THE WAY OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL. Emma Orczy
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"Maurice dear," she said, "listen to me and do not talk nonsense."
Nonsense!! Ye gods!
"You have got to help me, Maurice, to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."
Her beautiful eyes, which she turned full upon him, were aglow with enthusiasm -- enthusiasm for something in which he had no share. Nor did he understand what she was talking about. All he knew was that she had dismissed his pleading as nonsense, and that with a curious smile on her lips she was just turning a knife round and round in his heart.
And, oh, how that hurt!
But she also said that she wanted his help, so he tried very hard to get at her meaning, though she seemed to be prattling on rather inconsequently.
"Charles-Léon," she said, "is very ill, you know, Maurice dear -- that is, not so very ill, but the doctor says he must have change of air or he will perish in a decline."
"A doctor can always get a permit for a patient in extremis..." Maurice put in, assuming a judicial manner.
"Don't be stupid, Maurice!" she retorted impatiently. "We all know that the doctor can get a permit for Charles-Léon, but he can't get one for Louise or for me, and where is Charles-Léon to go with neither of us to look after him?"
"Then what's to be done?"
"Try and listen more attentively, Maurice," she retorted. "You are not really listening."
"I am," he protested, "I swear I am!"
"Really -- really?"
"Really, Josette -- with both ears and all the intelligence I've got."
"Very well, then. You have heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, haven't you?"
"We all have -- in a way."
"What do you mean by 'in a way'?"
"Well, no one is quite sure if he really exists, and..."
"Maurice, don't, in Heaven's name, be stupid! You must have brains or Maître de Croissy could not do with you as his confidential clerk. So do use your brains, Maurice, and tell me if the Scarlet Pimpernel does not exist, then how did the Maillys get away -- and the Frontenacs -- and the Tournays -- and -- and...? Oh, Maurice, I hate your being so stupid!"
"You have only got to tell me, Josette, what you wish me to do," poor Maurice put in very humbly, "and I will do it, of course."
"I want you to help me find the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"Gladly will I help you, Josette; but won't it be like looking for a needle in a haystack?"
"Not at all," this intrepid little Joan of Arc asserted. "Listen, Maurice! In our workshop there is a girl, Agnes Minet, who was at one time in service with a Madame Carré, whose son Antoine was in hiding because he was threatened with arrest. His mother didn't dare write to him lest her letters be intercepted. Well, there was a public letter-writer who plied his trade at the corner of the Pont-Neuf -- a funny old scarecrow he was -- and Agnes, who cannot write, used sometimes to employ him to write to her fiancé who was away with the army. She says she doesn't know exactly how it all happened -- s he thinks the old letter-writer must have questioned her very cleverly, or else have followed her home one day -- but, anyway, she caught herself telling him all about Antione Carré and took him and his mother safely out of France."
She paused a moment to draw breath, for she had spoken excitedly and all the time scarcely above a whisper, for the subject-matter was not one she would have liked some evil-wisher to hear. There were so many spies about these days eager for blood-money -- the forty sous which could be earned for denouncing a "suspect."
Maurice, fully alive to this, made no immediate comment, but after a few seconds he suggested: "Shall we walk?" and took Josette by the elbow. It was getting dark now: the Cour la Reine was only poorly-lighted by a very few street lanterns placed at long intervals. They walked together in silence for a time, looking like young lovers intent on amorous effusions. The few passers-by, furtive and noiseless, took no notice of them.
"Antoine Carré's case is not the only one, Maurice," Josette resumed presently. "I could tell you dozens of others. The girls in the workshop talk about it all the time when the superintendent is out of the room."
Again she paused, and then went on firmly, stressing her command: "You have got to help me, you know, Maurice."
"Of course I will, Josette," Maurice murmured. "But how?"
"You must find the public letter-writer who used to have his pitch at the corner of the Pont-Neuf."
"There isn't one there now. I went past..."
"I know that. He has changed his pitch, that's all."
"How shall I know which is the right man? There are a number of public letter-writers in Paris."
"I shall be with you, Maurice, and I shall know, I am sure I shall know. There is something inside my heart which will make it beat faster as soon as the Scarlet Pimpernel is somewhere nigh. Besides..."
She checked herself, for involuntarily she had raised her voice, and at once Maurice tightened his hold on her arm. In the fast-gathering gloom a shuffling step had slided furtively past them. They could not clearly see the form of this passer-by, only the vague outline of a man stooping under a weight which he carried over his shoulders.
"We must be careful, Josette..." Maurice whispered softly.
"I know -- I was carried away. But, Maurice, you will help me?"
"Of course," he said.
And though he did not feel very hopeful he said it fervently, for the prospect of roaming through the streets of Paris in the company of Josette in search of a person who might be mythical and who certainly would take a lot of finding, was of the rosiest. Indeed, Maruice hoped that the same mythical personage would so hide himself that it would be many days before he was ultimately found.
"And when we have found him," Josette continued glibly, once more speaking under her breath, "you shall tell him about Louise and Charles-Léon, and that Louise must have a permit to take the poor sick baby into the country and to remain with him until he is well."
"And you think...?"
"I don't think, Maurice," she said emphatically, "I know that the Scarlet Pimpernel will do the rest."
She was like a young devotee proclaiming the miracles of her patron saint. It was getting very dark now and at home Louise and Charles-Léon would be waiting for Josette, the angel in the house. Mechanically and a little sadly Maurice led the girl's footsteps in the direction of home. They spoke very little together after this: it seemed as if, having made her profession of faith, Josette took her loyal friend's co-operation for granted. She did not even now realise the cruelty of the blow which she had dealt to his fondest hopes. With the image of this heroic Scarlet Pimpernel so firmly fixed in her mind, Josette was not likely to listen to a declaration of love from a humble lawyer's clerk, who had neither deeds of valour nor a handsome presence wherewith to fascinate a young girl so romantically inclined.
Thus they wandered homewards in silence -- she indulging in her dreams, and he nursing a sorrow that he felt would be eternal. Up above in the chestnut trees the sparrows had gone to roost. Their paean of joy had ceased, only the many sounds of a great city not yet abed broke in silence of the night. Furtive footsteps still glided well-nigh soundlessly by; now and then there came a twitter, a fluttering of wings from above, or from far away the barking of a dog, the banging of a door, or the rattling of cart-wheels on the cobble-stones. And sometimes the evening breeze would give a great sigh that rose up into the evening air as if coming from hundreds of thousands of prisoners groaning under the tyranny of bloodthirsty oppressors, of a government that proclaimed Liberty and Fraternity from the steps of the guillotine.
And at home in the small apartment of the Rue Picpus, Josette and Maurice found that Louise had cried her eyes out until she had worked herself into a state of hysteria, while Maître de Croissy, silent and thoughtful, sat in dejection by the bedside of his sick child.