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

out at once, citizen Friche⁠ ⁠… bring them out⁠ ⁠… right into the middle of the rabble in the taproom.⁠ ⁠… Commandant Fleury is directing the perquisition⁠—he is taking down the names of all that cattle which he is arresting inside the premises⁠—let the ci-devant duc de Kernogan and his exquisite daughter figure among the vilest cutthroats of Nantes.”

“Citizen, let me urge on you once more⁠ ⁠…” came in earnest persuasive accents from that gentle voice.

“Nothing!” broke in the other savagely. “To h‑ll with your English spies. It is the Kernogans that I want.”

Yvonne, half-crazed with horror, had heard the whole of this abominable conversation wherein she had not failed to recognise the voice of Martin-Roget or Pierre-Adet, as she now knew him to be. Who the other two men were she could easily conjecture. The soft bland voice she had heard twice during these past few days, which had been so full of misery, of terror and of surprise: once she had heard it on board the ship which had taken her away from England and once again a few hours since, inside the narrow room which had been her prison. The third man who had subsequently arrived on the scene was that coarse and grimy creature who had seemed to be the moving evil spirit of that awful brawl in the tavern.

What the conversation meant to her she could not fail to guess. Pierre Adet had by what he said made the whole of his abominable intrigue against her palpably clear. Her father had been right, after all. It was Pierre Adet who through some clever trickery had lured her to this place of evil. How it was all done she could not guess. The message⁠ ⁠… the device⁠ ⁠… her walk across the street⁠ ⁠… the silence⁠ ⁠… the mysterious guide⁠ ⁠… which of these had been the trickery?⁠ ⁠… which had been concocted by her enemy?⁠ ⁠… which devised by her dear milor?

Enough that the whole thing was a trap, a trap all the more hideous as she, Yvonne, who would have given her heart’s blood for her beloved, was obviously the bait wherewith these friends meant to capture him and his noble chief. They knew evidently of the presence of the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel and his band of heroes here in Nantes⁠—they seemed to expect their appearance at this abominable place tonight. She, Yvonne, was to be the decoy which was to lure to this hideous lair those noble eagles who were still out of reach.

And if that was so⁠—if indeed her beloved and his valiant friends had followed her hither, then some part of the message of hope must have come from them or from their chief⁠ ⁠… and milor and his friend must even now be somewhere close by, watching their opportunity to come to her rescue⁠ ⁠… heedless of the awful danger which lay in wait for them⁠ ⁠… ignorant mayhap of the abominable trap which had been so cunningly set for them by these astute and ferocious brutes.

Yvonne a prisoner in this narrow space, clinging to the bars of what was perhaps the most cruel prison in which she had yet been confined, bruised her hands and arms against those bars in a wild desire to get out. She longed with all her might to utter one long, loud and piercing cry of warning to her dear milor not to come nigh her now, to fly, to run while there was yet time; and all the while she knew that if she did utter such a cry he would hurry hot-haste to her side. One moment she would have had him near⁠—another she wished him an hundred miles away.

IV

In the taproom a more ordered medley of sounds had followed on the wild pandemonium of awhile ago. Brief, peremptory words of command, steady tramping of feet, loud harsh questions and subdued answers, occasionally a moan or a few words of protest quickly suppressed, came through the partition to Yvonne’s straining ears.

“Your name?”

“Where do you live?”

“Your occupation?”

“That’s enough. Silence. The next.”

“Your name?”

“Where do you live?”

Men, women and even children were being questioned, classified, packed off, God knew whither. Sometimes a child would cry, a man utter an oath, a woman shriek: then would come harsh orders delivered in a gruff voice, more swearing, the grounding of arms and more often than not a dull, flat sound like a blow struck against human flesh, followed by a volley of curses, or a cry of pain.

“Your name?”

“George Amédé Lemoine.”

“Where do you live?”

“In this house.”

“Your occupation?”

“I am the proprietor of the tavern, citizen. I am an honest man and a patriot. The Republic⁠ ⁠…”

“That’s enough.”

“But I protest.”

“Silence. The next.”

All with dreary, ceaseless monotony: and Yvonne like a trapped bird was bruising her wings against the bars of her cage. Outside the window Chauvelin and Martin-Roget were still speaking in whispers: the fowlers were still watching for their prey. The third man had apparently gone away. What went on beyond the range of her prison window⁠—out in the darkness of the night which Yvonne’s aching eyes could not pierce⁠—she, the miserable watcher, the bait set here to catch the noble game, could not even conjecture. The window was small and her vision was further obstructed by heavy bars. She could see nothing⁠—hear nothing save those two men talking in whispers. Now and again she caught a few words:

“A little while longer, citizen⁠ ⁠… you lose nothing by waiting. Your Kernogans are safe enough. Paul Friche has assured you that the landing where they are now has no egress save through the taproom, and to the floor above. Wait at least until commandant Fleury has got the crowd together, after which he will send his Marats to search the house. It won’t be too late then to lay hands on your aristos, if in the meanwhile⁠ ⁠…”

“ ’Tis futile to wait,” here interrupted Martin-Roget roughly, “and you are a fool, citizen, if you think that those Englishmen exist elsewhere than in your imagination.”

“Hark!” broke in the gentle voice abruptly and with forceful