It was only o’ nights, sometimes, that an overwhelming desire for cleanliness and nice clothes caused these English gentlemen to cast aside their rags and to venture out into the open dressed in clothes that would have caused the ragamuffins of Orange to snarl at their heels like so many hungry curs.
They had been eight days in Orange now, and already Architect Caristie, with his wife and small son, the widow Colmars and her daughter, and poor old General Paulieu with his family owed their safety to this gallant League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. But there was still more to do.
“We must get that child Fleurette out of that hell,” the chief had said, and since then brain and heart had been at work to find the means to that end.
Later on Lord Tony had remarked: “I wish we could find out about that father of hers; this man Armand. He seems to hold some kind of position under this government of assassins, but I for one have tried in vain to learn something more definite about him.”
“I think,” Sir Andrew Ffoulkes added, “that his position must be a high one, or the girl would have been brought to trial before now.”
“Unless our amiable friend, M. Chauvelin, has got this Armand under lock and key somewhere else,” was my Lord Stowmaries’ comment upon the situation.
Sir Percy was silent. Frankly the position puzzled him. He would have liked to get into touch with the man Armand, but for once he and his friends were baffled by this anonymity which appeared so closely guarded. Great then had been the rejoicing in the attic of the derelict house in the Rue du Pont, when Lord Anthony Dewhurst—a most perfect type of ruffian in rags and a thick coating of grime—related his adventure with the mysterious individual who, under cover of darkness and rain, had offered him and his friend Rémi fifty livres each for delivering a message to a prisoner, who was none other than little Fleurette.
“At last we’ll get in touch with the mysterious Armand,” they all declared eagerly. It was arranged that the chief would himself take Fleurette’s reply to the house in the Rue Longue. But go on this errand in the filthy rags of a scavenger he would not.
“The night is pretty dark,” he declared, “and I would rather the mysterious Armand saw me as I am. I may also have a chance,” he added with his merriest laugh, “of coming across my good friend M. Chambertin. It is some weeks since last we met, and not to have had a pleasant chat with him all these days, while we were within a stone’s throw of one another, has been a sore trial to me. I caught a glimpse of him a day or two ago, in the courtyard of the Caristie house. He looked to be sick and out of sorts. A sight of me might cheer him up.”
“You won’t take any risks, Blakeney,” Sir Andrew Ffoulkes remarked.
“Any number, my dear fellow,” Sir Percy replied laughing. “And you know you envy me, you dog. But I feel thoroughly selfish tonight. I mean to take the note to Armand myself, and I mean to take the privilege of having a little chat with my friend Chambertin. And both these things I am going to do as an English gentleman and not as a mudlark in stinking, filthy rags.”
He had completed his toilet now, looked magnificent in clothes cut by the leading London tailor, which set off his splendid figure to perfection, with snow-white stock and speckless boots.
“If a single pair of eyes should see you,” Sir Andrew insisted, with an anxious sigh.
“I should have a whole pack of wolves at my heels,” Blakeney admitted. “But that wouldn’t be the first time any of us have had to run for our lives, eh? nor the first time we gave an entire pack of them the slip.”
He picked up his hat and took a last look at Fleurette’s little note which he had to deliver at the House in the Rue Longue.
“This man Armand must be a very decent fellow,” he mused, “his letter to the child was really fine in spirit as well as in affection. Yes! he must be a decent fellow and we must get the girl for his sake as much as for that of our friend Colombe. What?”
On that, of course, they were all agreed. The activities of the League, since the rescue of General Paulieu and his family, were centred now on Fleurette. There were still one or two minor points to discuss, arrangements of detail, to complete, but the main project for the girl’s rescue could not be determined until it was definitely known whether her father, Armand, was going to be a help or a hindrance.
“Anyway I shall know more,” Blakeney said finally, as he made for the door, “when I have sampled this man.”
It was then nine o’clock in the evening. The night was dark and stormy. Gusts of wind alternated with sharp showers of rain—an altogether unusual state of weather for the time of year in these parts. The few passersby of respectable appearance on their way home from business or work did no more than throw a cursory glance on the tall figure that passed hurriedly by. A few vagabonds clinging to their rags which the wind threatened to tear off their meagre bodies, did perhaps pause, cowering against a dark wall, murmuring a threat or a curse against the aristo, but an unexpected coin slipped into their grimy hands, quickly silenced both curse and threat.
Blakeney knew his way well through the streets of Orange. Having kept along the river bank till he came to the bridge, he turned up the Rue de la République. Glancing up at a house on his right, a smile of pure joy lit up his anxious face. Three nights ago on this spot, he had carried Architect Caristie’s
