El Dorado, Baroness Orczy [read the beginning after the end novel .TXT] 📗

of an Englishman, a follower of the Scarlet Pimpernel; every thinking French patriot knew that all the followers of the Scarlet Pimpernel were Englishmen with red hair and prominent teeth, whereas this man.⁠ ⁠…

Armand⁠—who deadly danger had primed in his improvised role⁠—was striding up and down the room declaiming with ever-varying intonations:

“Joignez tous vos efforts contre un espoir si doux
Pour en venir à bout, c’est trop peu que de vous.”

“No! no!” said mademoiselle impatiently; “you must not make that ugly pause midway in the last line: ‘pour en venir à bout, c’est trop peu que de vous!’ ”

She mimicked Armand’s diction so quaintly, imitating his stride, his awkward gesture, and his faulty phraseology with such funny exaggeration that Héron laughed in spite of himself.

“So that is a cousin from Orléans, is it?” he asked, throwing his lanky body into an armchair, which creaked dismally under his weight.

“Yes! a regular gaby⁠—what?” she said archly. “Now, citizen Héron, you must stay and take coffee with me. Aunt Marie will be bringing it in directly. Hector,” she added, turning to Armand, “come down from the clouds and ask Aunt Marie to be quick.”

This certainly was the first time in the whole of his experience that Héron had been asked to stay and drink coffee with the quarry he was hunting down. Mademoiselle’s innocent little ways, her desire for the prolongation of his visit, further addled his brain. De Batz had undoubtedly spoken of an Englishman, and the cousin from Orléans was certainly a Frenchman every inch of him.

Perhaps had the denunciation come from anyone else but de Batz, Héron might have acted and thought more circumspectly; but, of course, the chief agent of the Committee of General Security was more suspicious of the man from whom he took a heavy bribe than of anyone else in France. The thought had suddenly crossed his mind that mayhap de Batz had sent him on a fool’s errand in order to get him safely out of the way of the Temple prison at a given hour of the day.

The thought took shape, crystallised, caused him to see a rapid vision of de Batz sneaking into his lodgings and stealing his keys, the guard being slack, careless, inattentive, allowing the adventurer to pass barriers that should have been closed against all comers.

Now Héron was sure of it; it was all a conspiracy invented by de Batz. He had forgotten all about his theories that a man under arrest is always safer than a man that is free. Had his brain been quite normal, and not obsessed, as it always was now by thoughts of the Dauphin’s escape from prison, no doubt he would have been more suspicious of Armand, but all his worst suspicions were directed against de Batz. Armand seemed to him just a fool, an actor quoi? and so obviously not an Englishman.

He jumped to his feet, curtly declining mademoiselle’s offers of hospitality. He wanted to get away at once. Actors and actresses were always, by tacit consent of the authorities, more immune than the rest of the community. They provided the only amusement in the intervals of the horrible scenes around the scaffolds; they were irresponsible, harmless creatures who did not meddle in politics.

Jeanne the while was gaily prattling on, her luminous eyes fixed upon the all-powerful enemy, striving to read his thoughts, to understand what went on behind those cruel, prominent eyes, the chances that Armand had of safety and of life.

She knew, of course, that the visit was directed against Armand⁠—someone had betrayed him, that odious de Batz mayhap⁠—and she was fighting for Armand’s safety, for his life. Her armoury consisted of her presence of mind, her cool courage, her self-control; she used all these weapons for his sake, though at times she felt as if the strain on her nerves would snap the thread of life in her. The effort seemed more than she could bear.

But she kept up her part, rallying Héron for the shortness of his visit, begging him to tarry for another five minutes at least, throwing out⁠—with subtle feminine intuition⁠—just those very hints anent little Capet’s safety that were most calculated to send him flying back towards the Temple.

“I felt so honoured last night, citizen,” she said coquettishly, “that you even forgot little Capet in order to come and watch my debut as Célimène.”

“Forget him!” retorted Héron, smothering a curse, “I never forget the vermin. I must go back to him; there are too many cats nosing round my mouse. Good day to you, citizeness. I ought to have brought flowers, I know; but I am a busy man⁠—a harassed man.”

“Je te crois,” she said with a grave nod of the head; “but do come to the theatre tonight. I am playing Camille⁠—such a fine part! one of my greatest successes.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll come⁠—mayhap, mayhap⁠—but I’ll go now⁠—glad to have seen you, citizeness. Where does your cousin lodge?” he asked abruptly.

“Here,” she replied boldly, on the spur of the moment.

“Good. Let him report himself tomorrow morning at the Conciergerie, and get his certificate of safety. It is a new decree, and you should have one, too.”

“Very well, then. Hector and I will come together, and perhaps Aunt Marie will come too. Don’t send us to maman guillotine yet awhile, citizen,” she said lightly; “you will never get such another Camille, nor yet so good a Célimène.”

She was gay, artless to the last. She accompanied Héron to the door herself, chaffing him about his escort.

“You are an aristo, citizen,” she said, gazing with well-feigned admiration on the two sleuthhounds who stood in wait in the anteroom; “it makes me proud to see so many citizens at my door. Come and see me play Camille⁠—come tonight, and don’t forget the greenroom door⁠—it will always be kept invitingly open for you.”

She bobbed him a curtsey, and he walked out, closely followed by his two men; then at last she closed the