El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

  CHAPTER XXI. BACK TO PARIS

  It was an exceptionally dark night, and the rain was falling intorrents. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, wrapped in a piece of sacking, had takenshelter right underneath the coal-cart; even then he was getting wetthrough to the skin.

  He had worked hard for two days coal-heaving, and the night before hehad found a cheap, squalid lodging where at any rate he was protectedfrom the inclemencies of the weather; but to-night he was expectingBlakeney at the appointed hour and place. He had secured a cart of theordinary ramshackle pattern used for carrying coal. Unfortunately therewere no covered ones to be obtained in the neighbourhood, and equallyunfortunately the thaw had set in with a blustering wind and divingrain, which made waiting in the open air for hours at a stretch and incomplete darkness excessively unpleasant.

  But for all these discomforts Sir Andrew Ffoulkes cared not one jot. InEngland, in his magnificent Suffolk home, he was a confirmed sybarite,in whose service every description of comfort and luxury had tobe enrolled. Here tonight in the rough and tattered clothes of acoal-heaver, drenched to the skin, and crouching under the body ofa cart that hardly sheltered him from the rain, he was as happy as aschoolboy out for a holiday.

  Happy, but vaguely anxious.

  He had no means of ascertaining the time. So many of the church-bellsand clock towers had been silenced recently that not one of thosewelcome sounds penetrated to the dreary desolation of this canal wharf,with its abandoned carts standing ghostlike in a row. Darkness had setin very early in the afternoon, and the heavers had given up work soonafter four o'clock.

  For about an hour after that a certain animation had still reigned roundthe wharf, men crossing and going, one or two of the barges moving in orout alongside the quay. But for some time now darkness and silence hadbeen the masters in this desolate spot, and that time had seemed to SirAndrew an eternity. He had hobbled and tethered his horse, and stretchedhimself out at full length under the cart. Now and again he had crawledout from under this uncomfortable shelter and walked up and down inankle-deep mud, trying to restore circulation in his stiffened limbs;now and again a kind of torpor had come over him, and he had fallen intoa brief and restless sleep. He would at this moment have given half hisfortune for knowledge of the exact time.

  But through all this weary waiting he was never for a moment in doubt.Unlike Armand St. Just, he had the simplest, most perfect faith in hischief. He had been Blakeney's constant companion in all these adventuresfor close upon four years now; the thought of failure, however vague,never once entered his mind.

  He was only anxious for his chief's welfare. He knew that he wouldsucceed, but he would have liked to have spared him much of the physicalfatigue and the nerve-racking strain of these hours that lay betweenthe daring deed and the hope of safety. Therefore he was conscious ofan acute tingling of his nerves, which went on even during the briefpatches of fitful sleep, and through the numbness that invaded his wholebody while the hours dragged wearily and slowly along.

  Then, quite suddenly, he felt wakeful and alert; quite a while--evenbefore he heard the welcome signal--he knew, with a curious, subtlesense of magnetism, that the hour had come, and that his chief wassomewhere near by, not very far.

  Then he heard the cry--a seamew's call--repeated thrice at intervals,and five minutes later something loomed out of the darkness quite closeto the hind wheels of the cart.

  "Hist! Ffoulkes!" came in a soft whisper, scarce louder than the wind.

  "Present!" came in quick response.

  "Here, help me to lift the child into the cart. He is asleep, and hasbeen a dead weight on my arm for close on an hour now. Have you a drybit of sacking or something to lay him on?"

  "Not very dry, I am afraid."

  With tender care the two men lifted the sleeping little King of Franceinto the rickety cart. Blakeney laid his cloak over him, and listenedfor awhile to the slow regular breathing of the child.

  "St. Just is not here--you know that?" said Sir Andrew after a while.

  "Yes, I knew it," replied Blakeney curtly.

  It was characteristic of these two men that not a word about theadventure itself, about the terrible risks and dangers of the past fewhours, was exchanged between them. The child was here and was safe,and Blakeney knew the whereabouts of St. Just--that was enough for SirAndrew Ffoulkes, the most devoted follower, the most perfect friend theScarlet Pimpernel would ever know.

  Ffoulkes now went to the horse, detached the nose-bag, and undid thenooses of the hobble and of the tether.

  "Will you get in now, Blakeney?" he said; "we are ready."

  And in unbroken silence they both got into the cart; Blakeney sittingon its floor beside the child, and Ffoulkes gathering the reins in hishands.

  The wheels of the cart and the slow jog-trot of the horse made scarcelyany noise in the mud of the roads, what noise they did make waseffectually drowned by the soughing of the wind in the bare branches ofthe stunted acacia trees that edged the towpath along the line of thecanal.

  Sir Andrew had studied the topography of this desolate neighbourhoodwell during the past twenty-four hours; he knew of a detour that wouldenable him to avoid the La Villette gate and the neighbourhood of thefortifications, and yet bring him out soon on the road leading to St.Germain.

  Once he turned to ask Blakeney the time.

  "It must be close on ten now," replied Sir Percy. "Push your nag along,old man. Tony and Hastings will be waiting for us."

  It was very difficult to see clearly even a metre or two ahead, but theroad was a straight one, and the old nag seemed to know it almost aswell and better than her driver. She shambled along at her own pace,covering the ground very slowly for Ffoulkes's burning impatience. Onceor twice he had to get down and lead her over a rough piece of ground.They passed several groups of dismal, squalid houses, in some of whicha dim light still burned, and as they skirted St. Ouen the church clockslowly tolled the hour of midnight.

  But for the greater part of the way derelict, uncultivated spaces ofterrains vagues, and a few isolated houses lay between the road and thefortifications of the city. The darkness of the night, the late hour,the soughing of the wind, were all in favour of the adventurers; anda coal-cart slowly trudging along in this neighbourhood, with twolabourers sitting in it, was the least likely of any vehicle to attractattention.

  Past Clichy, they had to cross the river by the rickety wooden bridgethat was unsafe even in broad daylight. They were not far from theirdestination now. Half a dozen kilometres further on they would beleaving Courbevoie on their left, and then the sign-post would comein sight. After that the spinney just off the road, and the welcomepresence of Tony, Hastings, and the horses. Ffoulkes got down in orderto make sure of the way. He walked at the horse's head now, fearful lesthe missed the cross-roads and the sign-post.

  The horse was getting over-tired; it had covered fifteen kilometres, andit was close on three o'clock of Monday morning.

  Another hour went by in absolute silence. Ffoulkes and Blakeney tookturns at the horse's head. Then at last they reached the cross-roads;even through the darkness the sign-post showed white against thesurrounding gloom.

  "This looks like it," murmured Sir Andrew. He turned the horse'shead sharply towards the left, down a narrower road, and leaving thesign-post behind him. He walked slowly along for another quarter of anhour, then Blakeney called a halt.

  "The spinney must be sharp on our right now," he said.

  He got down from the cart, and while Ffoulkes remained beside the horse,he plunged into the gloom. A moment later the cry of the seamew rang outthree times into the air. It was answered almost immediately.

  The spinney lay on the right of the road. Soon the soft sounds that to atrained ear invariably betray the presence of a number of horses reachedFfoulkes' straining senses. He took his old nag out of the shafts, andthe shabby harness from off her, then he turned her out on the pieceof waste land that faced the spinney. Some one would find her in themorning, her and the cart wit
h the shabby harness laid in it, and,having wondered if all these things had perchance dropped down fromheaven, would quietly appropriate them, and mayhap thank much-malignedheaven for its gift.

  Blakeney in the meanwhile had lifted the sleeping child out of the cart.Then he called to Sir Andrew and led the way across the road and intothe spinney.

  Five minutes later Hastings received the uncrowned King of France in hisarms.

  Unlike Ffoulkes, my Lord Tony wanted to hear all about the adventureof this afternoon. A thorough sportsman, he loved a good story ofhairbreadth escapes, of dangers cleverly avoided, risks taken andconquered.

  "Just in ten words, Blakeney," he urged entreatingly; "how did youactually get the boy away?"

  Sir Percy laughed--despite himself--at the young man's eagerness.

  "Next time we meet, Tony," he begged; "I am so demmed fatigued, andthere's this beastly rain--"

  "No, no--now! while Hastings sees to the horses. I could not exist longwithout knowing, and we are well sheltered from the rain under thistree."

  "Well, then, since you will have it," he began with a laugh, whichdespite the weariness and anxiety of the past twenty-four hours hadforced itself to his lips, "I have been sweeper and man-of-all-work atthe Temple for the past few weeks, you must know--"

  "No!" ejaculated my Lord Tony lustily. "By gum!"

  "Indeed, you old sybarite, whilst you were enjoying yourself heavingcoal on the canal wharf, I was scrubbing floors, lighting fires, anddoing a number of odd jobs for a lot of demmed murdering villains,and"--he added under his breath--"incidentally, too, for our league.Whenever I had an hour or two off duty I spent them in my lodgings, andasked you all to come and meet me there."

  "By Gad, Blakeney! Then the day before yesterday?--when we all met--"

  "I had just had a bath--sorely needed, I can tell you. I had beencleaning boots half the day, but I had heard that the Simons wereremoving from the Temple on the Sunday, and had obtained an order fromthem to help them shift their furniture."

  "Cleaning boots!" murmured my Lord Tony with a chuckle. "Well! andthen?"

  "Well, then everything worked out splendidly. You see by that time I wasa well-known figure in the Temple. Heron knew me well. I used to be hislanthorn-bearer when at nights he visited that poor mite in his prison.It was 'Dupont, here! Dupont there!' all day long. 'Light the fire inthe office, Dupont! Dupont, brush my coat! Dupont, fetch me a light!'When the Simons wanted to move their household goods they called loudlyfor Dupont. I got a covered laundry cart, and I brought a dummy withme to substitute for the child. Simon himself knew nothing of this, butMadame was in my pay. The dummy was just splendid, with real hair on itshead; Madame helped me to substitute it for the child; we laid it on thesofa and covered it over with a rug, even while those brutes Heron andCochefer were on the landing outside, and we stuffed His Majesty theKing of France into a linen basket. The room was badly lighted, andany one would have been deceived. No one was suspicious of that type oftrickery, so it went off splendidly. I moved the furniture of the Simonsout of the Tower. His Majesty King Louis XVII was still concealed in thelinen basket. I drove the Simons to their new lodgings--the man stillsuspects nothing--and there I helped them to unload the furniture--withthe exception of the linen basket, of course. After that I drove mylaundry cart to a house I knew of and collected a number of linenbaskets, which I had arranged should be in readiness for me. Thus loadedup I left Paris by the Vincennes gate, and drove as far as Bagnolet,where there is no road except past the octroi, where the officials mighthave proved unpleasant. So I lifted His Majesty out of the basket andwe walked on hand in hand in the darkness and the rain until the poorlittle feet gave out. Then the little fellow--who has been wonderfullyplucky throughout, indeed, more a Capet than a Bourbon--snuggled up inmy arms and went fast asleep, and--and--well, I think that's all, forhere we are, you see."

  "But if Madame Simon had not been amenable to bribery?" suggested LordTony after a moment's silence.

  "Then I should have had to think of something else."

  "If during the removal of the furniture Heron had remained resolutely inthe room?"

  "Then, again, I should have had to think of something else; but rememberthat in life there is always one supreme moment when Chance--who iscredited to have but one hair on her head--stands by you for a briefspace of time; sometimes that space is infinitesimal--one minute, a fewseconds--just the time to seize Chance by that one hair. So I pray youall give me no credit in this or any other matter in which we all worktogether, but the quickness of seizing Chance by the hair during thebrief moment when she stands by my side. If Madame Simon had beenun-amenable, if Heron had remained in the room all the time, if Cocheferhad had two looks at the dummy instead of one--well, then, somethingelse would have helped me, something would have occurred; something--Iknow not what--but surely something which Chance meant to be on ourside, if only we were quick enough to seize it--and so you see howsimple it all is."

  So simple, in fact, that it was sublime. The daring, the pluck, theingenuity and, above all, the super-human heroism and endurance whichrendered the hearers of this simple narrative, simply told, dumb withadmiration.

  Their thoughts now were beyond verbal expression.

  "How soon was the hue and cry for the child about the streets?" askedTony, after a moment's silence.

  "It was not out when I left the gates of Paris," said Blakeneymeditatively; "so quietly has the news of the escape been kept, that Iam wondering what devilry that brute Heron can be after. And now no morechattering," he continued lightly; "all to horse, and you, Hastings,have a care. The destinies of France, mayhap, will be lying asleep inyour arms."

  "But you, Blakeney?" exclaimed the three men almost simultaneously.

  "I am not going with you. I entrust the child to you. For God's sakeguard him well! Ride with him to Mantes. You should arrive there atabout ten o'clock. One of you then go straight to No.9 Rue la Tour. Ringthe bell; an old man will answer it. Say the one word to him, 'Enfant';he will reply, 'De roi!' Give him the child, and may Heaven bless youall for the help you have given me this night!"

  "But you, Blakeney?" reiterated Tony with a note of deep anxiety in hisfresh young voice.

  "I am straight for Paris," he said quietly.

  "Impossible!"

  "Therefore feasible."

  "But why? Percy, in the name of Heaven, do you realise what you aredoing?"

  "Perfectly."

  "They'll not leave a stone unturned to find you--they know by now,believe me, that your hand did this trick."

  "I know that."

  "And yet you mean to go back?"

  "And yet I am going back."

  "Blakeney!"

  "It's no use, Tony. Armand is in Paris. I saw him in the corridor of theTemple prison in the company of Chauvelin."

  "Great God!" exclaimed Lord Hastings.

  The others were silent. What was the use of arguing? One of themselveswas in danger. Armand St. Just, the brother of Marguerite Blakeney! Wasit likely that Percy would leave him in the lurch.

  "One of us will stay with you, of course?" asked Sir Andrew afterawhile.

  "Yes! I want Hastings and Tony to take the child to Mantes, then to makeall possible haste for Calais, and there to keep in close touch with theDay-Dream; the skipper will contrive to open communication. Tell him toremain in Calais waters. I hope I may have need of him soon.

  "And now to horse, both of you," he added gaily. "Hastings, when youare ready, I will hand up the child to you. He will be quite safe on thepillion with a strap round him and you."

  Nothing more was said after that. The orders were given, there wasnothing to do but to obey; and the uncrowned King of France was notyet out of danger. Hastings and Tony led two of the horses out of thespinney; at the roadside they mounted, and then the little lad for whosesake so much heroism, such selfless devotion had been expended, washoisted up, still half asleep, on the pillion in front of my LordHastings.

  "Keep your arm
round him," admonished Blakeney; "your horse looks quietenough. But put on speed as far as Mantes, and may Heaven guard youboth!"

  The two men pressed their heels to their horses' flanks, the beastssnorted and pawed the ground anxious to start. There were a fewwhispered farewells, two loyal hands were stretched out at the last,eager to grasp the leader's hand.

  Then horses and riders disappeared in the utter darkness which comesbefore the dawn.

  Blakeney and Ffoulkes stood side by side in silence for as long as thepawing of hoofs in the mud could reach their ears, then Ffoulkes askedabruptly:

  "What do you want me to do, Blakeney?"

  "Well, for the present, my dear fellow, I want you to take one of thethree horses we have left in the spinney, and put him into the shafts ofour old friend the coal-cart; then I am afraid that you must go back theway we came."

  "Yes?"

  "Continue to heave coal on the canal wharf by La Villette; it is thebest way to avoid attention. After your day's work keep your cart andhorse in readiness against my arrival, at the same spot where youwere last night. If after having waited for me like this for threeconsecutive nights you neither see nor hear anything from me, go backto England and tell Marguerite that in giving my life for her brother Igave it for her!"

  "Blakeney--!"

  "I spoke differently to what I usually do, is that it?" he interposed,placing his firm hand on his friend's shoulder. "I am degenerating,Ffoulkes--that's what it is. Pay no heed to it. I suppose that carryingthat sleeping child in my arms last night softened some nerves in mybody. I was so infinitely sorry for the poor mite, and vaguely wonderedif I had not saved it from one misery only to plunge it in another.There was such a fateful look on that wan little face, as if destiny hadalready writ its veto there against happiness. It came on me then howfutile were our actions, if God chooses to interpose His will between usand our desires."

  Almost as he left off speaking the rain ceased to patter down againstthe puddles in the road. Overhead the clouds flew by at terrific speed,driven along by the blustering wind. It was less dark now, and SirAndrew, peering through the gloom, could see his leader's face. It wassingularly pale and hard, and the deep-set lazy eyes had in them justthat fateful look which he himself had spoken of just now.

  "You are anxious about Armand, Percy?" asked Ffoulkes softly.

  "Yes. He should have trusted me, as I had trusted him. He missed me atthe Villette gate on Friday, and without a thought left me--left us allin the lurch; he threw himself into the lion's jaws, thinking that hecould help the girl he loved. I knew that I could save her. She is incomparative safety even now. The old woman, Madame Belhomme, had beenfreely released the day after her arrest, but Jeanne Lange is still inthe house in the Rue de Charonne. You know it, Ffoulkes. I got her thereearly this morning. It was easy for me, of course: 'Hola, Dupont!my boots, Dupont!' 'One moment, citizen, my daughter--' 'Curse thydaughter, bring me my boots!' and Jeanne Lange walked out of the Templeprison her hand in that of that lout Dupont."

  "But Armand does not know that she is in the Rue de Charonne?"

  "No. I have not seen him since that early morning on Saturday when hecame to tell me that she had been arrested. Having sworn that he wouldobey me, he went to meet you and Tony at La Villette, but returned toParis a few hours later, and drew the undivided attention of all thecommittees on Jeanne Lange by his senseless, foolish inquiries. Butfor his action throughout the whole of yesterday I could have smuggledJeanne out of Paris, got her to join you at Villette, or Hastings in St.Germain. But the barriers were being closely watched for her, and I hadthe Dauphin to think of. She is in comparative safety; the people inthe Rue de Charonne are friendly for the moment; but for how long? Whoknows? I must look after her of course. And Armand! Poor old Armand! Thelion's jaws have snapped over him, and they hold him tight. Chauvelinand his gang are using him as a decoy to trap me, of course. All thathad not happened if Armand had trusted me."

  He sighed a quick sigh of impatience, almost of regret. Ffoulkes was theone man who could guess the bitter disappointment that this had meant.Percy had longed to be back in England soon, back to Marguerite, to afew days of unalloyed happiness and a few days of peace.

  Now Armand's actions had retarded all that; they were a deliberate barto the future as it had been mapped out by a man who foresaw everything,who was prepared for every eventuality.

  In this case, too, he had been prepared, but not for the want of trustwhich had brought on disobedience akin to disloyalty. That absolutelyunforeseen eventuality had changed Blakeney's usual irresponsible gaietyinto a consciousness of the inevitable, of the inexorable decrees ofFate.

  With an anxious sigh, Sir Andrew turned away from his chief and wentback to the spinney to select for his own purpose one of the threehorses which Hastings and Tony had unavoidably left behind.

  "And you, Blakeney--how will you go back to that awful Paris?" he said,when he had made his choice and was once more back beside Percy.

  "I don't know yet," replied Blakeney, "but it would not be safe to ride.I'll reach one of the gates on this side of the city and contrive toslip in somehow. I have a certificate of safety in my pocket in case Ineed it.

  "We'll leave the horses here," he said presently, whilst he was helpingSir Andrew to put the horse in the shafts of the coal-cart; "they cannotcome to much harm. Some poor devil might steal them, in order to escapefrom those vile brutes in the city. If so, God speed him, say I. I'llcompensate my friend the farmer of St. Germain for their loss atan early opportunity. And now, good-bye, my dear fellow! Some timeto-night, if possible, you shall hear direct news of me--if not, thento-morrow or the day after that. Good-bye, and Heaven guard you!"

  "God guard you, Blakeney!" said Sir Andrew fervently.

  He jumped into the cart and gathered up the reins. His heart was heavyas lead, and a strange mist had gathered in his eyes, blurring the lastdim vision which he had of his chief standing all alone in the gloom,his broad, magnificent figure looking almost weirdly erect and defiant,his head thrown back, and his kind, lazy eyes watching the finaldeparture of his most faithful comrade and friend.