El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy [reading books for 7 year olds txt] 📗
- Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
Book online «El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy [reading books for 7 year olds txt] 📗». Author Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
CHAPTER X. SHADOWS
CHAPTER XI. THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
CHAPTER XII. WHAT LOVE IS
CHAPTER XIII. THEN EVERYTHING WAS DARK
CHAPTER XIV. THE CHIEF
CHAPTER XV. THE GATE OF LA VILLETTE
CHAPTER XVI. THE WEARY SEARCH
CHAPTER XVII. CHAUVELIN
CHAPTER XVIII. THE REMOVAL
CHAPTER XIX. IT IS ABOUT THE DAUPHIN
CHAPTER XX. THE CERTIFICATE OF SAFETY
CHAPTER XXI. BACK TO PARIS
CHAPTER XXII. OF THAT THERE COULD BE NO QUESTION
CHAPTER XXIII. THE OVERWHELMING ODDS
PART II.
CHAPTER XXIV. THE NEWS
CHAPTER XXV. PARIS ONCE MORE
CHAPTER XXVI. THE BITTEREST FOE
CHAPTER XXVII. IN THE CONCIERGERIE
CHAPTER XXVIII. THE CAGED LION
CHAPTER XXIX. FOR THE SAKE OF THAT HELPLESS INNOCENT
CHAPTER XXX. AFTERWARDS
CHAPTER XXXI. AN INTERLUDE
CHAPTER XXXII. SISTERS
CHAPTER XXXIII. LITTLE MOTHER
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE LETTER
PART III.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE LAST PHASE
CHAPTER XXXVI. SUBMISSION
CHAPTER XXXVII. CHAUVELIN’S ADVICE
CHAPTER XXXVIII. CAPITULATION
CHAPTER XXXIX. KILL HIM!
CHAPTER XL. GOD HELP US ALL
CHAPTER XLI. WHEN HOPE WAS DEAD
CHAPTER XLII. THE GUARD-HOUSE OF THE RUE STE. ANNE
CHAPTER XLIII. THE DREARY JOURNEY
CHAPTER XLIV. THE HALT AT CRECY
CHAPTER XLV. THE FOREST OF BOULOGNE
CHAPTER XLVI. OTHERS IN THE PARK
CHAPTER XLVII. THE CHAPEL OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE
CHAPTER XLVIII. THE WANING MOON
CHAPTER XLIX. THE LAND OF ELDORADO
CHAPTER I. IN THE THEATRE NATIONAL
And yet people found the opportunity to amuse themselves, to dance and to go to the theatre, to enjoy music and open-air cafes and promenades in the Palais Royal.
New fashions in dress made their appearance, milliners produced fresh “creations,” and jewellers were not idle. A grim sense of humour, born of the very intensity of ever-present danger, had dubbed the cut of certain tunics “tete tranche,” or a favourite ragout was called “a la guillotine.”
On three evenings only during the past memorable four and a half years did the theatres close their doors, and these evenings were the ones immediately following that terrible 2nd of September the day of the butchery outside the Abbaye prison, when Paris herself was aghast with horror, and the cries of the massacred might have drowned the calls of the audience whose hands upraised for plaudits would still be dripping with blood.
On all other evenings of these same four and a half years the theatres in the Rue de Richelieu, in the Palais Royal, the Luxembourg, and others, had raised their curtains and taken money at their doors. The same audience that earlier in the day had whiled away the time by witnessing the ever-recurrent dramas of the Place de la Revolution assembled here in the evenings and filled stalls, boxes, and tiers, laughing over the satires of Voltaire or weeping over the sentimental tragedies of persecuted Romeos and innocent Juliets.
Death knocked at so many doors these days! He was so constant a guest in the houses of relatives and friends that those who had merely shaken him by the hand, those on whom he had smiled, and whom he, still smiling, had passed indulgently by, looked on him with that subtle contempt born of familiarity, shrugged their shoulders at his passage, and envisaged his probable visit on the morrow with lighthearted indifference.
Paris—despite the horrors that had stained her walls had remained a city of pleasure, and the knife of the guillotine did scarce descend more often than did the drop-scenes on the stage.
On this bitterly cold evening of the 27th Nivose, in the second year of the Republic—or, as we of the
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