And now at last the shades of evening were drawing in thick and fast.Within the walls of Fort Gayole the last rays of the setting sun hadlong ago ceased to shed their dying radiance, and through the thickstone embrasures and the dusty panes of glass, the grey light of dusksoon failed to penetrate.
In the large ground-floor room with its window opened upon the widepromenade of the southern ramparts, a silence reigned which wasoppressive. The air was heavy with the fumes of the two tallow candleson the table, which smoked persistently.
Against the walls a row of figures in dark blue uniforms with scarletfacings, drab breeches and heavy riding boots, silent and immovable,with fixed bayonets like so many automatons lining the room all round;at some little distance from the central table and out of the immediatecircle of light, a small group composed of five soldiers in the sameblue and scarlet uniforms. One of these was Sergeant Hebert. In thecentre of this group two persons were sitting: a woman and an old man.
The Abbe Foucquet had been brought down from his prison cell a fewminutes ago, and told to watch what would go on around him, after whichhe would be allowed to go to his old church of St. Joseph and ring theAngelus once more before he and his family left Boulogne forever.
The Angelus would be the signal for the opening of all the prison gatesin the town. Everyone to-night could come and go as they pleased, andhaving rung the Angelus, the abbe would be at liberty to join Francoisand Felicite and their old mother, his sister, outside the purlieus ofthe town.
The Abbe Foucquet did not quite understand all this, which was veryrapidly and roughly explained to him. It was such a very little whileago that he had expected to see the innocent children mounting up thoseawful steps which lead to the guillotine, whilst he himself was lookingdeath quite near in the face, that all this talk of amnesty and ofpardon had not quite fully reached his brain.
But he was quite content that it had all been ordained by le bon Dieu,and very happy at the thought of ringing the dearly-loved Angelus in hisown old church once again. So when he was peremptorily pushed into theroom and found himself close to Marguerite, with four or five soldiersstanding round them, he quietly pulled his old rosary from his pocketand began murmuring gentle "Paters" and "Aves" under his breath.
Beside him sat Marguerite, rigid as a statue: her cloak thrown over hershoulders, so that its hood might hide her face. She could not now havesaid how that awful day had passed, how she had managed to survive theterrible, nerve-racking suspense, the agonizing doubt as to what wasgoing to happen. But above all, what she had found most unendurable wasthe torturing thought that in this same grim and frowning building herhusband was there... somewhere... how far or how near she could notsay... but she knew that she was parted from him and perhaps would notsee him again, not even at the hour of death.
That Percy would never write that infamous letter and LIVE, she knew.That he might write it in order to save her, she feared was possible,whilst the look of triumph on Chauvelin's face had aroused her mostagonizing terrors.
When she was summarily ordered to go into the next room, she realizedat once that all hope now was more than futile. The walls lined withtroops, the attitude of her enemies, and above all that table withpaper, ink and pens ready as it were for the accomplishment of thehideous and monstrous deed, all made her very heart numb, as if it wereheld within the chill embrace of death.
"If the woman moves, speaks or screams, gag her at once!" said Collotroughly the moment she sat down, and Sergeant Hebert stood over her,gag and cloth in hand, whilst two soldiers placed heavy hands on hershoulders.
But she neither moved nor spoke, not even presently when a loud andcheerful voice came echoing from a distant corridor, and anon the dooropened and her husband came in, accompanied by Chauvelin.
The ex-ambassador was very obviously in a state of acute nervoustension; his hands were tightly clasped behind his back, and hismovements were curiously irresponsible and jerky. But Sir Percy Blakeneylooked a picture of calm unconcern: the lace bow at his throat was tiedwith scrupulous care, his eyeglass upheld at quite the correct angle,and his delicate-coloured caped coat was thrown back just sufficientlyto afford a glimpse of the dainty cloth suit and exquisitely embroideredwaistcoat beneath.
He was the perfect presentation of a London dandy, and might havebeen entering a royal drawing-room in company with an honoured guest.Marguerite's eyes were riveted on him as he came well within the circleof light projected by the candles, but not even with that acute sixthsense of a passionate and loving woman could she detect the slightesttremor in the aristocratic hands which held the gold-rimmed eyeglass,nor the faintest quiver of the firmly moulded lips.
This had occurred just as the bell of the old Beffroi chimedthree-quarters after six. Now it was close on seven, and in the centreof the room and with his face and figure well lighted up by the candles,at the table pen in hand sat Sir Percy writing.
At his elbow just behind him stood Chauvelin on the one side and Collotd'Herbois on the other, both watching with fixed and burning eyes thewriting of that letter.
Sir Percy seemed in no hurry. He wrote slowly and deliberately,carefully copying the draft of the letter which was propped up in frontof him. The spelling of some of the French words seemed to havetroubled him at first, for when he began he made many facetiousand self-deprecatory remarks anent his own want of education, andcarelessness in youth in acquiring the gentle art of speaking so eleganta language.
Presently, however, he appeared more at his ease, or perhaps lessinclined to talk, since he only received curt monosyllabic answers tohis pleasant sallies. Five minutes had gone by without any other sound,save the spasmodic creak of Sir Percy's pen upon the paper, the whileChauvelin and Collot watched every word he wrote.
But gradually from afar there had arisen in the stillness of evening adistant, rolling noise like that of surf breaking against the cliffs.Nearer and louder it grew, and as it increased in volume, so it gainednow in diversity. The monotonous, roll-like, far-off thunder was just ascontinuous as before, but now shriller notes broke out from amongstthe more remote sounds, a loud laugh seemed ever and anon to pierce thedistance and to rise above the persistent hubbub, which became the mereaccompaniment to these isolated tones.
The merrymakers of Boulogne, having started from the Place de laSenechaussee, were making the round of the town by the wide avenue whichtops the ramparts. They were coming past the Fort Gayole, shouting,singing, brass trumpets in front, big drum ahead, drenched, hot, andhoarse, but supremely happy.
Sir Percy looked up for a moment as the noise drew neared, then turnedto Chauvelin and pointing to the letter, he said:
"I have nearly finished!"
The suspense in the smoke-laden atmosphere of this room was becomingunendurable, and four hearts at least were beating wildly withoverpowering anxiety. Marguerite's eyes were fixed with tender intensityon the man she so passionately loved. She did not understand his actionsor his motives, but she felt a wild longing in her, to drink in everyline of that loved face, as if with this last, long look she was biddingan eternal farewell to all hopes of future earthly happiness.
The old priest had ceased to tell his beads. Feeling in his kindly heartthe echo of the appalling tragedy which was being enacted before him, hehad put out a fatherly, tentative hand towards Marguerite, and given hericy fingers a comforting pressure.
And in the hearts of Chauvelin and his colleague there was satisfiedrevenge, eager, exultant triumph and that terrible nerve-tension whichimmediately precedes the long-expected climax.
But who can say what went on within the heart of that bold adventurer,about to be brought to the lowest depths of humiliation which it is inthe power of man to endure? What behind that smooth unruffled brow stillbent laboriously over the page of writing?
The crowd was now on the Place Daumont; some of the foremost inthe ranks were ascending the stone steps which lead to the southernramparts. The noise had become incessant: Pierrots and Pierrettes,Harlequins and Columbin
es had worked themselves up into a veritableintoxication of shouts and laughter.
Now as they all swarmed up the steps and caught sight of the open windowalmost on a level with the ground, and of the large dimly-lighted room,they gave forth one terrific and voluminous "Hurrah!" for the paternalgovernment up in Paris, who had given them cause for all this joy. Thenthey recollected how the amnesty, the pardon, the national fete, thisbrilliant procession had come about, and somebody in the crowd shouted:
"Allons! les us have a look at that English spy!..."
"Let us see the Scarlet Pimpernel!"
"Yes! yes! let us see what he is like!"
They shouted and stamped and swarmed round the open window, swingingtheir lanthorns and demanding in a loud tone of voice that the Englishspy be shown to them.
Faces wet with rain and perspiration tried to peep in at the window.Collot gave brief orders to the soldiers to close the shutters at onceand to push away the crowd, but the crowd would not be pushed. It wouldnot be gainsaid, and when the soldiers tried to close the window, twentyangry fists broke the panes of glass.
"I can't finish this writing in your lingo, sir, whilst this demmed rowis going on," said Sir Percy placidly.
"You have not much more to write, Sir Percy," urged Chauvelin withnervous impatience, "I pray you, finish the matter now, and get you gonefrom out this city."
"Send that demmed lot away, then," rejoined Sir Percy calmly.
"They won't go.... They want to see you..."
Sir Percy paused a moment, pen in hand, as if in deep reflection.
"They want to see me," he said with a laugh. "Why, demn it all... then,why not let em?..."
And with a few rapid strokes of the pen, he quickly finished the letter,adding his signature with a bold flourish, whilst the crowd, pushing,jostling, shouting and cursing the soldiers, still loudly demanded tosee the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Chauvelin felt as if his heart would veritably burst with the wildnessof its beating.
Then Sir Percy, with one hand lightly pressed on the letter, pushed hischair away and with his pleasant ringing voice, said once again:
"Well! demn it... let 'em see me!..."
With that he sprang to his feet and up to his full height, and as he didso he seized the two massive pewter candlesticks, one in each hand, andwith powerful arms well outstretched he held them high above his head.
"The letter..." murmured Chauvelin in a hoarse whisper.
But even as he was quickly reaching out a hand, which shook with theintensity of his excitement, towards the letter on the table, Blakeney,with one loud and sudden shout, threw the heavy candlesticks ontothe floor. They rattled down with a terrific crash, the lights wereextinguished, and the whole room was immediately plunged in utterdarkness.
The crowd gave a wild yell of fear: they had only caught sight forone instant of that gigantic figure--which, with arms outstretched hadseemed supernaturally tall--weirdly illumined by the flickering light ofthe tallow candles and the next moment disappearing into utter darknessbefore their very gaze. Overcome with sudden superstitious fear,Pierrots and Pierrettes, drummer and trumpeters turned and fled in everydirection.
Within the room all was wild confusion. The soldiers had heard a cry:
"La fenetre! La fenetre!"
Who gave it no one knew, no one could afterwards recollect: certain itis that with one accord the majority of the men made a rush for the openwindow, driven thither partly by the wild instinct of the chase afteran escaping enemy, and partly by the same superstitious terror which hadcaused the crowd to flee. They clambered over the sill and dropped downon to the ramparts below, then started in wild pursuit.
But when the crash came, Chauvelin had given one frantic shout:
"The letter!!!... Collot!!... A moi.... In his hand.... The letter!..."
There was the sound of a heavy thud, of a terrible scuffle there on thefloor in the darkness and then a yell of victory from Collot d'Herbois.
"I have the letter! A Paris!"
"Victory!" echoed Chauvelin, exultant and panting, "victory!! TheAngelus, friend Hebert! Take the calotin to ring the Angelus!!!"
It was instinct which caused Collot d'Herbois to find the door; he toreit open, letting in a feeble ray of light from the corridor. He stood inthe doorway one moment, his slouchy, ungainly form distinctly outlinedagainst the lighter background beyond, a look of exultant and malicioustriumph, of deadly hate and cruelty distinctly imprinted on his face andwith upraised hand wildly flourishing the precious document, the brandof dishonour for the enemy of France.
"A Paris!" shouted Chauvelin to him excitedly. "Into Robespierre'shands. ... The letter!..."
Then he fell back panting, exhausted on the nearest chair.
Collot, without looking again behind him, called wildly for the menwho were to escort him to Paris. They were picked troopers, stalwartveterans from the old municipal guard. They had not broken their ranksthroughout the turmoil, and fell into line in perfect order as theyfollowed Citizen Collot out of the room.
Less than five minutes later there was the noise of stamping andchamping of bits in the courtyard below, a shout from Collot, and thesound of a cavalcade galloping at break-neck speed towards the distantParis gate.
Chapter XXXIV: The Angelus