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

jeered at what you call my farfetched ideas⁠ ⁠… just as you do now. Well! will you let me remind you of what happened within four-and-twenty hours of that warning which you chose to disregard?⁠ ⁠… Yvonne de Kernogan was married to Lord Anthony Dewhurst and⁠ ⁠…”

“I know all that, man,” broke in Martin-Roget impatiently. “It was all a mere coincidence⁠ ⁠… the marriage must have been planned long before that⁠ ⁠… your Scarlet Pimpernel could not possibly have had anything to do with it.”

“Perhaps not,” rejoined Chauvelin drily. “But mark what has happened since. Just now when we crossed the Place I saw in the distance a figure flitting past⁠—the gorgeous figure of an exquisite who of a surety is a stranger in Nantes: and carried upon the wings of the northwesterly wind there came to me the sound of a voice which, of late, I have only heard in my dreams. On my soul, citizen Martin-Roget,” he added with earnest emphasis, “I assure you that the Scarlet Pimpernel is in Nantes at the present moment, that he is scheming, plotting, planning to rescue the Kernogan wench out of your clutches. He will not leave her in your power, on this I would stake my life; she is the wife of one of his dearest friends: he will not abandon her, not while he keeps that resourceful head of his on his shoulders. Unless you are desperately careful he will outwit you; of that I am as convinced as that I am alive.”

“Bah! you have been dreaming, citizen Chauvelin,” rejoined Martin-Roget with a laugh and shrugging his broad shoulders; “your mysterious Englishman in Nantes? Why man! the navigation of the Loire has been totally prohibited these last fourteen days⁠—no carriage, van or vehicle of any kind is allowed to enter the city⁠—no man, woman or child to pass the barriers without special permit signed either by the proconsul himself or by Fleury the captain of the Marats. Why! even I, when I brought the Kernogans in overland from Le Croisic, I was detained two hours outside Nantes while my papers were sent in to Carrier for inspection. You know that, you were with me.”

“I know it,” replied Chauvelin drily, “and yet⁠ ⁠…”

He paused, with one claw-like finger held erect to demand attention. The door of the small room in which they sat gave on the big hall where the half-dozen Marats were stationed, the single window at right angles to the door looked out upon the Place below. It was from there that suddenly there came the sound of a loud peal of laughter⁠—quaint and merry⁠—somewhat inane and affected, and at the sound Chauvelin’s pale face took on the hue of ashes and even Martin-Roget felt a strange sensation of cold creeping down his spine.

For a few seconds the two men remained quite still, as if a spell had been cast over them through that lighthearted peal of rippling laughter. Then equally suddenly the younger man shook himself free of the spell; with a few long strides he was already at the door and out in the vast hall; Chauvelin following closely on his heels.

IV

The clock in the tower of the edifice was even then striking five. The Marats in the hall looked up with lazy indifference at the two men who had come rushing out in such an abrupt and excited manner.

“Any stranger been through here?” queried Chauvelin peremptorily of the sergeant in command.

“No,” replied the latter curtly. “How could they, without a permit?”

He shrugged his shoulders and the men resumed their game and their argument. Martin-Roget would have parleyed with them but Chauvelin had already crossed the hall and was striding past the clerk’s office and the lodge of the concierge out toward the open. Martin-Roget, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him.

The Place was wrapped in gloom. From the platform of the guillotine an oil-lamp hoisted on a post threw a small circle of light around. Small pieces of tallow candle, set in pewter sconces, glimmered feebly under the awnings of the booths, and there was a street-lamp affixed to the wall of the old château immediately below the parapet of the staircase, and others at the angles of the Rue de la Monnaye and the narrow Ruelle des Jacobins.

Chauvelin’s keen eyes tried to pierce the surrounding darkness. He leaned over the parapet and peered into the remote angles of the building and round the booths below him.

There were a few people on the Place, some walking rapidly across from one end to the other, intent on business, others pausing in order to make purchases at the booths. Up and down the steps of the guillotine a group of street urchins were playing hide-and-seek. Round the angles of the narrow streets the vague figures of passersby flitted to and fro, now easily discernible in the light of the street lanterns, anon swallowed up again in the darkness beyond. Whilst immediately below the parapet two or three men of the Company Marat were lounging against the walls. Their red bonnets showed up clearly in the flickering light of the street lamps, as did their bare shins and the polished points of their sabots. But of an elegant, picturesque figure such as Chauvelin had described awhile ago there was not a sign.

Martin-Roget leaned over the parapet and called peremptorily:

“Hey there! citizens of the Company Marat!”

One of the red-capped men looked up leisurely.

“Your desire, citizen?” he queried with insolent deliberation, for they were mighty men, this bodyguard of the great proconsul, his spies and tools in the awesome work of frightfulness which he carried on so ruthlessly.

“Is that you Paul Friche?” queried Martin-Roget in response.

“At your service, citizen,” came the glib reply, delivered not without mock deference.

“Then come up here. I wish to speak with you.”

“I can’t leave my post, nor can my mates,” retorted the man who had answered to the name of Paul Friche. “Come down, citizen, an you desire to speak with us.”

Martin-Roget swore lustily.

“The insolence of that rabble⁠ ⁠…”