Lord Tony’s Wife Baroness Orczy (story read aloud .TXT) 📖

Lord Tony’s Wife

By Baroness Orczy.

Table of Contents Titlepage Imprint Dedication Lord Tony’s Wife Prologue I II III IV V VI Book I: Bath, 1793 I: The Moor I II III IV II: The Bottom Inn I II III IV V VI VII III: The Assembly Rooms I II III IV V VI VII IV: The Father I II III V: The Nest I II III IV V VI VII VI: The Scarlet Pimpernel VII: Marguerite I II III VIII: The Road to Portishead I II III IV V IX: The Coast of France I II III Book II: Nantes, December, 1793 I: The Tiger’s Lair I II III IV V VI VII II: Le Bouffay I II III IV V III: The Fowlers I II III IV V IV: The Net I II III IV V: The Message of Hope I II III VI: The Rat Mort I II III IV V VII: The Fracas in the Tavern I II III IV V VIII: The English Adventurers I II III IV V IX: The Proconsul I II II IV V X: Lord Tony I II Endnotes Colophon Uncopyright Imprint

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To
Dora Countess of Chesterfield
A token of friendship and love.

Emmuska Orczy.

Lord Tony’s Wife Prologue Nantes, 1789 I

“Tyrant! tyrant! tyrant!”

It was Pierre who spoke, his voice was hardly raised above a murmur, but there was such an intensity of passion expressed in his face, in the fingers of his hand which closed slowly and convulsively as if they were clutching the throat of a struggling viper, there was so much hate in those muttered words, so much power, such compelling and awesome determination that an ominous silence fell upon the village lads and the men who sat with him in the low narrow room of the auberge des Trois Vertus.

Even the man in the tattered coat and threadbare breeches, who⁠—perched upon the centre table⁠—had been haranguing the company on the subject of the Rights of Man, paused in his peroration and looked down on Pierre half afraid of that fierce flame of passionate hate which his own words had helped to kindle.

The silence, however, had only lasted a few moments, the next Pierre was on his feet, and a cry like that of a bull in a slaughterhouse escaped his throat.

“In the name of God!” he shouted, “let us cease all that senseless talking. Haven’t we planned enough and talked enough to satisfy our puling consciences? The time has come to strike, mes amis, to strike I say, to strike at those cursed aristocrats, who have made us what we are⁠—ignorant, wretched, downtrodden⁠—senseless clods to work our fingers to the bone, our bodies till they break so that they may wallow in their pleasures and their luxuries! Strike, I say!” he reiterated while his eyes glowed and his breath came and went through his throat with a hissing sound. “Strike! as the men and women struck in Paris on that great day in July. To them the Bastille stood for tyranny, and they struck at it as they would at the head of a tyrant⁠—and the tyrant cowered, cringed, made terms⁠—he was frightened at the wrath of the people! That is what happened in Paris! That is what must happen in Nantes. The château of the duc de Kernogan is our Bastille! Let us strike at it tonight, and if the arrogant aristocrat resists, we’ll raze his house to the ground. The hour, the day, the darkness are all propitious. The arrangements hold good. The neighbours are ready. Strike, I say!”

He brought his hard fist crashing down upon the table, so that mugs and bottles rattled: his enthusiasm had fired all his hearers: his hatred and his lust of revenge had done more in five minutes than all the tirades of the agitators sent down from Paris to instil revolutionary ideas into the slow-moving brains of village lads.

“Who will give the signal?” queried one of the older men quietly.

“I will!” came a lusty response from Pierre.

He strode to the door, and all the men jumped to their feet, ready to follow him, dragged into this hotheaded venture by the mere force of one man’s towering passion. They followed Pierre like sheep⁠—sheep that have momentarily become intoxicated⁠—sheep that have become fierce⁠—a strange sight