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

have screamed with the pain, was the echo of a lazy, somewhat inane laugh and of a gently mocking voice that said lightly:

“The best of life is folly, dear lady. I would not miss this moment for a kingdom.”

Her hand went up to her throat to smother the sobs that would rise up against her will. Then she called all her self-control, all her ambition, to her aid. This present mood was sentimental nonsense, an abyss created by an oversensitive heart, into which she might be falling headlong. What was this Englishman to her that thought of his death should prove such mental agony? As for him, he only laughed at her; despised her still, probably; hated her for the injury she had done to that woman upstairs whom he loved.

Impatient to get away from this atmosphere of tragedy and of mysticism which was preying on her nerves, Theresia called peremptorily to Mother Théot, and when the old woman came shuffling out of her room, demanded her cloak and hood.

“Have you seen aught of citizen Moncrif?” she asked, just before going away.

“I caught sight of him over the way,” Catherine Théot replied, “watching this house, as he always does when you, citoyenne, are in it.”

“Ah!” the imperious beauty retorted, with a thought of spite in her mellow voice. “Would you could give him a potion, Mother, to cure him of his infatuation for me!”

“Despise no man’s love, citoyenne,” the witch retorted sententiously. “Even that poor vagabond’s blind passion may yet prove thy salvation.”

A moment or two later Theresia was once more on the dark stairs where she had dreamed of the handsome milor. She sighed as she ran swiftly down⁠—sighed, and looked half-fearfully about her. She still felt his presence through the gloom; and in the ghostly light that feebly illumined the corner whereon he had stood, she still vaguely saw in spirit his tall straight figure, stooping whilst he kissed her hand. At one moment she was quite sure that she heard his voice and the echo of his pleasant laugh.

Down below, Bertrand Moncrif was waiting for her, silent, humble, with the look of a faithful watchdog upon his pale, wan face.

“You make yourself ill, my poor Bertrand,” Theresia said, not unkindly, seeing that he stood aside to let her pass, fearful of a rebuff if he dared speak to her. “I am in no danger, I assure you; and this constant dogging of my footsteps can do no good to you or to me.”

“But it can do no harm,” he pleaded earnestly. “Something tells me, Theresia, that danger does threaten you, unbeknown to you, from a quarter least expected.”

“Bah!” she retorted lightly. “And if it did, you could not avert it.”

He made a desperate effort to check the words of passionate protestations which rose to his lips. He longed to protect her from harm, how happy he would be if he might die for her. But obviously he dared not say what lay nearest to his heart. All he could do now was to talk silently by her side as far as her lodgings in the Rue Villedot, grateful for this small privilege, uncomplaining and almost happy because she tolerated his presence, and because while she walked the ends of her long scarf stirred by the breeze would now and again flutter against his cheek.

Miserable Bertrand! He had laden his soul with an abominable crime for this woman’s sake; and he had not even the satisfaction of feeling that she gave him an infinitesimal measure of gratitude.

XXVIII In the Meanwhile I

Chauvelin, who, despite his many failures, was still one of the most conspicuous⁠—since he was one of the most unscrupulous⁠—members of the Committee of Public Saftey, had not attended its sittings for some days. He had been too deeply absorbed in his own schemes to trouble about those of his colleagues. In truth, the coup which he was preparing was so stupendous, and if it succeeded his triumph would be so magnificent, that he could well afford to hold himself aloof. Those who were still inclined to scorn and to scoff at him today would be his most cringing sycophants on the morrow.

He knew well enough⁠—none better⁠—that during this time the political atmosphere in the Committees and the Clubs was nothing short of electrical. He felt, as everyone did, that something catastrophic was in the air, that death, more self-evident than ever before, lurked at every man’s elbow, and stalked round the corner of every street.

Robespierre, the tyrant, the autocrat whose mere word swayed the multitude, remained silent and impenetrable, absent from every gathering. He only made brief appearances at the Convention, and there sat moody and self-absorbed. Everyone knew that this man, dictator in all but name, was meditating a Titanic attack upon his enemies. His veiled threats, uttered during his rare appearances at the speaker’s tribune, embraced even the most popular, the most prominent, amongst the representatives of the people. Everyone, in fact, who was likely to stand in his way when he was ready to snatch the supreme power. His intimates⁠—Couthon, St. Just, and the others⁠—openly accused of planning a dictatorship for their chief, hardly took the trouble to deny the impeachment, even whilst Tallien and his friends, feeling that the tyrant had already decreed their doom, went about like ghostly shadows, not daring to raise their voice in the Convention lest the first word they uttered brought down the sword of his lustful wrath upon their heads.

The Committee of Public Safety⁠—now renamed the Revolutionary Committee⁠—strove on the other hand by a recrudescence of cruelty to ingratiate itself with the potential dictator and to pose before the people as alone pure and incorruptible, blind in justice, inexorable where the safety of the Republic was concerned. Thus an abominable emulation of vengeance and of persecution went on between the Committee and Robespierre’s party, wherein neither side could afford to give in, for fear of