XXXII

“But me no buts, my dear Tony, I am sick of all these filthy rags. And if I am to see pretty Fleurette’s papa then must I see him decently clad and in my right mind.”

So spake Sir Percy Blakeney to his friend, late the following evening, it was in an attic under the roof of a half-derelict house in the Rue du Pont close to the riverbank. The owners of the house had long since disappeared, fled into the mountains or perished on the guillotine; no one knew or cared. Blakeney, and those members of his league who were with him, had hit upon it on their arrival in Orange, had made the attic their headquarters, whilst most of the vagabonds of the city used the rest of the house as their lair. They too were outwardly vagabonds, dressed in rags, appeared unkempt, unshaven, and unwashed, when they sallied forth in the early mornings each on an errand of mercy to succour those in need of help or those who were in danger or distress.

It was only o’ nights, sometimes, that an overwhelming desire for cleanliness and nice clothes caused these English gentlemen to cast aside their rags and to venture out into the open dressed in clothes that would have caused the ragamuffins of Orange to snarl at their heels like so many hungry curs.

They had been eight days in Orange now, and already Architect Caristie, with his wife and small son, the widow Colmars and her daughter, and poor old General Paulieu with his family owed their safety to this gallant League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. But there was still more to do.

“We must get that child Fleurette out of that hell,” the chief had said, and since then brain and heart had been at work to find the means to that end.

Later on Lord Tony had remarked: “I wish we could find out about that father of hers; this man Armand. He seems to hold some kind of position under this government of assassins, but I for one have tried in vain to learn something more definite about him.”

“I think,” Sir Andrew Ffoulkes added, “that his position must be a high one, or the girl would have been brought to trial before now.”

“Unless our amiable friend, M. Chauvelin, has got this Armand under lock and key somewhere else,” was my Lord Stowmaries’ comment upon the situation.

Sir Percy was silent. Frankly the position puzzled him. He would have liked to get into touch with the man Armand, but for once he and his friends were baffled by this anonymity which appeared so closely guarded. Great then had been the rejoicing in the attic of the derelict house in the Rue du Pont, when Lord Anthony Dewhurst⁠—a most perfect type of ruffian in rags and a thick coating of grime⁠—related his adventure with the mysterious individual who, under cover of darkness and rain, had offered him and his friend Rémi fifty livres each for delivering a message to a prisoner, who was none other than little Fleurette.

“At last we’ll get in touch with the mysterious Armand,” they all declared eagerly. It was arranged that the chief would himself take Fleurette’s reply to the house in the Rue Longue. But go on this errand in the filthy rags of a scavenger he would not.

“The night is pretty dark,” he declared, “and I would rather the mysterious Armand saw me as I am. I may also have a chance,” he added with his merriest laugh, “of coming across my good friend M. Chambertin. It is some weeks since last we met, and not to have had a pleasant chat with him all these days, while we were within a stone’s throw of one another, has been a sore trial to me. I caught a glimpse of him a day or two ago, in the courtyard of the Caristie house. He looked to be sick and out of sorts. A sight of me might cheer him up.”

“You won’t take any risks, Blakeney,” Sir Andrew Ffoulkes remarked.

“Any number, my dear fellow,” Sir Percy replied laughing. “And you know you envy me, you dog. But I feel thoroughly selfish tonight. I mean to take the note to Armand myself, and I mean to take the privilege of having a little chat with my friend Chambertin. And both these things I am going to do as an English gentleman and not as a mudlark in stinking, filthy rags.”

He had completed his toilet now, looked magnificent in clothes cut by the leading London tailor, which set off his splendid figure to perfection, with snow-white stock and speckless boots.

“If a single pair of eyes should see you,” Sir Andrew insisted, with an anxious sigh.

“I should have a whole pack of wolves at my heels,” Blakeney admitted. “But that wouldn’t be the first time any of us have had to run for our lives, eh? nor the first time we gave an entire pack of them the slip.”

He picked up his hat and took a last look at Fleurette’s little note which he had to deliver at the House in the Rue Longue.

“This man Armand must be a very decent fellow,” he mused, “his letter to the child was really fine in spirit as well as in affection. Yes! he must be a decent fellow and we must get the girl for his sake as much as for that of our friend Colombe. What?”

On that, of course, they were all agreed. The activities of the League, since the rescue of General Paulieu and his family, were centred now on Fleurette. There were still one or two minor points to discuss, arrangements of detail, to complete, but the main project for the girl’s rescue could not be determined until it was definitely known whether her father, Armand, was going to be a help or a hindrance.

“Anyway I shall know more,” Blakeney said finally, as he made for the door, “when I have sampled this man.”

It was then nine o’clock in the evening. The night was dark and stormy. Gusts of wind alternated with sharp showers of rain⁠—an altogether unusual state of weather for the time of year in these parts. The few passersby of respectable appearance on their way home from business or work did no more than throw a cursory glance on the tall figure that passed hurriedly by. A few vagabonds clinging to their rags which the wind threatened to tear off their meagre bodies, did perhaps pause, cowering against a dark wall, murmuring a threat or a curse against the aristo, but an unexpected coin slipped into their grimy hands, quickly silenced both curse and threat.

Blakeney knew his way well through the streets of Orange. Having kept along the river bank till he came to the bridge, he turned up the Rue de la République. Glancing up at a house on his right, a smile of pure joy lit up his anxious face. Three nights ago on this spot, he had carried Architect Caristie’s small son in his arms, while Caristie and his wife followed him down the street to the market cart which awaited them at the top of the bridge. Three hours later an officer of the revolutionary army was hammering at the door of Caristie’s lodgings, only to find that the birds had flown. It had been a merry night, and merrier morning, while he, Blakeney, drove the market cart out of the city with Caristie and his wife concealed amidst the sacks of haricots and peas, and the boy thrust into an empty oil-jar.

Well! something equally daring would have to be devised for the girl Fleurette, and perhaps for her father, the mysterious Armand. Blakeney, throwing back his head in the teeth of rain and wind, drew a deep breath of delight. This was life in very truth. To plan, to scheme, to accomplish. Alternately hare and hound, to revel in this chase with human lives as the goal. And if at times the thought of beautiful Marguerite, lonely and anxious in far-off England, caused a pang like a knife-thrust to his heart, her soothing voice, her reassuring smile came to him as a swift vision from the spirit-land to encourage and console. In suffering and anxiety, as well as in the joy of reunion, Marguerite always understood.

Now he turned from the Place de la République into the Rue Longue, and the next couple of hundred yards brought him to the house of Lucien Amouret, corn-chandler. The outside door was on the latch. Pushing it open he found himself in a narrow hall, with an inner door leading into the shop on his left and a staircase in front of him. A lamp hung from the ceiling and shed a dim light on stair and hall. From the shop came the sound of voices in conversation, but though the stairs creaked under his tread, no one came out to see whose the step might be.

Sir Percy ran lightly up the stairs, and on the first landing came to the door, painted a slate grey. This part of the house appeared silent and deserted; the upper floors wrapped in dead gloom. A rusty bellpull hung beside the door. Sir Percy gave it a pull, and a discordant clang roused the sleeping echoes of the chandler’s house. A moment or two later he caught the sound of shuffling footsteps, the door was opened, an old woman in cap and shawl mutely inquired what the visitor desired.

“Is Citizen Armand within?” Blakeney asked.

The woman, he thought, looked at him rather curiously for a second or two, then shrugged her shoulders. Without wasting words she shuffled off down a dimly lighted passage, leaving him to enter or not, as he pleased. The next moment he heard a woman’s voice⁠—the same woman probably⁠—say: “An aristo is asking to see Citizen Armand.” Again a moment’s silence, then the woman came shuffling back, signed to him to enter and closed the door behind him.

“In there,” she said laconically, and nodded towards the end of the passage where a half open door revealed a shaft of more brilliant light. Then she shuffled off again, presumably to her kitchen, leaving the visitor to his own devices.

Sir Percy took off his hat and coat and laid them down on a chair close by; he then walked the length of the passage to the half-open door, pushed it open and found himself in a small room, comfortably furnished, lighted by a lamp which stood upon a centre table. The table was littered with papers. Behind it sat a man writing. At sound of Sir Percy’s footsteps he looked up. The eyes of the two men met, and it almost seemed to one of them at least that time for a few seconds stood still.

And then a pleasant laugh broke the silence, and a gentle lazy voice said slowly:

“Egad! if it is not my engaging friend M. Chambertin! The gods do indeed favour me, sir, for there’s no man in the world I would sooner have seen at this hour than your amiable self.”

After the first paralysing second, Chauvelin had jumped to his feet. He had thought that once again his feverish fancy was playing his senses a mocking trick, that the face which ever haunted his daydreams and his sleepless nights had only come to him on the wings of imagination. But the merry laugh, the lazy voice were all too real. His enemy was truly there, not a vision, but a cruel, mocking reality. Swiftly his claw-like hand shot out, fastened on an object that lay amidst a litter of papers, and would have lifted it, had not another slender and firm hand shot out likewise and fastened itself upon his wrist with a grasp like a vice of steel.

Chauvelin had the greatest difficulty in the world to smother a cry of pain. His fingers opened, spread out fan-wise, the pistol which he had seized fell back upon the litter of papers. With a soft laugh Sir Percy sat down on the edge of the table, picked up the pistol, withdrew the charge and swept it into the sandbox close to his hand, the while Chauvelin watched him greedily, hungrily, as a caged feline might watch a prey that was beyond its reach.

A white-faced clock on the wall struck the half-hour. Sir Percy laid the pistol down upon the table, and flicked his fine, well-shaped hands one against the other.

“There now, my dear M. Chambertin,” he said gaily, “we can converse more comfortably together. Do you think it would have been wise to put a charge of powder through your humble servant? We should both of us have missed much of the zest of life.”

“It is always your pleasure to mock, Sir Percy,” Chauvelin said with an effort. “There are various popular sayings which I might recall to your mind, such as that the pitcher went once too often to the well.”

“And Sir Percy once too often to visit his friend M. Chambertin, eh?”

“I think you will find that this is so,” Chauvelin rejoined trying, none too successfully, to ape his enemy’s easy familiarity. “Orange is not a healthy place for English spies these days.”

“Possibly not,” Blakeney retorted lightly. “Nor for some unfortunate children of France, I am thinking.”

“Traitors and spies, you are right there, Sir Percy. We have no use for them in Orange⁠—or elsewhere.”

“Or for honest men, eh, my friend? for chaste women and innocent children. That is why your humble servant and the league of which methinks you know a thing or two, propose to remove these from this polluted soil.”

Chauvelin had rested his elbow on the table. His hand shading his face against the glare of the lamp, effectually concealed its varying expressions from the keen eyes of his enemy.

“You have not told me yet, Sir Percy,” he said after a few seconds’ silence, “what procures me the honour of your visit at this hour.”

“Pure chance, my dear sir,” Blakeney replied, “though the honour is entirely mine. As a matter of fact I came to find one Armand.”

Twice did the pendulum of the white-faced clock tick the seconds before Chauvelin said quietly:

“My colleague? Have you business with him?”

“Yes,” Blakeney replied slowly. “I have a message for him.”

“I can deliver it.”

“Why not I? since I came on purpose.”

“My colleague is absent.”

“I can wait.”

“From whom then is the message?”

“From his daughter.”

“Ah!”

Once more there was a pause. The white-faced clock ticked on but the two men were silent. Chauvelin’s face was shaded by his hand, and it needed all the energy, all the strength of his will to keep that hand absolutely steady, not to allow a finger to tremble. In the other hand he held a long quill pen and with it he traced a geometrical pattern upon a blank sheet of paper. Sir Percy Blakeney, still sitting on the edge of the table watched him, motionless.

“Pretty drawing that,” he said abruptly. And with slender finger pointed to the design that grew in intricate lines under Chauvelin’s aimless pen.

The other gave a start, the pen spluttered, scattering the ink in spots all over the paper.

“There now, you have spoilt it,” Sir Percy continued lightly. “I had no idea you were such a master draughtsman.”

Chauvelin threw down his pen. He had his nerves under control at last, was able to drop his hand, to lean back in his chair, and with both hands buried in the pockets of his breeches, to throw back his head and look his enemy squarely in the face.

“About that message, Sir Percy,” he said with well-feigned indifference.

“What about it, my dear M. Chambertin?” Blakeney rejoined lightly.

“My colleague, Citizen Armand, has been called away⁠—to Lyons on State business.”

“But how unfortunate!” Sir Percy exclaimed.

“I am sending a courier to Lyons this very night.”

“Too late, my dear M. Chambertin! Too late, I fear!”

Chauvelin frowned. “What mean you by too late, Sir Percy?” he asked slowly.

“Armand’s daughter is sick, my dear M. Chambertin,” Blakeney rejoined, speaking very slowly, as if to weigh his every word. “Before your courier can possibly reach Lyons, she will be dead.”

“My God!⁠—”

It was the most heartrending cry that had ever come from a man’s throat. Chauvelin had jumped to his feet; his two hands, claw-like, as if carved in marble, gripped the arms of his chair; his knees were shaking, his pale eyes stared like those of a maniac, his cheeks were the colour of lead.

For the space of ten seconds he stood thus, with his whole body quivering, his senses reeling, his eyes fixed on those finely moulded lips that had dealt this appalling blow. Then slowly consciousness returned, a veil seemed to be lifted from before his eyes, knowledge had entered his brain. He knew that he had fallen into the trap set for him by this astute adventurer. He realized that he had betrayed the secret which he would have guarded with his life.

“So,” Sir Percy said at last very slowly, “ ’tis you are Citizen Armand, and the sweetest flower that ever bloomed in this putrid atmosphere has its roots in polluted soil?”

Still quite slowly and deliberately he drew Fleurette’s note out of the breast-pocket of his coat; for a second or two he held it lightly between slender finger and thumb, then laid it on the table in front of Chauvelin.

“She is not sick,” he said quietly, “nor yet dying. If you have not forgotten how to pray, man, pray to God now, pray with all your might, that the same power which enabled you to torture my wife and well-nigh to break her brave spirit, will aid you to save your daughter from those tigers whom you have called your friends.”

Chauvelin had sunk back in the chair. His head was buried in his hands. Tumultuous thoughts rushed through his brain until he felt that his reason must be tottering. A haze was before his eyes. Perhaps it was caused by tears. Who knows? Only the recording angel mayhap. Even wild beasts cry in agony when deprived of their young.

Only after a few minutes did he become aware of the note penned by his little Fleurette and laid in front of him by his bitterest foe. The Scarlet Pimpernel! The only man in all the world who might perhaps have saved Fleurette, who would have saved Fleurette, if he, Chauvelin, had not betrayed the secret of his heart.

Like one waking from a dream, Chauvelin picked up the note, and looked fearfully about him, dreading to meet those mocking lazy eyes, which, no doubt, at this hour gleamed with malicious triumph.

But Sir Blakeney was no longer there.