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  THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

  BY BARONESS ORCZY

  AUTHOR OF "FLOWER O' THE LILY," "LORD TONY'S WIFE," "THE SCARLETPIMPERNEL," ETC.

  CONTENTS

  I SIR PERCY EXPLAINS

  II A QUESTION OF PASSPORTS

  III TWO GOOD PATRIOTS

  IV THE OLD SCARECROW

  V A FINE BIT OF WORK

  VI HOW JEAN PIERRE MET THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

  VII OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH

  VIII THE TRAITOR

  IX THE CABARET DE LA LIBERTE

  X "NEEDS MUST--"

  XI A BATTLE OF WITS

  I

  SIR PERCY EXPLAINS

  It was not, Heaven help us all! a very uncommon occurrence these days: awoman almost unsexed by misery, starvation, and the abnormal excitementengendered by daily spectacles of revenge and of cruelty. They were tobe met with every day, round every street corner, these harridans, moreterrible far than were the men.

  This one was still comparatively young, thirty at most; would have beengood-looking too, for the features were really delicate, the nosechiselled, the brow straight, the chin round and small. But the mouth!Heavens, what a mouth! Hard and cruel and thin-lipped; and those eyes!sunken and rimmed with purple; eyes that told tales of sorrow and, yes!of degradation. The crowd stood round her, sullen and apathetic; poor,miserable wretches like herself, staring at her antics with lack-lustreeyes and an ever-recurrent contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

  The woman was dancing, contorting her body in the small circle of lightformed by a flickering lanthorn which was hung across the street fromhouse to house, striking the muddy pavement with her shoeless feet, allto the sound of a be-ribboned tambourine which she struck now and againwith her small, grimy hand. From time to time she paused, held out thetambourine at arm's length, and went the round of the spectators, askingfor alms. But at her approach the crowd at once seemed to disintegrate,to melt into the humid evening air; it was but rarely that a greasytoken fell into the outstretched tambourine. Then as the woman startedagain to dance the crowd gradually reassembled, and stood, hands inpockets, lips still sullen and contemptuous, but eyes watchful of thespectacle. There were such few spectacles these days, other than themonotonous processions of tumbrils with their load of aristocrats forthe guillotine!

  So the crowd watched, and the woman danced. The lanthorn overhead threwa weird light on red caps and tricolour cockades, on the sullen faces ofthe men and the shoulders of the women, on the dancer's weird antics andher flying, tattered skirts. She was obviously tired, as a poor,performing cur might be, or a bear prodded along to uncongenialbuffoonery. Every time that she paused and solicited alms with hertambourine the crowd dispersed, and some of them laughed because sheinsisted.

  "Voyons," she said with a weird attempt at gaiety, "a couple of sous forthe entertainment, citizen! You have stood here half an hour. You can'thave it all for nothing, what?"

  The man--young, square-shouldered, thick-lipped, with the look of abully about his well-clad person--retorted with a coarse insult, whichthe woman resented. There were high words; the crowd for the most partranged itself on the side of the bully. The woman backed against thewall nearest to her, held feeble, emaciated hands up to her ears in avain endeavour to shut out the hideous jeers and ribald jokes which werethe natural weapons of this untamed crowd.

  Soon blows began to rain; not a few fell upon the unfortunate woman. Shescreamed, and the more she screamed the louder did the crowd jeer, theuglier became its temper. Then suddenly it was all over. How it happenedthe woman could not tell. She had closed her eyes, feeling sick anddizzy; but she had heard a loud call, words spoken in English (alanguage which she understood), a pleasant laugh, and a brief butviolent scuffle. After that the hurrying retreat of many feet, the clickof sabots on the uneven pavement and patter of shoeless feet, and thensilence.

  She had fallen on her knees and was cowering against the wall, had lostconsciousness probably for a minute or two. Then she heard that pleasantlaugh again and the soft drawl of the English tongue.

  "I love to see those beggars scuttling off, like so many rats to theirburrows, don't you, Ffoulkes?"

  "They didn't put up much fight, the cowards!" came from another voice,also in English. "A dozen of them against this wretched woman. What hadbest be done with her?"

  "I'll see to her," rejoined the first speaker. "You and Tony had bestfind the others. Tell them I shall be round directly."

  It all seemed like a dream. The woman dared not open her eyes lestreality--hideous and brutal--once more confronted her. Then all at onceshe felt that her poor, weak body, encircled by strong arms, was liftedoff the ground, and that she was being carried down the street, awayfrom the light projected by the lanthorn overhead, into the shelteringdarkness of a yawning porte cochere. But she was not then fullyconscious.

  II

  When she reopened her eyes she was in what appeared to be the lodge of aconcierge. She was lying on a horsehair sofa. There was a sense ofwarmth and of security around her. No wonder that it still seemed like adream. Before her stood a man, tall and straight, surely a being fromanother world--or so he appeared to the poor wretch who, sinceuncountable time, had set eyes on none but the most miserable dregs ofstruggling humanity, who had seen little else but rags, and faces eithercruel or wretched. This man was clad in a huge caped coat, which madehis powerful figure seem preternaturally large. His hair was fair andslightly curly above his low, square brow; the eyes beneath their heavylids looked down on her with unmistakable kindness.

  The poor woman struggled to her feet. With a quick and patheticallyhumble gesture she drew her ragged, muddy skirts over her ankles and hertattered kerchief across her breast.

  "I had best go now, Monsieur ... citizen," she murmured, while a hotflush rose to the roots of her unkempt hair. "I must not stop here....I--"

  "You are not going, Madame," he broke in, speaking now in perfect Frenchand with a great air of authority, as one who is accustomed to beingimplicitly obeyed, "until you have told me how, a lady of culture and ofrefinement, comes to be masquerading as a street-dancer. The game is adangerous one, as you have experienced to-night."

  "It is no game, Monsieur ... citizen," she stammered; "nor yet amasquerade. I have been a street-dancer all my life, and--"

  By way of an answer he took her hand, always with that air of authoritywhich she never thought to resent.

  "This is not a street-dancer's hand; Madame," he said quietly. "Nor isyour speech that of the people."

  She drew her hand away quickly, and the flush on her haggard facedeepened.

  "If you will honour me with your confidence, Madame," he insisted.

  The kindly words, the courtesy of the man, went to the poor creature'sheart. She fell back upon the sofa and with her face buried in her armsshe sobbed out her heart for a minute or two. The man waited quitepatiently. He had seen many women weep these days, and had dried many atear through deeds of valour and of self-sacrifice, which were for everrecorded in the hearts of those whom he had succoured.

  When this poor woman had succeeded in recovering some semblance ofself-control, she turned her wan, tear-stained face to him and saidsimply:

  "My name is Madeleine Lannoy, Monsieur. My husband was killed during theemeutes at Versailles, whilst defending the persons of the Queen and ofthe royal children against the fury of the mob. When I was a girl I hadthe misfortune to attract the attentions of a young doctor named JeanPaul Marat. You have heard of him, Monsieur?"

  The other nodded.

  "You know him, perh
aps," she continued, "for what he is: the most crueland revengeful of men. A few years ago he threw up his lucrativeappointment as Court physician to Monseigneur le Comte d'Artois, andgave up the profession of medicine for that of journalist andpolitician. Politician! Heaven help him! He belongs to the mostbloodthirsty section of revolutionary brigands. His creed is pillage,murder, and revenge; and he chooses to declare that it is I who, byrejecting his love, drove him to these foul extremities. May God forgivehim that abominable lie! The evil we do, Monsieur, is within us; it doesnot come from circumstance. I, in the meanwhile, was a happy wife. Myhusband, M. de Lannoy, who was an officer in the army, idolised me. Wehad one child, a boy--"

  She paused, with another catch in her throat. Then she resumed, withcalmness that, in view of the tale she told, sounded strangely weird:

  "In June last year my child was stolen from me--stolen by Marat inhideous revenge for the supposed wrong which I had done him. The detailsof that execrable outrage are of no importance. I was decoyed from homeone day through the agency of a forged message purporting to come from avery dear friend whom I knew to be in grave trouble at the time. Oh! thewhole thing was thoroughly well thought out, I can assure you!" shecontinued, with a harsh laugh which ended in a heartrending sob. "Theforged message, the suborned servant, the threats of terrible reprisalsif anyone in the village gave me the slightest warning or clue. When thewhole miserable business was accomplished, I was just like a trappedanimal inside a cage, held captive by immovable bars of obstinatesilence and cruel indifference. No one would help me. No one ostensiblyknew anything; no one had seen anything, heard anything. The child wasgone! My servants, the people in the village--some of whom I could havesworn were true and sympathetic--only shrugged their shoulders. 'Quevoulez-vous, Madame? Children of bourgeois as well as of aristos wereoften taken up by the State to be brought up as true patriots and nolonger pampered like so many lap-dogs.'

  "Three days later I received a letter from that inhuman monster, JeanPaul Marat. He told me that he had taken my child away from me, not fromany idea of revenge for my disdain in the past, but from a spirit ofpure patriotism. My boy, he said, should not be brought up with the sameideas of bourgeois effeteness and love of luxury which had disgraced thenation for centuries. No! he should be reared amongst men who hadrealised the true value of fraternity and equality and the ideal ofcomplete liberty for the individual to lead his own life, unfettered bysenseless prejudices of education and refinement. Which means,Monsieur," the poor woman went on with passionate misery, "that my childis to be reared up in the company of all that is most vile and mostdegraded in the disease-haunted slums of indigent Paris; that, with theconnivance of that execrable fiend Marat, my only son will, mayhap, comeback to me one day a potential thief, a criminal probably, adrink-sodden reprobate at best. Such things are done every day in thisglorious Revolution of ours--done in the sacred name of France and ofLiberty. And the moral murder of my child is to be my punishment fordaring to turn a deaf ear to the indign passion of a brute!"

  Once more she paused, and when the melancholy echo of her broken voicehad died away in the narrow room, not another murmur broke the stillnessof this far-away corner of the great city.

  The man did not move. He stood looking down upon the poor woman beforehim, a world of pity expressed in his deep-set eyes. Through theabsolute silence around there came the sound as of a gentle flutter, thecurrent of cold air, mayhap, sighing through the ill-fitting shutters,or the soft, weird soughing made by unseen things. The man's heart wasfull of pity, and it seemed as if the Angel of Compassion had come athis bidding and enfolded the sorrowing woman with his wings.

  A moment or two later she was able to finish her pathetic narrative.

  "Do you marvel, Monsieur," she said, "that I am still sane--still alive?But I only live to find my child. I try and keep my reason in order tofight the devilish cunning of a brute on his own ground. Up to now allmy inquiries have been in vain. At first I squandered money, triedjudicial means, set an army of sleuth-hounds on the track. I triedbribery, corruption. I went to the wretch himself and abased myself inthe dust before him. He only laughed at me and told me that his love forme had died long ago; he now was lavishing its treasures upon thefaithful friend and companion--that awful woman, Simonne Evrard--who hadstood by him in the darkest hours of his misfortunes. Then it was that Idecided to adopt different tactics. Since my child was to be reared inthe midst of murderers and thieves, I, too, would haunt their abodes. Ibecame a street-singer, dancer, what you will. I wear rags now andsolicit alms. I haunt the most disreputable cabarets in the lowest slumsof Paris. I listen and I spy; I question every man, woman, and child whomight afford some clue, give me some indication. There is hardly a housein these parts that I have not visited and whence I have not been kickedout as an importunate beggar or worse. Gradually I am narrowing thecircle of my investigations. Presently I shall get a clue. I shall! Iknow I shall! God cannot allow this monstrous thing to go on!"

  Again there was silence. The poor woman had completely broken down.Shame, humiliation, passionate grief, had made of her a mere miserablewreckage of humanity.

  The man waited awhile until she was composed, then he said simply:

  "You have suffered terribly, Madame; but chiefly, I think, because youhave been alone in your grief. You have brooded over it until it hasthreatened your reason. Now, if you will allow me to act as your friend,I will pledge you my word that I will find your son for you. Will youtrust me sufficiently to give up your present methods and place yourselfentirely in my hands? There are more than a dozen gallant gentlemen, whoare my friends, and who will help me in my search. But for this I musthave a free hand, and only help from you when I require it. I can findyou lodgings where you will be quite safe under the protection of mywife, who is as like an angel as any man or woman I have ever met onthis earth. When your son is once more in your arms, you will, I hope,accompany us to England, where so many of your friends have alreadyfound a refuge. If this meets with your approval, Madame, you maycommand me, for with your permission I mean to be your most devotedservant."

  Dante, in his wild imaginations of hell and of purgatory and fleetingglimpses of paradise, never put before us the picture of a soul that waslost and found heaven, after a cycle of despair. Nor could MadeleineLannoy ever explain her feelings at that moment, even to herself. Tobegin with, she could not quite grasp the reality of this ray of hope,which came to her at the darkest hour of her misery. She stared at theman before her as she would on an ethereal vision; she fell on her kneesand buried her face in her hands.

  What happened afterwards she hardly knew; she was in a state ofsemi-consciousness. When she once more woke to reality, she was incomfortable lodgings; she moved and talked and ate and lived like ahuman being. She was no longer a pariah, an outcast, a poor,half-demented creature, insentient save for an infinite capacity forsuffering. She suffered still, but she no longer despaired. There hadbeen such marvellous power and confidence in that man's voice when hesaid: "I pledge you my word." Madeleine Lannoy lived now in hope and asweet sense of perfect mental and bodily security. Around her there wasan influence, too, a presence which she did not often see, but alwaysfelt to be there: a woman, tall and graceful and sympathetic, who wasalways ready to cheer, to comfort, and to help. Her name was Marguerite.Madame Lannoy never knew her by any other. The man had spoken of her asbeing as like an angel as could be met on this earth, and poor MadeleineLannoy fully agreed with him.

  III

  Even that bloodthirsty tiger, Jean Paul Marat, has had his apologists.His friends have called him a martyr, a selfless and incorruptibleexponent of social and political ideals. We may take it that SimonneEvrard loved him, for a more impassioned obituary speech was, mayhap,never spoken than the one which she delivered before the NationalAssembly in honour of that sinister demagogue, whose writings andactivities will for ever sully some of the really fine pages of thatrevolutionary era.

  But with those apologists we have naught to do. Hi
story has talked itsfill of the inhuman monster. With the more intimate biographists alonehas this true chronicle any concern. It is one of these who tells usthat on or about the eighteenth day of Messidor, in the year I of theRepublic (a date which corresponds with the sixth of July, 1793, of ourown calendar), Jean Paul Marat took an additional man into his service,at the instance of Jeannette Marechal, his cook and maid-of-all-work.Marat was at this time a martyr to an unpleasant form of skin disease,brought on by the terrible privations which he had endured during thefew years preceding his association with Simonne Evrard, the faithfulfriend and housekeeper, whose small fortune subsequently provided himwith some degree of comfort.

  The man whom Jeannette Marechal, the cook, introduced into the householdof No. 30, Rue des Cordeliers, that worthy woman had literally pickedone day out of the gutter where he was grabbing for scraps of food likesome wretched starving cur. He appeared to be known to the police of thesection, his identity book proclaiming him to be one Paul Mole, who hadserved his time in gaol for larceny. He professed himself willing to doany work required of him, for the merest pittance and some kind of roofover his head. Simonne Evrard allowed Jeannette to take him in, partlyout of compassion and partly with a view to easing the woman's ownburden, the only other domestic in the house--a man named Bas--beingmore interested in politics and the meetings of the Club des Jacobinsthan he was in his master's ailments. The man Mole, moreover, appearedto know something of medicine and of herbs and how to prepare the warmbaths which alone eased the unfortunate Marat from pain. He waspowerfully built, too, and though he muttered and grumbled a great deal,and indulged in prolonged fits of sulkiness, when he would not open hismouth to anyone, he was, on the whole, helpful and good-tempered.

  There must also have been something about his whole wretched personalitywhich made a strong appeal to the "Friend of the People," for it isquite evident that within a few days Paul Mole had won no small measureof his master's confidence.

  Marat, sick, fretful, and worried, had taken an unreasoning dislike tohis servant Bas. He was thankful to have a stranger about him, a man whowas as miserable as he himself had been a very little while ago; who,like himself, had lived in cellars and in underground burrows, and livedon the scraps of food which even street-curs had disdained.

  On the seventh day following Mole's entry into the household, and whilethe latter was preparing his employer's bath, Marat said abruptly tohim:

  "You'll go as far as the Chemin de Pantin to-day for me, citizen. Youknow your way?"

  "I can find it, what?" muttered Mole, who appeared to be in one of hissurly moods.

  "You will have to go very circumspectly," Marat went on, in his crackedand feeble voice. "And see to it that no one spies upon your movements.I have many enemies, citizen ... one especially ... a woman.... She isalways prying and spying on me.... So beware of any woman you seelurking about at your heels."

  Mole gave a half-audible grunt in reply.

  "You had best go after dark," the other rejoined after awhile. "Comeback to me after nine o'clock. It is not far to the Chemin dePantin--just where it intersects the Route de Meaux. You can get thereand back before midnight. The people will admit you. I will give you aring--the only thing I possess.... It has little or no value," he addedwith a harsh, grating laugh. "It will not be worth your while to stealit. You will have to see a brat and report to me on his condition--hisappearance, what?... Talk to him a bit.... See what he says and let meknow. It is not difficult."

  "No, citizen."

  Mole helped the suffering wretch into his bath. Not a movement, not aquiver of the eyelid betrayed one single emotion which he may havefelt--neither loathing nor sympathy, only placid indifference. He wasjust a half-starved menial, thankful to accomplish any task for the sakeof satisfying a craving stomach. Marat stretched out his shrunken limbsin the herbal water with a sigh of well-being.

  "And the ring, citizen?" Mole suggested presently.

  The demagogue held up his left hand--it was emaciated and disfigured bydisease. A cheap-looking metal ring, set with a false stone, glistenedupon the fourth finger.

  "Take it off," he said curtly.

  The ring must have all along been too small for the bony hand of theonce famous Court physician. Even now it appeared embedded in the flabbyskin and refused to slide over the knuckle.

  "The water will loosen it," remarked Mole quietly.

  Marat dipped his hand back into the water, and the other stood besidehim, silent and stolid, his broad shoulders bent, his face naught but amask, void and expressionless beneath its coating of grime.

  One or two seconds went by. The air was heavy with steam and a medley ofevil-smelling fumes, which hung in the close atmosphere of the narrowroom. The sick man appeared to be drowsy, his head rolled over to oneside, his eyes closed. He had evidently forgotten all about the ring.

  A woman's voice, shrill and peremptory, broke the silence which hadbecome oppressive:

  "Here, citizen Mole, I want you! There's not a bit of wood chopped upfor my fire, and how am I to make the coffee without firing, I shouldlike to know?"

  "The ring, citizen," Mole urged gruffly.

  Marat had been roused by the woman's sharp voice. He cursed her for anoisy harridan; then he said fretfully:

  "It will do presently--when you are ready to start. I said nine o'clock... it is only four now. I am tired. Tell citizeness Evrard to bring mesome hot coffee in an hour's time.... You can go and fetch me theMoniteur now, and take back these proofs to citizen Dufour. You willfind him at the 'Cordeliers,' or else at the printing works.... Comeback at nine o'clock.... I am tired now ... too tired to tell you whereto find the house which is off the Chemin de Pantin. Presently willdo...."

  Even while he spoke he appeared to drop into a fitful sleep. His twohands were hidden under the sheet which covered the bath. Mole watchedhim in silence for a moment or two, then he turned on his heel andshuffled off through the ante-room into the kitchen beyond, wherepresently he sat down, squatting in an angle by the stove, and startedwith his usual stolidness to chop wood for the citizeness' fire.

  When this task was done, and he had received a chunk of sour bread forhis reward from Jeannette Marechal, the cook, he shuffled out of theplace and into the street, to do his employer's errands.

  IV

  Paul Mole had been to the offices of the Moniteur and to the printingworks of L'Ami du Peuple. He had seen the citizen Dufour at the Cluband, presumably, had spent the rest of his time wandering idly about thestreets of the quartier, for he did not return to the rue des Cordeliersuntil nearly nine o'clock.

  As soon as he came to the top of the street, he fell in with the crowdwhich had collected outside No. 30. With his habitual slouchy gait andthe steady pressure of his powerful elbows, he pushed his way to thedoor, whilst gleaning whisperings and rumours on his way.

  "The citizen Marat has been assassinated."

  "By a woman."

  "A mere girl."

  "A wench from Caen. Her name is Corday."

  "The people nearly tore her to pieces awhile ago."

  "She is as much as guillotined already."

  The latter remark went off with a loud guffaw and many a ribald joke.

  Mole, despite his great height, succeeded in getting throughunperceived. He was of no account, and he knew his way inside the house.It was full of people: journalists, gaffers, women and men--the usualcrowd that come to gape. The citizen Marat was a great personage. TheFriend of the People. An Incorruptible, if ever there was one. Just lookat the simplicity, almost the poverty, in which he lived! Only thearistos hated him, and the fat bourgeois who battened on the people.Citizen Marat had sent hundreds of them to the guillotine with a strokeof his pen or a denunciation from his fearless tongue.

  Mole did not pause to listen to these comments. He pushed his waythrough the throng up the stairs, to his late employer's lodgings on thefirst floor.

  The anteroom was crowded, so were the other rooms; but the greatestpressure was a
round the door immediately facing him, the one which gaveon the bathroom. In the kitchen on his right, where awhile ago he hadbeen chopping wood under a flood of abuse from Jeannette Marechal, hecaught sight of this woman, cowering by the hearth, her filthy apronthrown over her head, and crying--yes! crying for the loathsomecreature, who had expiated some of his abominable crimes at the hands ofa poor, misguided girl, whom an infuriated mob was even now threateningto tear to pieces in its rage.

  The parlour and even Simonne's room were also filled with people: men,most of whom Mole knew by sight; friends or enemies of the rantingdemagogue who lay murdered in the very bath which his casual servant hadprepared for him. Every one was discussing the details of the murder,the punishment of the youthful assassin. Simonne Evrard was being loudlyblamed for having admitted the girl into citizen Marat's room. But thewench had looked so simple, so innocent, and she said she was the bearerof a message from Caen. She had called twice during the day, and in theevening the citizen himself said that he would see her. Simonne had beenfor sending her away. But the citizen was peremptory. And he was sohelpless ... in his bath ... name of a name, the pitiable affair!

  No one paid much attention to Mole. He listened for a while to Simonne'simpassioned voice, giving her version of the affair; then he worked hisway stolidly into the bathroom.

  It was some time before he succeeded in reaching the side of that awfulbath wherein lay the dead body of Jean Paul Marat. The small room wasdensely packed--not with friends, for there was not a man or womanliving, except Simonne Evrard and her sisters, whom the bloodthirstydemagogue would have called "friend"; but his powerful personality hadbeen a menace to many, and now they came in crowds to see that he wasreally dead, that a girl's feeble hand had actually done the deed whichthey themselves had only contemplated. They stood about whispering,their heads averted from the ghastly spectacle of this miserablecreature, to whom even death had failed to lend his usual attribute oftranquil dignity.

  The tiny room was inexpressibly hot and stuffy. Hardly a breath ofoutside air came in through the narrow window, which only gave on thebedroom beyond. An evil-smelling oil-lamp swung from the low ceiling andshed its feeble light on the upturned face of the murdered man.

  Mole stood for a moment or two, silent and pensive, beside that hideousform. There was the bath, just as he had prepared it: the board spreadover with a sheet and laid across the bath, above which only the headand shoulders emerged, livid and stained. One hand, the left, graspedthe edge of the board with the last convulsive clutch of supreme agony.

  On the fourth finger of that hand glistened the shoddy ring which Marathad said was not worth stealing. Yet, apparently, it roused the cupidityof the poor wretch who had served him faithfully for these last fewdays, and who now would once more be thrown, starving and friendless,upon the streets of Paris.

  Mole threw a quick, furtive glance around him. The crowd which had cometo gloat over the murdered Terrorist stood about whispering, with headsaverted, engrossed in their own affairs. He slid his handsurreptitiously over that of the dead man. With dexterous manipulationhe lifted the finger round which glistened the metal ring. Deathappeared to have shrivelled the flesh still more upon the bones, to havecontracted the knuckles and shrunk the tendons. The ring slid off quiteeasily. Mole had it in his hand, when suddenly a rough blow struck himon the shoulder.

  "Trying to rob the dead?" a stern voice shouted in his ear. "Are you adisguised aristo, or what?"

  At once the whispering ceased. A wave of excitement went round the room.Some people shouted, others pressed forward to gaze on the abandonedwretch who had been caught in the act of committing a gruesome deed.

  "Robbing the dead!"

  They were experts in evil, most of these men here. Their hands wereindelibly stained with some of the foulest crimes ever recorded inhistory. But there was something ghoulish in this attempt to plunderthat awful thing lying there, helpless, in the water. There was also agreat relief to nerve-tension in shouting Horror and Anathema withself-righteous indignation; and additional excitement in the suggested"aristo in disguise."

  Mole struggled vigorously. He was powerful and his fists were heavy. Buthe was soon surrounded, held fast by both arms, whilst half a dozenhands tore at his tattered clothes, searched him to his very skin, forthe booty which he was thought to have taken from the dead.

  "Leave me alone, curse you!" he shouted, louder than his aggressors. "Myname is Paul Mole, I tell you. Ask the citizeness Evrard. I waited oncitizen Marat. I prepared his bath. I was the only friend who did notturn away from him in his sickness and his poverty. Leave me alone, Isay! Why," he added, with a hoarse laugh, "Jean Paul in his bath was asnaked as on the day he was born!"

  "'Tis true," said one of those who had been most active in rummagingthrough Mole's grimy rags. "There's nothing to be found on him."

  But suspicion once aroused was not easily allayed. Mole's protestationsbecame more and more vigorous and emphatic. His papers were all inorder, he vowed. He had them on him: his own identity papers, clear foranyone to see. Someone had dragged them out of his pocket; they weredank and covered with splashes of mud--hardly legible. They were handedover to a man who stood in the immediate circle of light projected bythe lamp. He seized them and examined them carefully. This man was shortand slight, was dressed in well-made cloth clothes; his hair was held inat the nape of the next in a modish manner with a black taffeta bow. Hishands were clean, slender, and claw-like, and he wore the tricolourscarf of office round his waist which proclaimed him to be a member ofone of the numerous Committees which tyrannised over the people.

  The papers appeared to be in order, and proclaimed the bearer to be PaulMole, a native of Besancon, a carpenter by trade. The identity book hadrecently been signed by Jean Paul Marat, the man's latest employer, andbeen counter-signed by the Commissary of the section.

  The man in the tricolour scarf turned with some acerbity on the crowdwho was still pressing round the prisoner.

  "Which of you here," he queried roughly, "levelled an unjust accusationagainst an honest citizen?"

  But, as usual in such cases, no one replied directly to the charge. Itwas not safe these days to come into conflict with men like Mole. TheCommittees were all on their side, against the bourgeois as well asagainst the aristos. This was the reign of the proletariat, and thesans-culotte always emerged triumphant in a conflict against thewell-to-do. Nor was it good to rouse the ire of citizen Chauvelin, oneof the most powerful, as he was the most pitiless members of theCommittee of Public Safety. Quiet, sarcastic rather than aggressive,something of the aristo, too, in his clean linen and well-cut clothes,he had not even yielded to the defunct Marat in cruelty and relentlesspersecution of aristocrats.

  Evidently his sympathies now were all with Mole, the out-at-elbows,miserable servant of an equally miserable master. His pale-coloured,deep-set eyes challenged the crowd, which gave way before him, slunkback into the corners, away from his coldly threatening glance. Thus hefound himself suddenly face to face with Mole, somewhat isolated fromthe rest, and close to the tin bath with its grim contents. Chauvelinhad the papers in his hand.

  "Take these, citizen," he said curtly to the other. "They are all inorder."

  He looked up at Mole as he said this, for the latter, though hisshoulders were bent, was unusually tall, and Mole took the papers fromhim. Thus for the space of a few seconds the two men looked into oneanother's face, eyes to eyes--and suddenly Chauvelin felt an icy sweatcoursing down his spine. The eyes into which he gazed had a strange,ironical twinkle in them, a kind of good-humoured arrogance, whilstthrough the firm, clear-cut lips, half hidden by a dirty and ill-kemptbeard, there came the sound--oh! a mere echo--of a quaint and inanelaugh.

  The whole thing--it seemed like a vision--was over in a second.Chauvelin, sick and faint with the sudden rush of blood to his head,closed his eyes for one brief instant. The next, the crowd had closedround him; anxious inquiries reached his re-awakened senses.

  But he uttered one
quick, hoarse cry:

  "Hebert! A moi! Are you there?"

  "Present, citizen!" came in immediate response. And a tall figure in thetattered uniform affected by the revolutionary guard stepped briskly outof the crowd. Chauvelin's claw-like hand was shaking visibly.

  "The man Mole," he called in a voice husky with excitement. "Seize himat once! And, name of a dog! do not allow a living soul in or out of thehouse!"

  Hebert turned on his heel. The next moment his harsh voice was heardabove the din and the general hubbub around:

  "Quite safe, citizen!" he called to his chief. "We have the rogue rightenough!"

  There was much shouting and much cursing, a great deal of bustle andconfusion, as the men of the Surete closed the doors of the defunctdemagogue's lodgings. Some two score men, a dozen or so women, werelocked in, inside the few rooms which reeked of dirt and of disease.They jostled and pushed, screamed and protested. For two or threeminutes the din was quite deafening. Simonne Evrard pushed her way up tothe forefront of the crowd.

  "What is this I hear?" she queried peremptorily. "Who is accusingcitizen Mole? And of what, I should like to know? I am responsible foreveryone inside these apartments ... and if citizen Marat were stillalive--"

  Chauvelin appeared unaware of all the confusion and of the woman'sprotestations. He pushed his way through the crowd to the corner of theanteroom where Mole stood, crouching and hunched up, his grimy handsidly fingering the papers which Chauvelin had returned to him a momentago. Otherwise he did not move.

  He stood, silent and sullen; and when Chauvelin, who had succeeded inmastering his emotion, gave the peremptory command: "Take this man tothe depot at once. And do not allow him one instant out of your sight!"he made no attempt at escape.

  He allowed Hebert and the men to seize him, to lead him away. Hefollowed without a word, without a struggle. His massive figure washunched up like that of an old man; his hands, which still clung to hisidentity papers, trembled slightly like those of a man who is veryfrightened and very helpless. The men of the Surete handled him veryroughly, but he made no protest. The woman Evrard did all theprotesting, vowing that the people would not long tolerate such tyranny.She even forced her way up to Hebert. With a gesture of fury she triedto strike him in the face, and continued, with a loud voice, her insultsand objurgations, until, with a movement of his bayonet, he pushed herroughly out of the way.

  After that Paul Mole, surrounded by the guard, was led without ceremonyout of the house. Chauvelin gazed after him as if he had been broughtface to face with a ghoul.

  V

  Chauvelin hurried to the depot. After those few seconds wherein he hadfelt dazed, incredulous, almost under a spell, he had quickly regainedthe mastery of his nerves, and regained, too, that intense joy whichanticipated triumph is wont to give.

  In the out-at-elbows, half-starved servant of the murdered Terrorist,citizen Chauvelin, of the Committee of Public Safety, had recognised hisarch enemy, that meddlesome and adventurous Englishman who chose to hidehis identity under the pseudonym of the Scarlet Pimpernel. He knew thathe could reckon on Hebert; his orders not to allow the prisoner onemoment out of sight would of a certainty be strictly obeyed.

  Hebert, indeed, a few moments later, greeted his chief outside the doorsof the depot with the welcome news that Paul Mole was safely under lockand key.

  "You had no trouble with him?" Chauvelin queried, with ill-concealedeagerness.

  "No, no! citizen, no trouble," was Hebert's quick reply. "He seems to bea well-known rogue in these parts," he continued with a complacentguffaw; "and some of his friends tried to hustle us at the corner of theRue de Tourraine; no doubt with a view to getting the prisoner away. Butwe were too strong for them, and Paul Mole is now sulking in his celland still protesting that his arrest is an outrage against the libertyof the people."

  Chauvelin made no further remark. He was obviously too excited to speak.Pushing past Hebert and the men of the Surete who stood about the darkand narrow passages of the depot, he sought the Commissary of theSection in the latter's office.

  It was now close upon ten o'clock. The citizen Commissary Cuisinier hadfinished his work for the day and was preparing to go home and to bed.He was a family man, had been a respectable bourgeois in his day, andthough he was a rank opportunist and had sacrificed not only hispolitical convictions but also his conscience to the exigencies of thetime, he still nourished in his innermost heart a secret contempt forthe revolutionary brigands who ruled over France at this hour.

  To any other man than citizen Chauvelin, the citizen Commissary would,no doubt, have given a curt refusal to a request to see a prisoner atthis late hour of the evening. But Chauvelin was not a man to be denied,and whilst muttering various objections in his ill-kempt beard,Cuisinier, nevertheless, gave orders that the citizen was to beconducted at once to the cells.

  Paul Mole had in truth turned sulky. The turnkey vowed that the prisonerhad hardly stirred since first he had been locked up in the common cell.He sat in a corner at the end of the bench, with his face turned to thewall, and paid no heed either to his fellow-prisoners or to thefacetious remarks of the warder.

  Chauvelin went up to him, made some curt remark. Mole kept an obstinateshoulder turned towards him--a grimy shoulder, which showed nakedthrough a wide rent in his blouse. This portion of the cell waswell-nigh in total darkness; the feeble shaft of light which camethrough the open door hardly penetrated to this remote angle of thesqualid burrow. The same sense of mystery and unreality overcameChauvelin again as he looked on the miserable creature in whom, an hourago, he had recognised the super-exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney. Now hecould only see a vague outline in the gloom: the stooping shoulders, thelong limbs, that naked piece of shoulder which caught a feeble reflexfrom the distant light. Nor did any amount of none too gentle proddingon the part of the warder induce him to change his position.

  "Leave him alone," said Chauvelin curly at last. "I have seen all that Iwished to see."

  The cell was insufferably hot and stuffy. Chauvelin, finical and queasy,turned away with a shudder of disgust. There was nothing to be got nowout of a prolonged interview with his captured foe. He had seen him:that was sufficient. He had seen the super-exquisite Sir Percy Blakeneylocked up in a common cell with some of the most scrubby and abjectrogues which the slums of indigent Paris could yield, having apparentlyfailed in some undertaking which had demanded for its fulfilment notonly tattered clothes and grimy hands, but menial service with abeggarly and disease-ridden employer, whose very propinquity must havebeen positive torture to the fastidious dandy.

  Of a truth this was sufficient for the gratification of any revenge.Chauvelin felt that he could now go contentedly to rest after anevening's work excellently done.

  He gave order that Mole should be put in a separate cell, denied allintercourse with anyone outside or in the depot, and that he should beguarded on sight day and night. After that he went his way.

  VI

  The following morning citizen Chauvelin, of the Committee of PublicSafety, gave due notice to citizen Fouquier-Tinville, the PublicProsecutor, that the dangerous English spy, known to the world as theScarlet Pimpernel, was now safely under lock and key, and that he mustbe transferred to the Abbaye prison forthwith and to the guillotine asquickly as might be. No one was to take any risks this time; there mustbe no question either of discrediting his famous League or of obtainingother more valuable information out of him. Such methods had proveddisastrous in the past.

  There were no safe Englishmen these days, except the dead ones, and itwould not take citizen Fouquier-Tinville much thought or time to framean indictment against the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel, which would doaway with the necessity of a prolonged trial. The revolutionarygovernment was at war with England now, and short work could be made ofall poisonous spies.

  By order, therefore, of the Committee of Public Safety, the prisoner,Paul Mole, was taken out of the cells of the depot and conveyed in aclosed carriage to the Abbaye prison. C
hauvelin had the pleasure ofwatching this gratifying spectacle from the windows of the Commissariat.When he saw the closed carriage drive away, with Hebert and two meninside and two others on the box, he turned to citizen CommissaryCuisinier with a sigh of intense satisfaction.

  "There goes the most dangerous enemy our glorious revolution has had,"he said, with an accent of triumph which he did not attempt to disguise.

  Cuisinier shrugged his shoulders.

  "Possibly," he retorted curtly. "He did not seem to me to be verydangerous and his papers were quite in order."

  To this assertion Chauvelin made no reply. Indeed, how could he explainto this stolid official the subtle workings of an intriguing brain? Hadhe himself not had many a proof of how little the forging of identitypapers or of passports troubled the members of that accursed League? Hadhe not seen the Scarlet Pimpernel, that exquisite Sir Percy Blakeney,under disguises that were so grimy and so loathsome that they would haverepelled the most abject, suborned spy?

  Indeed, all that was wanted now was the assurance that Hebert--whohimself had a deadly and personal grudge against the ScarletPimpernel--would not allow him for one moment out of his sight.

  Fortunately as to this, there was no fear. One hint to Hebert and theman was as keen, as determined, as Chauvelin himself.

  "Set your mind at rest, citizen," he said with a rough oath. "I guessedhow matters stood the moment you gave me the order. I knew you would nottake all that trouble for a real Paul Mole. But have no fear! Thataccursed Englishman has not been one second out of my sight, from themoment I arrested him in the late citizen Marat's lodgings, and bySatan! he shall not be either, until I have seen his impudent head fallunder the guillotine."

  He himself, he added, had seen to the arrangements for the disposal ofthe prisoner in the Abbaye: an inner cell, partially partitioned off inone of the guard-rooms, with no egress of its own, and only a tinygrated air-hole high up in the wall, which gave on an outside corridor,and through which not even a cat could manage to slip. Oh! the prisonerwas well guarded! The citizen Representative need, of a truth, have nofear! Three or four men--of the best and most trustworthy--had not leftthe guard-room since the morning. He himself (Hebert) had kept theaccursed Englishman in sight all night, had personally conveyed him tothe Abbaye, and had only left the guard-room a moment ago in order tospeak with the citizen Representative. He was going back now at once,and would not move until the order came for the prisoner to be conveyedto the Court of Justice and thence to summary execution.

  For the nonce, Hebert concluded with a complacent chuckle, theEnglishman was still crouching dejectedly in a corner of his new cell,with little of him visible save that naked shoulder through his tornshirt, which, in the process of transference from one prison to another,had become a shade more grimy than before.

  Chauvelin nodded, well satisfied. He commended Hebert for his zeal,rejoiced with him over the inevitable triumph. It would be well toavenge that awful humiliation at Calais last September. Nevertheless, hefelt anxious and nervy; he could not comprehend the apathy assumed bythe factitious Mole. That the apathy was assumed Chauvelin was keenenough to guess. What it portended he could not conjecture. But that theEnglishman would make a desperate attempt at escape was, of course, aforegone conclusion. It rested with Hebert and a guard that couldneither be bribed nor fooled into treachery, to see that such an attemptremained abortive.

  What, however, had puzzled citizen Chauvelin all along was the motivewhich had induced Sir Percy Blakeney to play the role of menial to JeanPaul Marat. Behind it there lay, undoubtedly, one of those subtleintrigues for which that insolent Scarlet Pimpernel was famous; and withit was associated an attempt at theft upon the murdered body of thedemagogue ... an attempt which had failed, seeing that thesupposititious Paul Mole had been searched and nothing suspicious beenfound upon his person.

  Nevertheless, thoughts of that attempted theft disturbed Chauvelin'sequanimity. The old legend of the crumpled roseleaf was applicable inhis case. Something of his intense satisfaction would pale if this finalenterprise of the audacious adventurer were to be brought to atriumphant close in the end.

  VII

  That same forenoon, on his return from the Abbaye and the depot,Chauvelin found that a visitor was waiting for him. A woman, who gaveher name as Jeannette Marechal, desired to speak with the citizenRepresentative. Chauvelin knew the woman as his colleague Marat'smaid-of-all-work, and he gave orders that she should be admitted atonce.

  Jeannette Marechal, tearful and not a little frightened, assured thecitizen Representative that her errand was urgent. Her late employer hadso few friends; she did not know to whom to turn until she bethoughtherself of citizen Chauvelin. It took him some little time todisentangle the tangible facts out of the woman's voluble narrative. Atfirst the words: "Child ... Chemin de Pantin ... Leridan," were only amedley of sounds which conveyed no meaning to his ear. But when occasiondemanded, citizen Chauvelin was capable of infinite patience. Graduallyhe understood what the woman was driving at.

  "The child, citizen!" she reiterated excitedly. "What's to be done abouthim? I know that citizen Marat would have wished--"

  "Never mind now what citizen Marat would have wished," Chauvelin brokein quietly. "Tell me first who this child is."

  "I do not know, citizen," she replied.

  "How do you mean, you do not know? Then I pray you, citizeness, what isall this pother about?"

  "About the child, citizen," reiterated Jeannette obstinately.

  "What child?"

  "The child whom citizen Marat adopted last year and kept at that awfulhouse on the Chemin de Pantin."

  "I did not know citizen Marat had adopted a child," remarked Chauvelinthoughtfully.

  "No one knew," she rejoined. "Not even citizeness Evrard. I was the onlyone who knew. I had to go and see the child once every month. It was awretched, miserable brat," the woman went on, her shrivelled old breastvaguely stirred, mayhap, by some atrophied feeling of motherhood. "Morethan half-starved ... and the look in its eyes, citizen! It was enoughto make you cry! I could see by his poor little emaciated body and hisnice little hands and feet that he ought never to have been put in thatawful house, where--"

  She paused, and that quick look of furtive terror, which was so often tobe met with in the eyes of the timid these days, crept into her wrinkledface.

  "Well, citizeness," Chauvelin rejoined quietly, "why don't you proceed?That awful house, you were saying. Where and what is that awful house ofwhich you speak?"

  "The place kept by citizen Leridan, just by Bassin de l'Ourcq," thewoman murmured. "You know it, citizen."

  Chauvelin nodded. He was beginning to understand.

  "Well, now, tell me," he said, with that bland patience which had so oftserved him in good stead in his unavowable profession. "Tell me. Lastyear citizen Marat adopted--we'll say adopted--a child, whom he placedin the Leridans' house on the Pantin road. Is that correct?"

  "That is just how it is, citizen. And I--"

  "One moment," he broke in somewhat more sternly, as the woman'sgarrulity was getting on his nerves. "As you say, I know the Leridans'house. I have had cause to send children there myself. Children ofaristos or of fat bourgeois, whom it was our duty to turn into goodcitizens. They are not pampered there, I imagine," he went on drily;"and if citizen Marat sent his--er--adopted son there, it was not with aview to having him brought up as an aristo, what?"

  "The child was not to be brought up at all," the woman said gruffly. "Ihave often heard citizen Marat say that he hoped the brat would prove athief when he grew up, and would take to alcoholism like a duck takes towater."

  "And you know nothing of the child's parents?"

  "Nothing, citizen. I had to go to Pantin once a month and have a look athim and report to citizen Marat. But I always had the same tale to tell.The child was looking more and more like a young reprobate every time Isaw him."

  "Did citizen Marat pay the Leridans for keeping the child?"

  "Oh, no
, citizen! The Leridans make a trade of the children by sendingthem out to beg. But this one was not to be allowed out yet. CitizenMarat's orders were very stern, and he was wont to terrify the Leridanswith awful threats of the guillotine if they ever allowed the child outof their sight."

  Chauvelin sat silent for a while. A ray of light had traversed the darkand tortuous ways of his subtle brain. While he mused the woman becameimpatient. She continued to talk on with the volubility peculiar to herkind. He paid no heed to her, until one phrase struck his ear.

  "So now," Jeannette Marechal was saying, "I don't know what to do. Thering has disappeared, and the Leridans are suspicious."

  "The ring?" queried Chauvelin curtly. "What ring?"

  "As I was telling you, citizen," she replied querulously, "when I wentto see the child, the citizen Marat always gave me this ring to show tothe Leridans. Without I brought the ring they would not admit me insidetheir door. They were so terrified with all the citizen's threats of theguillotine."

  "And now you say the ring has disappeared. Since when?"

  "Well, citizen," replied Jeannette blandly, "since you took poor PaulMole into custody."

  "What do you mean?" Chauvelin riposted. "What had Paul Mole to do withthe child and the ring?"

  "Only this, citizen, that he was to have gone to Pantin last nightinstead of me. And thankful I was not to have to go. Citizen Marat gavethe ring to Mole, I suppose. I know he intended to give it to him. Hespoke to me about it just before that execrable woman came and murderedhim. Anyway, the ring has gone and Mole too. So I imagine that Mole hasthe ring and--"

  "That's enough!" Chauvelin broke in roughly. "You can go!"

  "But, citizen--"

  "You can go, I said," he reiterated sharply. "The matter of the childand the Leridans and the ring no longer concerns you. You understand?"

  "Y--y--yes, citizen," murmured Jeannette, vaguely terrified.

  And of a truth the change in citizen Chauvelin's demeanour was enough toscare any timid creature. Not that he raved or ranted or screamed. Thosewere not his ways. He still sat beside his desk as he had done before,and his slender hand, so like the talons of a vulture, was clenched uponthe arm of his chair. But there was such a look of inward fury and oftriumph in his pale, deep-set eyes, such lines of cruelty around histhin, closed lips, that Jeannette Marechal, even with the picture beforeher mind of Jean Paul Marat in his maddest moods, fled, with theunreasoning terror of her kind, before the sternly controlled, fiercepassion of this man.

  Chauvelin never noticed that she went. He sat for a long time, silentand immovable. Now he understood. Thank all the Powers of Hate andRevenge, no thought of disappointment was destined to embitter theoverflowing cup of his triumph. He had not only brought his arch-enemyto his knees, but had foiled one of his audacious ventures. How clearthe whole thing was! The false Paul Mole, the newly acquired menial inthe household of Marat, had wormed himself into the confidence of hisemployer in order to wrest from him the secret of the aristo's child.Bravo! bravo! my gallant Scarlet Pimpernel! Chauvelin now could see itall. Tragedies such as that which had placed an aristo's child in thepower of a cunning demon like Marat were not rare these days, andChauvelin had been fitted by nature and by temperament to understand andappreciate an execrable monster of the type of Jean Paul Marat.

  And Paul Mole, the grimy, degraded servant of the indigent demagogue,the loathsome mask which hid the fastidious personality of Sir PercyBlakeney, had made a final and desperate effort to possess himself ofthe ring which would deliver the child into his power. Now, havingfailed in his machinations, he was safe under lock and key--guarded onsight. The next twenty-four hours would see him unmasked, awaiting histrial and condemnation under the scathing indictment prepared byFouquier-Tinville, the unerring Public Prosecutor. The day after that,the tumbril and the guillotine for that execrable English spy, and theboundless sense of satisfaction that his last intrigue had aborted insuch a signal and miserable manner.

  Of a truth Chauvelin at this hour had every cause to be thankful, and itwas with a light heart that he set out to interview the Leridans.

  VIII

  The Leridans, anxious, obsequious, terrified, were only too ready toobey the citizen Representative in all things.

  They explained with much complacency that, even though they werepersonally acquainted with Jeannette Marechal, when the citizenesspresented herself this very morning without the ring they had refusedher permission to see the brat.

  Chauvelin, who in his own mind had already reconstructed the wholetragedy of the stolen child, was satisfied that Marat could not havechosen more efficient tools for the execution of his satanic revengethan these two hideous products of revolutionary Paris.

  Grasping, cowardly, and avaricious, the Leridans would lend themselvesto any abomination for a sufficiency of money; but no money on earthwould induce them to risk their own necks in the process. Marat hadobviously held them by threats of the guillotine. They knew the power ofthe "Friend of the People," and feared him accordingly. Chauvelin'sscarf of office, his curt, authoritative manner, had an equallyawe-inspiring effect upon the two miserable creatures. They becameabsolutely abject, cringing, maudlin in their protestations of good-willand loyalty. No one, they vowed, should as much as see the child--ringor no ring--save the citizen Representative himself. Chauvelin, however,had no wish to see the child. He was satisfied that its name wasLannoy--for the child had remembered it when first he had been broughtto the Leridans. Since then he had apparently forgotten it, even thoughhe often cried after his "Maman!"

  Chauvelin listened to all these explanations with some impatience. Thechild was nothing to him, but the Scarlet Pimpernel had desired torescue it from out of the clutches of the Leridans; had risked hisall--and lost it--in order to effect that rescue! That in itself was asufficient inducement for Chauvelin to interest himself in the executionof Marat's vengeance, whatever its original mainspring may have been.

  At any rate, now he felt satisfied that the child was safe, and that theLeridans were impervious to threats or bribes which might land them onthe guillotine.

  All that they would own to was to being afraid.

  "Afraid of what?" queried Chauvelin sharply.

  That the brat may be kidnapped ... stolen. Oh! he could not be decoyed... they were too watchful for that! But apparently there weremysterious agencies at work....

  "Mysterious agencies!" Chauvelin laughed aloud at the suggestion. The"mysterious agency" was even now rotting in an obscure cell at theAbbaye. What other powers could be at work on behalf of the brat?

  Well, the Leridans had had a warning!

  What warning?

  "A letter," the man said gruffly. "But as neither my wife nor I canread--"

  "Why did you not speak of this before?" broke in Chauvelin roughly. "Letme see the letter."

  The woman produced a soiled and dank scrap of paper from beneath herapron. Of a truth she could not read its contents, for they were writ inEnglish in the form of a doggerel rhyme which caused Chauvelin to uttera savage oath.

  "When did this come?" he asked. "And how?"

  "This morning, citizen," the woman mumbled in reply. "I found it outsidethe door, with a stone on it to prevent the wind from blowing it away.What does it mean, citizen?" she went on, her voice shaking with terror,for of a truth the citizen Representative looked as if he had seen someweird and unearthly apparition.

  He gave no reply for a moment or two, and the two catiffs had noconception of the tremendous effort at self-control which was hiddenbehind the pale, rigid mask of the redoubtable man.

  "It probably means nothing that you need fear," Chauvelin said quietlyat last. "But I will see the Commissary of the Section myself, and tellhim to send a dozen men of the Surete along to watch your house and beat your beck and call if need be. Then you will feel quite safe, Ihope."

  "Oh, yes! quite safe, citizen!" the woman replied with a sigh of genuinerelief. Then only did Chauvelin turn on his heel and go his way.
<
br />   IX

  But that crumpled and soiled scrap of paper given to him by the womanLeridan still lay in his clenched hand as he strode back rapidlycitywards. It seemed to scorch his palm. Even before he had glanced atthe contents he knew what they were. That atrocious English doggerel,the signature--a five-petalled flower traced in crimson! How well heknew them!

  "We seek him here, we seek him there!"

  The most humiliating moments in Chauvelin's career were associated withthat silly rhyme, and now here it was, mocking him even when he knewthat his bitter enemy lay fettered and helpless, caught in a trap, outof which there was no escape possible; even though he knew for apositive certainty that the mocking voice which had spoken those rhymeson that far-off day last September would soon be stilled for ever.

  No doubt one of that army of abominable English spies had placed thiswarning outside the Leridans' door. No doubt they had done that with aview to throwing dust in the eyes of the Public Prosecutor and causing aconfusion in his mind with regard to the identity of the prisoner at theAbbaye, all to the advantage of their chief.

  The thought that such a confusion might exist, that Fouquier-Tinvillemight be deluded into doubting the real personality of Paul Mole,brought an icy sweat all down Chauvelin's spine. He hurried along theinterminably long Chemin de Pantin, only paused at the Barriere duCombat in order to interview the Commissary of the Section on the matterof sending men to watch over the Leridans' house. Then, when he feltsatisfied that this would be effectively and quickly done, anunconquerable feeling of restlessness prompted him to hurry round to thelodgings of the Public Prosecutor in the Rue Blanche--just to see him,to speak with him, to make quite sure.

  Oh! he must be sure that no doubts, no pusillanimity on the part of anyofficial would be allowed to stand in the way of the consummation of allhis most cherished dreams. Papers or no papers, testimony or notestimony, the incarcerated Paul Mole was the Scarlet Pimpernel--of thisChauvelin was as certain as that he was alive. His every sense hadtestified to it when he stood in the narrow room of the Rue desCordeliers, face to face--eyes gazing into eyes--with his sworn enemy.

  Unluckily, however, he found the Public Prosecutor in a surly andobstinate mood, following on an interview which he had just had withcitizen Commissary Cuisinier on the matter of the prisoner Paul Mole.

  "His papers are all in order, I tell you," he said impatiently, inanswer to Chauvelin's insistence. "It is as much as my head is worth todemand a summary execution."

  "But I tell you that, those papers of his are forged," urged Chauvelinforcefully.

  "They are not," retorted the other. "The Commissary swears to his ownsignature on the identity book. The concierge at the Abbaye swears thathe knows Mole, so do all the men of the Surete who have seen him. TheCommissary has known him as an indigent, good-for-nothing lubbard whohas begged his way in the streets of Paris ever since he was releasedfrom gaol some months ago, after he had served a term for larceny. Evenyour own man Hebert admits to feeling doubtful on the point. You havehad the nightmare, citizen," concluded Fouquier-Tinville with a harshlaugh.

  "But, name of a dog!" broke in Chauvelin savagely. "You are notproposing to let the man go?"

  "What else can I do?" the other rejoined fretfully. "We shall get intoterrible trouble if we interfere with a man like Paul Mole. You knowyourself how it is these days. We should have the whole of the rabble ofParis clamouring for our blood. If, after we have guillotined him, he isproved to be a good patriot, it will be my turn next. No! I thank you!"

  "I tell you, man," retorted Chauvelin desperately, "that the man is notPaul Mole--that he is the English spy whom we all know as the ScarletPimpernel."

  "EH BIEN!" riposted Fouquier-Tinville. "Bring me more tangible proofthat our prisoner is not Paul Mole and I'll deal with him quicklyenough, never fear. But if by to-morrow morning you do not satisfy me onthe point ... I must let him go his way."

  A savage oath rose to Chauvelin's lips. He felt like a man who has beenrunning, panting to reach a goal, who sees that goal within easydistance of him, and is then suddenly captured, caught in invisiblemeshes which hold him tightly, and against which he is powerless tostruggle. For the moment he hated Fouquier-Tinville with a deadlyhatred, would have tortured and threatened him until he wrung a consent,an admission, out of him.

  Name of a name! when that damnable English spy was actually in hispower, the man was a pusillanimous fool to allow the rich prize to slipfrom his grasp! Chauvelin felt as if he were choking; his slenderfingers worked nervily around his cravat; beads of perspiration trickledunheeded down his pallid forehead.

  Then suddenly he had an inspiration--nothing less! It almost seemed asif Satan, his friend, had whispered insinuating words into his ear. Thatscrap of paper! He had thrust it awhile ago into the breast pocket ofhis coat. It was still there, and the Public Prosecutor wanted atangible proof.... Then, why not....?

  Slowly, his thoughts still in the process of gradual coordination,Chauvelin drew that soiled scrap of paper out of his pocket.Fouquier-Tinville, surly and ill-humoured, had his back half-turnedtowards him, was moodily picking at his teeth. Chauvelin had all theleisure which he required. He smoothed out the creases in the paper andspread it out carefully upon the desk close to the other man's elbow.Fouquier-Tinville looked down on it, over his shoulder.

  "What is that?" he queried.

  "As you see, citizen," was Chauvelin's bland reply. "A message, such asyou yourself have oft received, methinks, from our mutual enemy, theScarlet Pimpernel."

  But already the Public Prosecutor had seized upon the paper, and of atruth Chauvelin had no longer cause to complain of his colleague'sindifference. That doggerel rhyme, no less than the signature, had thepower to rouse Fouquier-Tinville's ire, as it had that of disturbingChauvelin's well-studied calm.

  "What is it?" reiterated the Public Prosecutor, white now to the lips.

  "I have told you, citizen," rejoined Chauvelin imperturbably. "A messagefrom that English spy. It is also the proof which you have demanded ofme--the tangible proof that the prisoner, Paul Mole, is none other thanthe Scarlet Pimpernel."

  "But," ejaculated the other hoarsely, "where did you get this?"

  "It was found in the cell which Paul Mole occupied in the depot of theRue de Tourraine, where he was first incarcerated. I picked it up thereafter he was removed ... the ink was scarcely dry upon it."

  The lie came quite glibly to Chauvelin's tongue. Was not every methodgood, every device allowable, which would lead to so glorious an end?

  "Why did you not tell me of this before?" queried Fouquier-Tinville,with a sudden gleam of suspicion in his deep-set eyes.

  "You had not asked me for a tangible proof before," replied Chauvelinblandly. "I myself was so firmly convinced of what I averred that I hadwell-nigh forgotten the existence of this damning scrap of paper."

  Damning indeed! Fouquier-Tinville had seen such scraps of paper before.He had learnt the doggerel rhyme by heart, even though the Englishtongue was quite unfamiliar to him. He loathed the English--the entirenation--with all that deadly hatred which a divergence of political aimswill arouse in times of acute crises. He hated the English government,Pitt and Burke and even Fox, the happy-go-lucky apologist of the youngRevolution. But, above all, he hated that League of English spies--as hewas pleased to call them--whose courage, resourcefulness, as well asreckless daring, had more than once baffled his own hideous schemes ofmurder, of pillage, and of rape.

  Thank Beelzebub and his horde of evil spirits, citizen Chauvelin hadbeen clear-sighted enough to detect that elusive Pimpernel under thedisguise of Paul Mole.

  "You have deserved well of your country," said Tinville with lustyfervour, and gave Chauvelin a vigorous slap on the shoulder. "But foryou I should have allowed that abominable spy to slip through ourfingers."

  "I have succeeded in convincing you, citizen?" Chauvelin retorted dryly.

  "Absolutely!" rejoined the other. "You may now leave the matter to me.And 'twill be friend
Mole who will be surprised to-morrow," he addedwith a harsh guffaw, "when he finds himself face to face with me, beforea Court of Justice."

  He was all eagerness, of course. Such a triumph for him! The indictmentof the notorious Scarlet Pimpernel on a charge of espionage would be thecrowning glory of his career! Let other men look to their laurels! Thosewho brought that dangerous enemy of revolution to the guillotine wouldfor ever be proclaimed as the saviours of France.

  "A short indictment," he said, when Chauvelin, after a lengthydiscussion on various points, finally rose to take his leave, "but ascathing one! I tell you, citizen Chauvelin, that to-morrow you will bethe first to congratulate me on an unprecedented triumph."

  He had been arguing in favour of a sensational trial and no lesssensational execution. Chauvelin, with his memory harking back on manymysterious abductions at the very foot of the guillotine, would haveliked to see his elusive enemy quietly put to death amongst a batch oftraitors, who would help to mask his personality until after theguillotine had fallen, when the whole of Paris should ring with thetriumph of this final punishment of the hated spy.

  In the end, the two friends agreed upon a compromise, and parted wellpleased with the turn of events which a kind Fate had ordered for theirown special benefit.

  X

  Thus satisfied, Chauvelin returned to the Abbaye. Hebert was safe andtrustworthy, but Hebert, too, had been assailed with the same doubtswhich had well-nigh wrecked Chauvelin's triumph, and with such doubts inhis mind he might slacken his vigilance.

  Name of a name! every man in charge of that damnable Scarlet Pimpernelshould have three pairs of eyes wherewith to watch his movements. Heshould have the alert brain of a Robespierre, the physical strength of aDanton, the relentlessness of a Marat. He should be a giant in sheerbrute force, a tiger in caution, an elephant in weight, and a mouse instealthiness!

  Name of a name! but 'twas only hate that could give such powers to anyman!

  Hebert, in the guard-room, owned to his doubts. His comrades, too,admitted that after twenty-four hours spent on the watch, their mindswere in a whirl. The Citizen Commissary had been so sure--so was thechief concierge of the Abbaye even now; and the men of the Surete!...they themselves had seen the real Mole more than once ... and this manin the cell.... Well, would the citizen Representative have a final goodlook at him?

  "You seem to forget Calais, citizen Hebert," Chauvelin said sharply,"and the deadly humiliation you suffered then at the hands of this manwho is now your prisoner. Surely your eyes should have been, at least,as keen as mine own."

  Anxious, irritable, his nerves well-nigh on the rack, he neverthelesscrossed the guard-room with a firm step and entered the cell where theprisoner was still lying upon the palliasse, as he had been all along,and still presenting that naked piece of shoulder through the hole inhis shirt.

  "He has been like this the best part of the day," Hebert said with ashrug of the shoulders. "We put his bread and water right under hisnose. He ate and he drank, and I suppose he slept. But except for a gooddeal of swearing, he has not spoken to any of us."

  He had followed his chief into the cell, and now stood beside thepalliasse, holding a small dark lantern in his hand. At a sign fromChauvelin he flashed the light upon the prisoner's averted head.

  Mole cursed for awhile, and muttered something about "good patriots" andabout "retribution." Then, worried by the light, he turned slowly round,and with fish-like, bleary eyes looked upon his visitor.

  The words of stinging irony and triumphant sarcasm, all fully prepared,froze on Chauvelin's lips. He gazed upon the prisoner, and a weird senseof something unfathomable and mysterious came over him as he gazed. Hehimself could not have defined that feeling: the very next moment he wasprepared to ridicule his own cowardice--yes, cowardice! because for asecond or two he had felt positively afraid.

  Afraid of what, forsooth? The man who crouched here in the cell was hisarch-enemy, the Scarlet Pimpernel--the man whom he hated most bitterlyin all the world, the man whose death he desired more than that of anyother living creature. He had been apprehended by the very side of themurdered man whose confidence he had all but gained. He himself(Chauvelin) had at that fateful moment looked into the factitious Mole'seyes, had seen the mockery in them, the lazy insouciance which was thechief attribute of Sir Percy Blakeney. He had heard a faint echo of thatinane laugh which grated upon his nerves. Hebert had then laid handsupon this very same man; agents of the Surete had barred every ingressand egress to the house, had conducted their prisoner straightway to thedepot and thence to the Abbaye, had since that moment guarded him onsight, by day and by night. Hebert and the other men as well as thechief warder, all swore to that!

  No, no! There could be no doubt! There was no doubt! The days of magicwere over! A man could not assume a personality other than his own; hecould not fly out of that personality like a bird out of its cage. Thereon the palliasse in the miserable cell were the same long limbs, thebroad shoulders, the grimy face with the three days' growth of stubblybeard--the whole wretched personality of Paul Mole, in fact, which hidthe exquisite one of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. And yet!...

  A cold sweat ran down Chauvelin's spine as he gazed, mute and immovable,into those fish-like, bleary eyes, which were not--no! they were notthose of the real Scarlet Pimpernel.

  The whole situation became dreamlike, almost absurd. Chauvelin was notthe man for such a mock-heroic, melodramatic situation. Commonsense,reason, his own cool powers of deliberation, would soon reassertthemselves. But for the moment he was dazed. He had worked too hard, nodoubt; had yielded too much to excitement, to triumph, and to hate. Heturned to Hebert, who was standing stolidly by, gave him a few curtorders in a clear and well-pitched voice. Then he walked out of thecell, without bestowing another look on the prisoner.

  Mole had once more turned over on his palliasse and, apparently, hadgone to sleep. Hebert, with a strange and puzzled laugh, followed hischief out of the cell.

  XI

  At first Chauvelin had the wish to go back and see the PublicProsecutor--to speak with him--to tell him--what? Yes, what? That he,Chauvelin, had all of a sudden been assailed with the same doubts whichalready had worried Hebert and the others?--that he had told adeliberate lie when he stated that the incriminating doggerel rhyme hadbeen found in Mole's cell? No, no! Such an admission would not only befoolish, it would be dangerous now, whilst he himself was scarceprepared to trust to his own senses. After all, Fouquier-Tinville was inthe right frame of mind for the moment. Paul Mole, whoever he was, wassafely under lock and key.

  The only danger lay in the direction of the house on the Chemin dePantin. At the thought Chauvelin felt giddy and faint. But he wouldallow himself no rest. Indeed, he could not have rested until somethingapproaching certainty had once more taken possession of his soul. Hecould not--would not--believe that he had been deceived. He was stillprepared to stake his very life on the identity of the prisoner at theAbbaye. Tricks of light, the flash of the lantern, the perfection of thedisguise, had caused a momentary illusion--nothing more.

  Nevertheless, that awful feeling of restlessness which had possessed himduring the last twenty-four hours once more drove him to activity. Andalthough commonsense and reason both pulled one way, an eerie sense ofsuperstition whispered in his ear the ominous words, "If, after all!"

  At any rate, he would see the Leridans, and once more make sure of them;and, late as was the hour, he set out for the lonely house on the PantinRoad.

  Just inside the Barriere du Combat was the Poste de Section, whereCommissary Burban was under orders to provide a dozen men of the Surete,who were to be on the watch round and about the house of the Leridans.Chauvelin called in on the Commissary, who assured him that the men wereat their post.

  Thus satisfied, he crossed the Barriere and started at a brisk walk downthe long stretch of the Chemin de Pantin. The night was dark. Therolling clouds overhead hid the face of the moon and presaged the storm.On the right, the irregular heights of the Butte
s Chaumont loomed outdense and dark against the heavy sky, whilst to the left, on ahead, afaintly glimmering, greyish streak of reflected light revealed theproximity of the canal.

  Close to the spot where the main Route de Meux intersects the Chemin dePantin, Chauvelin slackened his pace. The house of the Leridans now layimmediately on his left; from it a small, feeble ray of light, findingits way no doubt through an ill-closed shutter, pierced the surroundinggloom. Chauvelin, without hesitation, turned up a narrow track which ledup to the house across a field of stubble. The next moment a peremptorychallenge brought him to a halt.

  "Who goes there?"

  "Public Safety," replied Chauvelin. "Who are you?"

  "Of the Surete," was the counter reply. "There are a dozen of us abouthere."

  "When did you arrive?"

  "Some two hours ago. We marched out directly after you left the ordersat the Commissariat."

  "You are prepared to remain on the watch all night?"

  "Those are our orders, citizen," replied the man.

  "You had best close up round the house, then. And, name of a dog!" headded, with a threatening ring in his voice. "Let there be no slackeningof vigilance this night. No one to go in or out of that house, no one toapproach it under any circumstances whatever. Is that understood?"

  "Those were our orders from the first, citizen," said the man simply.

  "And all has been well up to now?"

  "We have seen no one, citizen."

  The little party closed in around their chief and together they marchedup to the house. Chauvelin, on tenterhooks, walked quicker than theothers. He was the first to reach the door. Unable to find the bell-pullin the dark, he knocked vigorously.

  The house appeared silent and wrapped in sleep. No light showed fromwithin save that one tiny speck through the cracks of an ill-fittingshutter, in a room immediately overhead.

  In response to Chauvelin's repeated summons, there came anon the soundof someone moving in one of the upstairs rooms, and presently the lightoverhead disappeared, whilst a door above was heard to open and to closeand shuffling footsteps to come slowly down the creaking stairs.

  A moment or two later the bolts and bars of the front door wereunfastened, a key grated in the rusty lock, a chain rattled in itssocket, and then the door was opened slowly and cautiously.

  The woman Leridan appeared in the doorway. She held a guttering tallowcandle high above her head. Its flickering light illumined Chauvelin'sslender figure.

  "Ah! the citizen Representative!" the woman ejaculated, as soon as sherecognised him. "We did not expect you again to-day, and at this latehour, too. I'll tell my man--"

  "Never mind your man," broke in Chauvelin impatiently, and pushedwithout ceremony past the woman inside the house. "The child? Is itsafe?"

  He could scarcely control his excitement. There was a buzzing, as of anangry sea, in his ears. The next second, until the woman spoke, seemedlike a cycle of years.

  "Quite safe, citizen," she said placidly. "Everything is quite safe. Wewere so thankful for those men of the Surete. We had been afraid before,as I told the citizen Representative, and my man and I could not restfor anxiety. It was only after they came that we dared go to bed."

  A deep sigh of intense relief came from the depths of Chauvelin's heart.He had not realised himself until this moment how desperately anxious hehad been. The woman's reassuring words appeared to lift a crushingweight from his mind. He turned to the man behind him.

  "You did not tell me," he said, "that some of you had been herealready."

  "We have not been here before," the sergeant in charge of the littleplatoon said in reply. "I do not know what the woman means."

  "Some of your men came about three hours ago," the woman retorted; "lessthan an hour after the citizen Representative was here. I remember thatmy man and I marvelled how quickly they did come, but they said thatthey had been on duty at the Barriere du Combat when the citizenarrived, and that he had dispatched them off at once. They said they hadrun all the way. But even so, we thought it was quick work--"

  The words were smothered in her throat in a cry of pain, for, with analmost brutal gesture, Chauvelin had seized her by the shoulders.

  "Where are those men?" he queried hoarsely. "Answer!"

  "In there, and in there," the woman stammered, well-nigh faint withterror as she pointed to two doors, one on each side of the passage."Three in each room. They are asleep now, I should say, as they seem soquiet. But they were an immense comfort to us, citizen ... we were sothankful to have them in the house...."

  But Chauvelin had snatched the candle from her hand. Holding it highabove his head, he strode to the door on the right of the passage. Itwas ajar. He pushed it open with a vicious kick. The room beyond was intotal darkness.

  "Is anyone here?" he queried sharply.

  Nothing but silence answered him. For a moment he remained there on thethreshold, silent and immovable as a figure carved in stone. He had justa sufficiency of presence of mind and of will power not to drop thecandle, to stand there motionless, with his back turned to the woman andto the men who had crowded in, in his wake. He would not let them seethe despair, the rage and grave superstitious fear, which distortedevery line of his pallid face.

  He did not ask about the child. He would not trust himself to speak, forhe had realised already how completely he had been baffled. Thoseabominable English spies had watched their opportunity, had worked onthe credulity and the fears of the Leridans and, playing the game atwhich they and their audacious chief were such unconquerable experts,they had made their way into the house under a clever ruse.

  The men of the Surete, not quite understanding the situation, werequestioning the Leridans. The man, too, corroborated his wife's story.Their anxiety had been worked upon at the moment that it was most acute.After the citizen Representative left them, earlier in the evening, theyhad received another mysterious message which they had been unable toread, but which had greatly increased their alarm. Then, when the men ofthe Surete came.... Ah! they had no cause to doubt that they were men ofthe Surete!... their clothes, their speech, their appearance ... figureto yourself, even their uniforms! They spoke so nicely, so reassuringly.The Leridans were so thankful to see them! Then they made themselveshappy in the two rooms below, and for additional safety the Lannoy childwas brought down from its attic and put to sleep in the one room withthe men of the Surete.

  After that the Leridans went to bed. Name of a dog! how were they toblame? Those men and the child had disappeared, but they (the Leridans)would go to the guillotine swearing that they were not to blame.

  Whether Chauvelin heard all these jeremiads, he could not afterwardshave told you. But he did not need to be told how it had all been done.It had all been so simple, so ingenious, so like the methods usuallyadopted by that astute Scarlet Pimpernel! He saw it all so clearlybefore him. Nobody was to blame really, save he himself--he, who aloneknew and understood the adversary with whom he had to deal.

  But these people here should not have the gratuitous spectacle of a manenduring the torments of disappointment and of baffled revenge. WhateverChauvelin was suffering now would for ever remain the secret of his ownsoul. Anon, when the Leridans' rasping voices died away in one of themore distant portions of the house and the men of the Surete were busyaccepting refreshment and gratuity from the two terrified wretches, hehad put down the candle with a steady hand and then walked with a firmstep out of the house.

  Soon the slender figure was swallowed up in the gloom as he strode backrapidly towards the city.

  XII

  Citizen Fouquier-Tinville had returned home from the Palais at a verylate hour that same evening. His household in his simple lodgings in thePlace Dauphine was already abed: his wife and the twins were asleep. Hehimself had sat down for a moment in the living-room, in dressing-gownand slippers, and with the late edition of the Moniteur in his hand, tootired to read.

  It was half-past ten when there came a ring at the front door bell.
Fouquier-Tinville, half expecting citizen Chauvelin to pay him a finalvisit, shuffled to the door and opened it.

  A visitor, tall, well-dressed, exceedingly polite and urbane, requesteda few minutes' conversation with citizen Fouquier-Tinville.

  Before the Public Prosecutor had made up his mind whether to introducesuch a late-comer into his rooms, the latter had pushed his way throughthe door into the ante-chamber, and with a movement as swift as it wasunexpected, had thrown a scarf round Fouquier-Tinville's neck and woundit round his mouth, so that the unfortunate man's call for help wassmothered in his throat.

  So dexterously and so rapidly indeed had the miscreant acted, that hisvictim had hardly realised the assault before he found himself securelygagged and bound to a chair in his own ante-room, whilst that dare-devilstood before him, perfectly at his ease, his hands buried in thecapacious pockets of his huge caped coat, and murmuring a few casualwords of apology.

  "I entreat you to forgive, citizen," he was saying in an even andpleasant voice, "this necessary violence on my part towards you. But myerrand is urgent, and I could not allow your neighbours or yourhousehold to disturb the few minutes' conversation which I am obliged tohave with you. My friend Paul Mole," he went on, after a slight pause,"is in grave danger of his life owing to a hallucination on the part ofour mutual friend citizen Chauvelin; and I feel confident that youyourself are too deeply enamoured of your own neck to risk it wilfullyby sending an innocent and honest patriot to the guillotine."

  Once more he paused and looked down upon his unwilling interlocutor,who, with muscles straining against the cords that held him, and witheyes nearly starting out of their sockets in an access of fear and ofrage, was indeed presenting a pitiful spectacle.

  "I dare say that by now, citizen," the brigand continued imperturbably,"you will have guessed who I am. You and I have oft crossed invisibleswords before; but this, methinks, is the first time that we have metface to face. I pray you, tell my dear friend M. Chauvelin that you haveseen me. Also that there were two facts which he left entirely out ofhis calculations, perfect though these were. The one fact was that therewere two Paul Moles--one real and one factitious. Tell him that, I prayyou. It was the factitious Paul Mole who stole the ring and who stoodfor one moment gazing into clever citizen Chauvelin's eyes. But thatsame factitious Paul Mole had disappeared in the crowd even before yourcolleague had recovered his presence of mind. Tell him, I pray you, thatthe elusive Pimpernel whom he knows so well never assumes a fancifuldisguise. He discovered the real Paul Mole first, studied him, learnedhis personality, until his own became a perfect replica of the miserablecaitiff. It was the false Paul Mole who induced Jeannette Marechal tointroduce him originally into the household of citizen Marat. It was hewho gained the confidence of his employer; he, for a consideration,borrowed the identity papers of his real prototype. He again who for afew francs induced the real Paul Mole to follow him into the house ofthe murdered demagogue and to mingle there with the throng. He whothrust the identity papers back into the hands of their rightful ownerwhilst he himself was swallowed up by the crowd. But it was the realPaul Mole who was finally arrested and who is now lingering in theAbbaye prison, whence you, citizen Fouquier-Tinville, must free him onthe instant, on pain of suffering yourself for the nightmares of yourfriend."

  "The second fact," he went on with the same good-humoured pleasantry,"which our friend citizen Chauvelin had forgotten was that, though Ihappen to have aroused his unconquerable ire, I am but one man amongst aleague of gallant English gentlemen. Their chief, I am proud to say; butwithout them, I should be powerless. Without one of them near me, by theside of the murdered Marat, I could not have rid myself of the ring intime, before other rough hands searched me to my skin. Without them, Icould not have taken Madeleine Lannoy's child from out that terriblehell, to which a miscreant's lustful revenge had condemned the poorinnocent. But while citizen Chauvelin, racked with triumph as well aswith anxiety, was rushing from the Leridans' house to yours, and thenceto the Abbaye prison, to gloat over his captive enemy, the League of theScarlet Pimpernel carefully laid and carried out its plans at leisure.Disguised as men of the Surete, we took advantage of the Leridans'terror to obtain access into the house. Frightened to death by ourwarnings, as well as by citizen Chauvelin's threats, they not onlyadmitted us into their house, but actually placed Madeleine Lannoy'schild in our charge. Then they went contentedly to bed, and we, beforethe real men of the Surete arrived upon the scene, were already safelyout of the way. My gallant English friends are some way out of Paris bynow, escorting Madeleine Lannoy and her child into safety. They willreturn to Paris, citizen," continued the audacious adventurer, with alaugh full of joy and of unconquerable vitality, "and be my henchmen asbefore in many an adventure which will cause you and citizen Chauvelinto gnash your teeth with rage. But I myself will remain in Paris," heconcluded lightly. "Yes, in Paris; under your very nose, and entirely atyour service!"

  The next second he was gone, and Fouquier-Tinville was left to marvel ifthe whole apparition had not been a hideous dream. Only there was nodoubt that he was gagged and tied to a chair with cords: and here hiswife found him, an hour later, when she woke from her first sleep,anxious because he had not yet come to bed.