Emma Orczy
The Scarlet Pimpernel
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Table of contents
CHAPTER I PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792
CHAPTER II DOVER: “THE FISHERMAN’S REST”
CHAPTER III THE REFUGEES
CHAPTER IV THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
CHAPTER V MARGUERITE
CHAPTER VI AN EXQUISITE OF ‘92
CHAPTER VII THE SECRET ORCHARD
CHAPTER VIII THE ACCREDITED AGENT
CHAPTER IX THE OUTRAGE
CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX
CHAPTER XI LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL
CHAPTER XII THE SCRAP OF PAPER
CHAPTER XIII EITHER—OR?
CHAPTER XIV ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY!
CHAPTER XV DOUBT
CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND
CHAPTER XVII FAREWELL
CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE
CHAPTER XIX THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
CHAPTER XX THE FRIEND
CHAPTER XXI SUSPENSE
CHAPTER XXII CALAIS
CHAPTER XXIII HOPE
CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH-TRAP
CHAPTER XXV THE EAGLE AND THE FOX
CHAPTER XXVI THE JEW
CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK
CHAPTER XXVIII THE PERE BLANCHARD’S HUT
CHAPTER XXIX TRAPPED
CHAPTER XXX THE SCHOONER
CHAPTER XXXI THE ESCAPE
CHAPTER I PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792
A
surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in
name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures,
animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate.
The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West
Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant
raised an undying monument to the nation’s glory and his own
vanity.During
the greater part of the day the guillotine had been kept busy at
its
ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the past centuries,
of ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for
liberty and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this
late
hour of the day because there were other more interesting sights
for
the people to witness, a little while before the final closing of
the
barricades for the night.And
so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Greve and made for
the
various barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing
sight.It
was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools! They
were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, and
children, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since
the Crusades had made the glory of France: her old NOBLESSE. Their
ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed them under the
scarlet heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had
become the rulers of France and crushed their former masters—not
beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in these days—but
a more effectual weight, the knife of the guillotine.And
daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many
victims—old men, young women, tiny children until the day when it
would finally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful young
Queen.But
this was as it should be: were not the people now the rulers of
France? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been
before him: for two hundred years now the people had sweated, and
toiled, and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish
extravagance;
now the descendants of those who had helped to make those courts
brilliant had to hide for their lives—to fly, if they wished to
avoid the tardy vengeance of the people.And
they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun of
the
whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market
carts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool
of
an aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of
Public Safety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they
tried to slip through the barriers, which were so well guarded by
citizen soldiers of the Republic. Men in women’s clothes, women in
male attire, children disguised in beggars’ rags: there were some
of all sorts: CI-DEVANT counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted
to
fly from France, reach England or some other equally accursed
country, and there try to rouse foreign feelings against the
glorious
Revolution, or to raise an army in order to liberate the wretched
prisoners in the Temple, who had once called themselves sovereigns
of
France.But
they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant Bibot
especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an
aristo in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun
began.
Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play
with
him, sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be
hoodwinked by the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of
theatrical
make-up which hid the identity of a CI-DEVANT noble marquise or
count.Oh!
Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging
round
that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in the
very
act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.Sometimes
Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing him to
think for the space of two minutes at least that he really had
escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast of
England in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk
about ten metres towards the open country, then he would send two
men
after him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.Oh!
that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would
prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly
comical when she found herself in Bibot’s clutches after all, and
knew that a summary trial would await her the next day and after
that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.No
wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round
Bibot’s gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with
its satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred
noble heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make
sure that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.Bibot
was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate of
the
barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under his
command. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos
were
becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris:
men,
women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had
served
those traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right
food for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction
of
unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried
by the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good
patriot, Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville.Robespierre
and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal and Bibot was
proud
of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at least fifty
aristos to the guillotine.But
to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricades had
had
special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos had
succeeded
in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely. There
were
curious rumours about these escapes; they had become very frequent
and singularly daring; the people’s minds were becoming strangely
excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent to the
guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of
the
North Gate under his very nose.It
was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of
Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from
sheer desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their
spare time in snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la
Guillotine. These rumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no
doubt that this band of meddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover,
they seemed to be under the leadership of a man whose pluck and
audacity were almost fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of how
he
and those aristos whom he rescued became suddenly invisible as they
reached the barricades and escaped out of the gates by sheer
supernatural agency.No
one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, he
was
never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. Citoyen
Foucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap
of
paper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in
the
pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone
in
the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee
of Public Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that
the
band of meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always
signed
with a device drawn in red—a little star-shaped flower, which we in
England call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the
receipt
of this impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public
Safety would hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had
succeeded in reaching the coast, and were on their way to England
and
safety.The
guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command had
been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for
the capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a
sum
of five thousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the
mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.Everyone
felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed that belief to
take firm root in everybody’s mind; and so, day after day, people
came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he
laid
hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied by
that
mysterious Englishman.
“
Bah!”
he said to his trusted corporal, “Citoyen Grospierre was a fool!
Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . .”Citoyen
Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his comrade’s
stupidity.
“
How
did it happen, citoyen?” asked the corporal.
“
Grospierre
was at the gate, keeping good watch,” began Bibot, pompously, as
the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his narrative.
“We’ve all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed
Scarlet Pimpernel. He won’t get through MY gate, MORBLEU! unless he
be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market carts
were going through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and
driven by an old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit
drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he looked into the
casks—most of them, at least—and saw they were empty, and let the
cart go through.”A
murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad
wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.
“
Half
an hour later,” continued the sergeant, “up comes a captain of
the guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. ‘Has a cart
gone through?’ he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. ‘Yes,’ says
Grospierre, ‘not half an hour ago.’ ‘And you have let them
escape,’ shouts the captain furiously. ‘You’ll go to the
guillotine for this, citoyen sergeant! that cart held concealed the
CI-DEVANT Duc de Chalis and all his family!’ ‘What!’ thunders
Grospierre, aghast. ‘Aye! and the driver was none other than that
cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.’”A
howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid
for
his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a
fool!Bibot
was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before
he
could continue.
“‘
After
them, my men,’ shouts the captain,” he said after a while,
“‘remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!’
And with that he rushes through the gate followed by his dozen
soldiers.”
“
But
it was too late!” shouted the crowd, excitedly.
“
They
never got them!”
“
Curse
that Grospierre for his folly!”
“
He
deserved his fate!”
“
Fancy
not examining those casks properly!”But
these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed
until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his
cheeks.
“
Nay,
nay!” he said at last, “those aristos weren’t in the cart; the
driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!”
“
What?”
“
No!
The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise,
and
everyone of his soldiers aristos!”The
crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the
supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not
quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the
hearts
of the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil
himself.The
sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to
close
the gates.
“
EN
AVANT the carts,” he said.Some
dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town, in
order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market
the
next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went
through his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town.
He spoke to one or two of their drivers—mostly women—and was at
great pains to examine the inside of the carts.
“
You
never know,” he would say, “and I’m not going to be caught like
that fool Grospierre.”The
women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de
la
Greve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and
gossiping, whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with
the
victims the Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to
see the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine,
and the places close by the platform were very much sought after.
Bibot, during the day, had been on duty on the Place. He recognized
most of the old hats, “tricotteuses,” as they were called, who
sat there and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath the
knife,
and they themselves got quite bespattered with the blood of those
cursed aristos.
“
He!
la mere!” said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, “what have
you got there?”He
had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of
her cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly
locks
to the whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark,
and she stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at
Bibot.
“
I
made friends with Madame Guillotine’s lover,” she said with a
coarse laugh, “he cut these off for me from the heads as they
rolled down. He has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don’t
know if I shall be at my usual place.”
“
Ah!
how is that, la mere?” asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier that he
was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this
semblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her
whip.
“
My
grandson has got the small-pox,” she said with a jerk of her thumb
towards the inside of her cart, “some say it’s the plague! If it
is, I sha’n’t be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow.” At the
first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily
backwards, and when the old hag spoke of the plague, he retreated
from her as fast as he could.
“
Curse
you!” he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the cart,
leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place.The
old hag laughed.
“
Curse
you, citoyen, for being a coward,” she said. “Bah! what a man to
be afraid of sickness.”
“
MORBLEU!
the plague!”Everyone
was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the loathsome
malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse terror
and
disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.
“
Get
out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!” shouted Bibot,
hoarsely.And
with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up
her
lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.This
incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of
these
two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure, and
which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung
about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one
another suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest
the
plague lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of
Grospierre, a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was
known to Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a
sly
Englishman in disguise.
“
A
cart, . . .” he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached
the gates.
“
What
cart?” asked Bibot, roughly.
“
Driven
by an old hag. . . . A covered cart . . .”
“
There
were a dozen . . .”
“
An
old hag who said her son had the plague?”
“
Yes
. . .”
“
You
have not let them go?”
“
MORBLEU!”
said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white with
fear.
“
The
cart contained the CI-DEVANT Comtesse de Tourney and her two
children, all of them traitors and condemned to death.”
“
And
their driver?” muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down
his spine.
“
SACRE
TONNERRE,” said the captain, “but it is feared that it was that
accursed Englishman himself—the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
CHAPTER II DOVER: “THE FISHERMAN’S REST”
In
the kitchen Sally was extremely busy—saucepans and frying-pans were
standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood
in
a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented
alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The
two little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and
panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled
elbows,
and giggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss
Sally’s back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in
temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while
she stirred the stock-pot methodically over the fire.
“
What
ho! Sally!” came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from the
coffee-room close by.
“
Lud
bless my soul!” exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, “what
be they all wanting now, I wonder!”
“
Beer,
of course,” grumbled Jemima, “you don’t ‘xpect Jimmy Pitkin
to ‘ave done with one tankard, do ye?”
“
Mr.
‘Arry, ‘e looked uncommon thirsty too,” simpered Martha, one of
the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they
met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of
short and suppressed giggles.
Sally
looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands
against
her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in
contact with Martha’s rosy cheeks—but inherent good-humour
prevailed, and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned
her attention to the fried potatoes.
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!
Lesen Sie weiter in der vollständigen Ausgabe!