The Elusive Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  Consciousness returned very slowly, very painfully.

  It was night when last Marguerite had clearly known what was going onaround her; it was daylight before she realized that she still lived,that she still knew and suffered.

  Her head ached intolerably: that was the first conscious sensation whichcame to her; then she vaguely perceived a pale ray of sunshine, veryhazy and narrow, which came from somewhere in front of her and struckher in the face. She kept her eyes tightly shut, for that filmy lightcaused her an increase of pain.

  She seemed to be lying on her back, and her fingers wandering restlesslyaround felt a hard paillasse, beneath their touch, then a rough pillow,and her own cloak laid over her: thought had not yet returned, only thesensation of great suffering and of infinite fatigue.

  Anon she ventured to open her eyes, and gradually one or two objectsdetached themselves from out the haze which still obscured her vision.

  Firstly, the narrow aperture--scarcely a window--filled in with tinysquares of coarse, unwashed glass, through which the rays of the morningsun were making kindly efforts to penetrate, then the cloud of dustillumined by those same rays, and made up--so it seemed to the poortired brain that strove to perceive--of myriads of abnormally largemolecules, over-abundant, and over-active, for they appeared to bedancing a kind of wild saraband before Marguerite's aching eyes,advancing and retreating, forming themselves into groups and taking onfunny shapes of weird masques and grotesque faces which grinned at theunconscious figure lying helpless on the rough paillasse.

  Through and beyond them Marguerite gradually became aware of three wallsof a narrow room, dank and grey, half covered with whitewash and halfwith greenish mildew! Yes! and there, opposite to her and immediatelybeneath that semblance of a window, was another paillasse, and on itsomething dark, that moved.

  The words: "Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite ou la Mort!" stared out at herfrom somewhere beyond those active molecules of dust, but she also sawjust above the other paillasse the vague outline of a dark crucifix.

  It seemed a terrible effort to co-ordinate all these things, and totry and realize what the room was, and what was the meaning of thepaillasse, the narrow window and the stained walls, too much altogetherfor the aching head to take in save very slowly, very gradually.

  Marguerite was content to wait and to let memory creep back asreluctantly as it would.

  "Do you think, my child, you could drink a little of this now?"

  It was a gentle, rather tremulous voice which struck upon her ear.She opened her eyes, and noticed that the dark something which hadpreviously been on the opposite paillasse was no longer there, andthat there appeared to be a presence close to her only vaguely defined,someone kindly and tender who had spoken to her in French, with thatsoft sing-song accent peculiar to the Normandy peasants, and who nowseemed to be pressing something cool and soothing to her lips.

  "They gave me this for you!" continued the tremulous voice close to herear. "I think it would do you good, if you tried to take it."

  A hand and arm was thrust underneath the rough pillow, causing her toraise her head a little. A glass was held to her lips and she drank.

  The hand that held the glass was all wrinkled, brown and dry, andtrembled slightly, but the arm which supported her head was firm andvery kind.

  "There! I am sure you feel better now. Close your eyes and try to go tosleep."

  She did as she was bid, and was ready enough to close her eyes. Itseemed to her presently as if something had been interposed between heraching head and that trying ray of white September sun.

  Perhaps she slept peacefully for a little while after that, for thoughher head was still very painful, her mouth and throat felt less parchedand dry. Through this sleep or semblance of sleep, she was conscious ofthe same pleasant voice softly droning Paters and Aves close to her ear.

  Thus she lay, during the greater part of the day. Not quite fullyconscious, not quite awake to the awful memories which anon would crowdupon her thick and fast.

  From time to time the same kind and trembling hands would with gentlepressure force a little liquid food through her unwilling lips: somewarm soup, or anon a glass of milk. Beyond the pain in her head, shewas conscious of no physical ill; she felt at perfect peace, and anextraordinary sense of quiet and repose seemed to pervade this smallroom, with its narrow window through which the rays of the sun camegradually in more golden splendour as the day drew towards noon, andthen they vanished altogether.

  The drony voice close beside her acted as a soporific upon her nerves.In the afternoon she fell into a real and beneficent sleep....

  But after that, she woke to full consciousness!

  Oh! the horror, the folly of it all!

  It came back to her with all the inexorable force of an appallingcertainty.

  She was a prisoner in the hands of those who long ago had sworn to bringThe Scarlet Pimpernel to death!

  She! his wife, a hostage in their hands! her freedom and safety offeredto him as the price of his own! Here there was no question of dreamsor of nightmares: no illusions as to the ultimate intentions of herhusband's enemies. It was all a reality, and even now, before she hadthe strength fully to grasp the whole nature of this horrible situation,she knew that by her own act of mad and passionate impulse, she hadhopelessly jeopardized the life of the man she loved.

  For with that sublime confidence in him begotten of her love, she neverfor a moment doubted which of the two alternatives he would choose, whenonce they were placed before him. He would sacrifice himself for her; hewould prefer to die a thousand deaths so long as they set her free.

  For herself, her own sufferings, her danger or humiliation she carednothing! Nay! at this very moment she was conscious of a wild passionatedesire for death.... In this sudden onrush of memory and of thought shewished with all her soul and heart and mind to die here suddenly, onthis hard paillasse, in this lonely and dark prison... so that sheshould be out of the way once and for all... so that she should NOT bethe hostage to be bartered against his precious life and freedom.

  He would suffer acutely, terribly at her loss, because he loved herabove everything else on earth, he would suffer in every fibre of hispassionate and ardent nature, but he would not then have to endurethe humiliations, the awful alternatives, the galling impotence andmiserable death, the relentless "either--or" which his enemies were evennow preparing for him.

  And then came a revulsion of feeling. Marguerite's was essentially abuoyant and active nature, a keen brain which worked and schemed andplanned, rather than one ready to accept the inevitable.

  Hardly had these thoughts of despair and of death formulated themselvesin her mind, than with brilliant swiftness, a new train of ideas beganto take root.

  What if matters were not so hopeless after all?

  Already her mind had flown instinctively to thoughts of escape. Had shethe right to despair? She, the wife and intimate companion of the manwho had astonished the world with his daring, his prowess, his amazinggood luck, she to imagine for a moment that in this all-supreme momentof adventurous life the Scarlet Pimpernel would fail!

  Was not English society peopled with men, women and children whom hisingenuity had rescued from plights quite as seemingly hopeless as herown, and would not all the resources of that inventive brain be broughtto bear upon this rescue which touched him nearer and more deeply thanany which he had attempted hitherto.

  Now Marguerite was chiding herself for her doubts and for her fears.Already she remembered that amongst the crowd on the landing stageshe had perceived a figure--unusually tall--following in the wake ofChauvelin and his companions. Awakened hope had already assured her thatshe had not been mistaken, that Percy, contrary to her own surmises,had reached Boulogne last night: he always acted so differently to whatanyone might expect, that it was quite possible that he had crossed overin the packet-boat after all unbeknown to Marguerite as well as to hisenemies.

  Oh yes! the more she thought about it all, the more sure w
as she thatPercy was already in Boulogne, and that he knew of her capture and herdanger.

  What right had she to doubt even for a moment that he would know how toreach her, how--when the time came--to save himself and her?

  A warm glow began to fill her veins, she felt excited and alert,absolutely unconscious now of pain or fatigue, in this radiant joy ofreawakened hope.

  She raised herself slightly, leaning on her elbow: she was still veryweak and the slight movement had made her giddy, but soon she wouldbe strong and well... she must be strong and well and ready to do hisbidding when the time for escape would have come.

  "Ah! you are better, my child, I see..." said that quaint, tremulousvoice again, with its soft sing-song accent, "but you must not be soventuresome, you know. The physician said that you had received a cruelblow. The brain has been rudely shaken... and you must lie quite stillall to-day, or your poor little head will begin to ache again."

  Marguerite turned to look at the speaker, and in spite of herexcitement, of her sorrow and of her anxieties, she could not helpsmiling at the whimsical little figure which sat opposite to her, on avery rickety chair, solemnly striving with slow and measured movementof hand and arm, and a large supply of breath, to get up a polish on theworn-out surface of an ancient pair of buckled shoes.

  The figure was slender and almost wizened, the thin shoulders roundwith an habitual stoop, the lean shanks were encased in a pair ofmuch-darned, coarse black stockings. It was the figure of an old man,with a gentle, clear-cut face furrowed by a forest of wrinkles, andsurmounted by scanty white locks above a smooth forehead which lookedyellow and polished like an ancient piece of ivory.

  He had looked across at Marguerite as he spoke, and a pair of innatelykind and mild blue eyes were fixed with tender reproach upon her.Marguerite thought that she had never seen quite so much goodness andsimple-heartedness portrayed on any face before. It literally beamed outof those pale blue eyes, which seemed quite full of unshed tears.

  The old man wore a tattered garment, a miracle of shining cleanliness,which had once been a soutane of smooth black cloth, but was now amass of patches and threadbare at shoulders and knees. He seemed deeplyintent in the task of polishing his shoes, and having delivered himselfof his little admonition, he very solemnly and earnestly resumed hiswork.

  Marguerite's first and most natural instinct had, of course, been one ofdislike and mistrust of anyone who appeared to be in some way on guardover her. But when she took in every detail of the quaint figure of theold man, his scrupulous tidiness of apparel, the resigned stoop of hisshoulders, and met in full the gaze of those moist eyes, she felt thatthe whole aspect of the man, as he sat there polishing his shoes, wasinfinitely pathetic and, in its simplicity, commanding of respect.

  "Who are you?" asked Lady Blakeney at last, for the old man afterlooking at her with a kind of appealing wonder, seemed to be waiting forher to speak.

  "A priest of the good God, my dear child," replied the old man with adeep sigh and a shake of his scanty locks, "who is not allowed to servehis divine Master any longer. A poor old fellow, very harmless and veryhelpless, who had been set here to watch over you.

  "You must not look upon me as a jailer because of what I say, my child,"he added with a quaint air of deference and apology. "I am very old andvery small, and only take up a very little room. I can make myself veryscarce; you shall hardly know that I am here. They forced me to it muchagainst my will.... But they are strong and I am weak, how could I denythem since they put me here. After all," he concluded naively, "perhapsit is the will of le bon Dieu, and He knows best, my child, He knowsbest."

  The shoes evidently refused to respond any further to the old man'sefforts at polishing them. He contemplated them now, with a whimsicallook of regret on his furrowed face, then set them down on the floor andslipped his stockinged feet into them.

  Marguerite was silently watching him, still leaning on her elbow.Evidently her brain was still numb and fatigued, for she did not seemable to grasp all that the old man said. She smiled to herself too asshe watched him. How could she look upon him as a jailer? He did notseem at all like a Jacobin or a Terrorist, there was nothing of thedissatisfied democrat, of the snarling anarchist ready to lend his handto any act of ferocity directed against a so-called aristocrat, aboutthis pathetic little figure in the ragged soutane and worn shoes.

  He seemed singularly bashful too and ill at ease, and loath to meetMarguerite's great, ardent eyes, which were fixed questioningly uponhim.

  "You must forgive me, my daughter," he said shyly, "for concluding mytoilet before you. I had hoped to be quite ready before you woke, but Ihad some trouble with my shoes; except for a little water and soap theprison authorities will not provide us poor captives with any means ofcleanliness and tidiness, and le bon Dieu does love a tidy body as wellas a clean soul.

  "But there, there," he added fussily, "I must not continue to gossiplike this. You would like to get up, I know, and refresh your face andhands with a little water. Oh! you will see how well I have thought itout. I need not interfere with you at all, and when you make your littlebit of toilette, you will feel quite alone... just as if the old man wasnot there."

  He began busying himself about the room, dragging the rickety,rush-bottomed chairs forward. There were four of these in the room, andhe began forming a kind of bulwark with them, placing two side by side,then piling the two others up above.

  "You will see, my child, you will see!" he kept repeating at intervalsas the work of construction progressed. It was no easy matter, forhe was of low stature, and his hands were unsteady from apparentlyuncontrollable nervousness.

  Marguerite, leaning slightly forward, her chin resting in her hand, wastoo puzzled and anxious to grasp the humour of this comical situation.She certainly did not understand. This old man had in some sort of way,and for a hitherto unexplained reason, been set as a guard over her; itwas not an unusual device on the part of the inhuman wretches who nowruled France, to add to the miseries and terrors of captivity, where awoman of refinement was concerned, the galling outrage of never leavingher alone for a moment.

  That peculiar form of mental torture, surely the invention of brainsrendered mad by their own ferocious cruelty, was even now beinginflicted on the hapless, dethroned Queen of France. Marguerite, infar-off England, had shuddered when she heard of it, and in her hearthad prayed, as indeed every pure-minded woman did then, that proud,unfortunate Marie Antoinette might soon find release from such tormentsin death.

  There was evidently some similar intention with regard to Margueriteherself in the minds of those who now held her prisoner. But this oldman seemed so feeble and so helpless, his very delicacy of thought ashe built up a screen to divide the squalid room in two, proved him to besingularly inefficient for the task of a watchful jailer.

  When the four chairs appeared fairly steady, and in comparatively littledanger of toppling, he dragged the paillasse forward and propped itup against the chairs. Finally he drew the table along, which held thecracked ewer and basin, and placed it against this improvised partition:then he surveyed the whole construction with evident gratification anddelight.

  "There now!" he said, turning a face beaming with satisfaction toMarguerite, "I can continue my prayers on the other side of thefortress. Oh! it is quite safe..." he added, as with a fearsome hand hetouched his engineering feat with gingerly pride, "and you will be quiteprivate.... Try and forget that the old abbe is in the room.... He doesnot count... really he does not count... he has ceased to be of anymoment these many months now that Saint Joseph is closed and he may nolonger say Mass."

  He was obviously prattling on in order to hide his nervous bashfulness.He ensconced himself behind his own finely constructed bulwark, drew abreviary from his pocket and having found a narrow ledge on one ofthe chairs, on which he could sit, without much danger of bringing theelaborate screen onto the top of his head, he soon became absorbed inhis orisons.

  Marguerite watched him for a little while
longer: he was evidentlyendeavouring to make her think that he had become oblivious of herpresence, and his transparent little manoeuvers amused and puzzled hernot a little.

  He looked so comical with his fussy and shy ways, yet withal so gentleand so kindly that she felt completely reassured and quite calm.

  She tried to raise herself still further and found the processastonishingly easy. Her limbs still ached and the violent, intermittentpain in her head certainly made her feel sick and giddy at times, butotherwise she was not ill. She sat up on the paillasse, then puther feet to the ground and presently walked up to the improviseddressing-room and bathed her face and hands. The rest had done her good,and she felt quite capable of co-ordinating her thoughts, of movingabout without too much pain, and of preparing herself both mentally andphysically for the grave events which she knew must be imminent.

  While she busied herself with her toilet her thoughts dwelt on the oneall-absorbing theme: Percy was in Boulogne, he knew that she was here,in prison, he would reach her without fail, in fact he might communicatewith her at any moment now, and had without a doubt already evolved aplan of escape for her, more daring and ingenious than any which he hadconceived hitherto; therefore, she must be ready, and prepared for anyeventuality, she must be strong and eager, in no way despondent, for ifhe were here, would he not chide her for her want of faith?

  By the time she had smoothed her hair and tidied her dress, Margueritecaught herself singing quite cheerfully to herself.

  So full of buoyant hope was she.

  Chapter XIX: The Strength of the Weak