The Elusive Pimpernel [85]
keen eyes had not missed the almost imperceptible tightening of the jaw and the rapid clenching of one hand on the sword hilt even whilst the other toyed in graceful idleness with the filmy Mechlin lace cravat.
Sir Percy's head was well thrown back, and the pale rays of the moon caught the edge of the clear-cut profile, the low massive brow, the drooping lids through which the audacious plotter was lazily regarding the man who held not only his own life, but that of the woman who was infinitely dear to him, in the hollow of his hand.
"I am afraid, Sir Percy," continued Chauvelin drily, "that you are under the impression that bolts and bars will yield to your usual good luck, now that so precious a life is at stake as that of Lady Blakeney."
"I am a greater believer in impressions, Monsieur Chauvelin."
"I told her just now that if she quitted Boulogne ere the Scarlet Pimpernel is in our hands, we should summarily shoot one member of every family in the town--the bread-winner."
"A pleasant conceit, Monsieur ... and one that does infinite credit to your inventive faculties."
"Lady Blakeney, therefore, we hold safely enough," continued Chauvelin, who no longer heeded the mocking observations of his enemy; "as for the Scarlet Pimpernel ..."
"You have but to ring a bell, to raise a voice, and he too will be under lock and key within the next two minutes, eh? ... Passons, Monsieur ... you are dying to say something further ... I pray you proceed ... your engaging countenance is becoming quite interesting in its seriousness."
"What I wish to say to you, Sir Percy, is in the nature of a proposed bargain."
"Indeed? ... Monsieur, you are full of surprises ... like a pretty woman. ... And pray what are the terms of this proposed bargain?"
"Your side of the bargain, Sir Percy, or mine? Which will you hear first?"
"Oh yours, Monsieur ... yours, I pray you. ... Have I not said that you are like a pretty woman? ... Place aux dames, sir! always!"
"My share of the bargain, sir, is simple enough: Lady Blakeney, escorted by yourself and any of your friends who might be in this city at the time, shall leave Boulogne harbour at sunset to-morrow, free and unmolested, if you on the other hand will do your share ..."
"I don't yet know what my share in this interesting bargain is to be, sir ... but for the sake of argument let us suppose that I do not carry it out. ... What then? ..."
"Then, Sir Percy ... putting aside for the moment the question of the Scarlet Pimpernel altogether ... then, Lady Blakeney will be taken to Paris, and will be incarcerated in the prison of the Temple lately vacated by Marie Antoinette--there she will be treated in exactly the same was as the ex-queen is now being treated in the Conciergerie. ... Do you know what that means, Sir Percy? ... It does not mean a summary trial and a speedy death, with the halo and glory of martyrdom thrown in ... it means days, weeks, nay, months, perhaps, of misery and humiliation ... it means, that like Marie Antoinette, she will never be allowed solitude for one single instant of the day or night ... it means the constant proximity of soldiers, drunk with cruelty and with hate ... the insults, the shame ..."
"You hound! ... you dog! ... you cur! ... do you not see that I must strangle you for this! ..."
The attack had been so sudden and so violent that Chauvelin had not the time to utter the slightest call for help. But a second ago, Sir Percy Blakeney had been sitting on the window-sill, outwardly listening with perfect calm to what his enemy had to say; now he was at the latter's throat, pressing with long and slender hands the breath out of the Frenchman's body, his usually placid face distorted into a mask of hate.
"You cur! ... you cur! ..." he repeated, "am I to kill you or will you unsay those words?"
Then suddenly he relaxed his grip. The habits of a lifetime would not be gainsaid even now. A second ago his face had been livid with rage and hate, now a quick flush overspread it, as if he were ashamed of this loss of self-control.
Sir Percy's head was well thrown back, and the pale rays of the moon caught the edge of the clear-cut profile, the low massive brow, the drooping lids through which the audacious plotter was lazily regarding the man who held not only his own life, but that of the woman who was infinitely dear to him, in the hollow of his hand.
"I am afraid, Sir Percy," continued Chauvelin drily, "that you are under the impression that bolts and bars will yield to your usual good luck, now that so precious a life is at stake as that of Lady Blakeney."
"I am a greater believer in impressions, Monsieur Chauvelin."
"I told her just now that if she quitted Boulogne ere the Scarlet Pimpernel is in our hands, we should summarily shoot one member of every family in the town--the bread-winner."
"A pleasant conceit, Monsieur ... and one that does infinite credit to your inventive faculties."
"Lady Blakeney, therefore, we hold safely enough," continued Chauvelin, who no longer heeded the mocking observations of his enemy; "as for the Scarlet Pimpernel ..."
"You have but to ring a bell, to raise a voice, and he too will be under lock and key within the next two minutes, eh? ... Passons, Monsieur ... you are dying to say something further ... I pray you proceed ... your engaging countenance is becoming quite interesting in its seriousness."
"What I wish to say to you, Sir Percy, is in the nature of a proposed bargain."
"Indeed? ... Monsieur, you are full of surprises ... like a pretty woman. ... And pray what are the terms of this proposed bargain?"
"Your side of the bargain, Sir Percy, or mine? Which will you hear first?"
"Oh yours, Monsieur ... yours, I pray you. ... Have I not said that you are like a pretty woman? ... Place aux dames, sir! always!"
"My share of the bargain, sir, is simple enough: Lady Blakeney, escorted by yourself and any of your friends who might be in this city at the time, shall leave Boulogne harbour at sunset to-morrow, free and unmolested, if you on the other hand will do your share ..."
"I don't yet know what my share in this interesting bargain is to be, sir ... but for the sake of argument let us suppose that I do not carry it out. ... What then? ..."
"Then, Sir Percy ... putting aside for the moment the question of the Scarlet Pimpernel altogether ... then, Lady Blakeney will be taken to Paris, and will be incarcerated in the prison of the Temple lately vacated by Marie Antoinette--there she will be treated in exactly the same was as the ex-queen is now being treated in the Conciergerie. ... Do you know what that means, Sir Percy? ... It does not mean a summary trial and a speedy death, with the halo and glory of martyrdom thrown in ... it means days, weeks, nay, months, perhaps, of misery and humiliation ... it means, that like Marie Antoinette, she will never be allowed solitude for one single instant of the day or night ... it means the constant proximity of soldiers, drunk with cruelty and with hate ... the insults, the shame ..."
"You hound! ... you dog! ... you cur! ... do you not see that I must strangle you for this! ..."
The attack had been so sudden and so violent that Chauvelin had not the time to utter the slightest call for help. But a second ago, Sir Percy Blakeney had been sitting on the window-sill, outwardly listening with perfect calm to what his enemy had to say; now he was at the latter's throat, pressing with long and slender hands the breath out of the Frenchman's body, his usually placid face distorted into a mask of hate.
"You cur! ... you cur! ..." he repeated, "am I to kill you or will you unsay those words?"
Then suddenly he relaxed his grip. The habits of a lifetime would not be gainsaid even now. A second ago his face had been livid with rage and hate, now a quick flush overspread it, as if he were ashamed of this loss of self-control.