The Scarlet Pimpernel Read online

  Produced by Conway Yee and David Widger

  THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

  By Baroness Orczy

  Contents:

  I. PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792 II. DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST" III. THE REFUGEES IV. THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL V. MARGUERITE VI. AN EXQUISITE OF '92 VII. THE SECRET ORCHARD VIII. THE ACCREDITED AGENT IX. THE OUTRAGE X. IN THE OPERA BOX XI. LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL XII. THE SCRAP OF PAPER XIII. EITHER XIV. ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY! XV. DOUBT XVI. RICHMOND XVII. FAREWELL XVIII. THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE XIX. THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL XX. THE FRIEND XXI. SUSPENSE XXII. CALAIS XXIII. HOPE XXIV. THE DEATH XXV. THE EAGLE AND THE FOX XXVI. THE JEW XXVII. ON THE TRACK XXVIII. THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT XXIX. TRAPPED XXX. THE SCHOONER XXXI. THE ESCAPE

  THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

  CHAPTER I PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792

  A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only inname, 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. Thehour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West Barricade,at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant raised an undyingmonument to the nation's glory and his own vanity.

  During the greater part of the day the guillotine had been kept busy atits ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the past centuries,of ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her desire forliberty and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this latehour of the day because there were other more interesting sights forthe people to witness, a little while before the final closing of thebarricades for the night.

  And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Greve and made for thevarious barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing sight.

  It was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools! Theywere traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, andchildren, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since theCrusades had made the glory of France: her old NOBLESSE. Their ancestorshad oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet heels oftheir dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the rulersof France and crushed their former masters--not beneath their heel, forthey 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 manyvictims--old men, young women, tiny children until the day when it wouldfinally 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 ofFrance? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been beforehim: for two hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled,and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extravagance; now thedescendants of those who had helped to make those courts brillianthad to hide for their lives--to fly, if they wished to avoid the tardyvengeance of the people.

  And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun ofthe whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the marketcarts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool ofan aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of PublicSafety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to slipthrough the barriers, which were so well guarded by citizen soldiersof the Republic. Men in women's clothes, women in male attire, childrendisguised in beggars' rags: there were some of all sorts: CI-DEVANTcounts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to fly from France, reachEngland or some other equally accursed country, and there try to rouseforeign feelings against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an armyin order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple, who had oncecalled themselves sovereigns of France.

  But they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant Bibotespecially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristoin the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. Bibotwould 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 bythe disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hidthe identity of a CI-DEVANT noble marquise or count.

  Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanginground that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in thevery act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.

  Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowinghim to think for the space of two minutes at least that he reallyhad escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast ofEngland in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk aboutten metres towards the open country, then he would send two men afterhim and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.

  Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive wouldprove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly comicalwhen she found herself in Bibot's clutches after all, and knew thata summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the fondembrace of Madame la Guillotine.

  No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd roundBibot's gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with itssatisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred nobleheads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that itwould see another hundred fall on the morrow.

  Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gateof the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under hiscommand. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos werebecoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris: men,women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had servedthose traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and rightfood for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction ofunmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be triedby 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 Bibotwas proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at leastfifty aristos to the guillotine.

  But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricadeshad had special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos hadsucceeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely.There were curious rumours about these escapes; they had become veryfrequent and singularly daring; the people's minds were becomingstrangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent tothe guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of theNorth Gate under his very nose.

  It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band ofEnglishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheerdesire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time insnatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la Guillotine. Theserumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no doubt that this band ofmeddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be underthe leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost fabulous.Strange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom he rescuedbecame suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and escaped outof the gates by sheer supernatural agency.

  No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, hewas never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. CitoyenFoucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap ofpaper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in thepocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone inthe crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee ofPublic Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that the bandof meddlesome Englishmen w
ere at work, and it was always signed with adevice drawn in red--a little star-shaped flower, which we in Englandcall the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of thisimpudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety wouldhear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reachingthe coast, and were on their way to England and safety.

  The guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command hadbeen threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for thecapture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a sum of fivethousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the mysterious andelusive Scarlet Pimpernel.

  Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed thatbelief 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 helaid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied bythat 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 hiscomrade'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 hisnarrative. "We've all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursedScarlet Pimpernel. He won't get through MY gate, MORBLEU! unless hebe the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market carts weregoing through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and driven byan old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit drunk, but hethought himself very clever; he looked into the casks--most of them, atleast--and saw they were empty, and let the cart go through."

  A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-cladwretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.

  "Half an hour later," continued the sergeant, "up comes a captain ofthe guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. 'Has a cart gonethrough?' he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. 'Yes,' says Grospierre,'not half an hour ago.' 'And you have let them escape,' shouts thecaptain furiously. 'You'll go to the guillotine for this, citoyensergeant! that cart held concealed the CI-DEVANT Duc de Chalis and allhis family!' 'What!' thunders Grospierre, aghast. 'Aye! and the driverwas none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

  A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid forhis 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 beforehe 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 withthat 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 laugheduntil his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.

  "Nay, nay!" he said at last, "those aristos weren't in the cart; thedriver 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 thesupernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had notquite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts ofthe people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.

  The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself toclose 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 thenext morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went throughhis gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He spoketo one or two of their drivers--mostly women--and was at great pains toexamine the inside of the carts.

  "You never know," he would say, "and I'm not going to be caught likethat fool Grospierre."

  The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de laGreve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping,whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims theReign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see the aristosarriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the places closeby 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, whilsthead after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got quitebespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.

  "He! la mere!" said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, "what have yougot there?"

  He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip ofher cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks tothe whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and shestroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.

  "I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover," she said with a coarselaugh, "he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. Hehas promised me some more to-morrow, but I don't know if I shall be atmy usual place."

  "Ah! how is that, la mere?" asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier thathe was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of thissemblance 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 thumbtowards the inside of her cart, "some say it's the plague! If it is, Isha'n't be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow." At the first mentionof the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily backwards, and when theold hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could.

  "Curse you!" he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided thecart, 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 tobe afraid of sickness."

  "MORBLEU! the plague!"

  Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the loathsomemalady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse terror anddisgust 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 herlean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.

  This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified ofthese two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure,and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hungabout the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one anothersuspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plaguelurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre,a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, andthere was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise.

  "A cart, . . ." he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached thegates.

  "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 whitewith fear.

  "The cart contained the CI-DEVANT Comtesse de Tourney and her twochildren, all of them traitors and condemned to death."

  "And their driver?" muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder randown his spine.

  "SACRE TONNERRE," said the captain, "but it is feared that it was thataccursed Englishman himself--th
e Scarlet Pimpernel."

  CHAPTER II DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST"