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

said Chauvelin, as the commandant of the Marats turned on his heel and started to go back to the Carrefour de la Poissonnerie.

“Oh yes!” whispered the latter, “we’ll wait awhile longer to give the Englishmen time to arrive on the scene. The coast is clear for them⁠—my Marats are hidden from sight behind the doorways and shopfronts of the houses opposite. In about three minutes from now I’ll send them forward.”

“And good luck to your hunting, citizen,” whispered Chauvelin in response.

Fleury very quickly disappeared in the darkness and the other two men followed in his wake. They hugged the wall of the Rat Mort as they went along and its shadow enveloped them completely: their shoes made no sound on the unpaved ground. Chauvelin’s nostrils quivered as he drew the keen, cold air into his lungs and faced the northwesterly blast which at this moment also lashed the face of his enemy. His keen eyes tried to pierce the gloom, his ears were strained to hear that merry peal of laughter which in the unforgettable past had been wont to proclaim the presence of the reckless adventurer. He knew⁠—he felt⁠—as certainly as he felt the air which he breathed, that the man whom he hated beyond everything on earth was somewhere close by, wrapped in the murkiness of the night⁠—thinking, planning, intriguing, pitting his sharp wits, his indomitable pluck, his impudent daredevilry against the sure and patient trap which had been set for him.

Half a company of Marats in front⁠—the walls of Le Bouffay in the rear! Chauvelin rubbed his thin hands together!

“You are not a disembodied ghost, my fine Scarlet Pimpernel,” he murmured, “and this time I really think⁠—”

VII The Fracas in the Tavern I

Yvonne had settled herself in a corner of the taproom on a bench and had tried to lose consciousness of her surroundings.

It was not easy! Glances charged with rancour were levelled at her dainty appearance⁠—dainty and refined despite the look of starvation and of weariness on her face and the miserable state of her clothing⁠—and not a few muttered insults waited on those glances.

As soon as she was seated Yvonne noticed that the old man and the coarse, fat woman behind the bar started an animated conversation together, of which she was very obviously the object, for the two heads⁠—the lean and the round⁠—were jerked more than once in her direction. Presently the man⁠—it was George Lemoine, the proprietor of the Rat Mort⁠—came up to where she was sitting: his lank figure was bent so that his lean back formed the best part of an arc, and an expression of mock deference further distorted his ugly face.

He came up quite close to Yvonne and she found it passing difficult not to draw away from him, for the leer on his face was appalling: his eyes, which were set very near to his hooked nose, had a horrible squint, his lips were thick and moist, and his breath reeked of alcohol.

“What will the noble lady deign to drink?” he now asked in an oily, suave voice.

And Yvonne, remembering the guide’s admonitions, contrived to smile unconcernedly into the hideous face.

“I would very much like some wine,” she said cheerfully, “but I am afraid that I have no money wherewith to pay you for it.”

The creature with a gesture of abject humility rubbed his greasy hands together.

“And may I respectfully ask,” he queried blandly, “what are the intentions of the noble lady in coming to this humble abode, if she hath no desire to partake of refreshments?”

“I am expecting friends,” replied Yvonne bravely; “they will be here very soon, and will gladly repay you lavishly for all the kindness which you may be inclined to show to me the while.”

She was very brave indeed and looked this awful misshapen specimen of a man quite boldly in the face: she even contrived to smile, though she was well aware that a number of men and women⁠—perhaps a dozen altogether⁠—had congregated in front of her in a compact group around the landlord, that they were nudging one another and pointing derisively⁠—malevolently⁠—at her. It was impossible, despite all attempts at valour, to mistake the hostile attitude of these people. Some of the most obscene words, coined during these last horrible days of the Revolution, were freely hurled at her, and one woman suddenly cried out in a shrill treble:

“Throw her out, citizen Lemoine! We don’t want spies in here!”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Yvonne as quietly as she could, “I am no spy. I am poor and wreched like yourselves! and desperately lonely, save for the kind friends who will meet me here anon.”

“Aristos like yourself!” growled one of the men. “This is no place for you or for them.”

“No! No! This is no place for aristos,” cried one of the women in a voice which many excesses and many vices had rendered hoarse and rough. “Spy or not, we don’t want you in here. Do we?” she added as with arms akimbo she turned to face those of her own sex, who behind the men had come up in order to see what was going on.

“Throw her out, Lemoine,” reiterated a man who appeared to be an oracle amongst the others.

“Please! please let me stop here!” pleaded Yvonne; “if you turn me out I shall not know what to do: I shall not know where to meet my friends⁠ ⁠…”

“Pretty story about those friends,” broke in Lemoine roughly. “How do I know if you’re lying or not?”

From the opposite angle of the room, the woman behind the bar had been watching the little scene with eyes that glistened with cupidity. Now she emerged from behind her stronghold of bottles and mugs and slowly waddled across the room. She pushed her way unceremoniously past her customers, elbowing men, women and children vigorously aside with a deft play of her large, muscular arms. Having reached the forefront of the little group she came to a standstill immediately in