The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy [ebook reader for pc .TXT] 📗

narrow antechamber wherein slept the aforesaid citizen-servant; then came a sitting-room sparsely furnished with a few chairs, a centre table and an iron stove, and finally there was the bedroom wherein the most conspicuous object was a large oak chest clamped with wide iron hinges and a massive writing-desk; the bed and a very primitive washstand were in an alcove at the farther end of the room and partially hidden by a tapestry curtain.

At exactly half-past seven that morning there came a peremptory knock at the door of the antechamber, and as Rondeau was busy in the bedroom, Hériot went himself to see who his unexpected visitor might be. On the landing outside stood an extraordinary-looking individual⁠—more like a tall and animated scarecrow than a man⁠—who in a tremulous voice asked if he might speak with the citizen Hériot.

“That is my name,” said the deputy gruffly, “what do you want?”

He would have liked to slam the door in the old scarecrow’s face, but the latter, with the boldness which sometimes besets the timid, had already stepped into the antechamber and was now quietly sauntering through to the next room into the one beyond. Hériot, being a representative of the people and a social democrat of the most advanced type, was supposed to be accessible to everyone who desired speech with him. Though muttering sundry curses, he thought it best not to go against his usual practice, and after a moment’s hesitation he followed his unwelcome visitor.

The latter was in the sitting-room by this time; he had drawn a chair close to the table and sat down with the air of one who has a perfect right to be where he is; as soon as Hériot entered he said placidly:

“I would desire to speak alone with the citizen-deputy.”

And Hériot, after another slight hesitation, ordered Rondeau to close the bedroom door.

“Keep your ears open in case I call,” he added significantly.

“You are cautious, citizen,” merely remarked the visitor with a smile.

To this Hériot vouchsafed no reply. He, too, drew a chair forward and sat opposite his visitor, then he asked abruptly: “Your name and quality?”

“My name is Lépine at your service,” said the old man, “and by profession I write letters at the rate of five sous or so, according to length, for those who are not able to do it for themselves.”

“Your business with me?” queried Hériot curtly.

“To offer you two thousand francs for the letters which you stole from deputy Fabrice when you were his valet,” replied Lépine with perfect calm.

In a moment Hériot was on his feet, jumping up as if he had been stung; his pale, shortsighted eyes narrowed till they were mere slits, and through them he darted a quick, suspicious glance at the extraordinary out-at-elbows figure before him. Then he threw back his head and laughed till the tears streamed down his cheeks and his sides began to ache.

“This is a farce, I presume, citizen,” he said when he had recovered something of his composure.

“No farce, citizen,” replied Lépine calmly. “The money is at your disposal whenever you care to bring the letters to my pitch at the angle of the Rue Dauphine and the Quai des Augustins, where I carry on my business.”

“Whose money is it? Agnès de Lucines’ or did that fool Fabrice send you?”

“No one sent me, citizen. The money is mine⁠—a few savings I possess⁠—I honour citizen Fabrice⁠—I would wish to do him service by purchasing certain letters from you.”

Then as Hériot, moody and sullen, remained silent and began pacing up and down the long, bare floor of the room, Lépine added persuasively, “Well! what do you say? Two thousand francs for a packet of letters⁠—not a bad bargain these hard times.”

“Get out of this room,” was Hériot’s fierce and sudden reply.

“You refuse?”

“Get out of this room!”

“As you please,” said Lépine as he, too, rose from his chair. “But before I go, citizen Hériot,” he added, speaking very quietly, “let me tell you one thing. Mademoiselle Agnès de Lucines would far sooner cut off her right hand than let yours touch it even for one instant. Neither she nor deputy Fabrice would ever purchase their lives at such a price.”

“And who are you⁠—you mangy old scarecrow?” retorted Hériot, who was getting beside himself with rage, “that you should assert these things? What are those people to you, or you to them, that you should interfere in their affairs?”

“Your question is beside the point, citizen,” said Lépine blandly; “I am here to propose a bargain. Had you not better agree to it?”

“Never!” reiterated Hériot emphatically.

“Two thousand francs,” reiterated the old man imperturbably.

“Not if you offered me two hundred thousand,” retorted the other fiercely. “Go and tell that, to those who sent you. Tell them that I⁠—Hériot⁠—would look upon a fortune as mere dross against the delight of seeing that man Fabrice, whom I hate beyond everything in earth or hell, mount up the steps to the guillotine. Tell them that I know that Agnès de Lucines loathes me, that I know that she loves him. I know that I cannot win her save by threatening him. But you are wrong, citizen Lépine,” he continued, speaking more and more calmly as his passions of hatred and of love seemed more and more to hold him in their grip; “you are wrong if you think that she will not strike a bargain with me in order to save the life of Fabrice, whom she loves. Agnès de Lucines will be my wife within the month, or Arnould Fabrice’s head will fall under the guillotine, and you, my interfering friend, may go to the devil, if you please.”

“That would be but a tame proceeding, citizen, after my visit to you,” said the old man, with unruffled sangfroid. “But let me, in my turn, assure you of this, citizen Hériot,” he added, “that Mlle. de Lucines will never be your wife, that Arnould Fabrice will not end his valuable life under the guillotine⁠—and that you will never be