The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel

agitated. There was much more moving to and fro on the landing outside her door than there had been in the last three days. Men talked, mostly in whispers; but at times a word, a phrase here and there, a voice raised above the others, reached her straining ears. She glued her ear to the keyhole and listened; but what she heard was all confusion, sentences that conveyed but little meaning to her. She distinguished the voice of the Captain of the Guard. He appeared impatient about something, and talked about “missing all the fun.” The other soldiers seemed to agree with him. Obviously they were all drinking heavily, for their voices sounded hoarse and thick, and often would break into bibulous song. From time to time, too, she would hear the patter of wooden shoes, together with a wheezy cough, as from a man troubled with asthma.

But it was all very vague, for her nerves by this time were on the rack. She had lost count of time, of place; she knew nothing. She was unable even to think. All her instincts were merged in the dead of that silent evening hour, when Chauvelin’s furtive footsteps would once more resound upon the stone floor outside her door, when she would hear the quick word of command that heralded his approach, the grounding of arms, the sharp query and quick answer, and when she would feel again the presence of the relentless enemy who lay in wait to trap her beloved.

At one moment that evening he had raised his voice, obviously so that she might hear.

“Tomorrow is the fourth day, citizen Captain,” she had heard him say. “I may not be able to come.”

“Then,” the voice of the Captain had said in reply, “if the Englishman is not here by seven o’clock⁠—”

Chauvelin had given a harsh, dry laugh, and retorted:

“Your orders are as they were, citizen. But I think that the Englishman will come.”

What it all meant Marguerite could not fail to conjecture. It meant death to her or to her husband⁠—to both, in fact. And all today she had sat by the open window, her hands clasped in silent, constant prayer, her eyes fixed upon the horizon far away, longing with all her might for one last sight of her beloved, fighting against despair, striving for trust in him and for hope.

III

At this hour, the centre of interest is the Place de l’Hôtel de Ville, where Robespierre and his friends sit entrenched and⁠—for the moment⁠—safe. The prisons have refused one by one to close their gates upon the Chosen of the People; governors and jailers alike have quaked in the face of so monstrous a sacrilege. And the same gendarmes who have been told off to escort the fallen tyrant to his penultimate resting-place, have had a touch of the same kind of scruple⁠—or dread⁠—and at his command have conveyed him to the Hôtel de Ville.

In vain does the Convention hastily reassemble. In vain⁠—apparently⁠—does Tallien demand that the traitor Robespierre and his friends be put outside the pale of the law. They are for the moment safe, redacting proclamations, sending out messengers in every direction; whilst Henriot and his gendarmes, having struck terror in the hearts of all peaceable citizens, hold the place outside the Town Hall and proclaim Robespierre dictator of France.

The sun sinks towards the west behind a veil of mist. Ferment and confusion are at their height. All around the city there is an invisible barrier that seems to confine agitation within its walls. Outside this barrier, no one knows what is happening. Only a vague dread has filtrated through and gripped every heart. The guard at the several gates appear slack and undisciplined. Sentries are accosted by passersby, eager for news. And, from time to time, from every direction, troops of the Municipal gendarmes ride furiously by, with shouts of “Robespierre! Robespierre! Death to the traitors! Long live Robespierre!”

They raise a cloud of dust around them, trample unheedingly over every obstacle, human or otherwise, that happens to be in their way. They threaten peaceable citizens with their pistols and strike at women and children with the flat of their sabres.

As soon as they have gone by, excited groups close up in their wake.

“Name of a name, what is happening?” everyone queries in affright.

And gossip, conjectures, rumours, hold undisputed sway.

“Robespierre is dictator of France!”

“He has ordered the arrest of all the Members of the Convention.”

“And the massacre of all the prisoners.”

“Pardi, a wise decree! As for me, I am sick of the eternal tumbrils and the guillotine!”

“Better finish with the lot, say I!”

“Robespierre! Robespierre!” comes as a far-off echo, to the accompaniment of thundering hoofs upon the cobblestones.

And so, from mouth to mouth! The meek and the peace-loving magnify these rumours into approaching cataclysm; the opportunists hold their tongue, ready to fall in with this party or that; the cowards lie in hiding and shout “Robespierre!” with Henriot’s horde or “Tallien!” in the neighbourhood of the Tuileries.

Here the Convention has reassembled, and here they are threatened presently by Henriot and his artillery. The members of the great Assembly remain at their post. The President has harangued them.

“Citizen deputies!” he calls aloud. “The moment has come to die at our posts!”

And they sit waiting for Henriot’s cannonade, and calmly decree all the rebels “outside the pale of the law.”

Tallien, moved by a spirit of lofty courage, goes, followed by a few intimates, to meet Henriot’s gunners boldly face to face.

“Citizen soldiers!” he calls aloud, and his voice has the resonance of undaunted courage. “After covering yourselves with glory on the fields of honour, are you going to disgrace your country?” He points a scornful finger at Henriot who, bloated, purple in the face, grunting and spluttering like an old seal, is reeling in his saddle. “Look at him, citizen soldiers!” Tallien commands. “He is drunk and besotted! What man is there who, being sober, would dare to order fire against the