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

as they have some really genuine passports in their possessions, which we obtain from time to time through the agency of a personage highly placed in this murdering government, and with the help of English banknotes. Those passports are not always unchallenged, I must confess,” added my hero with a quaint laugh; “but tonight everyone is busy murdering in one part of Paris, so the other parts are comparatively safe.”

Then he turned to one of his friends and spoke to him in English:

“You had better see this through, Tony,” he said, “with Hastings and Mackenzie. Three of you will be enough; I shall have need of the others.”

No one seemed to question his orders. He had spoken, and the others made ready to obey. Just then papa spoke up:

“How are we going to thank you, sir?” he asked, speaking broken English, but with his habitual dignity of manner.

“By leaving your welfare in our hands, Monsieur,” replied our gallant rescuer quietly.

Papa tried to speak again, but the Englishman put up his hand to stop any further talk.

“There is no time now, Monsieur,” he said with gentle courtesy. “I must leave you, as I have much work yet to do.”

“Where are you going, Blakeney?” asked one of the others.

“Back to the Abbaye prison,” he said; “there are other women and children to be rescued there!”

The Traitor I

Not one of them had really trusted him for some time now. Heaven and his conscience alone knew what had changed my Lord Kulmsted from a loyal friend and keen sportsman into a surly and dissatisfied adherent⁠—adherent only in name.

Some say that lack of money had embittered him. He was a confirmed gambler, and had been losing over-heavily of late; and the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel demanded sacrifices of money at times from its members, as well as of life if the need arose. Others averred that jealousy against the chief had outweighed Kulmsted’s honesty. Certain it is that his oath of fealty to the League had long ago been broken in the spirit. Treachery hovered in the air.

But the Scarlet Pimpernel himself, with that indomitable optimism of his, and almost maddening insouciance, either did not believe in Kulmsted’s disloyalty or chose not to heed it.

He even asked him to join the present expedition⁠—one of the most dangerous undertaken by the League for some time, and which had for its object the rescue of some women of the late unfortunate Marie Antoinette’s household: maids and faithful servants, ruthlessly condemned to die for their tender adherence to a martyred queen. And yet eighteen pairs of faithful lips had murmured words of warning.

It was towards the end of November, 1793. The rain was beating down in a monotonous drip, drip, drip on to the roof of a derelict house in the Rue Berthier. The wan light of a cold winter’s morning peeped in through the curtainless window and touched with its weird grey brush the pallid face of a young girl⁠—a mere child⁠—who sat in a dejected attitude on a rickety chair, with elbows leaning on the rough deal table before her, and thin, grimy fingers wandering with pathetic futility to her tearful eyes.

In the farther angle of the room a tall figure in dark clothes was made one, by the still lingering gloom, with the dense shadows beyond.

“We have starved,” said the girl, with rebellious tears. “Father and I and the boys are miserable enough, God knows; but we have always been honest.”

From out the shadows in that dark corner of the room there came the sound of an oath quickly suppressed.

“Honest!” exclaimed the man, with a harsh, mocking laugh, which made the girl wince as if with physical pain. “Is it honest to harbour the enemies of your country? Is it honest⁠—”

But quickly he checked himself, biting his lips with vexation, feeling that his present tactics were not like to gain the day.

He came out of the gloom and approached the girl with every outward sign of eagerness. He knelt on the dusty floor beside her, his arms stole round her meagre shoulders, and his harsh voice was subdued to tones of gentleness.

“I was only thinking of your happiness, Yvonne,” he said tenderly; “of poor blind papa and the two boys to whom you have been such a devoted little mother. My only desire is that you should earn the gratitude of your country by denouncing her most bitter enemy⁠—an act of patriotism which will place you and those for whom you care forever beyond the reach of sorrow or of want.”

The voice, the appeal, the look of love, was more than the poor, simple girl could resist. Milor was so handsome, so kind, so good.

It had all been so strange: these English aristocrats coming here, she knew not whence, and who seemed fugitives even though they had plenty of money to spend. Two days ago they had sought shelter like malefactors escaped from justice⁠—in this same tumbledown, derelict house where she, Yvonne, with her blind father and two little brothers, crept in of nights, or when the weather was too rough for them all to stand and beg in the streets of Paris.

There were five of them altogether, and one seemed to be the chief. He was very tall, and had deep blue eyes, and a merry voice that went echoing along the worm-eaten old rafters. But milor⁠—the one whose arms were encircling her even now⁠—was the handsomest among them all. He had sought Yvonne out on the very first night when she had crawled shivering to that corner of the room where she usually slept.

The English aristocrats had frightened her at first, and she was for flying from the derelict house with her family and seeking shelter elsewhere; but he who appeared to be the chief had quickly reassured her. He seemed so kind and good, and talked so gently to blind papa, and made such merry jests with François and Clovis that she herself