The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy (story reading .TXT) 📕

more of the soldiers would be coming down, or that Chauvelin, impatient at her absence, might step out upon the landing. The dank, murky air seemed alive with ominous whisperings, of stealthy treads upon the stone. Theresia dared not look behind her, fearful lest the grim presence of Death itself be suddenly made manifest before her.

On the landing he took leave of her, stooped and kissed her hand.

“Why, how cold it is!” he remarked with a smile.

His was perfectly steady and warm. The very feel of it seemed to give her strength. She raised her eyes to his.

“Milor,” she entreated, “on my knees I beg of you not to toy with your life any longer.”

“Toy with my life?” he retorted gaily. “Nothing is further from my thoughts.”

“You must know that every second which you spend in this house is fraught with the greatest possible danger.”

“Danger? Ne’er a bit, dear lady! I am no longer in danger, now that you are my friend.”

The next moment he was gone. For awhile, Theresia’s straining ears still caught the sound of his firm footfall upon the stone steps. Then all was still; and she was left wondering if, in very truth, the last few minutes on the dark stairs had not all been part of a dream.

XXVII Terror or Ambition

Chauvelin had sufficiently recovered from the emotions of the past half-hour to speak coolly and naturally to Theresia. Whether he knew that she had waylaid Sir Percy Blakeney on the stairs or no, she could not conjecture. He made no reference to his interview with the Scarlet Pimpernel, nor did he question her directly as to whether she had overheard what passed between them.

Certainly his attitude was a more dictatorial one than it had been before. Some of his first words to her contained a veiled menace. Whether the sense of coming triumph gave him a fresh measure of that arrogance which past failures had never wholly subdued, or whether terror for the future caused him to bluster and to threaten, it were impossible to say.

“Vigilance!” he said to Theresia, after a curt greeting. “Incessant vigilance, night and day, is what your country demands of you now, citizeness! All our lives now depend upon our vigilance.”

“Yours perhaps, citizen,” she rejoined coolly. “You seem to forget that I am not bound⁠—”

“You? Not bound?” he broke in roughly, and with a strident laugh. “Not bound to aid in bringing the most bitter enemy of your country to his knees? Not bound, now that success is in sight?”

“You only obtained my help by a subterfuge,” she retorted; “by a forged letter and a villainous lie⁠—”

“Bah! Are you going to tell me, citizeness, that all means are not justifiable when dealing with those whose hands are raised against France? Forgery?” he went on, with passionate earnestness. “Why not? Outrage? Murder? I would commit every crime in order to serve the country which I love, and hound her enemies to death. The only crime that is unjustifiable, citoyenne, is indifference. You? Not bound? Wait! Wait, I say! And if by your indifference or your apathy we fail once more to bring that elusive enemy to book, wait then until you stand at the bar of the people’s tribunal, and in the face of France, who called to you for help, of France, who beset by a hundred foes, stretched appealing arms to you, her daughter, you turned a deaf ear to her entreaties, and, shrugging your fair shoulders, calmly pleaded, ‘Bah! I was not bound!’ ”

He paused, carried away by his own enthusiasm, feeling perhaps that he had gone too far, or else had said enough to enforce the obedience which he exacted. After awhile, since Theresia remained silent too, he added more quietly:

“If we capture the Scarlet Pimpernel this time, citizeness, Robespierre shall know from my lips that it is to you and to you alone that he owes this triumph over the enemy whom he fears above all. Without you, I could not have set the trap out of which he cannot now escape.”

“He can escape! He can!” she retorted defiantly. “The Scarlet Pimpernel is too clever, too astute, too audacious, to fall into your trap.”

“Take care, citoyenne, take care! Your admiration for that elusive hero carries you beyond the bounds of prudence.”

“Bah! If he escapes, ’tis you who will be blamed⁠—”

“And ’tis you who will suffer, citoyenne,” he riposted blandly. With which parting shaft he left her certain that she would ponder over his threats as well as over his bold promise of a rich reward.

Terror and ambition! Death, or the gratitude of Robespierre! How well did Chauvelin gauge the indecision, the shallowness of a fickle woman’s heart! Theresia, left to herself, had only those two alternatives over which to ponder. Robespierre’s gratitude, which meant that the admiration which already he felt for her would turn to stronger passion. He was still heart-whole, that she knew. The regard which he was supposed to feel for the humble cabinetmaker’s daughter could only be a passing fancy. The dictator of France must choose a mate worthy of his power and of his ambition; his friends would see to that. Robespierre’s gratitude! What a vista of triumphs and of glory did that eventuality open up before her, what dizzy heights of satisfied ambition! And what a contrast if Chauvelin’s scheme failed in the end!

“Wait,” he had cried, “until you stand at the bar of the people’s tribunal and plead indifference!”

Theresia shuddered. Despite the close atmosphere of the apartment, she was shivering with cold. Her loneliness, her isolation, here in this house, where an appalling and grim tragedy was even now in preparation, filled her with sickening dread. Overhead she could hear the soldiers moving about, and in one of the rooms close by her sensitive ear caught the sound of Mother Théot’s shuffling tread.

But the sound that was most insistent, that hammered away at her heart until she could