two
horsemen suddenly drew rein at a distance of not more than three
metres, throwing their horses on their haunches.  They, too, wore the
uniform of the Gendarmerie Nationale, and one of them had a man riding
on the pillion behind him.

"We've got him!" this man cried in a stentorian voice.

"Got whom?" the captain countered.

"The English spy! the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"Where is he?"

"On the pad of my saddle."

The captain raised himself on his stirrups and beheld a kind of
vagabond with head hanging down on his chest and blood streaming from
his forehead.  His legs were firmly secured together under the horse's
belly and his arms were tied with a rope round the soldier's waist.

"What?" he cried in amazement, "that beggarly tramp, the Scarlet
Pimpernel?"

"Beggarly tramp forsooth?  He and his gang fought like ten thousand
devils.  There were eight of us.  Six are now in hospital at Le Perrey
with battered heads and broken bones.  I downed him at last by giving
him a crack on the head with the butt end of my pistol.  When the
others saw him fall, they turned and fled taking their wounded with
them."

"Wasn't there a coach?"

"Yes.  Stuffed full of _aristos_.  We saw that first and ordered them
to halt, when we were suddenly attacked from the rear, and while we
fought for our lives, the coach was driven away.  But," the man
concluded with a shout of triumph, "we have got the leader of the gang,
and we are taking him to Choisy to get the reward.  Do not bar the way,
citizen captain."

He set spurs to his horse, but Cabel and his squad did not move.

"One moment," the captain commanded.  "Where do you come from?"

"From Dreux, of course," the other responded, and pointed to his
regimental number on his collar.  "And we are going to Choisy."

"By whose orders?" Cabel asked.

"The Citizen Commissary at Dreux."

"What orders did he give you?"

"To keep a sharp look out for a gang of English spies, disguised, of
course, who are known to be in the neighbourhood, and, if we find them,
to convey them under arrest to Choisy."

"And do you know who I am?"

"Yes!  The captain commanding the second division of the Gendarmerie
Nationale."

"Very well then, listen to my orders.  You will immediately transfer
your prisoner to the saddle of my sergeant here, and you and your
comrade can go back to Dreux and report."

For a moment it seemed as if the other would refuse to obey.  He and
his comrade even turned their horses as if ready to gallop back the way
they came, but at a word of command from the captain, the squad closed
in round them and no doubt they realised the futility of rebellion.
Within a very short time "the English spy" was transferred to the
sergeant's saddle.  The captain watched the operation with a grin of
satisfaction.  Here was luck indeed!  He recalled the words wherewith
the Chief Commissary had finally dismissed him: "Lose no time, citizen
captain, your promotion and your whole future depend on your success."

And here were promotion, reward, success, all within his grasp and
without striking a blow.  His name would ring throughout the length and
breadth of the land as the saviour of the Republic, the man who had
captured the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The squad was reformed, and soon the horses were put to a trot, leaving
those two others in apparent discomfort in the middle of the road.  Not
a head was turned to see or an ear strained to hear what they said.  If
it had, a strange sound would have come wafted over the frosty air, a
prolonged and ringing laugh, and a resonant voice calling gaily in a
language not often heard in these parts:

"That's done it, eh, Ffoulkes?  Gad!  I never spent such a pleasant
half-hour in my life.  Now, hell for leather, dear lad.  I know a short
cut across those fields, which will save us at least four miles."

But Captain Cabel and the men of his squad heard nothing of that
ringing laughter and resonant voice.  They were trotting merrily along
the hard road back to Choisy, bearing in triumph, on the pillion of the
sergeant's saddle, the unconscious form of a beggarly vagabond who was
none other than the daring English spy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.




CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

_An Unwelcome Guest_

To say that the news of the arrest of Docteur Pradel caused agitation
in Choisy would be to understate the true facts.  The whole commune had
been seething with excitement all day, and by the time the street lamps
were lighted and the munition workers had trooped out of the factories,
excitement had turned to frenzy.  A frenzy fostered partly by
indignation but mostly by fear.  If the citizen doctor, as good a young
man as anyone could wish to see, as straight, as loyal, as generous,
could without any warning see the bread taken out of his mouth, could
be cast into prison without as much as an accusation being brought
against him, could _nom d'un nom_ be brought to trial and perhaps to
death, then what chance had any respectable citizen, father of a family
perhaps, of escaping out of the clutches of such a relentless
government?  Guillotine to the right of them, guillotine to the left,
guillotine and threat of guillotine all the time.  Life would soon not
be worth an hour's purchase.  As for liberty, was there such a thing as
liberty these days?  Liberty to starve, yes, to send your sons to be
slaughtered in wars against the foreigners, but slavery in everything
else, and one trembled more fearfully these days before the Chief
Commissary or the Committee of Public Safety, than one did in the past
before those arrogant _aristos_.

Of course, none of these mutterings and grumblings reached the ears of
the powers that be.  They were all done in a whisper, for one never
knew where government spies plied their dirty trade, nor in what
disguise, witness the citizen doctor who was obviously a victim to one
of that _canaille_.  So everything that was said was said in a whisper,
whilst furtive glances of contempt were cast on the inscriptions that
decorated the portals of every public building: _Libert, Fraternit,
galit_.

Liberty, I ask you!

As usual the Restaurant and Caf Tison were the chief centre of
grumblings and discontent.  Pradel! the doctor! the man who looked
after one when one was ill and after the children!  What was going to
happen to the children when Pradel was no longer there?  Oh! if one
only dared!...

But one didn't dare, that was the trouble.  All one could do was to
troop down to Manderieu and there learn for certain what was happening
to Pradel.  It was evening now, nearly six o'clock.  But no matter.  It
was dark, but everyone knew the road to Manderieu.  And so the company
trooped out in a body from the Restaurant Tison.  As they all emerged
out into the Grand' Place, they called to their friends, and to casual
passers-by to join them.  "Art coming, Jean?  And thou, Pierre?"

"Whither are you going?"

"To Manderieu.  The hospital is closed."

"I know."

"And Docteur Pradel a prisoner in the commissariat."

"I know, but what can we do?"

"Let's go and see, anyway."

The three kilometres to Manderieu were soon got over.  The little
village, usually so tranquil, had also caught the excitement which was
raging in the town.  In the market-place where stood the hospital and
the Commissariat of Police, a small knot of country folk had assembled,
some by the gates of the hospital, where sentinels stood on the watch,
and others in front of the Commissariat.  It was a silent crowd.  Only
now and again was a voice raised to murmur or to curse.  The place was
only dimly lighted by a couple of oil-lamps at the hospital gates and
one over the portal of the Commissariat.  The crowd from Choisy joined
in now with the villagers of Manderieu.  After this fusion, silence was
broken more frequently, but the attitude of Pradel's sympathisers
remained subdued.  They were sorry enough for him, and they were
indignant, but they were also very much afraid.  None of them quite
knew what it was that had brought them out in a body to Manderieu,
except perhaps the desire to ascertain just what was happening to the
citizen doctor and to the children's hospital.  A man down in the
Restaurant Tison, they didn't know who he was, had urged them to it.
"After all," he had said, "things might not be so bad as they seem.
Docteur Pradel may not have been arrested and the hospital may not be
closed."  But the hospital was closed and the country folk of Manderieu
declared that the doctor was a prisoner in the Commissariat.

"Let us ask and make sure," someone in the crowd suggested to his
neighbour.  And, as is the way with crowds, the suggestion was taken
up.  It travelled from mouth to mouth until there were quite two
hundred malcontents who kept on reiterating: "Let us make sure," while
others just muttered: "Doc Pradel.  Doc Pradel.  Where is Doc Pradel?"

The Commissary was beginning to feel worried.  Manderieu was a quiet
little hole where such things as turbulent crowds and rioters were
unknown.  The holding of the popular doctor in durance pending further
instructions had been thrust upon him and he had been promised by his
superior that he would be relieved of responsibility by nightfall, when
the prisoner would be conveyed, under escort, back to Choisy.  But here
was six o'clock and Docteur Pradel was still the unwelcome guest of
Citizen Delorme, Commissary of Manderieu.  The latter in his distress
sent a mounted messenger over to Choisy with a hurriedly written note
to his chief, demanding that the prisoner be removed from the village
as quickly as possible.  But half an hour, at least, must elapse before
the return of the messenger, and in the meanwhile the crowd had
concentrated in front of the commissariat and was striking terror in
the heart of Citizen Delorme by its persistent parrot-cry of "Doc
Pradel!  Doc Pradel!  We want to see Doc Pradel!"  After a time the cry
was accompanied by boos and hisses and banging of fists and sabots
against the door of the Commissariat.

Delorme now was like Bluebeard's wife of the fairy tale.  He had posted
two of his gendarmes at the entrance of the village, at a point where a
narrow side street led to the back of the Commissariat, with orders to
intercept any messenger or escort from Choisy, take them round to the
back gate of the building, then fetch the prisoner from the lock-up and
hand him over to the escort for conveyance to the city.  And like
Bluebeard's wife, the unfortunate Commissary might have called in his
agony of mind: "Sister Anne, Sister Anne, is no one coming down the
road?"

His sergeant of the guard suggested his going to the door and talking
to the people.  Delorme demurred.  He did not relish facing the crowd.
There were a lot of loose stones lying about, one of them might be
hurled at his head.

"Sister Anne!  Sister Anne!"  He didn't use those words exactly, but
the sentiment that prompted the words he did use were the same as those
that caused Bluebeard's wife to call to her sister in the depths of her
terror and distress.  In the end he had to come to a decision.  Some
kind of risk had to be taken, flying stones or the certain
disapprobation of his superiors, if things went wrong with the prisoner
or the crowd got beyond control.  The thought of such disapprobation
gave the unfortunate Commissary an unpleasant feeling round the neck.

"Sister Anne!  Sister Anne! is no one coming down the road?"




CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

_Duped_

At about this same hour in the late afternoon of this cold January day,
Citizen Lacaune, Chief Commissary of Choisy, was going through a far
more lamentable experience than that which befell his subordinate at
Manderieu.  He had had two hours of absolute bliss when Captain Cabel
presented himself at the Town Hall with the marvellous, the miraculous,
the amazing news that he had really and truly succeeded in capturing
that damnable English spy, the Scarlet Pimpernel, and had brought him
into Choisy strapped to the pillion of the sergeant's saddle, wounded
and nearly dead, after a terrific fight wherein he, Cabel, and his
squad had displayed prodigies of valour.  The worthy Commissary nearly
had a fit of apoplexy when he heard this wonderful news.  He gave the
order that the notorious spy, safely bound and gagged, be brought into
his office and thrown down like a bale of refuse in a corner of the
room.  He gazed with awe not unmixed with astonishment at the helpless
form of what seemed at first sight to be that of a drunken vagabond.
Like Cabel himself, his first feeling was one of doubt that this
miserable wreck of humanity could be the daring adventurer whose name
was dreaded throughout the whole country and who had led the entire
police force of the Republic for three years by the nose.  It was only
after he had learned from the captain the whole story of the amazing
capture, the coach crammed full of escaping _aristos_, of the attack
and desperate fighting, that his doubts were finally set at rest.
Everyone knew, of course, that spies are the scum of the earth, and
English spies more ignoble than those of any other land.  He ordered
two of his gendarmes to stand guard over the prisoner, and then sent
word of the joyful news to Citizen Chauvelin, Member of the Committee
of Public Safety.  The latter was at the moment nursing his wrath and
humiliation in the house of Citizen Maurin, the lawyer, who had offered
him hospitality after his liberation from the cellar of La Rodire.

Chauvelin had not only suffered humiliation for close on
four-and-twenty hours, but also bodily pain, lying on damp straw in an
atmosphere of stale alcohol and decaying corpses of rats and mice.  He
had spent a few hours in bed, nursed devotedly by the lawyer, always on
the look-out for a chance to secure for himself influential friends.
The news of the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel was real balm for his
mental and bodily ills.

"I pray you, citizen, come at once," the Chief Commissary had written
in his hurried message.  "I am keeping the prisoner here under guard so
that you may have the satisfaction of seeing him yourself.  I must say
he is not attractive to look at, nor does he inspire one with awe.  A
big hulking fellow who looks like an unwashed mudlark.  I had no
thought that a reputable government would employ such _canaille_ even
as a spy."

A big hulking fellow who looks like an unwashed mudlark?  How well did
that description fit in with Chauvelin's recollections of the several
disguises so cleverly assumed by that prince of dandies, Sir Percy
Blakeney, Bart.  He could have laughed aloud, as that reckless Scarlet
Pimpernel was ever wont to do, when he remembered Mantes and Limours
and Levallois-Peret, the trial of Henri Chanel and Mariette Joly, the
coal-heaver, the drunken lout of the Cabaret de la Libert, the fiddler
at La Rodire and the countless other times when he had been baffled by
that past-master in the art of disguise.  A big hulking fellow who
looks like an unwashed mudlark may have raised doubts in the mind of
the Chief Commissary of Choisy, but not in his.  He sent word to
Citizen Lacaune that he would be round at the Town Hall within half an
hour, and while he rose and dressed himself, he forced his mind not to
dwell on the triumph which awaited him there, for he felt that if he
thought on it too much he would surely go mad with joy.

Then, of course, came the catastrophe.  As soon as Citizen Chauvelin
arrived at the Town Hall he was ushered with every mark of respect into
the office of the Chief Commissary.  It was a large room, lighted by an
oil-lamp which hung from the ceiling and a couple of wax candles on the
centre desk.  In a far corner, to which the light did not penetrate,
Chauvelin perceived the vague outline of a human form lying prone
behind two men in uniform with fixed bayonets.  His enemy!  A deep sigh
of contentment, of joy and of triumph escaped his breast.  The
excitement of the moment was almost more than he could bear.  His hands
were cold as ice and his temples throbbed with heat.  He tried to
appear calm, to show dignity and aloofness while receiving the
deferential greeting of the Chief Commissary, and a brief report of the
circumstances under which the amazing capture was effected.  Then at
last he felt free, free to gaze on the humiliation and the helplessness
of the man who had so often brought him to shame.  He picked up a
candle and walked with a firm step across the room.  The prisoner lay
on his side, his head turned to the wall.  He was bound round and round
his whole body with a rope.  Chauvelin stooped, holding the candle
high, and with his thin, claw-like hand turned the man's head towards
the light.

He gave one cry, like that of a man-eating tiger when robbed of its
prey, and the heavy candlestick fell with a loud clatter on the floor.
Then he turned like a fury on the Chief Commissary, who was standing by
his desk, rubbing his hands complacently together, a smile of beatitude
on his face.

"You oaf!" he cried out hoarsely.  "You fool!  You ... you....!"

Words failed him.  Lacaune's face was a picture of complete
bewilderment, until Citizen Chauvelin finally almost spat out the words
at him:

"This lout is not the Scarlet Pimpernel."

There followed a dead silence.  The Commissary felt that his senses
were reeling.  He trembled as if suddenly stricken with ague and sank
into a chair to save himself from falling.  The candle sent a stream of
wax on the carpet; Chauvelin stamped on it viciously with his foot.

"Not the Scarlet Pimpernel?" Lacaune contrived to murmur at last.

"Any idiot would have known that," the other retorted savagely.

"But ... but," the Commissary stuttered, "the captain----"

"I don't know what lies the captain told you, but they were deliberate
lies, and he and you and the whole pack of you will suffer for this
blunder."

With that he strode out of the room, thrusting aside the obsequious
clerk, whilst Citizen Lacaune, Chief Commissary of Choisy, remained
sunk in his chair in a state of collapse.

When presently the messenger from Manderieu was ushered into his
presence, he was not in a fit state to give instructions to anyone.
What he needed was first a tonic for his shattered nerves and then
guidance as to what in the world he was to do now to save his own neck.
The clerk who had introduced the messenger casually mentioned the name
of Pradel, whereupon the Chief Commissary contrived to pull himself
somewhat together.  Pradel!  Yes, something might be done with regard
to Pradel, now in durance at Manderieu, a man of distinction who was
both noted and popular.  If a charge of treason could be proved against
him, and he was brought to justice, the credit of it would be ascribed
to the zeal of the Chief Commissary, and it would effectively
counterbalance such accusations as Citizen Chauvelin would in his wrath
formulate against all those connected with this unfortunate affair.
The risk of rioting in the city, following an unpopular arrest,
appeared as nothing compared with this new terrible eventuality.

Lacaune remembered the talk he had earlier in the day with Louis
Maurin, the lawyer, and the Canadian farmer.  The latter had certainly
denounced Pradel as being in league with the Scarlet Pimpernel, and
Maurin had confirmed the charge.  With a little luck, then, all might
yet be well.  Chief Commissaries in outlying districts had before now
received important promotion through indicting notable personages in
their district and bringing them to justice.  Then why not he?  His
first move, then, was to send Delorme's messenger back to Manderieu
with written orders to send Docteur Pradel at once under escort to
Choisy; he then gave instructions to his clerk to seek out first
Citizen Maurin, the lawyer, and tell him that his presence at the Town
Hall was urgently required, and then the Canadian farmer named Collin,
who had sent in a request for a special travelling permit and would
probably be waiting at the Caf Tison till summoned to come and get
them.




CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

_Accusing Spectres_

It was close on midday before the rumour of the arrest of Docteur
Pradel reached the ears of St. John Devinne.  He had spent the morning
in planning and making active preparations for his journey first to
Paris and thence to England.  Although he, like every member of the
League, was well provided by his chief with papers requisite for
travelling across France, he, Devinne, had never done that journey by
himself, nor had he done it since France and England were actually in a
state of war, when difficulties that usually confronted travellers of
foreign nationality would be considerably increased.  Against that he
flattered himself that he had made friends with the Chief Commissary
and the staff at the Town Hall, and that he could apply there for
special permits and papers that would greatly facilitate his movements
across country, and this he did.  The clerk received him most affably,
took his petition in to the Chief Commissary and came back with the
reply from his chief that Citizen Collin's request would be complied
with as soon as the papers could be got ready.  But, as in all official
matters in France these days, the getting the papers ready took a
considerable amount of time.  Devinne had no fixed abode in Choisy.  He
did not feel that he could go again to the derelict cottage, so full of
memories, and was compelled in consequence to kill time as best he
could in one of the smaller cafs of the town.  And here it was that he
first heard the rumour of the closing of the hospital at Manderieu and
of the arrest of Docteur Pradel.

He heard it with unmixed satisfaction.  Blakeney's plans, then, had
been brought to naught.  Pradel was not being conveyed to England in
the company of Ccile de la Rodire and the almighty Scarlet Pimpernel
had failed in his purpose.  Failed lamentably, despite his arrogance
and belief in himself.  Devinne could have stood up on a table and
shouted for joy.  As to what would be the ultimate fate of that upstart
Pradel, he cared not one jot.  Anyway, he would be parted from Ccile
for ever.  Time after that did not seem to hang quite so heavily on the
young traitor's hands.  He went two or three times over to the Town
Hall to see about his papers, but he was still put off with vague
assurances that they were being got ready.  All in good time.

Then, in the early part of the evening, he heard the great news, the
wonderful, miraculous news which spread through the little city like
wildfire.  The English spy, the daring and mysterious Scarlet
Pimpernel, had been captured by Citizen Captain Cabel of the
Gendarmerie Nationale, captured and brought to Choisy, wounded and
bound with cords, and was even now in the Town Hall pending his
incarceration in the Old Castle.  It must be said with truth that
Devinne did not receive this news with the same satisfaction as he had
that of Pradel's arrest.  Something stirred within the depths of his
soul which he could not have defined.  He certainly could not have
shouted for joy.  It was not joy that he felt.  Not elation.  Not
triumph.  Was it the first stirring of remorse or of shame?  He, St.
John Devinne, Earl Welhaven, son and heir of the Duke of Rudford, the
greatest gentleman, the finest sportsman that ever sat a horse, had
done a deed of darkness which for infamy had not had a parallel for
close on two thousand years.  And as he sat there in this squalid caf,
he fell to wondering whether if, amongst that rag-tag and bobtail round
him, there was one man base enough to have done what he did.  He saw
before his eyes a vision of the friend he had betrayed, light-hearted,
debonair, the perfect type of an English gentleman, now lying bound
with cords at the mercy of a proletarian government that knew no
compunction.

So insistent was the vision and so harrowing, that he felt he could
bear it no longer.  He tried to visualise Ccile, the woman for whose
sake he had committed this vilest of crimes, but her picture evaded
him, and when his mind's eye caught sight of her fleeting image, she
was looking down on him with horror and contempt.  There rose in him
the desire to obliterate these phantasma, to saturate his brain with a
narcotic that would rid him of their obsession.  He ordered _eau de
vie_, and drank till he felt a warm glow coursing through his veins,
and his sight became so blurred that he could no longer see those
accusing spectres.  Soon he felt hilarious.  Avaunt ye ghosts! ye
vengeful apparitions with your flaming swords!  Come pride, come
triumph!  The arrogant schoolmaster, the tyrannical dictator has been
effectually downed.  Let us laugh and sing and dance, enjoy every
moment of life as this half-starved rabble was doing, pending the
inevitable day when that all-embracing guillotine would hold them in
her arms.

St. John Devinne was not quite sober, nor was he very drunk when a
couple of hours later he became aware of a certain agitation among the
customers of the caf.  Words which at first had no meaning for him
were bandied to and fro.  Men rose from the tables at which they had
been sitting and joined others, and remained with them in compact
groups talking in whispers, gesticulating: "Impossible!" or "Who told
thee?" together with plenty of cursing and mutterings.  Excitement
became more intense when Andr the street-cleaner came running in,
brandishing his broom and shouting: "It is true.  True.  The man they
have got is not the English spy."  And those last words: "not the
English spy," were taken up by others, until the low-raftered room
seemed to ring from corner to corner with them.  Devinne sat up and
pricked up his ears, demanded a glass of cold water and drank it down
at a gulp.  Yes! someone was just saying:

"Where didst hear all this, Andr?"

And the street-cleaner explained with volubility:

"I have it from the clerk of the Town Hall himself.  He was talking to
the citizen captain and telling him, as he valued his neck, to go into
hiding somewhere, anywhere, at once, if he could.  It seems that the
Member of the Committee of Public Safety who was locked up in the
cellar of La Rodire has sworn that every man connected with the affair
would be sent to the guillotine within twenty-four hours."

Devinne never could have said afterwards what exactly were his feelings
when he heard this news.  It must have been relief, of course, to a
certain extent.  His crime was none the less heinous, of course, but,
at any rate, the spectral vision of his friend, Percy Blakeney, lying
at the mercy of a crowd of savage brutes thirsting for his blood, would
no longer haunt him.  He rose, paid for his drinks and with somewhat
uncertain steps made for the door and the open.  Here he paused a
moment, leaning against the wall.  His temples were throbbing, and at
the back of his mind there stirred the recollection of those papers and
the travelling permit which were to be delivered to him at the Town
Hall.  As soon as the cold, frosty air had revived him, he made his way
to the commissariat, hoping to get speech with the Chief Commissary or,
at any rate, with the clerk.

But to his chagrin he found the gates closed and sentinels posted to
warn off all visitors.  Impossible to gain access even to the
courtyard.  An amiable passer-by, noting his distress, volunteered the
information that the Citizen Commissary had given orders, that no one
was to be admitted inside the Town Hall under any circumstances
whatever.

"I suppose you have heard the news, citizen," the passer-by continued
affably.  "It will be a regular cataclysm for all the officials in
Choisy when the Committee of Public Safety gets hold of the affair..."

But Devinne listened no further.  He suddenly had the feeling as if a
trap was closing in upon him.  Not that he was actually frightened, for
he had not yet realised that his position after this might become
serious, but he did suddenly remember that when he applied for the
special travelling permit he had been made to deposit his existing
passport at the Commissariat, but he had done it under a promise from
his friend the Chief Commissary that all his papers and the special
permit would be delivered to him in due course.  But there was the
question now, would this friend be in a position to keep his word with
this awful cataclysm hanging over his head?

Anyway, there was nothing that could be done to-night.  It was close on
nine o'clock, and the various cafs did not of a certainty offer any
attraction, with their squalor, their abominable coffee and their
jabbering crowds.  But there was always the derelict cottage which,
though not very attractive either, did, at any rate, offer shelter for
the night, and Devinne turned his footsteps thither, hoping that he
might get a few hours' sleep, free from the nightmare that had haunted
him for the past four-and-twenty hours.  The place looked very much the
same as it had done when he left it in the morning, the candle and
tinder were in their usual place, but as soon as he had struck a light
he got the impression that someone had been in the place during the
day--was it Blakeney, by any chance?--surely not, for he must be
half-way to Trouville by now with the refugees.  There had always been
the possibility of the cottage being invaded by vagabonds or even by
the police.  Certain it was that someone had been here, for the pile of
garments in the corner had been disturbed, and on looking round Devinne
spied on the floor near the empty hearth, a bottle of wine, half empty,
and beside it a mug with dregs in the bottom.  The place as a
night-shelter would obviously not be safe.  Devinne blew out the candle
and made his way out once more, and then turned his steps back in the
direction of Choisy.

There was a fairly decent inn in the Rue Verte.  Devinne secured a room
there.  He was quite thankful now that he had been obliged to seek
night quarters elsewhere than in the cottage, for he was badly in need
of what the derelict cottage could not offer him, namely, a good wash.




CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

_Sister Anne_

And all this time the tumult in the neighbouring little village of
Manderieu had been growing in intensity, and Citizen Delorme,
Commissary, was at his wits' end and in a state bordering on despair.
Then suddenly, when the crowd was on the point of storming the
Commissariat, "Sister Anne", in the form of one of the gendarmes whom
Delorme had posted at the entrance to the village, came running in with
the welcome news that Chief Commissary Lacaune had sent an escort round
with written orders to convey Docteur Pradel immediately to Choisy.
Even Bluebeard's wife could not have felt greater relief than did the
harassed Commissary.

"Where," he asked, "is the escort now?"

"At the back, citizen," came the quick answer.  "Waiting at the gate."

"On horseback?"

"Yes, citizen."

"How many men?"

"Only two, but they are stalwarts.  The Chief Commissary sent word that
they would be sufficient.  They have a third horse on the lead."

"Quite right.  Quite right.  Let the prisoner be smuggled out very
quietly by the back way--he'll make no trouble, I'll warrant--and let
him be handed over to the Chief Commissary's men.  After that, we shall
have peace in Manderieu, please God----"

He checked himself abruptly.  On the spur of the moment, much relieved
at the conclusion of this tense situation, he had forgotten that the
Government had decreed by law that God no longer existed.  Delorme, a
loyal servant of the Republic, hoped that the gendarme had not heard
his pious ejaculation.

Five minutes later, satisfied that his unwelcome guest had been duly
handed over to the men from Choisy, and was well on the way to the
city, he made up his mind to face the noisy crowd outside.  No sooner
had he commanded the door of the commissariat to be opened than he was
greeted with hoots and boos, and a first shower of loose stones, which,
fortunately, failed to hit him.  The gendarmes then charged into the
crowd and thrust it back some way down the place, whilst Commissary
Delorme's voice went ringing across the market square.

"Citizens all," he bellowed at the top of his voice, "you are mistaken
in thinking that Docteur Pradel is in my charge.  By order of my
superior he was conveyed to Choisy some time ago."

As was to be expected, this assertion was received with incredulity.
There were more boos and hisses, and one stone flung by a practised
hand hit and broke a window.  The crowd then stormed the commissariat,
and made their way down to the lock-up, where they found the door wide
open and the captive bird very obviously flown.  They also wandered in
and out of the offices and the private rooms of the Commissary, but,
not finding the man they sought, they went away again in a subdued
mood, some to their own homes in Manderieu, others to more distant
Choisy.  They all shook their heads thoughtfully when they went past
the hospital and past the two sentinels at its gate.

It was some time later, when the small village had re-assumed its air
of tranquillity and one by one windows and shutters had been closed for
the night, that the watchman asked leave to say a word to the Citizen
Commissary.  The clock in the market-place had not long before struck
ten.  The Commissary was in his night-shirt, about to get into bed, but
he ordered the watchman to come up.

"Well?  What is it?"

"Only this, Citizen Commissary," the man said, and held up a grimy
piece of paper.

"What's that?"

"I don't know, citizen.  A letter, I think.  I was doing my round and
had got as far as the cross-road, when a man of the Gendarmerie
Nationale gave me the paper and said: 'Take this to the Citizen
Commissary; he will reward you for your pains, and here is something
for your trouble.'  And he gave me a silver franc."

Delorme took the paper and turned it round and round between his
fingers.  There was something queer, almost eerie about this missive,
sent at this hour of the night.

"How long ago was this?" he asked.

"About half an hour, I should say.  I finished my round and then came
on here.  Is it all right, citizen?"

"Yes," the Commissary replied curtly.  "You may go."

Only when the watchman had gone did Delorme unroll the mysterious
missive.  It turned out to be nothing, but a hoax.  There were four
lines of what looked like verse, but as these were written in a foreign
language which he, Delorme, did not understand, the joke, if joke there
was, failed to amuse him.  The only thing that interested him was a
rough device at the end, by way of a signature possibly.  It
represented a small five-petalled flower and had been limned in red
chalk.

The worthy Commissary put the note on one side, thinking that, perhaps,
on the morrow he might meet a learned man who was conversant with
foreign tongues.  He would show the funny message to him.

After that he got into bed, snuffed out the candle, and went peacefully
to sleep.




CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

_The Canadian_

Chief Commissary Lacaune had spent a restless night.  His mind was not
altogether at ease when he thought over the happenings of the past
eventful day.  The tragic farce of the pseudo Scarlet Pimpernel, and
his capture by that dolt Cabel, weighed heavily on his soul.  As for
the wrath of Citizen Chauvelin, whenever Lacaune thought of that a cold
shiver would course down the length of his spine.  Somehow he had a
presentiment which drove away sleep from his weary lids, a prevision of
worse calamities yet to come.

And when they came, which they did early in the morning, they proved to
be more dire than he had anticipated.  No sooner had he settled down to
work in his office than his clerk brought in the staggering news that
the two men of the Gendarmerie Nationale whom he, Lacaune, had
despatched in the course of the evening to Manderieu in response to an
urgent request from his subordinate, had been discovered half an hour
ago, lying bound and gagged in a field a hundred or so metres from the
roadside, half-way between Choisy and Manderieu.  The third man, who
belonged to the village gendarmerie and had been Delorme's messenger,
was found a couple of hundred metres farther on in a field the opposite
side of the road.  He had started from Choisy a quarter of an hour
before the other two.  All three men, when freed from their bonds, told
the same pitiable tale.  They were attacked in the dark by what they
supposed were common footpads, when there were no passers-by on the
road.  The rogues had suddenly jumped out from behind a clump of trees
and were on them before they had a chance of defending themselves.
Commissary Delorme's messenger had been quickly knocked out.  He was
alone.  The other two vowed that they had put up a good fight, but the
miscreants were armed with pistols, while they only had their
cutlasses, which they never had a chance of drawing.  They were dragged
out of their saddles by a man who was a veritable giant for strength,
and knocked on the head so that they lost consciousness and remembered
nothing more till they found themselves in the field, trussed like
fowls and frozen stiff.  Their horses were nowhere to be seen.

The three men were ushered into the presence of the Chief Commissary,
but they could only reiterate their story.  They supposed that robbery
was the object of the attack, but none of them carried anything of
value.  One certainly had the written order of the Chief Commissary
tucked in his belt, but that would be of no use to highway robbers; at
any rate, it had disappeared, supposedly been lost in the scuffle.

At first the incident, grave as it seemed, could not be called
staggering.  Three valuable horses were lost, and there were two
desperate footpads at large, but that was all.  On the other hand,
Commissary Delorme over at Manderieu was doubtless fretting and fuming,
waiting for the orders which had not come, and Chief Commissary Lacaune
now set to at once to re-indite the order to his subordinate that the
prisoner Pradel be at once sent under escort to Choisy.  He had just
finished writing this out when another messenger from Manderieu came
riding in with the report from the Commissary of the happenings of the
evening before.  After a graphic account of the riots which had
disturbed the peace of the little village and had only been quelled by
his, Delorme's, presence of mind and courage in facing the irate mob,
the Commissary went on to say:


"You may imagine, citizen, how thankful I was when your men arrived on
the scene with your orders to deliver the prisoner to them.  I am glad
to be rid of him, as the people here would never have quietened down
while they knew that Pradel was held in durance in the Commissariat.  I
presume you have him locked up in the Old Castle and can but hope that
the citizens of Choisy will prove less choleric over the incarceration
of their favourite leech than the country-folk of Manderieu."


Chief Commissary Lacaune had to read these last lines over and over
again before their full significance entered his brain.  When it did he
was on the verge of an attack of apoplexy.  What in the devil's name
did it all mean, and where in h---- was Pradel?  The escort whom he,
Lacaune, had sent to fetch him, had been put out of action before they
ever got to Manderieu.  Then what happened?  Where did it happen? and
what had become of Simon Pradel?  Ah! if he ever put hands on that
stormy petrel again, the guillotine would not be robbed of its prey.
But in the meanwhile, what was to be done?  He sent a mounted courier
in haste to Manderieu to ask for fuller details.  The courier returned
in less than half an hour with a further report from the Commissary,
stating that the prisoner, Docteur Simon Pradel, was duly handed over
to the two men of the Gendarmerie Nationale on a written order from the
Chief Commissary himself.  To prove his assertion, Citizen Delorme
enclosed the order which one of the soldiers had handed over to him.
Moreover, he respectfully would ask his chief why his own messenger had
been detained in Choisy; he wanted all his men in Manderieu, as the
temper of the village folk was far from reassuring.

This second report, on the face of it, only made matters worse.  Chief
Commissary Lacaune thought that both he and his subordinate were going
mad.  Who were the two men of the Gendarmerie Nationale who had come to
fetch away the prisoner?  How did the written order come into their
hands?  What had they done with Pradel once they had got him?  Was he,
Lacaune, awake or dreaming?

Luckily for him, his friend Louis Maurin presented himself just then.
At any rate, here was a sane man with whom one could talk things over
fearlessly.  But the lawyer was in an unhelpful mood.  He appeared
entirely indifferent as to the whereabouts of Simon Pradel.

"My good friend," he said with a shrug, "your stormy petrel, as you
rightly call him, is on his way to England by now, you may be sure, and
a good thing, too.  Let him be, I say.  Once he is in that land of fogs
and savages, he can do no more mischief.  If you start running after
him you will only get yourself into more trouble ... like you did
yesterday.  Let him be."

"But why should you say that he is on his way to England?"

"I am sure he is."

"But two of my men fetched him away from Manderieu."

"They were not your men at all."

"Who were they?"

"The English spies."

"You don't mean----?"

"The Scarlet Pimpernel whom that fool Cabel failed to lay by the heels,
and who has tricked you, my friend, as he has tricked our police and
our spies all over the country for nigh on two years.  Yes! that's the
man I mean, and if I were you I would make the best of what has
happened and leave others to fish in those turbid waters."

At mention of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Chief Commissary Lacaune felt
thoroughly uncomfortable.  Since the establishment of a free-thinking
and enlightened government, one had to be rational, what?  Had to be a
man and not a weakling with a mind full of superstitious nonsense such
as the _calotins_ used to put into one in past days.  But _nom de nom_!
there was something unpleasantly mysterious about this elusive English
spy.  Here one day, across country the next.  A regular
will-o'-the-wisp.  He slipped through one's fingers when one thought
one had him and trouble awaited any man who ever came across him.
Lacaune drew a deep sigh.

"You may be right, my friend," he said, "but it goes against the grain
and against my duty to let things be.  I have always been a faithful
servant of the Republic, and I will not rest till I get to the bottom
of this extraordinary occurrence.  I am already in bad odour with the
Committee of Public Safety over that unfortunate affair yesterday, and
I feel that nothing but zeal will save me from disaster."

"Well, you will act as you think best," the lawyer said, and rose to
take his leave, "but, believe me----"

He was interrupted by the entrance of the clerk who handed him a letter
which had just come from the Committee of Public Safety, sitting in
special session at Sceaux, the capital of the department.  He asked at
the same time if the Citizen Commissary would receive Citizen Collin,
who had come to enquire about his papers.

"Collin?  Collin?" the jaded Commissary exclaimed, and fingered with
obvious apprehension the letter from the Committee of Public Safety.
Did it contain good or bad news for him?  A threat?  A warning?  Or
what?  To the clerk he said: "Tell Citizen Collin to wait."  And when
the clerk had gone he turned to his friend.

"It was that Canadian, or whatever he is, who led me into sending Cabel
after that cursed English spy.  I believe that it was all a conspiracy
to lead me off the scent, and that this man Collin is the prime mover
in it all.  But I'll have him under lock and key at once.  I'll send
him to join that ruffian who impersonated the Scarlet Pimpernel and led
us all by the nose."

After which piece of oratory, delivered with all the spite which he
felt against everything and everybody, he at last made up his mind to
read the letter which had been sent to him from Sceaux.  First he
looked at the superscription.  The letter was signed "Armand Chauvelin,
Member of the Committee of Public Safety," and its contents were the
following:


"CITIZEN COMMISSARY,

"We, the Committee of Public Safety, sitting in extraordinary session
at Sceaux, desire you to send over to us for special enquiry the man
who impersonated the English spy and was brought a prisoner to you in
the course of yesterday.  Our sittings are held in the _Mairie_.  If
you have any other prisoner or suspect of note in your district, send
him also.  The bearer of this note is in our employ.  He knows just
what to do.  Your responsibility ceases with the handing over of the
prisoner or prisoners to him."


Lacaune held the missive out to his friend, the lawyer.  His hand was
shaking with excitement.  His face was beaming both with joy and with
triumph.  There was not a word of threat or warning in the letter.  It
was quite simple, official, almost friendly; it showed, in fact, that
he had not forfeited the confidence of his superiors since it left it
to his discretion to send along "any other prisoner or suspect in his
district."  Here was relief indeed after the torturing fears of the
past twelve hours.

"My friend! my friend!" he cried, and rubbed his hands gleefully
together.  "I feel a new man for all is well."

He took pen and paper and wrote a few words rapidly.

"What are you going to do?" Maurin asked.

"Send that damned Canadian too before the Committee of Public Safety
for special enquiry."

He tinkled his bell, and on the entrance of the clerk, handed him the
paper he had just written.

"Here," he said, "is an order for the arrest of the man, Collin.  See
it carried out, then send the messenger from Sceaux in to me."

The lawyer now finally took his leave.  The matter of the Canadian and
the pseudo Scarlet Pimpernel did not interest him in the least.  With
Pradel out of the way he cared about nothing else.  Left to himself,
Commissary Lacaune strode up and down the room, unable for sheer
excitement to sit still.  At one moment he pricked up his ears when he
heard a tumult and some shouting outside his door.  "The Canadian is
giving trouble," he muttered complacently to himself.

Presently the messenger was ushered in.  He was a sober, fine-looking
official dressed in dark clothes.  He wore a hat of the new sugar-loaf
shape which he took off when he entered.  He also turned back the lapel
of his coat to show the badge which he wore indicative of his status as
representative or employee of the government.  Lacaune addressed him
curtly:

"Who gave you this letter?"

"Citizen Chauvelin."

"You know its contents."

"Yes, citizen."

"Your orders are to convey a certain prisoner to Sceaux."

"That is so."

"Are you riding or driving?"

"Driving, Citizen Commissary.  I have requisitioned a cart with a hood
and a couple of good horses from a yard just outside this city.
Citizen Chauvelin said he did not wish the prisoner to be seen."

"A very wise precaution.  Now listen.  One prisoner will be handed over
to you here.  Keep a special eye on him, he is dangerous.  There is
another whom you will go and fetch at the Old Castle.  One of my men
will accompany you as far as there with an order from me that the
prisoner be delivered over to you."

"I understand, citizen."

"Would you like an escort as far as Sceaux?"

"Not unless you desire to send one, Citizen Commissary.  But it is not
necessary.  I am well armed and so is the driver."

"Very good, then.  You can go."

The man saluted, turned on his heel and went out.  The Commissary wrote
out the order to be taken to the Old Castle, gave it to his clerk and
then went to the window from which he had a view of the street.  He saw
a cart with hood up, standing outside the gates.  A pair of horses were
harnessed to the cart, they looked strong and fresh.  After a moment or
two he saw the Canadian being brought across the courtyard by two
soldiers.  He was in chains, wrist to ankle both sides of him, and was
apparently only just able to walk.  Obviously he had given trouble.
His clothes were torn, his hair dishevelled, and his knuckles stained
with blood.  The soldiers did not deal any too gently with him, and
bundled him like a bale of goods into the cart.  The government
representative watched the proceedings with an official eye.  When he
had satisfied himself that the prisoner was safely out of mischief, he
beckoned to one of the soldiers to sit on the tail-board of the cart
while he himself took his seat beside the driver.  The latter flicked
his whip and away they went down the Rue Haute.

Chief Commissary Lacaune watched all these doings with utmost
satisfaction.  He strode back to his desk, turned a few papers over,
but he felt too excited to settle down to business.  He thought a glass
of wine would do him good; he picked up his hat and coat and went out,
telling his clerk that he would be back in an hour.

He didn't go straight to Tison's for his glass of wine, being tempted
to stroll down as far as the Old Castle and see that miserable ruffian
who had hoodwinked him take his place, also in chains, by the side of
that cursed Canadian.  He was just in time to see this pleasing
spectacle; there is always something very soothing to the nerves to
witness the discomfiture of one's enemies.  Citizen Lacaune exchanged a
few affable words with the government official, gave orders that the
two prisoners be chained one to the other for additional safety, and
when this was done, he went with a light, springy step to enjoy a quiet
half-hour with a glass of wine at the Caf Tison.




CHAPTER FORTY

_Remorse_

Under the hood of the cart, St. John Devinne gradually came to the
consciousness that this was in very truth the end of his inglorious
life.  Shame and remorse both held him in their grip, and not only
because he had staked his honour on a despicable gamble and lost, but
also because he had at last realised the utter baseness of what he had
done.  Visions of happy days under the leadership of a man who was the
bravest of the brave, who sacrificed his comfort, his happiness, even
his love, in order to succour the helpless and the innocent, to follow
whom was in itself a glory, tortured him with the knowledge that they
could never come again.  They were past for ever because of his own
black treachery and there was nothing now ahead of him save darkness,
and in the end a shameful death.

It was not of death itself that he was afraid, but of the awful, awful
shame of it all, and of this racking remorse which might unnerve him
when the end came.  That Chief Commissary had played him false, trapped
him like a noxious feline, and here he was now lying like a captive
beast driven to the slaughter-house, chained to a malodorous
mudlark--he, St. John Devinne, Earl Welhaven, son and heir of the Duke
of Rudford!  Oh, the shame, the shame of it all!  He ached in every
limb, his ankles and wrists were bleeding under the weight of the
irons.  The close proximity of his grimy companion made him feel sick.
The cold was intense.  Devinne trembled under a thick cloak that had
been thrown over him at one time, he did not recollect when.  The day
wore on with agonising slowness.  At first Devinne had wondered whither
he was being driven, but soon he knew that he really didn't care.  The
ultimate end of his journey would anyhow be the guillotine, so what did
the halts on the way matter?  There were one or two halts, probably in
order to give the horses a drink and a rest.  Several villages were
passed on the way, and at one time the cart rattled over what obviously
was a cobbled street, at the end of which the driver pulled up.  There
was a good deal of talking and shouting.  Apparently fresh horses were
being put to.  Presently Devinne heard subdued voices quite close to
him in a rapid colloquy:

"You know the way, citizen?"

"Quite well.  I thank you."

"You will find good accommodation there for the night.  Tell Landlord
Freson I sent you.  Henri Gros, that's my name.  He will do the best
for you."

"And what do I owe you, Citizen Gros?"

"Twenty gold louis, citizen.  That will be for the two horses and the
cart.  And if you ever bring them back this way and the horses are in
good condition, I will buy the lot back from you."

There followed obsequious thanks, from which Devinne gathered that the
bargain had been concluded.  Vaguely he wondered why it had been made.
A change of driver apparently as well as of horses, but what did it all
matter to him?  Somewhere in the town a clock struck three.  The shades
of evening were beginning to draw in and through a chink in the hood
Devinne saw that snow was falling.

After many hearty "Good-byes" and "_Bon voyages_" a fresh start was
made.  Soon the road became very rough and the jolting of the cart
added greatly to Devinne's discomfort.  He felt terribly tired and
drowsy, but too ill to get any sleep.  Everything around him now seemed
to be very still; the only sounds that reached his ears were the
clap-clap of the horse's hoofs over the snow-covered road and the
stertorous breathing of his fellow-captive.  Weary almost to death,
Devinne fell into a trance-like somnolence.  What roused him was the
presence of someone bending over him and the sound of the grating of a
steel file near his ankle.  The cart was at a standstill and it was
getting dark; only the feeble glow of a small storm-lantern threw a
narrow circle of light round where his foot was.  The pain of it was
almost intolerable, even when after a few minutes he felt those heavy
irons lifted away from his ankle.  Through half-closed eyes he saw a
dark form bending to the task.  As soon as his ankles were free,
dexterous fingers, armed with the file, started working on the irons on
his wrists.

Devinne thought that he was either delirious or dreaming.  A sense of
well-being spread right through him when those horrible irons were
removed, and presently an arm was passed under his shoulders and the
neck of a bottle was pushed into his mouth.  He took a great gulp, a
fiery liquid flowed down his throat, he coughed and spluttered and then
fell back in a real state of unconsciousness.

Again he woke, this time feeling a different man.  His ankles and
wrists were free and he was not nearly so cold.  He sat up and looked
about him.  The vehicle was still at a dead stop, and the night was
fast drawing in.  All that Devinne could perceive through the gloom was
the body of his fellow-captive being lifted out of the cart by a pair
of powerful arms; the head was just vanishing beyond the tail-board.
Then he heard footsteps, heavy measured footsteps receding into the
distance.  For a long time he was alone in semi-darkness, sitting up
with his legs drawn up and his arms encircling his knees.  He wanted to
think, but couldn't.  His mind was at a standstill, as it is in a dream.

All was silence around him, save for those footsteps treading the
snow-covered earth, receding at first, then a pause while he heard
nothing at all, and then the same footsteps returning.  His heart was
beating furiously.  He tried to call out, but the one word which he
longed to utter was smothered in his throat.  It was the name of the
friend whom he had betrayed and who had risked his life to save him.
He could vaguely discern through the gloom the familiar tall form
mounting the driver's seat and picking up the reins, and after that
just the broad back, a solid mass hardly distinguishable now.  He had
never felt quite so alone in his life, not even during that night in
the derelict cottage when he had planned his abominable treachery.  He
had the company of his thoughts then, black, ugly thoughts and
torturing visions of past joys and future ignominious triumphs.  Now he
had nothing, just that indistinct shadow in front of him which seemed
to be fading, fading into the gloom like his hopes, like his honour and
his joy of life.

There was still a faint pale light in the sky when the cart turned
abruptly to the left and then went plodding over very rough ground.
Devinne crept on hands and knees to the tail-board, and squatting on
his heels, he peeped out under the hood.  Even in the gathering
darkness the place looked familiar.  Away on his right he could see the
dim lights of what appeared to be a small city, but the cart was driven
round it, always over very rough ground, gradually leaving those city
lights behind.  And suddenly Devinne realised where he was.  The small
city was Le Perrey, and he was being driven to the lonely house which
was the headquarters of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

The cart drew up, and he heard a distant shout: "Hallo!" immediately
followed by an eager question: "All well?"  It was the voice of Jimmy
Holte, familiarly known as Froggie.  He was over at the house and came
running along, swinging a lantern.

Whereupon there came the answer in a voice which Devinne thought he
would never hear again.

"All well!"

The next moment he saw Blakeney through the gloom standing by the side
of the cart.

"Can you get down?" he asked, "or shall I give you a hand?"

Devinne was still squatting on his heels, but he couldn't move.  Not at
first.  His eyes peered through the darkness, trying to see Blakeney's
face.

"Percy...." he murmured, but could say no more, for an aching sob had
risen to his throat.

"Easy, lad," Blakeney responded; "pull yourself together.  Froggie
knows nothing."

Froggie was within earshot now.  He began to talk.  Devinne did not at
once catch what he said, for all his senses were numb.  But he did make
an effort to drag himself out of the cart.

Holte greeted him with an exuberant: "Hello, Johnnie!" and Blakeney
said: "Devinne is a bit stiff; he was badly knocked about at Choisy."

Whereupon Holte took Devinne by the arm and turned with him towards the
house.

"Are you staying the night?" he asked of the chief.

"Yes.  We can't make much headway this weather.  The snow may give over
after midnight and the moon may come out.  If she does not, we'll start
in the early dawn.  Get along, Froggie," he went on; "I'll see to the
horses.  I suppose you've got something for us to eat."

"Yes," the other called out over his shoulder.  "Stale bread and a
piece of pig's meat, and I can hot up some sour wine for you.  I've
been to market this morning."

Blakeney took the horses round to the back while Holte guided Devinne's
footsteps up to the house.  He was one of those men who couldn't stop
talking, and immediately he began: "You know, of course," and "Blakeney
told you, I suppose."  This, that and the other.  Devinne, who knew
nothing, only listened with half an ear.  Presently he found himself
sitting in front of a wood fire with Holte still talking volubly.

And then Blakeney came in.  He asked:

"At what time did Ffoulkes and Pradel come through?"

"In the early morning; I couldn't say exactly when.  My watch has
stopped, curse it!"

"They had no adventures?"

"None.  I soon had the fresh horses ready for them, you know, the ones
from the coach, and off they went again.  I made Ffoulkes tell me how
you got the Frenchman away.  He seemed a nice fellow, I thought.  Very
quiet.  But, begad! according to Ffoulkes, the way you engineered that
affair was----"

"Perfectly simple," Blakeney broke in quickly.  "You are a good fellow,
Froggie, but you talk too much.  Suppose you get us something to eat.
Devinne is famished and so am I."

"All right!  All right!" Holte retorted good-humouredly and turned to
go.  But at the door he halted.

"I'll tell you all about it, Johnnie," he said, "just as I had it from
Ffoulkes.  I tell you it was nothing short of----"

He was interrupted by his own hat being hurled at his head, and his
chief's voice saying peremptorily:

"And if you don't go and get that luxurious supper, I'll put you in
irons for insubordination."

Holte went and the two men were alone.  He who had done to his friend
the greatest possible injury any man could do to another, was now face
to face with the chief whom he had betrayed.  Blakeney went over to the
window and gazed out into the darkness and the thickly falling snow.
Devinne rose and went across the room.  He put out his hand.
Tentatively.  It was moist and shaking.  He took Percy's hand, which
was hanging by his side, that slender hand which had so often grasped
his in friendship, and with a heart-rending sob laid his hot forehead
against it.

"Percy!" he murmured, "for God's sake, say something."

"What shall I say, dear lad?" Blakeney responded, and gently disengaged
his hand.  "That I could not bear to see an English gentleman, the son
of my old friend, thrown to those hyenas."

"How you must despise me!"

"I despise no one, Johnnie.  I have seen too much of sorrow, misguided
enthusiasm, even of crime, not to understand many, many things I had
not even dreamed of before."

"Crime?  There is no worse crime in the world than mine."

"And no worse punishment, lad, than what you will endure."

"God, yes!" Devinne said fervently.  "Then why did you risk your
precious life to save my miserable one?"

Blakeney broke into his infectious laugh.

"Why?  Why?  I don't know, Johnnie.  Ask Ffoulkes--he will give you a
sentimental reason.  Ask Tony and he will say it is for the love of
sport, and I am not sure that good old Tony wouldn't be right after
all.  Thanks to you, lad, I have had one of the most exhilarating runs
across country I have ever had in my life."

Devinne sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands.

"How they will all loathe the sight of me," he murmured.

"Well, you will have to put up with that, my good fellow, and with
other things as well.  Anyway, your father knows nothing and never
will.  After that....  Well!  England is at war with France, so you
will know what to do."

"Percy ... I..."

"Easy now.  Here's Holte coming with his banquet."

And the three of them sat down to a sumptuous meal of pig's meat and
stale bread and drank hot wine, which put warmth into them.  Blakeney
was at his merriest.

"You should have seen," he said to Holte, "that miserable caitiff who,
much against his will, impersonated the Scarlet Pimpernel.  The one
thing I shall regret to my dying day is that I was not present when my
dear Monsieur Chambertin first gazed on his beautiful countenance and
saw that it was not that of his friend, Sir Percy Blakeney."

Holte did a great deal of talking, and asked numberless questions, but
Devinne, with aching soul and aching body, soon made his way to one of
the other rooms in the house where there was a truckle bed on which he
had slept more than once in the happy olden days.

He sat down on the edge of it, and burying his head in his hands, he
sobbed like a child.




CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

_Epilogue_

Often, after the curtain has been rung down on the last act of a play,
comedy or drama, one would wish to peep through and see what is going
on on the darkened stage.  A moment ago it was full of light, of
animation, of that tense atmosphere which pervades the closing scene of
a moving story, and now there are only the scene-shifters moving about
like ghosts through the dimmed light, the stage-manager talking to the
carpenter or the electricians, the minor roles still chattering in the
wings, or the principals hurrying to their dressing-rooms.

In the same way it seems to me that one would wish to see just once
more those actors who each in their individual way have played their
part in that strange drama which had for its chief characters a young
traitor and a light-hearted adventurer, reckless of his life, a true
sportsman who in a spirit of sublime devilry achieved one of the
noblest exploits it has ever been the good fortune of an historian to
relate.

Thus it is possible to have a peep at the minor roles, to see Monsieur
le Docteur Pradel and Ccile, his pretty young wife, in their humble
home in the village of Kensington.  They are supremely happy, but are
as poor as the proverbial church mice, as poor as all those unfortunate
French men and women whom a lucky chance has enabled to find a refuge
in hospitable England--chance or the devotion of a man whose real
identity they will never discover.  Sometimes one among them who is
over-sensitive, perhaps, will feel a thrill when meeting a pair of
lazy, good-natured blue eyes, the true expression of which is veiled
behind heavy lids.  Such a one is Ccile Pradel, who, when she meets
those eyes, or hears the timbre of a quaint rather inane laugh, will
suddenly recall a day of torment in the old chteau of La Rodire, a
dance, the music of the _rigaudon_, a fiddler with grimy face and
ringing voice and strange compelling eyes.  The same voice?  The same
eyes?  No! no! it couldn't be!  And she would look up almost with
apology for those foolish thoughts on the magnificent figure of Sir
Percy Blakeney, Bart., the friend of the Prince of Wales, the most
exquisite dandy that ever graced a ballroom, the most inane fop that
ever caused society to laugh.

And she would see the greatest ladies in the land crowd round him,
smirk and flirt their fans, entreating him to repeat the silly doggerel
which he vowed had come to him as an inspiration while tying his cravat:

  "_We seek him here, we seek him there,
  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
  Is he in heaven!  Is he in h--l?
  That demmed elusive Pimpernel._"


He would recite this for the entertainment of his admirers with many
airs and graces which of a certainty could only belong to a man who had
no thought save of vanity and pleasure.

More often than not the talk in ballrooms would be of the Scarlet
Pimpernel and his exploits, and Sir Percy Blakeney, who usually was
half asleep in a chair whenever the subject cropped up, was dragged out
of his slumbers by the ladies and asked with many a jest what he
thought of the national hero.  Whereupon he would endeavour to be
polite and to smother a yawn, whilst he gave reply:

"Excuse me, ladies, but on my honour I would prefer not to think of
that demmed fellow."

And he would turn to a group of friends and call to them:

"Come Froggie, Ffoulkes, you too, Tony, a manly game of hazard, what?
while the ladies sit around and worship a cursed shadow."

No, no, a thousand times no! this empty-headed dandy, the fool, this
sybarite, could never have been the grimy out-at-elbows fiddler who
slung a man over his shoulder as if he were a bundle of shavings, or
the sergeant who carried _maman_ in his arms over rough ground from the
coach to the lonely house by the roadside.  But the next moment, as Sir
Percy Blakeney strode out of the room, Ccile would catch a quick
glance which flew to him from the deep violet eyes of Lady Blakeney,
his exquisite wife, and another which that perfect _grande dame_
exchanged with His Royal Highness, and Ccile Pradel, who owed her life
to the Scarlet Pimpernel, was left wondering.  Wondering!

Still peeping through the curtain which has fallen on the last act of
the drama, one likes to see little Blanche Levet as a young matron now,
married to a well-to-do and kindly fellow who stands well with the
authorities that are in power after the terrible day of the Terror and
the fall of Robespierre.  There are times when memories and regrets
become over-poignant, and she sheds tears over the bundle of tiny
garments which she has fashioned in view of a happy eventuality, just
as there are times when Docteur Pradel would gladly exchange the life
of peace in England for one of activity in Choisy and in his beloved
hospital in Manderieu.  But with him regrets soon vanish, whereas with
Blanche they will always abide.

And one last peep at St. John Devinne, home on leave after the English
victory over the French at Valenciennes, and kneeling by the death-bed
of his father.  Percy Blakeney stands beside him.  Some of the last
words the old man spoke were:

"Percy, you will look after the boy, won't you?  He is headstrong, but
his heart is in the right place, and, thank God! his honour is intact."




THE END




[End of Sir Percy Leads the Band, by Baroness Orczy]
