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

managed to slip nearer to it in the darkness; she crept close up, hoping to get within earshot, to hear what the messenger had to say.

She heard the quick words of challenge⁠—

“Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité!” then Chauvelin’s quick query:⁠—

“What news?”

Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle.

Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the midnight sky. She could hear their voices, and the snorting of their horses, and now, behind her, some little distance off, the regular and measured tread of a body of advancing men: Desgas and his soldiers.

There had been a long pause, during which, no doubt, Chauvelin satisfied the men as to his identity, for presently, questions and answers followed each other in quick succession.

“You have seen the stranger?” asked Chauvelin, eagerly.

“No, citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger; we came by the edge of the cliff.”

“Then?”

“Less than a quarter of a league beyond Miquelon, we came across a rough construction of wood, which looked like the hut of a fisherman, where he might keep his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it seemed to be empty, and, at first we thought that there was nothing suspicious about, until we saw some smoke issuing through an aperture at the side. I dismounted and crept close to it. It was then empty, but in one corner of the hut, there was a charcoal fire, and a couple of stools were also in the hut. I consulted with my comrades, and we decided that they should take cover with the horses, well out of sight, and that I should remain on the watch, which I did.”

“Well! and did you see anything?”

“About half an hour later, I heard voices, citoyen, and presently, two men came along towards the edge of the cliff; they seemed to me to have come from the Lille Road. One was young, the other quite old. They were talking in a whisper, to one another, and I could not hear what they said.”

One was young, and the other quite old. Marguerite’s aching heart almost stopped beating as she listened: was the young one Armand?⁠—her brother?⁠—and the old one de Tournay⁠—were they the two fugitives who, unconsciously, were used as a decoy, to entrap their fearless and noble rescuer.

“The two men presently went into the hut,” continued the soldier, whilst Marguerite’s aching nerves seemed to catch the sound of Chauvelin’s triumphant chuckle, “and I crept nearer to it then. The hut is very roughly built, and I caught snatches of their conversation.”

“Yes?⁠—Quick!⁠—What did you hear?”

“The old man asked the young one if he were sure that was right place. ‘Oh, yes,’ he replied, ‘ ’tis the place sure enough,’ and by the light of the charcoal fire he showed to his companion a paper, which he carried. ‘Here is the plan,’ he said, ‘which he gave me before I left London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan, unless I had contrary orders, and I have had none. Here is the road we followed, see⁠ ⁠… here the fork⁠ ⁠… here we cut across the St. Martin Road⁠ ⁠… and here is the footpath which brought us to the edge of the cliff.’ I must have made a slight noise then, for the young man came to the door of the hut, and peered anxiously all round him. When he again joined his companion, they whispered so low, that I could no longer hear them.”

“Well?⁠—and?” asked Chauvelin, impatiently.

“There were six of us altogether, patrolling that part of the beach, so we consulted together, and thought it best that four should remain behind and keep the hut in sight, and I and my comrade rode back at once to make report of what we had seen.”

“You saw nothing of the tall stranger?”

“Nothing, citoyen.”

“If your comrades see him, what would they do?”

“Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of escape, or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and, if necessary, they would shoot: the firing would bring the rest of the patrol to the spot. In any case they would not let the stranger go.”

“Aye! but I did not want the stranger hurt⁠—not just yet,” murmured Chauvelin, savagely, “but there, you’ve done your best. The Fates grant that I may not be too late.⁠ ⁠…”

“We met half a dozen men just now, who have been patrolling this road for several hours.”

“Well?”

“They have seen no stranger either.”

“Yet he is on ahead somewhere, in a cart or else⁠ ⁠… Here! there is not a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here?”

“About a couple of leagues, citoyen.”

“You can find it again?⁠—at once?⁠—without hesitation?”

“I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen.”

“The footpath, to the edge of the cliff?⁠—Even in the dark?”

“It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find my way,” repeated the soldier firmly.

“Fall in behind then. Let your comrade take both your horses back to Calais. You won’t want them. Keep beside the cart, and direct the Jew to drive straight ahead; then stop him, within a quarter of a league of the footpath; see that he takes the most direct road.”

Whilst Chauvelin spoke, Desgas and his men were fast approaching, and Marguerite could hear their footsteps within a hundred yards behind her now. She thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and unnecessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering: her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminating in this awful despair.

For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within two short leagues of this spot, the fugitives were waiting for their brave deliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road, and presently he would join them; then the well-laid trap would close, two dozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning was malicious,