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<H2><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+3" FACE="Apple Chancery">Mam'zelle Guillotine<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">by Baroness Orczy</FONT><BR>
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<FONT COLOR="#000000" SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Many special
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<H2><CENTER><U><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery">Contents</FONT></U></CENTER></H2>

<H2><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book One<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp1.html">Chp 1
- 1789: The dawn of Revolution</A> <BR>
<A HREF="mgchp2.html">Chp 2 - Paris in Revolt</A> <BR>
<A HREF="mgchp3.html">Chp 3 - One of the Derelicts</A></FONT></CENTER></H2>

<H2><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book Two<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp4.html">Chp 4
- London 1794</A> <BR>
<A HREF="mgchp5.html">Chp 5 -A Social Event</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp6.html">Chp 6 - The
Prince of Dandies </A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp7.html">Chp 7 - A Valorous
Deed</A> <BR>
<A HREF="mgchp8.html">Chp 8 - A Royal Friend</A> <BR>
<A HREF="mgchp9.html">Chp 9 - The Bitter Lesson</A></FONT></CENTER></H2>

<H2><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book Three<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp10.html">Chp
10 - A Unique Personage</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp11.html">Chp 11 - Baffled</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp12.html">Chp 12 - Chauvelin
takes a Hand</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp13.html">Chp 13 - The
English Spy</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp14.html">Chp 14 - Le
Parc Aux Daims</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp15.html">Chp 15 - Whatever
Happens</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp16.html">Chp 16 - A
Master Sleuth</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp17.html">Chp 17 - Thunder
Crash</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp18.html">Chp 18 - At
the Commissariat of Police</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp19.html">Chp 19 - The
Interloper</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp20.html">Chp 20 - The
Courier</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp21.html">Chp 21 - An
Outrage</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp22.html">Chp 22 - Nightmare</A></FONT></CENTER></H2>

<H2><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book Four<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp23.html">Chp
23 - A Message</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp24.html">Chp 24 - The
Cosy Corner</A></FONT></CENTER></H2>

<H2><CENTER><FONT COLOR="#000000" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book Five<BR>
</FONT><FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp25.html">Chp
25 - The Man in Black</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp26.html">Chp 26 - Fortune
in Sight</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp27.html">Chp 27 - At
the Cross-roads</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp28.html">Chp 28 - The
Fight</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp29.html">Chp 29 - Hell-for-Leather</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp30.html">Chp 30 - The
Silent Pool</A></FONT><BR>
<FONT FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="mgchp31.html">Chp 31 - An
Interlude</A><BR>
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<P><CENTER><B><I><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">BOOK ONE<BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">			    	 Chapter
I</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">1789: THE
DAWN OF REVOLUTION</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Arms! Arms! Give us arms!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 France to-day is desperate. Her people are starving. Women and
children cry for bread; famine, injustice and oppression have
made slaves of the men. But the time has come at last when the
cry for freedom and for justice has drowned the wails of hungry
children. It is Sunday the twelfth of July. Camille Desmoulins
the fiery young demagogue is here, standing on a table in the
Palais Royal, a pistol in each hand, with a herd of gaunt and
hollow-eyed men around him. </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Friends,&quot; he demands vehemently,
&quot;shall our children die like sheep? Shall we continue to
plead for ears that will not hear and appeal to hearts that are
made of stone? Shall we labour to feed the welled-filled and see
our wives and daughters starve? Frenchmen! The hour has come:
the hour of our deliverance. To arms, friends! to arms!  Let our
oppressors look to themselves. Let them come to grips with us,
the oppressed, and see if brutal force can conquer justice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 With burning hearts and quivering lips they listened to him for
a while, some in silence, others muttering incoherent words. But
soon they took up the echo of the impassioned call: &quot;To arms!&quot;
and in a few moments what had been a tentative murmur became a
delirious shout: &quot;To arms! To arms!&quot; Throughout the
long afternoon, until dusk and nightfall, and thereafter the call
to arms like the roar of ocean waves breaking on a rocky shore
resounded from one end of Paris to the other. And all night long
men in threadbare suits and wooden shoes roamed about the streets,
gesticulating, forming groups, talking, arguing, shouting. Shouting
always their rallying cry: &quot;To arms!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"> By dawn the next day the herd of gaunt, hollowed-eyed
men has become a raging multitude. The call for arms has become
a vociferous demand: &quot;Give us arms!&quot; Right to-day must
be at grips with might. The oppressed shall rise against the oppressor.
But the oppressed must have arms wherewith to smite the tyrant,
the extortioner, the relentless task-master of the poor. And so
they march, these hungry, wan-faced men, at first in their hundreds
but soon in their thousands. They march to the Town Hall demanding
arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">  &quot;Arms! Arms! Give us arms!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  It is Monday morning but all the shops are shut: neither cobblers,
nor weavers, barbers nor venders of miscellaneous goods have taken
down their shutters. Labourers and scavengers are idle, for every
worker to-day has become a fighter. Alone the bakers and the vinters
ply their trade, for fighting men must eat and drink. And the
smiths are set to work to forge pikes as fast as they can, and
the women up in their attics to sew cockades. Red and blue which
are the municipal colours are tacked on to the constitutional
white, thus making of the Tricolour the badge of France in revolt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 The rest of Paris continues to roam the streets demanding arms:
first at the H&ocirc;tel de Ville, the Town Hall where provost
and aldermen are forced to admit they have no arms: not in any
quantity, only a few antiquated firelocks, which are immediately
seized upon. Then they go, those hungry thousands, to the Arsenal,
where they only find rubbish and bits of rusty iron which they
hurl into the streets, often wounding others who had remained,
expectant, outside. Next to the King's warehouse where there are
plenty of gewgaws, tapestries, pictures, a gilded sword or two
and suits of antiquated armour, also the cannon, silver mounted
and coated with grime, which a grateful King of Siam once sent
as a present to Louis XIV, but nothing useful, nothing serviceable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  No matter! A Siamese cannon is better than none. It is trundled
along the streets of Paris to the Debtors' prison, to the Chatelet,
to the House of Correction where prisoners are liberated and made
to swell the throng.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">News of all this tumult soon wakens the complacent
and the luxurious from their slumbers. They tumble out of bed
wanting to know what &quot;those brigands&quot; were up to. The
&quot;brigands it seems were in possession of the barriers, had
seized the carts which conveyed food into the city for the rich.
They were marching through Paris, yelling, and roaring, wearing
strange cockades. The tocsin was pealing from every church steeple.
Every smith in the town was forging pikes; fifty thousand it was
asserted had been forged in twenty-four hours, and still the &quot;brigands&quot;
demanded more.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 So what were the complacent and the luxurious to do but make
haste to depart from this Paris with its strange cockades and
its unseemly tumult? There were some quick packings-up and calls
for coaches, tumbrils, anything whereon to pile up furniture,
silver and provisions and hurry to the nearest barrier. But already
Paris in revolt had posted its scrubby hordes at all the gates,
with orders to stop every vehicle from going through and to drag
every person who attempted to leave the city, willy-nilly to the
Town Hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 And the complacent and the luxurious, driven back into Paris
which they wished to quit, desire to know what the commandant
of the city, M. le baron Pierre Victor de Besenval is doing about
it. They demand to know what is being done for their safety. Well!
M. de Besenval has sent courier after courier to Versailles asking
for orders, or at least for guidance. But all that he gets in
reply to his most urgent messages are a few vague words from His
Majesty saying that he has called a Council of his Ministers who
will decide what is to be done, and in the meanwhile let M. le
baron do his duty as beseems an officer loyal to his King.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 Besenval in his turn calls a Council of his Officers. His troops
are deserting in their hundreds, taking their arms with them.
Two of his Colonels declare that their men will not fight. Later
in the afternoon three thousand six hundred Gardes Fran&ccedil;aises
ordered to march against the insurgents go over to them in a body
with their guns and their gunners, their arms and accoutrements.
Gardes Fran&ccedil;aises no longer, they are re-named Gardes Nationales,
and enrolled in the fastgrowing Paris Militia, which is like to
number forty- eight thousand soon, and by to-morrow nearer one
hundred thousand.<BR>
 If only it had arms, the Paris Militia would be unconquerable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"> And now it is Tuesday, the fourteenth of July,
a date destined to remain for all time the most momentous in the
annals of France, a date on which century-old institutions shall
totter and fall, not only in France, but in the course of time,
throughout the civilized world, and archaic systems shall perish
that have taken root and gathered power since might became right
in the days of cave-dwelling man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 Still no definite orders from Versailles. The Council of Ministers
continues to deliberate. Hoary-headed Senators decide to sit in
unbroken session, while Commandant Besenval in Paris does his
duty as a soldier loyal to his King. But what can Besenval do,
even though he be a soldier and loyal to his King? He may be loyal
but the men are not. Their Colonels declare that the troops will
not fight. Who then can stem that army of National Volunteers,
now grown to a hundred and fifty thousand, as they march with
their rallying cry &quot;To arms!&quot; and roll like a flood
to the H&ocirc;tel des Invalides?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
   &quot;There are arms there. Why had we not thought of that
before?&quot; </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  On they roll, scale the containing wall and demand entrance.
The Invalides, old soldiers, veterans of the Seven Years' War
stand by; the gates are opened, the Garde Nationale march in,
but the veterans still stand by without firing a shot. Their Commandant
tries to parley with the insurgents, put they push past him and
his bodyguards; they swarm all over the building rummaging through
every room and every closet from attic to cellar. And in the cellar
the arms are found. Thousands of firelocks soon find their way
on the shoulders of the National Guard. What indeed can Commadant
Besenval do, even though he be a soldier and loyal to his King?</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"> Chapter II</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">   	 PARIS
IN REVOLT</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now to the Bastille, to that monument of
arrogance and power, with its drawbridges, its bastions and eight
grim towers, which has reared its massive pile of masonry above
the &quot;swinish multitude&quot; for over four hundred years.
Tyranny frowning down on Impotence. Power holding the weak in
bondage. Here it stands on this fourteenth day of July, bloated
with pride and, conscious of its impregnability, it seems to mock
that chaotic horde which invades its purlieus, swarms round its
ditches and its walls, and with a roaring like that of a tempestuous
sea, raises the defiant cry: &quot;Surrender!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 A tumult such as Dante in his visions of hell never dreamed of,
rises from one hundred and fifty thousand throats. Floods of humanity
come pouring into the Place from the outlying suburbs. Paris in
revolt has arms now: One hundred thousand muskets, fifty thousand
pikes: one hundred and fifty thousand hungry, frenzied men. No
longer do these call out with the fury of despair: &quot;Arms!
Give us arms!&quot; Rather do they shout : &quot;We'll not yield
while stone remains on stone of that cursed fortress.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  And the walls of the Bastille are nine feet thick.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  Can they be as much as shaken, even by a hurricane of grapeshot
and the roaring of a Siamese cannon? Commandant de Launay laughs
the very suggestion to scorn. He has less than a hundred and twenty
men to defend what is impregnable. Eighty or so veterans, old
soldiers who fought in the Seven Years' War, and not more than
thirty young Swiss. He has cannons concealed up on the battlements,
and piles of missiles and ammunition. Very few victuals, it is
true, but that is no matter. As soon as he opens fire on that
undisciplined mob, it will scatter as autumn leaves scatter in
the wind. And &quot;No Surrender!&quot; has already been his answer
to a deputation which came to him from the Town Hall in the early
morning, suggesting parley with the men of the National Guard,
the disciplined leaders of this riotous mob.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  &quot;No surrender!&quot; he reiterates with emphasis; &quot;rather
will I hurl myself down from these battlements into the ditch
three feet below, or blow up the fortress sky-high and half Paris
along with it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  And to show that he will be as good as his word, he takes up
a taper and stands for a time within arm's length of the powder
magazine. Only for a time, for poor old de Launay never did do
what he said he would. All he did just then was to survey the
tumulteous crowd below. They have begun the attack. Paris in revolt
opens fire on the 'accursed stronghold&quot; with volley after
volley of musket-fire from every corner of the Place and from
every surrounding window. De Launay thrusts the taper away, and
turns to his small garrison of veterans and young Swiss. Will
they fire on the mob if he gives the order? He has plied them
with drink, but feels doubtful of their temper. Anyway, the volley
of musket-fire cannot damage walls that are nine feet thick. 
&quot;We'll wait and see what happens,&quot; thinks Commandant
de Launay, but he does not rekindle the taper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  Just then a couple of stalwarts down below start an attack on
the outer drawbridge. De Launay knows them both for old soldiers,
one is a smith, the other a wheelright, both of them resolute
and strong as Hercules.  They climb on the roof of the guard-room
and with heavy axes strike against the chains of the drawbridge,
heedles of the rain of grapeshot around them. They strike and
strike again, with such force and such persistence that the chain
must presently break, seeing which de Launay turns to his veterans
and orders fire. The cannon gives one roar from the battlements,
and does mighty damage down below.  Paris in revolt has shed its
first blood and reaches the acme of its frenzy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
   The chains of the outer drawbridge yield and break and down
comes the bridge with a terrific clatter.  This first tangible
sign of victory is greeted with a delirious shout, and an umber
of insurgents headed by men of the National Guard swarm over the
drawbridge and into the outer court. Here they are met by Thuriot,
second in command, with a small bodygaurd.  He tries to parley
with them. No use of course. Paris now is no longer in revolt.
It is in revolution.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  The insurgents hustle and bustle Thuriot and his bodyguard out
of the way. They surge all over the outer court, up to the ditch
and the inner drawbridge. De Launay up on the battlements can
only guess what is happening down there. His veterans and young
Swiss stand by. Shall they fire, or wait till fired on? Indecision
is clearly written on their faces. De Launay picks up a taper
again, takes up his position once more within arm's length of
the powder magazine. Will he, after all, be as good as his word
and along with the impregnable stronghold blow half Paris up sky-high?
He might have done it. He said he would rather than surrender,
but he doesn't do it.  Why not? Who shall say? Was it destiny
that stayed his arm? destiny which no doubt  aeons ago had decreed
the downfall of this monument of autocratic sovereignty on his
fourteenth day of July, 1789.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  All that de Launay does is to order the veterans to fire once
more, and the cannons scatter death and mutilation among the aggressors,
whilst all kinds of missiles, pavingstones , old iron, granite
blocks are hurled down into the ditch, till it too is littered
with dead and dying.  The wounded in the Place are carried to
safety into adjoining streets, but so much blood has let a veritable
Bedlam loose. A cartload of straw is trundled over the outer drawbridge
into the court. Fire!  Conflagaration!  Paris in revolution had
not thought before of this way of subduing that &quot;cursed fortress&quot;,
but now fire! Fire everywhere!  The Bastille has not surrendered
yet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  Soon the guard-room is set ablaze, and the veterans' mess-room.
The fire spreads to one of the inner courts. De Launay still hovers
on the battlements, still declares that he will blow up half Paris
rather than surrender his fortress.  But he doesn't do it, and
a hundred feet below the conflagaration is threatening his last
entrenchments. The flames lick upwards ready to do the work which
old de Launay had sworn that he would do.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">  Inside the dungeons of the Bastille the prisoners,
lifewearied and indifferent, dream that a series of earthquakes
are shaking Paris, But what do they care? If these walls nine
feet thick should totter and fall and bury them under their ruins,
it would only mean for them the happy release of death. For hours
has this hellish din been going on. In the inner courtyard the
big clock continues to tick on; the seconds, the minutes, the
hours go by: five hours, perhaps six, and still the Bastille stands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  Up on the battlements the garrison is getting weary. The veterans
have been prone on the ground for over four hours making the cannons
roar , but now they are tired. They struggle to their feet and
stand sullen, with reversed muskets, whilst an old bearded sergeant
picks up a a tattered white flag and waves it in the commandant's
face. The Swiss down below do better than that. They open a porthole
in the inner drawbridge, and one man thrusts out a hand, grasping
a paper. It is seized upon by one of the National Guard. &quot;Terms
of Surrender,&quot; the Swiss cry as with one voice. The insurgents
press forward shouting: &quot;What are they?&quot; </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
   &quot;Immunity for all,&quot; is the reply.  &quot;Will you
accept?&quot; </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
   &quot;On the word of an officer we will.&quot;   It is an officer
of the National Guard who says this. Two days ago he was officer
in the Gardes Fran&ccedil;aises. His word must be believed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  And so the last drawbridge is lowered and Paris in delirious
joy rushes into the citadel crying: &quot;Victory! The Bastille
is ours!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter III<BR>
<BR>
ONE OF THE DERELICTS</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is best not to remember what followed. The
word of an officer, once of the Gardes Fran&ccedil;aises, was
not kept. Old veterans and young Swiss fell victims to the fury
of frenzied conquerors. Paris in revolution, drunk with its triumph,
plunged through the labyrinthine fortress, wreaking vengeance
for its dead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The prisoners were dragged out of their dungeons where some had
spent a quarter of a century and more in a living death. They
were let loose in a world they knew nothing of, a world that had
forgotten them. That miserable old de Launay and his escort of
officers were dragged to the Town Hall. But they never got there;
hustled by a yelling, hooting throng, the officers fell by the
wayside and were trampled to death in the gutters. Seeing which
de Launay cried pitiably : &quot;O friends, kill me fast.&quot;
He had his wish, the poor old weakling, and all of him that reached
the Town Hall was his head carried aloft on a pike.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
To the credit of the Gardes Nationales, once the Royal Regiment
of Gardes Fran&ccedil;aises, be it said that they marched back
to their barracks in perfect order and discipline; it was this
same Garde Nationale who plied hoses on the conflagration inside
the fortress and averted an explosion which would have wrecked
more than a third of the city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But no one took any notice of the liberated prisoners. A dozen
or so of them were let loose in this World-Bedlam, left to roam
about the streets, trying all in vain to gather up threads of
life long since turned to dust. The fall of the mighty fortress
put to light many of its grim secrets, some horrible, others infinitely
pathetic, some carved in the stone of a dank dungeon, others scribbled
on scraps of mouldy paper.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<BLOCKQUOTE>
  <P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If for my consolation&quot; [ was the
  purport of one of these] &quot;Monseigneur would grant me for
  the sake of God and the Blessed Trinity, that I could have news
  of my dear wife: were it only her name on a card to show that
  she is alive. It were the greatest consolation I could receive,
  and I would for ever bless the greatness of Monseigneur.&quot;</FONT></P>
  <P>&nbsp;</P></BLOCKQUOTE>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The letter is dated &quot;A la Bastille le
7 Octobre 1752&quot; and signed Qu&eacute;ret-D&eacute;mery. Thirty-seven
years spent in a dark dugeon with no hope of reunion with that
dear wife, news of whom would have been a solace to the broken
heart. History has no record of one Qu&eacute;ret-D&eacute;mery
who spent close on half a century in the &quot;cursed fortress.&quot;
What he had done to merit his fate no one will ever know. He <I>was</I>:
that is all we know and that he spent a lifetime in agonized longing
and ever-shrinking hope.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One can picture him now on this evening of July 14th turned out
from that prison which had become his only home, the shelter of
his old age, and wandering with mind impaired and memory gone,
through the streets of a city he hardly knew again. Wandering
with only one fixed aim: to find the old home where he had known
youth and happiness, and the love of his dear wife. Dead or Alive?
Did he find her? History has no record. Qu&eacute;ret-D&eacute;mery
was just an obscure, forgotten victim of an autocratic rule, sending
his humble petition which was never delivered, to &quot;Monseigneur.&quot;
Monseigneur who? Imagination is lost in conjecture. The profligate
Philippe d'Orleans or one of his like? Who can tell?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The attempt to follow the adventures or misadvantures
of those thirteen prisoners let loose in the midst of Paris in
revolution, would be vain. There were thirteen, it seems. An unlucky
number. Again history is silent as to what became to twelve of
their number. Only one stands out among the thirteen in subsequent
chronicles of the times: a woman. The only woman among the lot.
Her name was Gabrielle Damiens. At least that is the name she
went by later on, but she never spoke publicly either of her origin
or of her parentage. She had forgotten; so she often said. One
does forget things when one has spent sixteen years- one's best
years- living a life that is so like death. She certainly forgot
what she did that night after she had been turned out into the
world: she must have wandered through the streets as did the others,
trying to find her way to a place somewhere in the city, which
had once been her home. But where she slpet then, and for many
nights after that she never knew, until the day when she found
herself opposite a house in the Boulevard Saint-Germain: a majestic
house with an elaborate coronet and coat of arms carved in stone,
surmounting the monumental entrance door: and the device also
carved in stone: &quot;N'oublie jamais.&quot; Seeing which Gabrielle's
wanderings came to a sudden halt, and she stood quite still in
the gutter opposite the house, staring up at the coronet, the
caot of arms and the device. &quot;N'oublie jamais,&quot; she
murmured. &quot;Jamais!&quot; she reiterated with a curious throaty
sound which was neither a cry nor a laugh, but was both in one.
&quot;No, Monsieur le Marquis de Saint-Lucque de Tourville,&quot;
she continued to murmur to herself, &quot;Gabrielle Damiens will
see to it that you and your brood never shall forget.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a bench opposite the house under the trees of the boulevard
and Gabrielle sat down not because she was tired but because she
had a good view of the coronet and the device over the front door.
Desultory crowds paraded the boulevard laughing and shouting &quot;Victory!&quot;
Most of them had been standing for hours in queues outside the
bakers' shops, but not everyone had been served with bread. There
was not enough to go round, hence the reason why with the cry
of &quot;Victory!&quot; there mingled one which sounded like an
appeal, and also like a threat: </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bread! Give us bread!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Gabrielle watched them unseeing. She too had stood for the past
few days in queues, getting what food she could. She had a little
money. Where it came from she didn't know. She had a vague recollection
of scrubbing floors and washing dishes, so perhaps the money came
from that, or a charitable person may have had pity on her: anyway
she was neither hungry nor tired, and she was willing to remain
here on this bench for an indefinite length of time trying to
piece together the fragments of the past from out the confused
storehouse of memory.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She saw herself as a child, living almost as a pariah on the charity
of relatives who never allowed her to forget her father's crime
or his appaling fate. They always spoke of him as &quot;that abominable
regicide,&quot; which he certainly was not. Fran&ccedil;ois Damiens
was just a misguided fool, a religious fanatic who saw in the
profligate, dissolute monarch, the enemy of France, and struck
at him not, he asserted, with a view to murdering his King but
just to frighten him and to warn him of the people's growing resentment
against his life of immorality. Madness of course. His assertion
was obviously true since the weapon which he used was an ordinary
pocketknife and did no more than scratch the royal shoulder. But
he had struck at the King and royal blood had flown from the scratch,
staining the royal shirt. In punishment for this sacrilege, Damiens
was hung, drawn and quartered, but to the end, in spite of abominable
tortures which he bore stoically, he maintained steadfastly that
he had no accomplice and had acted entirely on his own initiative.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fran&ccedil;ois Damiens had left his motherless
daughter in the care of a married sister Ursule and her husband
Anatole Des&egrave;ze, a cabinet-maker, who earned a precarious
livelihood and begrudged the child every morsel she ate. Gabrielle
from earliest childhood had known what hunger meant and the bitter
cold of a Paris of winter, often without a fire, always without
sufficient clothing. She had relaxation only in sleep and never
any kind of childish amusement. The only interests she had in
life was to gaze up at an old box fashioned of carved wood, which
stood on a shelf in the living-room, high up against the wall,
out of her reach. This box for some unknown reason, chiefly because
she had never been allowed to touch it, had always fascinated
her. It excited her childish curiosity to that extent that on
one occasion when her uncle and aunt were out of the house, she
managed to drag the table close to the wall, to hoist a chair
upon the table, to climb up on the chair and to stretch her little
arms out in a vain attempt to reach the tempting box. The attempt
was a complete fiasco. The chair slid away from under her on the
polished table, and she fell with a clatter and a crash to the
floor, bruised all over her body and her head swimming after it
had struck against the edge of the table. To make matters worse,
she felt so queer and giddy that she had not the strenght at once
to put the table and chair back in their accustomed places. Aunt
and uncle came back and at once guessed the cause of the catastrophe,
with the result that in addition to bruises and an aching head
Gabrielle got a sound beating and was threatened with a more severe
one still if she ever dared to try and interfere with the mysterious
box again. She was ten years old when this disastrous incident
occurred. Cowed and fearfull she never made a second attempt to
satisfy her curiosity. She drilled herself into avoiding to cast
the merest glance up on the shelf. But though she was able to
control her eyes, she could not control her mind, and her mind
continued to dwell on the mystery of that fatal box.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was not until she reached the age of sixteen that she lost
something of her terror of another beating. She was a strapping
girl by then, strong and tall for her age and unusually good-looking
inspite of poor food and constant overwork. Her second attempt
was entirely succesful. Uncle and aunt were out of the way, table
and chair were easily moved and Gabrielle waas now tall enough
to reach the shelf and lift down the box. It was locked, but after
a brief struggle with the aid of an old kitchen knife the lid
fell back and revealed- what? A few old papers tied up in three
small bundles. One of these bundles was marked with the name &quot;Saint-Lucque,&quot;
a name quite unknown to Gabrielle. She turned these papers- they
were letters apparently- over and over, conscious of an intense
feeling of disappointment. What she had expected to find she didn't
know but it certainly wasn't this.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The girl however, was no fool. Soon her wits got to work. They
told her that, obviously, if these old letters were of no importance
to her, Aunt Ursule would not have kept them all these years out
of her reach. As time was getting on and uncle and aunt might
be back at any moment, she made haste to replace the box on the
shelf, carefully disguising the damamge done by the kitchen knife.
Chair and table she put back in their accustomed places and the
old letters she tucked away under the folds of her fichu. By this
time she had worked herself up into a fever of conjecture, but
she had sufficient control over herself to await with apparent
calm the moment when she could persue the letters in the privacy
of her own room. She had never been allowed to have a candle in
the evenings, because there was a street-lamp opposite the window
which, as Aunt Ursule said, was quite light enough to go to bed
by. Gabrielle hated that street-lamp because as there were no
curtains to the window, the glare often prevented her getting
to sleep, but on this never-to-be-forgotten night she blessed
it. Far into the next morning sitting by the open window, did
the daughter of Fran&ccedil;ois Damiens read and re-read those
old letters by the flickering light of the street-lamp. When the
lamp was extinguished she still remained sitting by the window
scheming and dreaming until the pale light of dawn enabled her
to read and read again. For what did those old letters reveal?
They revealed the fact that her unfortunate father who had been
sent to his death as a regicide had not been alone in his design
against the King. The crime- for so it was called- had been instigated
and aided by a body of noble gentlemen who like himself saw in
the profligate monarch the true enemy of France. But whilst Damiens
bore loyally and in silence the brunt of this conspiracy, whilst
he endured torture and went to his death like a hero, those noble
gentlemen had remained immune and left their miserable tool to
his fate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
All this Gabrielle Damiens learned during those wakeful hours
of the night. A great deal of it was of course mere inference;
the letters were all addressed to her father apparently by three
gentlemen, two of whom with commendable prudence had refrained
from appending their signature. But there was one name &quot;Saint-Lucque&quot;
which appeared at the foot of some letters more damnatory than
most. Before the rising sun had flooded the towers of Notre Dame
with gold Gabrielle had committed these to memory.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yes! Memory was reawakened now, and busy after
all these years unravelling the tangled skein of the past. Sitting
here on the boulevard opposite the stately mansion with the coat
of arms and the device &quot;N'oublie Jamais&quot; carved in stone
above its portal, Gabrielle saw herself as she was during the
three years following her fateful discovery. Her first task had
been to make a copy of the letters in a clean and careful hand,
after which there were the days spent in establishing the identity
of &quot;Saint-Lucque&quot; and tracing his whereabouts. M. le
Marquis de Saint-Lucque turned out to be one of the greatest gentlemen
in France, attached to the Court of His Majesty King Louis XV.
He lived in a palatial masion on the Boulevard Saint-Germain ans
was a widower with one son. His association with Fran&ccedil;ois
Damiens had seemingly never been found out. Presumably the whole
episode was forgotten by now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 Then there came the great day when Gabrielle first called on
Monsieur le Marquis. It was not easy for a girl of her class to
obtain an interview with so noble a gentlemen, and at once Gabrielle
was confronted with a regular barrage of lackeys, all intent apparently
on preventing her acces to their master. &quot;No, certainly not,&quot;
was the final pronouncement of the major-domo, a very great gentleman
indeed in this lordly establishment, &quot;you cannot present
yourself before Monsieur le Marquis, he will not see you.&quot;
Gabrielle conscious of her personal charm tried blandishments,
but these were of no avail, and undoubtedly she would have failed
in her purpose had not Monsieur le Vicomte, son and heir of Monsieur
le Marquis, come unexpectedly upon the scene. He was in riding
kit. An exceptionally handsome young man, and apparantly more
impressionable than the severe major-domo. Here was a lovely girl
whose glance was nothing less than a challenge, and she wanted
something which was being denied her by a lot of louts. Whatever
it was, thought the handsome Vicomte, she must have her wish;
preliminary, he added to himself with an appraising look directed
at the pretty creature, to his getting what he would want in return
for his kind offices. There was an exchange of glances between
the two young people and a few moments later Gabrielle was ushered
into the presence of Monsieur le Marquis de Saint-Lucque by a
humbled and bewildered major-domo. Monsieur le Vicomte  had given
the order, and there was no disobeying him.  &quot;I'll wait for
you here,&quot; he whispered in the girl's ear, indicating a door
on the same landing. She lowered her eyes, put on the airs of
a demure country wench, and disappeared within the forbidden precincts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  The first interview with the old aristocrat was distinctly stormy.
There was a great deal of shouting at first on his part. A stick
was raised. A bell was rung. But Gabrielle held her grounds: very
calmly, produced the copy of a damnatory letter, and presently
the shouting ceased, the stick was lowered, and the lackey dismissed
who came in answer to the bell. The letter doubtless brought up
vivid and most unpleasant memories of the past.  Presently a bargain
was struck, money passed from hand to hand- quite a good deal
of money, more than Gabrielle had ever seen in all her life, and
the interview ended with a promise on her part to destroy all
the original letters. She was to bring them to Monsieur le Marquis
the next day and burn them before his eyes. She trotted off with
the money safely tucked away in the fold of her fichu. The handsome
Vicomte was waiting for her, and she duly paid the tribute which
he demanded of her. But she did not call on the old the old Marquis
either the next day, or the day after that, or ever again, because
a week later Monsieur le Marquis de Saint-Lucque had a paralytic
stroke, and thereafter remained bedridden for over four years
until the day when he was laid to rest among his ancestors in
the family mausoleum in Artois.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  In the meantime Gabrielle Damiens's relationship with Vicomte
Fernand de Saint-Lucque had become very tender. He was for the
time being entirely under the charm of the fascinating blackmailer,
unaware of the ugly role she had been playing against his father.
He had fitted up what he called a love-nest for her in a rustic
chalet in the environs of Versailles and here she lived in the
greatest luxury, visited constantly by the Vicomte, who loaded
her with money and jewellery to such an extent that she forgot
all about her contemplated source of revenue through the medium
of the compromising letters. </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 Everything then was going on very well with the daughter of Fran&ccedil;ois
Damiens. Her uncle and aunt with the philosophy peculiar to <I>hoc
genus omne </I>of their country were only too ready to approve
of a situation which contributed largely to their well-being,
for Gabrielle, ready to forget the cavalier way in which she had
been treated in the past, was not only generous but lavish in
her gifts to them. And all went well indeed for nearly three years
until the day when Fernand de Saint-Lucque became weary of the
tie which bound him to the rather common and exacting beauty and
gave her a decisive if somewhat curt cong&eacute;, together with
a goodly sum of money which he considered sufficient as a solace
to her wounded vanity. The blow fell so unexpectedly that at first
Gabrielle felt absolutely stunned. It came at a moment when, deluded
into believing that she had completely enslaved her highborn lover,
she saw visions of being herself one day Vicomtesse and subsequently
Marquise de Saint-Lucque de Tourville, received at Court, the
queen and leader of Paris society.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  She certainly did not look upon the Vicomte's partin gift as
sufficient solace for her disappointment. It would not do much
more than pay her debts to dressmakers, milliners and jewellers.
With the prodigality peculiar to her kind she had spent money
as freely and easily as she had earned it. She had, of course,
some valuable jewellery, but this she would not sell, and the
future, as she presently surveyed it, looked anything but cheerful.
Soon, however, her sound common sense came to the rescue. She
took, as it were, stock of her resources, and in the process remembered
the letters on which she had counted three years ago as the foundation
of her fortunes. She turned her back without a pang on the rustic
chalet, no longer a love-nest now, and returned to her uncle and
aunt, in whom she now felt compelled to confide the secret of
her disappointment in the present and of her hopes of the future.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 She made a fresh attempt to see the old Marquis. Then only did
she learn of his sickness and the hopeless state of mind and body
in which he now was. But this did not daunt Gabrielle Damiens.
Her scheme of blackmail could no longer be succesfully directed
against the father, but there was the son, the once enamoured
Vicomte, her adoring slave, now nothing but an arrogant aristocrat,
treating the humble little bourgeoise as if she were dirt and
dismissing her out of his life with nothing but a miserable pittance.
Well! He should pay for it, pay so heavily that not only his fortune
but also his life would be wrecked in the process. Moreover, she,
the daughter of that same Fran&ccedil;ois Damiens, who had been
dubbed the regicide and died a horrible death, would see her ambition
fulfilled and herself paid court to and the hem of germent kissed
by obsequious courtiers, when she was Madame la Marquise de Saint-Lucque
de Tourville.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 She started on her campaign without delay. A humble request for
an interview with M. le Vicomte was at first curtly refused, but
when it was renewed with certain veiled threats it was conceded.
Armed with the copies of the damnatory letters Gabrielle demanded
money first and then marriage. Yes! no less a thing than marriage
to the hier of one of the greatest names in France, failing which
the letters would be sent to the Comte de Meaurevaisre, Chief
of the Secret Police of His Majesty the King.  Well! When Fernand
de Saint-Lucque had dismissed her, Gabrielle, with a curt word
of farewell, he had dealt her a blow which had completely knocked
her over. But it was her turn now to retaliate.  He tried to carry
off the affair in his usual high-handed manner. He began with
sarcasm, went with bravado, and ended with threats. Gabrielle
stood as she had done three years ago before the old Marquis.
Already she felt conscious of victory, because she had seen the
look almost like a death-mask which had come over Fernand de Saint-Lucque's
face when he took in the contents of this the first of the fateful
letters. When she held it out to him he had waved her hand aside
with disdain. She placed it on the table, and waited until natural
curiosity impelled him to pick it up. He did it with a contemptuous
shrug, held it as if it were filth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  But the look so like a death-mask soon spread over his face.
He did his best to disguise it, but Gabrielle had seen it and
felt convinced that victory was already in sight.  She left, not
taking any money away with her, not exacting any promise at the
moment save that her victim- he was her victim already- would
see her once more. He had commanded her to bring the letters:
&quot;Not the copies remember! The originals!&quot; which the
Vicomte declared with all his old arrogance did not exist save
in the imagination of a cinderwench.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  For days and weeks after that first interview did Gabrielle
Damines keep the Vicomte de Saint-Lucque on tednerhooks without
going near him. The old Marquis was still alive, slowly sinking,
with one foot in the grave, and Gabrielle hugged herself with
thoughts of the hier of that great name writhing under the threat
of disgrace to the head of the house, disgrace followed by confiscation
of all his goods, exile from court and country, his name for ever
branded with the stigma of regicide: disgrace which would redound
on his heir and on all his family, and migh even be the stepping
stone to an ignominious death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 When Gabrielle felt that Fernand had suffered long enough she
sent him a harsh command  for another interview. Devoured with
anxiety, he was only too ready to accede. She came this time in
a mood as arrogant as his own, exacting writtenpromise of marriage:
the date of the wedding to be fixed here and now. She did not
bring the original letters with her. They would, she said curtly,
be handed over to him when she, Gabrielle Damines, was incontestably
Vicomtesse de Saint-Lucque de Tourville.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 Fernand at his wits' end did not know what to do. He tried pretence:
a softened manner as if he was prepared to yield. Quite gently
and persuasively he explained to her that whatever his ultimate
decision might be- and he gave her to understand that it certainly
would be favourable- he was compelled at the moment to ask for
a few days delay.  He had been, he said, paying court to a lady,
at His Majesty's express wish, had in fact become officially engaged,
and all he needed was a little time for the final breaking off
of his obligations. In the meanwhile he was ready, he said, to
give her a written promise of marriage duly signed, the wedding
to take place within the next three months.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 As usual Gabrielle's common sense warned her of a possible trap.
The Vicomte had made a very sudden <I>volte-face </I>and had become
extraordinarily suave and engaging.  He even went to length of
assuring her that he never ceased to love her, and that it was
only at the King's command that he had become engaged to the lady
in question.  The breaking off of that engagement, he declared
in conclusion, would cause him no heartache. A little doubtful,
inclined to mistrust this plausible dissembler, Gabrielle remained
impervious to his blandishments, even when she suddenly found
herself in his arms, under the once potent spell of his kisses.
No longer potent now. She smiled back into his glowing eyes, accepted
the written promise of marriage and endured his kisses while keeping
her wits about her. When she finally freed herself from his arms
she merely assured him that the compromising letters would be
returned to him when she had become his lawful wife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"> She trotted home that afternoon happy and
triumphant with the written promise of marriage duly signed &quot;Fernand
de Saint-Lucque de Tourville&quot; safely tucked away in the folds
of her fichu.  Aunt Ursule and Uncle Des&egrave;ze congratulated
her on her triumph, and the three of them sat up half the night
making plans for a golden future.  Aunt and uncle would have a
farm with cows and horses and pigs, a beautiful garden and plenty
of money to give themselves every luxury.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  &quot;You need never be afraid of the future,&quot; Gabrielle
declared proudly. &quot;I'll never be such a fool as to give up
the original letters. Even when I am Marquise de Saint-Lucque
I will always keep that hold over my husband.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"> There ensued four days of perfect bliss, unmarred
by doubts or fears. They were destined to be the last moments
of happiness the blackmailer was ever to know in life.  Saint-Lucque,
whose engagement to Mademoiselle de Nesle had not only been approved
of but actually desired by the King, was nearly crazy with terror
at the awful sword of Damocles hanging over his head.  Not knowing
where to turn or what to do he finally made up his mind to confide
the whole of the miserable story to his future mother-in-law,
the person most likely to be both discreet abd helpful. Madame
de Nesle was just then in high favour with the King, whose daughter
Mademoiselle was reputed to be, and she was just as anxious as
was His Majesty to see the girl married to the bearer of a great
name who would secure for her the <I>entre&eacute; </I>to the
most exclusive circles of aristocratic France. One could not,
Madame declared emphatically, allow a dirty blackmailer to come
athwart the royal plans, and at once she suggested a <I>lettre
de cachet </I>, one of those abominable sealed orders which consigned
any person accused of an offence against the King to lifelong
imprisonment, without the formality of a trail.  She was confident
that she could obtain anything she desired from her adoring Louis,
and anyhow incarceration in the Bastille was the only way of silencing
that audacious malefactor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
  And Madame was as good as her word.  Four days later Gabrielle
Damiens saw herself cast into a cell in the Bastille. All her
possessions were seized by the men who came to arrest her. Pinioned
between two of them she watched the other two turning out her
table drawers, and pocket everything they found there, including
the precious letters, the promise of marriage and the pieces of
jewellery which she had saved from the <I>d&eacute;b&acirc;cle
</I>of the love-nest. Neither tears, nor protest, nor blandishments
were of any avail. Her demands for a trail were met with stolid
silence, her questions were not answered. She had become a mere
chattel cast into a dungeon, there to remain till she was carried
out, feet first, to be thrown into an unknown grave. She never
knew what had become of her aunt and uncle, nor did she ever hear
the name of Saint-Lucque mentioned again while she spent her best
years in a living death. </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
 Gabrielle Damiens was nineteen years old when this catastrophe
occurred. Sixteen years had gone by since then. <BR>
<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery">London 1794</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell me more about that young woman,
Blakeney.&nbsp; She interests me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the Prince of Wales who spoke.&nbsp;
He was honouring Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney with his presence
at dinner in their beautiful home in Richmond.&nbsp; The dinner
was over; the ladies had retired leaving the men to enjoy their
port and their gossip.&nbsp; It had been a small and intimate
dinner-party and after the ladies had gone only half a dozen men
were left sitting round the table.&nbsp; In addition to the host
and the royal guest, there were present on this occasion four
of the more prominent members of that heroic organization known
as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel:&nbsp; Lord Anthony Dewhurst,
my Lord Hastings and Sir Philip Glynde, also Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
his chief's right hand and loyal lieutenant, newly wed to Mademoiselle
Suzanne de Tournay, one of the fortunate ones whom the League
had succeeded in rescuing from the horrors of revolutionary France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Without waiting for a reply to his command,
His Royal Highness went on meditatively:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I suppose Paris is like hell just now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;With the lid off, sir,&quot;&nbsp; was
Blakeney's caustic comment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And not only Paris,&quot; Sir Andrew
added; &quot;Nantes under that fiendish Carrier runs it close.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As for the province of Artois--&quot;
mused my Lord Hastings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is where that interesting young
woman takes a hand in the devilish work, isn't that it, Blakeney?&quot;
the Prince interposed.&nbsp; &quot;You were about to tell us something
more about her.&nbsp; I confess there is something that thrills
one in that story in spite of oneself.&nbsp; The idea of a woman--&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His Highness broke off and resumed after a
moment or two:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is she young and good-looking?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Young?&nbsp; No sir,&quot; Blakeney answered.&nbsp;
&quot;Nearer forty than thirty, I should say.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And not good-looking?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She must have been at one time.&nbsp;
But sixteen years in the Bastille has modified all that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sixteen years!&quot; His Highness ejaculated.&nbsp;
&quot;What in the world had she done?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It has been a little difficult to get
to the bottom of her story.&nbsp; But I was interested.&nbsp;
So were we all, weren't we, Ffoulkes?&nbsp; As you say, sir, there
is something thrilling-horrible really-in the idea of a woman
performing the revolting task of a public executioner.&nbsp; For
that is Gabrielle Damiens's calling at the moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Damiens?&quot; His Highness mused; &quot;the
name sounds vaguely familiar.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Perhaps you will remember sir, that some
twenty-five years ago a kind of religious maniac named Fran&ccedil;ois
Damiens created a sensation by slashing the late King with a penknife,
without doing real harm, of course; but for this so-called crime
he was condemned to death, hung, drawn and quartered.&nbsp; He
maintained to the end, even under torture, that he had acted entirely
on his own and that he never had any accomplice.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! I remember the story now.&nbsp;
And this female executioner is his daughter?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His only child.&nbsp; She was only a
baby at the time.&nbsp; As far as we have been able to unravel
the tangled skein of this extraordinary tragi-comedy, Damiens
bequeathed her a packet of old letters which involved the old
Marquis de Saint-Lucque-the father of the present man-in that
ridiculous conspiracy.&nbsp; Armed with these the girl-she was
only sixteen at the time-started a campaign of blackmail, first
against the old Marquis and, when he became bedridden, against
his son, who, I understand, was deeply in love with her at one
time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What a complication!&nbsp; But go on,
man.&nbsp; Your story is as interesting as a novel by that French
fellow Voltaire.&nbsp; Well!&quot;&nbsp; His Highness continued,
&quot;and what happened to the blackmailer?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The usual thing sir.&nbsp; Saint-Lucque
got tired of his liaison, broke it off, became engaged to Mademoiselle
de Nesle . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Good old Louis's daughter, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Supposed to be,&quot; Blakeney replied
curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I remember Madame de Nesle,&quot; His
Highness mused.&nbsp; A beautiful woman!&nbsp; She even made the
du Barry jealous.&nbsp; I was in Paris at the time.&nbsp; And
her daughter married Saint-Lucque, of course . . . I remember!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then you can guess the rest of the story,
sir.&nbsp; Madame de Nesle wanted her daughter's marriage to take
place.&nbsp; She had great influence over the King, and obtained
from him one of those damnable lettres de cachet which did effectually
silence the blackmailer by keeping her locked up in the Bastille
without trial and without a chance of appeal.&nbsp; There she
would have ended her days had not the revolutionaries captured
the Bastille and liberated the prisoners.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Most interesting!&nbsp; Most interesting!&nbsp;
And how did the blackmailer become the executioner?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By easy stages, sir.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What was she like when she came out,
one wonders.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Like a raging tigress.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Naturally.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Vowing before anyone who cared to listen
that she would make Saint-Lucque and all his brood pay eye for
eye and tooth for tooth.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That was inevitable, of course,&quot;
the Prince mused, &quot;and not difficult to accomplish these
days.&nbsp; I suppose,&quot; he went on, &quot;that this Gabrielle
Damiens has already got herself mixed up with the worst of the
revolutionary rabble.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She certainly has.&nbsp; She began by
joining in the crowd of ten thousand women who marched to Versailles
demanding food.&nbsp; She seized a drum from one of the guard-rooms
in the suburb where she lived, and paraded the streets beating
the Generale and shouting: 'Bread! we must have bread! . . .'
and 'Come, mothers, with your starving children . . .' and so
on.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You weren't there, were you, Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I was, sir.&nbsp; Tony, Ffoulkes and
I were the guests of the King that day at Versailles.&nbsp; We
saw it all.&nbsp; It was the queerest crowd, wasn't it, Tony?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It certainly was,&quot; my Lord Tony
agreed lightly; &quot;fat fishwives from the Halles, chambermaids
shouldering their brooms, pale-faced milliners and apple-cheeked
country wenches.&nbsp; All sorts and conditions.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And this Damiens woman was among them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She led them, sir,&quot; Blakeney replied,
&quot;with her drum.&nbsp; The whole thing was really pathetic.&nbsp;
Food in Paris was very scarce and very dear and there were many
cases of actual starvation.&nbsp; The trouble was, too, that the
Queen had chosen to give a huge banquet the day before to the
officers of the army of Flanders who came over to take the place
of certain disloyal regiments.&nbsp; Three hundred and fifty guests
sat down to a Gargantuan feast, ate and drank till the small hours
of the morning.&nbsp; It was most injudicious to say the least.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Wretched woman!&quot; the Prince put
in with a sigh; &quot;she always seemed to do the wrong thing
even in those days.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And did so to the end, poor woman,&quot;
one of the others observed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Was that the banquet you told me about,
Blakeney, where you first met your adorable wife?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was, sir,&quot; Blakeney replied,
while a wonderfully soft look came into his lazy blue eyes, as
it always did when Marguerite's name was as much as mentioned.&nbsp;
It was only a flash, however.&nbsp; The next moment he added casually:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And where I first saw Mam'zelle Guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Such a funny name,&quot;&nbsp; His Highness
remarked.&nbsp; &quot;As a rule they speak of Madame Guillotine
over there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gabrielle deserves the name, sir, odious
as it sounds.&nbsp; I have been told that she has guillotined
over a hundred men and women and even a number of children with
her own hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then as they all remained silent, unable to
pass any remark on this horrible statement, Sir Percy went on:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After the march on Versailles she became
more and more prominent in the revolutionary movement.&nbsp; Marat
became her close friend and gave her all the publicity she wanted
in his paper L'ami du Peuple.&nbsp; I know for a fact that she
actually took a hand in the wholesale massacre of prisoners the
September before last.&nbsp; Robespierre thinks all the world
of her oratory, and she has spoken more than once at the Club
des Jacobins and at the Cordeliers.&nbsp; I listened on several
occasions to the harangues which she likes to deliver in the Palais
Royal Gardens, standing on a table with a pistol in each hand
as Camille Desmoulins used to do.&nbsp; They were the most inflammatory
speeches I ever heard.&nbsp; And clever, too.&nbsp; The sixteen
years she spent in the Bastille did not dull her wits seemingly.&nbsp;&nbsp;
Finally,&quot; Blakeney concluded, &quot;Robespierre got her appointed
last year, at her own request, public executioner in his native
province of Artois, and there she has been active ever since.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was silence round the festive board after
that.&nbsp; They were all men here who had seen much of the seamy
side of life.&nbsp; Even His Highness had had experiences which
do not usually come in the way of royal personages, and he was
the only non-member of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel who
knew the identity of its heroic chief.&nbsp; His eyes now rested
with an expression of ill-concealed affection and admiration on
that chief, whom he honoured with his especial friendship.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He raised his glass of port and sipped it thoughtfully
before he spoke again, then he said with an attempt at gaiety:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know what you are thinking at this
moment, Blakeney.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, your Highness?&quot; Sir Percy retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That Mam'zelle Guillotine will soon be
. . . what shall we say? . . . lying in the arms of the Scarlet
Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This sally made everybody laugh, and conversation
presently drifted into other channels.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER V</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">A SOCIAL EVENT
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There are many records extant to-day of the
wonderful rout offered to the &eacute;lite of French and English
society in London by Her Grace the Duchesse de Roncevaux in her
sumptuous house in St. James's Square. The date I believe was
somewhere in January, 1794. The decorations, the flowers, the
music, the banquet-supper surpassed in magnificence, it is asserted
by chroniclers of the time, anything that had ever been seen in
the ultra-fashionable world.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Duchesse, as everybody knows, was English
by birth, daughter of Reuben Meyer, the banker, and immensely
rich. His Grace the Duc de Roncevaux, first cousin to the royal
house of Bourbon, married her not only for her wealth but principally
because he was genuinely in love with her. His name and popularity
at court secured for his wife a brilliant position in Paris society
during the declining years of the monarchy, whilst his charming
personality and always deferential love-making brought her a full
measure of domestic happiness. He left her an inconsolable widow
after five years of married bliss. The revolutionary storm was
by then already gathering over France. The English-born Duchesse
thought it best to return to her own country, before the cloud-burst
which appeared more and more threatening every day. She chose
London as her principal home, and here with the aid of her wealth
and a heart overflowing with the milk of human kindness she did
her best to gather round her those more fortunate French families
who had somehow contrived to escape from the murderous clutches
of the revolutionary government of France. Thus a delightful set
of charming cultured people could always be met with in the Duchesse
de Roncevaux's luxurious <I>salons</I>. Here one rubbed shoulders
with some of the members of the old French aristocracy now dispossessed
of most if not all their wealth, but bringing into the somewhat
free-and-easy tone of eighteenth-century London something of their
perfect manners, their old-world courtesy and that atmosphere
of high-breeding and distinction handed down to them by generations
of courtiers. The Comte de Tournay with Madame his wife and their
son the young Vicomte were often to be seen at these social gatherings.
Mademoiselle de Tournay had recently married Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
the handsome young leader of fashion, who was credited with being
a member of the heroic League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. There
was F&eacute;licien L&eacute;zenne, who had been chairman of the
Club des Fils du Royaume, his young wife and Monsieur de Lucines,
his father-in-law, who were actually known to have been saved
from the guillotine by that mysterious and elusive person the
Scarlet Pimpernel himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were others, of course, for the list
of refugees from revolutionary France waxed longer day by day
and all found a welcome in the Duchesse de Roncevaux's hospitable
mansion; and not only did they find a welcome but also a measure
of gaiety! for the daughter of Reuben Meyer the Jewish banker
had understanding as well as social ambition. Her aim was to make
her <I>salon</I> the most attractive one in town, and what society
could be more attractive than that of those French aristocrats,
most of whom had palpitating stories to tell of past horrors,
of dangers of death, and, above all, of those almost phenomenal
rescues of condemned innocents sometimes under the very shadow
of the guillotine, effected by that heroic organization known
as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel and its lion-hearted chief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To hear one of those deeds of unparalleled
courage recounted by one of those who owed their lives to that
intriguing personality was voted unanimously to be far more exciting
than a melodrama at Drury Lane, and the Duchesse de Roncevaux
could always be relied on to provide her guests with one of those
soul-stirring narrations which caused every velvet cheek to flush
with enthusiasm and every bright eye to glow with hero-worship.
There were other entertainments too to be enjoyed in the sumptuous
mansion in St. James's Square, there were operas, ballets, comedies,
concerts: young musicians often made their first formal bow before
a discriminating company which often included the Prince of Wales
himself and the &eacute;lite of English society, and more than
one disciple of the late Mr. Garrick first tasted the sweets of
success in the Duchesse's <I>salon</I>. But none of these entertainments
had the power to excite interest as did the relation of one of
those hair-raising exploits of the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel,
told with fervour and a charming French accent by whoever happened
to be the honoured guest of the evening.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On this occasion it was the abb&eacute; Prud'hon,
lately come from France in the company of Monsieur le Marquis
de Saint-Lucque and the young Vicomte. The arrival of Monsieur
de Saint-Lucque had been a real event in the chronicle of London
society. He was known to have been saved from death by the hero
of the hour: in fact, he and the abb&eacute; had proclaimed this
openly, and everybody--the men as well as the ladies--had been
on tenterhooks to hear the true version of their amazing rescue.
All sorts of rumours had been afloat, as they always were whenever
a French family came to join the colony of recent <I>&eacute;migr&eacute;s</I>
who had found refuge in hospitable England. Everyone was agog
to know how they had been smuggled out of France, for that was
what it amounted to. Men, women and children, the old, the infirm,
whenever innocent seemed literally to have been snatched from
under the very noses of the revolutionary guard, and this led
to all sorts of tales, medieval in their superstitious extravagance,
of direct interference from the clouds or of a supernatural being,
of unearthly appearance and abnormal strength who scattered revolutionary
soldiers before him as easily as he would a swarm of flies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a first-class sensation in fashionable
circles when Madame la Duchesse de Roncevaux issued invitations
for one of her popular routs. The invitation promised a concert
by the London String Band, a playlet to be performed by His Majesty's
mummers, and a supper prepared by Monsieur Haon formerly cook-in-chief
to Madame de Pompadour. But all these attractions paled in interest
before the one brief announcement: &quot;Guest of Honour: M. l'Abb&eacute;
Prud'hon.&quot; Everyone in town knew by now that M. l'Abb&eacute;
Prud'hon was tutor to the young Vicomte de Saint-Lucque and had
been summarily arrested along with him and M. le Marquis by the
revolutionary government under the usual futile pretext of having
plotted against the safety of the Republic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The <I>salons</I> of Madame la Duchesse de
Roncevaux were thronged on this occasion as they had never been
before, and there was such a chattering up and down the monumental
staircase as the guests filed up to greet their hostess, as in
an aviary of love-birds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My dear, isn't it too wonderful?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I declare I am so excited, I don't know
if I am standing on my head or on my heels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know I shall scream if that London
String Band goes on too long.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I call it cruel to put them on before
we have heard M. l'Abb&eacute;.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush! you mustn't say that. The dear
Duchesse had them only in order to bring our blood to boiling
point.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mine has been over boiling point all
day, and I am on the verge of spontaneous combustion.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By ten o'clock all the guests had arrived,
and the hostess, wearied after standing for over an hour at the
head of the staircase receiving the company, had retired to the
rose-coloured boudoir where His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,
Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney, Sir Andrew and Lady Ffoulkes and
a small number of the more privileged guests were discussing the
coming event somewhat more soberly than did the gaily plumaged
birds in the adjoining ball-room. M. l'Abb&eacute; was there too,
a pathetic figure in his well-worn soutane: his cheeks, once round
and full, were pale and wan now, showing signs of the many privations,
the lack of food and warmth, which he had suffered recently. He
looked ill and very weary. It was only his eyes, tired-looking
and red-rimmed though they were, that retained within their depths
a merry twinkle which every now and then came to the fore, when
his inward glance came to rest on a memory less cruel than most:
that merry twinkle was the expression of a keen sense of humour
which no amount of sorrow and suffering had the power wholly to
eradicate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the moment he certainly seemed to have thrown
off some of his lassitude; finding himself the centre of interest
in a sympathetic crowd, all anxious to make him forget what he
had suffered, and to make him feel at home in this land of freedom
and of orderly government, his whole being seemed to expand in
response. A warm glow came into his eyes and the smiles so freely
bestowed on him by the ladies found their reflection round his
pale, drooping lips. Everyone was charming to him. The Prince
of Wales was most gracious, and his hostess lavish in delicate
attentions. He had had an excellent dinner, and a couple of glasses
of fine old Burgundy had put heart into him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; sighed
lovely Lady Lauriston, &quot;you will tell us, won't you, the
true, unvarnished facts about your wonderful escape.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of course I will, dear lady,&quot; the
old priest replied; &quot;nothing could make me happier than to
let the whole world hear, if it were possible, the story of one
of the most valorous deeds ever accomplished on this earth. I
have seen men and women, especially recently, show amazing pluck
and endurance under the terrible circumstances which alas obtain
in my poor country these days, but never did I witness anything
like the courage and resourcefulness displayed by that noble gentleman
who rescued us from certain death at risk of his life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The abb&eacute; had spoken so earnestly and
in a voice quivering with such depth of emotion, that instinctively
the chatter around him died down, and for a few moments there
was silence in the pretty rose-coloured boudoir, whilst the old
priest and several of the ladies surreptitiously wiped away a
tear. Everyone felt thrilled, emotional; even the men responded
readily to that feeling of pride in the display of courage and
endurance, those virtues which make such a strong appeal to the
finest of their sex.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the hostess who first broke the silence.
She asked:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you do not know who your rescuer
was, M. l'Abb&eacute;?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Alas, no, Madame la Duchesse. Monsieur
de Saint-Lucque, the Vicomte and I were locked up inside the coach
which was conveying us to Paris for trial and, of course, execution.
It was very dark. To my sorrow I saw nothing, no one. And that
is a sorrow I shall take with me to my grave. To touch the hand
of the most gallant man on earth would be an infinite joy to me.
And I know that Monsieur le Marquis thinks as I do over that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How is Monsieur le Marquis, by the way?&quot;
His Royal Highness enquired.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The abb&eacute; shook his head and drew a deep
sigh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sadly, I am afraid. He is heart-broken
with anxiety about his wife and the other two children: and he
keeps on reproaching himself for being safe and free while they
are still in danger.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't let him break his heart over that,
M. l'Abb&eacute;. Didn't you tell us the other day that the Scarlet
Pimpernel had pledged you his word to bring Madame de Saint-Lucque
and her two little girls safely to England?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Lady Blakeney who spoke. She was sitting
on the sofa near the old priest and while she said those comforting
words she put her hand on his arm. She was the most beautiful
woman there, easily the queen among this bevy of loveliness. The
abb&eacute; turned to her and met those wonderful luminous eyes
of hers so full of confidence and encouragement. He raised her
hand to his old lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; he said; &quot;we did get
that marvellous pledge, Monsieur de Saint-Lucque and I. How it
came to us is another of the many miracles that occurred during
those awful times after we were arrested and incarcerated in the
local gaol. There was a funny old fellow, dirty and bedraggled,
whom we caught sight of one day through the grated window of our
prison-cell. He was stumping up and down the corridor outside
singing the Marseillaise very much out of tune. Two days later
we saw him again, and this time as he stumped along he recited
in a cracked voice that awful blasphemous doggerel: '&Ccedil;a
ira!' It was then that the miracle occurred, for after he had
gone by we saw a crumpled wad of paper on the floor, just beneath
the window.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Here the abb&eacute;'s narration was suddenly
broken into by a shrill little cry of distress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy, I entreat, do hold my hand.
I vow I shall swoon if you do not.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The cry broke the tension which was keeping
the small company in the boudoir hanging on the words of the old
priest. All eyes were turned to the dainty lady who had uttered
the pitiful appeal. The Lady Blanche Crewkerne had edged closer
and closer to the sofa where sat the abb&eacute;; her eyes were
glowing, her lips quivered; she was in a regular state of flurry.
As soon as she had attracted all the attention she coveted to
her engaging personality she raised a perfumed handkerchief to
her tip-tilted nose, fluttered her eyelids, closed her eyes and
finally tottered backwards as if in very truth she was on the
point of losing consciousness. From all around there came an exclamation
of concern until a pair of masculine arms was stretched out to
receive the swooning beauty, whereupon concern turned to laughter,
loud and prolonged laughter while Lady Blanche opened her eyes,
thinking to find herself reclining against the magnificent waistcoat
of the Prince of Dandies. They encountered the timid glance of
old Sir Martin Cheverill, who felt very much embarrassed in the
chivalrous role of supporter to a lady in distress thus unexpectedly
thrust upon him. Nor did the lady make any effort to conceal her
mortification. Already she had recovered her senses, as well as
her poise. With nervy movements she plied her fan vigorously and
remarked somewhat tartly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Methought Sir Percy Blakeney was standing
somewhere near.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was more laughter after this, and old
Lady Portarles who never missed an opportunity of putting in a
spiteful word where the younger ladies were concerned, interposed
mockingly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy, my dear Blanche? Why, he has
been fast asleep this last half-hour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And picking up her ample train she swept across
the room to where a rose-coloured <I>porti&egrave;re</I> was drawn
across the archway of a recess. Lady Portarles drew the curtain
aside with a dramatic gesture and there of a truth across a satin-covered
sofa, his head reclining against a cushion, fast asleep, lay the
Prince of Dandies, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. An exclamation of
horror, amounting to a groan, went round the room. Such disgraceful
behaviour surpassed any that that privileged person had ever been
guilty of. Had it been anyone else . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The groan, the exclamation of horror, had quickly
roused the delinquent from his slumbers. He struggled to his feet
and looking round on the indignant faces turned on him he had
the good grace to look thoroughly embarrassed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ladies, a thousand pardons,&quot; he
stammered shame-facedly. His Royal Highness deigned to keep me
at hazard the whole afternoon and . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But it was no use appealing to His Highness
for protection against the irate ladies. He was sitting back in
his chair roaring with laughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Blakeney,&quot; he said between his guffaws,
&quot;you'll be the death of me one day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And after a time he added: &quot;It is to Monsieur
l'Abb&eacute; Prud'hon that you owe an abject apology.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; . . .&quot; Sir
Percy began in tones of the deepest humility, &quot;to do wrong
is human. I have done wrong, I confess. To forgive is divine.
Will you exercise your privilege and pronounce absolution on the
repentant sinner?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His manner was so engaging, his diction so
suave, and he really did seem so completely ashamed of himself
that the kind old priest who had a keen sense of humour was quite
ready to forgive the offence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On one condition, Sir Percy,&quot; he
said lightly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am at your mercy, M. l'Abb&eacute;.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That you listen to me--without once going
to sleep, mind you--while I narrate to Madame la Duchesse's guests
the full story of how Monsieur de Saint-Lucque and his son as
well as my own insignificant self were spirited away out of the
very jaws of death, and at the risk of his own precious life,
by that greatest of living heroes the Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am at your mercy, M. l'Abb&eacute;
,&quot; Sir Percy reiterated ruefully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And now I pray you, Sir Percy,&quot;
the Lady Blanche resumed, and gave a playful tap with her fan
on Sir Percy's sleeve, &quot;to hold my hand. I am still on the
point of swooning, you know,&quot; she added archly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She held out her pretty hand to Blakeney, who
raised it to his lips, then turning to the Prince of Wales he
pleaded: &quot;Will your Royal Highness pronounce this painful
incident closed and command Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; to give us
the story of what he is pleased to call a miracle.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; . . .&quot; His
Highness responded, turning to the old priest, &quot;since you
have been gracious enough to forgive . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will continue, <I>c'est entendu</I>,&quot;
Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; readily agreed. And once more the ladies
crowded round him the better to listen to a tale that had their
beau ideal for its hero. Nor were the men backward in their desire
to hear of the prowess of a man whose identity remained as incomprehensible
as were the methods which he employed for getting in touch with
those persecuted innocents whom he had pledged himself to save.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And what was written on that scrap of
paper, M. l'Abb&eacute;?&quot; His Highness asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only a few words, your Highness,&quot;
the priest replied. &quot;It said: 'We who are working for your
safety do pledge you our word of honour that Madame de Saint-Lucque
and her two children will land safely in England before long,&quot;
and in the corner there was a drawing of a small flower roughly
tinted in red chalk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel!&quot; The three
magic words coming from a score of exquisitely rouged lips had
the sound of a deep-drawn sigh. It was followed by a tense silence
while the abb&eacute; mopped his streaming forehead.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your pardon, ladies,&quot; he murmured.
&quot;I always feel overcome with emotion when I think of those
horrible and amazing days.&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"> CHAPTER VI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE PRINCE
OF DANDIES</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus was the incident closed. The hostess rose
somewhat in a flurry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In my excitement to hear you, M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot;
she said, &quot;I am forgetting my guests. Will your Royal Highness
deign to excuse me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll follow you in a moment, dear lady.
Your guests I am sure are dying with impatience. And,&quot; he
added, turning with a smile to the other ladies, &quot;all the
best seats will soon be occupied.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It seemed like a hint, which from royal lips
was akin to a command. Lady Lauriston, Lady Portarles and the
other ladies followed in the wake of Madame la Duchesse. Only
at a sign from His Royal Highness did a privileged few remain
in the boudoir: they were Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney, Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes and his young wife, Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;
Prud'hon and two or three others.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Prince turned to the old priest and asked:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And M. de Saint-Lucque you say, reverend,
sir, could find no trace of the whereabouts of his wife and daughters?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;None, monseigneur,&quot; the abb&eacute;
replied. &quot;When M. de Saint-Lucque did me the honour of seeking
shelter under my roof with Monsieur le Vicomte, he entrusted his
wife and daughters to the care of a worthy couple named Guidal,
who had a small farm a league or so from Rocroi. They had both
been in the service of old M. le Marquis, who had loaded them
with kindness, and I for one could have sworn that they were loyalty
itself. The night before our summary arrest--we already knew that
we were under suspicion--the woman Guidal came to my presbytery.
She was in tears. I questioned her and through her sobs she contrived
to convey to me the terrible news that her husband fearing for
his own arrest had talked of denouncing Madame la Marquise to
the police; that she herself had entreated and protested in the
name of humanity and past loyalty to the family, but terror of
the guillotine had got a grip over him and he wouldn't listen.
The woman went on to say that Madame la Marquise had unfortunately
overheard the discussion and in the early dawn before she and
her husband were awake had left the farm with her two little girls
going she knew not whither. &quot;Your Highness may well imagine,&quot;
the old man went on, &quot;how completely heart-broken Monsieur
de Saint-Lucque was and has been ever since. At times since then
I have even feared for his reason. Had it not been for his son
he would I feel sure have done away with himself, but never for
one moment would I allow M. le Vicomte to be away from his father.
This was not difficult as the guard put over us during our captivity
and in the coach that was taking us to Paris kept the three of
us forcibly together. The first ray of light that came to us through
this abysmal horror,&quot; the abb&eacute; now concluded, mastering
the emotion which had seized him while he told his pitiable story,
&quot;were the few lines written on the scrap of paper which a
dirty and be-draggled scavenger threw in to us through the grated
window of our prison-cell: 'We who are working for your safety
do pledge you our word that Madame de Saint-Lucque and her two
children will land in England before long.'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you may rest assured, M. l'Abb&eacute;,
that that pledged word will never be broken.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Marguerite Blakeney who said this, breaking
the tense silence which had reigned in the gay little boudoir
when the old priest had concluded his narrative. She put her hand
on his, giving it a comforting pressure and the old man raised
it to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;God bless you!&quot; he murmured. &quot;God
bless England and you all who belong to this great country.&quot;
He rose to his feet and added fervently: &quot;And, above all,
God bless the selfless hero of whom you are so justly proud and
to whom so many of us owe life and happiness: your mysterious
Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;God bless him!&quot; they all murmured
in unison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Over in the ball-room the London String Band
had finished playing the last item on their programme and the
final chords of the <I>Magic Flute</I> followed by a round of
applause came floating in on the perfumed air of the rose-coloured
boudoir.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Royal Highness,&quot; came in meek
accents from Sir Percy Blakeney, &quot;will you deign to remember
that I am forbidden to go to sleep until Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;
has told us a lot more about that shadowy Scarlet Pimpernel, and
frankly I am dead sick of the demmed fellow already.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Prince had already regained his habitual
insouciance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nor do we wish,&quot; he said, and gave
the signal for every one to rise and follow him, &quot;to miss
another moment of M. le Abb&eacute;'s interesting talk. But I'll
warrant, my friend,&quot; he added, with a chuckle, &quot;that
you won't get to sleep till after you have completely atoned for
your abominable conduct.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He shook an admonishing finger at Sir Percy
Blakeney, the darling of society, the pattern of the perfect gentleman,
caught <I>in flagrante delicto</I> of bad manners, and finally
led the way into the adjoining ball-room. It was crowded with
an ultra-fashionable throng. The elite of English society was
present in full force as well as a goodly contingent of French
&eacute;migr&eacute;s. Lady Lockroy was there with her two pretty
daughters. The old Earl of Mainbron had brought his charming young
wife, and the Countess of Lauriston, acknowledged to be next to
Lady Blakeney the best-dressed woman in town, had donned one of
the new-fashioned dresses of clinging material and high waist
said to be the latest mode in Vienna. And many others, of course.
When His Highness entered the ball-room and the ladies swept their
ceremonial courtesy to him down to the ground, there was such
a rustling of silks and satins as if a swarm of bees had suddenly
been let loose. His Highness had Lady Blakeney on his arm, and
immediately behind him came Sir Percy with young Lady Ffoulkes.
The Prince was in the best of humours.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ladies! Ladies!&quot; he said gaily;
&quot;you have missed such a scandal as London has not witnessed
for many a day. Has not our charming hostess told you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The select company who had trooped out of the
boudoir in the wake of His Highness tittered as the word &quot;scandal&quot;
went round the big ball-room in varied tones of horror or suspense.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness, I entreat,&quot; Sir Percy
whispered in the ear of his royal friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the Prince solemnly shook his head and
made to look very serious.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No good your appealing to me, Blakeney,&quot;
he said with mock severity. &quot;The ladies must hear of your
abominable behaviour. Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; has been most kind
and forbearing, but our royal patience has been sorely tried,
and we have decreed that your punishment shall fit your crime,
and that you shall be pilloried before all these ladies as the
most ill-mannered man in London. What say you, ladies? Lady Blakeney,
have I your permission to proceed?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The ladies with one accord begged His Highness
to go on, whilst Lady Blakeney, smiling at her discomfited lord,
shrugged her pretty shoulders and said deferentially:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As your Royal Highness desires.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then we will depute Lady Portarles to
tell the awful tale.&quot; His Highness concluded, and deposited
his bulky person in a capacious armchair. He begged his hostess
to sit on one side of him and Lady Blakeney on the other. The
story of how the Prince of Dandies had gone to sleep while M.
l'Abb&eacute; Prud'hon was relating one of the miracles accomplished
by the heroic Scarlet Pimpernel was told with obvious gusto and
a suspicion of malice by Lady Portarles, who, by the way, was
known in society as the queen of scandal-mongers. The story lost
nothing in the telling and as the horrifying recital of his misdeed
progressed, Sir Percy Blakeney became the target of a hundred
frowning looks and was forced to listen to a veritable uproar
of censure of &quot;Shame on you, Sir Percy!&quot; and &quot;Would
you believe it, my dear?&quot; or &quot;Did you ever hear the
like?&quot; The whole thing, of course, in a spirit of fun, for
there was no more popular man in the whole of England than Sir
Percy Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lady Blakeney sat by smiling sweetly whilst
His Royal Highness obviously enjoyed the discomfiture of his friend.
Protests on Sir Percy's part were of no avail. His Highness had
decreed that he should be pilloried--and he was.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have often noticed,&quot; one of the
ladies now remarked, &quot;that Sir Percy makes a point of going
to sleep whenever the rest of us are thrilled by one of those
marvellous exploits of our beloved Scarlet Pimpernel related here
in this very room by those who owe their life to him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I seem to have noticed the same thing,&quot;
mused pretty Lady Blanche, &quot;on more than one occasion.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My belief,&quot; put in Lady Portarles,
in a voice that dominated the din of conversation, &quot;my firm
belief, I may say, is that our Prince of Dandies is jealous of
the Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is! He is!&quot; came in a loud chorus
from everyone around.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Own to it, Sir Percy, that you are jealous
of our wonderful hero.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy no longer protested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will own to it at your command, fair
ones,&quot; he said ruefully. &quot;What can a poor man say when
the innermost workings of his heart are read like a book by a
whole bevy of lovely ladies. How can I help being jealous of that
demmed elusive fellow who monopolises your thoughts and conversations
at all hours of the day? That, begad, shadow deprives us mere
mortals of your attention when we would desire to lay our homage
at your feet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While this merry interlude went on, the servants
had been busy arranging the chairs and putting the room generally
in order for the hearing of Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;'s recital.
Now everything was ready. Heavy curtains masked the dais where
the String Band had discoursed sweet music, leaving a semicircular
alcove in the centre of which the major domo had placed a chair
behind a table with a carafe of water and a glass. And gradually
chattering and laughter ceased. There was a little whispering
here and there, a few discreet ripples of laughter quickly suppressed,
when Sir Percy after he had seen Madame la Duchesse to her seat,
took up his stand with an air of resignation against the nearest
window embrasure. Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; Prud'hon now mounted
the few steps that led up to the dais whilst the company sat down,
the ladies in the front displaying their brocaded gowns to the
best advantage, and the men standing in compact groups all round
them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No actor of note or learned lecturer could
have boasted of a more attentive audience than had this old Frenchman
in the shabby soutane with the wan cheeks and the twinkling eyes.
He sat down in the framework of the alcove, and once or twice
passed his hand across his brow as if to collect his thoughts.</FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Monseigneur,&quot;</FONT></I><FONT
 SIZE="+1"> he began, <I>&quot;Mesdames et Messieurs.&quot;</I>
He spoke in French throughout. Most of the company which consisted
exclusively of cultured, well-educated persons, understood every
word he said, for his diction was of the clearest, and he spoke
his own language with the exquisite purity of the Touraine district.
It was Madame Descazes, wife of the eminent advocate at the Paris
bar, who being an erudite as well as a meticulous lady, made copious
notes of what Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; related to the elegant company
assembled in the <I>salon</I> of Madame la Duchesse de Roncevaux
on that never-to-be-forgotten evening in the winter of 1794; and
it is on these notes that all records of the event are based,
for Madame Descazes very kindly allowed her intimate friends to
study her notes and make a translation of them if they had a mind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am so thankful, my dear, that I learned
French at school,&quot; the Countess of Mainbron whispered to
her neighbour while the abb&eacute; paused for breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I wish I had done better with it,&quot;
the latter responded. &quot;Luckily, the dear old man speaks very
slowly, and I shall not miss much.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I can understand every word he says,&quot;
the youngest Miss Lockroy put in glibly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush! Hush over there!&quot; Lady Portarles
admonished. &quot;We can't have any chattering or we may miss
something.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;, after a few preliminaries,
had now embarked on the most palpitating point in his narrative.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The great miracle, for I must call it
that,&quot; he was saying, &quot;occurred on a steep bit of road
which cuts across the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. It was
mid-afternoon and very dull and dark. We could see nothing inside
the carriage for the windows were veiled by a curtain of misty
rain which had fallen in a drizzle ever since early morning. We
sat huddled up against one another. Monsieur le Marquis and I
had the young Vicomte between us, trying to keep him warm, for
as the shades of evening began to draw in, the cold grew intense,
and the poor lad had been half starved ever since our arrest eight
days before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As I say, we could see very little of
what went on outside; only the dim outline of horses trotting
on each side of the carriage. We were being strongly guarded.
You must know, ladies, that Monsieur le Marquis and all his family
are the special targets of an insane hatred on the part of the
revolutionary government and of a cruel woman, whom may God forgive,
who seems to have vast influence with them all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mean the woman they call Mam'zelle
Guillotine?&quot; His Royal Highness here put in.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness knows?&quot; the hostess
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We heard her life-story a little while
ago,&quot; the Prince replied. &quot;It is one of the most extraordinary
ones we had ever heard.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What has always remained a puzzle,&quot;
the abb&eacute; continued after this slight interruption, &quot;in
the minds of those of us who have had the good fortune of coming
in personal contact with the Scarlet Pimpernel is how he comes
to be always in close touch with those who presently may have
need of his help. I have heard it argued among some of my English
friends that on most occasions luck entered largely in the success
of his plans. There never was a more false or more unjust suggestion.
Let me assure you that certainly as far as we wretched prisoners
were concerned it was pluck and pluck only, the courage and resourcefulness
of one man, that saved the three of us from death.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From the elegant assembly, from those society
ladies peacocking it in their silks and satins, from the men,
some of whom spent the best part of their day at the gambling-tables,
there came a sound like the intaking of one breath, a deep sigh
which proclaimed more eloquently than words could do the admiration
amounting almost to reverence laid at the shrine of the bravest
of the brave. The sigh died down and a tense silence followed.
Nothing was heard for a moment or two, save the faint rustle here
and there of stiff brocade, or the flutter of a fan, until suddenly
the silence was broken by a pleasant voice saying lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Surely not one man, Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;.
I have it from M. de Saint-Lucque himself that there were at least
three if not more of the rescuing party . . . and that your Scarlet
Pimpernel did no more than . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush! Silence!&quot; came in indignant
protest from the ladies at this attempted disparagement of their
hero.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy, you are impossible!&quot;
one of them declared resolutely, whilst another begged His Royal
Highness to intervene.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jealousy carried to that point,&quot;
concluded Lady Portarles, &quot;amounts to a scandal. Your Royal
Highness, we entreat . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, ladies,&quot; His Highness responded
with his cheery laugh. &quot;Since you ladies have failed in inculcating
hero-worship into this flippant courtier of mine, what can I do?
. . . a mere man!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were few things the Prince enjoyed more
than the badgering of his friend over this question of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, while he yielded it to none in his admiration for the
man's superhuman courage and spirit of self-sacrifice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lady Blakeney,&quot; one of the younger
ladies pleaded, &quot;have you no influence over Sir Percy? His
flippant remarks cut most of us to the quick.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite Blakeney turned smiling to the speaker.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have no influence, my dear, over Sir
Percy,&quot; she said, &quot;but I am sure that he would sooner
remain silent the rest of the evening rather than distress any
of you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have heard what her ladyship says,
you incorrigible person,&quot; His Highness put in. &quot;It amounts
to a command which we feel obliged to second.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What can I do,&quot; Blakeney responded
humbly, &quot;but bow my diminished head? Lady Blakeney is quite
right when she asserts that I would rather remain for ever dumb
than bring one tear of distress to so many lovely eyes. It was
only a sense of fair play that caused me to say what I did.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Fair play?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why, yes. Fair play. In your over-estimation
of one man's prowess, you, dear ladies, are apt to forget that
there are other equally gallant English gentlemen, without whose
courage and loyalty your Scarlet Pimpernel would probably by now
have fallen into the hands of those murdering devils over in France.
Now, I know for a fact, and I am sure that Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;
will bear my story out, that in this case . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the mere suggestion that the Scarlet Pimpernel
might possibly one day fall into the hands of the Terrorists in
France, raised such a storm of indignation from the entire assembly
that Sir Percy was unable to proceed. He gave an audible sigh
of resignation and thereafter leaned back once more in silence
against the window embrasure. His eyes remained fixed on his beautiful
wife. She was obviously smiling to herself. It was a mischievous
little smile for she, too, like the Prince of Wales, enjoyed the
good-humoured chaff to which her husband was invariably exposed
when the subject of the Scarlet Pimpernel was on the tapis. She
was sitting beside His Royal Highness now and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
sat next to her. There was no more ardent worshipper of his chief
than Sir Andrew, the most faithful and loyal lieutenant a leader
ever had, and an evening like the present one gave him a measure
of happiness almost as great as that experienced by Marguerite
Blakeney herself. She was looking radiant and her luminous eyes
had a glow in them which had its counterpart in those of her friend.
They were made to understand one another, these two, and now,
unseen by the rest of the company, he raised her hand to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER VII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">A VALOROUS
DEED </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After this brief interval the old abb&eacute;
was allowed to resume his narrative.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am quite prepared to admit,&quot; he
now went on, &quot;that Nature helped our rescuers all she could.
It would have been more difficult, of course, had the afternoon
been fine and clear. But even so, I am sure that the leader of
that gallant league would have found some other means to save
us. As it was, the drizzle mixed with sleet and driven by a cutting
wind fretted the horses, and the driver had much ado to keep them
in hand: a difficult task, as he himself was obliged to keep his
head down and his hat pulled well over his eyes. So we went on
for what seemed to me an eternity. I had completely lost count
of time. We went on and on or rather were being dragged along
in the jolting vehicle on the rough, muddy road until we wondered
whether body and soul could bear the strain any longer, and would
presently disintegrate, be forced to break apart and lose cohesion
through the violence of those agonising shocks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A slight respite from this torture came
presently when the road began to rise sharply, and the horses,
sweating and panting, were put at foot-pace while they dragged
the heavy coach up the incline, still in squelching mud. As I
put it to you just now, I had lost count of time altogether; so,
I know, had Monsieur le Marquis. The child was asleep in my arms,
his curly head resting against my shoulder. His lips were parted
and through them came at regular intervals a gentle, pathetic
moan. The shades of evening were drawing in by now, darkness closed
in around us; we were prisoners inside that jolting vehicle, aching
in every limb, unable to see, unable to move, hearing nothing
but the creaking of axles and of damp leather, and the squelching
of horses' hoofs in the mud of the road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And suddenly out of the gloom there rang
the report of a pistol-shot, followed immediately by a loud call:
'Stand and deliver!'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At which palpitating point in the abb&eacute;'s
narrative one of the ladies gave a shrill cry, another exclaimed,
breathless: &quot;Oh, <I>mon Dieu</I>!&quot; and there was a peremptory
chorus of &quot;Hush!&quot; in which the men also joined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The first pistol-shot was followed by
another and then by a third,&quot; Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; resumed.
&quot;The horses must then have reared and plunged wildly, for
we were shaken right out of our seats and found ourselves on the
floor of the coach in a tumbled heap one on the top of the other.
We could hear a great deal of shouting, hoarse words of command
from the officer in charge of our escort, and throughout it all
a confused jumble of sounds, the jingle of harness, the stamping
and plunging of the horses maddened by the noise, the creaking
of the carriage wheels, dragged forwards and then backwards by
their restless movements, and the constant lashing of wind and
sleet beating against the carriage windows. Everything around
the coach did, in fact, add to the confusion. We in the meanwhile
did our best to extricate ourselves from our unpleasant position
and had just succeeded in regaining our seats, when the carriage
door was suddenly opened and the figure of a man appeared in the
framework. He had a lantern in his hand which he swung about,
lighting up the inside of the coach as well as our scared faces.
The man wore a mask, and for all the world looked the very picture
of a highway-man. The poor little Vicomte huddled up against me
and began to whimper. I remember that at the moment my thoughts
were busy with conjecture as to what would be preferable under
these circumstances: to continue our fateful journey to Paris
or to fall into the hands of highway robbers. Before I could make
up my mind as to that, the man with the lantern said quite pleasantly:
'As you value your lives, keep as still as you can. There are
four of us here working for your safety.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And before we had recovered from the
shock--the happy shock, I may tell you--which his words had brought
to our nerves, the pseudo-highwayman had vanished and closed the
carriage door behind him. We were left to marvel at this miracle
which the good God had deigned to perform for our salvation. Monsieur
le Marquis murmured faintly: 'It is surely that wonderful English
gentleman they call the Scarlet Pimpernel who is working for us,'
and after a time he sighed and said: 'If only my dear wife and
my darling girls could have been here too.' But somehow I felt
wonderfully elated. I had said my prayers of thankfulness to God,
and after that I was granted the power to comfort our dear little
Vicomte, by putting my arms round him and making him rest his
head against my shoulder, and also to speak words of encouragement
to M. le Marquis. Next to the good God himself, I felt in my very
soul complete belief in the Scarlet Pimpernel and trust in his
courage and his ability to save us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old man paused for a moment or two and
mopped his streaming forehead. He had spoken at some length amidst
breathless silence on the part of his hearers. Someone poured
out a glass of water for him, and he drank this down eagerly.
After this he resumed:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As to what happened subsequently we knew
nothing for certain till some days afterwards when we were on
board an English ship and saw the shores of France receding from
our gaze. Then it was that the details of our amazing rescue were
related to me by one of the brave followers of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
I believe that it was just boundless enthusiasm for his chief
that caused him to speak to me as he did. He was not the Scarlet
Pimpernel himself but was, I am sure, the leader's right-hand
man. Let me tell you at once that I have pledged my word of honour
that I would never reveal his identity under any circumstances
whatever. As a matter of fact, he was the pseudo-highwayman who
came to comfort us when we were nearly scared to death. What he
ultimately told us was in substance this: that the whole surprise
attack was the foundation of an ingenious plan devised by his
chief. It took no more than a few minutes to carry through. Surprise
and swiftness were, as my informant said, the keynote of success.
Had there been the slightest slackening of speed, a word of command
wrongly interpreted, a mere second of hesitancy and the whole
plan would certainly have failed. It was swift action that won
the victory, because it brought about a confusion during which--can
you believe it?--the Scarlet Pimpernel and his three followers
were down on their knees in the squelching mud of the road, engaged
in cutting the saddle-girths under the bellies of the troopers'
horses. Imagine what pluck, what coolness such an action demanded
in view of the fact that our brave rescuers were outnumbered three
to one. It is, so I understand, a well-known form of attack practised
in the East, fraught with deadly danger even when attackers are
numerically stronger than their enemy. In our case I imagine that
a kind of superstitious terror on the part of the revolutionary
guard must also have played into the hands of those brave English
gentlemen. The soldiers had no elbow-room for a good fight. The
road was narrow, the afternoon light growing more and more dim.
And with it all the constant cracking of pistol-shots, the snorting
and terror of their horses, the confusion, the m&ecirc;l&eacute;e
and the gathering gloom hindered the men from using what arms
they had for fear of wounding their comrades or injuring their
horses.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We, of course, kept as quiet as our nerves
would allow, marvelling what was happening and repeating our prayers
to the good God for mercy and divine help. As a matter of fact,
what was happening unbeknown to us remains to my mind the most
wonderful act of audacity and contempt of danger I for one have
ever heard of. It seems that at a given moment the Scarlet Pimpernel
scrambled up the box-seat of the coach, snatched the reins out
of the driver's hands and in less time than it takes an old man
to tell you of it he had calmed the poor horses down. This, of
course, as I say, we did not know at the time, but it thrilled
us poor prisoners, I can tell you, when we heard a voice, a wonderful,
cheery and yet commanding voice speak the one word: 'Ready.'</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Was it intuition or inspiration, I know
not; certain it is that I knew in my innermost soul, that the
voice I heard at that moment, was that of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
I can't tell you how I knew, but I did know, and I have often
talked this over with Monsieur le Marquis and it seems that he
too had the same conviction that I had. You must remember that
we inside the coach know nothing of what was happening, and yet
there we were suddenly convinced that the hour of our deliverance
had come. Often since that fateful moment have I been stirred
to the soul by the mere recollection of that voice speaking the
word: 'Ready!' It was <I>his</I> voice, my friends! I believe
I should know it again among thousands, or in the midst of the
loudest uproar.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The priest had indeed no cause to complain
of a want of attention on the part of his audience. Men and women
alike hung upon every word he uttered. They held their breath,
their glowing eyes were fixed upon the old man's face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, M. l'Abb&eacute; . . .&quot; one
lady was heard gasping through the breathless silence that hung
on this vast assembly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, dear lady?&quot; the abb&eacute;
responded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As you say you would know the voice of
the Scarlet Pimpernel again . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I should . . . anywhere . . .&quot; he
assented.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then you are the one to identify our
mysterious hero . . . to tell us who he is and where, oh where,
we are to find him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This raised a wave of agitation, and a murmur
of excitement. But Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; only shrugged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Alas!&quot; he said. &quot;I have not
heard that voice again--only in my dreams.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you do not proceed, Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;,&quot;
here interposed Sir Percy Blakeney with a genial laugh, &quot;a
number of ladies here will faint on the spot.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, yes, do go on, we beg of you, Monsieur
l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; the ladies pleaded, and one of them added
lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;See, even Sir Percy, the arch scoffer,
hangs upon your lips.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is not much more to relate,&quot;
the priest now resumed. &quot;I understand that the word 'Ready'
was a command from the chief to his followers to take immediate
cover, which they did, whilst he himself with one light click
of the tongue whipped up the team, which plunged down the incline
at breakneck speed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My informant, bless him, cowering with
his two friends in the gloom of the thicket, told me that one
of the most thrilling moments in the day's adventure was to see
the revolutionary soldiers trying to give chase. Had they been
circus-riders they might have given a good account of themselves,
but never having learned how to sit a horse with their saddle-girths
severed, they did not get very far. The three lieutenants of your
gallant hero did not stay to see the rest of the fun. They had
their orders and made their way to the place assigned to them
by their chief. As to the rest of our journey it has always seemed
both to Monsieur le Marquis and to me nothing but a dream. I remember--but
only vaguely--the dash down the forest road, and subsequently
several halts for the night in wayside huts. I remember the three
of us being ordered at one time to don the tattered garb of road-menders,
and being jolted along interminable roads in a rickety cart driven
by an old hunchback who appeared dumb as well as deaf; and I remembering
staggering with surprise when I saw that same old mudlark straighten
out his back and throw a purse of money to one of his own kind,
who after that drove the rickety cart all the way to the coast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Many less important events do I remember
also. We were I reckoned five days on the way, five days during
which I was haunted by a clear, commanding voice calling 'Ready'
and by the vision of an out-at-elbows' hunchback whose body presently
appeared as tall and as straight as that of a young god, and who
threw a purse of gold about as if it were dross.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that, your Royal Highness, my lords
and ladies,&quot; the abb&eacute; now concluded, &quot;is all
that I can tell you of the great miracle accomplished on our behalf
and under the guidance of God by the finest and bravest man that
ever walked this earth.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marvellous!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Prodigious!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Incredible!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite uncanny!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These were some of the words that flew from
mouth to mouth. It had been a glorious story, told with the simplicity
of truth. The audience rose soon after that and separate groups
were formed, groups in which the palpitating tale of a man's heroism
drove from the most flippant minds all desire for frivolous chatter.
The Prince of Wales held Monsieur l'Abb&eacute; in earnest conversation.
There were many here present this evening who vowed that His Royal
Highness was deep in the secrets of the League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, and could if he had a mind reveal the identity of the
popular hero. Lady Ffoulkes had edged up close to Lady Blakeney
and these two beautiful women, wives of two brave English gentlemen,
exchanged glances not only of pride but also of anxiety for those
precious lives so valiantly and constantly risked in the defence
of the helpless and the innocent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the other end of the room a group of ladies
were trying to remember the famous doggerel which that inimitable
dandy, Sir Percy Blakeney, as great a poet as he was a sportsman,
had conceived while tying his cravat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It went thus,&quot; Lady Blanche declared:
&quot;They seek him in England, they . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! no! no,&quot; broke in the eldest
Miss Lockroy. &quot;I am sure there was no word about England
. . . or France . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, there was,&quot; asserted pretty
Miss Norreys; &quot;I remember the word England very distinctly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Besides, it stands to reason,&quot; argued
another fashionable beauty, &quot;they are seeking him in England,
aren't they?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Wouldn't it be simpler, ladies,&quot;
one of the men suggested, &quot;to settle the argument by referring
it to the author of the deathless rhyme?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! Yes! Of course,&quot; the ladies
agreed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy! Where is Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All eyes were turned to the window embrasure
against which the darling of society had last been seen reclining
with an air of resignation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy!&quot; the ladies reiterated.
&quot;Where is Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But they looked for him in vain. That Prince
of Dandies had, incontinently, it seems, taken his elegant self
off to a more congenial atmosphere.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER VIII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">A ROYAL FRIEND
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Madame la Duchesse de Roncevaux was preparing
to bid good night to her guests. They were all standing in a wide
semicircle at one end of the ball-room waiting for His Royal Highness
to give the signal for departure before they in their turn took
their leave. This he did raising his hostess's hand to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We have spent a delightful evening in
your charming house, Madame,&quot; he said graciously; &quot;one
that none of our friends will, I warrant, ever forget.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The frou-frou of brocaded skirts once more
swept the parquet floor with a sound like the buzzing of bees;
it came as an accompaniment to His Highness's departure. After
he had taken final leave of Madame la Duchesse the Prince turned
to Sir Percy Blakeney, who with Marguerite on his arm was also
ready to take his leave.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, man,&quot; he said jovially. &quot;I
won't let you go quite so easily. You are coming with us for we
want a turn at hazard.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a gracious nod to Blakeney, who murmured
obediently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As Your Highness commands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I vow,&quot; the Prince went on, &quot;I
was so thrilled by Monsieur l'Abb&eacute;'s narration I must do
something to take my mind off those horrors that go on continually
the other side of the Channel. Come, man, I'll challenge you.
The best of five throws, with doubles or quits a time. Lady Blakeney,&quot;
he went on, addressing Marguerite, &quot;will you honour my poor
house by accompanying us? I feel I shall be in luck to-night and
win some of that rogue's fortune which is far to great for the
needs of any man. The Goddess of Fortune and the Goddess of Love
have him under their special care, he cannot expect Dame Chance
to favour him also.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus chattering with his wonted good humour,
His Royal Highness offered his arm to Marguerite who took it and
led the way down the monumental staircase closely followed by
Sir Percy. After he and his immediate entourage had left, the
party broke up. There was a general rush for cloaks and mantles,
calls outside for chaises and coaches, endless chattering and
shrill little cries as in an aviary of love-birds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Soon the whole company had dispersed, coaches
and cal&egrave;ches rattled over the cobblestones of old London
in this or that direction, and the magnificent mansion in St.
James's Square was shuttered and presently was wrapped in sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Prince of Wales who had Sir Percy and Lady
Blakeney with him, was being driven round in the royal equipage
to Carlton House Terrace. Not a word was spoken during the drive.
It was quite a short one. All three occupants of the carriage
were absorbed in thought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Half an hour later the royal host and his two
privileged visitors were closeted in the small library adjoining
the enfilade of reception-rooms. Attendants and servants had been
dismissed and three chairs disposed in front of the mantelpiece
in which blazed a cheerful fire of logs. In one of these reclined
the rotund form of the future King of England; Lady Blakeney sat
beside him, her luminous eyes fixed on the fitful play of the
flames. Sir Percy was standing behind these two, close to a table
on which was placed a steaming bowl of punch. He was intent on
ladling out the hot liquid into a glass which he then placed at
the elbow of his royal host. The latter took a long draught, smacked
his lips and pronounced the drink to be first-rate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is one thing, Lady Blakeney,&quot;
he said jovially, &quot;that this scapegrace of a husband of yours
can do to perfection and that is to brew a night-cap. This punch
is superlatively good.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had another drink, cleared his throat, and
fidgeted with his lace-edged handkerchief. Obviously he had something
to say and knew not how to begin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have guessed, gracious lady, I'm
sure,&quot; he began at last, &quot;the reason why I have asked
you to come here to-night knowing well how tired and anxious you
must be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite murmured: &quot;Yes!&quot; almost
inaudibly. She seemed unable to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I desired your presence while I gave
a serious talking to this <I>mauvais sujet</I>.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He then turned to Sir Percy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Blakeney,&quot; he commanded, &quot;come
hither and stand before me while I impart to you our royal behest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney smiling and indifferent at once came
forward and, leaning against the tall mantelpiece, stood facing
His Royal Highness who then resumed:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;While we held converse with M. l'Abb&eacute;
Prud'hon and afterwards when he gave us such a graphic account
of the heroic way in which . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He broke off with a jovial guffaw for Blakeney
had made a sign of obvious impatience and put up a hand in protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All right, all right man!&quot; he said
good-humouredly, &quot;but don't forget that I who represent the
King my father am speaking to you now and I forbid you to interrupt.
I was going to say that while our friend the emotional old priest
was talking I watched your face, and I may say that this gracious
lady here, your wife, did the same, and we both came to the conclusion
that you were then and there making up your mind to go back to
France in order to effect the rescue of Madame de Saint-Lucque
and her children. That is so, is it not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He looked up enquiringly at Blakeney, trying
to read in his somewhat clumsy way what went on behind those deep-set
blue eyes with their far-away look of absorption in one single
overwhelming purpose. How could he tell? How could anyone guess
the workings of this self-centred mind intent on one thing and
one only: the fulfillment of that one purpose? Indeed Blakeney's
gaze at this moment, though fixed on his royal friend, was obviously
unseeing. It took in nothing of these luxurious surroundings in
happy England, the ease, the comfort and the peace. It had come
to rest far away over there in France where a helpless woman and
two innocent children would soon be facing death unless . . .
And at the thought a happy smile came curling round his lips,
and a great sigh not only of longing but of resolve rose from
out the depths of his heart. The smile lingered until he saw Marguerite's
lovely face turned appealingly up to his, saw her sweet mouth
a-quiver with silent anguish and her lovely eyes shining with
unshed tears. Then the smile faded from his lips, and a kind of
grey veil seemed to spread right over his face. For one moment
only. Just a few seconds and that look was gone, the grey veil
lifted by some ghostly hand. Back came the smile and with it the
merry laugh which proclaimed high animal spirits and a carefree
heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Blakeney, are you listening?&quot; the
Prince demanded sternly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At Your Highness's commands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My commands are these, man, and note
the word 'command.' I am not asking or suggesting. I am ordering
you to accompany us to Bath to-morrow where we desire to spend
the next month in taking the waters necessary for our health.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few second's silence and Blakeney put in
with seeming irrelevance:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The thaw has set in, sir. They have resumed
hunting in the Shires.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! You may hunt till the frost begins
again if you like. But it is Bath or the Shires, understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your Highness would not forbid me to
hunt then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Certainly not.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet you would forbid me to go after a
deadlier quarry than the fox. You deign to tell me that I may
hunt till the frost begins again. And I will obey you, sir, and
run a pack of wolves to earth who are after an unfortunate woman
and two defenceless children. I will hunt them down and redeem
my solemn word to a man who is breaking his heart at thought of
what his wife and little children must endure in the hands of
inhuman brutes. You would not forbid me to hunt the fox, sir.
He has done nothing more heinous than rob a hen-roost or two.
Then why should I run him to earth and let the wolves have their
way?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sport, man, sport!&quot; His Highness
broke in impatiently; &quot;Fox-hunting is the noblest sport on
earth, and methought you were a sportsman.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And I'll back my favourite sport against
any that has ever been invented for whipping up the blood of a
man and making him feel akin to the gods. And now in winter with
the keen air fanning one's cheeks, with the night wrapping you
round with its sable mantle, with woman or child clinging to you,
their weak arms holding tightly to your waist, with human wolves
behind you, while you ride for dear life through unknown country,
riding, riding, not knowing where you may land, out of one death-trap
into another, <I>that</I>, Your Highness, is the sport for me.
I have tasted of it and so I know. Ask Ffoulkes, ask Tony, ask
any of the others, heroes they, every one of them. Fine men all,
brave men, and all of them obeying my slightest command. Sport,
sir! Had you but tasted it once, you would never ask me to forgo
it again!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Never once did Blakeney raise his voice while
he spoke. It never even shook. But the words came tumbling out
of his mouth with the rapidity of running water. His voice while
it was pitched low and as if muffled, became more sonorous, more
vibrant, compelling attention with the overwhelming force of the
passion within. He was looking straight out before him, with head
thrown back, seeing as it were the vision which he had invoked:
the loneliness, the blackness of the night, and those weak arms
clinging round his waist. Hearing the thunder of hoofs behind
him, scenting the hot breath of wolves in pursuit, and the approach
of death which mayhap had marked him for its own. Ride on, thou
gay adventurer! Ride on! For dear life, not your own but theirs,
the weak, the innocent, the helpless. Ride on! Ride on! while
beneficent darkness still lingers and the first grey streak of
dawn tinges the east with its light. Ride! gaily ride while the
thunder of hoofs behind you grows weaker and slowly dies away,
and the breath of human wolves thirsting for blood is lost in
the odour of the frosty air. Yes! here was the adventurer born,
the reckless gambler, ready to toss his life against any odds
of chance, forgetting everything save the thrill of the moment
when even love is compelled to yield to the unconquerable spirit
of dare-devilment in the name of mercy and the call of the oppressed
for self-sacrifice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even the Prince, sybarite though he was, was
held in thrall by the fascination of this extraordinary personality:
courtier, lover, prince of dandies and king of adventurers. Less
than an hour ago he had seen him an a ball-room dressed in the
latest fashion, with priceless lace at throat and wrists, bandying
inanities with brainless women, the butt and darling of society,
the maker of merriment and laughter. How difficult it was to imagine
this same man in rough and scanty clothing, unwashed, unshorn,
dwelling in derelict huts on vermin-infested boards, or cowering
in the scrub like some wild animal in its lair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He, the Prince of Wales, the future King of
England, had listened to that man in silence realising how futile
his royal commands must sound after the inspired words of this
visionary. And when Sir Percy had finished speaking, the silence
still persisted. Any comment after this would almost seem like
sacrilege. There was a mission here expounded that must surely
have its inspiration from the God of Love Himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After a time the silence, broken only by the
solemn ticking of a monumental clock over the mantelpiece, became
strangely oppressive. It seemed as if Fate had taken her stand
at the gambler's elbow and defied the two opponents--the wife,
the friend--who pitted their weakness against her strength. Blakeney
himself was the first to break in with his shy laugh and a quaint
ejaculation:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Good Lord! It must be that demmed punch
getting into my head. Will Your Highness forgive me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Forgive you? What have I to forgive?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Disobedience to royal commands for one
thing, sir. The way I've made a fool of myself for another.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are determined to go then?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would Your Highness have an English gentleman
break his solemn word?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The risks are too great, my friend,&quot;
the Prince insisted. &quot;You are getting too well known over
there. And you will be up against a woman this time, remember.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marvellous thought, isn't it, sir?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And women have sharper vision than men.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I hope this one has. If she is as stupid
as my old friend Chauvelin she won't give us a good run for our
money.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy,&quot; the Prince protested, &quot;you
are incorrigible.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And thus was the incident closed, the interview
at an end. Soon Blakeney begged permission to take his leave.
He had ordered his coach to be brought round to Carlton House
Terrace for he knew that there was nothing Marguerite loved better
than a drive through the night air after ball or rout in a stuffy
atmosphere.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The major-domo was summoned to see that the
coach was duly at the gate. For a few minutes while Sir Percy
went to have a last look at his horses Marguerite was left alone
with the Prince of Wales. He took hold of her hand and raised
it deferentially to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have done my best, Lady Blakeney,&quot;
he pleaded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am eternally grateful, Your Highness,&quot;
she murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He went on with unusual solemnity:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am not a religious man, gracious lady,
but to-night I will implore the good God on my knees to guard
your husband from any kind of danger.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After Blakeney and his wife had left, the Prince
of Wales remained for a long time absorbed in a kind of contemplation.
He had seldom if ever been so moved as he had been to-night by
the stripping naked of a soul--the soul of his friend whom he
had never truly understood until now. And he, the voluptuary,
the hedonist, felt for the first--perhaps the only time in his
life--a vague longing, almost an envy of that spirit which animated
the personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and gave to him with
all the hardships and selflessness necessary for the fulfilment
of a self-imposed duty an overflowing cup of happiness and of
joy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;God grant her persuasive eloquence,&quot;
he murmured to himself, when the time came to retire for the night.
He was thinking of Marguerite, and the futile appeal she, poor
woman, would also make to keep her beloved from fulfilling that
duty which in this case might so easily lead to his death: one
mistake, one slight mischance and one of the most precious lives
in the land would be sacrificed on the altar of an ideal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"> CHAPTER IX</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE BITTER
LESSON</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite had hardly spoken a word during
the interview between her husband and his royal friend. She had
sat by gazing into the fitful flames of the log-fire and listening,
listening while torturing anxiety went on gnawing at her heart.
Nor did she speak during the drive back to their home in Richmond.
She loved the drive and to-night the air--which was damp and soft
and had brought about the thaw--was sweet and invigorating. The
four greys seemed to have the devil in their legs and Percy had
another in his sensitive hands. He drove at breakneck speed over
the cobblestones of suburban London, and over the squelchy road
by the river.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An hour or so later Marguerite, having taken
off her brocaded gown, donned a comfortable wrap and dismissed
her maids, went to find her husband in the library where she knew
he would be sitting now working away and elaborating the plan
which he had formed for the rescue of Madame de Saint-Lucque and
her children.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The evening in the <I>salon</I> of the Duchesse
de Roncevaux had been torture to Marguerite, for while the abb&eacute;
spoke so eloquently of the Scarlet Pimpernel she had detected
every change in Percy's face. Others present only saw in him the
fashionable dandy, the fop, the nincompoop who readily allowed
himself to be the butt of empty-headed women, but she, his wife,
knew just what was going on in his mind: she saw every subtle
expression in the eyes, the flicker of the lids, the almost imperceptible
set of his firm lips, and clenching of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she never questioned him about his plans.
She had learned the bitter lesson of waiting. She knew that no
power on earth--not even his love for her--could move him once
he had heard the call of innocents in distress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just when she reached the bottom of the stairs,
the library door was thrown open by Percy's confidential valet.
She heard Percy's voice from inside the room saying in French:
&quot;I will give you further instructions in the morning.&quot;
A voice, unknown to her, replied: &quot;At your commands, milor.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A small, spare man dressed in sober black came
out of the room followed by the valet, who remained at attention
whilst Marguerite, in her turn, passed into the library.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Percy was sitting at his desk with a map of
Northern France spread out before him. He appeared to be tracing
with one finger a route which he had marked out on it. At sight
of that map and of Percy's obvious absorption, a pitiful cry was
wrung from the poor woman's aching heart. She put her arms round
him and murmured in a desperate appeal:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you love me, do not go!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was useless, of course. She knew that well
enough. All he did was to take hold of her hands and press her
soft palms against his lips. But his eyes soon wandered back to
his desk. He picked up a paper on which were written a few lines
in a small foreign-looking hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Listen to this, m'dear,&quot; he said
softly. &quot;Our loyal friend Chartier of the Com&eacute;die
Fran&ccedil;ais has sent me the report I asked him for by special
courier. You know how well informed he always is. He has such
marvellous opportunities in the theatre and out of it. And this
is what he says:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;'Chauvelin has been summoned back to
Paris. Is not expected to return to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res for
some time. Has reported to the C. of P.S. on the subject of the
St. L's. Committee is sending their most famous spy to track down
the woman and her two children. His name is Andr&eacute; Renaud.
He will arrive in M., so I understand, sometime in February. Up
to the hour of writing no trace has been found of the woman and
children, but believed to be still in the province not far from
M.'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He read the letter through quite slowly, as
if he meant her to weigh every word. He then folded up the paper
and slipped it in the inner pocket of his coat, murmuring softly
the while:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A stage coach plies between Barlemont
in Belgium over the frontier to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. That will
be the best route for us to follow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy,&quot; she entreated, her voice
choked with sobs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once again he pressed her soft palms to his
lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Light of my life,&quot; he said in a
whisper close to her ear, &quot;pray to God that I may not get
there too late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy,&quot; she reiterated with infinite
tenderness, &quot;do not go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She sank down on her knees. His arm rested
on the arm of his chair. She laid her head down on it. Her hair
fell in soft golden ripples all over her neck and shoulders. She
felt his hand gently stroking her hair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have no fear for me, my beloved, he said
lightly, &quot;those devils will never get me, I'll swear. But
I am sorry,&quot; he added with a rueful smile, &quot;that I shall
not come to grips with my friend Chauvelin this time. This Andr&eacute;
Renaud won't be nearly so amusing. As for Mam'zelle Guillotine
. . . Well! <I>A nous deux</I>, Mam'zelle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, gave a light-hearted laugh and then
said with sudden earnestness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Joy of my heart! Have I not pledged my
word to Saint-Lucque?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yes! he had pledged his word. Marguerite knew
that well enough, also that he had proudly asserted: &quot;The
Scarlet Pimpernel never fails.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nor would he fail, of that Marguerite was convinced.
Strange as it may seem she knew within herself even at this hour
of torturing anxiety, that Madame de Saint-Lucque and the two
little girls would be brought safely to England--and that very
soon. But it was his life, his precious life, that was more and
more certainly in jeopardy every time he went over to France.
His anonymity was no longer absolute. Putting his arch-enemy Chauvelin
aside, there must be quite a number of others who would recognise
him as the Scarlet Pimpernel directly they saw him. Had he not
spent weeks in the Conciergerie prison, when those devils tried
to starve him into revealing the whereabouts of the unfortunate
Dauphin? His warders and tormentors saw him day after day: any
one of them would know him again, would even, perhaps, be able
to pierce his cleverest disguise. And there were others! So many,
many others and all of them on the look-out for the big reward
promised for the capture of the English spy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Useless? Of course it was useless. To-morrow
or perhaps the next day he would steal away in the night, and
she, Marguerite, would be left to mourn and to wait. Her arms
tightened round him and she murmured in his ear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you go, I go with you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Before he could move or utter another word
she had passed soundlessly out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the day after next the social chronicle
contained the announcement that Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney had
left Richmond on a visit to friends in Leicestershire where they
intended staying while the mild weather lasted. For the next twenty-four
hours this somewhat sudden departure of these two leaders of fashion
gave ample food for gossip over the coffee-cups. But everyone
agreed that Sir Percy was eccentric. No one really knew how to
take him, or Lady Blakeney for the matter of that. And then there
were other matters to gossip about: the probable marriage of the
Prince of Wales in the near future for one thing: the last phase
of the trial of Warren Hastings for another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And of course the Prince of Dandies and his
lady would soon be back, for the thaw was not likely to last.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Book Three</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER X</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">A UNIQUE PERSONAGE
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There is actually no authentic portrayal in
existence of Gabrielle Damiens, the daughter of the &quot;regicide,&quot;
who was known during the early days of the revolution throughout
the province of Artois as &quot;Mam'zelle Guillotine.&quot; The
only inkling one has of what she probably looked like comes from
a sketch attributed to Louis David, at that time Director of Fine
Arts and member of the National Convention. It is without doubt,
like all David's work, an idealised representation of that odious,
if remarkable woman. Even through the artist's pure and classical
treatment of his subject, the woman's coarseness, not to say brutality,
is apparent in the low forehead, the wide flat nostrils, the prominent
eyes beneath the heavy brows, and above all in the full thick
lips slightly parted, displaying a row of teeth sharp and long
like the fangs of a wolf.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nevertheless, one or two intimate chronicles
of the time assert that Gabrielle Damiens had <I>une beaut&eacute;
de diable.</I> Thus might a Queen of Darkness be beautiful. Her
figure was tall and well-proportioned suggesting great physical
strength, and though her dark eyes seldom betrayed any emotion
save of fury or hatred, her coarse lips would sometimes part in
a smile, not of joy but of sensual pleasure which fascinated when
it did not repel. Women, even the most ignoble harpies of this
revolutionary period hated and feared her, but men like Marat
and Danton looked upon her as the arch-fiend of the revolution
and worshipped her as those of their kind worshipped the devil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was said of that inhuman monster Marat that
he had been passionately in love with her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle Damiens occupied an apartment in
what had been until a year ago the episcopal palace in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res.
The bishop was now deposed. He was in hiding, so it was thought,
somewhere in the forest, looked after surreptitiously by a few
faithful peasants of the district, who did this act of charity
at risk of their lives. The revolutionary government took over
the palace, stripped it of everything of value that happened to
be in it, desecrated the chapel and converted the fine reception-rooms
on the ground floor into offices for the use of the local Committee
of Public Safety, which now held its sittings in what had been
the bishop's private oratory.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The floor above was assigned to Citizeness
Gabrielle Damiens at her special request for her private residence.
It was her friend Maximilien Robespierre, one of the most prominent
members in the Convention who had obtained for her the position
of Public Executioner in his native Province of Artois. The story
of how a woman came to be appointed to such an odious post was
a curious one. When Gabrielle Damiens was liberated from the Bastille
after sixteen years' incarceration, and when full recollection
came to her of how and by whose influence she came to be arrested,
her one dominating thought was Revenge. Her mind, which had always
been active, concentrated on schemes to accomplish that one supreme
object. All sorts of different plans presented themselves before
her in turn--spying, denunciations, underground work of every
sort and kind--she rejected them all. Her diabolic temperament
thirsted not for revenge only but for the actual blood of her
enemies, of Saint-Lucque, who had engineered her incarceration
in the Bastille, a living tomb in which she spent the best sixteen
years of her life. And Saint-Lucque, it seems, was married and
happy with his wife and young children. At thought of them Gabrielle
Damiens became like those legendary vampires thirsting for the
life-blood of the entire brood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But how to attain her heart's desire? Gabrielle
thought and thought and gradually a plan formed itself in her
mind. A scheme. Only a vision at first but with the possibility
of becoming a realisation, more wonderful, more stupendous than
anything that had ever been done before. She saw herself like
Sanson of Paris or Carrier of Nantes, the promoter and artisan
of her own desires. She saw her hands, those large hands of hers
with the short spatulate finger-tips dealing out death not vicariously
but actually; deaths which she had for years madly longed to witness.
The guillotine! Why not?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What a vision! What if it became a reality?
She foresaw difficulties, of course. Even in these topsy-turvy
times a female wielder of the guillotine had not yet been thought
of. But Robespierre was her friend and so was Marat. They were
men of influence and both had the same kind of temperament as
herself, cruel, vengeful and unscrupulous. It is to them that
she turned. They whom she presently consulted, whose prestige
she invoked. She was sure of Robespierre's approval. And Marat
. . .? Well, Marat would come to heel like a snarling dog whatever
she demanded of him. A flash of her eyes, a touch of her hand
and he became her slave.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She sent for those two men one day. There was
a short recess in the sittings of the Convention at the time and
Robespierre had taken the opportunity of going down to his native
province of Artois on business of his own, whilst Marat at Gabrielle's
summons posted at once from Paris as he would have done from the
furthest confines of France if she had called to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And so they came to her apartment which had
once been a saintly bishop's oratory, and Gabrielle Damiens, &quot;the
regicide's daughter,&quot; stood before them, tall, spare, admirably
poised. She was dressed like a man in crimson shirt and breeches:
the sleeves of her shirt were rolled up to display her muscular
arms, her bare feet were thrust into sabots.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do I not look like a man?&quot; she challenged
them. Robespierre nodded assent. Marat measured her with a tigerish
glance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mam'zelle Guillotine, what?&quot; he
murmured raucously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You call me Gabriel Damiens,&quot; the
woman went on, &quot;and you will present me to your committees
as the son, not the daughter of Fran&ccedil;ois Damiens who was
tortured and put to death by cowardly <I>aristos</I> to conceal
their own misdeeds. You will explain that I was imprisoned in
the Bastille for sixteen years for being my father's son. A good
story eh?&quot; she concluded defiantly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Excellent!&quot; was Maximilien Robespierre's
curt comment whilst Marat looked her up and down and gave a harsh
laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You'll get found out pretty soon, <I>ma
belle</I>,&quot; he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman shrugged: &quot;Would that matter?&quot;
she retorted. &quot;If I do my work well, which I certainly will,
they will be satisfied and not care whether I am man or woman.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And so it came to pass that the Province of
Artois boasted of that unique personage, a female executioner.
She did not get found out till after those awful days in September
when two hundred helpless prisoners were massacred in the prisons
of Paris and in the surging crowd the murderers had their clothes
torn off their backs. &quot;Gabriel Damiens,&quot; summoned from
Artois by Danton to give a hand in the butchery, accomplished,
they said, the prodigies of patriotic ardour, by slaying no fewer
than twenty women with &quot;his&quot; own hand. The revolutionary
government, overruled at the time by the Extremists, desired to
reward those who had served it well on that horrible occasion
and Gabrielle Damiens had her reward by seeing her appointment
confirmed as Public Executioner in the Province of Artois, despite
her sex. She had not overestimated her valor when she said to
her friends: &quot;I'll do my work well! They will be satisfied
with me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And they were. Gabrielle Damiens, whenever
the guillotine in the Province happened to be idle, filled in
her time with public speaking. The days were already dawning when
the tigers of the revolution were ready to devour one another.
Denunciation against one party was eagerly listened to by the
other. Extremists were at the throats of the Moderates. Failing
them they were at one another's. Not one man who had been foolhardy
enough to throw himself into the vortex of public life felt that
his head was safe upon his shoulders and the daughter of Fran&ccedil;ois
Damiens &quot;the regicide&quot; saw to it that those who were
avowedly or covertly her enemies became the victims of those who
were her friends.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had a caustic tongue and great power of
oratory. Inflamed by her passions of hate and revenge she knew
how to sway the populace by fierce attacks on those who had incurred
her wrath. She would stand, as Camille Desmoulins had done four
years before in Paris, on a table in the public park, holding
a pistol in each hand; her harsh voice would ring out above the
heads of the crowd gathered round her improvised rostrum. She
knew, none better, how to pillory <I>aristos</I> and capitalists
in the face of this poor, half-starved multitude, as potential
assassins ready to sell the Republic to foreign usurers for gold.
They would listen spell-bound, shivering under their miserable
rags, a prey to a nameless fear of coming events which would mean
death for them, and probably starvation for their wives and children.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Gabrielle, feeling that she held these
people by the magic of her eloquence, would stand there with flashing
eyes, her cropped hair standing up on end around her head like
a disordered mane, a blood-red flush covering her face like a
veil. To the men her fascination soon became irresistible. When
she spoke she could do with them what she liked, twist them round
her little finger. Her face had in it at times an almost demoniac
expression. She was no longer young, and loneliness, semi-starvation
for sixteen years in the Bastille had robbed her of any charm
she may have had in youth, but there was no denying that she had
an extraordinary and compelling personality; and that her very
brutishness had a certain attraction for these half-crazed revolutionists.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">BAFFLED </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Close upon a year had gone by since Gabrielle
Damiens had donned male attire, and exercised the gruesome profession
of Public Executioner. A year during which her hatred for an entire
caste must--one would have thought--have been appeased to a certain
extent, for in the Province of Artois, through its proximity to
the capital where the storm of revolution raged more furiously
than elsewhere, the guillotine wielded by her hand had been at
work day after day, and noble heads, intellectual and saintly
heads, had fallen like corn under the harvester's scythe. But
Gabrielle's blood-lust knew no appeasement yet. Her desire for
vengeance demanded the death of those who had ruined her life
and made of it for sixteen years a real hell upon earth. It was
Saint-Lucque now Marquis of that name, it was his wife and his
children on whom Gabrielle had concentrated the full venom of
her wrath. It was for their blood that her very soul had thirsted
ever since she had been turned out of the Bastille a free woman,
physically free, but an abject slave to her passions. Ever since
that day she had worked for their destruction, had put spies on
their track when they left their chateau in Artois and became
wanderers on the face of France as so many of their kindred had
done. At last the spies had run the head of the house to earth,
he and his son, a boy of fourteen, who were hiding in the little
village of Orcival close to Rocroi, under the protection of the
old <I>cur&eacute; </I>of the parish who had not yet been dispossessed
of his benefice owing to the affection in which he was held by
the village folk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old man had been expecting dispossession,
with it arrest and the inevitable guillotine. It was the usual
fate of those servants of God who were prepared to give up their
lives rather than fail in their spiritual duties to their flock.
He had been tutor to the young Vicomte de Saint-Lucque, and had
gladly given shelter under his roof to Monsieur le Marquis and
the boy, while Madame la Marquise and the two little girls remained
in hiding in another corner of the province not far from the Belgian
frontier. The blow fell with such suddenness that neither Monsieur
le Marquis and his son, nor the priest himself were able to escape
arrest: they were incarcerated in the police commissariat of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
and the following day found them on the way to Paris for trial
on a charge of high treason against the Republic. This was for
Gabrielle Damiens the happiest day she had experienced for the
past twenty years. Trusting in her powers of persuasion, she had
no doubt that she could induce the authorities up in Paris to
allow the execution of the three <I>aristos</I> to take place
in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. &quot;It would,&quot; she argued in
a letter which she wrote to the Public Prosecutor, &quot;help
to quell certain subversive tendencies in the province, and demonstrate
as nothing else could do the power and the determination of the
Republic to deal mercilessly with traitors and counter-revolutionists.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Twenty-four hours later the blow came crashing
down over her fondest hopes. The coach which conveyed the <I>aristos
</I>to Paris was held up by highwaymen in the late afternoon in
the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. The brigands had commenced
operations by cutting the saddle-girths under the bellies of the
soldiers' horses, had held a pistol at the driver's head and driven
away the coach under cover of the gathering night. The <I>aristos</I>
had vanished. What the brigands had done with them was not yet
known. But Gabrielle was not deceived by the story. She knew well
enough that the pseudo-highwaymen were none other than the gang
of English spies who were the avowed enemies of revolutionary
France and spent their time in endeavouring to cheat the Republic
of her right to punish the traitors who had conspired against
her safety. In that endeavour be it said those abominable spies
always succeeded. The escape of the <I>ci-devant aristos</I> and
of the priest Prud'hon was a case in point.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fuming with rage like a wild beast baffled
and foiled of its prey, Gabrielle Damiens appeared before the
local Committee of Public Safety, in sitting the morning after
the outrage, spouting forth invective and abuse, coupled with
threats which caused every man there to put his hand up to his
cravat. Every member of the august assembly endeavored to fasten
the responsibility of the affair on his nearest neighbour, and
tempers ran high while Gabrielle raged and stormed like a harpy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sergeant who had been in charge of the
escort received a full measure of censure and vituperation. He
had given a detailed account as far as he was able of the extraordinary
event from the moment when the first pistol-shot was fired and
the words &quot;Halt and deliver!&quot; rang suddenly out of the
gloom. This was immediately followed by a general m&ecirc;l&eacute;e,
and when a few minutes later the coach was incontinently driven
away and he and the troopers were on the point of re-mounting
they found that their saddle-girths had been tampered with and
they, not being circus-riders were unable to give chase.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;With that infernal din going on,&quot;
the unfortunate man went on to explain, &quot;with pistols cracking
all the time, with hoarse words of command from the unseen foe,
with the plunging and rearing of horses and the creaking of coach-wheels,
I could not get my men to hear me. They had drawn their sabres
but found that in the narrow road, with the thicket on either
side and with the fast gathering gloom they could not use their
arms without fear of wounding their horses or their comrades.
Not one of us had actually seen the attackers, they seemed to
have emerged out of the ground, and at once to have vanished again.
Rain and sleet were lashed into our faces by the wind. It was
hell and pandemonium, I assure you, citizens. You may send me
to the guillotine, but all I could say before my judges would
be to repeat the story that I have told you now, which is the
truth.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sergeant was not sent to the guillotine
for the simple reason that revolutionary France, now at war with
half Europe, had need of all the man-power she could muster. High-placed
officers might be put to death without compunction for they were
<I>aristos</I> and therefore traitors to the Republic, but men
like this wretched sergeant were trained soldiers, and they were
of the people, nor could they very well be spared. The man, then,
was kept in gaol for a week: he was browbeaten and kept in constant
fear of death, until the Committee of Public Safety was satisfied
that his spirit was sufficiently broken, after which he was sent
with written orders to the General commanding the revolutionary
troops in the eastern provinces that he be put in the thickest
of the fight so that he might have a chance of showing his mettle
and redeeming by outstanding bravery his tarnished reputation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So much for him. It is to be supposed that
out there on the Belgian front he spent many a sleepless night
brooding over the extraordinary events of that memorable afternoon,
and that the story of the mysterious English spies and their legendary
chief was told and retold many a time round the bivouac fires,
together with several additions and improvements to make it more
palpitating than it already was!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAUVELIN
TAKES A HAND</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1"> </FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few days later in the luxurious apartment
on the first floor of the episcopal palace Gabrielle Damiens was
pacing up and down the floor like a hungry panther that has been
cheated of its prey. Her dark hair, still innocent of grey, stood
out all round her head in a crazy tangle, for she had been pulling
at it with both hands whenever a fresh access of rage got beyond
her control. Hoarse ejaculations found their way from time to
time through her quivering lips. She would then pause by the centre
table, pick up a bottle and pour some of its contents into a glass.
The liquid was clear like water. But it was water only in name:
<I>eau de vie,</I> water of life, Gabrielle drank it down at one
gulp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The fools!&quot; she muttered thickly
after she had drunk; &quot;the cowards!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And then she went on: &quot;If I had my way
with them . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You would deprive the armies of the Republic
of a number of good soldiers,&quot; a quiet voice here broke in.
&quot;Is that it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot; the woman retorted, &quot;the
armies have no use for cowards!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man who had spoken was sitting by the table,
with elbows resting thereon. His long claw-like fingers were interlocked
and made a support for his chin. He was a small spare man who
would have appeared insignificant but for his pale, sunken eyes,
which now and then flashed with a cold, glittering light like
those of a cat on the prowl in the night. He was dressed in sober
black and wore his dark hair tied at the nape of the neck with
a black bow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is not like you, Citizeness Damiens,&quot;
he went on, with a sarcastic curl of his thin lips, &quot;to brood
over the past.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman shrugged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would have liked to have the handling
of that sergeant's head,&quot; she admitted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of course you would,&quot; the man responded,
with a note of irony in his even voice. He paused for a moment
or two, his pale eyes fixed on Gabrielle and then went on coolly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But you would rather have the handling
of the <I>ci-devant</I> Marquise de Saint-Lucque and her daughters.
Am I not right?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle made no immediate response to this.
She had come to a halt in the middle of the room with a half-filled
glass of <I>eau de vie</I> in her hand, which she was on the point
of conveying to her lips. At the name, <I>Saint-Lucque</I>, she
suddenly became as if petrified. She stood absolutely still with
the glass in her hand half-way up to her lips, rigid as a granite
statue. Her face was entirely expressionless, like a death-mask,
her eyes were entirely glassy, her lips were pressed tightly together.
The man noted all this and smiled. It was a complacent, satisfied
kind of smile, and his head nodded up and down once or twice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am right, am I not, citizeness?&quot;
he reiterated after a moment or two.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle drank down the <I>eau de vie.</I>
Life appeared to come back into her eyes. She put the glass down
and sank into a chair as if exhausted, passed her outspread fingers
through her tousled hair, gave a deep sigh and said finally:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Chauvelin, if you mention that woman
again, I believe I should strangle you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin gave a dry chuckle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As bad as that, citizeness?&quot; he
queried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And worse,&quot; she retorted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And useless, shall we say?&quot; the
man went on flippantly. &quot;My death would serve no purpose
as far as you are concerned, and it would be good old Sanson of
Paris who would have the handling of your handsome head.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment, his pale eyes fixed on
the woman as a snake fixes its eyes on the prey it covets. She
said nothing either. Her mouth was set in a line of obstinacy
and her eyes still glowered with fury. And so there was silence
between these two, while up on the wall the old white-faced clock
ticked away the seconds of time with irritating monotony. Chauvelin
picked up a long quill, held it between two claw-like fingers
and toyed with it, tap-tapping it against the table. He never
took his eyes off her, noted every quiver of her over-strung nerves,
and the power of his own self-control over her unruly temper.
As soon as he was satisfied that he had obtained a certain mastery
over her he resumed:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do not let us quarrel, citizeness,&quot;
he said, with smooth urbanity, &quot;or bandy empty threats. We
have need of one another, you and I, as I will presently show
you . . . if you will listen to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And as she still remained obstinately silent
he added more insistently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you listen, citizeness?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon she replied sullenly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am listening. What is it you want?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nothing but your attention for the moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well? Go on.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am about to give you sound advice,
and I know that you do not usually take advice kindly. But will
you make an exception in my favour, circumstances being what they
are?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well!&quot; she rejoined with a shrug;
&quot;I sent for you, didn't I? It wasn't in order to get you
to make love to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin ignored the gibe and went on placidly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The escape of the three <I>aristos</I>
through the agency of those damnable English spies is a nasty
blow, not only for you personally, citizeness, but a blow to the
prestige of all the local authorities of this province. That is
so, is it not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As she gave no reply, he continued in the same
suave, urbane tone:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will also admit, citizeness, that
a repetition of such an incident would gravely compromise the
reputation, not to say the lives of all the members of your local
government.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused for a moment or two, and then added
with ironic emphasis:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Including yours, Mam'zelle Guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He no longer waited for her to speak. He could
read the workings of her mind as he would an open book, knew that
she cared for nothing at this moment, except the satisfaction
of her vengeful hate, and that he would get nothing out of her
until he had finally succeeded in persuading her that her interests
and her desires were identical with his. And so he went on:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is why, citizeness, you and I must
become allies--not enemies. Your one desire in life, now that
Saint-Lucque himself has escaped you, is to bring the rest of
the family--the wife and the two remaining children--to justice.
My one aim so long as I have breath in my body left will be to
lay the English spies and their chief, the Scarlet Pimpernel,
by the heels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle gave a shrug. &quot;Pshaw!&quot;
she muttered contemptuously. What cared she about Chauvelin's
grudge against the English spies? Give her the Saint-Lucque woman
and her two brats and let Chauvelin deal with that legendary Scarlet
Pimpernel as best he could. She for one did not believe in his
existence at all.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I care nothing about your English spies,&quot;
she said presently. &quot;Give me the Saint-Lucque brood . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You'll never get them, citizeness,&quot;
he retorted with firm emphasis, &quot;while the Scarlet Pimpernel
is alive.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Never!&quot; he reiterated forcibly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! You have tried often enough to
get him, my good man, and you have failed every time, haven't
you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know it. The man is a genius. A devil,
if you like. So far he has baffled me. I am willing to admit my
many failures. But I'll not fail this time if you, citizeness,
will help me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle broke into a loud, prolonged, mirthless
laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So that's it, is it?&quot; she rapped
out harshly. &quot;I am to be the tool of your selfish intrigues.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She jumped to her feet, and brought her clenched
fist banging down upon the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is not for me,&quot; she went on,
hurling vituperation upon vituperation on the silent, smooth-tongued
man, who sat quietly by allowing the flood of her wrath to pass
unchallenged over his head: &quot;it is not for me and my just
cause that your are setting your crooked mind at work. Allies
indeed! Friends! You care nothing for the punishment of traitors
like that Saint-Lucques brood; all you think of is your petty
revenge on the man who has made a fool of you, that creature of
your own imagination--the Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She sank back into the chair, pausing for want
of breath, for she had gradually raised her voice to a strident
pitch, screaming at Chauvelin, who for once in his life was completely
dumbfounded. He had not expected this outburst, had apparently
not read quite deeply enough into the workings of this half-demented
woman's mind, a woman whom, by the way, he heartily despised but
whom he believed to have so completely mastered that she would
be as putty in his hands. In point of fact, she was right when
she said that he cared nothing about the Saint-Lucque women, except
as a means to his ends. It was the Scarlet Pimpernel he wanted
to destroy and he had set his brain to work to devise a trap into
which that chivalrous dandy would be fated to fall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the moment, however, he allowed the full
flood of Gabrielle's vituperations to flow unchecked over his
head. He was not the man to be intimidated by the fury of any
woman, not even of this one who had the reputation of always getting
the better of those who were bold enough to oppose her. He remained
silent for the moment, with pale eyes fixed upon the irate harpy,
his long, thin fingers drumming a tattoo upon the table-top. Soon,
however, a thin, sarcastic smile curled around his lips, and when
Gabrielle came to a halt, panting with exhaustion, he put in calmly;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you not rather unjust towards me
now, citizeness? You accuse me of scheming for the destruction
of the Scarlet Pimpernel rather than for the punishment of three
<I>aristos</I>. But let me remind you that while that audacious
spy and his accursed league are at large they will never allow
the Saint-Lucque women to be tried and condemned either here or
in Paris. Never! They will plan their rescue, wherever they may
be, and the will succeed in snatching them from under your nose,
whatever you may do, even from the very steps of your guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, letting his words sink into the
woman's consciousness, and he had the satisfaction of noting that
comprehension of his point of view did gradually filtrate into
her mind. The look of rage slowly faded out of her eyes and her
breath came and went more slowly through her parted lips. Presently
she said with amazing calm:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! I see what you mean, and I dare
say you are right. It would be the death of me if those women
slipped through my fingers in the end.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They won't,&quot; Chauvelin rejoined
decisively, &quot;once you have those English spies out of the
way, and do not forget, citizeness, that the capture and death
of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be a political event of the first
magnitude and that you will reap as rich a reward as has ever
been bestowed on any man or woman before.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He could no longer be in doubt now that he
held her attention. Her expressive face showed plainly that she
was listening, listening eagerly, and that it rested with him
to hold her attention to the end and to force his will upon her.
His will! She must bow to it. She must! His plan was so fine,
so perfect! So certain of success. But he must have her co-operation.
Without it he could not succeed. What a humiliation for this master-sleuth,
this incomparable tracker of spies, to see himself dependent on
a woman's whim for what meant his whole future, probably his life!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ah, well! Ends had justified the means in many
intrigues before now. Mentally, Chauvelin had counted his cards
and could well be satisfied that he held the ace of trumps. Leaning
well forward, with forearms resting on the table and hands clasped,
he took as it were a final survey of this woman on whom so much
depended. She sat opposite to him, lounging in an armchair, one
leg crossed over the other, her hands thrust in the pockets of
her breeches. She was the first to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well!&quot; she said, &quot;what about
that wonderful scheme of yours? Your tongue does not seem to be
as glib as usual, I am thinking.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I want to put the matter as briefly as
I can before you, citizeness,&quot; Chauvelin gave answer; &quot;but
first of all, tell me, do you know where the Saint-Lucque women
are hiding?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, I don't,&quot; she replied curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Because I am surrounded by fools and
cowards&quot; traitors I call them. . . . The committee and their
sleuths are all alike. . . . Dolts, I tell you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Obviously then, if your own people cannot
track those <I>aristos</I> we have got to find someone who can.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I won't have a stranger meddling here,
you know,&quot; Gabrielle snapped out quickly; &quot;I sent for
you because it is you I want. Why cannot you . . .?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin gravely shook his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Impossible, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have been summoned back to Paris, and
I must return immediately. It is a matter connected with the arrest
of a <I>ci-devant</I> sewing-maid who was intimately acquainted
with the Capet family. The Committee of Public Safety fear the
intervention of the English spies on her behalf. They have sent
for me,&quot; he reiterated solemnly, &quot;and I must go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I can arrange that,&quot; she retorted
with her usual arrogance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He shook his head once again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It would be the guillotine for us both,&quot;
he rejoined, &quot;if owning to any failure on my part or to any
interference from you, the <I>ci-devant</I> sewing-maid were spirited
away by the Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a short dry laugh and added:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't know what you feel about it,
citizeness, but there are one or two things I want to do before
my unworthy head rolls into old Sanson's basket.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle swore under her breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I hate strangers,&quot; she reasserted,
muttering hoarsely through her teeth: &quot;I will not have a
stranger here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The man I have in my mind, citizeness,
is one of the finest trackers of <I>aristos </I>in the country.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I hate strangers,&quot; she reiterated
sullenly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet, you admit that you cannot trust
your own spies to track the Saint-Lucque women to their hiding-place.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle gave no reply to that and for a few
minutes there was absolute silence in this room where two minds
were busy scheming for the death of a helpless woman and her innocent
children. Absolute silence, but the white-faced clock ticked on
marking the passage of time towards eternity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's the man's name?&quot; Gabrielle
queried at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Andr&eacute; Renaud, one of the ablest
men on the staff of the Chief Commissariat in Paris,&quot; was
Chauvelin's glib answer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you are sure,&quot; she insisted,
&quot;that he can run that hateful brood to earth?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite sure. He will bring his own subordinates
with him and within three days you will know where the three women
are in hiding.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And twenty-four hours later we have them
under lock and key,&quot; she concluded with a sigh of satisfaction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ready for conveyance to Paris. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Gabrielle wouldn't have that.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't be a fool, Chauvelin,&quot; she
snapped out at him; &quot;haven't I told you that I want the handling
of those three cursed women myself. Isn't my guillotine good enough
for that vermin? I tell you I will not have them sent to Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And they won't be. Not all the way, at
any rate.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't understand what you mean by 'not
all the way.' I wish you wouldn't talk in riddles.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is quite simple, citizeness. As soon
as the <I>aristos</I> are under arrest, let the fact be bruited
abroad far and wide. The <I>ci-devant</I> Saint-Lucques are, I
understand, very well known in the province and their arrest is
sure to cause a sensation. In fact the greater the sensation the
better it will suit my . . . our plan. After that let it be also
known that the three women will be conveyed to Paris on a given
day, for trial and summary condemnation. Surely you can guess
what will inevitably follow?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mean that the English spies . . .?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Exactly. Flushed with their recent success,
they will at once be on the warpath, devising a plan for the rescue
of these so-called innocent victims of our wicked revolution.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go on, man! Go on! I am getting interested.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For the journey to Paris--do not interrupt
me again I pray you--you must choose just such another day as
served the English spies so well in the case of the other Saint-Lucques
and the priest--you want a mist or thin drizzle, lashing wind
or driven rain. Do not have too big an escort: four to six men
will suffice. Having settled on the day you will have a diligence
ready in the earliest dawn shuttered so that no one can get so
much as a peep into the interior.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You don't want the crowd to see the prisoners
inside the coach?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The prisoners will not be in the coach,
citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean? . . . not in the coach?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the coach, citizeness, there will
be a half a dozen picked men of your own local gendarmerie armed
with pistols, ready to meet the surprise attack, which those English
spies will of a certainty have engineered for the rescue of the
<I>aristos</I>.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle now was sitting quite still, with
elbows on the table, her head resting against her hand. Her eyes
were aglow gazing straight out before her as if she were already
seeing a vision of the drama which Chauvelin had so graphically
foreshadowed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I see it all,&quot; she murmured after
a minute or two.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You can rely on the Chief Commissary
here, I suppose,&quot; Chauvelin added.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is my friend,&quot; she replied curtly;
&quot;he will do what I want.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's good, as we must have his co-operation.
Will you tell him to order the driver, who had best be a trained
soldier, to arrange a breakdown at twilight on the loneliest bit
of road in the forest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's simple enough as you say, providing
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Providing what?&quot; Chauvelin threw
a quick anxious glance at Gabrielle. Her manner had suddenly undergone
a change. A moment ago her enthusiasm had seemed at fever-pitch.
The scheme was grand and certain of success. She saw it all in
a series of mental visions. The coach coming to a halt, the spies
on the watch. The sudden attack on the diligence filled with stalwarts
armed to the teeth. Yes! armed to the teeth. Six to one or more.
All very well, providing they had to deal with an ordinary human
being, say an eccentric Englishman. Or the usual type of adventurous
spy, out for money or promotion. But this man--this legendary
creature with his impenetrable anonymity--the Scarlet Pimpernel
. . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Instinctively she shrugged, obviously in doubt,
her expressive face showing an inkling almost of fear. Chauvelin
was sharp enough to note all this. Her doubts, her fears, and
the reason for both. He gave a harsh mocking laugh and said in
direct answer to her thoughts:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Those misgivings which I can see have
reared their ugly heads in your mind are unworthy of you, citizeness.
I know that people in this country have talked of the Scarlet
Pimpernel as if he were some kind of superhuman being bearing
a charmed life, and those fools over in England are inclined to
foster that belief. Now I know the man. I have seen him and spoken
with him and I give you my word that there is nothing unearthly
about him except his unfailing luck and . . . well, yes! . . .
his physical courage. But let me assure you once more, citizeness,
that the <I>aristos</I> whom you hate will never be sent to the
guillotine while the Scarlet Pimpernel is alive. Never.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had risen from the table while he
gave Gabrielle this assurance. She made no movement while he picked
up his hat and cape and made a move towards the door, but he was
quite shrewd enough to note that at last his solemn words of warning
had their desired effect. His hand had already hold of the latch
when she spoke abruptly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where are you going, Chauvelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To interview the Chief Commissary of
your section . . . with your permission that is . . . By the way,
what is his name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lescar.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! I'll go and have a talk with Citizen
Lescar. I shan't have the same difficulty with him as I had with
you, citizeness,&quot; he went on with a wry smile. &quot;There
is a reward of ten thousand livres for the capture of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, if taken alive. The largest share of that will go to
the Chief Commissary of the district in which the capture has
taken place. I imagine that our friend Lescar will not be lacking
in zeal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; Gabrielle returned with a mocking
laugh; &quot;money is the goad which moves you all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Perhaps,&quot; Chauvelin was willing
to admit. After which he asked: &quot;Is there anything else you
wish me to do, citizeness?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; she replied at first and then
said: &quot;Yes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At your service, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You can tell those dolts up in Paris
to send their sleuth down at once. We'll see what he can do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XIII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">The English
Spy</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The whole Province of Artois was seething by
now with the wrath at the audacity of the English spies, and during
the long winter evenings, round homely firesides or cabaret tables,
that masterstroke accomplished in the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
was discussed and commented on in all its aspects.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Just think on it! Three <I>aristos</I> who
were being sent to Paris for trial were absolutely spirited away
from under the very nose of the highly efficient police administration
of the province. Spirited away! There was no other word for it!
And the whole thing was obviously the work of those abominable
English, who were emissaries of the devil, for no flesh and blood
human creature could have engineered so damnable a trick and then
disappeared as if the earth had swallowed them up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No wonder that the good Artesians looked upon
this hoodwinking of their Chief Commissary as the work of the
devil, and their desire for revenge of the impudent spy was roused
to positive fury. The very name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, the
leader of that gang of brigands, had but to be mentioned to make
the entire population of the province see red.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That barefaced, insolent Englishman and his
equally brazen followers must be laid by the heels and handed
over to the tender mercies of the citizeness Damiens who would
have her quick way with them. Everyone was contemplating with
joy the prospect of seeing those blonde heads--they must be blonde
since they were English, drop one by one into the basket of Mam'zelle
Guillotine. &quot;Not before she had slapped their ugly faces
for them,&quot; was the express wish formulated by the women,
who, as usual, were more rabid than the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The intensity of public feeling in Artois against
the English spy soon became known in the capital, and Chauvelin,
as soon as he arrived in Paris, did his best to magnify every
incident that went to prove that the Artesians would be heart
and soul in any enterprise directed against the Scarlet Pimpernel.
It spite of his many failures in the direction of that elusive
personage, he still had the ear of the Committee of Public Safety
who did not undervalue his real worth, and though, at the special
sitting convened for the purpose, several members were inclined
to scoff when Chauvelin expounded his plan for the capture of
the spies--seeing the number of times that his masterstrokes had
ended in failures--nevertheless when it was put to the vote, the
majority decided in favour of the plan being carried through,
starting with the arrest of the Saint-Lucque woman and her two
daughters. They were to be the bait that must inevitably draw
that league of dare-devils into the clever trap laid for them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Citizen Renaud who had earned his spurs as
the most astute sleuth in the service of the Committee, second
only to Citizen Chauvelin himself, was the man finally selected
for this preliminary work. The three<I> aristos</I> were in hiding
somewhere between M&eacute;zi&egrave;res and the Belgian frontier,
where picked men of the revolutionary guard were on duty night
and day as a living barrier against the escape of traitors over
the border. Commissioned and non-commissioned officers were one
and all ready to swear that no women had crossed the frontier
into Belgium since last the <I>aristos</I> took flight from their
old home and became wanderers in the land. The <I>ci-devant</I>
Marquis and his son, together with a priest, had in due course
been arrested, rescued and taken to England, while the three women
had disappeared.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XIV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">LE PARC AUX
DAIMS </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In these days travellers whose calling or business
took them through Arras and M&eacute;zi&egrave;res to the Belgian
frontier could not fail to note the derelict piece of land situated
off the main road some two or three leagues before coming to Rocroi.
The land still showed signs of having once been an extensive park
surrounding a small ch&acirc;teau. The ch&acirc;teau in this year
of the Republic was falling into ruins. It had been abandoned
close on ten years ago, when the then owners, scenting the fast
approaching revolutionary storm tried to sell it, failed after
repeated efforts, and finally abandoned it, taking themselves
and their goods over to their native Flanders and leaving Mother
Nature in possession of the house and the park, hoping no doubt
to return after the storm had broken or blown over, and to find
the ch&acirc;teau, if not the garden, very much as they had left
it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Mother Nature is noteworthily the worst
care-taker in the world. Civilisation and man's handiwork are
needed to fight rust and decay. The park was first to go back
to the wild. Flower-beds quickly became weed-beds; shrubs and
fruit trees died for lack of pruning and of water, garden statuary
split and broke in the course of two severe winters, and lay on
the ground, pedestal and all beneath a blanket of fungus and of
moss. After three years under Mother Nature's r&eacute;gime <I>le
Parc aux Daims pr&ecirc;s Rocroi, dans la province d'Artois,</I>
was nothing but a piece of derelict land and its ch&acirc;teau
a mere mass of brick and crumbling plaster, broken woodwork and
leaky roof, through the cracked tiles of which rain quickly found
its devastating way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Soon the place got the reputation of being
haunted. Country folk avoided going near it. At first, when the
family had gone, leaving no one to look after the place, enterprising
schoolboys would roam through the orchard in quest of apples,
and thrifty housewives tried to raise cabbages and spinach on
what had once been the vegetable garden. But after a time strange
noises were heard to proceed from the ch&acirc;teau on dark winter
nights, while certain mysterious lights were seen through the
windows to be moving erratically to and fro, to flicker and presently
to die out, only to reappear later or else on the next dark night.
The enterprising schoolboys were scared out of their wits one
evening in November, when unseen feet trod over the rough ground,
making a noise like the crackling of firewood, although there
was no firewood lying about; thrifty housewives had seen to that.
After this mysterious episode apples hung unheeded on the old
trees, and in due course fell to the ground and lay there rotting
until the next season, and housewives gave the vegetable garden
a wide berth, fearing the bane of cabbage grown on unhallowed
soil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And here in the derelict <I>Parc aux Daims</I>
there was enacted in the year three of the Republic--corresponding
with our 1794--a quiet little idyll of loyalty on the one hand
and of courage on the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the earnest entreaty of his wife, and the
advice of devoted friends, Monsieur de Saint-Lucque, taking his
young son with him, had sought shelter in Abb&eacute; Prud'hon's
presbytery, situated in a village in the vicinity of Rocroi; he
confided his wife and two little daughters to the care of an old
couple on whose loyalty he would have staked his life. The Guidals
had been faithful servants of his family for close on half a century.
They owned a small farm in the next village and were people to
whom the unfortunate Saint-Lucque felt he could entrust with the
utmost confidence those three women so dear to him. This occurred
in the early autumn of 1793, and for time everything went well
both in the presbytery and in the farm near Rocroi. But the trouble
was that communication between the two places was fraught with
so much danger that it had to be discontinued chiefly at the demand
of old man Guidal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Weeks and months went by while the unfortunate
Saint-Lucque nearly broke his heart with anxiety over his beloved
wife and daughters and Madame de Saint-Lucque was equally distraught
with grief at being parted from her husband and only son. Matters,
however, unfortunate though they were, might have gone on a little
while longer, had not Christmas come along. The kind hearted abb&eacute;
determined on that solemn occasion to carry a message through
to the farm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The inevitable happened. The old priest was
waylaid by spies of the local Committee of Public Safety and caught
in the act of carrying about with him papers of a suspicious nature.
The immediate result of his well-meant action was a perquisition
in the presbytery, followed by the arrest of Monsieur de Saint-Lucque
with his young son, and also of the abb&eacute; himself; the latter
on a charge of harbouring <I>aristos</I> who were traitors to
the Republic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the cruel hand of fate had not done with
striking at the unhappy Saint-Lucques yet. The law of the Suspect--that
most iniquitous of all the edicts passed by the National Convention--had
just come into force. By its enactment the very fact that a man
or woman or even a child, was as much as suspected of treason,
made them liable to summary arrest and more often than not to
the sentence of death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Guidal, a worthy and timorous peasant, was
terrified of the guillotine. He flatly refused to allow Madame
de Saint-Lucque and her children to remain at the farm any longer.
How did he know when he might become suspect of harbouring <I>aristos</I>?
He had not the pluck to say this to the unfortunate lady himself,
but deputed his wife for this very unpleasant task. The woman,
genuinely horrified at what she called the act of an ingrate and
a coward, argued and protested, but the old farmer was adamant.
There is no worse counsellor or tempter in the world than fear,
and Guidal was frightened to death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At first, no doubt, he had been actuated by
loyalty to his former employers, but as times got more and more
troublous and the revolutionary waves rose higher and higher,
when they broke over the countryside, it became more and more
dangerous to aid <I>aristos</I> to escape from justice. To harbour
them was reckoned to be a capital offence punishable by death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now this awful Law of the Suspect! Guidal
was loyal, he was good and honest, but he was not going to risk
his neck for anybody. In the end he told his wife, Marianne, that
if Madame de Saint-Lucque did not leave the farm within twenty-four
hours, he would himself denounce her and her children to the Commissary
of Police.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With her heart beating well-nigh to suffocation,
Eve de Saint-Lucque overheard the discussion that was going on.
Her fate and that of her little girls were being debated by these
two poor ignorant rustics. There could be only one issue to the
threat uttered by Guidal. She was a pious woman and a loving wife
and mother; what could she do but remain on her knees praying
to God for protection, while the woman Guidal ran to the next
village, to the presbytery and in a flood of tears told the heart-rending
tale to the kind old abb&eacute;.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Before anything could be done, however, or
any decision come to, the Marquis de Saint-Lucque, the little
Vicomte and the abb&eacute; himself were arrested and dragged
to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res pending their being taken to Paris for
trial and sentence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And when Marianne returned to the farm, she
found that Madame de Saint-Lucque had left the house at dead of
night with her two little children.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had put together a small bundle of primary
necessities, had wrapped the children up in all the warm clothing
she possessed, and holding each one by the hand, she wandered
down the road in the direction of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. Where
to go she knew not, only away, away from the danger of denunciation,
of arrest and the awful, inevitable guillotine. Her two little
girls! Innocent children! To think that there could be such inhuman
beasts in the world, in this beautiful France, who would injure
them. Who would, Heavens above! put them to death!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Of her husband and her son she had no news
whatever. In her heart she cherished the one hope that they were
still safe under the care of the Abb&eacute; Prud'hon. But of
this she could not be sure, and she dared not question people,
for fear of compromising those whom she cared for most in all
the world.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There followed for the poor woman days of unspeakable
misery: days in which she heard her children cry out: &quot;<I>Maman,
j'ai faim!</I>&quot; and was unable to give them food. Her children!
days, when feeling herself tracked like a wild animal, she became
a wanderer on the face of the earth. The weather was cold, but,
fortunately, it was dry. With the two little girls clinging to
her skirts she roamed down the country roads around Rocroi getting
as near the Belgian frontier as she dared, plunging into the woods,
hiding in the undergrowth whenever her keen ear detected the slightest
sound of approaching footsteps, or the clatter of distant horses'
hoofs. And there she would remain crouching sometimes for hours
on end, hugging the children as close to her as she could so as
to impart some of the warmth inside her to their tender bodies.
Then when she felt that immediate danger was past, she would wander
out of the wood once more and go along the road, begging for a
few sous or something to eat for her hungry little ones from the
barefooted passer-by or at the door of the meanest-looking peasant's
hut, where news of whole-sale arrests or the iniquitous Law of
the Suspect had not yet found its way. For many nights she and
the children slept in derelict farm buildings or tumble-down outhouses,
and once or twice out in the open. She was almost at the end of
her tether when her wanderings brought her to the neighbourhood
of the <I>Parc aux Daims</I>. The place was not altogether unknown
to her, but while she was still at the Guidals she had heard rumours
that the house was visited by ghosts. She had no superstitious
fears herself, but came readily to the conclusion that it was
soldiers of the Republican Guard or of the military police that
haunted the place and had on that account never dared to go near
it. But hunger and cold drove her thither one evening, when the
children were almost perished with cold, and to add to her misery
snow began to fall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The whole property, garden, orchard and a piece
of pasture land, was, as Madame de Saint-Lucque knew, enclosed
by a low wall surmounted by iron work, which for the most part
was broken down and a prey to rust and decay. The iron gate, too,
was off its hinges and lying on the ground in a state of complete
dilapidation, obstructing the access to the drive which in its
turn led up to the perron of the ch&acirc;teau. Eve started to
skirt the containing wall and presently came to a small postern
gate, or rather the remnants of one. Her ears keenly on the alert,
could detect no sound breaking through the stillness of the night.
She lifted first one little girl and then the other over the broken
stonework, and then passed through the gap in the wall. The snow
fell in large flakes and was already lying thick on the ground.
No light showed anywhere from the direction where the ch&acirc;teau
stood out like a solid block of darkness blacker than the night.
Without looking to right or left, but trusting to her instinct
to guide her, she made her way through a wilderness of weeds to
the house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Presently she found herself at the foot of
a short flight of stone steps leading to the perron. These she
mounted and came to the front door, which was wide open. Through
this she passed. The place was as dark as pitch. All that Eve
could do was to grope her way round. She appeared to be in a square
vestibule on which gave several doors, all of which were open.
On the left she stumbled against the bottom of a marble staircase
with what seemed to the touch like a wrought-iron balustrade.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The little girls, frightened of the dark and
shivering with cold, were crying. Eve gathered them to her as
a mother-hen does her chicks, and led them through one of the
open doors. The room in which she now entered was obviously large
and lofty. Vaguely through the gloom she perceived the dim greyish
light of three tall windows, the glass of which was broken for
the most part. But they were in the lee of the wind and here,
at any rate, was shelter against the cold and the snow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While groping her way about, Eve barked her
shins against pieces of furniture that seemed to be lying topsy-turvily
about. She set a chair or two up on their legs and lifted her
precious children up on these. She had a bit of stale bread and
a couple of apples in her pocket which she gave them to munch,
and then went on groping. She could have screamed for joy when
her hands encountered what was obviously a thick carpet rolled
up into a bundle. It is wonderful what the ingenuity of a devoted
mother will invent for the well-being of her children. To lay
the heavy carpet out on the wooden floor, well away from the night
air, to pick up the little girls, lay them down on the carpet
and roll it over them, was soon done. The carpet was large and
there was warmth in it for Eve also, and though she did not sleep
much that night, she had the joy of hearing the even breathing
of these two most precious beings on earth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At daybreak the next morning Eve de Saint-Lucque
explored the place where she had found temporary refuge. The room
where she and the children had spent the night was one of three
in enfilade, with double doors opening one into the other. All
three were littered with furniture mostly broken. All three had
tall windows with broken glass, oak floors and an air of complete
desolation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Going out to the vestibule, Eve perceived the
marble staircase on her right leading to the story above, and,
opposite, facing the bottom of the stairs, another tall double
door which gave on a very large room with vaulted ceiling and
a monumental mantelpiece, obviously a room used in the olden days
of luxury and hospitality as a banqueting-hall. Soon after that
the children woke. They were warm, but they were hungry. Eve wandered
out into what had once been a beautiful garden, but was nothing
now but a wilderness of weeds. Beyond it, not far from the house,
was the orchard. A few miserable apples still hung upon the trees.
Eve gathered the best ones and gave them to the children to eat.
Thank God for the good health and sturdy constitution with which
they were endowed, or never could they have outlived the privations
of the past two weeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve then wandered out into the road to beg.
And this she did the following day also and the day after that,
always like some small defenceless animal scenting an enemy in
every flutter of a leaf or the crackle of tiny twigs in the woods.
On the whole, passers-by were kind. The carriage-way which branches
off the main road and winds along in a series of curves to the
gateway of the <I>Parc aux Daims</I> was no longer a frequented
one these days. No longer did luxurious equipages wend their way
to the hospitable ch&acirc;teau, or gaily bedight cavaliers on
prancing horses come cantering down the lane. Only now and then
did a market cart go by, taking produce for delivery to the villages
around, or an occasional passer-by--farmer or peasant--come stumping
along in sabots. They were indigent most of them, the men and
the women; but most of them had a sou to spare for the sad-eyed
beggar in ragged black clothes in whom it would have been hard
to recognise the proud and beautiful Marquise de Saint-Lucque.
And when pockets were void of sous, there would be a bit of hard
cheese or stale bread, a few apples or a drop of milk, and Eve
de Saint-Lucque would murmur in gratitude through her tears: &quot;May
<I>le bon Dieu</I> reward you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the third day when she had taken her stand
in the road at some little distance from the park gates, and stretched
out her hand to occasional passers-by, she saw a woman come along
who had a good-sized bundle slung over her shoulders. She seemed
very weary. As this woman drew near, Eve perceived that she was
none other than Marianne Guidal, the farmer's wife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At sight of Madame de Saint-Lucque she threw
her arms up in the air and cried excitedly: &quot;At last! At
last!&quot; She seized hold of Eve's hands and covered them with
kisses.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Madame la Marquise! Madame la Marquise!&quot;
she continued almost sobbing, and would have fallen on her knees
had not Eve restrained her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marianne! My goodness Marianne!&quot;
the latter admonished, &quot;in Heaven's name, be careful! there
may be prying eyes and ears about!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marianne quickly put her hand to her mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have been hunting for Madame la--for
you everywhere,&quot; she resumed, sinking her voice to a whisper.
&quot;But I have not dared to question people and I've had to
be very careful where I went as I am sure Guidal is watching me.
Yesterday he went off to Rocroi Fair. It lasts three days. He
won't be back till late to-morrow. So I've been able to get about
and keep my ears open for any village gossip. And so I heard casually
that a poor woman--your pardon Madame la Mar----, --had been begging
the last day or two in the road near the <I>Parc aux Daims</I>.
I guessed it was Madame, so I put a few things together this morning
and came along.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She paused a moment, for she was evidently
a prey to such deep emotion that she was hardly able to speak.
At last she said, her voice shaking with excitement, her tear-dimmed
eyes fixed on Eve de Saint-Lucque:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I had to come. God guided me hither.
I came to tell you that Monsieur le Marquis and Monsieur le Vicomte
are now safe somewhere in Belgium or in England, people said,
and so is our good Abb&eacute; Prud'hon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve gave a gasp as much of astonishment as
of intense joy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>Le bon Dieu</I> be praised,&quot;
she exclaimed fervently, &quot;but what has happened?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Monsieur le Marquis, Monsieur le Vicomte
and the good abb&eacute; were arrested the very night that Madame
left the farm. I had run out to the presbytery to let them know
what Guidal had threatened to do. A few hours later I heard about
the arrests. The news was all over the villages around. I was
heart-broken and still more so when I realised that Madame had
gone, I knew not whither. Three or four days later it was known
in the entire district that the diligence in which Monsieur le
Marquis with the young Vicomte and the abb&eacute; were being
taken to Paris to be tried and put to death by those murdering
devils, that the diligence, I say, was waylaid by highwaymen in
the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res, at dead of night, and driven
away no one has ever known what direction. Anyway, it vanished
then and there with M. le Marquis, the Vicomte and the abb&eacute;
inside it. No one ever found a trace of it or of the highwaymen
or of the prisoners. It was as if the earth had swallowed the
lot of them. But I have heard it said more than once that <I>le
bon Dieu</I> himself sent one of his emissaries to save Monsieur
le Marquis, who had never harmed any man or woman in all his life,
our good abb&eacute;, who is such a saintly man, and the dear
innocent little Vicomte with them. The whole attack was so mysterious
that the highwaymen could not have been quite human. People talk
of English spies, but we poor country folk know nothing about
that. All I know is that I will pray to <I>le bon Dieu</I> on
my knees every night for the rest of my life that He may save
Madame and the dear little demoiselles, by any means which He
thinks best.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Long after Marianne had ceased talking, which
she had done very volubly, Eve remained silent and contemplative
savouring, as it were, the joy of knowing that her husband and
her son were safe, even though she must continue to suffer, to
care for her little girls and to avoid compromising their safety
by any careless word or act on her part. Subconsciously she watched
Marianne untying the knots which held her bundle together. It
fell apart displaying its contents: a bottle of milk, a large
piece of cheese, two loaves of bread, half a dozen apples. Also
a couple of horse blankets, thick and warm. It was these that
had made the bundle so bulky and heavy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I've boiled the milk,&quot; Marianne
said; &quot;it will keep for a day or two, till I can come back.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With innate delicacy she had refrained from
intruding by word or look on Madame de Saint-Lucque's absorption,
and now she asked with old-world deference:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would Madame deign to accept?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She busied herself with doing up the bundle
of provisions again. Eve could only murmur:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marianne, my dear, good Marianne!&quot;
She put her arms round the old woman's shoulders and kissed her
on both cheeks. &quot;How can I ever thank you?&quot; she said,
and took the precious bundle from her. &quot;But you must not
come again,&quot; she went on firmly, &quot;for our sakes as well
as your own, you must not come again. It is too dangerous, and
much too far for you to walk. If people have already noticed me,
I shall have to try and find shelter elsewhere, at any rate for
a few days, and then perhaps come back here. But you must not
come, Marianne dear. Promise you won't come.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Again she kissed the old woman's wrinkled cheeks
and Marianne gave a reluctant promise which obviously she did
not mean to keep. After which Eve, carrying the bundle of provisions
which meant food for the two children for several days to come,
turned back towards the <I>Parc aux Daims, </I>while Marianne,
who by now was in a flood of tears, went away in the opposite
direction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There followed three days of comparative relief
from hardship, of happiness at the news brought by Marianne, as
well as the joy of having sufficient food for the two little girls.
Eve only ate what kept body and soul together, but the children
ate heartily and were luckily in quite good health.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She saw nothing of Marianne during those three
days, but this was not because of the promise the good woman had
made, but because the farmer had returned from Rocroi Fair a day
earlier than was expected. He said very little to his wife, and
appeared sullen and irritable. On the third day following Marianne's
first visit to the <I>Parc aux Daims</I>, he pleaded important
business in the neighbourhood which, he said, would take up the
best part of the morning. Marianne, thinking herself free, made
her way with a few more provisions to the park gates, hoping to
see Madame de Saint-Lucque again. Her husband suspecting her intention
waylaid her: saw her turn into the side-road which leads to the
<I>Park aux Daims.</I> He went straight to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
and that same afternoon gave information to the Commissary of
Police that the <I>ci-devant </I>Saint-Lucque woman with her two
children were hiding in the derelict ch&acirc;teau.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">WHATEVER HAPPENS
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve de Saint-Lucque knew, of course, nothing
during those few days of the terrible danger which threatened
her and her children through the rancour of Guidal. The fact that
her husband and her son had been rescued in such a mysterious
way through an unexplicable agency, had not only given her a great
measure of happiness, but also a wonderful feeling of hope. She
could not account for that hope, but she certainly felt it. Deep
down in her heart she felt it, and for the first time for many
weeks and months she went about singing to herself for very joy.
Sitting with one little girl on her knee, and the other squatting
on the ground at her feet she would recall for them little childish
songs of long ago, or tales of three little bears or of the seven
dwarfs which enchanted them and caused them to break into the
full-throated laughter which she loved to hear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Only the nights were still terribly trying.
They were so long and so cold, and the consequent inactivity so
very hard to endure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marianne had put tinder and a couple of candles
in that first bundle which she brought, but the danger of revealing
her presence by allowing a light to filtrate through the windows
was far too great to allow of such a luxury. Nor would Eve take
the children out with her, even into the garden; their shrill
young voices or their laughter might, she feared, attract the
attention of a casual passer-by. And any passer-by might be an
enemy these days.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Before Marianne's welcome visit she had gone
out by day into the road to beg for food, and wandered out at
night because of the feeling of peace the deserted garden gave
her. Whatever ghosts had been wont to haunt the place had evidently
found more congenial headquarters. With ears on the <I>qui vive
</I>for the slightest sound that might betoken danger, Eve would
then stroll as far as the orchard where a few winter apples still
hung half withered on the trees. She never heard as much as a
faint rustle among the leaves or the crackling of dry twigs in
the undergrowth. Never, until that evening, the third since Marianne's
visit. The moon was nearly at its full then, and though she hid
her face behind a bank of clouds, the night itself was not very
dark. A grey light hovered over the park as far as the surrounding
wall, and the air was damp and quite still. Eve wandered as far
as the postern gate. Resting her elbows on the broken piece of
the wall she glanced up and down the road. It was completely deserted.
Not a soul in sight. Not a cat on the prowl.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And chancing to look down on the edge of the
road the other side of the wall, she saw something white lying
there. Something white which looked like a piece of paper weighted
down by a stone. Had it not been for the stone Eve would have
thought no more about it. A piece of paper fallen out of the hand
of a passer-by probably. But the stone? Someone must have weighted
the paper down with a stone. Why? Curiosity impelled Eve first
to lean out further over the wall, and then to slip out by the
postern, to kneel down by the roadside and timorously to move
the stone and extricate that piece of paper. Who put it there?
Who put the stone over it, and did it contain a message intended
for her? At first she thought it might be a message from Marianne.
Dear, kind, thoughtless Marianne! Any passer-by might have picked
it up and God only knew what mischief this might cause.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With the paper in her hand Eve quickly slipped
back through the broken-down postern and made her way quickly
to the ch&acirc;teau. Groping about in the dark she found one
of the candles and the tinder. She had before now explored the
house sufficiently to know that there was a large wall-cupboard
in one of the rooms in which she could safely venture to light
the candle and let it burn for a few minutes, at any rate, while
she crouched in its deepest recess just long enough to peruse
the contents of the mysterious missive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had to read it through two or three times
before she took in its full significance. This is what it said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your husband, your son and Abb&eacute;
Prud'hon are safe in England. You and your little ones will soon
join them. Whatever happens do not lose your faith or your trust
in those who have pledged their honour to save you and who have
never failed to keep their word. Destroy this as soon as read.
And remember . . . whatever happens do not lose your faith.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This message was so wonderful, so stupendous
that no wonder Eve's poor aching head could not take it all at
once.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was impossible these days to live in France
either openly or in hiding, without knowing something about a
mysterious agency known as the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel
and its activities. In most places throughout the country, villages
and small townships situated at some distance from the large cities,
the leader of this gang of English spies, as they were called,
was believed to be a kind of supernatural being, either an evil
or a good spirit, according to taste or political views. To the
Terrorists who ruled France, he was the devil incarnate. To the
unfortunates whom fear of death compelled to remain in hiding,
he was a messenger of God sent to bring into their hearts hope
of deliverance and of life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To Eve de Saint-Lucque he was that and more.
She had heard before now of mysterious messages and this was obviously
one, for in the right-hand corner, by way of signature, there
was a rough drawing in red chalk of a small five-petalled flower.
Marianne had already told her that rumour had it that Monsieur
le Marquis, the little Vicomte and the good abb&eacute; had been
rescued by an unknown agency when they were being taken to Paris
for trial which could only have one dire issue. And now this wonderful
message! This promise! This pledge! This word of honour given!
She and her children were soon to join those dear ones in England,
in that hospitable land of the free. A promise! A pledge! How
could she fail to believe and to trust?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Whatever happens do not lose your faith.&quot;
It was so clear, so categorical! such a message of hope and of
comfort. No! No! a thousand times No. She would never lose her
faith. This she now swore before God, as she knelt by the side
of her sleeping children. She buried her face in her hands and
sobbed out her heart in an ecstasy of joy and gratitude.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XVI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">A MASTER SLEUTH
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was on this same day that Citizen Andr&eacute;
Renaud, the master sleuth, arrived direct from Paris. He presented
his credentials as special envoy of the Committee of Public Safety,
first to the Chief Commissary of Police of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res,
and then asked to be received by Citizeness Damiens, at whose
special request he had been sent down from headquarters.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was ushered into the presence of Mam'zelle
Guillotine. She was in a towering rage, turned on the newcomer
like a wild cat, showered a volley of abuse and vituperation on
the unfortunate man who stood in the doorway mute and obviously
flabbergasted at this stormy reception, his credentials, with
large seals dangling therefrom, held in his trembling hand, towards
the irate harpy. She was marching up and down the long room still
muttering curses and generally behaving more like an animal in
a rage than a human being.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At last she snatched the paper out of the man's
hand. Without as much as glancing down on them, she tore them
across and threw them into his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So much for you,&quot; she cried hoarsely,
and gave him a resounding smack on the cheek, &quot;and so much
for your Paris and your Committee. You are nothing but traitors
and cowards--traitors, I tell you, and--cowards. But I'll teach
you what it costs to fool and cheat Gabrielle Damiens. Mam'zelle
Guillotine, they call me. Did you know that? I'll give you and
your d-- Committee a taste of my guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And so she went on yelling and screaming, letting
herself go to the full extent of her stupendous rage, while the
sleuth, still mute and obviously thrown out of countenance, was
picking up the torn pieces of paper, smoothing them out and thrusting
them into the pocket of his coat. It was only when the rabid fury
paused at last, exhausted and breathless, and, pouring out a mugful
of <I>eau de vie</I> drained it at a draught, that he ventured
at last to put in a word.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But what have I done?&quot; he murmured
meekly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle put down the empty mug and turned
to glance at the sleuth who was ruefully nursing his smarting
cheek. She looked him up and down once or twice and gave a contemptuous
shrug. Not that she did not like the look of the man. She did.
She liked his large face, especially now that one cheek was flaming
red, his blonde, tousled hair, his big coarse hands and powerful
legs, and after that one shrug of contempt, a tigerish grin spread
over her face. This the sleuth was quick to note and all at once
he broke into a loud guffaw. And this also appeared to please
Mam'zelle Guillotine. He came further into the room, towards her.
He had a funny rolling gait, like that of a seaman, and now came
to a halt with those big legs of his wide apart, his arms outspread,
and coarse hands displaying the hard-skinned palms all disfigured
with callosities and warts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Like to like. Gabrielle Damiens's look, which
she gave him now, became quite appreciative. She remained contemplative
and silent for a moment or two, and he reiterated with a self-confident
smirk this time: &quot;What have I done to anger you, citizeness?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have arrived exactly twenty-four
hours too late, my friend,&quot; she replied dryly, &quot;and
those twenty-four hours will cost you dear, that's all.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Twenty-four hours too late. What do you
mean?&quot; he queried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just what I said.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He said nothing more for the moment, pulled
a chair towards him, straddled it, rested his great arms across
its back and looked her square in the face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What exactly did you say, my pigeon?&quot;
he then asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I said that you have come to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
twenty-four hours too late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The <I>ci-devant</I> Saint-Lucque woman
is in hiding with her two brats in a deserted house close by here.
We are proceeding with her arrest this very night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Citizen Andr&eacute; Renaud broke into another
loud guffaw.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh!&quot; he said, &quot;is that it?
I do the work and someone else gets the credit, while I get my
face slapped and a torrent of abuse. You are really <I>impayable</I>,
my pigeon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You do the work?&quot; Gabrielle retorted;
&quot;it was Citizen Guidal, the farmer. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of course, it was Citizen Guidal, the
farmer, my subordinate, who has been under my orders for the past
three days,&quot; the sleuth broke in, and brought his large palm
with a resounding slap on his thigh. &quot;And he has been clever
enough to fool you, my cabbage, into believing that a fool like
that could track an <I>aristo</I> to her hiding-place. Why, farmer
Guidal has about as much brains as one of his own calves. And
what did you give him by way of payment for this information,
citizeness? Public money--or a kiss? What?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he was roaring with laughter all the time,
with that full-throated laughter that Gabrielle loved to hear.
But she was feeling completely bewildered now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you mean to tell me . . .&quot; she
began.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And once again he broke in:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I mean to tell you, my cabbage, that
you have been fooled. Do you suppose,&quot; he went on with an
attempt at seriousness, &quot;that the Committee of Public Safety--not
a provincial one, remember, but the Head Committee up in Paris-would
have sent me down here to assist you in running to earth the Saint-Lucque
women, if any local groundling could do the work for you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To this she made no reply, and he drew the
torn credentials from his pocket and held them out to Gabrielle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't tear them up again,&quot; he admonished
her; &quot;now that my work here is done, I am going back to Paris
and I shall want them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle didn't look at the papers again.
She felt bewildered and distinctly humiliated.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll send for farmer Guidal,&quot; she
said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, do!&quot; he assented. &quot;I'll
comb his hair for him. The master sleuth, eh, what? Why didn't
he find the <I>aristos</I> for you before? Why did you have to
send to Paris for me? I was here two days ago. It took me twenty-four
hours, exactly, to trace the Saint-Lucque <I>aristos</I> to that
place--what is it called?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Parc aux Daims.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And another twenty-four to make sure
that the woman and the brats were the traitors you wanted. The
Committee in Paris put me on the track of your friend the farmer.
He was useful. I have a second subordinate working for me also.
He, too, will be coming presently to denounce the <I>ci-devants</I>
and to take credit like your friend Guidal, for having tracked
them. You have been fooled, my pigeon, fooled. We'll say nothing
more about it. But be careful that you do not get fooled again,
and give away public money--it was not just a kiss, was it?--to
liars and traitors. There might be trouble, you know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His final outburst of laughter was so hearty
that it rang out from attic to cellar of the episcopal mansion.
He rubbed his large hands together, banged Gabrielle with easy
familiarity on the shoulder, and gave a chuckle of complete self-confidence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed it was his self-confidence, his self-assurance
that had finally subjugated Mam'zelle Guillotine. Like to like.
They became the best of friends after this. She allowed him to
sit down very close to her, laid her head against his shoulder,
and soon was in ecstasy over the wonderful stories he told her
of his exploits as a tracker of <I>aristos</I>. He stretched out
his spatulate fingers and moved them up and down to demonstrate
their vice-like grip round the necks of traitors.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you want more work of that sort done,&quot;
he added complacently, &quot;before I go back to Paris, just command
me. I will do it for you, my beauty.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He took hold of her hand and rubbed its palm
against the thick stubble of his three-days' beard on his chin
and upper lip. He had a way of purring like a wheezy old tom-cat.
After which he pinched her ear and said in conclusion:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! I will do that work for you, citizeness,
and for France, and leave you to do the rest, Mam'zelle Guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yes! Gabrielle Damiens did like Citizen Andr&eacute;
Renaud, the master sleuth from Paris, very much.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XVII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THUNDER CRASH
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve de Saint-Lucque had not known for months
and years so much happiness as she did the whole of this day.
With the knowledge that her husband and son were safe, and the
certainty that she and the little girls would soon be with them
and that they would all be re-united over in England with no daily
tales of horror to poison the pure air of heaven, or danger of
death hovering over their heads, she went about all day singing
softly to herself and kissed her children over and over again
for very joy of living. The flames of trust and love were burning
brightly in her heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And then the blow fell like a thunder crash.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was six o'clock in the afternoon: a wan,
grey light still hovered over the open country. The last two days
had been comparatively mild, but when the shades of evening began
to draw in, a heavy bank of lead-coloured clouds gathered in the
east and gradually spread over the sky. It soon got very cold.
There was snow coming, Eve felt sure, shivering in her worn-out
black dress. It would soon be bed-time for the children, she thought,
and was thankful, because then she could make them snug and warm,
rolled up in the old drawing-room carpet. Vaguely she wondered
if anything was going to happen and when? She marvelled and tried
to conjecture how the mysterious agency, the wonderful Scarlet
Pimpernel, would work for her salvation. Would she presently hear
the tramp of horses' hoofs and hear the hoarde of heroic rescuers
come riding down the drive? Would she see these emissaries from
heaven come dashing into the ch&acirc;teau and hear their rallying
calls as one by one they would seize the children and finally
herself and carry them off in their arms, away, away from terror
and from death, away to happy England.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And suddenly she heard footsteps on the road
beyond the gates. Not the tramp of horses' hoofs or the rallying
call of heroic rescuers, but heavy, measured steps which came
up the drive, approached the perron and then mounted the outside
steps to the front door. In a moment Eve de Saint-Lucque's happy
exultation was changed to sudden fear, stark agonizing fear. She
strained her ears to listen. Two men had just crossed the threshold
of the front door. Two men or perhaps a man and a woman. Eve couldn't
quite tell but already instinct had told her that here was danger,
deadly danger for herself and for her children. She struggled
to her feet and tiptoed to the folding doors, which were the sole
barriers between her and that enemy, who had come through the
darkness as the messenger of death. But there was neither latch
nor bolt on the doors. They were rickety and hung loosely on their
hinges.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve went back to the improvised beds where
the little girls were lying. They had been asleep but now they
woke and Mariette, the little one, began to cry: &quot;Maman!
what is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush, my pigeon,&quot; the distraught
mother murmured, &quot;say your prayers and ask the good God to
protect us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The footsteps had now got as far as the vestibule.
They came to a halt and a man's voice called loudly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Open that door!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve could not have moved for very life. She
remained crouching by the side of her children, with her protecting
arms round them. Her limbs were paralysed and her eyes were fixed
on the door, through the chinks of which she perceived the dim
light of a lantern.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment the doors were roughly thrown
open, and in the framework a man and a woman appeared. He was
wrapped in a dark cloak from his neck down to his knees, and wore
a felt hat which completely hid the upper part of his face. But
it was not on him that Eve de Saint-Lucque fixed her horrified
gaze. She was looking on the woman on whose face the light from
the lantern drew deep and grotesque shadows. The features coarsened
with age, brought back memories of the past, and involuntarily
Eve's lips gave a murmur:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gabrielle Damiens!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman laughed. It was a harsh and a cruel
laugh. Her dark eyes glowed, with a kind of savage triumph. She
chuckled and took a step or two into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye, Eve de Nesle!&quot; she said harshly.
&quot;It is Gabrielle Damiens right enough. You did not expect
to see me again in this world, did you, after your precious mother
and your cowardly husband consigned me to a living tomb?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She stood there in the darkness, her tall gaunt
frame silhouetted against the dim light of the lantern. To Eve
de Saint-Lucque she appeared as the very incarnation of the spirit
of evil, of the power of darkness come to dash her fondest hopes
and drag her down into the abyss of despair. The woman went on
speaking slowly, as if she had weighed every word before she uttered
them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For sixteen years did I linger in a dungeon
in the Bastille, while you, Eve de Saint-Lucque, lived your life
of happiness and luxury with the dastard who had betrayed me and
cast me off like a worn-out shoe. Sixteen years! during which
my life was at a standstill, and one hope alone compelled death
to pass me by. The hope that I should live to see what I see now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Slowly Eve rose to her feet. The depth of her
misery was so immense that in spite of her shorter stature she
seemed to tower over the other woman through the very sublimity
of her despair. Her slender body appeared as a protective shield
between this creature of evil and her innocent children.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;May God forgive you,&quot; she murmured.
&quot;You tried to do a great wrong sixteen years ago, but I had
nothing to do with your punishment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That is as it may be,&quot; Gabrielle
retorted with a shrug, &quot;but let me assure you that I shall
have everything to do with your punishment. Your miserable husband
has escaped but I'll guarantee that he will be wishing himself
dead before I have done with you and your brats.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After which she turned to her companion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You can go now, Citizen Renaud,&quot;
she said curtly. &quot;You have done your work well and I'll do
the rest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are satisfied,&quot; the man responded,
&quot;that these <I>aristos</I> are the women you want?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes. I am satisfied.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sergeant Meridol is just outside with
half a dozen troopers. I'll send them along to you.&quot; He looked
Eve de Saint-Lucque up and down seeming to appraise her weakness;
then pointing at her over his shoulder with a grimy thumb he went
on with a sneer: &quot;I don't think you need fear trouble from
her until they come.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He turned on his heel and strode out of the
room and across the vestibule. Eve's sensitive ears caught the
sound of his footsteps going down the perron steps and treading
the garden path, and after a few minutes she heard his voice calling
out: &quot;Citizen sergeant.&quot; And another voice answering
from a distance: &quot;Present, citizen.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle Damiens had remained in the room
leaning against the door-jamb, her arms crossed over her sunken
bosom. Eve de Saint-Lucque could perceive the vague outline of
her silhouetted against the light behind. She closed her eyes
trying to shut out this vision of cruelty and of impending doom.
Gabrielle never said another word. She seemed just to be gloating
in silence at sight of the hopelessness of this woman whom she
hated with such brutal intensity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The measured tread of the sergeant and the
guard were heard coming up the path, mounting the perron and presently
coming to a halt in the vestibule. The sergeant took one more
step forward. Gabrielle, turning to him, demanded gruffly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everything ready, citizen sergeant?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Everything, citizeness,&quot; the man
replied. &quot;I have a couple of good horses harnessed to a covered
cart, and as you see the commandant has given me a half a dozen
men.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle threw one last malevolent look on
Eve de Saint-Lucque and the two children, after which she turned
and strode out of the room and across the vestibule to the front
door without uttering another word. Her footsteps not unlike those
of a man resounded down the perron steps and on the frozen ground
outside. Then only did Eve open her eyes, and fixed them on the
soldiers who had lined up behind their sergeant and were standing
at attention the other side of the folding doors. Two of them
carried stable lanterns. All were armed with bayonets. They wore
the promiscuous shabby uniforms affected by the Republican army:
they had red caps on their heads adorned with tricolour cockades.
The sergeant now stalked further into the room. He gave a word
of command to the men and they followed him in, making straight
for Eve and the place where the children lay.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you want?&quot; Eve demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You and the two brats,&quot; the sergeant
gave curt reply. &quot;Come quietly,&quot; he added sternly, &quot;or
there will be trouble.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two of the men seized hold of her while the
others pulled away the old carpet that covered the children.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve de Saint-Lucque fought like a lioness,
while the two men tried to drag her to the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Leave me alone,&quot; she cried while
she struggled. &quot;We'll come quietly if you leave us alone.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men let her go and the sergeant ordered
her to put some clothes on the children. The soldiers stood about
while Eve collected what warm clothing she had for the little
girls and with trembling hands managed to get them dressed. She
took the two horse blankets which Marianne had brought her and
wrapped these round the children's shoulders. The sergeant said
roughly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's enough now. We can't stay here
all night.&quot; And turning to the men he commanded:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pick up these brats and take them outside.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, of course, prudence went to the wind.
Eve de Saint-Lucque felt her senses going. She became a mad woman,
seized hold of a chair, swung it over her head threatening to
hurl it at the first man who approached her children, would have
done it too the next moment had not one of the soldiers at a word
from the sergeant dealt her a blow on the head with the butt-end
of his bayonet. She fell in a pathetic heap to the ground, not
seriously hurt, only stunned, for the blow had not been a heavy
one. To soldiers of the Republic detailed to apprehend fugitive
<I>aristos,</I> the general orders were to bring in their prisoners
alive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Pick up the woman and the brats,&quot;
the sergeant said reiterating his former order. Eve de Saint-Lucque
was unconscious. Mercifully she was spared the sight of seeing
her children in the arms of men who were followers of regicides
and wholesale murderers. Soon the jolting and creaking of wheels
grinding on the axles brought her back to her senses. She and
her two little girls had been bundled into a hooded cart, and
were lying side by side on its hard wooden flooring. Both the
children were crying and calling pitiably for &quot;<I>Maman!</I>&quot;
Madame de Saint-Lucque feeling ill and sick from the blow contrived
nevertheless to gather the little ones closer to her. Fortunately
they were well wrapped up in the thick horse blankets, and their
tiny hands felt quite warm. One of these blankets had also been
thrown over her, and she did not feel the cold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The cart went slowly jolting along over the
rough roads. Through the canvas hood Eve perceived vague forms
stumping along the ground, keeping pace with the cart, and heard
the measured footsteps of the troopers each side of her. The children
had cried themselves to sleep and both were now cuddled up against
their mother. Eve was wide awake. Satisfied that the children
were asleep and fairly comfortable, she tried to gather her wits
together. As her mind gradually cleared, she became aware of the
two words that seemed to stand before her mental vision in letters
of fire: &quot;Whatever happens!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Was it comprehensible? Was it possible that
this mysterious behest could apply to the terrible event that
had just taken place? &quot;Whatever happens!&quot; the behest
had gone on to say, &quot;do not lose your faith or your trust
in those who have pledged their honour to save you, and who have
never failed to keep their word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve had obeyed the command to destroy the missive
as soon as read. But she had committed every word to memory. Until
a few hours ago these words had been to her like a profession
of faith and of hope. She had sworn before God that she would
never lose her faith. But now that faith began to waver, and hope
to recede into clouds of despair, she recited them <I>sotto voce</I>
over and over again forcing hope to return to her, and faith to
revive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Whatever happens&quot; was comprehensive,
she kept on reiterating to herself, forcing herself with all the
will-power she possessed to trust and to believe. Whatever happens!
the words at the close of the missive had been underlined. Whatever
happens, her arrest and that of her children, the terror, the
humiliation, the terrible predicament in which she now was, being
driven along, whither she knew not, guarded by a posse of soldiers
who of a surety would never allow her to escape--were all these
horrors hinted at in the magic word: &quot;Whatever&quot;?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh my God!&quot; she murmured, and hugged
her children closer to her, &quot;grant me faith, make me trust
those brave men who have sworn to protect me and my innocent little
ones.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XVIII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">AT THE COMMISSARIAT
OF POLICE </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Commissariat of Police, Section City of
M&eacute;zi&egrave;res, stood, an isolated building, at a corner
of the Market Square. It was being guarded day and night by a
detachment of the local police which, to make assurance doubly
sure, had been reinforced by half a company of troopers with a
sergeant and two corporals, all of them trained and experienced
men. It had gradually leaked out, though still kept in the deepest
secrecy, that an expedition was being set on foot which had for
its object nothing less than the apprehension of that gang of
English spies and their audacious chief who had set the revolutionary
government by the ears for the past three years, by aiding <I>aristos</I>
and traitors to escape justice. The reward for the apprehension
of the master spy was a matter of ten thousand livres, of which
every man who aided in the capture would receive his share, in
consequence of which there was no lack of keenness on the part
of police and troopers, keenness which amounted to enthusiasm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the morning following the arrest of Madame
de Saint-Lucque and her children, two men and a woman sat in conference
on the upper floor of the Commissariat. The men were the Chief
Commissary, Citizen Henri Lescar, and the Citizen Andr&eacute;
Renaud, the reputed master sleuth, the stranger sent down from
Paris to assist the authorities of the province in the difficult
task of apprehending the Saint-Lucque family of traitors. The
woman was Gabrielle Damiens.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Though the conference was being held at a round
table it was pretty evident that the dominating personality among
these three officials was the woman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Chief Commissary of Police, Citizen Henri
Lescar, had a paper covered with writing in his hands and had
just completed the reading of it out loud. He then laid the paper
down on the table in front of him and said firmly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;These are my orders. Citizen Chauvelin
sent them down to me himself from Paris by special courier. They
were drafted by the Head Section of the Committee of Public Safety
who sat in special session for the purpose. And these orders,&quot;
he concluded decisively, &quot;I must obey.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle Damiens on the other hand was making
no secret of her determination to disobey those orders, wherever
they came from. The Saint-Lucque woman and her children were now
under arrest, and she had made up her mind as to what she wanted
done with the prisoners. Nothing would do but she must have her
way, and let the Committee of Public Safety mind its own affairs.
In the Province of Artois the will of Mam'zelle Guillotine, in
her own estimation at any rate, was law. She spoke in a loud voice
and with forceful gestures, bringing her fist down now and again
on the table with such a crash that everything on it shook and
rattled: the ink spluttered out of the ink-pot, and the grease
from the tallow candles flew in all directions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men listened to her, dominated by the power
of this woman's personality. But at first they had protested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think,&quot; Renaud the sleuth had
put in tentatively, &quot;that we ought to obey the orders from
Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the Chief Commissary reiterated with a
dubious shake of the head:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They were transmitted to us through Citizen
Chauvelin at the bidding of the Committee of Public Safety, who
sat in special session in order to discuss the whole question.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This was one of the occasions on which Citizeness
Damiens brought her fist down with a bang on the table and the
Chief Commissary's immaculate waistcoat was sprinkled with ink
and with tallow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do I care,&quot; she queried defiantly,
&quot;about any Committee of Public Safety and their orders? As
for Chauvelin, he is only a fool with one fixed idea--the capture
of the English spy. But things here in this province are going
to be done my way, let me tell you. If they are not--&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She shrugged, a shrug which implied a threat
that neither of the two men dared apparently to disregard. Renaud
did put in a feeble: &quot;But . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is no but about it,&quot; Gabrielle
retorted forcibly. &quot;Chauvelin has already used every argument
to try and persuade me that the capture of that cursed English
spy is of more importance to the government than bringing <I>aristos</I>
and traitors to justice. That may be. I dare say he is right,
but he has blundered so often that I do not trust his much-vaunted
acumen. The capture of that Scarlet Pimpernel may be all very
well, but I won't allow the Saint-Lucque brood to slip through
my fingers. Let me tell you that. And if you two idiots,&quot;
she went on with a chuckle and a coarse oath, &quot;go against
my will, I can assure you that you will no longer have need of
your cravats.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked so resolute and so fierce that instinctively
the hands of the two men went up to their necks. Chief Commissary
Lescar's cheeks had turned a greenish colour, the glance with
which he met the woman's savage glare was furtive and terror-stricken.
But the sleuth did not allow himself to be intimidated for long.
He edged his chair closer to Gabrielle's, put on an amorous air
whilst his arm stole round her shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You know, my cabbage,&quot; he murmured,
&quot;that you can always reckon on your little Andr&eacute; to
do what you want.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle coolly shook herself free from his
embrace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My little Andr&eacute;,&quot; she retorted
dryly, &quot;had better do what I want or . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't let's quarrel, my pigeon,&quot;
the man went on with fulsome adulation; &quot;give me a kiss.
You are my queen, you know, the only love of my life, my beautiful
adorable goddess.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And as she turned, half willing to respond
to this maudlin flattery, he broke into one of those loud guffaws
which experience had taught him always got the better of her irascible
moods.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Did my little cabbage really think,&quot;
he queried between bursts of immoderate laughter, &quot;that her
Andr&eacute; would want to thwart her in anything?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus was peace restored between the lovers.
What could the unfortunate Commissary do after that but agree
to everything that Mam'zelle Guillotine desired? It was, anyway,
the safer attitude to take up, for Gabrielle Damiens could be
a relentless enemy, and she had power too to enforce her will.
So he waited patiently and in silence while a kind of rough bill-ing
and coo-ing went on at the other end of the table, whispered endearments,
pinching of cheeks and ears, all intermingled with prolonged outbursts
of laughter. At last he ventured to interrupt:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then what is it you wish to do, Citizeness
Damiens?&quot; he asked abruptly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle thrust her ardent lover away from
her and turned in her usual resolute way to the Chief Commissary.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How does the whole affair stand at the
present moment?&quot; she countered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The women were arrested last evening,
as you know, citizeness . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know all that,&quot; Gabrielle broke
in dryly; &quot;that is not what I was asking. Where are the<I>
aristos</I> now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the cells down below,&quot; the Commissary
replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle was silent for a moment or two. A
deep frown appeared between her brows, giving an almost sinister
expression to her face. Her thoughts were concentrated on the
one thing that her very soul desired, the death of Eve de Saint-Lucque
and the two children. Let that elusive Scarlet Pimpernel do his
worst; all that she, Gabrielle Damiens, lived for these days was
to see the heads of these three women fall under the knife of
the guillotin--her guillotine, hers, wielded by her own hand,
and to hear the death-rattle in their throats.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two men had waited in silence while she
appeared buried in thought. At last she spoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The diligence from Rocroi was due in
on Wednesday. It does not go back until Monday. Now I want it
brought round here to the back door. I want the Saint-Lucque woman--not
the children, mind--to be taken in it to Paris to-morrow, along
with a half a dozen fully armed men, who will travel inside the
coach with her. And I imagine,&quot; she added with a harsh laugh,
&quot;that she will not have a very agreeable journey. I propose
that we make a start soon after daybreak. I will drive the diligence
myself and come to a halt on the crest of the hill in the forest
where we shall expect to get in touch with the English spies.
The escort shall dismount, we'll eat and drink and pretend to
go to sleep.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Though I am not proposing to obey every
command of Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; she continued after a slight
pause, &quot;I consider him a shrewd man, even though he is in
disgrace. He is quite convinced and I am sure he is right that
the Scarlet Pimpernel will be at his tricks again and risk everything
in an attempt to drag the Saint-Lucque women out of our clutches.
Anyway, I shall be ready for him. The trap is set for the English
vermin to fall into, and when we have got him and his followers
we'll truss them like so many calves, throw them into the diligence
and, as I said, I will drive them myself for immediate slaughter
to Paris. The men from inside the coach will then march back to
M&eacute;zi&egrave;res and wait there for further orders. I'll
warrant,&quot; she concluded with a complacent chuckle, &quot;that
no man or superman, spirit of evil or mere audacious spy, will
snatch the reins out of these hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She spread out her large, coarse hands--hands
that had dealt death to many innocent men, women and children.
Renaud captured one of them and raised it to his lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He broke into the loud guffaw which Gabrielle
loved to hear: but it was only a wry smile that curled round the
Chief Commissary's lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are willing, citizeness,&quot; he
ventured to ask, &quot;to take full responsibility for this direct
disobedience to orders?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What orders?&quot; Gabrielle questioned
with a shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That the three <I>aristos</I> shall remain
here in the cells until <I>after</I> the capture of the English
spies has been effected.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Another shrug from Gabrielle and a contemptuous
&quot;Pshaw!&quot; After which she said decisively, weighing every
word and emphasising it by a tap of her finger on the table-top:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Did you not hear me say, Citizen Commissary,
that I want the Saint-Lucque woman to be taken to Paris in the
diligence to-morrow, along with half a dozen fully armed men?
I spoke pretty clearly, it seems to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite clearly, my sweet dove,&quot; Andr&eacute;
Renaud put in with a smirk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Commissary ventured on a final protest,
a very weak one this time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Orders state categorically that there
should be no prisoners in the diligence. Only half a dozen picked
men fully armed and . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle looked him up and down for a moment
or two before she broke in dryly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That cravat of yours does not become
you, Citizen Lescar. Are you tired of wearing it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The threat was obvious. The Commissary swallowed
hard. His throat was dry and his cheeks were the colour of ashes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Andr&eacute; Renaud burst into a loud guffaw.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No use for cravats, Citizen Commissary,&quot;
he chortled, &quot;if one runs counter to my turtle-dove here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He then turned to Gabrielle and put his arm
round her shoulder, trying to draw her nearer to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And what does my lovely one wish her
little Andr&eacute; to do in all this?&quot; he asked with an
affected simper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She shook herself roughly free from him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You, Andr&eacute;,&quot; she replied
curtly, &quot;will take charge of the cart into which the two
Saint-Lucque brats must be thrown sometime during the night, when
there are no prying eyes about. The woman, on the other hand,
must be taken in the same way from the cells to the diligence,
as secretly as possible, and given in charge of the picked men
in there. The brats must be securely bound in the cart against
possible escape. It will be the Citizen Commissary's business
to see that all this is properly done: the diligence brought round
here to the back door, half a dozen picked men armed to the teeth
settled inside, and the woman thrust in quietly sometime during
the night. Everything done, in fact, according to my orders,&quot;
Gabrielle said finally, and cast an imperious glance on the unfortunate
Lescar, now reduced to abject silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She waited a moment or two before turning to
Renaud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Weather permitting, I shall make an early
start with the diligence to-morrow,&quot; she said to him, &quot;and
take what escort I may require. How many men has the citizen captain
promised you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Two dozen, my pigeon,&quot; he replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Including the six picked men?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then I'll have twelve troopers with me,
and you can have the rest. I shall drive the diligence myself,
as I said before, and the picked men will be inside ready for
the attack. As soon as we have got the English spies we'll have
them bound and gagged and thrown into the coach. We'll drive post-haste
to Gr&eacute;court and wait for you there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For me, my cabbage?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will have made a start half an hour
after I have gone. You will drive the cart yourself and go round
by Parny and Labat. Make a halt at Gr&eacute;court. If I am not
there wait for me. If I am there first I'll wait for you. Anyway,
it must be at Gr&eacute;court that we join forces, and all drive
happily to Paris together: the English spies in the diligence,
the three women in the cart, two dozen men to escort us and see
that the devil himself does not interfere. After that, hey, presto!
the tribunal and the guillotine for that lot of vermin, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And promotion for us all,&quot; Renaud
put in jovially, turning to the Chief Commissary, &quot;not forgetting
the reward of ten thousand livres of which you and I will pocket
the largest share, eh, my friend?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He brought his huge hand down with such force
on Lescar's shoulder that the poor little man nearly fell off
his chair. A fit of coughing took his breath away. Renaud cast
adoring glances on his &quot;little cabbage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Isn't she wonderful?&quot; he ejaculated
fulsomely, and once more tried to draw her closer to him. But
she shook him off as roughly as before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Leave off behaving like a maudlin fool,&quot;
she said harshly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She turned to the Chief Commissary and queried:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have I made everything clear?&quot; Are
you going to follow my instructions? That is what I want to know.&quot;
Citizen Lescar was making violent efforts to recover his dignity.
Difficult under the circumstances. He had been dominated by this
woman, been made to feel abject through sheer terror for his life.
He, the chief magistrate in this district, who ought to have it
in his power to order her arrest for contempt of the law, for
flouting the commands of the Committee of Public Safety; but he
couldn't do it. He dared not. He felt humiliated and abject, yet
writhing within himself for what he knew was sheer cowardice.
That ever-present fear held him down in craven bondage--the fear
of the guillotine, of the Committee of Public Safety, of Gabrielle
Damiens. He knew not which he feared the most.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At last he said, putting on as pompous an air
as he could:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Since you are taking the lead in this
affair, citizeness, everything will be done in accordance with
your wishes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle drew a deep sigh of satisfaction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think that is a wise decision, Citizen
Commissary,&quot; she said dryly. A contemptuous smile curled
round her full lips. She had got her way, and knew well enough
what had brought this man to heel: but like most dominating women
she despised the men who surrendered their will to hers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While this brief passage of arms went on inside
the Commissariat, a tumult in the street below which had been
slight at first was growing in volume. A number of people had
congregated at the corner of the Market Square, and something,
apparently, had annoyed them. A very usual thing these days. Crowds
collected in desultory fashion with no known purpose. The women
would start grumbling about something or other. There was so much
to grumble at. The price of flour, the scarcity of milk, just
anything and everything that was very obviously the fault of the
government up in Paris. Then the men would take the matter up.
Growling and threatening. Drowning the women's shrill voices with
their vituperations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The government? Bah! What are they doing save
talking and promising. Promising! always promising! The capture
of the English spies, the punishment of all the <I>aristos</I>!
The execution of the oppressors of the people! But what came of
those promises. Nothing at all. Flour and lard were as dear as
ever, and milk more and more unobtainable every day. And what
about the English spies? They had been at their tricks again and
put the whole of the province to shame. And those <I>aristos</I>,
the women whom Mam'zelle Guillotine has sworn to execute with
her own hands, what about them? Promises, promises, <I>sacr&eacute;</I>
name of a dog! Why was nothing done?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where are the <I>aristos</I>?&quot; came
in a strident call from the women.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the men shouted: &quot;Have the English
spies got at them again?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Loud and ribald laughter greeted this suggestion.
Citizen Lescar whose nerves had not yet recovered from repeated
shocks, looked at Gabrielle with the eyes of a dog that has been
whipped and fears further punishment. Pathetic eyes they were
in their avowal of helplessness and reliance on moral support
from this strong-willed woman. But all he got from her was another
contemptuous shrug and a sneer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hadn't you better reassure them, Citizen
Commissary,&quot; she said, &quot;before they throw stones at
these windows?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She watched him with that withering glance
of hers while he was obviously trying to gain time by collecting
papers together, blowing his nose, smoothing his hair, all of
it with hands that shook visibly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Try not to be such a craven,&quot; Gabrielle
snapped out at last. &quot;Go out to them like a successful general
about to proclaim a smashing victory. You have the <I>aristos</I>
under arrest, haven't you? And a trap set for the English spies
from which they cannot escape? Tell them so, like a man, and don't
look like a whipped cur if you can help it. The revolutionary
government has no use for curs, remember.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus placed between the devil and the deep
sea, the fear of the Committee in Paris and terror of this vitriolic
woman, the unfortunate Lescar had no alternative but to obey.
He rose in grim silence and tinkled a hand-bell. A subordinate
entered to whom he gave orders for the front door of the Commissariat
to be thrown open.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And don't forget to have the diligence
sent round to the back door, Citizen Commissary. I expect the
driver can still be found at the <I>Ecu d'Or</I>,&quot; were Gabrielle's
final commands to her victim as, without casting another glance
at his tormentor, he followed his subordinate down the stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few cheers and an equal number of cat-calls
greeted him as he stepped out on the perron.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Somehow, now that he no longer felt the eyes
of Mam'zelle Guillotine looking down on him with contempt or with
fury, he felt more of a man. He looked down on the crowd below,
almost unafraid. The cheers had heartened him: the cat-calls he
did not hear, or else mistook them for cheers also. Gabrielle's
final words had given him his clue. Now that she wasn't there
to prod him with her irony he felt proud and sure of himself,
and knew just what he meant to say. He would speak like a successful
general, and proclaim victory. There he stood now on the top of
the perron this winter's morning casting vague and grotesque shadows
on his lean face, his long thin nose and pointed chin. He raised
his hand demanding silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizens,&quot; he began in a firm tone
of voice, and loudly enough for all to hear, &quot;this is a great
day for us all, for we have wiped out the blot from the escutcheon
of our beloved province. The impudent English spies got the better
of us once, but we have turned the tables on them this time. The
three <I>aristos</I>, whom you all know to have been oppressors
of the poor, and traitors to the Republic, are under arrest. Citizen
Renaud, a stranger to us all, but as great a patriot as ever served
his country, came all the way from Paris to track these vermin,
these snakes to their lair. Now we have got them safely under
lock and key here in the Commissariat and to-morrow we will convey
them, under sufficient escort this time, to Paris, where they
will be tried on a charge of high treason, judged and condemned
to death. Our esteemed citizeness Gabrielle Damiens will have
the privilege of presiding over their execution here in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res.
Long live the Republic!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All this and more did Citizen Lescar say to
the assembled townsfolk, who cheered him to the echoes. And having
done this he was conscious of a great sense of relief. He had
been given his orders by that irascible and dangerous harpy, whose
dictates under the present conditions prevailing in France, no
man would ever dare to disobey: these orders ran counter in some
respects to those which he had received from Paris, but she didn't
care; she had made her own plans for the conveyance of the<I>
aristos</I> and for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and
had shouldered full responsibility for her disobedience. In case
of failure she must also shoulder the blame and suffer the punishment.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XIX</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE INTERLOPER
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The news of the arrest of Madame de Saint-Lucque
and her daughters created a great stir not only in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
itself but throughout the neighbourhood. Madame de Saint-Lucque
belonged as it were to the district. Her mother was the daughter
of a local estate agent, became for a time King's favourite, was
created Comtesse de Nesle and played for some six or eight years
a great role in the court life of Paris and Versailles. Her daughter
Eve was generally believed to be the daughter of Louis XV, who
engineered her marriage with the Vicomte--afterwards Marquis--de
Saint-Lucque. The marriage was a very happy one: there were three
children--a boy and two girls--and all seemed <I>couleur de rose</I>
until the outbreak of the revolution, when persecution followed,
flight from the ancestral home, separation, arrest and constant
danger of death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Marquis de Saint-Lucque and his son had
been rescued from the clutches of the Terrorists through the agency
of the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel. This fact had rankled in
the midst of all patriotic Artesians, who looked upon this successful
feat of the English spies as a disgrace and a direct insult to
the whole of their province and their local revolutionary guard.
The news that the <I>ci-devant</I> Marquise and her children had
at last been run to earth and were now under arrest soothed their
wounded pride to a certain extent. Not that the Saint-Lucques
were any of them disliked in the district. Monsieur le Marquis--as
he was termed in those pre-revolution days--often came to Tourteron,
where Madame had inherited the ch&acirc;teau and demense of that
name from her grandfather, the estate agent. He had made himself
very popular with the working people round about the neighbourhood.
He was good-looking--the women liked him for that--he was genial,
open-handed and not proud. Madame was also very much liked. She
was a good mother and devoted wife, virtues very much appreciated
in provincial France in those olden days, when the King and Court
gave a sad example of immorality and loose living, and she took
a real and personal interest in the families of the poor, and
the hard-working housewives whom she often visited.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But, of course, these things were all of the
past. There were no such persons as Monsieur le Marquis and Madame
la Marquise now, when all men and all women were equal in the
sight of the government of France and an era of Liberty and Fraternity
had set in throughout the country. The fact that Fraternity seemed
to mean that every man's hand was raised against every other who
did not agree with his views did not strike the poor ignorant
farmer or charcoal-burner as peculiar. The government had declared
that <I>aristos</I> were traitors and avowed enemies of wage-earners
whom they had reduced to slavery. They plotted with foreigners
for the destruction of France and must be exterminated as vermin,
root and crop. And that was that.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Men with stentorian voices and wearing tricolour
scarves round their waists toured the country in luxurious chaises
and harangued the populace of towns and villages from improvised
rostrums set up outside estaminets or public buildings. With impassioned
words and gestures they pilloried those who had dared to own land
which rightfully belonged to tillers of the soil or houses which
were obviously the property of those who had built them with their
own hands. The fact that some of those houses, like the ch&acirc;teau
of Labat, had been built two or three hundred years ago, had nothing
to do with the principle enunciated by these wine-shop orators
and the impecunious Artesians were ready enough to swallow the
bait cast to them by these mischief-makers intent on fishing in
troubled waters.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Everything then was made ready for the start
on the morrow. The <I>ci-devant</I> Marquise was hustled in the
small hours of the morning into the diligence which stood outside
the back door of the Commissariat of Police.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was not allowed to bid good-bye to her
children who had been incarcerated in a separate cell from hers.
The poor woman had been gagged and trussed with cords, and been
rendered half unconscious by blows before the men detailed for
this abominable work succeeded in getting her locked up in the
diligence. Only an hour later was the gag removed from her mouth,
and her arms and legs freed from the cords. When she opened her
eyes, she found herself propped up in a corner of the vehicle
and all around her there were a number of men who stood or sat
there in stony silence, filling all the available space inside
the coach. It remained at a standstill, and the only light by
which Eve was able to take stock of her surroundings came from
a small lantern outside. After a time she tried to speak, asked
a timid question or two but she received no answer. It would be
impossible even to attempt to describe what that poor woman suffered
in mind and body during the whole of that awful night. To call
her experience a nightmare would be to understate what she went
through. For it was no dream. Rather was it hell upon earth. The
parting from her children had been the worst of the many ordeals
she had had to undergo in these past four years of anxiety and
sorrow; and now, when she sat huddled in a corner of the diligence
not knowing what had become of them and with those grim and silent
men keeping guard over her, she thought that she had at last reached
the abysmal depths of misery. In vain did she try and infuse hope
into her stricken soul. In vain did she make brave efforts to
keep two magic words before her mind: &quot;Whatever happens .
. .&quot; She kept on reiterating them, forcing herself to trust
and believe but alas! no longer succeeding. Surely when those
brave Englishmen planed her rescue they had not anticipated this.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The dawn broke, grey and dim, and very cold.
It had snowed all night. The diligence was driven round to the
open Market Square in front of the main door of the Commissariat,
where a score of troopers from the 61<SUP>st</SUP> Regiment of
Cavalry were already lined up. Citizeness Damiens was early on
the scene, giving orders, seeing to it that every man had his
arms and accoutrements in perfect condition, encouraging, admonishing,
full of excitement and energy. Once she opened the door of the
diligence and peeped in to have a look at the men inside, and
also to gloat over her victim. She called out with a strident
laugh:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This is what it felt like, Eve de Nesle,
inside a dungeon of the Bastille with nothing to dream of for
sixteen years except revenge. I thought you would like to know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She slammed the door and turned to find herself
in the embrace of Andr&eacute; Renaud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's right, my cabbage,&quot; he said
and imprinted a smacking kiss on her neck; &quot;don't spare that
vermin. Give it them hot and strong.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had arrived on the scene with another score
of troopers for use as escort if required. A hooded cart into
which the two young daughters of Madame de Saint-Lucque had been
hustled, as their mother had been, under cover of the grey dawn
was drawn up in the narrow street at the side door of the Commissariat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The military pageant thus formed on the market
place was quite imposing. Two score of troopers, the huge diligence
and in the forefront an orderly holding the handsome white charger
of Citizen Andr&eacute; Renaud. The latter was in close conversation
with the Chief Commissary. His massive arm was round Gabrielle's
neck, and every few moments his loud guffaws would ring out through
the frosty air right across the market place.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A huge crowd had assembled by now and cheered
the soldiers, the Chief Commissary and Mam'zelle Guillotine with
lusty energy. The morning was raw and frosty and it was still
snowing. The troopers--ill-clad and ill-shod as were most of the
regiments of the Republic--were inclined to grumble. The old clock
on the municipal building had just struck seven and there was
talk of making a start. The Chief Commissary was bidding the travellers
farewell and wishing them luck: Gabrielle was preparing to climb
up to the box-seat of the diligence when there appeared to be
some commotion at the further end of the market place. Shrill
voices were heard asking hurried questions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Art sure they were the English spies?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the Parc aux Daims?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd round the diligence thinned out a
little as several quidnuncs turned to find out what was causing
the tumult over there. A young labourer was, it seems, the centre
of attraction in a small knot of excited townsfolk. He was being
thrust forward by them across the square in the direction of the
Commissariat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go and tell the Citizen Commissary.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And above the hubbub three words twice repeated
rang out clearly: &quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It struck Citizen Lescar like a blow on the
side of the head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is that?&quot; he thundered. And:
&quot;Who is this lad? What does he want?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He has news for you, Citizen Commissary,&quot;
shouted a man from out the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go on, boy,&quot; urged one of the women,
&quot;tell the Citizen Commissary. Don't be afraid.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The boy was now quite close to the Commissary,
but he stood there, looking scared, mute as a carp and scratching
his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is it?&quot; thundered Lescar. &quot;Who
is this lad?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Jean Bernays,&quot; somebody said, &quot;the
shepherd.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What does he want? Name of a dog! Won't
anyone speak?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He says that there is a gang of foreigners,
English he thinks, in hiding in the Parc aux Daims.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Name of a name!&quot; the Commissary
swore hoarsely, and seizing the boy by the shoulder he gave him
a vigorous shake. The lad immediately began to cry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Here Gabrielle intervened. She knew the village
lads in the district and that there was nothing ever to be gained
by trying to bully them. They at once became scared and dumb.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell me, boy,&quot; she said and thrust
her tall form between Lescar and the shepherd: &quot;Didst see
the foreigners last night or only this morning?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The boy sniffed and wiped his nose with the
back of his hand before he replied:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I only saw them this morning. I was looking
after the farmer's sheep. It was maybe four o'clock. Very dark
it was. They weren't there yesterday.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What were they doing?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The boy shrugged. &quot;Just moving about,&quot;
he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How didst know they were foreigners?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! I didn't understand what they said.
And then one man caught sight of me. I was watching them from
the gate. He offered me money to run away and to hold my tongue.
He spoke like a foreigner.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then what didst thou do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I took the money and ran to farmer Matthieu
and told him what I had seen.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What did farmer Matthieu say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Told me to get up behind him on his horse.
He was just going off to Charleville market. From Charleville
I ran all the way to here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is the money the foreigners gave
thee?&quot; the Commissary demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The boy did not like that, would have run away
had he dared. Gabrielle thrust a hand summarily into his breeches'
pocket, encountered a screw of paper which she drew out and unfolded.
It was crumpled and dirty: inside it there were a few silver coins.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Something is written here,&quot; she
said and handed the paper over to Renaud. &quot;Can you read it,
citizen? I can't.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nor could the clever sleuth from Paris. He
gazed on the dirty scrap of paper and so did Gabrielle. In the
end it was Chief Commissary Lescar who looked over Renaud's shoulder
and then pointed with a triumphant finger to the last word of
the mysterious writing: and whether you could read the rest or
not made no matter, for that one word did stand out clearly and
unmistakably and it was scribbled in red chalk: P I M P E R N
E L.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Chief Commissary, the sleuth and Gabrielle
Damiens gazed at one another for a moment, open-mouthed, dumbfounded--just
long enough for the shepherd to seize his opportunity, snatch
his money out of the woman's hand and run away across the square.
The Chief commissary was the first to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am going after him,&quot; he said resolutely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After whom?&quot; Gabrielle demanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After that accursed English spy. Citizen
sergeant,&quot; he commanded, &quot;you and twenty of your men
come with me. I am for the Parc aux Daims.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He called to one of the troopers to dismount
and bring his horse round to him. In vain did Renaud protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You can't take all these troopers away
like that,&quot; he said; &quot;Citizeness Damiens and I cannot
be left to make a start without sufficient escort.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will not need to make a start,&quot;
Lescar retorted gruffly, &quot;until I come back with my prisoner,
that impudent Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But the prisoners . . .&quot; Renaud
went on expostulating.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you are afraid,&quot; the Commissary
broke in, &quot;send round to the barracks for reinforcements.
I am going to the Parc aux Daims with Sergeant M&eacute;ridol
and twenty men to capture my quarry while I know where I can get
it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A horse was brought round to him and he prepared
to mount when Gabrielle's harsh voice once again intervened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are making a fool of yourself, Citizen
Lescar,&quot; she said roughly. &quot;The purpose of the Scarlet
Pimpernel is to get at the <I>aristos</I>. If we get him or when
we get him, it will be when he is at one of his tricks either
here or in the forest, or in fact anywhere on the road. To run
after him when we have set such a fine trap for him is just folly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the Chief Commissary had been too long
under the domination of this tyrant in petticoats. He refused
to listen to her now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My duty,&quot; he said resolutely, &quot;is
to capture the Scarlet Pimpernel. I have had orders to that effect
over and over again for the past three years. If I allow this
opportunity to slip by I should be a traitor to the Republic.
Already I have wasted too much time in talk and recriminations.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He swung himself into the saddle and called
again to the sergeant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen sergeant,&quot; he commanded,
&quot;you will accompany me with twenty of these men. The others
remain here with Citizeness Damiens, and Citizen Renaud will send
to the barracks for as many more as he wants.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In vain did Renaud swear and protest: in vain
did Gabrielle growl like an angry tiger: they were both of them
powerless in face of the Chief Commissary's superior authority
over the soldiers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>En avant!</I>&quot; he cried, and
set off across the square followed by sergeant and troopers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>En avant!</I>&quot; and the cavalcade
rode away with much jingling of harness and clatter of hoofs on
the stone pavement and to the accompaniment of loud cheers from
the crowd. Young and old, men and women, yelled themselves hoarse
with enthusiasm. Admittedly the worthy townsfolk cared nothing
about Citizen Renaud who remained standing there looking somewhat
sheepish. He was a stranger to them. Nobody knew him. He had certainly
been credited with having tracked the female <I>aristos</I> to
their hiding-place, but there the matter ended. Many there were
who had listened with indignation to the altercation between him
and Citizen Lescar. What right, they thought, had this Parisian
interloper to interfere with their Chief Commissary in the exercise
of his duty. The Chief Commissary was entirely within his rights
when he decided to go at once and capture that abominable English
spy, who had led the entire province by the nose with his devilish
tricks of helping traitors to escape from justice, and it was
past any worthy Artesian's comprehension that Citizeness Damiens--herself
a god patriot if ever there was one--should have backed up a stranger
against one of their own townsfolk. But there! What can one expect
from a woman in love? And Mam'zelle Guillotine's infatuation for
the Parisian was no longer a mere rumour but a fact known to all
who had their wits about them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus had the crowd watched the proceedings
with mixed feelings of approbation for their Chief Commissary
and a certain measure of hostility towards Renaud, and after the
cheering for Lescar and his cavalcade had subsided there was some
booing and hissing directed at the stranger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two soldiers were standing together on the
fringe of the crowd at the junction of the market place with the
narrow street on which gave the side door of the Commissariat.
They were ill-shod and ill-clothed in the same haphazard uniforms
as their comrades of the 61<SUP>st</SUP> regiment. Now and then
they both looked over their shoulder down the narrow street where
the hooded cart was drawn up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Presently they were joined by a third man,
who was dressed as they were, whereupon all three drew back a
few steps from the edge of the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have the orders?&quot; one of them
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They spoke in French. Only a keen ear would
have detected the foreign accent in their speech, which was scarcely
audible through the hubbub and chattering of the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The newcomer now said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When the hubbub is at its height, and
the attention of the entire crowd is concentrated on what goes
on in the market place, we must work our way unobserved down this
narrow street to the cart, garrotte the troopers in charge of
it--driver and two troopers--throw them into the cart and drive
away like hell, take first turning on the right and drive straight
on after that. The chief will meet us soon after on the road.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is that all?&quot; one of the others
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! The chief warns us to pay no heed
to what goes on in the market place, however startling it may
be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I wonder what he is thinking of?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Something desperate, I take it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;God protect him!&quot; sighed one of
the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To-day and always,&quot; the others echoed
simultaneously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Renaud, evidently both furious with things
in general and perplexed as to what he had better do in view of
the hostility of the crowd, turned for advice to Gabrielle Damiens.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What shall I do now, my pigeon?&quot;
he asked dolefully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was standing by the near front wheel of
the diligence giving orders to the corporal left in command of
her escort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take the reins yourself,&quot; she was
saying to the soldier, &quot;and drive as far as Gr&eacute;court
and wait for me there. I will take the reins after that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then only did she condescend to notice the
somewhat foolish-looking swain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What does my little cabbage wish me to
do?&quot; he reiterated meekly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Stay here,&quot; she replied dryly, &quot;and
see that the two brats in the cart are not spirited away from
under your nose. With half the population of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
standing round gaping at you, you would be a fool and worse to
let that happen. In the meanwhile send round to the barracks for
a score more soldiers. When you have them here you can make a
start just as if nothing had happened.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But you, my love . . .&quot; Renaud ventured
to say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I shall stay here till that fool Lescar
returns either with that English devil in which case I should
like to get a squint at the impudent rascal before Paris claims
him, or without him which I imagine will be the case. I shall
then ride to Gr&eacute;court and pick up the diligence there.
And everything,&quot; she concluded, &quot;will go on just as
I have planned.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The corporal had already obeyed orders, climbed
to the box-seat of the diligence and taken up the reins. Gabrielle
gave the order: &quot;<I>En avant</I>,&quot; and the old vehicle
giving a great shake like a frowsy dog wakened from sleep, started
on its way with much creaking of wheels and grinding of axles.
The escort thundered to right and left of it, their horses; hoofs
drawing sparks from the stony ground. The crowd forgetting for
the moment to boo at the stranger broke into a cheer and the young
ones among them ran across the square in the wake of the cavalcade,
until it turned into the main road and was lost to view.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The master sleuth remained standing where he
was, looking the picture of indecision and bewilderment. He tried
to recapture Gabrielle's attention by amorous glances, but she
only gave him a contemptuous shrug, and without another word turned
on her heel and went up the perron steps into the Commissariat.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XX</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE COURIER
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chief Commissary Lescar was in the meantime
riding hell for leather at the head of his troop of stalwarts
on the hard road which winds its tortuous way between M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
and Rocroi. The Parc aux Daims lay about midway between the two
cities, to the right of this main artery; a narrow way, little
more than a lane, led up to its front gate. Lescar communicated
itself to the soldiers who saw in this expedition the foundation
of their future fortune.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On! On citizens!&quot; the Chief Commissary
had cried out lustily at the start; &quot;we'll have that abominable
English spy under lock and key, and out share of ten thousand
livres in our pockets before the day is out.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So on the rode, twenty of them, a sufficient
number surely of well-equipped soldiers of the Republic to put
to rout that elusive and dangerous adventurer the Scarlet Pimpernel.
On they rode heedless of their empty stomachs and of the inclemency
of the weather. An hour or so went by. The weather had turned
bright and frosty and the men were hard put to it to prevent their
horses from slipping. At a word of command from Lescar they drew
rein to give the wearied beasts a breather.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll be at the Parc long before midday,&quot;
the Commissary said, wishing to put heart into the men. &quot;There
will be at least a hundred livres for each of you if we bring
back that Scarlet Pimpernel alive.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quarter of an hour later they turned into
the secondary road which led to the Parc aux Daims. Presently
they drew rein once more. The ch&acirc;teau and the park were
in sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now citizen soldiers,&quot; Lescar enjoined
the men, &quot;attention! Keep your eyes open! Let nothing escape
you. The English spies will be on the alert.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment, rose in his stirrups and
gazed out in the direction of the Parc.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They have taken shelter inside the ch&acirc;teau,&quot;
he said. &quot;I don't see anything moving in the garden.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>En avant!</I>&quot; he commanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The narrow road was bordered with grass. Covered
with frozen snow it deadened the clatter of horses' hoofs. Absolute
silence reigned around. Lescar proceeded cautiously. He knew the
ground well and avoiding what had been the drive and the main
gate he made straight for the broken-down postern in the encircling
wall. The men passed through behind him, at foot pace, one by
one. The ch&acirc;teau lay at a distance of some two hundred metres
to the left. The Commissary gave the order to dismount and to
tether the horses to some tall pine trees which formed a spinney
close by. While the men obeyed, he stepped out into the open and
took a quick survey of the stretch of parkland before him. The
quietude all around disconcerted him. Surely those devilish English
spies had not slipped through his fingers after all. He was beginning
to wish he had listened to Mam'zelle Guillotine's advice and remained
with these good troopers on guard round the <I>aristos</I>. As
she rightly said the purpose of the Scarlet Pimpernel was the
rescue of the <I>aristos.</I> It always was. Perhaps it was foolish
to try and run him to earth. The challenge should come from him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The silence which reigned in park and ch&acirc;teau
was certainly strange. Alone the breeze which had sprung up in
the last few moments made a weird sound as it moaned through the
leafless twigs of the old trees and the lifeless foliage of evergreen
shrubs. Calling to Sergeant M&eacute;ridol to accompany him Lescar
went down on hands and knees and holding his pistol in his right
hand, he crept forward cautiously in the direction of the ch&acirc;teau,
closely followed by the sergeant. The broken unshuttered windows
seemed to stare at him like giant eyes. Lifeless yet alert. Had
the English spies decamped or were they behind those windows,
watching him as he moved soundlessly through the tall grass and
tangled undergrowth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Far be it from me to suggest that Chief Commissary
Lescar was in any way afraid; rather was he conscious of a feeling
of excitement, as if something stupendous was about to happen,
something that would prove to be the turning-point of his whole
career. Now he came to a halt and beckoned to the sergeant to
do the same. They were within a hundred metres of the ch&acirc;teau.
The perron and wide-open front door were clearly visible. Still
not a sound from there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Go back and tell the men to come along,&quot;
Lescar murmured under his breath. &quot;I have a feeling that
the English spies are in there and are waiting for us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He didn't wait for the men but crept along
under cover of the shrubbery right up to the perron. Pistol in
hand, ready for anything he mounted the short flight of steps
and peeped through the front door into the vestibule. Not a sound.
No sign of any living soul. He passed through the front door taking
stock of his surroundings. He had been inside the ch&acirc;teau
before. Long ago when it was inhabited, and before it had fallen
into decay. He was familiar with the two smaller rooms in front
of him, with the staircase on the left and, on the right, the
door which gave on the largest room in the house where receptions
and big dinners were wont to be held.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But all the doors were closed now and Lescar
did not feel like pushing any of them open while he was alone
in case those English devils were on the other side ready to pounce
on any intruder. The next moment, however, his straining ears
caught the sound of the troopers approaching. Sergeant M&eacute;ridol
was the first to mount the perron and to step over the threshold.
The men soon followed. Cocked pistols in hand they filed in through
the front door into the vestibule.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Chief Commissary indicated the door on
the right. The soldiers visibly impressed by the silence and by
the aspect of this derelict building seemed none too eager to
obey, whereupon Lescar, closely followed by the sergeant, strode
to the door and kicked it open. It flew back with a loud cracking
and banging, disclosing a sight which caused every man there to
gasp with astonishment. The room was large and lofty and must
at one time have looked imposing, before the paper on the walls
had peeled off in strips and the windows were broken. But it was
not the aspect of the room itself that roused the men first to
surprise and then to excitement, it was the long table which stretched
along it from end to end, a table laden with all sorts of good
things, most of them unknown to these poor half-starved soldiers
of the Republic: meat, bread, cheese, and what's more, three dozen
or more bottles of wine, with corks drawn, all ready for a score
of hungry, thirsty men who had been in the saddle for three hours
and were half perished with cold and fatigue. In vain did Sergeant
M&eacute;ridol attempt to intervene, in vain did Lescar command,
threaten, entreat in the name of the Republic; discipline, never
very easily enforced in these days of liberty and equality, was
thrown to the winter wind that came in gusts through the broken
windows. The men, uttering a portentous cheer, pushing and jostling,
tumbling over one another, made helter-skelter for the festive
board, seized on slabs of meat and hunks of bread and grabbed
the thrice-welcome bottles of wine, which in most cases were emptied
almost at a draught. The sergeant, of course, was caught in the
vortex. In face of such a marvellous spread, he would have been
more than human had he allowed duty to interfere with his enjoyment
of it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for the Chief Commissary, after he had raged
and stormed, after he had threatened sergeant and troopers with
exemplary punishment, he realised that he was wasting his breath.
The scene before him was like the realisation of a human torrent
which nothing on earth had the power to stay. He himself remained
dumbfounded, unconscious of hunger, thirst or fatigue, conscious
only of a weird sensation of something stupendous and fateful
to come. No, no! Things were not as they should be. This mysterious
repast laid out by unseen hands in a derelict house savoured of
witchcraft or the machinations of a devil. The question was: what
devil had engineered and brought about this amazing situation
and lured twenty good patriots to such a flagrant dereliction
of duty. Lescar turned his head away so as not to gaze any longer
on this guzzling, already half-besotted, crowd of men whom he
had brought hither to help him come to grips with the most audacious
adventurer known. In spite of the cold outside, the large room
had become hot and stuffy, the atmosphere reeked of the smell
of meat, of hot breaths and the fumes of wine: the weird silence
which a while ago had reigned in the empty house had given place
to sounds of smacking lips and of working jaws.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Disgusted with sight and sound he made his
way to the window and stood gazing out on the wintry landscape,
the snow-covered ground, the leafless trees. The whole aspect
of this deserted parkland seemed like an emblem of the despondency
of his soul. He felt lonely and misunderstood, and suddenly gazing
out across the park his eyes became aware of something moving
over by the broken-down postern gate. The next moment he was able
to distinguish that &quot;something&quot; to be a horse picking
its way across the overgrown lawn and through the tangled shrubbery.
There were two men in the saddle: one of them a soldier in uniform,
the other riding behind him had his arm round his companion's
waist. His head drooped over the other's shoulder. He appeared
half fainting with exhaustion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lescar was out on the perron in a trice. The
rider had already drawn rein at the foot of the steps.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where are you from?&quot; Lescar called
out to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;From M&eacute;zi&egrave;res, citizen,&quot;
the soldier replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What news?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Renaud sent me to tell you that
all was well. The diligence is well on the way and he himself
was thinking of making a start with the other <I>aristos</I>.
He doesn't want to wait much longer as he wants to make Gr&eacute;court
before nightfall. He sent to the barracks for more men. They only
could spare half a dozen, but citizen Renaud says that these are
quite sufficient.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lescar made no comment on the news. He was
wondering in his mind where his own interests lay in this tangled
affair. Should he return to his post in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
and let the matter of the Scarlet Pimpernel drift? He certainly
didn't feel that he would have much chance against the English
spies should they return in numbers, and with most of his troop
in a state of intoxication. Or should he stand his ground and
with the few men who had remained sober, like this newcomer and
Sergeant M&eacute;ridol, effect the wonderful capture which would
mean a fortune and his name inscribed on the golden roll of patriots
who had rendered signal service to the Republic? It was a difficult
problem to solve. The Chief Commissary remained silently brooding
for a minute or two and then bethought himself of the man who
had ridden behind the soldier.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who are you?&quot; he demanded abruptly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man appeared almost exhausted, and at Lescar's
peremptory question he gave a start and almost rolled out of the
saddle. He would have measured his length on the ground had not
Lescar run down the perron steps and caught him ere he fell. He
was a youngish man decently dressed, save that his clothes were
stained with the dirt and mud of the road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your pardon, citizen,&quot; he murmured,
&quot;but I have ridden all the way from Paris without drawing
rein.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who are you?&quot; Lescar reiterated,
&quot;and what do you want?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man drew a sealed letter from the inner
pocket of his coat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am courier in the service of the Committee
of Public Safety,&quot; he said; &quot;I have orders to deliver
this to no one but the Chief Commissary of the M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
Section himself. My credentials are inside,&quot; he added and
handed the letter to Lescar who at once broke the seal and quickly
unfolded the missive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I met the courier outside M&eacute;zi&egrave;res,&quot;
the soldier put in. &quot;He was asking for the Chief Commissary.
I thought I had best bring him along with me. And as he--&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he got no further for he was suddenly interrupted
by a cry of horror twice repeated from Citizen Lescar, who in
his turn appeared as if he was about to measure his length on
the ground. &quot;A horse!&quot; the Chief Commissary exclaimed
hoarsely. &quot;I must to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Without waiting to see if the courier or the
soldier followed him he ran across the park as fast as the undergrowth
and the weedy grass would allow him in the direction of the spinney
where his troopers' horses were tethered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Follow me,&quot; he cried over his shoulder
to the soldier, &quot;and let the courier come too.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two men were inclined to grumble, but Lescar
gave them no time to protest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is a matter of life and death,&quot;
he shouted as he ran, &quot;and all those louts over in the ch&acirc;teau
are either drugged or drunk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After a moment's hesitation the soldier thought
it best to obey, whilst the courier appeared unwilling to be left
alone in this derelict spot. At any rate he climbed slowly and
rather painfully back into the saddle, and the wearied mount with
its double burden picked its way to the spinney where the Chief
Commissary was just getting to horse, looking so scared and so
death-like pale that the soldier called out instinctively:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What has happened, citizen? You look
scared to death.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Lescar who had run on the rough ground
nearly all the way from the ch&acirc;teau was hardly able to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Get fresh horses both of you . . .&quot;
he gasped, &quot;and follow me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"> CHAPTER XXI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">AN OUTRAGE</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To gather one's thoughts together, to think
at all, was quite out of the question. Lescar's brain was at a
standstill, all he could do was to ride, ride on, with hope and
despair warring in his mind, despair for the most part gaining
the upper hand. He had thrust the letter in the inner pocket of
his coat and his hand remained there clutching that fateful missive
which, undoubtedly, did mean life or death to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The wintry sun was past the meridian now and
had begun its downward course to the west. Soon the shades of
evening would be drawing in and the market cart with the two female
<I>aristos</I> would be driven, Satan alone knew whither. And
the unfortunate Commissary rode on at breakneck speed, with just
enough sense to avoid the frozen puddles on the road, and to take
advantage of any patches of mud where a feeble thaw had set in
under the midday sun. The two men followed more leisurely. The
were, in fact, some little way behind when the town of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
at last came in sight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ten minutes later Lescar on ahead had reached
the first isolated house of the city; another five and his horse's
hoofs were drawing sparks from the stones of the main street.
The Market Square could already be perceived through the mist-laden
atmosphere. Lescar strained his eyes to see what was going on.
There was quite a good crowd there still apparently, hanging about
in a desultory fashion. And there was a sprinkling of uniforms
to be seen among the throng. In the midst of it all there was
Citizen Renaud, who held his white charger by the bridle. Gabrielle
Damiens ran down the steps of the Commissariat just then and flung
herself into his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lescar gave a cry of jubilation. All was well.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Renaud had just called out:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;One more kiss, my pigeon, and I go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle threw her arms round his neck. The
crowd closed in round them, and forgetting its hostility to the
stranger, gave the lovers a loud cheer as they exchanged kiss
after kiss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Another minute and Lescar was across the square.
He drew rein so abruptly that his horse reared and snorted and
the crowd in dismay scattered in all directions. Gabrielle dragged
herself out of her lover's embrace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's all this?&quot; she demanded harshly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If it is not the Citizen Commissary,&quot;
ejaculated a woman in the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon Renaud, in the act of mounting his
white charger, exclaimed with an oath:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That cursed fool again!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you want?&quot; Gabrielle demanded
as Lescar dismounted in double-quick time and nearly knocked Mam'zelle
over, so close to her did he land.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have you got the spy? Where is he?&quot;
she went on peremptorily, and the men and women in the crowd questioned
him eagerly. &quot;Where is the English spy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a dramatic gesture worthy of the finest
classical traditions, Lescar pointed to the man on the white charger
and spoke the one word at the top of his voice so that all might
hear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle shrugged and muttered: &quot;The
man is drunk.&quot; The whole crowd turned to look on Citizen
Renaud, who was evidently of the same opinion as Mam'zelle, for
he only shrugged and with a click of the tongue urged his horse
to start. With a yell that would have shamed a wild beast in a
rage, Lescar threw up his arms and with a vigorous working of
his elbows forged his way through the crowd to the very side of
Renaud and seized the bridle of the prancing white charger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I tell you all,&quot; he screamed, in
a voice hoarse with excitement, &quot;that if you let this man
out of your sight you will be the blackest traitors that ever
betrayed your country.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Renaud raised his whip and with it struck the
Chief Commissary on the head. An outrage against the chief authority
of the town. The population resented it. It had appeared dumbfounded
for the moment, but now it rose in its wrath and with many murmurings
gathered round their Commissary and the man on the white charger,
effectually impeding the latter's movements. It was once again
a case of animosity against the stranger and loyalty to one of
their own kin. Renaud struck out right and left with his whip.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let me pass, you dolts,&quot; he cried,
while Lescar, who had yelled himself hoarse, tried to recover
his breath before starting to yell again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;<I>En avant!</I>&quot; Renaud shouted
to the escort of troopers, who had much ado to keep their horses
quiet in the midst of all this turmoil. &quot;This man is mad
or drunk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle in the meanwhile had also forged
her way to the side of her lover. She came to a halt, facing Lescar
with flaming eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's all this?&quot; she demanded.
&quot;Speak, man, ere I denounce you as the traitor you so freely
talk about.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't let this man go,&quot; Lescar countered,
&quot;and I'll tell you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Renaud stays here,&quot; Gabrielle
responded firmly. And the sleuth accustomed to obey this masterful
woman turned to her, holding his horse in check.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All right, my pigeon,&quot; he murmured,
&quot;but it's getting late and I can't waste my time with this
fool.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Never mind about your time, citizen,&quot;
she retorted dryly. &quot;You stay here, understand? I want to
hear what the Chief Commissary has to say, and that's enough.
Now then, citizen, speak up.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd gathered more closely round the principal
actors in this rather puzzling drama, pressing near to one another
in an endeavour to get some warmth into their blood, for it was
very cold. The women drew their shawls--if they happened to have
any--tightly round their shoulders. The men's noses and hands
were blue. Their bare feet in their wooden sabots were nearly
frozen. But the situation as it now appeared provided excitement
enough to make their discomfort seem unimportant. The Chief Commissary
looked to be in a fever of agitation. Mam'zelle Guillotine was
obviously puzzled, whilst the stranger was in a towering rage.
The young corporal in command of the troopers who formed the escort
round the cart tried to push his way through the throng, but it
had become so dense and the hostility of the people so marked
that he ordered three of the men to join him, whilst the others
were told to remain with the cart on the fringe of the crowd,
one to hold the reins and the others on guard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Speak up, Citizen Commissary,&quot; the
woman shouted to Lescar, and the men echoed the cry. &quot;Speak
up!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lescar dived into the pocket of his coat. He
drew out the papers which the courier from Paris had brought him.
He put on a pompous air and forced himself to speak slowly and
steadily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Committee of Public Safety sitting
in Paris,&quot; he began, &quot;sent me a courier this morning
with a letter which was to be delivered into no other hands but
mine. Here are his credentials.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He unfolded one of the papers and with a grandiose
gesture held it out to Gabrielle, who snatched it out of his hand.
She had become, as it were, the spokesman of the assembly. The
paper bore the signature of two of the principal members of the
Committee of Public Safety and also its official seal. It stated
that the bearer was an accredited courier to the Committee and
had been entrusted with a private letter addressed to the Chief
Commissary of the district of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res; the letter
to be delivered into his own hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, that's in order,&quot; Gabrielle
declared. &quot;Where's the courier?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not far behind,&quot; the Commissary
replied. &quot;I rode along full tilt, he followed more slowly.
He'll be here in a few minutes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While he spoke he unfolded the second communication,
and, with a flourish more dramatic than before, handed it to Gabrielle.
Now there was no one to equal Gabrielle Damiens for shouting,
raging and storming when she was roused, and both Citizen Renaud
and the rest of the crowd quite expected one of those violent
outbursts from Mam'zelle Guillotine while she ran her eyes down
the paper which the Citizen Commissary had given her. But the
only sound that came through her lips was a growl like that of
a wild cat before it starts to spit and to scratch. The crowd
remained breathless. Waiting. Wondering. And suddenly the enraged
woman's arms shot out, she threw the paper back into the Commissary's
face and then with both hands she seized the man on the white
charger by the leg, and had dragged him off his horse before he
realized what was happening. Thus taken unawares and entirely
helpless, he rolled over and over on the ground. The horse reared,
plunged, scattering the bystanders, and the unfortunate man had
the greatest difficulty in warding off the more dangerous kicks
form its hoofs, until the corporal was able to seize the mettlesome
beast by the bridle and to bring it to comparative quiescence.
But this didn't prove to be the end of the wretched stranger's
troubles, for Gabrielle had got hold of his whip and with it was
belabouring him on the head, the back, the shoulders with such
fury and such strength that he cried and cried again for mercy.
Nor did she desist till the whip broke. She threw it from her
and stood with arms akimbo, looking down on her half-conscious
victim. The man on whom she had lavished her kisses a few short
minutes ago. Her face looked positively evil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">True, the good Artesians were not altogether
sorry to see the arrogant stranger thus brought to pain and humiliation,
for these were days when the sight of physical and mental suffering
was an all to familiar one; the tumbrils and the guillotine made
it an almost daily spectacle for young and old, and even for children.
They looked on it as a part of this life's routine, as a distraction
from the monotony of weary, idle hours. But in this case the expression
on Mam'zelle's face was almost terrifying. There was contempt
as well as rage in her eyes and the strong vein of cruelty never
wholly absent from her mien. They were all of them dumbfounded,
even the Chief Commissary had lost his pompous air, and his excitement
appeared to have calmed down. He and Gabrielle, the stranger on
the ground, the corporal on horseback holding the white charger
by the bridle and the three troopers, formed a compact group,
round which the throng now stood in a wide circle, eager, expectant,
awed into silence. But the silence did not last long. Presently
there rose a murmur. It began with the women whispering to one
another:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What has he done?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is he really the English spy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, impossible!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Commissary said so.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He denounced him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But how did he know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the murmur was taken up by the men, until
there was a hum like a swarm of hornets which filled the market.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is he the English spy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do they know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For somehow the stranger, much as they mistrusted
him, did not answer to their conception of what the mysterious
Scarlet Pimpernel was like. He was tall, but should have been
taller still, of Titanic proportions, like the legendary giants:
he should have looked less human, more like the supernatural being
of the nether world.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is not the Scarlet Pimpernel,&quot;
some of the women asserted boldly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't believe it,&quot; the men said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle turned her glowering eyes on the
Chief Commissary.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell them,&quot; she commanded, &quot;what
is written in that letter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Lescar smoothed out the crumpled paper which
Gabrielle had thrown in his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Attention!&quot; he cried loudly, and
then went on:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This letter comes to me from Citizen
Renaud . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Renaud?&quot; they exclaimed.
&quot;But the letter came by courier from Paris, then how--?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He then began to read:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Chief Commissary of the Section
of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res in the Province of Artois,</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This is to warn you that there is an
English spy known to his followers as the Scarlet Pimpernel, who
has been impersonating me these few days past. I have reasons
to believe that his latest activities have been directed in your
province. So, be on the look-out. I have been detained in Paris,
but will be in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res within the next twenty-four
hours. The Committee of Public Safety here in Paris is sending
its special courier to you for me, to bring you this urgent letter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And,&quot; the Chief Commissary added,
&quot;the letter is signed Andr&eacute; Renaud, and bears the
seal and stamp, as well as two signatures of members of the Committee
of Public Safety in Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The unfortunate man, still lying in his semi-unconsciousness
on the ground, had made desperate efforts to regain his senses.
He struggled and wriggled his bruised body about until he was
able to prop himself up on his elbow. Looking up at his tormentor
with an expression of hatred at least as intense as her own: &quot;You'll
pay for this, Mam'zelle Guillotine,&quot; he contrived to murmur
between his teeth and then turned his glance on the Chief Commissary,
who was in the act of folding up the momentous papers and thrusting
them back into his pocket. The expression of hatred in the stricken
man's eyes lingered there also for a few seconds, but soon changed
to contempt as he broke into a forced, immoderate laughter. But
this hilarity was short-lived. The next moment the crowd had suddenly,
if somewhat tardily, realised the full significance of the one
horrible fact, namely that this man, this intruding, arrogant
stranger, was none other than the far-famed Scarlet Pimpernel,
the most dangerous enemy of France, who had devised the abominable
trick of impersonating a servant of the Republic in order to save
a batch of female traitors from the punishment their crimes deserved.
The fact that it was this same man who had brought about the arrest
of the <I>ci-devant</I> Marquise de Saint-Lucque was lost sight
of for the moment. What was remembered was the dramatic gesture
of the Chief Commissary pointing to this man when he was asked:
&quot;Where is the English spy?&quot; and his voice answering
loudly so that all might hear: &quot;There!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The angry murmurings of the crowd turned to
threats of violence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel! That abominable
English spy! That's what this man was all the time, and we never
guessed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mam'zelle Guillotine!&quot; one of the
women shouted, &quot;you'll know what to do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man on the ground realised the danger he
was in. Three or four violent kicks had already been dealt to
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The corporal ordered the troopers to close
in round him to protect him from further assaults from the crowd.
This audacious English spy was food for the guillotine, not for
the mere sadistic entertainment of a lot of provincial louts.
They did their best to ward off the kicks and blows that were
freely aimed at the prostrate form of the stranger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whether it was a sudden inspiration or merely
the powerful instinct of self-preservation, who can tell? Certain
it is that when matters appeared at their blackest, when the troopers
seemed unable to cope any longer with the crowd which had become
very violent, the stranger, whoever he was, succeeded in regaining
his feet. He looked to right and left of him and over the heads
of the multitude and uttered a long-sustained cry of horror and
affright.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The cart,&quot; he exclaimed, &quot;where
is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Where, indeed? The crowd parted, gazed in direction
of the street corner to which the stranger pointed with quaking
hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The cart!&quot; the latter reiterated,
choking with emotion, whilst men and women vainly tried to switch
off their minds from one horrible fact to another, from the personality
of one man, his duplicity, his shameless impersonation, their
own wrath and desire to punish, to the outrageous trick played
upon them by one whose identity could not be in doubt for one
moment. For the cart had gone. Vanished with the troopers and
their horses. While the attention of the crowd had been drawn
to the stranger and his presumed misdeeds, the female <I>aristos</I>
had been spirited away from under their nose. The cart had been
driven away under cover of the uproar and the gathering mist which
enveloped the narrow street. A couple of troopers had been left
in charge of it when the others with their corporal were called
to protect the stranger from further assaults from the irate and
unruly crowd. Their horses had vanished with them, whilst a third
trooper who had been holding the reins had also disappeared. When
did this outrage happen? Whither had all those men gone? Who could
tell? And what in Satan's name had become of the cart and horses?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Both Gabrielle and the Commissary had remained
tongue-tied at first, rigid as granite statues; the expression
on the Commissary's face was at first one of incredulity, then
of bewilderment and finally of horror. But Gabrielle's face remained
expressionless, her face became the colour of ashes, it looked
like the face of the dead. She never moved, not even when the
Commissary gave a loud command to the troopers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;After them, citizens, they cannot have
gone far.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The corporal and the troopers jerked their
horses' heads round and set spurs to their flanks, scattering
the crowd in all directions. Men and women took up the cry: &quot;They
cannot have gone far,&quot; and swarmed all over the market place,
rushing blindly, aimlessly, hither and thither, shouting confused
suggestions to the bewildered soldiers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This way, citizen!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, that!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This is the short cut to Gr&eacute;court.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They'd avoid that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Try the road to Labat.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The way into the side street and that street
itself were soon nothing but scenes of the wildest confusion in
which men and women effectively obstructed all possibility of
pursuit.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This way, citizen!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, that!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And so on, while confusion was made more confounded
at every moment. There were at least half a dozen ways which led
from the centre of the town to anywhere. It was getting late in
the afternoon. Evening began to draw in. Soon a misty sleet mixed
with snow began to fall and it was difficult to distinguish anything
beyond a fraction of a league ahead, past the city lights.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was all very well to keep on shouting and
urging: &quot;They cannot have gone far.&quot; That might be true
enough but the question was: &quot;In which direction?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were only three troopers, besides their
corporal, and the Chief Commissary who were mounted, and they
might possibly have overtaken the cart even though it was being
driven at breakneck speed. The corporal and one of the troopers
went in one direction, the others followed the Commissary while
the young men in the crowd ran down the various narrow streets
which gave all round the Market Square. And with it all there
was rush and uproar and enough shouting, clatter of horses' hoofs
and of wooden shoes on the pavement stones, as to give any fugitive
all the warning required for a good get-away.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">NIGHTMARE
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle, after those few minutes of stone-like
stupefaction, had pulled herself forcefully together. Hers was
not a nature to allow herself to be cowed by any man or any event.
In spite of the humiliation which she had endured and the many
ups and downs of exultation and of horror through which she had
passed during this fateful day, she was still Mam'zelle Guillotine,
whose commands were law in the Province of Artois, and at whose
words the fiercest Terrorists up in Paris were wont to tremble.
Renaud, the sleuth, the arrogant stranger on whom she had lavished
her kisses a short hour ago, and to whom she had administered
such degrading punishment, was standing there, by the white charger,
with one hand on the bridle, and was making serious efforts to
shake off the feeling of giddiness caused by the heavy blows on
his head. They stood isolated now, these two, in front of the
Commissariat, the whole crowd having melted away, scattered like
leaves before the wind. Gabrielle turned a glance of withering
contempt on her former suitor and when she saw that he was preparing
to mount, she just seized him by the arm with a grip that was
like a vice and thrust him out of her way with such violence that
he nearly came down again on his knees. Another contemptuous glance,
a shrug, and it was she who had mounted the white charger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You stay where you are!&quot; she commanded,
&quot;While I try to undo the mischief you have done.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a click of the tongue she set the horse
to walk across the square.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Renaud shouted after her, his voice choked
with hatred unspeakable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The mischief I have done? You devil incarnate,
you shall pay for this. Mark my words.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whether she heard him or not is difficult to
say. Certain it is that she put her horse to the trot without
once turning to him. Straight ahead she rode across the square
until she turned into the Gr&eacute;court road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was still snowing, but overhead the clouds
were thin and from behind them the wan light of the moon shed
a faint, greyish aura over the frozen landscape. Gabrielle knew
every inch of the road and with unerring hand and eyes guided
her mount. At first she overtook one or two detachments of voluntary
search-parties who with much shouting and any amount of voluble
talk were still patrolling the road, hopeful of coming up with
the cart, which &quot;could not have gone far.&quot; They cheered
Gabrielle as she went by.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once past the foremost of these enthusiasts
she put her horse to a walk. Her eyes keen as those of a hawk
pierced the darkness to right and left of her. She had the feeling
that it would be on this road that she would come across some
trace of that audacious Scarlet Pimpernel. All around her the
stillness could almost be felt. The snow fell in large soft flakes.
Not a breath of air stirred the leafless branches of the tall
poplars that bordered the road, and Gabrielle's keen ears could
not detect the slightest sound of distant wheels or horse's trot.
It was only half an hour later that the white charger suddenly
shied at a black, shapeless mass which lay by the roadside.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle dismounted and holding the horse
by the bridle went up to the black mass which had frightened it.
Two men, wearing the uniforms of the 61<SUP>st</SUP> regiment,
were lying half in and half out of the ditch. They were tied to
one another with cord, and a woolen scarf was wound round the
lower part of their faces. The snow lay over them like a thin,
white blanket. As Gabrielle approached them, they made a combined
vigorous effort to utter a cry of distress, but it was only a
faint gurgle that reached her ears. She threw the reins over her
arm and with strong capable hands she released the men of their
bonds, and unwound the scarf from round their mouths. Their teeth
were chattering and their arms and legs were trembling with the
cold. She pulled one man up by his coat collar and then the other,
but never uttered a word till she had them both in a sitting posture.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once this was accomplished her peremptory questions
came out sharp and clear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What happened?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was while you were hitting out at
the English spy,&quot; one of the men contrived to reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The English spy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! We thought he was the man sent down
here to track the <I>aristos</I>. And he turned out to be that
abominable Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then what happened?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We could not help watching,&quot; and
even through his chattering teeth the soldier gave a chuckle.
&quot;It was such a fine sight seeing you belabouring that spy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I stood on the front board,&quot; added
the trooper who had been holding the reins. &quot;the better to
see you. Name of a dog, I wouldn't have been in his shoes for
a pension.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And the kisses you had been giving him
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Gabrielle was not in a mood to listen to
any bantering. &quot;Didn't you hear me ask what happened?&quot;
she demanded harshly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just this, citizeness,&quot; one of the
troopers gave reply, the one who was best able to speak; &quot;when
the whole crowd in the square was yelling itself hoarse with laughter
and when excitement was at its height, my comrade and I were suddenly
seized by the leg, dragged off our horses, struck on the head,
and rolled over on the ground. We were gagged and bound and thrown
into the cart before we could utter a sound.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The same thing happened to me,&quot;
said the other. &quot;I held the reins, and I was standing on
the front board watching you flourishing that whip, when I was
seized by the legs and dragged down from the board. I too was
gagged and bound and thrown into the cart, and as I had struck
my head heavily against the wheel, I was too dizzy to offer any
resistance.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You were driven away in the cart?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then and there, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is the cart now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't know, citizeness. But it must
be somewhere near here. I just heard it come to a halt and the
horses gallop away before I half lost consciousness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The horses?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! They were taken out of the shafts.
I could hear that. It was not far from here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is your other comrade?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't know, citizeness. He was with
us in the cart. Perhaps he is still there now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Anyone else but you three dolts in the
cart?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! Two brats. And there were others,
I think, but I could not see,&quot; the soldier gave answer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nor I,&quot; echoed the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How many English spies were there?&quot;
Gabrielle asked again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I couldn't tell exactly, citizeness.
There must have been at least a dozen. They fell on us like a
swarm of hornets.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that's a lie,&quot; Gabrielle asserted
dryly. &quot;A dozen? I don't believe there were more than two
or three-- And perhaps only one,&quot; she added slowly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I give you my word, citizeness--&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hold your tongue. You were nothing but
a set of traitors and cowards.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that is unfair, citizeness. What
could we do? When the cart stopped we were dragged out and thrown
down in this ditch and left to perish of cold for all those devils
knew. Wasn't that so, comrade?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a grunt of assent, and Gabrielle
queried again:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is the cart now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't know, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To Gabrielle Damiens the whole of this story
told jerkily by men whose lips were shaking with cold, was like
a nightmare from which she would presently wake and find that
nothing of it was real, that all of it was only a hideous phantasmagoria
brought before her mind by mischievous emissaries of Satan and
sent by him to worry and exasperate her. That she, the strong-minded
Amazon, the lion-hearted wielder of the sword of justice, the
indomitable scorner of men should thus have been cozened, baffled,
bamboozled like any groundling or village dolt was inconceivable.
It was maddening and for a time she felt as if her wits had deserted
her and she remained crouching there in the ditch beside those
two soldiers, with an expression in her face which, but for the
darkness, would have been terrifying.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men never moved. They were sore in limb
and their bodies were almost inert. After a time Gabrielle appeared
to gather her wits together again. She struggled to her feet,
paid no heed to the soldiers, never spoke another word to them.
She stood there with the horse's reins swung over her arm, she,
more solidly dark than the surrounding darkness, and the white
charger beside her like a ghost. Her eyes tried to pierce the
veil of snow, searching the gloom for an outline of the cart.
The men watched her when presently she mounted and threw herself
astride into the saddle. They went on watching as she turned her
horse's head back towards M&eacute;zi&egrave;res, put him to the
trot and was soon engulfed in the night. After which they in their
turn struggled to their feet and walked slowly back in the direction
of the city.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They walked on in silence at first, stamping
their feet and swinging their arms across their chest striving
to get the blood back into their frozen limbs. At first and until
the sound of the white charger's hoofs died away in the distance
down the road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Had Gabrielle Damiens been endowed with super-human
senses, she would have been lost in wonderment, for as soon as
the stillness of the night became so absolute that it seemed almost
palpable, it was broken by a sound which, in this lonely bit of
country, roused the barn-door owl from its nightly contemplation
and disturbed the prowling cat in its chase after little birds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By George!&quot; a voice suddenly broke
forth through the gloom in a language Mam'zelle Guillotine would
not have understood, had she heard; &quot;I'm positively frozen
stiff.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And another voice then echoed: &quot;I've never
been so cold in all my life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Got your flask handy, Glynde?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The other fumbled into his inside pocket and
handed a flask to his friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, you go first,&quot; the latter said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Both had a good pull at the flask.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I hope we get horses at the <I>Ecu d'Or</I>.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The chief said we were certain to. It
is a posting-inn, you know. Stage-coaches get their relay there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, I know. And with all this turmoil
going on . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The other man shrugged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! If we can't get horses we'll have
to walk. It is not far and I know the way.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The walk will do us good,&quot; his friend
commented with easy philosophy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When I think what the chief has put up
with . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One of the men who spoke was Sir Philip Glynde,
the owner of Glynde Towers, one of the show places in East Anglia,
with its famous racing stables, its show gardens and hot-houses.
The other was Viscount St. Dennys, one of the richest men in England,
who had been equerry to the Prince of Wales till he gave up that
position and all the pleasures attached to it, in order to follow
his chief in the path of obedience and self-sacrifice. Accustomed
to every luxury that the possession of a large fortune can procure,
sybarites both, they talked quite gaily of a tramp in the night
across country with an icy wind driving snow and sleet into their
faces, just as they had endured with equal gaiety and as a matter
of course, lying flat on hard frozen ground for over an hour with
teeth chattering and limbs growing stiff with cold and the pressure
of ropes around their body.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On ahead a bright light glinted through the
gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There's the <I>Ecu d'Or</I>,&quot; Glynde
remarked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now for a mug of mulled wine,&quot; the
other rejoined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If we get it the Lord be praised.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If we don't may the devil take the landlord
and his ugly wife.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On they tramped after that in silence till
they came to the posting-inn into which they turned and made straight
for the coffee-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was mulled wine made hot for the asking
and the payment thereof, and there were a couple of horses to
be had also, old nags but serviceable, anyway. Glynde gave a deep
sigh when the obsequious landlord closed his grasping hand over
the pieces of gold which St. Dennys had pressed into it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I almost wish the brute had not got us
everything we wanted,&quot; he said ruefully. &quot;The thought
of Blakeney at this moment sickens me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">St. Dennys agreed with him, but said more lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We've obeyed orders. Thank God we were
able to do that. I was dreadfully sorry for those kids.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And there's the poor mother still knocking
about somewhere.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How in Heaven's name will the chief get
her away?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They drank the hot wine while the two nags,
which they had been forced to purchase at a preposterous price,
were being saddled. Soon they got to horse and rode away, into
the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What did they give thee?&quot; the woman
asked her husband, while he busied himself putting up the shutters
in the house and barring the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Five louis,&quot; he replied curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They are either mad,&quot; the wife retorted,
&quot;or else English spies; else they wouldn't have parted with
all that money.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It matters not what they are,&quot; the
man rejoined with a shrug. &quot;Their money is good anyway.&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXIII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">A MESSAGE
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All these exciting events just described are
put on record in the archives of the city of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res:
the arrival of the master sleuth from Paris, the arrest of the
<I>ci-devant</I> Marquise de Saint-Lucque and her two children,
and the preposterous accusation brought against the envoy of the
Committee of Public Safety by Citizen Chief Commissary Lescar
and the turmoil that ensued in consequence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is also on record that three days before
this last event the stage-coach which plies fortnightly between
Barlemont in Belgium and Paris, came to its habitual halt at the
<I>Ecu d'Or</I>, the posting-inn on the outskirts of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res.
On this occasion it brought its usual complement of travellers
who were made to alight in order to have their passports examined
and their identity scrutinised. There were not many strangers
among the small crowd that tumbled helter-skelter out of the lumbering
vehicle which had brought them jogging along the hard frozen road
from the other side of the Franco-Belgian frontier, and nearly
shaken their souls out of their bodies during four hours of this
very trying journey. Half a dozen passengers were allowed to pass
immediately through the barrier where the examination took place,
and filed into what was still called the coffee-room, though no
coffee was ever dispensed there these days. Only mugs of sour
wine which was made hot if it was specially paid for, and if the
landlord and his wife happened to be in an amiable mood. This
privileged half-dozen hungry and thirsty travellers were French
citizens, farmers or shopkeepers who traded regularly with Belgium,
crossing the frontier backwards and forwards, and personally known
to the police. The others, they were Belgians of Dutch for the
most part, were kept waiting, standing out in the cold where innumerable
questions were put to them, their papers taken away from them
and brought back again, and countless other vexations put upon
them till one of them, a woman, collapsed, fainting with hunger
and cold and had to be carried indoors by her fellow sufferers.
These were two men and another woman, all obviously foreigners.
One of the men, a stocky little fellow, was described on his passport
as of Dutch nationality, native of Batavia, and skipper of the
cargo ship <I>Van Tromp</I> of the Netherlands line. He had landed
in Antwerp with a load of coffee, part of which was destined for
a wholesale house in Paris. His papers were all in order. They
had been signed by the Dutch governor of Batavia and countersigned
in Antwerp by Citizen Duvernay, representing the revolutionary
government of France in the port of Antwerp. Nothing could be
more clear or above board, but the police inspector in charge
of the revision of foreign passports in the district was inexperienced
and officious. He gave himself airs of authority which annoyed
the Dutch skipper who became very truculent, heaped curses and
abuse on the young officer and was with difficulty restrained
from coming to blows with him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His fellow travellers, a man and a woman, did
their best to soothe the ruffled feelings of the irate Dutchman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do, I pray you, intervene,&quot; the
woman said to her companion, &quot;we shall never get away while
this row is going on&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They had each their passports and other papers
in one hand, and each carried a small valise. The man thrust the
papers without more ado under the young officer's nose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you could get us through quickly,
citizen,&quot; he said ingratiatingly, &quot;we would be greatly
beholden to you. My friend is cold and hungry. We would like to
get food and drink and beds for a night or two before we proceed
on our way. We are American citizens,&quot; he went on, &quot;and
our papers are entirely in order.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With this he insinuated a handful of silver
coins into the officer's hand, whose manner at once underwent
a change: his hand closed over the money and thrust inside his
tunic, after which he took the American's papers and made a show
of scrutinising them carefully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Passports and papers were undoubtedly in order.
They were signed by Mr. John Adams, the first United States ambassador
accredited to England. Possibly, the officer of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
knew nothing at all of Mr. John Adams, and very little of the
United States of America, but he knew all about Citizen Jean Lambert
Tallien and Citizen Barras, two of the most prominent members
of the Convention, who had countersigned the passports. The woman
was described thereon as Madeleine St. Just and the man as Honor&eacute;
St. Just her brother, both citizens of the United States, come
to Europe in order to visit their cousin Louis St. Just, the friend
and intimate of Maximilien Robespierre himself, names indeed to
conjure with.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The police officer's manner became almost abject.
Completely ignoring the truculent Dutchman and his imperious demands,
he stamped passports and papers without further demur, did not
order the valises to be opened for examination, and even went
to the length of escorting these highly-connected foreigners as
far as the inn and recommended them to the special care and attention
of the landlord and his ill-favoured wife, with a whispered hint
of the financial benefit that would be derived from such attention.
The landlord took the hint and forgetting his status of free citizen
of the Republic of France, and its laws of Equality for all, became
almost servile in his desire to provide his guests with everything
they desired.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">However, they did not want much seemingly,
only a couple of rooms with a clean bed for two or three nights,
and for the moment just a quiet corner where they could sit and
eat in peace. There was a lot of: &quot;This way, citizeness,&quot;
from the landlord, and: &quot;The coffee-room is crowded, you
will be better here,&quot; as he ushered the travellers into a
small parlour adjoining the larger room and summoned his wife
to lay the table and bring along the best food the <I>Ecu d'Or</I>
could muster.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite Blakeney sank on to the hard horse-hair
sofa, and drew a long sigh of relief. She gathered her cape closely
round her and gave a little shiver.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are cold, Lady Blakeney,&quot; her
companion said with obvious concern.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was an iron stove in a corner of the
room. A fire of logs was roaring up the chimney. Marguerite held
her hands to the blaze.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And very tired, I am afraid,&quot; the
man continued; &quot;it has been such a long journey.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was not so bad at first,&quot; she
commented softly, &quot;while Percy was with us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And her eyes seemed to search the flames as
if seeking in them a picture of the face and form she loved. They
had only just parted. And no journey, however trying, could be
hard to bear while Percy was there with her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After a moment or two she spoke: &quot;Sir
Andrew!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you think we shall see Percy again
to-day?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't know, Lady Blakeney . . .&quot;
Ffoulkes replied, paused a moment or two and then added: &quot;I
am afraid not.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He only left you the one message, didn't
he?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's all. He slipped the note into
my hand when he got off the coach at Bouillon and whispered the
two words: &quot;For her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Andrew took a crumpled paper from his pocket,
gave it to Marguerite. Her hand closed on it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have seen yours?&quot; she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What does it say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only one word: Wait.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not much, is it?&quot; Marguerite commented
with a fleeting little smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I suppose Tony has gone by now,&quot;
she added.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll go and see, shall I?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Please do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You'll be all right here, won't you?&quot;
Sir Andrew asked anxiously.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of course I will. Don't worry about me.
Our friend the landlord and his grim-faced wife have scented a
bribe and are as amiable as you could wish.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He picked up his hat and went out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After he had gone Marguerite sat for a while
with that crumpled paper in her hand. It was early afternoon,
but the narrow room with its dingy rep curtains and windows veiled
in dust was already wrapped in gloom. Only the red glow from the
iron stove shed a warm light on Marguerite's hand and the paper
which she held. A confused murmur of voices came from the crowded
coffee-room next door. Presently a woman came in carrying a lighted
lamp which she set upon the table. She certainly was grim-faced
and surly, and looked askance at Marguerite who paid no attention
to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have some soup,&quot; she said curtly;
&quot;it is hot. Would you like some?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite said &quot;Yes!&quot; thinking more
of Sir Andrew than of herself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There are also potatoes cooked in lard,&quot;
the woman went on, &quot;and a small piece of pork. You had better
have that too as there's nothing else.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She did not wait for a reply, and stumped out
of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as she had gone, Marguerite smoothed
out the paper which contained Percy's last message to her. She
swallowed the tears which dimmed her eyes and pressed her lips
against the paper whereon his dear hand had rested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And this is what she read:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On my knees do I beg your forgiveness,
my beloved, for the discomfort and suffering you are enduring
now. Would I had had the heart not to listen when you said to
me: 'If you go, I go with you.' Your eyes, your lips, your lovely
arms held me in bonds that no man living should have dared to
sever. 'If you love me, do not go,' you entreated, and your exquisite
voice broke in an agony of tears. Yet I, like a madman, thought
only of two little children who would need a woman's care, and
thought more of them and their helpless mother, thought more of
an ideal, of my duty and mine honour and of my solemn pledge to
Saint-Lucque, more of all that than I did of you. 'If you love
me,' you begged, 'do not go.' If I loved you! I love you with
my whole soul, with every fibre of my being, more than life and
eternity, but I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not
honour more. With the help of my faithful lieutenants I will bring
those defenceless women safely to England according to my pledged
word, then my arms will close again around you and you will feel
my whole soul in a kiss.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His whole soul! his wonderful, self-denying,
high-minded soul. That last day in London, how vividly did she
recall it now, the rout at the Duchesse de Roncevaux's mansion.
The Abb&eacute; Prud'hon's tribute to the heroism of her beloved,
the intimate talk with the Prince of Wales, and those few brief
moments in the library when she made her last desperate appeal
to him in the name of love, and felt that appeal was useless and
that love stood vanquished before the inner instinct of the sportsman-adventurer,
the selfless humanitarian, the knight-errant who had heard the
call of the innocent and the weak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This occurred three days ago. Since then Marguerite
Blakeney and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had obeyed Percy's laconic instructions
and waited. Whether they were in danger or not, they neither knew
nor cared. Certainly not, declared Marguerite, for Percy was of
a surety watching over them. They were objects of special care
from the landlord and his wife, who took the money so lavishly
poured into their hands and in exchange did their best to secure
the privacy of these American guests, and to give them clean beds
and as good food as the state of the country allowed. Citizens
of the great American Republic for whom the great patriot General
Lafayette had fought, were popular in France, and the name of
St. Just was also one to conjure with. And they still waited in
patience and in fortitude on this third day after their arrival,
while the most exciting incidents the city of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
had ever known were occurring in the market place, while Mam'zelle
Guillotine belaboured her unfortunate swain with his riding-whip,
while the hooded cart with the Saint-Lucque children was spirited
away and their mother endured soul-racking agony inside the diligence
that was taking her off to Paris. Marguerite and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
heard vague rumours that something unusual was going on in the
city. Sound of many voices raised in shrill staccato reached their
ears, while they were sitting in the parlour waiting for their
meagre supper. People seemed to be passing in and out of the front
door all the time and the door of the coffee-room kept on banging
constantly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When the woman brought in the supper she appeared
less surly than usual. Seemed actually inclined to talk. Her eyes
were quite bright and her cheeks flushed. Marguerite ventured
to question her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Has anything special happened, citizeness?
There seems to be such excitement about.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman grunted and shrugged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Excitement!&quot; she exclaimed. &quot;I
should think there was excitement and to spare. They say that
the English spy has been captured. The man they have been hunting
for for years.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite's self-control at this moment was
super-human. She did not gasp or catch her breath. She never moved.
It was Sir Andrew who spoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! I have heard about him. Even in the
United States of America people talk about a mystic personage
who goes by the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel. I don't know what
he is supposed to do. And have they really got him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The woman gave another shrug and a short, harsh
laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not they,&quot; she said. &quot;Our people
are fools. It seems they collared the wrong man.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The wrong man?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, some people said he was the right
man and some that he was the wrong one. But what everyone in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
knows by now is that the two <I>aristos</I> who should have been
taken to Paris to be guillotined--two little traitors, what?--were
spirited away under the very nose of Citizeness Damiens, the public
executioner. It seems she is mad with rage and the whole town
is in a state of terror, wondering on whom she will vent her fury.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite really was wonderful. How she kept
motionless and outwardly calm while she heard the woman actually
stating the fact that Percy had been captured is one of the secrets
of her intrepid nature. Sir Andrew remained standing close beside
her, with one hand on her shoulder. She put up hers and their
two hands met in a pressure of reassurance and of comfort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as the woman had gone Sir Andrew said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't believe for a moment that anything
has happened to Percy. You don't either, do you, Lady Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; she replied simply, &quot;I
do not.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But with your permission I'll go and
ascertain just what did occur to give rise to the rumour. I might
hear something. Shall I go?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Promise me you won't fret,&quot; he urged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked up at him with a wan little smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I promise,&quot; she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I won't be long,&quot; were his final
words before he went out.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was back half an hour later.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I've seen Tony,&quot; were the first
words he spoke as soon as he had closed the door behind him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tony!&quot; Marguerite exclaimed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was still sitting by the fire which now
was burning low. Ffoulkes put some logs on while he continued.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I met him a few moments ago. He was coming
this way and will meet us on the Gr&eacute;court road. He gave
me a scribbled note from Percy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He took the note from his waistcoat pocket
and read out its contents by the light of the lamp.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Saint-Lucque children are quite safe.
I am taking them to a place I know of called Saint F&eacute;lix.
It is a derelict village this side of Gr&eacute;court, slightly
off the road on the right. You can't miss it. I want you to meet
me there. Your landlord at the Ecu d'Or has a cabriolet and a
good horse, which you can either hire or purchase outright. Steal
it if you must, bring plenty of provisions and drive hell-for-leather.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ffoulkes thrust the paper into the stove. Marguerite
watched it burn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thank God!&quot; she said, &quot;he is
safe. And there is at last something for us to do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We had better pretend to eat some of
this supper,&quot; Sir Andrew rejoined, &quot;and then talk about
the cabriolet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They sat down and tried to swallow a morsel.
Marguerite asked:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Did Tony say anything about the Saint-Lucque
children?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes ye did. He was in it all. But he
couldn't say much as it would have been dangerous with so many
people about.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But what about Sir Philip Glynde and
my Lord St. Dennys?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Andrew gave a short laugh. Quite a merry
one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They are having a very hard time, poor
devils,&quot; he said lightly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tony had been busy trussing them up like
a pair of capons and left them lying in a near-by field, getting
frozen and cramped like the very devil.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Great heavens!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, they are quite happy, Lady Blakeney.
Do not fret about them. The chief's orders, you know. We'd all
go to hell for him, if he ordered us to go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite made no reply to this. How could
she? Ffoulkes, the loyal lieutenant, had spoken and voiced the
feelings of eighteen others as true and brave as himself. She
could only wonder within the depths of her soul at the marvellous
magnetism exercised by the one man who had made her so infinitely
proud and happy in his love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They sat at the table a few minutes longer.
The white-faced clock up on the wall struck five. The shades of
evening were rapidly drawing it. Ffoulkes rose and went in search
of the landlord. The question of hiring a vehicle of some sort
was then broached.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We want to get to Gr&eacute;court before
nightfall,&quot; Ffoulkes explained to the man. &quot;My aunt,
the citizeness St. Just, the mother of the great patriot my cousin,
has been expecting us the last two days. We had not intended to
stay here so long, but my sister was tired after the journey and
we were very comfortable in your house.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A preposterous price was, of course, asked
for the purchase, not the hire, of an old-fashioned cabriolet,
an equally aged horse and a basket of provisions, such as could
be got. The landlord made pretence of being suspicious, talked
of police and of taking risks by aiding strangers to wander about
the country without special permits. Such risks and suspicious
were naturally to be paid for along with the horse and the cabriolet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the end the sight of half a dozen louis
set all patriotic scruples at rest. The cabriolet was brought
round. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes took the reins whilst Marguerite, wrapped
in shawl and mantle, snuggled in the corner of the carriage under
the hood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the road to Saint F&eacute;lix, they met
Lord Anthony Dewhurst, one of the most elegant fops known in the
society of London and Bath. He was clothed in the promiscuous
bits of uniform, tattered tunic and shoes down at heels, his nose
was blue and his fingers stiff. Sir Andrew drew rein and Tony
scrambled into the cabriolet by the side of Marguerite.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is Percy going to do about Madame
de Saint-Lucque,&quot; she murmured enquiringly, more to herself
than to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;God and he alone know,&quot; Tony replied,
then he added: &quot;It is the devil, the children being separated
from their mother. It means two tasks instead of one.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But he'll do it,&quot; murmured Ffoulkes
fervently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No doubt about that,&quot; Tony echoed
under his breath.</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXIV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE COSY CORNER
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The <I>Parc aux Daims</I> is not by any means
the only derelict homestead in Artois. The province, owing to
its proximity to the capital, had already suffered much even in
the early days of the revolution when inflammatory speeches delivered
outside and inside of every cabaret by agents of the government
had provoked a half-starved peasantry into acts of brigandage
and loot. And not only were these acts directed against landlords
and so-called <I>aristos</I>, but more often than not well-to-do
farmers and peasant proprietors even in a small way, were faced
with the fury of an enraged populace and saw their homesteads
invaded and destroyed, even though some of their most virulent
attackers had been their equals and friends in the past.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus it was with the once prosperous village
of Saint F&eacute;lix, distant a couple of leagues from M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
and less than half a league off the Gr&eacute;court main road.
In this year of grace and fraternity--that is 1794--it was nothing
but a conglomeration of derelict cottages and a jumble of stones,
broken-down walls and charred remains of roofs, doors and window-frames.
The tower of the little church had partially collapsed. It was
leaning over at an acute angle with great fissures in its sides,
its pointed roof with great gaps open to rain and snow, showed
glimpses of its cracked bell, now for ever mute. What had been
the presbytery beside it had been burnt down to the ground.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Close to the presbytery there had once stood
a substantially built wayside inn with stables and outhouses.
Its sign was <I>Le bon petit Coin </I>(The Cosy Corner), and had
been the property of a worthy Artesian who had drawn home-brewed
ale, tapped casks of local wine and led a God-fearing life with
his wife and family until a rabble led by paid agitators from
Paris had raided his house, set fire to it and destroyed all his
belongings till nothing but the crumbling walls remained of what
had been a prosperous business place and a happy homestead. The
innkeeper and his family drifted away, no one knew or cared whither
they went, or what became of them, nor is it the purpose of this
chronicle to follow up their traces. Enough that crumbling walls
and broken roof of the house withstood the ravages of autumn gales,
of winter snow and hail-storms better than the rest of the village
had done, and that as a freakish chance would have it, the sign
<I>Le bon petit Coin</I> still dangled engagingly on its posts.
But no one ever went there. No traveller ever entered its inhospitable
doors.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Cosy Corner&quot;? It was anything
but cosy on this bleak February evening when a hooded cart drawn
by a couple of horses came to a halt beneath its creaking signpost.
The man who had been driving it threw down the reins and jumped
down from the cart. At the back, under the hood, there were two
bundles wrapped in thick blankets. Live bundles, through the thick
folds of which came the sound of whimpering and little human cries:
&quot;<I>Maman?</I>&quot; The man went round to the back of the
cart. With infinite precaution he took up the bundles and carried
them into the derelict house. Through one room, which had obviously
been the public bar once, he carried the two bundles one by one,
and thence into an inner room, wherein, as there was no furniture
whatever, he deposited them with tender care on the wooden floor.
He saw to it that the blankets covered the small human forms efficiently
against the cold, and listened for a moment or two to the pathetic
cries of &quot;<I>Maman.</I>&quot; He then took a bottle out of
the pocket of his big coat. It contained milk. Perhaps there was
even a tiny, very tiny drop of brandy in the milk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That will comfort you, you poor kids,&quot;
he murmured to himself, and insinuated the bottle into the small
human mouths. There was some spluttering, but swallowing also.
The man gave a quaint little chuckle. &quot;I ought to have been
a nursemaid!&quot; he went on murmuring to himself. He waited
for a few moments longer, until gradually the cries of &quot;<I>Maman</I>&quot;
became more rare, and the two bundles of blankets no longer betrayed
any movement through their folds. He went out of the room and
gave himself a good stretch. &quot;Sink me!&quot; he muttered,
&quot;but I'm stiff. I never thought a woman could hit so hard.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He went back to the cart and peeped down under
the hood. It was still snowing, but the evening had not yet fully
drawn in, and he could perceive the forms of three men lying on
their sides across the floor of the cart. They were trussed up
with cords, and their knees were drawn up to the middle of their
chests. Their coats were wrapped round their legs and shoulders,
and scarves were wound round their mouths and chins.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well,&quot; the man muttered again, &quot;you
can't come to much harm like that, my friends, and cannot do much
mischief either.&quot; He tied up the horses to the ring in the
wall, picked up an untidy bundle of something soft from the driving-seat
of the cart and finally turned into the tap-room of the Cosy Corner.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This was none other than Sir Percy Blakeney,
Bart., the prince of dandies, the <I>enfant g&acirc;t&eacute;</I>
of London and Bath society, the brilliant sportsman, and always
the smartest and gayest man in town. He was anything but that
just now when he staggered into the tap-room and let himself go
down on the floor. Now that there was nothing imperative left
to do, reaction set in, and in spite of indomitable will-power,
he was feeling giddy and sick. He ached in every limb. Felt himself
all over to see if there were any broken bones to deplore.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Curse that virago! How she did hit!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he was light-hearted for all that. Physical
discomfort--that's all this was--had no hold on his spirits. Except
for that feeling of giddiness, caused by the blows on his head,
he would have burst into song or laughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By George!&quot; he thought, and chuckled
inwardly. &quot;How she must have cursed when she learned that
the kids had gone. And how she will swear, and threaten and fulminate
when--&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused abruptly in his reflection, for his
keen ear had suddenly detected the sound of wheels in the remote
distance. He pulled himself together, struggled to his feet, stretched
out his arms, and there he was now, a magnificent specimen of
manhood, tall, broad, vigorous, as if he had never known an ache
or pain in his life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite was nigh! Marguerite was coming!
In five minutes she would be here--in his arms. O God! grant a
weak man strength to bear up under the fullness of this joy!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A quarter of an hour later the tap-room of
the Cosy Corner was giving shelter to the three men who had watched
the well-nigh tragic drama enacted by Mam'zelle Guillotine and
Chief Commissary Lescar, a drama in which their beloved chief
had been the all-too-willing victim.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They crouched on the creviced floor, closely
huddled together, for it was very cold. A stable lantern placed
in front of them threw a circle of dim light on the floor and
on the primitive repast which they were consuming at the moment;
they were digging their young teeth into hunks of stale bread
and dry cheese and alternately taking pulls at their respective
flasks of brandy. They were dressed in the promiscuous clothes
that were served out to infantry regiments not required for service
in the more important towns. This meant that their breeches were
ragged, that they had no tunics or stockings, and that their shoes
were down at heels. And here they were, these sybarites, accustomed
to silks and satins, perfumes and Mechlin lace, to drinking old
Burgundy and feeding on turkeys and Strasburg patties, here they
were munching rye bread and drinking raw brandy and enjoying life
to the full as they had never done before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With them at this hour was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
just come over with Lady Blakeney from the neighbourhood of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
in a ramshackle cabriolet purchased at a fabulous price from the
landlord of the <I>Ecu d'Or</I>. Poor Sir Andrew! He had gone
through a bad moment when he entered the tap-room of the Cosy
Corner and there was greeted by Sir Philip Glynde and my Lord
St. Dennys with a stern demand for something fit to eat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Something fit to eat?&quot; Sir Andrew
mimicked with biting irony. &quot;You gluttons! Haven't I given
you luscious cheese and---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Luscious cheese?&quot; Sir Philip broke
in with mock indignation. &quot;St. Dennys, did you hear that?
And luscious bread I suppose he would call this jaw-breaking crust.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now, listen to me, Ffoulkes,&quot; St.
Dennys continued sternly. &quot;Either you delve once more into
that basket which I saw reposing in the vehicle which brought
you here, and bring us along something fit for an English gentleman
to eat---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Together with enough good wine to tickle
his fastidious palate,&quot; the other put in.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Andrew laughed and gave a shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, what is the alternative?&quot;
he asked gaily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Or you give us a good reason for not
doing as we command&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll give you the best of reasons,&quot;
Ffoulkes retorted. &quot;The provisions were not intended for
a set of gluttons like you. They will be kept for the journey
which lies ahead of us all. And let me tell you that I will defend
them against your predatory fingers to the last drop of my blood.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You inhuman monster,&quot; St. Dennys
cried, and with this he flung a lump of cheese at the head of
Sir Andrew, who, still laughing, dodged this first missile only
to be pelted by others. He was forced ultimately to cry for mercy.
A free fight ensued such as all British schoolboys revel in. And
they were just schoolboys for the time being, these brave followers
of the Scarlet Pimpernel, full of high animal spirits and the
very joy of living.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When peace was at last restored, all four of
them settled down once more to their repast of dry bread and cheese.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Between the courses of this sumptuous repast
they tried to give Ffoulkes some account of what had gone on in
M&eacute;zi&egrave;res this afternoon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Never in all my life,&quot; my Lord Tony
was saying, &quot;did I see anything so appalling as the chief
under the hand of that vixen, and Glynde, St. Dennys and I being
obliged to stand by, under strict orders not to interfere and
commit a murder. I tell you,&quot; he concluded emphatically,
&quot;it was hell!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A hearty, careless laugh broke in on the moodiness
which had suddenly fallen on the small company at recollection
of the horror they witnessed a few short hours ago. The laughter
came from the inner room, where Marguerite at this moment was
held closely in her husband's arms, while he whispered in her
ear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You understand, don't you, my beloved?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, Percy,&quot; she said resolutely,
and threw her head back so as to look him straight in the eyes.
&quot;I do not. What you wish me to do is impossible. Impossible,&quot;
she reiterated firmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A stable lantern was set on a projection in
the wall, and by its dim light Marguerite could just see her husband's
face. His eyes were looking down into hers and she could see that
there was a merry twinkle in them and that the lines round his
mouth were set in a gently ironical smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was then that this merry, careless laugh
came to the ears of his friend.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What?&quot; he enquired lightly. &quot;Insubordination?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy!&quot; she protested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am not wishing you to do anything,
my beloved,&quot; he said. &quot;You are a member of the League
of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The most adored. The most revered amongst
all. But you are a member, and I am your chief whom you have sworn
to obey in all things. And I am giving you a command.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was all he said, speaking very softly;
his voice was hardly audible it was so low, just a trifle husky,
but perfectly firm. Marguerite buried her face against his shoulder.
He went on with infinite tenderness:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Look at me, my beloved. Are we not one,
you and I? Have we not gone through endless joy and often bitter
sorrow together? This is one of the moments in our life when we
must work together--and suffer together---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why Percy? Why?&quot; she broke in pitiably
through her sobs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Because somewhere near here, within a
stone's throw of this spot which your dear presence has hallowed,
there is a helpless, innocent woman who is faced with death, a
horrible death which she would have to endure in loneliness and
sorrow surpassing in intensity anything you and I have ever known.
Also because there are two little children in this very room who
will be motherless unless we come to their aid, you and I, and
because an English gentleman would stand for ever dishonoured
before you and his own conscience if he so shamefully broke his
word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But if I stayed with you Percy . . .&quot;
came as a final entreaty from Marguerite's aching heart. The hood
had fallen back from her head. Through the gloom Percy's hand
sought the waves of her soft golden hair which rippled gently
round her face and neck. With his handkerchief he brushed gently,
very gently the tears that were coursing down her cheeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I might fail, my adored one,&quot; was
his calm reply. &quot;Do you know what that would mean to them
and to me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She could no longer speak, her heart was so
full of sorrow that she thought it must surely break. And suddenly
his mood changed. The tender sentiment of a moment ago flew away
into the unknown and the adventurous spirit, the spirit of the
sportsman, once more gained the mastery over his strange personality.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You do understand, don't you, my adored,
my loyal helpmate,&quot; he asked with his habitual light-hearted
eagerness, &quot;just what I want you to do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite unable to speak nodded in reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will take these two innocents with
you in the cart. Glynde, St. Dennys and Tony, who are still in
their haphazard uniforms, will accompany you. All three will sit
on the driving-seat and will look very imposing and official up
there in their tattered uniforms. Ffoulkes, of course, will have
to remain under the hood with you. Tony will drive you to Perignon,
which is on the other side of the French frontier not far from
the city of Luxembourg. He knows the way quite well as he has
been along there with me more than once. It is one of the loneliest
corners in Eastern France. There is no proper road, only a rather
wide bridle-path through ploughed fields which skirts a few isolated
villages and avoids the approach to any city. Anyway, the news
of what has been going on in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res has not had
time to spread itself in that direction. There are no patrols
along the paths and no garrisons anywhere near. If, after the
break of dawn, a few labourers going to their work should gape
at you, they will be over-awed at sight of three soldiers of the
Republic on the driving-seat of a market cart.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He broke off for the sole purpose of gazing
anxiously into her tear-filled eyes and to murmur with a short
sigh: &quot;How lovely you are, my beloved!&quot; and then went
on in the same matter-of-fact tone of voice, giving his direction
clearly, succinctly, like a general issuing commands, certain
that they would be obeyed. &quot;I have given Tony all the necessary
papers in case they are required. They are in perfect order, signed
by Tallien, Barras and our faithful friend, Armand Chauvelin.
These signatures are the most perfect specimens of forgery I have
ever seen in all my life, and I have had some experience in forged
safe-conducts, have I not? I need not tell you who did them, nor
what I paid for them. The fellow runs great risks every time he
serves me, but he must have put by a cosy little fortune by now
and he knows that in case of trouble he can always count on us---&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once again he paused, his eyes fixed into vacancy,
his mind at work on the great problem which he would confront
on the morrow. The children were safe, of that he was sure. So
sure, in fact, that something of his almost supernal confidence
in himself had communicated itself to Marguerite. She had contrived
to swallow her tears and it was in a steady voice that she put
the all-important question to him:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What about you, Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a little chuckle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What about me?&quot; he echoed with inimitable
merriment. &quot;Why, sweetheart, I will be kissing your lovely
hands--let me see--in a sen'night from to-day at the Fisherman's
Rest in Dover, while that nice little baggage, Suzan Jellyband,
will be seeing to the creature comforts of poor Madame de Saint-Lucque.
. . . Hush! my adored one,&quot; he added quickly, and placed
a finger over her mouth, for she had been on the point of speaking.
&quot;If you say one word more I shall be tempted to silence you
with a kiss, and then . . . then God help me! for it would be
so difficult, so very difficult to slip away. Now you must try
and get a couple of hours' rest if not of sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He stooped and picked up the bundle which he
had brought with him in the cart. Out of it he took a couple of
cushions. One of these he disposed upon the floor in a corner
of the room, the other he propped up against the wall. She watched
him smiling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Promise me you will try and rest,&quot;
he urged. &quot;The children are asleep and you must not worry
about them any more, promise.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She contrived to say firmly &quot;I promise,&quot;
and did her best to appear comfortably installed on one cushion
with her head resting on the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He did not look at her again, turned the lantern
so as to shade its light from her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Before he left the room he said earnestly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You don't know what your presence here
this time has meant to me. God bless you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meanwhile, in the tap-room after that
one moment of subdued emotion when their chief's laughter rang
so merrily in their ears, Sir Philip Glynde, his eyes fixed on
the communicating door, murmured with a quick sigh:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Poor old Percy!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't say that!&quot; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
protested earnestly, knowing what was passing in the minds of
the three friend. &quot;Percy adores his wife. We all know that.
And she worships him. But those two wonderful people would be
the first to resent the idea of any of us being sorry for them.
They are prepared to sacrifice everything for the cause they have
at heart. Their lives, their entire fortune . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Their love?&quot; put in one of the others.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Their love, yes,&quot; Ffoulkes assented;
and then added after a second's hesitation: &quot;He, at any rate.
He has proved it more than once. But, of course, with a glamorous
woman like Lady Blakeney it is difficult to guess just what she
feels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What about you, Ffoulkes,&quot; St. Dennys
put in with a smile. &quot;You ought to know what all that sort
of thing feels like. The long separations, the constant 'farewells.'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">None of the others passed a remark on this.
They all knew Ffoulkes's love for his young wife and that he,
too, like all the others, was ready to follow his chief wherever
and whenever he was called. He, too, like Blakeney, was ready
for any sacrifice in the cause of suffering humanity. As indeed
they all were. But he and Blakeney were the only married men in
their ranks, and many a time had some of them like Glynde or Tony
or St. Dennys probed their hearts wondering whether if they in
their turn would be ready to sacrifice love for the sake of an
ideal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Andrew gave a slight shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That's quite right, my dear fellow,&quot;
he said lightly in answer to St. Dennys, and with that reticence
in matters of sentiment peculiar to the Anglo-Saxon race. &quot;But
you see, Percy means so much to me, and I have such an admiration
for him as a man and as our chief, that when I am working with
him I seem to become different somehow . . . I feel differently,
I mean . . . about everything. . . . I dare say this sounds queer,
and I expect you all think me a bounder for saying it . . . but
there it is. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was no answer to this, for obviously
there was nothing that could be said, and silence fell for a few
moments on the congenial little company.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But all of a sudden the communicating door
was opened and Blakeney came in.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well,&quot; he queried airily, &quot;you
four chatterers, have you had enough of this sumptuous repast,
and have you got a last drop of something to drink for a thirsty
man?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Four flasks of brandy were immediately held
up to him. He took two and drained them both.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know what your were talking about.
Your chief under the whip of a virago, what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't, Percy,&quot; Tony exclaimed, &quot;it
was hellish.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney could not help laughing: the earnestness
and the towering rage of his friend filled him with boyish delight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am sure it was,&quot; he admitted,
&quot;but how else were we going to engage the attention of that
huge crowd long enough to give you three fellows time to deal
with those poor kids, with the three troopers and with the cart?
And you did it splendidly. And that awful time you had lying in
the open field, trussed like a brace of chickens, frozen nearly
to death. My God! but you were wonderful! weren't they, Ffoulkes?
There are no finer men in the whole wide world than you fellows
who honour me by your friendship. God bless and reward you! You
have been wonderful to-day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He appeared to be in the highest spirits though
to the keen ears of his devoted followers the voice of their valiant
leader sounded perhaps a trifle husky, a little less vibrant than
usual.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thank Heaven!&quot; he added with a short,
quick sigh, &quot;Lady Blakeney will know nothing of what happened
in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And she never will,&quot; Lord Tony declared
fervently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a short moment of silence until Blakeney
exclaimed:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sink me! I never thought a woman could
hit quite so hard. I had a good wacking from my friend Chauvelin
once. Not himself, but a pair of lusty bullies. It would have
made his heart glad to see me this afternoon. Mam'zelle Guillotine
hit twice as hard as his myrmidons did that time in Calais. By
George!&quot; he concluded, with something approaching admiration,
&quot;what a woman!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are you going to do with her, Blakeney,&quot;
Glynde asked, &quot;when you've got her?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There arose an animated discussion as to what
should be done with the noted fury. Hanging was, of course, too
good for her. Lifelong imprisonment to repeat her experiences
in the Bastille would be far too merciful. Tony, who felt particularly
bloodthirsty, had read something about lynching in America. He
would have liked to have seen the harpy who had laid hands on
his chief either burned at the stake or beaten to death, something
peculiarly painful and lingering, he urged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney said nothing while the matter was
being discussed. When the arguments were finally silenced he rejoined:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You sadistic young ruffians! But you
won't get your way with Mam'zelle Guillotine, you know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As Blakeney made no immediate reply to this,
Tony queried anxiously:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are not going to let her get away,
Percy, are you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No!&quot; Blakeney answered. &quot;I
won't do that, I promise you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The last sight Marguerite had of her husband
was when she peeped out under the hood at the back of the cart.
His tall form was still vaguely distinguishable through the fast
gathering gloom. He stood, a solitary figure, under the portico
of the Cosy Corner. Bare-headed. The falling snow made white patches
on each of his shoulders. His face she could no longer see. Tony
clicked his tongue. The horse's hoofs grated against the frozen
road. The cart gave a lurch and moved slowly away into the night.
And darkness swallowed the solitary figure of the great leader,
who after a moment or two turned and went within.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXV</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE MAN IN
BLACK </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Saint F&eacute;lix is situated half a league,
not more, from Gr&eacute;court. The latter in itself is not much
of a town, all it does is to serve as a stopping-place for one
or two diligences that did not halt in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res.
It also was noted for its fortnightly horse and cattle market
which used to be the scene of great activity in the olden days,
and of festive gatherings during the spring and summer months
when music and dancing went on all day and half the night, on
the grass plots of the cabarets around the market place, and copious
drinking and jollity in their respective rooms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But all this merry-making was now a thing of
the past. Farmers and cattle-breeders did stroll into the city
once a fortnight with their live stock such as it was: poor half-starved
animals they were for the most part, because food was dear and
scarce now that the brains of the country concentrated on the
quickest way to get rid of all landowners who before this era
of equality and fraternity had helped nature to produce the necessities
of life for man and beast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the eve before market day when Gabrielle
Damiens mounted on her whilom swain's white charger rode into
Gr&eacute;court. She was in an anxious and moody frame of mind.
The disappearance of the two Saint-Lucque children, coming on
the top of her disappointment over the rescue of the Marquis and
the young Vicomte, had dealt a smashing blow not only to her pride,
but chiefly to her burning passion of hatred and revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After she had left the three soldiers on the
road, she wandered on horseback first into M&eacute;zi&egrave;res,
then feeling unconquerable restlessness, she prowled about in
the fast-gathering darkness along the country roads oblivious
of time and place; like an unquiet spirit seeking repose. At one
time she almost lost her way. She hardly knew where she was when
she came on a deserted village, or rather what had been a village
once and was now only a mass of ruins. She gave the charger his
head and let him roam around the tumble-down cottages and what
had once been the village street.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This must be Saint F&eacute;lix,&quot;
she thought. &quot;And Gr&eacute;court must be over that way.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She turned her horse's head in the direction
in which she thought the little township lay. The short interlude
had caused her to gather her roving thoughts together. But only
momentarily. As soon as she found herself on the right road once
again, off they went at a tangent. The image of that great, hulking
creature, Andr&eacute; Renaud, rose out of the darkness confronting
her mental vision. The problem of the man's personality, his tempestuous
wooing, his exuberant temperament puzzled and harassed her brain,
taunted her with its unfathomable mystery. If the man whom she
had kissed and trusted and subsequently chastised was not the
master sleuth sent to her from Paris, who and what was he? And
what had become of him while the crowd dispersed and she herself
rode away? She had no recollection of him after she had snatched
the reins of the white charger out of his hands and left him lying
on the ground muttering threats and imprecations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She reached Gr&eacute;court in this confused
state of mind. Even the sight of the diligence which stood in
the yard of the <I>Bon Camarade</I> where she intended to spend
the night did not rouse her out of her moodiness. She drew rein.
The ostler ran along to aid her to dismount. Scorning his help
she jumped down from the saddle. The landlord came along quickly.
His manner, when in the new arrival he recognised Mam'zelle Guillotine,
became almost servile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What did the citizeness require?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Supper and a room. I leave again early
to-morrow.&quot; After which she demanded:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When did the diligence come in?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;About two hours ago, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where is the corporal?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the tap-room having supper.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Many people in the tap-room?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A good number. It's market day to-morrow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know that. I want my supper in a quiet
corner. By the way, what is your name?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Magnol Fernand. At your service, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Get me something hot then, Citizen Magnol,
and be quick about it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She made her way to the tap-room. It was of
the usual pattern to be found in varying sizes in every inn and
cabaret of eastern France. Drab-coloured walls that had once been
white. An iron stove with inside chimney rising to the blackened,
raftered ceiling. A long, trestle table in the middle of the room.
Benches each side of it, and the inevitable odour of boiled cabbage,
garlic, damp clothes and humanity. A score or more of men were
sitting at the centre table consuming platefuls of soup with much
sound of gustation and smacking of lips. Their steaming contents
gave forth the insistent odour of garlic and cabbage.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A girl with tousled hair and dressed in a promiscuous
conglomeration of rags, went round the table bearing hunks of
bread on a platter. Her name was apparently Philom&eacute;ne.
There was hardly any talking in the room, except for occasional
calls for Philom&eacute;ne and for bread.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When the door was opened and Gabrielle came
in a few heads were turned in her direction. Not by any means
all. Most of the men knew her by sight as a matter of course,
but these were not the days of cheery, friendly greetings, and
after a moment or two the smacking of lips and plying of metal
spoons went on as before. She strode across the room. The landlord
hovered round her and piloted her to a corner of the room where
two small tables were seemingly disposed for the reception of
privileged guests. One of these tables was occupied by a solitary
guest, a man dressed in sober black. Gabrielle bestowed on him
a quick appraising glance. She sat down at the other table. Philom&eacute;ne
brought plates, fork, spoon and knife and set a candle on the
table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What will the citizeness take?&quot;
the landlord asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Cabbage soup . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I can smell it. Whet else?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A piece of pork with beans.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What else?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Potatoes . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Good. Bring me potatoes, beans and pork,
and see that they are hot.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Any wine?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! Red. From the cask.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The landlord shuffled out of the room. Gabrielle
sat on, waiting. She tried hard not to appear to be scrutinising
her fellow guest too closely. Nevertheless, she took stock of
him every time his head was turned away. She could not see him
very well because of the flickering candlelight between her and
her vision of him. She put him down as an official of some sort.
Police probably. His hair was very dark and lanky. He wore it
rather long at the back and tied at the nape of the neck with
a black ribbon. It was plastered down his forehead in a rigid,
straight line, which made it look like a black band just above
his bushy eyebrows. He looked well groomed, although his cheeks
showed dark blue against his sallow skin and the starched linen
stock round his throat. In her present mood Gabrielle felt intrigued.
A Marseillais, she thought, and wanted to hear him speak. Anyway,
from the South.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She called to Philom&eacute;ne for salt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Forestalling the girl, the stranger took the
salt box from his own table and placed it in front of Gabrielle.
She gave him a curt &quot;Thank you,&quot; to which he responded:
&quot;At your service, citizeness,&quot; stressing the last syllable
of <I>citoyen-ne </I>as is the manner of those in the South.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are a stranger here, citizen?&quot;
Gabrielle asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am a stranger everywhere, citizeness,&quot;
he replied, &quot;even in Paris from whence I came yesterday.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; thought Gabrielle, &quot;you
are distinctly of the South, my friend. Your accent is slight
but unmistakable.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So you are from Paris, citizen?&quot;
she went on. &quot;Are you making a long stay in our province?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That depends.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How soon I can lay hands on a reputed
criminal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am of the secret police, Citizeness
Damiens,&quot; the man replied quietly, and with his left hand
he turned back the lapel of his coat, displaying a metal badge
surmounted by a tricolour ribbon. It was then that Gabrielle noticed
that his right sleeve was pinned empty to his coat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You know who I am?&quot; was all she
could think of saying at the moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If I did not would I have revealed my
mission to you?&quot; he countered dryly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He spoke all the time in an even, monotonous
tone of voice, without the slightest inflexion or emphasis, like
one reciting a lesson learned by heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is that mission, citizen?&quot;
Gabrielle queried, this time in her wonted peremptory way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As I have told you, citizeness, to hunt
after a reputed criminal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If he is reputed I must know about him.
I know every criminal in the Province of Artois. Who is he?&quot;
she demanded, paused for a second or two, and suddenly gave a
gasp, exclaiming: &quot;Do you mean the English spy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The stranger nodded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you know him, citizeness?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No,&quot; she faltered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nevertheless, if rumour does not lie,
you had him under your hand a few hours ago. Why did you let him
go?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His voice was still quite even and only just
audible, but there was something stern now and rasping in its
tone. He did not look at the woman while he spoke, but over her
shoulder on the drab-coloured wall on which to the words &quot;<I>Libert&eacute;,
Fraternit&eacute;, Egalit&eacute;,</I>&quot; traced thereon in
black chalk, had been added the words: &quot;<I>ou la Mort.</I>&quot;
He looked that way so insistently that Gabrielle, fascinated,
turned round to look. But she was not the woman ever to be intimidated
by the suggestion of a threat, wherever it came from. She gave
a shrug and a harsh, ironic laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you have those sort of ideas in your
head, citizen,&quot; she said dryly, &quot;You won't go far in
your career.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That you are altogether on the wrong
track. The man whom I horsewhipped this afternoon is not the celebrated
Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What makes you say that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was he who first called our attention
to the disappearance of the cart.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A clever trick, since he took you in.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean by a clever trick?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He had to get out of your clutches, citizeness,
or you would have killed him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I certainly would--&quot; she began,
paused a moment or two, then went on: &quot;Do you dare to assert
that the man who has been spending the last two days in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res,
who effected the arrest of the traitor <I>aristos</I> the <I>ci-devant</I>
Saint-Lucque and her brats, and who was sent out specially from
Paris by Armand Chauvelin to aid me in the capture of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, do you dare to tell me that he was . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel himself,&quot;
the man broke in firmly. &quot;He was not sent out from Paris,
citizeness. He only said he was.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He was Andr&eacute; Renaud--I saw his
papers. They were sighed by Maximilien Robespierre and two other
members of the Committee of Public Safety; Andr&eacute; Renaud
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He was not Andr&eacute; Renaud,&quot;
the other broke in again with increased emphasis.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do you know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Because I happen to be Andr&eacute; Renaud,
citizeness.&quot; Gabrielle Damiens gave such a start that the
table on which she had leaned her elbows gave a lurch, and the
beer bottle which did duty for a candlestick rolled down on the
floor. The candle broke, the light went out and the corner where
these two sat in close conversation was in greater obscurity than
before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle's glowering eyes searched the face
of the stranger through this gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You!&quot; she burst out, gasping for
breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Even I,&quot; the man responded coolly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't believe it . . . I don't believe
it,&quot; she reiterated over and over again, trying to steady
her voice, and to stop her teeth from chattering.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why shouldn't you believe it, citizeness?&quot;
he retorted. &quot;Who do you suppose I am?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't know,&quot; she murmured gruffly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a short laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, I am not the Scarlet Pimpernel,
am I, or I shouldn't be here talking to you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was true enough. Gabrielle passed the
back of her hand across her moist forehead. He went on:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have been believing and disbelieving
so many things here to-day, citizeness, no wonder you are bewildered,
and,&quot; he added, with, for the first time, the hint of a threat
in what he said, &quot;are like now to commit the greatest blunder
of your career. And let me tell you, citizeness, that you are
not quite so indispensable in the estimation of the government
that you can afford to commit blunder after blunder as you have
done in the past few days.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She pulled herself together, straightening
out her massive shoulders, and retorted defiantly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Blunders? I? You forget to whom you are
talking, Citizen--&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Andr&eacute; Renaud,&quot; he put in
with a thin smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whereupon she gave a shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't believe it,&quot; she again persisted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It makes no matter,&quot; he countered
coolly, &quot;whether you believe in me or not. I can do my duty
without any help from you. I know all the plans that have been
made for the capture of the English spy, and I also know that
you, Citizeness Gabrielle Damiens, Mam'zelle Guillotine, have
run counter to the orders sent to you direct by the Committee
of Public Safety . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do you know that?&quot; she broke
in roughly. &quot;Who was . . .&quot; She paused abruptly, afraid
that she was giving herself away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It was Citizen Armand Chauvelin who told
me what the orders were,&quot; he put in quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't believe it,&quot; she reiterated
with parrot-like insistence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Shall I tell you what they were . . .
and how you contravened them?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No reply to that from Gabrielle. She sat there
a veritable statue of obstinacy and sullenness, her elbows resting
on the table, her chin cupped in her hands. Her mind had got back
to that awful state of puzzlement and confusion of a while ago.
The very name Andr&eacute; Renaud, seemed to be burning inside
her brain with letters of fire. She tried to recapture every phase
of her association with the man. His arrival at the episcopal
palace, her rage against him because he had come when the <I>ci-devant</I>
Saint-Lucque woman was already under arrest, on a denunciation
from the farmer Guidal. Guidal! She had flung the name in the
man's face at the time, whereupon and with consummate self-possession
he had erased Guidal's very name from the tablets of her memory.
It came back to her now. What a fool she had been not to confront
the farmer with the man who called himself Andr&eacute; Renaud
and claimed to be the master sleuth sent to her from Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then there was the man's personality, which
now obtruded itself with exasperating persistence before her troubled
mind. The more she thought of him the more did her brain reject
the thought that that huge, hulking male creature with his coarse
ways and brutal love-making could possibly be Andr&eacute; Renaud
the noted sleuth-hound, the tracker of criminals and traitors,
a calling requiring suavity of manner, tact, effacement, every
quality, in fact, which that rowdy, hoydenish lout did not possess.
English--that's what he was. He spoke French, but he was English.
He couldn't be anything but English--not with those huge legs
and immense shoulders. Frenchmen occasionally were broad and powerful-looking,
like this man opposite to her now. Though tall, a Frenchman was
graceful and soft of speech, unless he was the spokesman of the
government and was obliged to talk forcefully to a crowd of waverers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thoughts! Thoughts! Conjectures! There they
were going round and round in the whirlpool of Gabrielle's brain.
Her dark, glowering eyes remained fixed on the man who had set
all this effervescence foaming and boiling inside her, making
her temples throb and sending her blood rushing like a fiery torrent
through her veins. He was almost sinister-looking in his funereal
clothes and that black hair which looked like a mourning band
round his forehead, with his measured speech, his sallow skin
and that empty sleeve. What a contrast to the burly, noisy boor
who had made love to her, to his showy clothes and clumsy boots,
his tousled yellow hair and florid skin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle Damiens visualising all this, remembering
the other man's fulsome adulation, and his resounding kisses,
cursed herself for a fool. Fortune and fame were in her grasp
and she let everything go, even the chance of realising a part
of her revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The <I>ci-devant</I> Marquis and the boy were
gone, the two brats also, probably. And all of this the work of
a man who had bamboozled her. Led her by the nose until she became
like a despicable noodle, mistrusting her own powers of which
she had always been so justly proud.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If I only could trust you,&quot; she
burst out, staring like a wild cat at the sober, placid figure
of the man before her. &quot;Whom else could you trust, citizeness,
if not the man who was sent down for the express purpose of aiding
you in the capture of the greatest prize that ever fell to the
lot of a patriot like yourself?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment. Looking her full in the
face. Returning stare for stare. His eyes looked more sinister
than ever overshadowed by those bushy eyebrows and surmounted
by that band of straight black hair which seemed to cut off the
upper part of his face. It appeared to begin at the eyes and to
end just above the chin, where the stock of snow-white linen presented
such a crude contrast to his blue-black cheeks and chin. He did
look sinister, devilish, for there had crept a look into his eyes
that was both malefic and menacing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that prize,&quot; he resumed after
that short ominous pause, &quot;you actually allowed to slip out
of your hands. You held him at your mercy and you let him go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I horsewhipped him,&quot; she murmured,
through clenched teeth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you think he cared? What you did was
to give his followers time to spirit away the two <I>aristos</I>.
After that he disappeared. Or am I wrong?&quot; he concluded with
biting sarcasm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Slowly, gradually, step by step, Gabrielle
saw her spirit breaking and her will-power crumbling under the
vague terror engendered in her by this man's malignant personality.
He dominated her. She was half afraid of him, in a way that she
had never been afraid of anyone in her life before. She tried
to think of him as a minor official, with far less influence with
the powers up in Paris than she had. She thought of her own friends,
of Robespierre, the virtual dictator of France, and of others
in commanding positions who knew and appreciated her patriotic
worth. They would stand by her, even if she had committed a blunder
or two or contravened a casual order.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Something that went on in her mind at this
comforting thought must have shown in her face, for the man broke
in on her meditations:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This is not the time to think of influential
friends, citizeness. The dogs of the revolution are at one another's
throats. Robespierre is at grips with Danton. Terror is the order
of the day. The chase after traitors is swift and hot. Nothing
but a spectacular <I>coup</I> can save you from death after the
blunder you have committed, Mam'zelle Guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Having said this he rose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This place is insufferably hot,&quot;
he said dryly. &quot;I shall be at your service in the courtyard,
in close proximity to your diligence and in close conversation
with your troopers. I must feel assured that they are worthy of
the trust which you have placed in them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He stalked out of the room, leaving Gabrielle
Damiens sitting in the gloom with her elbows on the table, her
chin resting against her clenched fists, her eyes glowering. Glowering
like those of a wild cat. Burning with hatred and with fear. She
watched the man walk through the room with a long, rather laboured
stride. He was tall, but distinctly round-shouldered, and stooped
as he walked. How different, through Gabrielle, to the rolling
gait, the straight square shoulders, the heavy tread of her whilom
courtier.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Something had to be done about the whole thing.
Gabrielle Damiens was no fool. She knew even before this man began
to threaten her that if she allowed the English spy to slip through
her fingers again it would go ill--very ill--with her. And she
would die un-avenged. The hated Saint-Lucque, and the whole brood
of them would be spirited away if she blundered again. Well then,
what had best be done? This man here with his airs of incorruptible
officialdom--imitator of Robespierre what?--in his sober, well-cut
clothes, might, after all, be of service. Might have ideas worth
considering. He was a blood-hound, a tracker, he might have ideas.
Time was getting short. There was the journey to Paris on the
morrow, and the certainty that the English spies would work their
<I>coup</I> in the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. Everyone
thought that. Everyone believed it. Chauvelin had expounded his
theory before the Committee of Public Safety, had submitted his
plans for the capture of the arch-enemy. The Committee had approved
of the theory and agreed to the plan. This man, this Marseillais
with the stooping shoulders and blue chin, had knowledge of all
that. He seemed to know everything, in fact, like one associated
with the high powers in Paris. He knew all about the orders transmitted
to her by Chauvelin. He had heard of her defiance and contravention
of the orders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There were calls for the landlord just then.
They came from outside. Sharp and peremptory they were, coming
from one who was not used to being kept waiting. Gabrielle thought
she recognised the voice with its accent from the South. At once
there was a commotion. Citizen Magnol ran in and out of the house,
backwards and forwards from the tap-room to the kitchen, carrying
bottles and tins labelled &quot;cloves&quot; and &quot;nutmeg&quot;
or &quot;sugar.&quot; After a time he came in carrying a huge
bowl of steaming mulled wine. Philom&eacute;ne was hard on his
heels, laden with a number of pewter mugs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's all this?&quot; Gabrielle queried.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hot wine, citizeness, for the soldiers,&quot;
the landlord replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who ordered it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Renaud from Paris. He thought
the men looked starved with cold. . . . They certainly look it
. . . This will do them good.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He took a ladle full of the hot stuff from
the bowl, tasted it and smacked his lips. The company at the trestle-table
watched the proceedings with covetous eyes. The men laughed. One
of them said: &quot;It looks good.&quot; Another declared: &quot;I'll
have some of that, too, citizen landlord.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So will I,&quot; said a third.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And I,&quot; came lustily all down the
length of the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Make haste, citizen landlord,&quot; they
all shouted at him, as he held up the bowl with both hands and
marched with it as with a trophy out of the room. Philom&eacute;ne
ran in his wake, carrying a load of pewter mugs. Their exit was
accompanied by lusty cheers, which after a moment or two found
their echo in the yard outside.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle struggled to her feet, feeling unaccountably
weary. Her legs felt heavy like lead. She picked up her mantle
and, wrapping it round her, stumped slowly out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Andr&eacute; Renaud--was he really Andr&eacute;
Renaud?--was out there in the yard. Half a dozen troopers were
gathered round him, all laughing and bandying jokes. The landlord
had just come out carrying the bowl of mulled wine. Philom&eacute;ne
was close behind him with the pewter mugs. They came to a halt,
Magnol holding up the bowl in accordance with the custom of the
country, for the customer who paid for the drink to pronounce
his approval. This the black-coated stranger did, he took the
ladle offered him by the landlord, and pronounced the mixture
good.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The landlord assisted by Philom&eacute;ne now
went the round, distributing the hot drink. The soldiers raised
their mugs, cheering the black-coated stranger. Nor were the men
in the diligence forgotten. From them, after their long confinement
in the narrow space, came huzzas and cheers more lustily than
the rest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Shall we give the prisoner a hot drink,
too?&quot; the stranger suggested. &quot;It will put heart into
her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The corporal in charge was quite willing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why shouldn't she get drunk, poor thing?&quot;
he said lightly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He and the men were having a good time. They
felt kindly disposed towards that wretched woman, who was being
trundled about in a jolting vehicle with nothing short of trial
and death at the end of this awful journey. Once or twice during
the day she had been jostled out by order of the corporal in charge
of the escort. She had been given food on arrival at the <I>Bon
Camarade,</I> when she was thrust in and out of the coach as if
she had been a bale of goods. But not once during this long day
did a word of complaint escape her lips. She sat in a corner of
the vehicle, motionless and silent. The soldiers were not cruel
men, not all of them by any means. There were some who felt quite
sorry for her, especially when Mam'zelle Guillotine came a while
ago and had a look at her. Such torrents of abuse as then poured
from the lips of the noted patriot, even the troopers had never
heard before. But the woman never moved. She scarcely seemed to
hear. Yes, the men had been sorry for her then. But, <I>que voulez
vous</I>? Duty is duty, and disobedience to orders punishable
by death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The corporal in charge was not averse to allowing
the prisoner to take a mug of hot wine at the hands of the stranger
who was so generously paying for this treat. There was nothing
in his orders against that. Two of the men even got out of the
coach to make room for him and helped him up the step because
of his one arm, when he handed a mug to the wretched woman and
stood by while she drank it down.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle had been standing all this while
outside the door of the inn gazing at the animated scene. Her
glowing eyes followed every movement of Andr&eacute; Renaud. He
had just come out of the diligence when he caught sight of her.
The lanthorn which hung from a rafter under the projecting roof
was above his head. The new style sugar-loaf hat which he wore
threw an irregular shadow over parts of his face. It also caused
him to look taller than she had thought him before, in spite of
his decided stoop. Below the hat the funereal looking band of
black hair encircled his forehead and the top of his long nose,
were the only features visible on his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle strode across the yard, and he came
on to meet her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What right had you,&quot; she demanded
roughly, &quot;to interfere with my men?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was profuse in his apologies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A thousand pardons, citizeness,&quot;
he pleaded with unwonted humility; &quot;I did it for the best.
The men were getting restive as the cold got into their bones.
They will fight better now, being warm inside. I was sure you
would approve.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The false air of humility did not last long.
Already his voice had become harsh and his tone dictatorial. Gabrielle
was up in arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am not starting before dawn,&quot;
she declared curtly; &quot;time for them to freeze again before
then.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Greatly to her surprise he seemed to acquiesce.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must do as you please,&quot; he responded
dryly, paused a moment, then added with a regretful sigh:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And so we shall miss that elusive English
spy again!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Miss him?&quot; she countered. &quot;Why
should we, or rather I, miss him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Because, as I said before, the men are
already impatient and restive, what with the cold and the delay.
If you wait about here all night their enthusiasm will fizzle
out before you reach the forest. It is only a fizgig now. You
blame me for giving them a warm drink, but they were more tired
and dispirited than you think. Make a start soon, citizeness,&quot;
he urged with great earnestness, &quot;their blood is warm now,
don't let it cool down again. You could be in the forest before
the dawn and the weather is just perfect for the capture of a
gang of marauders like those English spies.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as she remained obstinately silent, he
continued with a note in his voice which sounded like a solemn
warning:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your policy, citizeness, believe me,
is to travel by night and to rest by day. The English spies are
night birds. They only fly about in the dark.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was looking straight past him now, across
the yard where the bulky diligence with its inside load of picked
men loomed out like a huge black mass darker than the darkness
around. It held the one thing that to Gabrielle Damiens was more
precious than anything on earth, more precious than life itself--her
chance of revenge. It was all very well for this man here and
for all the Committees in Paris to think only of the capture of
the Scarlet Pimpernel; but for her, Gabrielle, who had spent sixteen
years in a living tomb to suit the ambitious intrigues of the
Saint-Lucque family, the thought of wreaking her revenge on the
entire brood outweighed any thought of patriotism or personal
advancement. That woman in the diligence meant more to her than
a whole army of English spies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She stood there brooding, unable to make a
decision. She felt that in a way this man, Andr&eacute; Renaud--was
he really Andr&eacute; Renaud--was right, whoever he was. The
English spies were night birds who flapped their wings only in
the night, and they were out to wrest that woman Saint-Lucque
out of her clutches. Yes! the man with the maimed arm was probably
right, and as for her, Gabrielle, the double capture was the prize
to aim for. There had been so much talk, so many intrigues and
so much mystery around the personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
that she herself was caught in the vortex of hatred against the
man and in the torrent of this mad longing to see him brought
to ruin and to death. The man who had made love to her! The man
whom she had kissed! Who had mocked and derided and flouted her!
The man whom she had held at her mercy under her whip-lash and
whom she had allowed to escape from full retributive justice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She hated him! By Satan and all his horde,
how she did hate him!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His was not really a clever impersonation,&quot;
the man in black broke in casually on her thoughts. &quot;I wonder
that you, citizeness, who have a great reputation for shrewdness,
were so easily taken in. You have met men of the secret police
before now, was he at all like any of them? Just think of our
mutual friend, Citizen Chauvelin. He is the master of us all.
We try to model ourselves on that pattern. Suave. Soft of speech.
Gentle of manner. There you have your successful tracker of spies
and criminals. Not a great hulking, blundering lout like the man
who courted your favours. Look at me, citizeness, and think of
him and then say which of us two is the most likely to trap those
audacious English spies?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She did look at him. Suave. Soft of speech.
Gentle of manner, he was the very replica of Armand Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had, however, remained as was her wont,
obstinately silent, nor did he say anything more for the moment.
He allowed her gaze to travel over his stooping figure, his lean
jaw and empty sleeve; a slight, ironical smile hovered round his
lips. But this Gabrielle could not see. Then there was silence
between them for a time. A distant clock in the city struck ten.
The night was going to be very dark. Only a thin film of snow
fell intermixed with rain. It no longer spread a mantle of white
over the ground, rather did it turn to slush and mud as it fell.
The troopers when they had drunk their fill of the good mulled
wine, turned into the coach-house for shelter. The doors and windows
of the diligence had once again been hermetically closed on the
six picked men and their unfortunate prisoner. And gradually all
signs of life were stilled in the yard of the <I>Bon Camarade.</I>
And darkness became more dense. Almost palpable. The volets throughout
the house had been closed one by one, only the door into the inn
had remained open, and through it came filtrating a dim shaft
of light.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These two, the man and the woman, remained
as it were the sole occupants of this dark and noiseless place.
They were looking at one another like two swordsmen about to engage.
A few moments went by, and then Gabrielle suddenly turned on her
heel and went into the house. The man did not follow her. He remained
standing almost motionless under the shelter of the projecting
roof. He did not seem to feel the cold, nor was he impatient.
The distant clock struck the quarter after the hour, and a minute
later Gabrielle emerged once more out of the house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She took no notice of the stranger, strode
past him and called loudly for the corporal in charge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To him she gave the order to make an immediate
start.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a moment the <I>Bon Camarade</I> awoke from
its torpor. There was running and shouting. Orders and counter
orders. Horses pawing in their stables, the clatter of their hoofs
on the cobblestones of the yard. Volets and windows thrown open,
heads thrust out to see what was going on. Ostlers and grooms
busy. The landlord fussy and obsequious. The team was put to.
The carriage lanterns lighted and fixed in position. The escort
prepared to mount. A few street urchins ventured into the yard
and stood round the diligence gaping at its closed doors and windows,
watching the soldiers and the horses, passing criticisms and remarks
in their shrill childish voices.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And towering in this vortex of sound and movement
the massive form of Mam'zelle Guillotine wrapped in a fur-lined
mantle, stood out by the side of the tall, stooping figure clad
in black, scarce distinguishable from the darkness around. The
master sleuth from Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle Damiens prepared to mount to the
box-seat of the coach.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am driving,&quot; she announced briefly,
speaking to him. &quot;Are you coming with me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not with you, citizeness,&quot; he replied.
&quot;I might hamper you. But there will be a horse to spare for
me here. I will start as soon as may be and meet you at the cross-roads
just before you come to Falize. Will you wait for me there?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Falize itself would be better. We could
pull up there.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As you like, but the cross-roads would
suit you best, citizeness. If I am there, and I shall be, we would
have command of the two roads and could then decide which would
be the safest to take.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean by that?&quot; Gabrielle
demanded. She had one foot on the axle of the near front wheel,
preparing to mount.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There has been a persistent rumour all
day in Gr&eacute;court,&quot; he said in a whisper, &quot;that
the English spies are mustering in this district. They are said
to be more numerous than they usually are. Some talk of a dozen,
others of two score. Of course, the story may only be a <I>canard.</I>
But it is best you should be warned. I shall know more about the
rumour when I meet you, and, as I say, we'll take the road that
gives the best chance of safety.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am not afraid,&quot; Gabrielle muttered,
and without another word she climbed up to the box-seat and settled
herself down, reins in hand, and driving-apron stretched over
her massive thighs. The corporal in charge climbed up after her
and sat down by her side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A click of the tongue. A scraping and jolting
and lurching. Much pawing and snorting. The iron hoofs drawing
sparks from the cobblestones. The damp leather squeaking. The
axles grinding. The metal jingling. A shout from Gabrielle:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The cross-roads then.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A resounding crack of the whip and the lumbering
vehicle started on its way.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXVI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">FORTUNE IN
SIGHT </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"></FONT>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Long after the rumble of wheels had died away
in the distance the quidnuncs sat around in the tap-room arguing,
talking, discussing they knew not what, and drinking their favourite
mulled wine. As a matter of fact nothing very important had happened.
Nothing so very unusual. The farmers who had come to Gr&eacute;court
with their live stock were the first to say that the sight of
a coach with closed doors and windows and escorted by a posse
of soldiers was not a rare occurrence in the city. A fortnight
or so ago-it may have been three weeks, just such a coach had
come through Gr&eacute;court on its way to Paris. Doors and windows
closed. An important detachment of soldiers from one of the local
regiments. Great secrecy. Everything, in fact, to arouse the curiosity
of patriots who wanted to know what all the mystery was about.
In that case it transpired that in the coach were three whilom
<I>aristos</I>, one of them none other than the <I>ci-devant</I>
Marquis de Saint-Lucque, who was known by all and sundry in the
province. With him was his son, a boy who should have been at
school. And there was also a <I>caoltin</I>, the abb&eacute; Prud'hon.
Not at all a bad man, any more than Saint-Lucque and his boy were
bad. But it seems that they really were traitors to their country.
They wanted to sell the whole of the province of Artois to the
Austrians, who were the arch-enemies of France, and who would
immediately grind all the Artesians under their iron heel, seize
their land, their crops, take their children into bondage and
their wives as serving-maids.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And it seems that Saint-Lucque, the abb&eacute;
Prud'hon and even the boy were all in a huge maleficent plot to
do this evil thing. And so they were arrested and were being driven
to Paris in the diligence which halted at the <I>Bon Camarade,</I>
just as this other one had done this very night. In Paris it seems
all three of them were going to be tried for treason. They would
be condemned to death and then they were going to be brought back
to M&eacute;zi&egrave;res where Mam'zelle Guillotine was going
to make short work of them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yes, the worthy Artesian farmers nodded sagely,
that was what happened to traitors who conspired against the Republic
and worked against their own country and for the ruin of all the
farmers who toiled for the welfare and prosperity of France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Unfortunately in that case things did not turn
out quite in the way that had been anticipated. For while the
diligence conveying the traitors to Paris was passing through
the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res, it was held up by masked
highwaymen who attacked the soldiers, killed and wounded most
of them, maimed the horses and finally drove the coach away in
the darkness, no one knew whither or in which direction. The highwaymen
were never apprehended and the traitors vanished as if they had
been spirited away by the devil himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was the story that was told in the tap-room
of the <I>Bon Camarade</I> on this February night, the eve of
market day, by the farmers and breeders gathered in Gr&eacute;court
for the occasion. Their spirits were not as high as they usually
were. Money was scarce these days, in spite of the fact that money-grabbers
and <I>aristos</I> had been put to death in hundreds, and the
government up in Paris had solemnly promised that when there were
no more <I>aristos</I> in France every labourer, every farmer,
every toiler and worker would have the fortunes that those traitors
had stolen from the people and then squandered like water. Every
man in the country would be prosperous and free to do just what
he liked and never need do another stroke of work if he had no
mind to do it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well, promises were all right enough. But as
far as agriculture in the Province of Artois was concerned, there
was less money to be made out of it now than in the days when
the <I>ci-devant</I> Saint-Lucque, the Belforts and others were
there to farm the land and pay good wages to those who worked
for them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for market day, it certainly was not the
merry, profitable day it used to be in the past. What about to-morrow?
The weather was so bad. Buyers would certainly be scarce and prices
would come down to cut-throat level.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What we each want is money to drop down
into our laps without having to toil and moil for it. That is
what the government has promised us and nothing less should satisfy
us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man who spoke was younger than the majority
of the guests around the table. This, no doubt, accounted for
his lusty speech and full-throated voice. Most of the others approved
of what he said and showed their appreciation by banging their
half-empty mugs on the table. &quot;Money to drop down into our
laps, without having to toil and moil for it.&quot; No wonder
the prospect appealed to all these harrased, over-taxed, hard-working
men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The government did promise . . .&quot;
somebody remarked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And nothing less should satisfy us,&quot;
another echoed forcefully, while mugs were again banged on the
table-top.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Right through the hubbub of voices and the
noise of metal against the table, a clear, sharp voice suddenly
resounded. It came from near the door, through which the one-armed
stranger had just entered the room. He closed the door behind
him, stood with his back to it, facing the company, every man
of whom had suddenly turned astonished, enquiring eyes upon him.
There was silence for a moment or two, while the resonant voice
appeared to have raised an echo in the low-raftered room. The
pewter mugs were slowly emptied. One old farmer gave a doubtful
shrug.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All very well talking,&quot; he said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Talking won't feed the stock or manure
the ground,&quot; objected another greybeard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How are we going to set about it, citizen?&quot;
queried a third, with slashing irony.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;About making money drop into to your
laps?&quot; he countered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a chorus of &quot;Yes! yes! yes!
how is it going to be done?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And when?&quot; the youngster added,
he who had first brought the question on the tapis.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When?&quot; the man in black rejoined.
&quot;Not later than to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well, of course, that was something undreamed
of. Something so utterly foolish and impossible that the man who
suggested it was either a devil or just a mad-man. Roars of mocking
laughter greeted him, when he moved away from the door and took
his stand at the head of the table. Mocking laughter, jeers, ironical
huzzas were hurled at him, and cries of &quot;How? How? How?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By way of a reply the stranger called loudly
for the landlord.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Our throats are dry,&quot; he said; &quot;we'll
talk about this over full mugs of mulled wine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Magnol came in, looking rather scared. He had
been on the point of closing his house for the night, not being
used to such late hours.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen landlord,&quot; the stranger
commanded, turning to him, &quot;a fresh bowl of spiced wine,
the best your cellar can procure. Into it you shall pour a bottle
of your best brandy. Make it hot and strong, well spiced and as
sweet as love. And now be quick about it. We have important business
to transact.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This all looked more serious than had at first
appeared. The man in black was certainly no devil or he never
would have ordered a bowlful of that excellent mulled wine, and
all the more excellent with a bottle of good brandy poured into
it. He had the welfare of farmers and stockbreeders of Artois
at heart. No! No! he was no devil. A madman perhaps, but his next
words would settle that question. For the moment he remained standing
at the head of the table, obstinately silent, paying no heed to
the many questions, some sarcastic, others encouraging and even
peremptory, that were hurled at him from one end of the table
to the other. Until presently the landlord returned with the bowl
of hot wine and received a regular ovation, as he went the round
ladling the drink into the mugs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This man here,&quot; one of the drovers
said to him, &quot;tells us that he is going to find a way of
throwing money into our laps without our having to do a handstir
of work for it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;More power to his elbow,&quot; Magnol
assented, &quot;but how is he going to do it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let's drink his health and see,&quot;
a farmer suggested who, apparently, had a practical turn of mind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This was done, with much cheering, and a great
deal of laughter mostly sarcastic and sceptical.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you, friends,&quot; responded
the man at the end of the table. He scarcely touched the edge
of his mug with his lips. &quot;And now,&quot; he went on, and
allowed his resonant voice to reach every ear and so fill every
corner of the room. &quot;enough of this and let us talk seriously.
You want to know how you can earn a substantial sum of money without
toiling and moiling for it. You can do it by thwarting the machinations
of a grasping harpy who to-morrow will, if you do not put a stop
to it, pocket the sum of two thousand louis which by right of
justice should be yours.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A gasp went right round the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Two thousand louis!&quot; came bursting
out from every mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Where would two thousand louis be coming
from?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Can you tell us that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;From the government who is paying that
sum of money in solid gold to any party of French citizens who
between them effect the capture of the noted English spy known
as the Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was a loud groan of disappointment that
went the round this time when the vibrant voice of the man in
black ceased to resound through the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! That!!!&quot; was uttered in tones
of withering contempt. Contempt which was expressed in several
less salubrious ways. They had all heard of the English spy before,
and they had been harangued before now by representatives of the
government who came down from Paris and talked, and talked, and
made all sorts of promises which where never kept. The English
spy! Yes! they knew all about him. A myth, what? An imaginary
personage whom no one had ever seen and whose personality was
always brought to the fore whenever any <I>aristos</I> who should
have been sent to the guillotine managed to evade justice. Whenever
that happened there was always a lot of talk. It was at once asserted
that the local police officials were not at fault. Of course they
were not. The Commissary was invariably spoken of as a man of
lofty patriotism and of great acumen. But obviously no man born
of woman could grapple with a supernatural creature, with a Titan
of immense stature, fiery eyes, hair that bristled and nostrils
that emitted crackling flames.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh, yes! the good farmers and hard-working
drovers and breeders had all heard these stories before. They
were not going to listen to them again to-night. They drained
their mugs, and grumbled as they drank.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am for bed,&quot; one of the men said
and rose to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So am I,&quot; concluded another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a moment most of them were on their feet.
Moody and disillusioned, they never thought of saying &quot;Thank
you!&quot; for the warm drink.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was quite a stampede in the direction
of the door, until that same resonant voice called out: &quot;Stop!&quot;
And the call was so compelling that for the space of a minute
of two the drive towards the door came to a halt, and twenty pairs
of eyes were once more turned in the direction of the stranger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you fools or madmen?&quot; he cried
forcefully. &quot;Are you really going to throw away the one chance
you will ever have of bringing ease and comfort to your wives
and children? Do you know what two thousand louis means? They
mean one hundred louis to each one of you. One hundred louis to
put in your pocket this very night. And for doing what? Wresting
the English spy from the clutches of a woman, who already has
more louis and is richer than any of you can ever hope to be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What woman?&quot; someone shouted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mam'zelle Guillotine, of course.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few of the men gravely shook their heads,
others murmured: &quot;That huzzy!&quot; and muttered under their
breath: &quot;I wouldn't care to tackle her.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Be it noted that in spite of these grave misgivings
on the part of the older men, the younger ones looked eagerly
up at the speaker.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mam'zelle Guillotine had apparently not many
friends among this little crowd of country bumpkins. She had certainly
become very prominent and very powerful in the province, but many
there were who remembered her when in ragged kirtle and torn shift
she wandered from one village to another and from an improvised
rostrum outside the local inn spouted denunciation against every
<I>aristo</I>, and every man who possessed as much as a square
bit of land. And when she had finished spouting, she would drag
a cap off the head of the man nearest to her and hand it round
begging--yes, begging--for a few sous to pay for a bit of supper.
And now she wore a fur-lined mantle and lived in M&eacute;zi&egrave;res
in a palace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Bah!!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with riches had come arrogance. She was
dictatorial, tyrannical as any <I>aristo</I>. She was feared,
but she also was detested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have you never realised,&quot; the stranger
went on, not loudly but very quietly, leaning slightly forward,
his eyes under those beetling brows searching the faces of his
hearers, &quot;have you never guessed that all along the arrest
of the <I>ci-devant</I> Saint-Lucque family, one after the other,
has been connected with the capture of the English spy? He has
been at work in your district for some time. Was it not he who
dragged the <I>ci-devant</I> Marquis and his son and the<I> calotin</I>
Prud'hon out of the clutches of Mam'zelle Guillotine? And now
she means to have her revenge on him. She means to capture the
Scarlet Pimpernel in the very act of trying to effect the escape
of the woman Saint-Lucque, and thus earn the full reward of two
thousand louis offered to any patriot who would lay that enemy
of France by the heels.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lucky Mam'zelle Guillotine,&quot; he
went on, certain now of holding the attention of his audience.
&quot;She has the means of earning twenty times as much money
as would keep any one of you in affluence for the rest of your
lives. Lucky Mam'zelle Guillotine! And I'll tell you something
more, my friends, and that is that she already has the Scarlet
Pimpernel gagged and bound in that diligence which you saw standing
here in the yard for over two hours. How do you suppose I should
know anything of this affair, if it was not already accomplished?
No, no, Mam'zelle Guillotine is not one to talk till after a thing
is done. And I tell you she talked to me about it all in this
very room. And she laughed at me and mocked me and threw my helplessness
in my face, knowing that I could do nothing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;She was right there, citizens. I was
alone. What could I do? I had not had the chance of talking to
you all, of hearing from you that you would join me in the most
glorious expedition ever undertaken by twenty patriots like yourselves.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, the man had no cause to complain of
inattention. Never had an orator so engrossed an audience. Young
and old hung upon his words. They exchanged glances, murmuring
words of commendation. Eager, excited were they all. Impatient.
Expectant. Wanting to hear more about this money, this gold, this
fortune that could be theirs for the snatching.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What must we do?&quot; they asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What must we do to be as lucky as Mam'zelle
Guillotine?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just do as I tell you,&quot; the speaker
replied in stentorian accents, &quot;and the fortune is yours.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tell us, then.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Speak up, citizen.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll go to hell with you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man threw back his head and laughed. Laughed
immoderately. And the laughter came from the intense joyousness
of his heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not to hell, citizens,&quot; he cried
exultantly. &quot;Only as far as the cross-roads on this side
of Falize.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He dropped his voice and once again spoke in
that subdued tone which was more impressive than any shouting
could be.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Some of you, if I mistake not,&quot;
he said, &quot;have brought in horses for the sale of livestock
to-morrow. They could not be put to better use than the purpose
which we have in view. If any man has a pistol let him take it,
or a sabre if he has one, a goodly knife, a garden tool, a scythe,
anything he can fight with. For there may be a bit of fighting,
let me tell you. Mam'zelle Guillotine and her myrmidons will not
give up their prize-capture without putting up a fight. Mounted
on good horses, we'll easily overtake the party at the cross-roads
on this side of Falize. I know they mean to call a halt there
before deciding which road which they will ultimately take. Both
lead to Paris, one through the forest, the other by a round-about
way. Well! citizens, what do you say? Shall we decide what their
fate is to be? Shall we seize the coach and its occupants, one
of which is worth one hundred louis to every one of you? Shall
we? Shall we, citizens, who see your wives in ragged kirtles and
your children cold and hungry, shall we snatch this rich booty
from the hands of an overweening terrorist? What do you say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes!&quot; came from a score of sturdy
throats, shouting in unison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let's drink to it, then!&quot; And the
stranger raised his mug high above his head. He went on once again
in his full, vibrant voice. &quot;To the confusion of Mam'zelle
Guillotine! To our success in snatching from her the prize that
is ours by right! To victory!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To victory!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the mugs were emptied at one draft.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So compelling was this man's personality, so
irresistible his oratory, that these men, some young and eager,
others older and sedate, drank and shouted in a way that they
never would have dared to do in a more sober mood. To drink to
the confusion of Mam'zelle Guillotine would on normal occasions
have entailed immediate arrest, prosecution for treason, probably.
But this occasion was abnormal. One hundred louis dangling as
a golden vision before the eyes of men who had never looked forward
to a carefree future, made warriors of these simple country folk.
They felt that the blood of heroes was coursing through their
veins. Even the grey-beards shouted: &quot;To victory!&quot; as
heartily as the youngsters. What would you? Money was so scarce
these days! Everyone was so poor. So poor! Starvation was stalking
the land. Children cried for bread. Work was grinding and wages
small. No wonder that the thought of capturing the mysterious
English spy and seeing a hundred louis fall into their laps inflamed
the imagination of these ignorant rustics. A hundred louis! And
golden louis at that! No dirty scraps of paper, mind you! And
with nothing to do for it but an exciting adventure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So &quot;Hurrah!&quot; for the man who had
shown them the way to this marvellous good fortune.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was only the unfortunate landlord, citizen
Magnol, who did not feel as happy as his customers. He had crept
back into the tap-room and had been standing in the doorway listening
to the harangue of that black-coated, one-armed stranger. He had
witnessed the incitement to treason, the appeal to the cupidity
of a lot of witless boors, which of a certainty would land the
lot of them in gaol. He had heard the shouts and the cheers, and
he was terrified. When the cry to &quot;Victory!&quot; echoed
from one end of the tap-room to the other, he turned tail and
ran helter-skelter up the rickety stairs that led to the loft
under the sloping roof, and bolted into the attic where his wife
was already in bed. There he joined her, buried his face in the
hard pillow and pulled the blanket right over his head so as not
to hear anything more of the awful things that were going on down
below.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he was not destined to enjoy tranquillity
for long. A few moments during which his wife, roused from her
first sleep, tried in vain to get a word out of him. She had just
turned over ready to go to sleep again, having made up her mind
that her Fernand had had one of his many drinking bouts, when
a heavy step came mounting up the rickety stairs. The sound was
followed by repeated hard knocks on the door and a peremptory
call for the citizen landlord. The door was thrown open and the
black-coated stranger who was making all this pother stalked in.
He carried a small lantern, which he flashed into the faces of
Magnol and his wife, who sat up straight in bed, shivering and
shaking with terror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen landlord,&quot; he said. And
he spoke as one in authority. &quot;A grave injustice is being
done to the loyal patriots who are at present under your roof.
They are determined that the wrong done to them shall be righted
this very night. I have told them how this can best be done, and
they are going in a perfectly peaceful frame of mind to put their
case before one of the highest authorities in the Province of
Artois. I will not mention names, but what the patriots propose
to do is in accordance with the laws of the Republic as passed
by the National Convention and in strict accordance with the Rights
of Man.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment, letting his words sink
into the feeble minds of these two terrified individuals. Magnol
was staring round-eyed not at the stranger, but into the flame
of the lantern which appeared to fascinate him and to render him
motionless and mute. Only his teeth chattered as if he suffered
from ague. The woman had disappeared from view. Her head was buried
in the bedclothes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The stranger continued in the same authoritative
voice: &quot;Citizen landlord, two courses are open to you now.
Either you side with the patriots in the cause of justice, in
which case, if you give them the required help, there will be
twenty golden louis for you . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more he came to a halt. Magnol's fixed
stare seemed suddenly to become galvanised. Cupidity never entirely
absent from a peasant's nature gave a spark of vitality to his
beady, black eyes. His gaze shifted from the light of the lantern
to the hand of the stranger, in whose palm something jingled which
sounded uncommonly like precious metal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am a good patriot,&quot; he murmured
through his chattering teeth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I know you are,&quot; the stranger rejoined,
&quot;that's why I have come to tell you that we count on you
to side with us who are fellow patriots and give us what help
you can. For,&quot; he went on solemnly, emphasising every word,
&quot;if you refuse to give us that help, I myself will denounce
you as aiding and abetting treason by lending your house to a
pack of conspirators and supplying them with food and drink.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Saying this, he turned back the lapel of his
coat and allowed the light of the lantern to flash on the metal
badge beneath it, which proclaimed him to be a high official of
the national police force.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Magnol, scared and bewildered, passed the back
of his hand over his humid brow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't understand,&quot; he murmured;
&quot;on which side are you, citizen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On your side if you give me the help
I need. Dead against you if you refuse.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more he allowed the precious metal to
jingle in his hand. And Magnol, scared out of his wits, murmured
feebly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What must I do?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Get out of bed,&quot; the stranger commanded,
&quot;and come with me. You will hand over to the patriots downstairs
every gun, every pistol and sabre, every scythe, axe or other
tool which you have got stored in your cellars.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I haven't any stores,&quot; Magnol protested.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he did get out of bed; the jingling metal
was a magnet that would have lured him to Gehenna.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well, let me see what you have got; and
then we will talk.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So far so good. Citizen Magnol, like any landlord
of a prosperous country inn, had three or four serviceable guns,
a pistol or two and a good number of agricultural implements carefully
stored away. He allowed the twenty good patriots to help themselves
to what they needed and soon these worthies had laid hands on
every available weapon likely to be useful in a fight, if fight
there was. And most of them hoped that there would be a good scrap
at the very least. Three of them commandeered the guns, two others
were quick enough to seize the pistols, while some had to be content
with sickles or scythes. One man had a saw, another took a wood-chopper,
and there were two or three who had brought their own guns with
them, on the chance of getting a pot-shot at a hare.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that there was a raid on the stables.
Most of the men had come into Gr&eacute;court on their own horses,
and there were a few nags which had been brought in for the sale,
for those who had come on foot. There were two fine, mettlesome
young horses that had been brought in by a farmer from Tourteron.
These were at once appropriated by the stranger without any protest
from the owner.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus the little cavalcade was formed. They
were lined up in the yard, the horses champing and snorting in
the cold night air. A pale watery moon had rent the bank of clouds
and peeped down on the amazing scene more suggestive of medi&aelig;val
times than of a winter's night in revolutionary France. The stranger
mounted on one young horse held the other by the bridle. He gave
the order to start and the <I>cort&eacute;ge</I> filed past him
with many a hearty cheer and loud huzzas.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When the last of them had turned out of the
yard into the road, he called to the landlord. Magnol had been
standing by, gazing on the men, on the horses, on the primitive
arms glinting in the blue light of the moon. He was like a man
in a trance. He made sure that he was dreaming and would presently
wake up to the sound of snoring emitted by his plethoric wife.
He was still conscious of an awful feeling of terror, of speeches
round him, of Mam'zelle Guillotine wielding her instrument of
death, and of a tall, sable-clad figure spouting threats at him.
A menacing &quot;either-or.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen landlord!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The voice struck his senses as with a whip-lash.
He staggered and nearly measured his length on the ground. He
blinked his eyes and shielded his head with his arm, for something
had been flung at him, something that jingled as it fell at his
feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sound of the cavalcade galloping away down
the road, the cheers and huzzas were gradually getting fainter.
But now there was a fresh clang of hoofs on the cobblestones of
the yard. Magnol pulled himself together, tried to collect his
scattered senses. He looked about him and perceived a solitary
rider wrapped from head to foot in a voluminous mantle. The rider
held a second horse by the bridle. In a trice he was across the
yard and disappeared round the angle of the house. Magnol could
hear the young horses prancing and champing and finally settle
down to a swift and fiery gallop.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then only did Magnol stoop and pick up the
missile that had been flung at him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was a purse and contained twenty golden
louis.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXVII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">AT THE CROSS
ROADS </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mam'zelle Guillotine had given the order to
halt. It was here, at the cross-roads, that Andr&eacute; Renaud
had promised to meet her. Falize was distant less than a league
away. The road ahead led straight to Paris. There was the secondary
road which, as Renaud said, also led by a d&eacute;tour to the
capital. Gabrielle was wishing he would soon come. The drive had
proved very wearisome, for the roads were heavy and so was the
old diligence with its load of armed troopers. And she felt lonely
and dispirited. Even the thought of that woman, the last of that
family which she hated with such intensity, failed to inflame
her blood. The woman was safe enough for the guillotine, but there
should have been five of that abominable brood to satisfy Gabrielle
Damiens's lust for the blood of the Saint-Lucques.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She gave the order to dismount and the troopers
sat by the roadside, or walked up and down the road trying to
put warmth into their feet and hands. The moon, peeping through
a bank of clouds, made the whole scene appear weird. It did not
seem real. Not of this earth. Soon after the start one of the
team had gone lame. The corporal in charge was bending over examining
the fetlock. Gabrielle, restless and impatient, came down from
the box-seat. Wrapped in her warm mantle, with the hood over her
head, she looked like a huge furred animal stamping up and down
to keep herself warm. Her keen ears were attuned to catch the
slightest sound. She felt the tension that kept the men's nerves
on edge. They, of course, could do nothing but wait while the
time dragged on and there was no sign, as yet, of that mysterious
Scarlet Pimpernel whom they were out to capture.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The great lumbering vehicle loomed out of the
wan grey light like some grim, spectral monument.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And all at once a sound which caused the men
to pause in their pacing, to stand rigid and on the alert, ready
to mount the very second that the order was given. Gabrielle too
had paused. Her heart seemed to have stopped its beating. Her
hot hands gripped the edge of her fur mantle, and with a sharp
twist of the head she threw the hood back, away from her ears.
The sound which she had heard was of two horses galloping at tip-top
speed from the direction of Gr&eacute;court. Two horses? Would
that be Andr&eacute; Renaud? Or was chance really on her side
and was it the English spy with one of his followers who were
coming this way? She gave a quick appraising glance on the men
and gave the order: &quot;Attention!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The men saw to the priming of their pistols,
thrust them back into their belts and drew their sabres. The corporal
went round to the door of the diligence, released the lock and
to the men cooped up inside he also spoke the one word: &quot;Attention!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If that should be the English spies,&quot;
Gabrielle said aloud, so that the men might hear, &quot;we are
ready for them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The order as far as the escort was concerned
was to feign inattention and wait for the attack. The English
spies were wily, and should they scent a trap they might scamper
away to safety. And the men stood still and waited, their nerves
taut, their senses strained. They were like greyhounds held in
leash. And now with the Scarlet Pimpernel almost in sight, they
were straining the leash to breaking-point.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the corporal who first caught sight
of the black-coated stranger riding full tilt, from the direction
of Gr&eacute;court and putting on greater and greater speed as
he neared the crossways.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The stranger with the one arm, citizeness,&quot;
he said to Gabrielle. She drew a deep sigh of relief. Andr&eacute;
Renaud--she was sure of him now--had not played her false. With
him to give her the weight of his personality with the troopers,
she felt more sure of success. Here was a man worthy of her trust.
Of late she had felt--oh! so vaguely--a certain weakening of her
mettle. Once or twice she had felt conscious of the one thing
she had never dreamed of before--Fear. Yes! on two occasions she
had actually been afraid. Of whom? Of what? She could not say.
It was something indecisively connected with the man with one
arm and the fiery eyes under beetling brows. She had not actually
been afraid of him or of his threats. He was of the secret police,
but she did not fear the police. Her record for militant patriotism
was unblemished. At the same time she felt reassured that he was
no enemy, and was whole-heartedly on her side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For Gabrielle Damiens was clever enough to
know that her hold on the people of Artois was beginning to slacken.
Popular she had never been. But she had been held in awe and that
was what she liked. So far there had been no outward sign of waning
in the fear which she liked to inspire. Fear? Yes! but no longer
that kind of rough admiration which her ruthlessness and free
speech was wont to call forth. She had not often indulged in tub-thumping
oratory lately, but on the rare occasion when she did, the crowd
around her was much thinner than it used to be. She was seldom
cheered nowadays, and often she would see her audience diminish
in number while she talked. Men on the fringe of the crowd would
quietly steal away to the nearest cabaret. Women hardly ever came
to hear her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All these thing were facts which had gradually
forced themselves upon her mind. They were the result of her absorption
in the one great object of her life, the destruction of the Saint-Lucque
family. Thoughts of her revenge obtruded themselves into her oratory
until it became dull through the monotony of its theme. The worthy
Artesians got tired of listening to vituperations hurled at this
one family of <I>aristos</I>, when they wanted to hear all about
the doings of the Committee of Public Safety up in Paris, the
execution of the Girondins, the quarrels between the Moderates
and the Terrorists and other more interesting subjects.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Be that as it may, Gabrielle with her thoughts
still centered on the Saint-Lucques and her disappointment in
connection with their rescue by the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel,
was inclined after this to allow the man from Paris, whoever he
was, to dominate her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was out to capture the English spy, she
to keep her hold on the prisoner. True he was maimed and, as far
as she could judge, past middle-age, in spite of his jet-black
hair--which she was sure was dyed with walnut juice--but he had
a commanding voice and would keep up the soldiers' morale more
easily than she could.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The rider drew rein, arriving at full tilt,
and pulled the young horses back on their haunches till they reared
and beat the air with their forefeet. In an instant he was out
of the saddle and close to Gabrielle. A voluminous dark mantle
wrapped him up from head to foot, and the bridle of the two horses
were curled round his one arm, leaving the hand free. He took
hold of Gabrielle's wrist and drew her to the side of the road
out of earshot of the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't want to scare them,&quot; he
said to her in a whisper, &quot;but the rumour has gained ground
and what's more it is true.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What rumour?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The English spies have mustered a full
force. Some put their numbers down to half a hundred. They were
in hiding all day in and about Gr&eacute;court. As soon as you
had made a start with the diligence they seemed literally to spring
out of the ground. So someone told me who saw it all. They were
all over the town, swarmed in the market place, in the streets,
the cabarets, everywhere. The inhabitants bolted into shelter
like rabbits lopping off to their burrows. They were scared out
of their wits. Some of them, however, ran to the police and demanded
protection. The police duly turned out. The English attacked them
with pistols. They killed and wounded a number of them, and then
galloped away, hell-for-leather, in this direction.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He still kept a hold on Gabrielle's wrist;
but now, when he paused for a moment in order to draw breath,
she shook herself free and made for the diligence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are you going to do?&quot; he demanded,
and seized hold of her arm again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Make an immediate start,&quot; she replied
curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How far will you get,&quot; he countered,
&quot;with that slow-going vehicle? You cannot vanish into the
night before the English rabble overtakes you, and they are more
numerous than your escort. They are well mounted, too, let me
tell you. Now I have two high-mettled horses here. One for you,
the other for myself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are crazy!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You would be crazy, citizeness, if you
tried to flee with that lumbering vehicle, before a pack of well-mounted
brigands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would take the secondary road . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And risk losing the prisoner? The English
spies would sight you before you came to the bend of the road.
And what chance would your men have, out-numbered four to one?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will not be parted from the prisoner,&quot;
Gabrielle declared obstinately.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why should you be?&quot; he retorted.
&quot;Listen to me, citizeness. Name of a dog! can't you understand
that the only way to keep the prisoner out of the clutches of
the English spies is to leave the coach here standing as a decoy,
and to take the woman along with us?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take the woman along with us?&quot; she
echoed fiercely. &quot;What in the name of Satan do you mean?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You take one horse, citizeness, and I
the other. The prisoner can ride pillion behind one of us. They
are high-mettled three-year-olds, these horses. We'll be well
away before the English horde has discovered that there is no
one in the diligence, only the troopers. Order your corporal to
wait here and stand his ground. To fight to the last man, and
when he has captured the Scarlet Pimpernel, to throw him into
the coach and start at once for Falize, where we will meet him
as soon as we are satisfied that the storm has blown over and
that the coast is clear. Come, citizeness,&quot; he urged, &quot;there
is no time to lose.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment, tensely expectant. Then
as she still remained silent and obstinate, he spoke the one word:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Listen!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The night was so still that from far, very
far away, a confusion of sounds seemed to come floating on the
midnight air. Only a murmur at first. Nothing more. A buzzing
as from a swarm of bees.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Listen!&quot; the man said again. And
now his voice, though hoarse and toneless, was soul- and spirit-stirring.
Gabrielle stood motionless as a statue and listened. She heard
the distant murmur like a swarm of bees. The buzzing and the droning.
And then, through that confused sound, something like a shout.
So vague, so distant, it could scarcely be heard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The prisoner, citizeness. It is her they
are after.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That compelling voice with its commanding note
pierced the armour of Gabrielle's obstinacy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Come,&quot; she commanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She strode to the diligence and he followed
her with the horses. With her own hands she opened the door of
the coach. The atmosphere inside was suffocating. There was a
scramble and a scraping of feet, as the troopers were roused from
torpor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Present, citizeness,&quot; they muttered
in unison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The prisoner,&quot; she commanded again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Here, citizeness,&quot; one of the soldiers
responded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They pushed and they jostled, each striving
to snatch a breath of fresh air at the open door. The unfortunate
prisoner was pushed about like a bundle of goods. A feeble moan
escaped her lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hold the horses, citizeness,&quot; the
stranger broke in curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She obeyed mechanically, moving like an automaton.
And like an automaton she called the corporal and gave him what
orders the stranger had demanded of her: &quot;Fight to the last
man. . . . Throw the English prisoner into the coach. . . . We
will meet you at Falize.&quot; She watched the man put his foot
on the step of the vehicle and with his one arm elbow his way
to the woman's side, put that one arm round her and drag her to
him. He wrapped his voluminous mantle round her and held her close.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To horse, citizeness,&quot; he urged
with desperate intensity. Again she obeyed and was already in
the saddle, when the confusion of sounds far away, suddenly became
more distinct. A shout arose and then another. Above the buzzing
and the humming they arose and seemed to come from many lusty
throats. And through the shouting and the buzzing there was a
rolling and a drumming and the tramp of many hoofs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On one high-mettled horse rode Gabrielle Damiens,
known throughout the Province of Artois as Mam'zelle Guillotine,
on the other a man wrapped in the folds of a black mantle had
a woman in his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The moon hid her light behind a bank of clouds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Darkness fell once more over the land.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The riders galloped on and on into the night.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXVIII</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE FIGHT
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The troopers round and in the diligence were
on the alert. They could hear in the distance the sound of horses'
hoofs, the shouts and laughter which proclaimed the approach of
the English spy and his followers. The English spy! whose capture
would mean a goodly sum of money in the pockets of every soldier
here present this night. The order to mount was given by the corporal,
and in a trice half a dozen stalwarts were in the saddle while
six others inside the diligence sat waiting with cocked pistols
on their knees.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few minutes of tense expectation went by,
then suddenly round the bend of the road the forms of a dozen
or more horsemen galloping, detached themselves from out of the
gloom. At sight of the diligence they gave a wild cry of triumph,
and brandishing a collection of miscellaneous weapons they rushed
to the attack.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Attention, citizen soldiers,&quot; the
corporal commanded. &quot;Shoot low. We must have this English
horde alive or we'll forfeit half the prize money.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Hardly were the words out of his mouth than
with another outburst of frenzied excitement the band of hot-headed
farmers and drovers tumbled helter-skelter out of their saddles
and rushed to the attack. There was the diligence in front of
them looming out of the night like a huge black mass. A fortress
to be stormed as the Bastille, that monument of tyranny, had been
stormed and reduced four and a half years ago. While some of the
party started a hand-to-hand fight with the mounted troopers,
others made for the diligence. But before they had come anywhere
near it the corporal gave the word of command in a stentorian
voice. The carriage door was suddenly thrown open and out came
the half-dozen picked men, pistol in hand, eager and ready for
the fight. The result of this move was nothing short of disastrous
for the unfortunate soldiers. <BR>
They were not in the best of trim, after being cooped up in an
airless box with only a few short periods of relaxation, for close
on twenty-four hours. But apart from that they were from the first
at a disadvantage. The attacking party rushed on them as they
scrambled out of the coach. Not only were they outnumbered, but
as they were forced to come out one by one through the narrow
doors, they were fallen on with fists and sickles or axes and
soon a number of them were more or less seriously wounded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was then that the corporal, who was in the
thick of it all, suddenly became aware that the man with whom
he was at grips at the moment was not the Scarlet Pimpernel at
all or any of the English spies, but farmer Papillon with whom
he, Corporal Orgelet, had drunk a mug or two of excellent mulled
wine at the <I>Bon Camarade</I> in Gr&eacute;court only a few
hours ago. He had known Citizen Papillon ever since they had run
about together, barefooted ragamuffins in ragged breeches, bent
on raiding the nearest apple-orchards.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What the devil does all this mean?&quot;
he thundered, as his friend Papillon raised a powerful, menacing
fist high above his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It means that thou art a thief,&quot;
the farmer fulminated in reply. &quot;Aye! a thief and a liar,
and that I'll teach thee not to cheat thy friends another time.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With this, he brought his fist down with a
crash on his whilom boon-companion's head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The fight, such as it was, degenerated into
fisticuffs. Farmers and drovers expert enough with a gun when
out after a hare or a rabbit had little experience in the use
of a pistol or a sabre. Seeing that they were not making any headway
with these weapons they cast them incontinently aside and relied
on their fists, their sickles and woodchoppers to wreak what mischief
they could. And they did wreak any amount of that, for they brought
down and wounded a couple of horses, which was an infamous thing
to do, and had the effect of turning the wrath of the soldiers
into something like execration. They struck at their assailants
with their sabres, shouting:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take that, thou limb of Satan!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;'Tis with Mam'zelle Guillotine thou wilt
have to reckon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Indeed, the troopers had already realised that
here were no English spies, only a set of drunken jackanapes who
in their senseless frenzy were actually daring to lay hands on
the soldiers of the Republic. The attack was either an insane
hoax, or the result of some ghastly misunderstanding. For the
soldiers and the attacking party were all friends together. There
was Faret, the drover from N&eacute;thon and Constant the washerwoman's
son over St. Charles way, and there was Charon the farmer as well
as Papillon, and even Antoine, who was own cousin to Corporal
Orgelet. What in the devil's name was it all about? It was very
mysterious and extremely foolish.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was also very serious.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">These irresponsible fire-eaters would have
to be taught a lesson. They would have to learn to their cost
that such wanton madness could not remain unpunished and that
a man who dares to attack a soldier of the Republic and impede
him in the execution of his duty must suffer for his crime. The
fight had only lasted a few minutes, but of the thirty-two combatants
who took part in it, on one side and the other, there were at
least a dozen lying wounded on the ground. And there were the
poor horses too. The whole affair might have become even more
tragic than it already was. So far the troopers had been unable
to use their pistols to good effect. The mounted men were slashing
away with their sabres, and the others who had turned out of the
diligence, had been at grips each with two or even three assailants
who gave them no respite but pounded away at them with their fists.
Corporal Orgelet himself was lying on the ground with his friend
Papillon holding him down. He had already received from his whilom
boon-companion one or two nasty cracks on the head, when with
a clever twist of his body he contrived to get hold of his pistol
and to discharge it into Papillon's thigh. The latter uttered
a loud imprecation and rolled over on his side yelling: &quot;Assassin!
Thou hast murdered me!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sudden report, however, had the good effect
of sobering the aggressors. It also brought the soldiers back
to a sense of discipline, and gave them the confidence which this
extraordinary surprise attack had so signally shaken. At once
the fight between soldiers and civilians assumed its just proportions,
and after a few more pistol shots had been discharged, a few more
sabre thrusts gone home and a few stalwarts had been sent rolling
over on the ground, Orgelet was able to call a &quot;Halt!&quot;.
The assailants were ready to surrender. He ordered them to be
mustered up. Groaning and cursing, for most of them had suffered
pretty severely at the hands of the soldiers, they were lined
up, guarded by the troopers, some of whom were in as pitiable
a state as themselves. The faint, grey gleam of a winter's night
revealed some of them standing, others kneeling or crouching,
some with their faces smeared with blood, their eyes bunged up
and lips bleeding, all with their hair hanging lank and wet over
their eyes. They did indeed present a sorry spectacle. Orgelet
himself in a sad plight and dizzy with many a crack on the head,
passed up and down the short line, eyeing the wretched men with
wrath and contempt in his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I ought to have the lot of you summarily
shot,&quot; he said grimly. &quot;Yes! shot here and now. And
I will do it, too,&quot; he bellowed at them, &quot;Unless you
tell me at once what is the meaning of this abominable outrage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thou can'st add murder to thy other crimes,
citizen corporal,&quot; Papillon retorted loudly, &quot;to thy
lying and thy cheating, and joining hands with Mam'zelle Guillotine
to rob us of what was our due.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Joining hands with Mam'zelle Guillotine
to rob you?&quot; Orgelet countered, lost in bewilderment. &quot;What
the devil do you mean? Of what did I rob you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of the reward due to us for the capture
of the Scarlet Pimpernel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel?&quot;
Orgelet thundered at them. &quot;You fools! You dolts! That is
impossible now after the hellish row you have been making.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do not lie to us, Orgelet,&quot; one
of the wounded men responded. &quot;We know that thou didst capture
the English spy in our district and that thou and Mam'zelle Guillotine
will share the prize money which is rightly due to us. We came
to avenge a wrong . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What balderdash is this?&quot; Orgelet
broke in gruffly. &quot;Who says we captured the English spy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do,&quot; declared Faret, the drover
from N&eacute;thon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Orgelet gave a shrug of contempt, a light had
suddenly broken in on the confusion of his mind. He was beginning
to understand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If we captured him,&quot; he queried,
&quot;what have we done with him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You've got him locked up in there.&quot;
And with a dramatic gesture Antoine, who was own cousin to Orgelet,
pointed to the diligence. &quot;Thief! Liar, thy mother shall
hear of this.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This was altogether too much for the corporal's
gravity. He burst out laughing and continued to laugh immoderately
until feeling faint and giddy with the pain in his head, he nearly
measured his length on the road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; he said, his voice still shaking
with inward laughter, &quot;is that where that mysterious English
spy is? . . . Well,&quot; he went on, after a slight pause, &quot;go
and get him out, my friends.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Funnily enough, in the heat and excitement
of the fight the one object that had induced these madmen to commit
the unpardonable folly of attacking troopers of the Republican
army had been lost sight of by them. From the moment when they
came to close quarters with the soldiers, thoughts of the Scarlet
Pimpernel and the English horde vanished from their minds. The
only idea that did remain fixed was the question of a hundred
louis apiece which these soldiers had filched from them. But now,
when Corporal Orgelet himself pointed to the diligence and said:
&quot;Go and get him out,&quot; there was, in spite of wounds
and despite exhaustion, one concerted rush for the coach. Something
like a scramble, in fact, which left an unpleasant trail of blood
in its wake. The carriage door was still wide open. Farmer Papillon
was the first to set foot inside the coach. He groped about the
interior with his hands, administered vigorous kicks to supposed
and non-existent occupants. Kicks which only reached his unfortunate
boon-companions and drew groans and curses from them in response.
Some seven or eight of them succeeded in entering the coach and
as they tumbled one on the top of the other all they did was to
aggravate their woes and the soreness of their wounds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And all the while Orgelet and the men stood
outside whole-heartedly enjoying the joke. For them the whole
thing had degenerated into a joke. Whether in the meanwhile the
English spies had gone never to return, whether their chance of
earning a bit of money had vanished into the night air, on the
wings of noise and confusion and hard blows freely dealt and received,
they could form no idea as yet. One thing only was certain, and
that was that orders must be obeyed. Orders were to fight to the
last man and then proceed to Falize where Mam'zelle Guillotine
would rejoin the party. Orgelet, who was a good soldier and good
disciplinarian, rallied the troopers round him. He ordered the
wounded to enter the diligence, and the others to get back to
horse. The horses brought hither by the attacking party had wandered
away across fields for the most part. A few had stampeded and
bolted back to the stables whence they had come. Others again
were presently recaptured, after a short difference of opinion
'tween man and beast. Those that were hurt must of necessity be
walked along very quietly on the lead. Fortunately their wounds
were not serious and Falize was not far.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for the miserable aggressors, there they
were, crestfallen, and dolefully nursing their wounds. It was
easy to see that Corporal Orgelet and the soldiers looked upon
them with contempt and pity rather than ill-feeling. The whole
affair had been inglorious. Victory over such rabble was nothing
to be proud of. Orgelet mounted to the box-seat and took the reins.
The escort was formed once more. A crack of the whip and a click
of the tongue and the team settled into their collars. The cumbrous
vehicle once more started on its way, whilst a score of discomfited
and bedraggled rustics made their way as best they could afoot
or astride a horse, back to Gr&eacute;court.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"> CHAPTER XXIX</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">HELL-FOR-LEATHER</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney held Eve de Saint-Lucque close to
him under the folds of his voluminous mantle. Keeping to the edge
of the road, where the ground was soft, he gave the mettlesome
three-year-old full rein. He seemed indeed to have imbued his
mount with all the devilment that was in his own blood, enjoying
to the full the noble sport which in an earnest profession of
faith he had extolled before his royal friend on that winter's
evening more than a sen'night ago, when surrounded by every luxury
that wealth and epicurism could devise, he had boldly declared:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll back my favourite sport against
any that has ever been invented for making a man feel akin to
the gods. . . . With the keen air fanning your cheeks, with the
night wrapping you round. With woman or child clinging to you,
their weak arms holding tightly to your waist, with human wolves
behind you while you ride for dear life through unknown country,
riding, galloping, not knowing where you may land, out of one
death-trap into another . . .<I> that</I>, Your Highness, is the
sport for me . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle was doing her best to keep up with
him. Something of his wild animal spirits had got into her now.
No longer dispirited, no longer doubtful of success, she kept
her mind fixed on this wonderful victory which she had achieved
over those whom she hated so bitterly. True the other members
of the execrated family had escaped her, but she hugged herself
with the comforting thought that the Saint-Lucque children would
be motherless, and their father a widower, and all of them broken-hearted.
And this was thanks to Andr&eacute; Renaud--or whoever he was--who
had been the <I>deus ex machina,</I> the final instrument of her
revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Galloping sometimes behind him, at others some
little distance in the rear, all that she could see of him through
the gloom was the square mass of his mantle, which enveloped him
from the neck to the knees. Yes, there was a devil in the man,
she said to herself, while she made vigorous efforts not to lag
behind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After the first ten minutes of this wild gallopade,
when the sounds of fighting, way over the cross-roads, had been
swallowed up by the night, she had ceased to try to determine
whither she was being led. She had lost all sense of direction.
All she could do was to follow blindly on. It was only after a
long climb over a steep portion of the road, when the man drew
rein to give his horse a breather, that she ventured on questioning
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is our first objective?&quot; she
asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The unknown,&quot; he cried joyously
in response.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The unknown?&quot; she echoed grimly.
&quot;You are mad.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;By George! I believe I am,&quot; he assented,
and peeped down through the closure of his mantle at the burden
which lay in his arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We are not heading for Paris,&quot; she
objected; &quot;I do not even know where we are.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No more do I, citizeness,&quot; he responded
with a happy chuckle. &quot;But we'll get somewhere in time. Before
dawn if we are lucky. <I>En avant,</I> citizeness, the unknown
means victory to two of us over our enemies. They'll never look
for us there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even before he had finished speaking, he had
touched his mount slightly with a spur and off they were again,
he with his burden under his mantle, and she, galloping as close
to him as she could, with her thoughts once more beginning to
whirl about in her brain and her nerves strained to breaking-point.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At one time she thought that they were making
tracks for M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. It was too dark to see much
and Gabrielle Damiens was not a country wench, not a rustic who
would know direction by instinct, by the way the wind blew, and
by the fleeting clouds. Less than five years ago she was still
a captive in the Bastille. Since then she had roamed in and out
of cities and knew little of the open country. She had not seen
much of her own Province of Artois. M&eacute;zi&egrave;res and
its immediate neighbourhood she knew, of course. She also knew
Gr&eacute;court and Falize and the main roads which led to Paris
one way and to the Belgian frontier the other. It was not along
either of these roads they were speeding now. Then whither were
they going? Her tired eyes wandered round striving to pierce the
darkness of the night. Now and again, when for a few brief moments
the moon peeped through a fissure in the clouds, she thought to
perceive somewhere in the distance a half-forgotten landmark:
a jutting hillock, a belt of trees or the white church steeple
of an isolated village. And when presently the road plunged into
a thicket she thought it must be the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res.
But the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res was more dense, the undergrowth
thicker, the road in places more steep. It was here that the encounter
with the English spies was to have taken place. No, no! This was
not the forest of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res. Then what was it?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once outside the belt of trees, her straining
ears perceived the sound of running water. Swift and turbulent.
Where could this be? They went over a bridge and to right and
left she could hear the water rushing and tumbling down from a
height over rocky projections. The rider on ahead put his horse
to a trot, and she was able to come up to him. Quite close. It
seemed to her then as if at a short distance away a few solid
masses inky-black and grouped together loomed out of the gloom
darker than the night. A village probably.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The unknown,&quot; he called out, with
a ring of triumph in his voice, and pointed in that direction.
&quot;<I>En avant</I>, citizeness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And before she was aware of what was happening,
he had caught hold of her bridle rein, and thereafter she knew
nothing more, for her mount was being carried along with its stable
companion, hell-for-leather at breakneck speed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She made an effort to wrench the bridle out
of his hand, but it was held in a grip that was as hard and as
unyielding as steel. Half dazed with fatigue and want of breath,
she tried to slide down out of the saddle. Her foot had just touched
the ground the ground, when with a vigorous jerk he drew rein.
Panting and snorting and beating the air with their hoofs, the
horses presently came to a dead halt. Gabrielle fell clean out
of the saddle and lay in a heap on the ground. She was on the
point of swooning. Through a state of semi-consciousness, she
heard the man calling repeatedly for the landlord, and later on
there was a banging of shutters and creaking of door hinges. She
lay quite still for she was bruised all over and inexpressibly
weary. Again she heard the man's voice:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hey there! citizen landlord.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And she murmured: &quot;Where am I?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was shortly before the dawn, a pale grey
light in the east picked out with a silvery sheen here and there
a sloping roof or the topmost branch of tall cypress trees. It
was cold and damp. Gabrielle rolled over on her side. She was
lying prone on the mud of the road. Over her head something squeaked
with irritating persistency. She glanced up and vaguely discerned
a painted sign swinging on its post. She heard one man's voice
alternating with another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Travellers, citizen landlord. We have
lost our way. Can you put us up until daylight?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was some demur followed by a jingle of
precious metal. After which the other voice put in gruffly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have one room. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;This purse contains a louis d'or, citizen
landlord. If there were two rooms there would be two louis.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Further demur apparently and then:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is too late for supper, anyway.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you bring us three mugs of hut mulled
wine, there will be four louis d'or inside this purse.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After which a shrill voice called from above:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Don't be a fool, Mathieu. Let the travellers
come in and give them mulled wine while I get the rooms ready.
It will cost you five louis,&quot; she went on after a slight
pause, &quot;and no questions asked.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The three of them sat at a table in the tap-room
of this wayside inn. The landlord had brought in three large pewter
mugs filled to the brim with steaming, spiced wine. There is no
better drink in the world than mulled wine concocted by a French
countryman. Eve de Saint-Lucque, looking a pitiful rag of femininity,
gave a wan smile as Blakeney persuaded her to drink.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You too, citizeness,&quot; he said turning
to Gabrielle, who sat there sullen and mute doing her best to
fight that intense weariness which took all the life out of her.
Blakeney drew a flask out of his pocket.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The wine is good,&quot; he said, &quot;but
a drop of good old cognac will improve it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He poured out the contents of his flask into
Gabrielle's pewter mug. She drank it all down at one draught.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A woman's footsteps were heard clattering down
the wooden stairs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The rooms are ready,&quot; she announced
curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And so are the five louis d'or,&quot;
Blakeney responded gaily and counted out the gold in the woman's
wrinkled hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you follow our kind hostess, citizeness,&quot;
he said, lightly touching Gabrielle on the shoulder. She gave
no answer, spread out her arms over the table and let her head
drop down heavily upon them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll stay here,&quot; she murmured almost
inaudibly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney stood by for a moment looking down
on her with an expression in his face that was partly of contempt
and partly of pity. She never moved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He then went over to the other side of the
table where Eve de Saint-Lucque sat fingering the pewter mug,
and gazing out before her, at Gabrielle for a time and then at
him. Her eyes circled with purple, her quivering lips, her wan
and sunken cheeks, showed plainly the extent to which this unfortunate
and plucky woman had suffered. But in spite of the pain which
she still endured, in spite of intense fatigue, bruised body and
aching head, it was a p&aelig;an of praise and benediction and
reverence that her poor, weary eyes expressed as she looked on
the man to whom she owed her life and that of her children.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When she rested in his arms throughout this
mad gallopade through the darkness and the frosty air, he had
at one moment peeped down at her through the folds of his mantle
and murmured just loudly enough for her to hear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your children are safe in the care of
my friends. You are safe with me. The Scarlet Pimpernel has kept
his word.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had snuggled up closer to him then, striving
to make herself as small, as little burdensome to him as she could.
She had never seen him yet, but from the moment that he dragged
her out of the diligence, she felt somehow secure in his protecting
arms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now in this squalid room, with its drab walls
and its menacing inscriptions: <I>Libert&eacute;, Egalit&eacute;,
Fraternit&eacute; ou la Mort</I>, with the silence around only
broken by the prosaic sound of the other woman's stertorous breathing.
Eve looked up and tried to make out something of the mysterious
personality of her rescuer. All she saw of him was the top of
his head masked by coal-black hair which lay across his forehead
like a funereal band. She saw a pair of bushy, black eyebrows,
a long thin nose, a chin buried in a white linen stock. The tallow
candle set on the table flickered in the draught. The sight which
she got of that curious face was fitful and intermittent, but
in her own mind she was quite sure that the black hair was a wig
and that the nose was a false one, and the beetling brow a final
touch to what was obviously a disguise. She gazed at him whilst
an expression of puzzlement settled into her eyes. Puzzlement
that turned into an appeal. Would she ever look into his face,
his real face, she wondered. Would she ever behold the man as
he really was, or would he ever remain for her an enigma, a mysterious
entity, the hero of her dreams?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you think you can bear it Madame?&quot;
he now asked. He had said something else before that, but she
had not heard. So she said simply:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I can bear anything that you impose upon
me. What is it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Three, perhaps four days in a rickety,
jolting cart with intervals of rest in derelict cottages with
a hard floor for a bed and straw for a pillow. Can you bear it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You mock me, sir,&quot; she countered
with a smile, &quot;by asking me this. When do we start?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As soon as I have made arrangements with
our rapacious landlord. In the meanwhile try and snatch a couple
of hours' sleep. The woman is just outside. She will conduct you
to your room.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He went to the door and called to the woman.
When he turned back to Eve she was standing beside Gabrielle's
inert form. She raised enquiring eyes to his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will she be with us all the time?&quot;
she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a short, low laugh. Then he said with
a curious sudden change to earnestness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, Madame, whatever the fool or the
heathen may say, God is just.&quot; He paused a moment, then added:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll leave her here in the care of her
master.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Her master? You mean . . .?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I mean the master who has prompted all
her actions in the past. He will, I doubt not, looked after her
now and in the future.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Eve, wondering what he meant, went thoughtfully
to her room.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXX</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">THE SILENT
POOL </FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When Gabrielle roused herself from her drugged
sleep, a pale wintry sun was peeping in through the grimy window
of the tap-room. It was broad daylight. Half a dozen men were
sitting at the table, some of them were drinking wine, others
eating some sort of savoury stew which they ladled out for themselves
out of a metal tureen. Gabrielle opened her eyes and looked about
her. She had no recollection whatever of where she was. She sniffed
the air like a hungry dog, the odour of the stew had roused her
and she was hungry. Her tongue felt parched and clung to the roof
of her mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An elderly woman was busy about the room serving
the men who called for this, that and the other. They were all
labourers or countrymen of some sort. Gabrielle looked at them
with bleared eyes. When her gaze came to rest on the woman, she
blinked and then called thickly for food and drink. No one took
much notice of her. The woman brought her a mug and a bottle and
set them on the table; she also brought a spoon and a metal plate
and Gabrielle helped herself to the savoury stew out of the tureen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There's a room ready for you upstairs,&quot;
the woman said to her, &quot;It is paid for. You can go up if
you like.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gabrielle rose, she shook herself like a frowsy
cur, for she felt cold and stiff. Wrapping the fur mantle closely
round her she strode out of the room. A slaternly wench on the
landing showed her up to the attic where a truckle-bed had been
made up for her. Gabrielle threw herself down on the palliasse,
closed her eyes and went to sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Suddenly she opened her eyes, she was wide
awake. It must have been late in the afternoon. The last of a
wintry twilight shed its wan light through the cracked window
of the squalid attic. Gabrielle rose. She still felt cold and
stiff and dizzy from the fatigue of that wild ride through the
night. She wandered down the rickety stairs and peeped into the
tap-room. The slaternly wench was there doing some perfunctory
cleaning of the table and setting down mugs, plates and spoons
for supper-guests. The landlord came stumping out form the back
premises, his sabots clattering on the tiled floor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your room has been paid for for a week,&quot;
he said gruffly, as soon as he caught of Gabrielle. &quot;Do you
want to stay?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She said: &quot;Perhaps.&quot; And turning
on her heel went in the direction of the front door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The other two went at crack of dawn,&quot;
the man went on. &quot;They left a small parcel for you. I'll
go and get it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He stumped back to the kitchen and returned
after a moment or two with something soft wrapped in a dirty scrap
of paper, held tightly in his hand. Gabrielle took the parcel
from him. It was dark in the passage, so she went back to the
tap-room, sat down at the table and drew the tallow candle nearer
to her. She undid the parcel and spread the contents out on the
table. The landlord peered inquisitively over her shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why!&quot; he exclaimed, &quot;what on
earth are these things?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As you see, citizen,&quot; Gabrielle
replied. And the landlord declared subsequently that never had
he heard a woman's voice sound so strange and inhuman. It was,
he said, more like the growling of a wounded beast than the voice
of a woman. She fingered the things that were lying on the table:
a wig of black hair, a papier-m&acirc;ch&eacute; nose, a pair
of false eyebrows. She touched each thing with a hand that shook
visibly. The man picked them up one by one and quickly dropped
them again, as if they scorched his fingers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What devil's work is this?&quot; he muttered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Devil's work, as you say, citizen landlord,&quot;
she rejoined dully. &quot;The work of the English spy who was
here in this very room a few hours ago. Had you detained him,
you would be richer now by a hundred louis. Think of that, citizen
landlord. Good night. Pleasant dreams.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She gave a curious, mirthless laugh, as if
she were demented, so the landlord said later on. She picked up
one by one the miscellaneous contents of the parcel, strode out
of the room and went out into the street.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The last of the twilight had faded out of the
sky. The village street lay still and dark to right and left of
the wayside inn, in the doorway of which stood the lonely woman.
She glanced up and down the street, trying to distinguish some
landmark or other in the gloom, or perhaps just making up her
mind as to which way to turn for her solitary ramble in the night.
The sound of running water came faintly to her ear from the left.
She turned in that direction, ambling along aimlessly at first.
Then as the sound grew more distinct, she quickened her step,
walked more resolutely along. Always in the darkness which only
revealed vaguely the edge of the road, and always in the direction
whence came the sound of running water.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus she came to the bridge which spanned the
torrent, the bridge over which she had ridden full tilt yesterday,
with her bridle rein held in a grip that was like steel, whilst
she herself was held in bondage and rendered helpless in the hands
of a ruthless and relentless enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is our first objective?&quot; she
had asked him then.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And he had replied: &quot;The unknown.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And for her the unknown was a torrent that
came scurrying and tumbling down over rocky projections. She stood
quite still, looking down on the waters which she heard but could
not see. On the right a mossy path ran along the edge of the stream.
Gabrielle turned her wearied footsteps down that way. On she wandered
with the sound of running water falling on her ear like the accusing
voice of a relentless Nemesis.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thy revenge,&quot; it murmured, &quot;where
is it now? For it thou didst scheme and murder and commit every
crime that disgraced thy womanhood. Where is it now? Those whom
thy hatred has pursued are safe and happy out of thy reach. Where
art thou at this hour? Whither doest thou go?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And idly wandering Gabrielle Damiens came to
the pool wherein the turbulent eddy found its rest. Here the swirl
of the falling waters caused innumerable bubbles to form and to
burst again. Beyond the swirl, the pool seemed to be placid and
very still. Gabrielle came to a halt, and looking down she tried
to gauge the depth of the water, but the night was like ebony
and the over-hanging trees threw a further veil of darkness over
the silent pool. She stood quite still now, and around her everything
was still save for the occasional crackling of dry twigs overhead
or the movement of tiny furtive feet in the undergrowth. She still
had in her hands that collection of curious objects--the wig,
the false eyebrows, the nose made of papier-m&acirc;ch&eacute;
such as clowns wear at the circus. She fingered them lightly for
a while, then laid them down on a flat piece of projecting stone.
There was no wind and the things remained all night where she
had put them. The were found in the early morning by a couple
of labourers on their way to work. They wondered what on earth
these things could possibly be, and how they got there. No one
ever knew.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Throughout the length and breadth of the Province
of Artois no one ever knew what had become of Mam'zelle Guillotine.
She had come no one knew whence. She went no one knew whither.
Six months later the Reign of Terror in France came to an end.
The guillotine in the province was no longer kept busy and an
honest butcher of M&eacute;zi&egrave;res did all that there was
to do.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">CHAPTER XXXI</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">AN INTERLUDE
</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite Blakeney was in her husband's arms.
She was looking pale and wan and her wonderful, luminous eyes
still bore the traces of all the tears which she had shed. She
had been the first to arrive in Dover at the Fisherman's Rest,
in the company of Percy's devoted followers and the two little
children for whose sake he had thrown his precious life in the
balance of Fate, courting death with joy in his heart and a smile
on his lips. For close on a month Marguerite in her weary travelling
to Belgium and through Belgium on to England, had known nothing
of her adored husband, save that at every hour of the day and
night that heroic life was in deadly peril</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now when his arms were once more round her
and she looked into his merry deep-set eyes, the joy of reunion
was almost more than she could bear. She tried to make him tell
her something of what he had endured and gone through for the
sake of an unfortunate woman and two innocent children now happily
reunited to husband, father and brother.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Luck was on my side, light of my life,&quot;
was all he said, &quot;because you were so near me all the time.
And luck was backed by the courage and understanding of brave
men like Ffoulkes and Tony, Glynde and St. Dennys, and your adorable
self.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But, Percy,&quot; she insisted, &quot;if
luck had failed you. If . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Luck, my beloved,&quot; he said, and
once more that wonderful look of the born adventurer, the gambler,
the fearless sportsman, the look which she dreaded to see more
than any other, came back into his eyes; &quot;luck is just an
old woman, m'dear, bald save for one hair on her head. It is up
to her courtier to seize her by that one hair when perchance she
flits by past him at arm's length. But, by George,&quot; he concluded
with his infectious, merry laugh, &quot;having got hold of that
hair, it is up to him not to let it go. And that is all I did,
my adored, I did not let go.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">The End</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

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