The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy [most popular novels .TXT] 📗

and her vivid fancy, rendered doubly keen by the mystery which seemed to encompass him as with a supernal mantle, conjured up the vision of that unforgettable evening: the moonlight, the scent of the hawthorn, the call of the thrush. She saw him stooping before her, and kissing her fingertips, even whilst her ears recalled every word he had spoken and every inflection of his mocking voice:

“Let me rather put it differently, dear lady,” he had said then. “One day the exquisite Theresia Cabarrus, the Egeria of the Terrorists, the fiancée of the great Tallien, might need the help of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

And she, angered, piqued by his coolness, thirsting for revenge for the insult which she believed he had put upon her, had then protested earnestly:

“I would sooner die,” she had boldly asserted, “than seek your help, milor!”

And now, at this hour, here in this house where Death lurked in every corner, she could still hear his retort:

“Here in Dover, perhaps⁠ ⁠… But in France?”

How right he had been!⁠ ⁠… How right! She⁠—who had thought herself so strong, so powerful⁠—what was she indeed but a miserable tool in the hands of men who would break her without scruple if she ran counter to their will? Remorse was not for her⁠—atonement too great a luxury for a tool of Chauvelin to indulge in. The black, hideous taint, the sin of having dragged this splendid man and that innocent woman to their death, must rest upon her soul forever. Even now she was jeopardizing his life, every moment that she kept him talking in this house. And yet the impulse to speak with him, to hear him say a word of forgiveness, had been unconquerable. One moment she longed for him to go; the next she would have sacrificed much to keep him by her side. When he wished to go, she held him back. Now that, with his wonted careless disregard of danger, he appeared willing to linger, she sought for the right words wherewith to bid him go.

He seemed to divine her thoughts, remained quite still while she stood there with eyes closed, in one brief second reviewing the past. All! All! It all came back to her: her challenge to him, his laughing retort.

“You mean,” she said at parting, “that you would risk your life to save mine?”

“I should not risk my life, dear lady,” he had said, with his puzzling smile; “But I should⁠—God help me!⁠—do my best, if the need arose, to save yours.”

Then he had gone, and she had stood under the porch of the quaint old English inn and watched his splendid figure as it disappeared down the street. She had watched, puzzled, uncomprehending, her heart already stirred by that sweet, sad ache which at this hour brought tears to her eyes⁠—the aching sorrow of that which could never, never be. Ah! if it had been her good fortune to have come across such a man, to have aroused in him that admiration for herself which she so scorned in others, how different, how very different would life have been! And she fell to envying the poor prisoner upstairs, who owned the most precious treasure life can offer to any woman: the love of a fine man. Two hot tears came slowly through her closed eyes, coursing down her cheeks.

“Why so sad, dear lady?” he asked gently.

She could not speak for the moment, only murmured vaguely:

“Four days⁠—”

“Four days,” he retorted gaily, “as you say! In four days, either I or a pack of assassins will be dead.”

“Oh, what will become of me?” she sighed.

“Whatever you choose.”

“You are bold, milor,” she rejoined more calmly. “And you are brave. Alas! what can you do, when the most powerful hands in France are against you?”

“Smite them, dear lady,” he replied airily. “Smite them! Then turn my back upon this fair land. It will no longer have need of me.” Then he made her a courteous bow. “May I have the honour of escorting you upstairs? Your friend M. Chauvelin will be awaiting you.”

The name of her taskmaster brought Theresia back to the realities of life. Gone was the dream of a while ago, when subconsciously her mind had dwelt upon a sweet might-have-been. The man was nothing to her⁠—less than nothing; a common spy, so her friends averred. Even if he had not presumed to write her an insulting letter, he was still the enemy⁠—the foe whose hand was raised against her own country and against those with whose fortunes she had thrown in her lot. Even now, she ought to be calling loudly for help, rouse the house with her cries, so that this spy, this enemy, might be brought down before her eyes. Instead of which, she felt her heart beating with apprehension lest his quiet even voice be heard on the floor above, and he be caught in the snare which those who feared and hated him had laid for him.

Indeed, she appeared far more conscious of danger than he was; and while she chided herself for her folly in having called to him, he was standing before her as if he were in a drawing-room, holding out his arm to escort her in to dinner. His foot was on the step, ready to ascend, even whilst Theresia’s straining ears caught the sound of other footsteps up above: footsteps of men⁠—real men, those!⁠—who were set up there to watch for the coming of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and whose vigilance had been spurred by promise of reward and by threat of death. She pushed his arm aside almost roughly.

“You are mad, milor!” she said, in a choked murmur. “Such foolhardiness, when your life is in deadly jeopardy, becomes criminal folly⁠—”

“The best of life,” he said airily, “is folly. I would not miss this moment for a kingdom!”

She felt like a creature under a spell. He took her hand and drew it through his arm. She went up the steps beside him.

Every moment she thought that one or