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

scarce be heard, so low was it, like the sighing of the wind through a misty veil.

“Who is it?” came in quick challenge from Roger.

“I⁠—Yvonne Lebeau!”

“Is he there?” was the eager whispered query.

“Not yet. But he may come at any moment. If he saw a crowd round the house, mayhap he would not come.”

“He cannot see a crowd. The night is as dark as pitch.”

“He can see in the darkest night,” and the girl’s voice sank to an awed whisper, “and he can hear through a stone wall.”

Instinctively, Roger shuddered. The superstitious fear which the mysterious personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel evoked in the heart of every Terrorist had suddenly seized this man in its grip.

Try as he would, he did not feel as valiant as he had done when first he emerged at the head of his party from under the portico of the Cordeliers Club, and it was with none too steady a voice that he ordered the girl roughly back to the house. Then he turned once more to his men.

The plan of action had been decided on in the Club, under the presidency of Robespierre; it only remained to carry the plans through with success.

From the side of the fortifications there was, of course, nothing to fear. In accordance with military regulations, the walls of the houses there rose sheer from the ground without doors or windows, whilst the broken-down parapets and dilapidated roofs towered forty feet above the ground.

The derelict itself was one of a row of houses, some inhabited, others quite abandoned. It was the front of that row of houses, therefore, that had to be kept in view. Marshalled by Roger, the men flattened their meagre bodies against the walls of the houses opposite, and after that there was nothing to do but wait.

To wait in the darkness of the night, with a thin, icy rain soaking through ragged shirts and tattered breeches, with bare feet frozen by the mud of the road⁠—to wait in silence while turbulent hearts beat well-nigh to bursting⁠—to wait for food whilst hunger gnaws the bowels⁠—to wait for drink whilst the parched tongue cleaves to the roof of the mouth⁠—to wait for revenge whilst the hours roll slowly by and the cries of the darkened city are stilled one by one!

Once⁠—when a distant bell tolled the hour of ten⁠—a loud prolonged laugh, almost impudent in its suggestion of merry insouciance, echoed through the weird silence of the night.

Roger felt that the man nearest to him shivered at that sound, and he heard a volley or two of muttered oaths.

“The fox seems somewhere near,” he whispered. “Come within. We’ll wait for him inside his hole.”

He led the way across the street, some of the men following him.

The door of the derelict house had been left on the latch. Roger pushed it open.

Silence and gloom here reigned supreme; utter darkness, too, save for a narrow streak of light which edged the framework of a door on the right. Not a sound stirred the quietude of this miserable hovel, only the creaking of boards beneath the men’s feet as they entered.

Roger crossed the passage and opened the door on the right. His friends pressed closely round to him and peeped over his shoulder into the room beyond.

A guttering piece of tallow candle, fixed to an old tin pot, stood in the middle of the floor, and its feeble, flickering light only served to accentuate the darkness that lay beyond its range. One or two rickety chairs and a rough deal table showed vaguely in the gloom, and in the far corner of the room there lay a bundle of what looked like heaped-up rags, but from which there now emerged the sound of heavy breathing and also a little cry of fear.

“Yvonne,” came in feeble, querulous accents from that same bundle of wretchedness, “are these the English milors come back at last?”

“No, no, father,” was the quick whispered reply.

Roger swore a loud oath, and two puny voices began to whimper piteously.

“It strikes me the wench has been fooling us,” muttered one of the men savagely.

The girl had struggled to her feet. She crouched in the darkness, and two little boys, half-naked and shivering, were clinging to her skirts. The rest of the human bundle seemed to consist of an oldish man, with long, gaunt legs and arms blue with the cold. He turned vague, wide-open eyes in the direction whence had come the harsh voices.

“Are they friends, Yvonne?” he asked anxiously.

The girl did her best to reassure him.

“Yes, yes, father,” she whispered close to his ear, her voice scarce above her breath; “they are good citizens who hoped to find the English milor here. They are disappointed that he has not yet come.”

“Ah! but he will come, of a surety,” said the old man in that querulous voice of his. “He left his beautiful clothes here this morning, and surely he will come to fetch them.” And his long, thin hand pointed towards a distant corner of the room.

Roger and his friends, looking to where he was pointing, saw a parcel of clothes, neatly folded, lying on one of the chairs. Like so many wild cats snarling at sight of prey, they threw themselves upon those clothes, tearing them out from one another’s hands, turning them over and over as if to force the cloth and satin to yield up the secret that lay within their folds.

In the skirmish a scrap of paper fluttered to the ground. Roger seized it with avidity, and, crouching on the floor, smoothed the paper out against his knee.

It contained a few hastily scrawled words, and by the feeble light of the fast-dying candle Roger spelt them out laboriously:

“If the finder of these clothes will take them to the crossroads opposite the footbridge which leads straight to Courbevoie, and will do so before the clock of Courbevoie Church has struck the hour of midnight, he will be rewarded with the sum of five hundred francs.”

“There