IV
THE OLD SCARECROW
Nobody in the quartier could quite recollect when it was that the newPublic Letter-Writer first set up in business at the angle formed by theQuai des Augustins and the Rue Dauphine, immediately facing the PontNeuf; but there he certainly was on the 28th day of February, 1793, whenAgnes, with eyes swollen with tears, a market basket on her arm, and alook of dreary despair on her young face, turned that selfsame angle onher way to the Pont Neuf, and nearly fell over the rickety constructionwhich sheltered him and his stock-in-trade.
"Oh, mon Dieu! citizen Lepine, I had no idea you were here," sheexclaimed as soon as she had recovered her balance.
"Nor I, citizeness, that I should have the pleasure of seeing you thismorning," he retorted.
"But you were always at the other corner of the Pont Neuf," she argued.
"So I was," he replied, "so I was. But I thought I would like a change.The Faubourg St. Michel appealed to me; most of my clients came to mefrom this side of the river--all those on the other side seem to knowhow to read and write."
"I was just going over to see you," she remarked.
"You, citizeness," he exclaimed in unfeigned surprise, "what shouldprocure a poor public writer the honour of--"
"Hush, in God's name!" broke in the young girl quickly as she cast arapid, furtive glance up and down the quai and the narrow streets whichconverged at this angle.
She was dressed in the humblest and poorest of clothes, her skimpy shawlround her shoulders could scarce protect her against the cold of thiscruel winter's morning; her hair was entirely hidden beneath a frilledand starched cap, and her feet were encased in coarse worsted stockingsand sabots, but her hands were delicate and fine, and her face had thatnobility of feature and look of patient resignation in the midst ofoverwhelming sorrow which proclaimed a lofty refinement both of soul andof mind.
The old Letter-Writer was surveying the pathetic young figure before himthrough his huge horn-rimmed spectacles, and she smiled on him throughher fast-gathering tears. He used to have his pitch at the angle of thePont Neuf, and whenever Agnes had walked past it, she had nodded to himand bidden him "Good morrow!" He had at times done little commissionsfor her and gone on errands when she needed a messenger; to-day, in themidst of her despair, she had suddenly thought of him and that rumourcredited him with certain knowledge which she would give her all topossess.
She had sallied forth this morning with the express purpose of speakingwith him; but now suddenly she felt afraid, and stood looking at him fora moment or two, hesitating, wondering if she dared tell him--one neverknew these days into what terrible pitfall an ill-considered word mightlead one.
A scarecrow he was, that old Public Letter-Writer, more like a great,gaunt bird than a human being, with those spectacles of his, and hislong, very sparse and very lanky fringe of a beard which fell from hischeeks and chin and down his chest for all the world like a crumpledgrey bib. He was wrapped from head to foot in a caped coat which hadonce been green in colour, but was now of many hues not usually seen inrainbows. He wore his coat all buttoned down the front, like adressing-gown, and below the hem there peeped out a pair of very largefeet encased in boots which had never been a pair. He sat upon arickety, straw-bottomed chair under an improvised awning which was madeup of four poles and a bit of sacking. He had a table in front of him--atable partially and very insecurely propped up by a bundle of old papersand books, since no two of its four legs were completely whole--and onthe table there was a neckless bottle half-filled with ink, a few sheetsof paper and a couple of quill pens.
The young girl's hesitation had indeed not lasted more than a fewseconds.
Furtively, like a young creature terrified of lurking enemies, she oncemore glanced to right and left of her and down the two streets and theriver bank, for Paris was full of spies these days--human bloodhoundsready for a few sous to sell their fellow-creatures' lives. It wasmiddle morning now, and a few passers-by were hurrying along wrapped tothe nose in mufflers, for the weather was bitterly cold.
Agnes waited until there was no one in sight, then she leaned forwardover the table and whispered under her breath:
"They say, citizen, that you alone in Paris know the whereabouts of theEnglish milor'--of him who is called the Scarlet Pimpernel...."
"Hush-sh-sh!" said the old man quickly, for just at that moment two menhad gone by, in ragged coats and torn breeches, who had leered at Agnesand her neat cap and skirt as they passed. Now they had turned the angleof the street and the old man, too, sank his voice to a whisper.
"I know nothing of any Englishman," he muttered.
"Yes, you do," she rejoined insistently. "When poor Antoine Carre wassomewhere in hiding and threatened with arrest, and his mother dared notwrite to him lest her letter be intercepted, she spoke to you about theEnglish milor', and the English milor' found Antoine Carre and took himand his mother safely out of France. Mme. Carre is my godmother.... Isaw her the very night when she went to meet the English milor' at hiscommands. I know all that happened then.... I know that you were theintermediary."
"And if I was," he muttered sullenly as he fiddled with his pen andpaper, "maybe I've had cause to regret it. For a week after that Carreepisode I dared not show my face in the streets of Paris; for nigh on afortnight I dared not ply my trade ... I have only just ventured againto set up in business. I am not going to risk my old neck again in ahurry...."
"It is a matter of life and death," urged Agnes, as once more the tearsrushed to her pleading eyes and the look of misery settled again uponher face.
"Your life, citizeness?" queried the old man, "or that of citizen-deputyFabrice?"
"Hush!" she broke in again, as a look of real terror now overspread herface. Then she added under her breath: "You know?"
"I know that Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines is fiancee to thecitizen-deputy Arnould Fabrice," rejoined the old man quietly, "and thatit is Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines who is speaking with me now."
"You have known that all along?"
"Ever since mademoiselle first tripped past me at the angle of the PontNeuf dressed in winsey kirtle and wearing sabots on her feet...."
"But how?" she murmured, puzzled, not a little frightened, for hisknowledge might prove dangerous to her. She was of gentle birth, and assuch an object of suspicion to the Government of the Republic and of theTerror; her mother was a hopeless cripple, unable to move: this togetherwith her love for Arnould Fabrice had kept Agnes de Lucines in Francethese days, even though she was in hourly peril of arrest.
"Tell me what has happened," the old man said, unheeding her lastanxious query. "Perhaps I can help ..."
"Oh! you cannot--the English milor' can and will if only we could knowwhere he is. I thought of him the moment I received that awful man'sletter--and then I thought of you...."
"Tell me about the letter--quickly," he interrupted her with someimpatience. "I'll be writing something--but talk away, I shall hearevery word. But for God's sake be as brief as you can."
He drew some paper nearer to him and dipped his pen in the ink. Heappeared to be writing under her dictation. Thin, flaky snow had begunto fall and settled in a smooth white carpet upon the frozen ground, andthe footsteps of the passers-by sounded muffled as they hurried along.Only the lapping of the water of the sluggish river close by broke theabsolute stillness of the air.
Agnes de Lucines' pale face looked ethereal in this framework of whitewhich covered her shoulders and the shawl crossed over her bosom: onlyher eyes, dark, appealing, filled with a glow of immeasurable despair,appeared tensely human and alive.
"I had a letter this morning," she whispered, speaking very rapidly,"from citizen Heriot--that awful man--you know him?"
"Yes, yes!"
"He used to be valet in the service of deputy Fabrice. Now he, too, is amember of the National Assembly ... he is arrogant and cruel and vile.He hates Arnould Fabrice and he professes himself passionately in lovewith me."
"Yes, yes!"
murmured the old man, "but the letter?"
"It came this morning. In it he says that he has in his possession anumber of old letters, documents and manuscripts which are quite enoughto send deputy Fabrice to the guillotine. He threatens to place allthose papers before the Committee of Public Safety unless ... unlessI...."
She paused, and a deep blush, partly of shame, partly of wrath, suffusedher pale cheeks.
"Unless you accept his grimy hand in marriage," concluded the man dryly.
Her eyes gave him answer. With pathetic insistence she tried now toglean a ray of hope from the old scarecrow's inscrutable face. But hewas bending over his writing: his fingers were blue with cold, his greatshoulders were stooping to his task.
"Citizen," she pleaded.
"Hush!" he muttered, "no more now. The very snowflakes are made up ofwhispers that may reach those bloodhounds yet. The English milor' shallknow of this. He will send you a message if he thinks fit."
"Citizen--"
"Not another word, in God's name! Pay me five sous for this letter andpray Heaven that you have not been watched."
She shivered and drew her shawl closer round her shoulders, then shecounted out five sous with elaborate care and laid them out upon thetable. The old man took up the coins. He blew into his fingers, whichlooked paralysed with the cold. The snow lay over everything now; therough awning had not protected him or his wares.
Agnes turned to go. The last she saw of him, as she went up the rueDauphine, was one broad shoulder still bending over the table, and cladin the shabby, caped coat all covered with snow like an old Santa Claus.
II
It was half-an-hour before noon, and citizen-deputy Heriot was preparingto go out to the small tavern round the corner where he habitually tookhis dejeuner. Citizen Rondeau, who for the consideration of ten sous aday looked after Heriot's paltry creature-comforts, was busy tidying upthe squalid apartment which the latter occupied on the top floor of alodging-house in the Rue Cocatrice. This apartment consisted of threerooms leading out of one another; firstly there was a dark and narrowantichambre wherein slept the aforesaid citizen-servant; then came asitting-room sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a centre table and aniron stove, and finally there was the bedroom wherein the mostconspicuous object was a large oak chest clamped with wide iron hingesand a massive writing-desk; the bed and a very primitive washstand werein an alcove at the farther end of the room and partially hidden by atapestry curtain.
At exactly half-past seven that morning there came a peremptory knock atthe door of the antichambre, and as Rondeau was busy in the bedroom,Heriot went himself to see who his unexpected visitor might be. On thelanding outside stood an extraordinary-looking individual--more like atall and animated scarecrow than a man--who in a tremulous voice askedif he might speak with the citizen Heriot.
"That is my name," said the deputy gruffly, "what do you want?"
He would have liked to slam the door in the old scarecrow's face, butthe latter, with the boldness which sometimes besets the timid, hadalready stepped into the anti-chambre and was now quietly saunteringthrough to the next room into the one beyond. Heriot, being arepresentative of the people and a social democrat of the most advancedtype, was supposed to be accessible to every one who desired speech withhim. Though muttering sundry curses, he thought it best not to goagainst his usual practice, and after a moment's hesitation he followedhis unwelcome visitor.
The latter was in the sitting-room by this time; he had drawn a chairclose to the table and sat down with the air of one who has a perfectright to be where he is; as soon as Heriot entered he said placidly:
"I would desire to speak alone with the citizen-deputy."
And Heriot, after another slight hesitation, ordered Rondeau to closethe bedroom door.
"Keep your ears open in case I call," he added significantly.
"You are cautious, citizen," merely remarked the visitor with a smile.
To this Heriot vouchsafed no reply. He, too, drew a chair forward andsat opposite his visitor, then he asked abruptly: "Your name andquality?"
"My name is Lepine at your service," said the old man, "and byprofession I write letters at the rate of five sous or so, according tolength, for those who are not able to do it for themselves."
"Your business with me?" queried Heriot curtly.
"To offer you two thousand francs for the letters which you stole fromdeputy Fabrice when you were his valet," replied Lepine with perfectcalm.
In a moment Heriot was on his feet, jumping up as if he had been stung;his pale, short-sighted eyes narrowed till they were mere slits, andthrough them he darted a quick, suspicious glance at the extraordinaryout-at-elbows figure before him. Then he threw back his head and laughedtill the tears streamed down his cheeks and his sides began to ache.
"This is a farce, I presume, citizen," he said when he had recoveredsomething of his composure.
"No farce, citizen," replied Lepine calmly. "The money is at yourdisposal whenever you care to bring the letters to my pitch at the angleof the Rue Dauphine and the Quai des Augustins, where I carry on mybusiness."
"Whose money is it? Agnes de Lucines' or did that fool Fabrice sendyou?"
"No one sent me, citizen. The money is mine--a few savings I possess--Ihonour citizen Fabrice--I would wish to do him service by purchasingcertain letters from you."
Then as Heriot, moody and sullen, remained silent and began pacing upand down the long, bare floor of the room, Lepine added persuasively,"Well! what do you say? Two thousand francs for a packet of letters--nota bad bargain these hard times."
"Get out of this room," was Heriot's fierce and sudden reply.
"You refuse?"
"Get out of this room!"
"As you please," said Lepine as he, too, rose from his chair. "Butbefore I go, citizen Heriot," he added, speaking very quietly, "let metell you one thing. Mademoiselle Agnes de Lucines would far sooner cutoff her right hand than let yours touch it even for one instant. Neithershe nor deputy Fabrice would ever purchase their lives at such a price."
"And who are you--you mangy old scarecrow?" retorted Heriot, who wasgetting beside himself with rage, "that you should assert these things?What are those people to you, or you to them, that you should interferein their affairs?"
"Your question is beside the point, citizen," said Lepine blandly; "I amhere to propose a bargain. Had you not better agree to it?"
"Never!" reiterated Heriot emphatically.
"Two thousand francs," reiterated the old man imperturbably.
"Not if you offered me two hundred thousand," retorted the otherfiercely. "Go and tell that, to those who sent you. Tell them thatI--Heriot--would look upon a fortune as mere dross against the delightof seeing that man Fabrice, whom I hate beyond everything in earth orhell, mount up the steps to the guillotine. Tell them that I know thatAgnes de Lucines loathes me, that I know that she loves him. I know thatI cannot win her save by threatening him. But you are wrong, citizenLepine," he continued, speaking more and more calmly as his passions ofhatred and of love seemed more and more to hold him in their grip; "youare wrong if you think that she will not strike a bargain with me inorder to save the life of Fabrice, whom she loves. Agnes de Lucines willbe my wife within the month, or Arnould Fabrice's head will fall underthe guillotine, and you, my interfering friend, may go to the devil, ifyou please."
"That would be but a tame proceeding, citizen, after my visit to you,"said the old man, with unruffled sang-froid. "But let me, in my turn,assure you of this, citizen Heriot," he added, "that Mlle. de Lucineswill never be your wife, that Arnould Fabrice will not end his valuablelife under the guillotine--and that you will never be allowed to useagainst him the cowardly and stolen weapon which you possess."
Heriot laughed--a low, cynical laugh and shrugged his thin shoulders:
"And who will prevent me, I pray you?" he asked sarcastically.
The old man made no immediate reply, but he came just a step or twocloser to the citizen-depu
ty and, suddenly drawing himself up to hisfull height, he looked for one brief moment down upon the mean andsordid figure of the ex-valet. To Heriot it seemed as if the whole manhad become transfigured; the shabby old scarecrow looked all of a suddenlike a brilliant and powerful personality; from his eyes there flasheddown a look of supreme contempt and of supreme pride, and Heriot--unableto understand this metamorphosis which was more apparent to his innerconsciousness than to his outward sight, felt his knees shake under himand all the blood rush back to his heart in an agony of superstitiousterror.
From somewhere there came to his ear the sound of two words: "I will!"in reply to his own defiant query. Surely those words uttered by a manconscious of power and of strength could never have been spoken by thedilapidated old scarecrow who earned a precarious living by writingletters for ignorant folk.
But before he could recover some semblance of presence of mind citizenLepine had gone, and only a loud and merry laugh seemed to echo throughthe squalid room.
Heriot shook off the remnant of his own senseless terror; he tore openthe door of the bedroom and shouted to Rondeau, who truly was thinkingthat the citizen-deputy had gone mad:
"After him!--after him! Quick! curse you!" he cried.
"After whom?" gasped the man.
"The man who was here just now--an aristo."
"I saw no one--but the Public Letter-Writer, old Lepine--I know himwell---"
"Curse you for a fool!" shouted Heriot savagely, "the man who was herewas that cursed Englishman--the one whom they call the ScarletPimpernel. Run after him--stop him, I say!"
"Too late, citizen," said the other placidly; "whoever was here beforeis certainly half-way down the street by now."
III
"No use, Ffoulkes," said Sir Percy Blakeney to his friend half-an-hourlater, "the man's passions of hatred and desire are greater than hisgreed."
The two men were sitting together in one of Sir Percy Blakeney's manylodgings--the one in the Rue des Petits Peres--and Sir Percy had justput Sir Andrew Ffoulkes au fait with the whole sad story of ArnouldFabrice's danger and Agnes de Lucines' despair.
"You could do nothing with the brute, then?" queried Sir Andrew.
"Nothing," replied Blakeney. "He refused all bribes, and violence wouldnot have helped me, for what I wanted was not to knock him down, but toget hold of the letters."
"Well, after all, he might have sold you the letters and then denouncedFabrice just the same."
"No, without actual proofs he could not do that. Arnould Fabrice is nota man against whom a mere denunciation would suffice. He has thegrudging respect of every faction in the National Assembly. Nothing butirrefutable proof would prevail against him--and bring him to theguillotine."
"Why not get Fabrice and Mlle. de Lucines safely over to England?"
"Fabrice would not come. He is not of the stuff that emigres are madeof. He is not an aristocrat; he is a republican by conviction, and ademmed honest one at that. He would scorn to run away, and Agnes deLucines would not go without him."
"Then what can we do?"
"Filch those letters from that brute Heriot," said Blakeney calmly.
"House-breaking, you mean!" commented Sir Andrew Ffoulkes dryly.
"Petty theft, shall we say?" retorted Sir Percy. "I can bribe the loutwho has charge of Heriot's rooms to introduce us into his master'ssanctum this evening when the National Assembly is sitting and thecitizen-deputy safely out of the way."
And the two men--one of whom was the most intimate friend of the Princeof Wales and the acknowledged darling of London society--thereupon fellto discussing plans for surreptitiously entering a man's room andcommitting larceny, which in normal times would entail, if discovered, along term of imprisonment, but which, in these days, in Paris, andperpetrated against a member of the National Assembly, would certainlybe punished by death.
IV
Citizen Rondeau, whose business it was to look after the creaturecomforts of deputy Heriot, was standing in the antichambre facing thetwo visitors whom he had just introduced into his master's apartments,and idly turning a couple of gold coins over and over between his grimyfingers.
"And mind, you are to see nothing and hear nothing of what goes on inthe next room," said the taller of the two strangers; "and when we gothere'll be another couple of louis for you. Is that understood?"
"Yes! it's understood," grunted Rondeau sullenly; "but I am runninggreat risks. The citizen-deputy sometimes returns at ten o'clock, butsometimes at nine.... I never know."
"It is now seven," rejoined the other; "we'll be gone long before nine."
"Well," said Rondeau surlily, "I go out now for my supper. I'll returnin half an hour, but at half-past eight you must clear out."
Then he added with a sneer:
"Citizens Legros and Desgas usually come back with deputy Heriot ofnights, and citizens Jeanniot and Bompard come in from next door for agame of cards. You wouldn't stand much chance if you were caught here."
"Not with you to back up so formidable a quintette of stalwarts,"assented the tall visitor gaily. "But we won't trouble about that justnow. We have a couple of hours before us in which to do all that wewant. So au revoir, friend Rondeau ... two more louis for yourcomplaisance, remember, when we have accomplished our purpose."
Rondeau muttered something more, but the two strangers paid no furtherheed to him; they had already walked to the next room, leaving Rondeauin the antichambre.
Sir Percy Blakeney did not pause in the sitting-room where an oil lampsuspended from the ceiling threw a feeble circle of light above thecentre table. He went straight through to the bedroom. Here, too, asmall lamp was burning which only lit up a small portion of theroom--the writing-desk and the oak chest--leaving the corners and thealcove, with its partially drawn curtains, in complete shadow.
Blakeney pointed to the oak chest and to the desk.
"You tackle the chest, Ffoulkes, and I will go for the desk," he saidquietly, as soon as he had taken a rapid survey of the room. "You haveyour tools?"
Ffoulkes nodded, and anon in this squalid room, ill-lit, ill-ventilated,barely furnished, was presented one of the most curious spectacles ofthese strange and troublous times: two English gentlemen, theacknowledged dandies of London drawing-rooms, busy picking locks andfiling hinges like any common house-thieves.
Neither of them spoke, and a strange hush fell over the room--a hushonly broken by the click of metal against metal, and the deep breathingof the two men bending to their task. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was workingwith a file on the padlocks of the oak chest, and Sir Percy Blakeney,with a bunch of skeleton keys, was opening the drawers of thewriting-desk. These, when finally opened, revealed nothing of anyimportance; but when anon Sir Andrew was able to lift the lid of the oakchest, he disclosed an innumerable quantity of papers and documents tiedup in neat bundles, docketed and piled up in rows and tiers to the verytop of the chest.
"Quick to work, Ffoulkes," said Blakeney, as in response to his friend'scall he drew a chair forward and, seating himself beside the chest,started on the task of looking through the hundreds of bundles which laybefore him. "It will take us all our time to look through these."
Together now the two men set to work--methodically and quietly--pilingup on the floor beside them the bundles of papers which they had alreadyexamined, and delving into the oak chest for others. No sound was heardsave the crackling of crisp paper and an occasional ejaculation fromeither of them when they came upon some proof or other of Heriot'spropensity for blackmail.
"Agnes de Lucines is not the only one whom this brute is terrorising,"murmured Blakeney once between his teeth; "I marvel that the man everfeels safe, alone in these lodgings, with no one but that weak-kneedRondeau to protect him. He must have scores of enemies in this city whowould gladly put a dagger in his heart or a bullet through his back."
They had been at work for close on half an hour when an exclamation oftriumph, quickly smothered, escaped Sir Percy's lips.
"By Gad, Ffoul
kes!" he said, "I believe I have got what we want!"
With quick, capable hands he turned over a bundle which he had justextracted from the chest. Rapidly he glanced through them. "I have them,Ffoulkes," he reiterated more emphatically as he put the bundle into hispocket; "now everything back in its place and--"
Suddenly he paused, his slender hand up to his lips, his head turnedtoward the door, an expression of tense expectancy in every line of hisface.
"Quick, Ffoulkes," he whispered, "everything back into the chest, andthe lid down."
"What ears you have," murmured Ffoulkes as he obeyed rapidly and withoutquestion. "I heard nothing."
Blakeney went to the door and bent his head to listen.
"Three men coming up the stairs," he said; "they are on the landingnow."
"Have we time to rush them?"
"No chance! They are at the door. Two more men have joined them, and Ican distinguish Rondeau's voice, too."
"The quintette," murmured Sir Andrew. "We are caught like two rats in atrap."
Even as he spoke the opening of the outside door could be distinctlyheard, then the confused murmur of many voices. Already Blakeney andFfoulkes had with perfect presence of mind put the finishing touches tothe tidying of the room--put the chairs straight, shut down the lid ofthe oak chest, closed all the drawers of the desk.
"Nothing but good luck can save us now," whispered Blakeney as helowered the wick of the lamp. "Quick now," he added, "behind thattapestry in the alcove and trust to our stars."
Securely hidden for the moment behind the curtains in the dark recess ofthe alcove the two men waited. The door leading into the sitting-roomwas ajar, and they could hear Heriot and his friends making merryirruption into the place. From out the confusion of general conversationthey soon gathered that the debates in the Chamber had been so dull anduninteresting that, at a given signal, the little party had decided toadjourn to Heriot's rooms for their habitual game of cards. They couldalso hear Heriot calling to Rondeau to bring bottles and glasses, andvaguely they marvelled what Rondeau's attitude might be like at thismoment. Was he brazening out the situation, or was he sick with terror?
Suddenly Heriot's voice came out more distinctly.
"Make yourselves at home, friends," he was saying; "here are cards,dominoes, and wine. I must leave you to yourselves for ten minuteswhilst I write an important letter."
"All right, but don't be long," came in merry response.
"Not longer than I can help," rejoined Heriot. "I want my revengeagainst Bompard, remember. He did fleece me last night."
"Hurry on, then," said one of the men. "I'll play Desgas that returngame of dominoes until then."
"Ten minutes and I'll be back," concluded Heriot.
He pushed open the bedroom door. The light within was very dim. The twomen hidden behind the tapestry could hear him moving about the roommuttering curses to himself. Presently the light of the lamp was shiftedfrom one end of the room to the other. Through the opening between thetwo curtains Blakeney could just see Heriot's back as he placed the lampat a convenient angle upon his desk, divested himself of his overcoatand muffler, then sat down and drew pen and paper closer to him. He wasleaning forward, his elbow resting upon the table, his fingers fidgetingwith his long, lank hair. He had closed the door when he entered, andfrom the other room now the voices of his friends sounded confused andmuffled. Now and then an exclamation: "Double!" "Je ... tiens!""Cinq-deux!" an oath, a laugh, the click of glasses and bottles came outmore clearly; but the rest of the time these sounds were more like adroning accompaniment to the scraping of Heriot's pen upon the paperwhen he finally began to write his letter.
Two minutes went by and then two more. The scratching of Heriot's penbecame more rapid as he appeared to be more completely immersed in hiswork. Behind the curtain the two men had been waiting: Blakeney ready toact, Ffoulkes equally ready to interpret the slightest signal from hischief.
The next minute Blakeney had stolen out of the alcove, and his twohands--so slender and elegant looking, and yet with a grip of steel--hadfastened themselves upon Heriot's mouth, smothering within the space ofa second the cry that had been half-uttered. Ffoulkes was ready tocomplete the work of rendering the man helpless: one handkerchief madean efficient gag, another tied the ankles securely. Heriot's owncoat-sleeves supplied the handcuffs, and the blankets off the bed tiedaround his legs rendered him powerless to move. Then the two men liftedthis inert mass on to the bed and Ffoulkes whispered anxiously: "Now,what next?"
Heriot's overcoat, hat, and muffler lay upon a chair. Sir Percy, placinga warning finger upon his lips, quickly divested himself of his owncoat, slipped that of Heriot on, twisted the muffler round his neck,hunched up his shoulders, and murmuring: "Now for a bit of luck!" oncemore lowered the light of the lamp and then went to the door.
"Rondeau!" he called. "Hey, Rondeau!" And Sir Percy himself wassurprised at the marvellous way in which he had caught the veryinflection of Heriot's voice.
"Hey, Rondeau!" came from one of the players at the table, "thecitizen-deputy is calling you!"
They were all sitting round the table: two men intent upon their game ofdominoes, the other two watching with equal intentness. Rondeau cameshuffling out of the antichambre. His face, by the dim light of the oillamp, looked jaundiced with fear.
"Rondeau, you fool, where are you?" called Blakeney once again.
The next moment Rondeau had entered the room. No need for a signal or anorder this time. Ffoulkes knew by instinct what his chief's bold schemewould mean to them both if it succeeded. He retired into the darkestcorner of the room as Rondeau shuffled across to the writing-desk. Itwas all done in a moment. In less time than it had taken to bind and gagHeriot, his henchman was laid out on the floor, his coat had been takenoff him, and he was tied into a mummy-like bundle with Sir AndrewFfoulkes' elegant coat fastened securely round his arms and chest. Ithad all been done in silence. The men in the next room were noisy andintent on their game; the slight scuffle, the quickly smothered crieshad remained unheeded.
"Now, what next?" queried Sir Andrew Ffoulkes once more.
"The impudence of the d--- l, my good Ffoulkes," replied Blakeney in awhisper, "and may our stars not play us false. Now let me make you lookas like Rondeau as possible--there! Slip on his coat--now your hair overyour forehead--your coat-collar up--your knees bent--that's better!" headded as he surveyed the transformation which a few deft strokes hadmade in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' appearance. "Now all you have to do is toshuffle across the room--here's your prototype's handkerchief--ofdubious cleanliness, it is true, but it will serve--blow your nose asyou cross the room, it will hide your face. They'll not heed you--keepin the shadows and God guard you--I'll follow in a moment or two ... butdon't wait for me."
He opened the door, and before Sir Andrew could protest his chief hadpushed him out into the room where the four men were still intent ontheir game. Through the open door Sir Percy now watched his friend who,keeping well within the shadows, shuffled quietly across the room. Thenext moment Sir Andrew was through and in the antichambre. Blakeney'sacutely sensitive ears caught the sound of the opening of the outerdoor. He waited for a while, then he drew out of his pocket the bundleof letters which he had risked so much to obtain. There they were neatlydocketed and marked: "The affairs of Arnould Fabrice."
Well! if he got away to-night Agnes de Lucines would be happy and freefrom the importunities of that brute Heriot; after that he must persuadeher and Fabrice to go to England and to freedom.
For the moment his own safety was terribly in jeopardy; one falsemove--one look from those players round the table.... Bah! even then--!
With an inward laugh he pushed open the door once more and stepped intothe room. For the moment no one noticed him; the game was at its mostpalpitating stage; four shaggy heads met beneath the lamp and four pairsof eyes were gazing with rapt attention upon the intricate maze of thedominoes.
Blakeney walked quietly across the room; he was just midway
and on alevel with the centre table when a voice was suddenly raised from thattense group beneath the lamp: "Is it thou, friend Heriot?"
Then one of the men looked up and stared, and another did likewise andexclaimed: "It is not Heriot!"
In a moment all was confusion, but confusion was the very essence ofthose hair-breadth escapes and desperate adventures which were as thebreath of his nostrils to the Scarlet Pimpernel. Before those four menhad had time to jump to their feet, or to realise that something waswrong with their friend Heriot, he had run across the room, his hand wason the knob of the door--the door that led to the antichambre and tofreedom.
Bompard, Desgas, Jeanniot, Legros were at his heels, but he tore openthe door, bounded across the threshold, and slammed it to with such avigorous bang that those on the other side were brought to a momentaryhalt. That moment meant life and liberty to Blakeney; already he hadcrossed the antichambre. Quite coolly and quietly now he took out thekey from the inner side of the main door and slipped it to the outside.The next second--even as the four men rushed helter-skelter into theantichambre he was out on the landing and had turned the key in thedoor.
His prisoners were safely locked in--in Heriot's apartments--and SirPercy Blakeney, calmly and without haste, was descending the stairs ofthe house in the Rue Cocatrice.
The next morning Agnes de Lucines received, through an anonymousmessenger, the packet of letters which would so gravely have compromisedArnould Fabrice. Though the weather was more inclement than ever, sheran out into the streets, determined to seek out the old PublicLetter-Writer and thank him for his mediation with the English milor,who surely had done this noble action.
But the old scarecrow had disappeared.
The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel Page 4
