The Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy [best big ereader .txt] 📗

in the village whilst I wait here against his coming!⁠—You might come across Percy’s track and thus save valuable time. If you find him, tell him to beware!⁠—his bitterest enemy is on his heels!”

“But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait in.”

“Nay, that I do not mind!⁠—But you might ask our surly host if he could let me wait in another room, where I could be safer from the prying eyes of any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money, so that he should not fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman returns.”

She spoke quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking out her plans, ready for the worst if need be; she would show no more weakness, she would prove herself worthy of him, who was about to give his life for the sake of his fellow-men.

Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively he felt that hers now was the stronger mind; he was willing to give himself over to her guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the directing head.

He went to the door of the inner room, through which Brogard and his wife had disappeared before, and knocked; as usual, he was answered by a salvo of muttered oaths.

“Hey! friend Brogard!” said the man peremptorily, “my lady friend would wish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of another room? She would wish to be alone.”

He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed it to jingle significantly in his hand. Brogard had opened the door, and listened, with his usual surly apathy, to the young man’s request. At the sight of the gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly; he took his pipe from his mouth and shuffled into the room.

He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall.

“She can wait up there!” he said with a grunt. “It’s comfortable, and I have no other room.”

“Nothing could be better,” said Marguerite in English; she at once realised the advantages such a position hidden from view would give her. “Give him the money, Sir Andrew; I shall be quite happy up there, and can see everything without being seen.”

She nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up to the attic, and to shake up the straw that lay on the floor.

“May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash,” said Sir Andrew, as Marguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety flight of steps. “Remember this place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you, reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely certain that you are alone with him.”

Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this caution: Marguerite was as calm, as clearheaded as any man. There was no fear of her doing anything that was rash.

“Nay,” she said with a slight attempt at cheerfulness, “that I can faithfully promise you. I would not jeopardise my husband’s life, nor yet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear, I will watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he needs it most.”

Brogard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up to her safe retreat.

“I dare not kiss your hand, madam,” said Sir Andrew, as she began to mount the steps, “since I am your lackey, but I pray you be of good cheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return, expecting to find him here.”

“Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an hour. Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that either you or I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend! Have no fear for me.”

Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the attic. Brogard was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself comfortable there or not as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was singularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining unobserved.

He had paid Brogard well; the surly old innkeeper would have no object in betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned once again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged curtains Marguerite’s sweet face was peeping down at him, and the young man rejoiced to see that it looked serene, and even gently smiling. With a final nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night.

XXIV The Deathtrap

The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly. In the room downstairs, Brogard had for a while busied himself with clearing the table, and rearranging it for another guest.

It was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite found the time slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that this semblance of supper was being got ready. Evidently Brogard had a certain amount of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to take some trouble in making the place look a trifle less uninviting than it had done before.

He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser, what actually looked like a tablecloth; and when he spread it out, and saw it was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while, then was at much pains so to spread it over the table as to hide most of its blemishes.

Then he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but possessing some measure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully wiped the glasses, spoons and plates, which he put on the table.

Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched all these preparations, which Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment of muttered oaths. Clearly the great height and bulk of the Englishman, or perhaps the weight of his fist, had overawed this freeborn citizen of France, or he would