Lord Tony's Wife: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  CHAPTER II

  THE BOTTOM INN

  I

  A man was sitting, huddled up in the ingle-nook of the smallcoffee-room, sipping hot ale from a tankard which he had in his hand.

  Anything less suggestive of a rough sea-faring life than his appearanceit would be difficult to conceive; and how he came by the appellation"the Captain" must for ever remain a mystery. He was small and spare,with thin delicate face and slender hands: though dressed in very roughgarments, he was obviously ill at ease in them; his narrow shouldersscarcely appeared able to bear the weight of the coarsely made coat, andhis thin legs did not begin to fill the big fisherman's boots whichreached midway up his lean thighs. His hair was lank and plentifullysprinkled with grey: he wore it tied at the nape of the neck with a silkbow which certainly did not harmonise with the rest of his clothing. Awide-brimmed felt hat something the shape of a sailor's, but with highercrown--of the shape worn by the peasantry in Brittany--lay on the benchbeside him.

  When the stranger entered he had greeted him curtly, speaking in French.

  The room was inexpressibly stuffy, and reeked of the fumes of staletobacco, stale victuals and stale beer; but it was warm, and thestranger, stiff to the marrow and wet to the skin, uttered anexclamation of well-being as he turned to the hearth, wherein a brightfire burned cheerily. He had put his hat down when first he entered andhad divested himself of his big coat: now he held one foot and then theother to the blaze and tried to infuse new life into his numbed hands.

  "The Captain" took scant notice of his comings and goings. He did notattempt to help him off with his coat, nor did he make an effort to addanother log to the fire. He sat silent and practically motionless, savewhen from time to time he took a sip out of his mug of ale. But wheneverthe new-comer came within his immediate circle of vision he shot aglance at the latter's elegant attire--the well-cut coat, the stripedwaistcoat, the boots of fine leather--the glance was quick andcomprehensive and full of scorn, a flash that lasted only an instant andwas at once veiled again by the droop of the flaccid lids which hid thepale, keen eyes.

  "When the woman has brought me something to eat and drink," the strangersaid after a while, "we can talk. I have a good hour to spare, as thosemiserable nags must have some rest."

  He too spoke in French and with an air of authority, not to sayarrogance, which caused "the Captain's" glance of scorn to light up withan added gleam of hate and almost of cruelty. But he made no remark andcontinued to sip his ale in silence, and for the next half-hour the twomen took no more notice of one another, just as if they had nevertravelled all those miles and come to this desolate spot for the solepurpose of speaking with one another. During the course of thathalf-hour the woman brought in a dish of mutton stew, a chunk of bread,a piece of cheese and a jug of spiced ale, and placed them on the table:all of these good things the stranger consumed with an obviously keenappetite. When he had eaten and drunk his fill, he rose from the table,drew a bench into the ingle-nook and sat down so that his profile onlywas visible to his friend "the Captain."

  "Now, citizen Chauvelin," he said with at attempt at ease andfamiliarity not unmixed with condescension, "I am ready for your news."

  II

  Chauvelin had winced perceptibly both at the condescension and thefamiliarity. It was such a very little while ago that men had trembledat a look, a word from him: his silence had been wont to strike terrorin quaking hearts. It was such a very little while ago that he had beenpresident of the Committee of Public Safety, all powerful, the righthand of citizen Robespierre, the master sleuth-hound who could track anunfortunate "suspect" down to his most hidden lair, before whose keen,pale eyes the innermost secrets of a soul stood revealed, who guessed attreason ere it was wholly born, who scented treachery ere it wasformulated. A year ago he had with a word sent scores of men, women andchildren to the guillotine--he had with a sign brought the wholemachinery of the ruthless Committee to work against innocent or guiltyalike on mere suspicion, or to gratify his own hatred against all thosewhom he considered to be the enemies of that bloody revolution which hehad helped to make. Now his presence, his silence, had not even thepower to ruffle the self-assurance of an upstart.

  But in the hard school both of success and of failure through which hehad passed during the last decade, there was one lesson which Armandonce Marquis de Chauvelin had learned to the last letter, and that wasthe lesson of self-control. He had winced at the other's familiarity,but neither by word nor gesture did he betray what he felt.

  "I can tell you," he merely said quite curtly, "all I have to say in farless time than it has taken you to eat and drink, citizen Adet...."

  But suddenly, at sound of that name, the other had put a warning hand onChauvelin's arm, even as he cast a rapid, anxious look all round thenarrow room.

  "Hush, man!" he murmured hurriedly, "you know quite well that that namemust never be pronounced here in England. I am Martin-Roget now," headded, as he shook off his momentary fright with equal suddenness, andonce more resumed his tone of easy condescension, "and try not to forgetit."

  Chauvelin without any haste quietly freed his arm from the other'sgrasp. His pale face was quite expressionless, only the thin lips weredrawn tightly over the teeth now, and a curious hissing sound escapedfaintly from them as he said:

  "I'll try and remember, citizen, that here in England you are an aristo,the same as all these confounded English whom may the devil sweep into abottomless sea."

  Martin-Roget gave a short, complacent laugh.

  "Ah," he said lightly, "no wonder you hate them, citizen Chauvelin. Youtoo were an aristo here in England once--not so very long ago, I amthinking--special envoy to His Majesty King George, what?--until failureto bring one of these _satane_ Britishers to book made you ... er ...well, made you what you are now."

  He drew up his tall, broad figure as he spoke and squared his massiveshoulders as he looked down with a fatuous smile and no small measure ofscorn on the hunched-up little figure beside him. It had seemed to himthat something in the nature of a threat had crept into Chauvelin'sattitude, and he, still flushed with his own importance, hisimmeasurable belief in himself, at once chose to measure his strengthagainst this man who was the personification of failure anddisgrace--this man whom so many people had feared for so long and whomit might not be wise to defy even now.

  "No offence meant, citizen Chauvelin," he added with an air of patronagewhich once more made the other wince. "I had no wish to wound yoursusceptibilities. I only desired to give you timely warning that what Ido here is no one's concern, and that I will brook interference andcriticism from no man."

  And Chauvelin, who in the past had oft with a nod sent a man to theguillotine, made no reply to this arrogant taunt. His small figureseemed to shrink still further within itself: and anon he passed histhin, claw-like hand over his face as if to obliterate from its surfaceany expression which might war with the utter humility wherewith he nowspoke.

  "Nor was there any offence meant on my part, citizen Martin-Roget," hesaid suavely. "Do we not both labour for the same end? The glory of theRepublic and the destruction of her foes?"

  Martin-Roget gave a sigh of satisfaction. The battle had been won: hefelt himself strong again--stronger than before through that very act ofdeference paid to him by the once all-powerful Chauvelin. Now he wasquite prepared to be condescending and jovial once again:

  "Of course, of course," he said pleasantly, as he once more bent histall figure to the fire. "We are both servants of the Republic, and Imay yet help you to retrieve your past failures, citizen, by giving youan active part in the work I have in hand. And now," he added in a calm,business-like manner, the manner of a master addressing a servant whohas been found at fault and is taken into favour again, "let me hearyour news."

  "I have made all the arrangements about the ship," said Chauvelinquietly.

  "Ah! that is good news indeed. What is she?"

  "She is a Dutch ship. Her master and crew are all Dutch...."
<
br />   "That's a pity. A Danish master and crew would have been safer."

  "I could not come across any Danish ship willing to take the risks,"said Chauvelin dryly.

  "Well! And what about this Dutch ship then?"

  "She is called the _Hollandia_ and is habitually engaged in the sugartrade: but her master does a lot of contraband--more that than fairtrading, I imagine: anyway, he is willing for the sum you originallynamed to take every risk and incidentally to hold his tongue about thewhole business."

  "For two thousand francs?"

  "Yes."

  "And he will run the _Hollandia_ into Le Croisic?"

  "When you command."

  "And there is suitable accommodation on board her for a lady and herwoman?"

  "I don't know what you call suitable," said Chauvelin with a sarcastictone, which the other failed or was unwilling to note, "and I don't knowwhat you call a lady. The accommodation available on board the_Hollandia_ will be sufficient for two men and two women."

  "And her master's name?" queried Martin-Roget.

  "Some outlandish Dutch name," replied Chauvelin. "It is speltK U Y P E R. The devil only knows how it is pronounced."

  "Well! And does Captain K U Y P E R understand exactly what I want?"

  "He says he does. The _Hollandia_ will put into Portishead on the lastday of this month. You and your guests can get aboard her any day afterthat you choose. She will be there at your disposal, and can startwithin an hour of your getting aboard. Her master will have all hispapers ready. He will have a cargo of West Indian sugar onboard--destination Amsterdam, consignee Mynheer van Smeer--everythingperfectly straight and square. French aristos, _emigres_ on board ontheir way to join the army of the Princes. There will be no difficultyin England."

  "And none in Le Croisic. The man is running no risks."

  "He thinks he is. France does not make Dutch ships and Dutch crewsexactly welcome just now, does she?"

  "Certainly not. But in Le Croisic and with citizen Adet on board...."

  "I thought that name was not to be mentioned here," retorted Chauvelindryly.

  "You are right, citizen," whispered the other, "it escaped me and...."

  Already he had jumped to his feet, his face suddenly pale, his wholemanner changed from easy, arrogant self-assurance to uncertainty andobvious dread. He moved to the window, trying to subdue the sound of hisfootsteps upon the uneven floor.

  III

  "Are you afraid of eavesdroppers, citizen Roget?" queried Chauvelin witha shrug of his narrow shoulders.

  "No. There is no one there. Only a lout from Chelwood who brought mehere. The people of the house are safe enough. They have plenty ofsecrets of their own to keep."

  He was obviously saying all this in order to reassure himself, for therewas no doubt that his fears were on the alert. With a febrile gesture heunfastened the shutters, and pushed them open, peering out into thenight.

  "Hallo!" he called.

  But he received no answer.

  "It has started to rain," he said more calmly. "I imagine that lout hasfound shelter in an outhouse with the horses."

  "Very likely," commented Chauvelin laconically.

  "Then if you have nothing more to tell me," quoth Martin-Roget, "I mayas well think about getting back. Rain or no rain, I want to be in Bathbefore midnight."

  "Ball or supper-party at one of your duchesses?" queried the other witha sneer. "I know them."

  To this Martin-Roget vouchsafed no reply.

  "How are things at Nantes?" he asked.

  "Splendid! Carrier is like a wild beast let loose. The prisons areover-full: the surplus of accused, condemned and suspect fills thecellars and warehouses along the wharf. Priests and suchlike trash arekept on disused galliots up stream. The guillotine is never idle, andfriend Carrier fearing that she might give out--get tired, what?--orbreak down--has invented a wonderful way of getting rid of shoals ofundesirable people at one magnificent swoop. You have heard tell of itno doubt."

  "Yes. I have heard of it," remarked the other curtly.

  "He began with a load of priests. Requisitioned an old barge. OrderedBaudet the shipbuilder to construct half a dozen portholes in herbottom. Baudet demurred: he could not understand what the order couldpossibly mean. But Foucaud and Lamberty--Carrier's agents--you knowthem--explained that the barge would be towed down the Loire and thenup one of the smaller navigable streams which it was feared theroyalists were preparing to use as a way for making a descent uponNantes, and that the idea was to sink the barge in midstream in order toobstruct the passage of their army. Baudet, satisfied, put five of hismen to the task. Everything was ready on the 16th of last month. I knowthe woman Pichot, who keeps a small tavern opposite La Secherie. She sawthe barge glide up the river toward the galliot where twenty-fivepriests of the diocese of Nantes had been living for the past two monthsin the company of rats and other vermin as noxious as themselves. Mostlovely moonlight there was that night. The Loire looked like a livingribbon of silver. Foucaud and Lamberty directed operations, and Carrierhad given them full instructions. They tied the calotins up two and twoand transferred them from the galliot to the barge. It seems they werequite pleased to go. Had enough of the rats, I presume. The only thingthey didn't like was being searched. Some had managed to secrete silverornaments about their person when they were arrested. Crucifixes andsuch like. They didn't like to part with these, it seems. But Foucaudand Lamberty relieved them of everything but the necessary clothing, andthey didn't want much of that, seeing whither they were going. Foucaudmade a good pile, so they say. Self-seeking, avaricious brute! He'lllearn the way to one of Carrier's barges too one day, I'll bet."

  He rose and with quick footsteps moved to the table. There was some aleleft in the jug which the woman had brought for Martin-Roget a whileago. Chauvelin poured the contents of it down his throat. He had talkeduninterruptedly, in short, jerky sentences, without the slightestexpression of horror at the atrocities which he recounted. His wholeappearance had become transfigured while he spoke. Gone was the urbanemanner which he had learnt at courts long ago, gone was the lastinstinct of the gentleman sunk to proletarianism through stress ofcircumstances, or financial straits or even political convictions. Theerstwhile Marquis de Chauvelin--envoy of the Republic at the Court ofSt. James'--had become citizen Chauvelin in deed and in fact, a part ofthat rabble which he had elected to serve, one of that vile crowd ofbloodthirsty revolutionaries who had sullied the pure robes of Libertyand of Fraternity by spattering them with blood. Now he smacked hislips, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and burying his hands in thepockets of his breeches he stood with legs wide apart and a look ofsavage satisfaction settled upon his pale face. Martin-Roget had made nocomment upon the narrative. He had resumed his seat by the fire and waslistening attentively. Now while the other drank and paused, he showedno sign of impatience, but there was something in the look of the bentshoulders, in the rigidity of the attitude, in the large, square handstightly clasped together which suggested the deepest interest and anintentness that was almost painful.

  "I was at the woman Pichot's tavern that night," resumed Chauvelin aftera while. "I saw the barge--a moving coffin, what?--gliding down streamtowed by the galliot and escorted by a small boat. The floating batteryat La Samaritaine challenged her as she passed, for Carrier hadprohibited all navigation up or down the Loire until further notice.Foucaud, Lamberty, Fouquet and O'Sullivan the armourer were in the boat:they rowed up to the pontoon and Vailly the chief gunner of the batterychallenged them once more. However, they had some sort of writtenauthorisation from Carrier, for they were allowed to pass. Vaillyremained on guard. He saw the barge glide further down stream. It seemsthat the moon on that time was hidden by a cloud. But the night was notdark and Vailly watched the barge till she was out of sight. She wastowed past Trentemoult and Chantenay into the wide reach of the riverjust below Chevire where, as you know, the Loire is nearly two thousandfeet wide."

  Once more he paused, looking down with gri
m amusement on the bentshoulders of the other man.

  "Well?"

  Chauvelin laughed. The query sounded choked and hoarse, whether throughhorror, excitement or mere impatient curiosity it were impossible tosay.

  "Well!" he retorted with a careless shrug of the shoulders. "I was toofar up stream to see anything and Vailly saw nothing either. But heheard. So did others who happened to be on the shore close by."

  "What did they hear?"

  "The hammering," replied Chauvelin curtly, "when the portholes wereknocked open to let in the flood of water. And the screams and yells offive and twenty drowning priests."

  "Not one of them escaped, I suppose?"

  "Not one."

  Once more Chauvelin laughed. He had a way of laughing--just likethat--in a peculiar mirthless, derisive manner, as if with joy atanother man's discomfiture, at another's material or moral downfall.There is only one language in the world which has a word to express thattype of mirth; the word is _Schadenfreude_.

  It was Chauvelin's turn to triumph now. He had distinctly perceived thesigns of an inward shudder which had gone right through Martin-Roget'sspine: he had also perceived through the man's bent shoulders, hissilence, his rigidity that his soul was filled with horror at the storyof that abominable crime which he--Chauvelin--had so blandly retailedand that he was afraid to show the horror which he felt. And the man whois afraid can never climb the ladder of success above the man who isfearless.

  IV

  There was silence in the low raftered room for awhile: silence onlybroken by the crackling and sizzling of damp logs in the hearth, and thetap-tapping of a loosely fastened shutter which sounded weird andghoulish like the knocking of ghosts against the window-frame.Martin-Roget bending still closer to the fire knew that Chauvelin waswatching him and that Chauvelin had triumphed, for--despite failure,despite humiliation and disgrace--that man's heart and will had neversoftened: he had remained as merciless, as fanatical, as before andstill looked upon every sign of pity and humanity for a victim of thatbloody revolution--which was his child, the thing of his creation, yetworshipped by him, its creator--as a crime against patriotism andagainst the Republic.

  And Martin-Roget fought within himself lest something he might say ordo, a look, a gesture should give the other man an indication that thehorrible account of a hideous crime perpetrated against twenty-fivedefenceless men had roused a feeling of unspeakable horror in his heart.That was the punishment of these callous makers of a ruthlessrevolution--that was their hell upon earth, that they were doomed tohate and to fear one another; every man feeling that the other's handwas up against him as it had been against law and order, against theguilty and the innocent, the rebel and the defenceless; every manknowing that the other was always there on the alert, ready to pouncelike a beast of prey upon any victim--friend, comrade, brother--who camewithin reach of his hand.

  Like many men stronger than himself, Pierre Adet--or Martin-Roget as henow called himself--had been drawn into the vortex of bloodshed and oftyranny out of which now he no longer had the power to extricatehimself. Nor had he any wish to extricate himself. He had too many pastwrongs to avenge, too much injustice on the part of Fate andCircumstance to make good, to wish to draw back now that a newly-foundpower had been placed in the hands of men such as he through the revoltof an entire people. The sickening sense of horror which a moment agohad caused him to shudder and to turn away in loathing from Chauvelinwas only like the feeble flicker of a light before it wholly diesdown--the light of something purer, early lessons of childhood, formerideals, earlier aspirations, now smothered beneath the passions ofrevenge and of hate.

  And he would not give Chauvelin the satisfaction of seeing him wince. Hewas himself ashamed of his own weakness. He had deliberately thrown inhis lot with these men and he was determined not to fall a victim totheir denunciations and to their jealousies. So now he made a greateffort to pull himself together, to bring back before his mind thosememory-pictures of past tyranny and oppression which had effectuallykilled all sense of pity in his heart, and it was in a tone of perfectindifference which gave no loophole to Chauvelin's sneers that he askedafter awhile:

  "And was citizen Carrier altogether pleased with the result of hispatriotic efforts?"

  "Oh, quite!" replied the other. "He has no one's orders to take. He isproconsul--virtual dictator in Nantes: and he has vowed that he willpurge the city from all save its most deserving citizens. The cargo ofpriests was followed by one of malefactors, night-birds, cut-throats andsuch like. That is where Carrier's patriotism shines out in all itsglory. It is not only priests and aristos, you see--other miscreants aretreated with equal fairness."

  "Yes! I see he is quite impartial," remarked Martin-Roget coolly.

  "Quite," retorted Chauvelin, as he once more sat down in the ingle-nook.And, leaning his elbows upon his knees he looked straight anddeliberately into the other man's face, and added slowly: "You will haveno cause to complain of Carrier's want of patriotism when you hand overyour bag of birds to him."

  This time Martin-Roget had obviously winced, and Chauvelin had thesatisfaction of seeing that his thrust had gone home: thoughMartin-Roget's face was in shadow, there was something now in his wholeattitude, in the clasping and unclasping of his large, square handswhich indicated that the man was labouring under the stress of a violentemotion. In spite of this he managed to say quite coolly: "What do youmean exactly by that, citizen Chauvelin?"

  "Oh!" replied the other, "you know well enough what I mean--I am nofool, what?... or the Revolution would have no use for me. If after mymany failures she still commands my services and employs me to keep myeyes and ears open, it is because she knows that she can count on me. Ido keep my eyes and ears open, citizen Adet or Martin-Roget, whateveryou like to call yourself, and also my mind--and I have a way of puttingtwo and two together to make four. There are few people in Nantes who donot know that old Jean Adet, the miller, was hanged four years ago,because his son Pierre had taken part in some kind of open revoltagainst the tyranny of the ci-devant duc de Kernogan, and was not thereto take his punishment himself. I knew old Jean Adet.... I was on thePlace du Bouffay at Nantes when he was hanged...."

  But already Martin-Roget had jumped to his feet with a mutteredblasphemy.

  "Have done, man," he said roughly, "have done!" And he started pacing upand down the narrow room like a caged panther, snarling and showing histeeth, whilst his rough, toil-worn hands quivered with the desire toclutch an unseen enemy by the throat and to squeeze the life out of him."Think you," he added hoarsely, "that I need reminding of that?"

  "No. I do not think that, citizen," replied Chauvelin calmly, "I onlydesired to warn you."

  "Warn me? Of what?"

  Nervous, agitated, restless, Martin-Roget had once more gone back to hisseat: his hands were trembling as he held them up mechanically to theblaze and his face was the colour of lead. In contrast with hisrestlessness Chauvelin appeared the more calm and bland.

  "Why should you wish to warn me?" asked the other querulously, but withan attempt at his former over-bearing manner. "What are my affairs toyou--what do you know about them?"

  "Oh, nothing, nothing, citizen Martin-Roget," replied Chauvelinpleasantly, "I was only indulging the fancy I spoke to you about justnow of putting two and two together in order to make four. Thechartering of a smuggler's craft--aristos on board her--her ostensibledestination Holland--her real objective Le Croisic.... Le Croisic is nowthe port for Nantes and we don't bring aristos into Nantes these daysfor the object of providing them with a feather-bed and a competence,what?"

  "And," retorted Martin-Roget quietly, "if your surmises are correct,citizen Chauvelin, what then?"

  "Oh, nothing!" replied the other indifferently. "Only ... take care,citizen ... that is all."

  "Take care of what?"

  "Of the man who brought me, Chauvelin, to ruin and disgrace."

  "Oh! I have heard of that legend before now," said Martin-Roget with acontemptuous shrug of
the shoulders. "The man they call the ScarletPimpernel you mean?"

  "Why, yes!"

  "What have I to do with him?"

  "I don't know. But remember that I myself have twice been after that manhere in England; that twice he slipped through my fingers when I thoughtI held him so tightly that he could not possibly escape and that twicein consequence I was brought to humiliation and to shame. I am a markedman now--the guillotine will soon claim me for her future use. Youraffairs, citizen, are no concern of mine, but I have marked that ScarletPimpernel for mine own. I won't have any blunderings on your part givehim yet another triumph over us all."

  Once more Martin-Roget swore one of his favourite oaths.

  "By Satan and all his brood, man," he cried in a passion of fury, "havedone with this interference. Have done, I say. I have nothing to do, Itell you, with your _satane_ Scarlet Pimpernel. My concern is with...."

  "With the duc de Kernogan," broke in Chauvelin calmly, "and with hisdaughter; I know that well enough. You want to be even with them overthe murder of your father. I know that too. All that is your affair.But beware, I tell you. To begin with, the secrecy of your identity isabsolutely essential to the success of your plan. What?"

  "Of course it is. But...."

  "But nevertheless, your identity is known to the most astute, thekeenest enemy of the Republic."

  "Impossible," asserted Martin-Roget hotly.

  "The duc de Kernogan...."

  "Bah! He had never the slightest suspicion of me. Think you his High andMightiness in those far-off days ever looked twice at a village lad sothat he would know him again four years later? I came into this countryas an _emigre_ stowed away in a smuggler's ship like a bundle ofcontraband goods. I have papers to prove that my name is Martin-Rogetand that I am a banker from Brest. The worthy bishop of Brest--denouncedto the Committee of Public Safety for treason against the Republic--wasgiven his life and a safe conduct into Spain on the condition that hegave me--Martin-Roget--letters of personal introduction to varioushigh-born _emigres_ in Holland, in Germany and in England. Armed withthese I am invulnerable. I have been presented to His Royal Highness theRegent, and to the elite of English society in Bath. I am the friend ofM. le duc de Kernogan now and the accredited suitor for his daughter'shand."

  "His daughter!" broke in Chauvelin with a sneer, and his pale, keen eyeshad in them a spark of malicious mockery.

  Martin-Roget made no immediate retort to the sneer. A curious hot flushhad spread over his forehead and his ears, leaving his cheeks wan andlivid.

  "What about the daughter?" reiterated Chauvelin.

  "Yvonne de Kernogan has never seen Pierre Adet the miller's son,"replied the other curtly. "She is now the affianced wife ofMartin-Roget the millionaire banker of Brest. To-night I shall persuadeM. le duc to allow my marriage with his daughter to take place withinthe week. I shall plead pressing business in Holland and my desire thatmy wife shall accompany me thither. The duke will consent and Yvonne deKernogan will not be consulted. The day after my wedding I shall be onboard the _Hollandia_ with my wife and father-in-law, and together wewill be on our way to Nantes where Carrier will deal with them both."

  "You are quite satisfied that this plan of yours is known to no one,that no one at the present moment is aware of the fact that Pierre Adet,the miller's son, and Martin-Roget, banker of Brest, are one and thesame?"

  "Quite satisfied," replied Martin-Roget emphatically.

  "Very well, then, let me tell you this, citizen," rejoined Chauvelinslowly and deliberately, "that in spite of what you say I am asconvinced as that I am here, alive, that your real identity will beknown--if it is not known already--to a gentleman who is at this presentmoment in Bath, and who is known to you, to me, to the whole of Franceas the Scarlet Pimpernel."

  Martin-Roget laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

  "Impossible!" he retorted. "Pierre Adet no longer exists ... he neverexisted ... much.... Anyhow, he ceased to be on that stormy day inSeptember, 1789. Unless your pet enemy is a wizard he cannot know."

  "There is nothing that my pet enemy--as you call him--cannot ferret outif he has a mind to. Beware of him, citizen Martin-Roget. Beware, I tellyou."

  "How can I," laughed the other contemptuously, "if I don't know who heis?"

  "If you did," retorted Chauvelin, "it wouldn't help you ... much. Butbeware of every man you don't know; beware of every stranger you meet;trust no one; above all, follow no one. He is there where you leastexpect him under a disguise you would scarcely dream of."

  "Tell me who he is then--since you know him--so that I may duly bewareof him."

  "No," rejoined Chauvelin with the same slow deliberation, "I will nottell you who he is. Knowledge in this case would be a very dangerousthing."

  "Dangerous? To whom?"

  "To yourself probably. To me and to the Republic most undoubtedly. No! Iwill not tell you who the Scarlet Pimpernel is. But take my advice,citizen Martin-Roget," he added emphatically, "go back to Paris or toNantes and strive there to serve your country rather than run your headinto a noose by meddling with things here in England, and running afteryour own schemes of revenge."

  "My own schemes of revenge!" exclaimed Martin-Roget with a hoarse crythat was like a snarl.... It seemed as if he wanted to say somethingmore, but that the words choked him even before they reached his lips.The hot flush died down from his forehead and his face was once more thecolour of lead. He took up a log from the corner of the hearth and threwit with a savage, defiant gesture into the fire.

  Somewhere in the house a clock struck nine.

  V

  Martin-Roget waited until the last echo of the gong had died away, thenhe said very slowly and very quietly:

  "Forgo my own schemes of revenge? Can you even remotely guess, citizenChauvelin, what it would mean to a man of my temperament and of mycalibre to give up that for which I have toiled and striven for the pastfour years? Think of what I was on that day when a conglomeration ofadverse circumstances turned our proposed expedition against the chateaude Kernogan into a disaster for our village lads, and a triumph for theduc. I was knocked down and crushed all but to death by the wheels ofMlle. de Kernogan's coach. I managed to crawl in the mud and the coldand the rain, on my hands and knees, hurt, bleeding, half dead, as faras the presbytery of Vertou where the _cure_ kept me hidden at risk ofhis own life for two days until I was able to crawl farther away out ofsight. The _cure_ did not know, I did not know then of the devilishrevenge which the duc de Kernogan meant to wreak against my father. Thenews reached me when it was all over and I had worked my way to Pariswith the few sous in my pocket which that good _cure_ had given me,earning bed and bread as I went along. I was an ignorant lout when Iarrived in Paris. I had been one of the ci-devant Kernogan'slabourers--his chattel, what?--little better or somewhat worse off thana slave. There I heard that my father had been foully murdered--hung fora crime which I was supposed to have committed, for which I had not evenbeen tried. Then the change in me began. For four years I starved in agarret, toiling like a galley-slave with my hands and muscles by day andat my books by night. And what am I now? I have worked at books, atphilosophy, at science: I am a man of education. I can talk and discusswith the best of those d----d aristos who flaunt their caprices andtheir mincing manners in the face of the outraged democracy of twocontinents. I speak English--almost like a native--and Danish and Germantoo. I can quote English poets and criticise M. de Voltaire. I am anaristo, what? For this I have worked, citizen Chauvelin--day andnight--oh! those nights! how I have slaved to make myself what I now am!And all for the one object--the sole object without which existencewould have been absolutely unendurable. That object guided me, helped meto bear and to toil, it cheered and comforted me! To be even one daywith the duc de Kernogan and with his daughter! to be their master! tohold them at my mercy!... to destroy or pardon as I choose!... to be thearbiter of their fate!... I have worked for four years: now my goal isin sight, and you talk glibly of forgoing my own schemes of revenge!B
elieve me, citizen Chauvelin," he concluded, "it would be easier for meto hold my right hand into those flames until it hath burned to a cinderthan to forgo the hope of that vengeance which has eaten into my soul.It would hurt much less."

  He had spoken thus at great length, but with extraordinary restraint.Never once did he raise his voice or indulge in gesture. He spoke ineven, monotonous tones, like one who is reciting a lesson; and he satstraight in front of the fire, his elbow on his knee, his chin restingin his hand and his eyes fixed upon the flames.

  Chauvelin had listened in perfect silence. The scorn, the resentfulanger, the ill-concealed envy of the fallen man for the successfulupstart had died out of his glance. Martin-Roget's story, the intensityof feeling betrayed in that absolute, outward calm had caused a chord ofsympathy to vibrate in the other's atrophied heart. How well heunderstood that vibrant passion of hate, that longing to exact an eyefor an eye, an outrage for an outrage! Was not his own life given overnow to just such a longing?--a mad aching desire to be even once withthat hated enemy, that maddening, mocking, elusive Scarlet Pimpernel whohad fooled and baffled him so often?

  VI

  Some few moments had gone by since Martin-Roget's harsh, monotonousvoice had ceased to echo through the low raftered room: silence hadfallen between the two men--there was indeed nothing more to say; theone had unburthened his over-full heart and the other had understood.They were of a truth made to understand one another, and the silencebetween them betokened sympathy.

  Around them all was still, the stillness of a mist-laden night; in thehouse no one stirred: the shutter even had ceased to creak; only thecrackling of the wood fire broke that silence which soon becameoppressive.

  Martin-Roget was the first to rouse himself from this trance-like statewherein memory was holding such ruthless sway: he brought his handssharply down on his knees, turned to look for a moment on his companion,gave a short laugh and finally rose, saying briskly the while:

  "And now, citizen, I shall have to bid you adieu and make my way back toBath. The nags have had the rest they needed and I cannot spend thenight here."

  He went to the door and opening it called a loud "Hallo, there!"

  The same woman who had waited on him on his arrival came slowly down thestairs in response.

  "The man with the horses," commanded Martin-Roget peremptorily. "Tellhim I'll be ready in two minutes."

  He returned to the room and proceeded to struggle into his heavy coat,Chauvelin as before making no attempt to help him. He sat once morehuddled up in the ingle-nook hugging his elbows with his thin whitehands. There was a smile half scornful, but not wholly dissatisfiedaround his bloodless lips. When Martin-Roget was ready to go he calledout quietly after him:

  "The _Hollandia_ remember! At Portishead on the last day of the month.Captain K U Y P E R."

  "Quite right," replied Martin-Roget laconically. "I'm not like toforget."

  He then picked up his hat and riding whip and went out.

  VII

  Outside in the porch he found the woman bending over the recumbentfigure of his guide.

  "He be azleep, Mounzeer," she said placidly, "fast azleep, I dobelieve."

  "Asleep?" cried Martin-Roget roughly, "we'll soon see about waking himup."

  He gave the man a violent kick with the toe of his boot. The mangroaned, stretched himself, turned over and rubbed his eyes. The lightof the swinging lanthorn showed him the wrathful face of his employer.He struggled to his feet very quickly after that.

  "Stir yourself, man," cried Martin-Roget savagely, as he gripped thefellow by the shoulder and gave him a vigorous shaking. "Bring thehorses along now, and don't keep me waiting, or there'll be trouble."

  "All right, Mounzeer, all right," muttered the man placidly, as he shookhimself free from the uncomfortable clutch on his shoulder and leisurelymade his way out of the porch.

  "Haven't you got a boy or a man who can give that lout a hand with those_sacre_ horses?" queried Martin-Roget impatiently. "He hardly knows ahorse's head from its tail."

  "No, zir, I've no one to-night," replied the woman gently. "My man andmy son they be gone down to Watchet to 'elp with the cargo and thepack-'orzes. They won't be 'ere neither till after midnight. But," sheadded more cheerfully, "I can straighten a saddle if you want it."

  "That's all right then--but...."

  He paused suddenly, for a loud cry of "Hallo! Well! I'm ..." rangthrough the night from the direction of the rear of the house. The cryexpressed both surprise and dismay.

  "What the ---- is it?" called Martin-Roget loudly in response.

  "The 'orzes!"

  "What about them?"

  To this there was no reply, and with a savage oath and calling to thewoman to show him the way Martin-Roget ran out in the direction whencehad come the cry of dismay. He fell straight into the arms of his guide,who promptly set up another cry, more dismal, more expressive ofbewilderment than the first.

  "They be gone," he shouted excitedly.

  "Who have gone?" queried the Frenchman.

  "The 'orzes!"

  "The horses? What in ---- do you mean?"

  "The 'orzes have gone, Mounzeer. There was no door to the ztables andthey be gone."

  "You're a fool," growled Martin-Roget, who of a truth had not taken inas yet the full significance of the man's jerky sentences. "Horses don'twalk out of the stables like that. They can't have done if you tied themup properly."

  "I didn't tie them up," protested the man. "I didn't know 'ow to tie thebeastly nags up, and there was no one to 'elp me. I didn't think they'dwalk out like that."

  "Well! if they're gone you'll have to go and get them back somehow,that's all," said Martin-Roget, whose temper by now was beyond hiscontrol, and who was quite ready to give the lout a furious thrashing.

  "Get them back, Mounzeer," wailed the man, "'ow can I? In the dark, too.Besides, if I did come nose to nose wi' 'em I shouldn't know 'ow to get'em. Would you, Mounzeer?" he added with bland impertinence.

  "I shall know how to lay you out, you _satane_ idiot," growledMartin-Roget, "if I have to spend the night in this hole."

  He strode on in the darkness in the direction where a little glimmer oflight showed the entrance to a wide barn which obviously was used as arough stabling. He stumbled through a yard and over a miscellaneous lotof rubbish. It was hardly possible to see one's hands before one's eyesin the darkness and the fog. The woman followed him, offeringconsolation in the shape of a seat in the coffee-room whereon to passthe night, for indeed she had no bed to spare, and the man from Chelwoodbrought up the rear--still ejaculating cries of astonishment rather thandistress.

  "You are that careless, man!" the woman admonished him placidly, "and Igive you a lanthorn and all for to look after your 'orzes properly."

  "But you didn't give me a 'and for to tie 'em up in their stalls, andgive 'em their feed. Drat 'em! I 'ate 'orzes and all to do with 'em."

  "Didn't you give 'em the feed I give you for 'em then?"

  "No, I didn't. Think you I'd go into one o' them narrow stalls and getkicked for my pains."

  "Then they was 'ungry, pore things," she concluded, "and went out afterthe 'ay what's just outside. I don't know 'ow you'll ever get 'em backin this fog."

  There was indeed no doubt that the nags had made their way out of thestables, in that irresponsible fashion peculiar to animals, and thatthey had gone astray in the dark. There certainly was no sound in thenight to denote their presence anywhere near.

  "We'll get 'em all right in the morning," remarked the woman with herexasperating placidity.

  "To-morrow morning!" exclaimed Martin-Roget in a passion of fury. "Andwhat the d----l am I going to do in the meanwhile?"

  The woman reiterated her offers of a seat by the fire in thecoffee-room.

  "The men won't mind ye, zir," she said, "heaps of 'em are Frenchies likeyourself, and I'll tell 'em you ain't a spying on 'em."

  "It's no more than five mile to Chelwood," said the man blandly, "andmaybe yo
u get a better shakedown there."

  "A five-mile tramp," growled Martin-Roget, whose wrath seemed to havespent itself before the hopelessness of his situation, "in this fog andgloom, and knee-deep in mud.... There'll be a sovereign for you, woman,"he added curtly, "if you can give me a clean bed for the night."

  The woman hesitated for a second or two.

  "Well! a zovereign is tempting, zir," she said at last. "You shall 'avemy son's bed. I know 'e'd rather 'ave the zovereign if 'e was ever zotired. This way, zir," she added, as she once more turned toward thehouse, "mind them 'urdles there."

  "And where am I goin' to zleep?" called the man from Chelwood after thetwo retreating figures.

  "I'll look after the man for you, zir," said the woman; "for a matter ofa shillin' 'e can sleep in the coffee-room, and I'll give 'im 'isbreakfast too."

  "Not one farthing will I pay for the idiot," retorted Martin-Rogetsavagely. "Let him look after himself."

  He had once more reached the porch. Without another word, and notheeding the protests and curses of the unfortunate man whom he had leftstanding shelterless in the middle of the yard, he pushed open the frontdoor of the house and once more found himself in the passage outside thecoffee-room.

  But the woman had turned back a little before she followed her guestinto the house, and she called out to the man in the darkness:

  "You may zleep in any of them outhouses and welcome, and zure there'llbe a bit o' porridge for ye in the mornin'!"

  "Think ye I'll stop," came in a furious growl out of the gloom, "andconduct that d----d frogeater back to Chelwood? No fear. Five milesain't nothin' to me, and 'e can keep the miserable shillin' 'e'd 'avegive me for my pains. Let 'im get 'is 'orzes back 'izelf and get toChelwood as best 'e can. I'm off, and you can tell 'im zo from me. It'llmake 'im sleep all the better, I reckon."

  The woman was obviously not of a disposition that would ever argue amatter of this sort out. She had done her best, she reckoned, both formaster and man, and if they chose to quarrel between themselves that wastheir business and not hers.

  So she quietly went into the house again; barred and bolted the door,and finding the stranger still waiting for her in the passage sheconducted him to a tiny room on the floor above.

  "My son's room, Mounzeer," she said; "I 'ope as 'ow ye'll becomfortable."

  "It will do all right," assented Martin-Roget. "Is 'the Captain'sleeping in the house to-night?" he added as with an afterthought.

  "Only in the coffee-room, Mounzeer. I couldn't give 'im a bed. 'TheCaptain' will be leaving with the pack 'orzes a couple of hours beforedawn. Shall I tell 'im you be 'ere."

  "No, no," he replied promptly. "Don't tell him anything. I don't want tosee him again: and he'll be gone before I'm awake, I reckon."

  "That 'e will, zir, most like. Good-night, zir."

  "Good-night. And--mind--that lout gets the two horses back again for myuse in the morning. I shall have to make my way to Chelwood as early asmay be."

  "Aye, aye, zir," assented the woman placidly. It were no use, shethought, to upset the Mounzeer's temper once more by telling him thathis guide had decamped. Time enough in the morning, when she would beless busy.

  "And my John can see 'im as far as Chelwood," she thought to herself asshe finally closed the door on the stranger and made her way slowly downthe creaking stairs.