The Elusive Pimpernel Baroness Orczy (read more books txt) 📖

ill. She sat up on the paillasse, then put her feet to the ground and presently walked up to the improvised dressing-room and bathed her face and hands. The rest had done her good, and she felt quite capable of coordinating her thoughts, of moving about without too much pain, and of preparing herself both mentally and physically for the grave events which she knew must be imminent.

While she busied herself with her toilet her thoughts dwelt on the one all-absorbing theme: Percy was in Boulogne, he knew that she was here, in prison, he would reach her without fail, in fact he might communicate with her at any moment now, and had without a doubt already evolved a plan of escape for her, more daring and ingenious than any which he had conceived hitherto; therefore, she must be ready, and prepared for any eventuality, she must be strong and eager, in no way despondent, for if he were here, would he not chide her for her want of faith?

By the time she had smoothed her hair and tidied her dress, Marguerite caught herself singing quite cheerfully to herself.

So full of buoyant hope was she.

XIX The Strength of the Weak

“M. L’Abbé!⁠ ⁠…” said Marguerite gravely.

“Yes, mon enfant.”

The old man looked up from his breviary, and saw Marguerite’s great earnest eyes fixed with obvious calm and trust upon him. She had finished her toilet as well as she could, had shaken up and tidied the paillasse, and was now sitting on the edge of it, her hands clasped between her knees. There was something which still puzzled her, and impatient and impulsive as she was, she had watched the abbé as he calmly went on reading the Latin prayers for the last five minutes, and now she could contain her questionings no longer.

“You said just now that they set you to watch over me⁠ ⁠…”

“So they did, my child, so they did⁠ ⁠…” he replied with a sigh, as he quietly closed his book and slipped it back into his pocket. “Ah! they are very cunning⁠ ⁠… and we must remember that they have the power. No doubt,” added the old man, with his own, quaint philosophy, “no doubt le bon Dieu meant them to have the power, or they would not have it, would they?”

“By ‘they’ you mean the Terrorists and Anarchists of France, M. L’Abbé.⁠ ⁠… The Committee of Public Safety who pillage and murder, outrage women, and desecrate religion.⁠ ⁠… Is that not so?”

“Alas! my child!” he sighed.

“And it is ‘they’ who have set you to watch over me?⁠ ⁠… I confess I don’t understand⁠ ⁠…”

She laughed, quite involuntarily indeed, for in spite of the reassurance in her heart her brain was still in a whirl of passionate anxiety.

“You don’t look at all like one of ‘them,’ M. l’Abbé,” she said.

“The good God forbid!” ejaculated the old man, raising protesting hands up toward the very distant, quite invisible sky. “How could I, a humble priest of the Lord, range myself with those who would flout and defy Him.”

“Yet I am a prisoner of the Republic and you are my jailer, M. l’Abbé.”

“Ah, yes!” he sighed. “But I am very helpless. This was my cell. I had been here with François and Félicité, my sister’s children, you know. Innocent lambs, whom those fiends would lead to slaughter. Last night,” he continued, speaking volubly, “the soldiers came in and dragged François and Félicité out of this room, where, in spite of the danger before us, in spite of what we suffered, we had contrived to be quite happy together. I could read the Mass, and the dear children would say their prayers night and morning at my knee.”

He paused awhile. The unshed tears in his mild blue eyes struggled for freedom now, and one or two flowed slowly down his wrinkled cheek. Marguerite, though heartsore and full of agonizing sorrow herself, felt her whole noble soul go out to this kind old man, so pathetic, so high and simple-minded in his grief.

She said nothing, however, and the Abbé continued after a few seconds’ silence.

“When the children had gone, they brought you in here, mon enfant, and laid you on the paillasse where Félicité used to sleep. You looked very white, and stricken down, like one of God’s lambs attacked by the ravening wolf. Your eyes were closed and you were blissfully unconscious. I was taken before the governor of the prison, and he told me that you would share the cell with me for a time, and that I was to watch you night and day, because⁠ ⁠…”

The old man paused again. Evidently what he had to say was very difficult to put into words. He groped in his pockets and brought out a large bandana handkerchief, red and yellow and green, with which he began to mop his moist forehead. The quaver in his voice and the trembling of his hands became more apparent and pronounced.

“Yes, M. l’Abbé? Because?⁠ ⁠…” queried Marguerite gently.

“They said that if I guarded you well, Félicité and François would be set free,” replied the old man after a while, during which he made vigorous efforts to overcome his nervousness, “and that if you escaped the children and I would be guillotined the very next day.”

There was silence in the little room now. The Abbé was sitting quite still, clasping his trembling fingers, and Marguerite neither moved nor spoke. What the old man had just said was very slowly finding its way to the innermost cells of her brain. Until her mind had thoroughly grasped the meaning of it all, she could not trust herself to make a single comment.

It was some seconds before she fully understood it all, before she realized what it meant not only to her, but indirectly to her husband. Until now she had not been fully conscious of the enormous wave of hope which almost in spite of herself had risen triumphant above the dull, grey sea of