CHAPTER TEN

       The Abbé Edgeworth

       Table of Contents

      Chance favoured the two members of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, my Lord Hastings and Lord Anthony Dewhurst. They had their orders from the chief and went straight to the Levets' house, and it was Levet himself who opened the door to them in answer to their ring at the outside bell. Briefly they told him who had sent them and what their orders were, and the old man went at once in search of his guest. The Abbé Edgeworth had in the meanwhile enjoyed Charles Levet's hospitality: he had had food, a little drink and a short rest, but he still appeared dazed and aghast, as if moonstruck and awed by everything that had happened to him since dawn.

      And now this kind old man telling him that all was well: powerful friends would take him to La Rodière where he would be received with open arms, and where he could remain until such time as a more permanent refuge could be found for him. The abbé was bewildered. Who, he asked, were those wonderful friends who had rescued him at peril of their own lives, and now continued their work of mercy? But Levet couldn't tell him. He spoke vaguely of a man who was professor at a university and seemed to have marvellous courage, and limitless resources. He himself had only known him a little while. Who he was, he couldn't say. He came and went mysteriously and equally mysteriously would invariably be on the spot when innocent men, women or children's lives were threatened. His dead wife had looked upon the man as a messenger from heaven. There was no time to say more just now. Old Levet urged the abbé to hurry.

      A moment or two later he was standing once again at the gate of his house, watching three figures move away up the road. They looked like shadows in the fog. One of them was the Abbé Edgeworth. Levet didn't know the others.

      These two, who were emissaries of the Professeur, had spoken French with a foreign accent. Levet thought they must have been English. But then it seemed incredible that foreigners would take any interest in the sufferings of Frenchmen who were loyal to their King. Englishmen especially. Why should they care? This awful revolution over here had nothing to do with them. Some people went so far as to assert that the English would soon declare war against France — that is to say, not against France but against this abominable Republic which had established itself on a foundation of outrage and of murder. Anyway, it was all quite un-understandable. Old Levet went indoors, very perplexed and shaking his head. He went straight into the room where his wife lay dead.

      Augustin was still in the room when Levet entered. He was talking in a subdued tone to a tall young man who had a tablet in his hand on which he was apparently making notes with a point of black lead. He was dressed in black from head to foot, with plain white frills at throat and wrist: he wore high boots, and his own hair, innocent of wig, was tied at the nape of the neck with a black bow. Apparently Levet knew that he was there, for he took no notice of him when he entered the room.

      The young man, however, at once put tablet and pencil into his pocket and turned as if to go.

      "Don't go, Pradel," Levet said curtly; "supper will be ready directly."

      "If you will pardon me, Monsieur Levet," the other responded, "I will just say good night to Mademoiselle Blanche. I have been summoned to the château, and am already rather late."

      "Someone ill up there?" the old man queried.

      "Seemingly."

      "Who is it?"

      "They didn't tell me. Monsieur le Marquis's pet dog perhaps," the young doctor added with stinging bitterness, "or his favourite horse."

      Levet made no remark on this. He moved to his wife's bedside, and Simon Pradel, after bidding him and Augustin good night, went out of the room.

      Blanche was in the sitting-room, apparently waiting for him.

      "You are not going, Simon?" she asked eagerly as soon as he came through the door.

      "I am afraid I must, mademoiselle."

      "Can't you stay and have supper with us?" she insisted so earnestly this time, that her voice shook a little and a few tears gathered in her eyes.

      "I am sorry," he replied gently, "but I really must go."

      "Why?"

      He gave a slight shrug. "Professional visit, mademoiselle," he said.

      "You are going to the château," she retorted.

      "What makes you say that?" he countered with a smile.

      "You have your best clothes on, and your finest linen."

      His smile broadened. It was a pleasant smile, which lent to his somewhat stern face a great deal of charm. He looked down ruefully at his well-worn suit of black.

      "I have only this one," he said, "and I have great regard for clean linen."

      Blanche said nothing for a moment or two. She was very obviously fighting a wave of emotion which caused her lips to quiver, and tears to gather thick and fast in her eyes. And all at once she moved up, close to him, and placed a hand on his arm.

      "Don't