El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

  CHAPTER XXVI. THE BITTEREST FOE

  That same evening Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, having announced his intentionof gleaning further news of Armand, if possible, went out shortly afterseven o'clock, promising to be home again about nine.

  Marguerite, on the other hand, had to make her friend a solemn promisethat she would try and eat some supper which the landlady of thesemiserable apartments had agreed to prepare for her. So far they had beenleft in peaceful occupation of these squalid lodgings in a tumble-downhouse on the Quai de la Ferraille, facing the house of Justice, the grimwalls of which Marguerite would watch with wide-open dry eyes for aslong as the grey wintry light lingered over them.

  Even now, though the darkness had set in, and snow, falling in close,small flakes, threw a thick white veil over the landscape, she sat atthe open window long after Sir Andrew had gone out, watching the fewsmall flicks of light that blinked across from the other side of theriver, and which came from the windows of the Chatelet towers. Thewindows of the Conciergerie she could not see, for these gave on one ofthe inner courtyards; but there was a melancholy consolation even in thegazing on those walls that held in their cruel, grim embrace all thatshe loved in the world.

  It seemed so impossible to think of Percy--the laughter-loving,irresponsible, light-hearted adventurer--as the prey of those fiends whowould revel in their triumph, who would crush him, humiliate him, insulthim--ye gods alive! even torture him, perhaps--that they might break theindomitable spirit that would mock them even on the threshold of death.

  Surely, surely God would never allow such monstrous infamy as thedeliverance of the noble soaring eagle into the hands of those preyingjackals! Marguerite--though her heart ached beyond what human naturecould endure, though her anguish on her husband's account was doubled bythat which she felt for her brother--could not bring herself to giveup all hope. Sir Andrew said it rightly; while there was life therewas hope. While there was life in those vigorous limbs, spirit in thatdaring mind, how could puny, rampant beasts gain the better of theimmortal soul? As for Armand--why, if Percy were free she would have nocause to fear for Armand.

  She sighed a sigh of deep, of passionate regret and longing. If shecould only see her husband; if she could only look for one second intothose laughing, lazy eyes, wherein she alone knew how to fathom theinfinity of passion that lay within their depths; if she could but oncefeel his--ardent kiss on her lips, she could more easily endure thisagonising suspense, and wait confidently and courageously for the issue.

  She turned away from the window, for the night was getting bitterlycold. From the tower of St. Germain l'Auxerrois the clock slowly struckeight. Even as the last sound of the historic bell died away in thedistance she heard a timid knocking at the door.

  "Enter!" she called unthinkingly.

  She thought it was her landlady, come up with more wood, mayhap, forthe fire, so she did not turn to the door when she heard it being slowlyopened, then closed again, and presently a soft tread on the threadbarecarpet.

  "May I crave your kind attention, Lady Blakeney?" said a harsh voice,subdued to tones of ordinary courtesy.

  She quickly repressed a cry of terror. How well she knew that voice!When last she heard it it was at Boulogne, dictating that infamousletter--the weapon wherewith Percy had so effectually foiled his enemy.She turned and faced the man who was her bitterest foe--hers in theperson of the man she loved.

  "Chauvelin!" she gasped.

  "Himself at your service, dear lady," he said simply.

  He stood in the full light of the lamp, his trim, small figure boldlycut out against the dark wall beyond. He wore the usual sable-colouredclothes which he affected, with the primly-folded jabot and cuffs edgedwith narrow lace.

  Without waiting for permission from her he quietly and deliberatelyplaced his hat and cloak on a chair. Then he turned once moretoward her, and made a movement as if to advance into the room; butinstinctively she put up a hand as if to ward off the calamity of hisapproach.

  He shrugged his shoulders, and the shadow of a smile, that had neithermirth nor kindliness in it, hovered round the corners of his thin lips.

  "Have I your permission to sit?" he asked.

  "As you will," she replied slowly, keeping her wide-open eyes fixedupon him as does a frightened bird upon the serpent whom it loathes andfears.

  "And may I crave a few moments of your undivided attention, LadyBlakeney?" he continued, taking a chair, and so placing it beside thetable that the light of the lamp when he sat remained behind him and hisface was left in shadow.

  "Is it necessary?" asked Marguerite.

  "It is," he replied curtly, "if you desire to see and speak with yourhusband--to be of use to him before it is too late."

  "Then, I pray you, speak, citizen, and I will listen."

  She sank into a chair, not heeding whether the light of the lamp fellon her face or not, whether the lines in her haggard cheeks, or hertear-dimmed eyes showed plainly the sorrow and despair that had tracedthem. She had nothing to hide from this man, the cause of all thetortures which she endured. She knew that neither courage nor sorrowwould move him, and that hatred for Percy--personal deadly hatred forthe man who had twice foiled him--had long crushed the last spark ofhumanity in his heart.

  "Perhaps, Lady Blakeney," he began after a slight pause and in hissmooth, even voice, "it would interest you to hear how I succeeded inprocuring for myself this pleasure of an interview with you?"

  "Your spies did their usual work, I suppose," she said coldly.

  "Exactly. We have been on your track for three days, and yesterdayevening an unguarded movement on the part of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes gave usthe final clue to your whereabouts."

  "Of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes?" she asked, greatly puzzled.

  "He was in an eating-house, cleverly disguised, I own, trying to gleaninformation, no doubt as to the probable fate of Sir Percy Blakeney.As chance would have it, my friend Heron, of the Committee ofGeneral Security, chanced to be discussing with reprehensibleopenness--er--certain--what shall I say?--certain measures which, at myadvice, the Committee of Public Safety have been forced to adopt with aview to--"

  "A truce on your smooth-tongued speeches, citizen Chauvelin," sheinterposed firmly. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes has told me naught of this--so Ipray you speak plainly and to the point, if you can."

  He bowed with marked irony.

  "As you please," he said. "Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, hearing certain mattersof which I will tell you anon, made a movement which betrayed him toone of our spies. At a word from citizen Heron this man followed onthe heels of the young farrier who had shown such interest in theconversation of the Chief Agent. Sir Andrew, I imagine, burning withindignation at what he had heard, was perhaps not quite so cautious ashe usually is. Anyway, the man on his track followed him to this door.It was quite simple, as you see. As for me, I had guessed a week agothat we would see the beautiful Lady Blakeney in Paris before long. WhenI knew where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lodged, I had no difficulty in guessingthat Lady Blakeney would not be far off."

  "And what was there in citizen Heron's conversation last night," sheasked quietly, "that so aroused Sir Andrew's indignation?"

  "He has not told you?" "Oh! it is very simple. Let me tell you, LadyBlakeney, exactly how matters stand. Sir Percy Blakeney--before luckychance at last delivered him into our hands--thought fit, as no doubtyou know, to meddle with our most important prisoner of State."

  "A child. I know it, sir--the son of a murdered father whom you and yourfriends were slowly doing to death."

  "That is as it may be, Lady Blakeney," rejoined Chauvelin calmly; "butit was none of Sir Percy Blakeney's business. This, however, he choseto disregard. He succeeded in carrying little Capet from the Temple, andtwo days later we had him under lock, and key."

  "Through some infamous and treacherous trick, sir," she retorted.

  Chauvelin made no immediate reply; his pale, inscrutable eyes were fixedupon her face, and the smile of irony round his mouth appeared morestr
ongly marked than before.

  "That, again, is as it may be," he said suavely; "but anyhow for themoment we have the upper hand. Sir Percy is in the Conciergerie, guardedday and night, more closely than Marie Antoinette even was guarded."

  "And he laughs at your bolts and bars, sir," she rejoined proudly."Remember Calais, remember Boulogne. His laugh at your discomfiture,then, must resound in your ear even to-day."

  "Yes; but for the moment laughter is on our side. Still we are willingto forego even that pleasure, if Sir Percy will but move a fingertowards his own freedom."

  "Again some infamous letter?" she asked with bitter contempt; "someattempt against his honour?"

  "No, no, Lady Blakeney," he interposed with perfect blandness. "Mattersare so much simpler now, you see. We hold Sir Percy at our mercy.We could send him to the guillotine to-morrow, but we might bewilling--remember, I only say we might--to exercise our prerogative ofmercy if Sir Percy Blakeney will on his side accede to a request fromus."

  "And that request?"

  "Is a very natural one. He took Capet away from us, and it is butcredible that he knows at the present moment exactly where the child is.Let him instruct his followers--and I mistake not, Lady Blakeney, thereare several of them not very far from Paris just now--let him, I say,instruct these followers of his to return the person of young Capet tous, and not only will we undertake to give these same gentlemen a safeconduct back to England, but we even might be inclined to deal somewhatless harshly with the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel himself."

  She laughed a harsh, mirthless, contemptuous laugh.

  "I don't think that I quite understand," she said after a moment ortwo, whilst he waited calmly until her out-break of hysterical mirthhad subsided. "You want my husband--the Scarlet Pimpernel, citizen--todeliver the little King of France to you after he has risked his lifeto save the child out of your clutches? Is that what you are trying tosay?"

  "It is," rejoined Chauvelin complacently, "just what we have been sayingto Sir Percy Blakeney for the past six days, madame."

  "Well! then you have had your answer, have you not?"

  "Yes," he replied slowly; "but the answer has become weaker day by day."

  "Weaker? I don't understand."

  "Let me explain, Lady Blakeney," said Chauvelin, now with measuredemphasis. He put both elbows on the table and leaned well forward,peering into her face, lest one of its varied expressions escapedhim. "Just now you taunted me with my failure in Calais, and againat Boulogne, with a proud toss of the head, which I own is excessivebecoming; you threw the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel in my face like achallenge which I no longer dare to accept. 'The Scarlet Pimpernel,' youwould say to me, 'stands for loyalty, for honour, and for indomitablecourage. Think you he would sacrifice his honour to obtain your mercy?Remember Boulogne and your discomfiture!' All of which, dear lady, isperfectly charming and womanly and enthusiastic, and I, bowing my humblehead, must own that I was fooled in Calais and baffled in Boulogne.But in Boulogne I made a grave mistake, and one from which I learned alesson, which I am putting into practice now."

  He paused a while as if waiting for her reply. His pale, keen eyeshad already noted that with every phrase he uttered the lines in herbeautiful face became more hard and set. A look of horror was graduallyspreading over it, as if the icy-cold hand of death had passed over hereyes and cheeks, leaving them rigid like stone.

  "In Boulogne," resumed Chauvelin quietly, satisfied that his words werehitting steadily at her heart--"in Boulogne Sir Percy and I didnot fight an equal fight. Fresh from a pleasant sojourn in his ownmagnificent home, full of the spirit of adventure which puts the essenceof life into a man's veins, Sir Percy Blakeney's splendid physique waspitted against my feeble powers. Of course I lost the battle. I made themistake of trying to subdue a man who was in the zenith of his strength,whereas now--"

  "Yes, citizen Chauvelin," she said, "whereas now--"

  "Sir Percy Blakeney has been in the prison of the Conciergerie forexactly one week, Lady Blakeney," he replied, speaking very slowly, andletting every one of his words sink individually into her mind. "Evenbefore he had time to take the bearings of his cell or to plan on hisown behalf one of those remarkable escapes for which he is so justlyfamous, our men began to work on a scheme which I am proud to sayoriginated with myself. A week has gone by since then, Lady Blakeney,and during that time a special company of prison guard, acting under theorders of the Committee of General Security and of Public Safety, havequestioned the prisoner unremittingly--unremittingly, remember--day andnight. Two by two these men take it in turns to enter the prisoner'scell every quarter of an hour--lately it has had to be more often--andask him the one question, 'Where is little Capet?' Up to now we havereceived no satisfactory reply, although we have explained to Sir Percythat many of his followers are honouring the neighbourhood of Paris withtheir visit, and that all we ask for from him are instructions tothose gallant gentlemen to bring young Capet back to us. It is all verysimple, unfortunately the prisoner is somewhat obstinate. At first,even, the idea seemed to amuse him; he used to laugh and say that healways had the faculty of sleeping with his eyes open. But our soldiersare untiring in their efforts, and the want of sleep as well as of asufficiency of food and of fresh air is certainly beginning to tell onSir Percy Blakeney's magnificent physique. I don't think that it will bevery long before he gives way to our gentle persuasions; and in any casenow, I assure you, dear lady, that we need not fear any attempt onhis part to escape. I doubt if he could walk very steadily across thisroom--"

  Marguerite had sat quite silent and apparently impassive all the whilethat Chauvelin had been speaking; even now she scarcely stirred. Herface expressed absolutely nothing but deep puzzlement. There was a frownbetween her brows, and her eyes, which were always of such liquidblue, now looked almost black. She was trying to visualise that whichChauvelin had put before her: a man harassed day and night, unceasingly,unremittingly, with one question allowed neither respite nor sleep--hisbrain, soul, and body fagged out at every hour, every moment of the dayand night, until mind and body and soul must inevitably give way underanguish ten thousand times more unendurable than any physical tormentinvented by monsters in barbaric times.

  That man thus harassed, thus fagged out, thus martyrised at all hours ofthe day and night, was her husband, whom she loved with every fibre ofher being, with every throb of her heart.

  Torture? Oh, no! these were advanced and civilised times that couldafford to look with horror on the excesses of medieval days. This wasa revolution that made for progress, and challenged the opinion of theworld. The cells of the Temple of La Force or the Conciergerie held nosecret inquisition with iron maidens and racks and thumbscrews; buta few men had put their tortuous brains together, and had said one toanother: "We want to find out from that man where we can lay our handson little Capet, so we won't let him sleep until he has told us. Itis not torture--oh, no! Who would dare to say that we torture ourprisoners? It is only a little horseplay, worrying to the prisoner, nodoubt; but, after all, he can end the unpleasantness at any moment. Heneed but to answer our question, and he can go to sleep as comfortablyas a little child. The want of sleep is very trying, the want of properfood and of fresh air is very weakening; the prisoner must give waysooner or later--"

  So these fiends had decided it between them, and they had put their ideainto execution for one whole week. Marguerite looked at Chauvelin as shewould on some monstrous, inscrutable Sphinx, marveling if God--even inHis anger--could really have created such a fiendish brain, or, havingcreated it, could allow it to wreak such devilry unpunished.

  Even now she felt that he was enjoying the mental anguish which he hadput upon her, and she saw his thin, evil lips curled into a smile.

  "So you came to-night to tell me all this?" she asked as soon asshe could trust herself to speak. Her impulse was to shriek out herindignation, her horror of him, into his face. She longed to call downGod's eternal curse upon this fiend; but instinctively she held herselfin
check. Her indignation, her words of loathing would only have addedto his delight.

  "You have had your wish," she added coldly; "now, I pray you, go."

  "Your pardon, Lady Blakeney," he said with all his habitual blandness;"my object in coming to see you tonight was twofold. Methought that Iwas acting as your friend in giving you authentic news of Sir Percy, andin suggesting the possibility of your adding your persuasion to ours."

  "My persuasion? You mean that I--"

  "You would wish to see your husband, would you not, Lady Blakeney?"

  "Yes."

  "Then I pray you command me. I will grant you the permission wheneveryou wish to go."

  "You are in the hope, citizen," she said, "that I will do my best tobreak my husband's spirit by my tears or my prayers--is that it?"

  "Not necessarily," he replied pleasantly. "I assure you that we canmanage to do that ourselves, in time."

  "You devil!" The cry of pain and of horror was involuntarily wrung fromthe depths of her soul. "Are you not afraid that God's hand will strikeyou where you stand?"

  "No," he said lightly; "I am not afraid, Lady Blakeney. You see, I donot happen to believe in God. Come!" he added more seriously, "have Inot proved to you that my offer is disinterested? Yet I repeat it evennow. If you desire to see Sir Percy in prison, command me, and the doorsshall be open to you."

  She waited a moment, looking him straight and quite dispassionately inthe face; then she said coldly:

  "Very well! I will go."

  "When?" he asked.

  "This evening."

  "Just as you wish. I would have to go and see my friend Heron first, andarrange with him for your visit."

  "Then go. I will follow in half an hour."

  "C'est entendu. Will you be at the main entrance of the Conciergerieat half-past nine? You know it, perhaps--no? It is in the Rue de laBarillerie, immediately on the right at the foot of the great staircaseof the house of Justice."

  "Of the house of Justice!" she exclaimed involuntarily, a world ofbitter contempt in her cry. Then she added in her former matter-of-facttones:

  "Very good, citizen. At half-past nine I will be at the entrance youname."

  "And I will be at the door prepared to escort you."

  He took up his hat and coat and bowed ceremoniously to her. Then heturned to go. At the door a cry from her--involuntarily enough, Godknows!--made him pause.

  "My interview with the prisoner," she said, vainly trying, poor soul! torepress that quiver of anxiety in her voice, "it will be private?"

  "Oh, yes! Of course," he replied with a reassuring smile. "Au revoir,Lady Blakeney! Half-past nine, remember--"

  She could no longer trust herself to look on him as he finally took hisdeparture. She was afraid--yes, absolutely afraid that her fortitudewould give way--meanly, despicably, uselessly give way; that she wouldsuddenly fling herself at the feet of that sneering, inhuman wretch,that she would pray, implore--Heaven above! what might she not do inthe face of this awful reality, if the last lingering shred of vanishingreason, of pride, and of courage did not hold her in check?

  Therefore she forced herself not to look on that departing, sable-cladfigure, on that evil face, and those hands that held Percy's fatein their cruel grip; but her ears caught the welcome sound of hisdeparture--the opening and shutting of the door, his light footstepechoing down the stone stairs.

  When at last she felt that she was really alone she uttered a loud crylike a wounded doe, and falling on her knees she buried her face inher hands in a passionate fit of weeping. Violent sobs shook her entireframe; it seemed as if an overwhelming anguish was tearing at herheart--the physical pain of it was almost unendurable. And yet eventhrough this paroxysm of tears her mind clung to one root idea: when shesaw Percy she must be brave and calm, be able to help him if he wantedher, to do his bidding if there was anything that she could do, or anymessage that she could take to the others. Of hope she had none. Thelast lingering ray of it had been extinguished by that fiend when hesaid, "We need not fear that he will escape. I doubt if he could walkvery steadily across this room now."