Lord Tony’s Wife, Baroness Orczy [bill gates best books TXT] 📗

that she might yet have to endure, for the sake of the happiness which was in store for her.

She turned to give a last look at her guide⁠—a look which was intended to reassure him completely as to her courage and her obedience: but already he had gone and had closed the door behind him, and quite against her will the sudden sense of loneliness and helplessness clutched at her heart with a grip that made it ache. She wished that she had succeeded in catching sight of the face of so valiant a friend: the fact that she was safely out of Louise Adet’s vengeful clutches was due to the man who had just disappeared behind that door. It would be thanks to him presently if she saw her father again. Yvonne felt more convinced than ever that he was the Scarlet Pimpernel⁠—milor’s friend⁠—who kept his valiant personality a mystery, even to those who owed their lives to him. She had seen the outline of his broad figure, she had felt the touch of his hand. Would she recognise these again when she met him in England in the happy days that were to come? In any case she thought that she would recognise the voice and the manner of speaking, so unlike that of any English gentleman she had known.

V

The man who had so mysteriously led Yvonne de Kernogan from the house of Louise Adet to the Rat Mort, turned away from the door of the tavern as soon as it had closed on the young girl, and started to go back the way he came.

At the angle formed by the high wall of the tavern he paused; a moving form had detached itself from the surrounding gloom and hailed him with a cautious whisper.

“Hist! citizen Martin-Roget, is that you?”

“Yes.”

“Everything just as we anticipated?”

“Everything.”

“And the wench safely inside?”

“Quite safely.”

The other gave a low cackle, which might have been intended for a laugh.

“The simplest means,” he said, “are always the best.”

“She never suspected me. It was all perfectly simple. You are a magician, citizen Chauvelin,” added Martin-Roget grudgingly. “I never would have thought of such a clever ruse.”

“You see,” rejoined Chauvelin drily, “I graduated in the school of a master of all ruses⁠—a master of daring and a past master in the art of mimicry. And hope was our great ally⁠—the hope that never forsakes a prisoner⁠—that of getting free. Your fair Yvonne had boundless faith in the power of her English friends, therefore she fell into our trap like a bird.”

“And like a bird she shall struggle in vain after this,” said Martin-Roget slowly. “Oh! that I could hasten the flight of time⁠—the next few minutes will hang on me like hours. And I wish too it were not so bitterly cold,” he added with a curse; “this northwesterly wind has got into my bones.”

“On to your nerves, I imagine, citizen,” retorted Chauvelin with a laugh; “for my part I feel as warm and comfortable as on a lovely day in June.”

“Hark! Who goes there?” broke in the other man abruptly, as a solitary moving form detached itself from the surrounding inky blackness and the sound of measured footsteps broke the silence of the night.

“Quite in order, citizen!” was the prompt reply.

The shadowy form came a step or two further forward.

“Is it you, citizen Fleury?” queried Chauvelin.

“Himself, citizen,” replied the other.

The men had spoken in a whisper. Fleury now placed his hand on Chauvelin’s arm.

“We had best not stand so close to the tavern,” he said, “the night hawks are already about and we don’t want to scare them.”

He led the others up the yard, then into a very narrow passage which lay between Louise Adet’s house and the Rat Mort and was bordered by the high walls of the houses on either side.

“This is a blind alley,” he whispered. “We have the wall of Le Bouffay in front of us: the wall of the Rat Mort is on one side and the house of the citizeness Adet on the other. We can talk here undisturbed.”

Overhead there was a tiny window dimly lighted from within. Chauvelin pointed up to it.

“What is that?” he asked.

“An aperture too small for any human being to pass through,” replied Fleury drily. “It gives on a small landing at the foot of the stairs. I told Friche to try and manoeuvre so that the wench and her father are pushed in there out of the way while the worst of the fracas is going on. That was your suggestion, citizen Chauvelin.”

“It was. I was afraid the two aristos might get spirited away while your men were tackling the crowd in the taproom. I wanted them put away in a safe place.”

“The staircase is safe enough,” rejoined Fleury; “it has no egress save that on the taproom and only leads to the upper story and the attic. The house has no back entrance⁠—it is built against the wall of Le Bouffay.”

“And what about your Marats, citizen commandant?”

“Oh! I have them all along the street⁠—entirely under cover but closely on the watch⁠—half a company and all keen after the game. The thousand francs you promised them has stimulated their zeal most marvellously, and as soon as Paul Friche in there has whipped up the tempers of the frequenters of the Rat Mort, we shall be ready to rush the place and I assure you, citizen Chauvelin, that only a disembodied ghost⁠—if there be one in the place⁠—will succeed in evading arrest.”

“Is Paul Friche already at his post then?”

“And at work⁠—or I’m much mistaken,” replied Fleury as he suddenly gripped Chauvelin by the arm.

For just at this moment the silence of the winter’s night was broken by loud cries which came from the interior of the Rat Mort⁠—voices were raised to hoarse and raucous cries⁠—men and women all appeared to be shrieking together, and presently there was a loud crash as of overturned furniture and broken glass.

“A few minutes longer, citizen Fleury,”