The Scarlet Pimpernel

THE JEW

It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses; the whole
of this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and
Desgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from
the “Chat Gris.”

When she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and
wonder filled her heart. It all was so neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin
was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been
under a blow from the fist, for now he could neither see, nor hear, nor
speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his
fingers.

Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at the Père
Blanchard’s hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless; for the
moment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by Desgas and
his men. But all the roads and the beach were patrolled. Every place
was watched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go,
thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and
followed?

Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and
given him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all, he
needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for his
capture, and even now, perhaps . . .

But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her
brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and
Desgas’ voice shouting “Halt!” to his men.

Chauvelin had partially recovered; his sneezing had become less
violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door
just as Desgas’ knock was heard on the outside.

Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a
word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes—

“The tall stranger—quick!—did any of you see him?”

“Where, citoyen?” asked Desgas, in surprise.

“Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago.”

“We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and . . .”

“And you are just five minutes too late, my friend,” said Chauvelin,
with concentrated fury.

“Citoyen . . . I . . .”

“You did what I ordered you to do,” said Chauvelin, with impatience. “I
know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately,
there’s not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyen
Desgas.”

Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his
superior’s whole attitude.

“The tall stranger, citoyen—” he stammered.

“Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at that table.
Damn his impudence! For obvious reasons, I dared not tackle him alone.
Brogard is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have
the strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away under your very
nose.”

“He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen.”

“Ah?”

“Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty:
twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch has
been constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the
beach, or reach a boat, without being sighted.”

“That’s good.—Do the men know their work?”

“They have had very clear orders, citoyen: and I myself spoke to those
who were about to start. They are to shadow—as secretly as possible—any
stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he
would disguise his height.”

“In no case to detain such a person, of course,” said Chauvelin,
eagerly. “That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel would slip through clumsy
fingers. We must let him get to the Père Blanchard’s hut now; there
surround and capture him.”

“The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as soon as a tall
stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to
turn straight back and report to you.”

“That is right,” said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well pleased.

“I have further news for you, citoyen.”

“What is it?”

“A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an
hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives not ten paces from
here.”

“Yes—and?” queried Chauvelin, impatiently.

“The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the tall
Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by
eleven o’clock.”

“It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live?”

“A few minutes’ walk from this door.”

“Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in
Reuben’s cart.”

“Yes, citoyen.”

Desgas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men. Not a word
of this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped Marguerite,
and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart, with
terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding.

She had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm
determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do
nothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes
of the deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.

He could not now advance many steps, without spying eyes to track and
denounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the terrible sense
of utter disappointment. The possibility of being of the slightest use
to her husband had become almost nil, and her only hope rested in
being allowed to share his fate, whatever it might ultimately be.

For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she loved again,
had become a remote one. Still, she was determined to keep a close
watch over his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart, that whilst
she kept Chauvelin in sight, Percy’s fate might still be hanging in the
balance.

Desgas had left Chauvelin moodily pacing up and down the room, whilst
he himself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had sent in
search of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin was evidently
devoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one: this last trick
played upon him by the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had made him suddenly
doubtful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, direct and
superintend the capture of this impudent Englishman.

About five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by an elderly Jew,
in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn greasy across the shoulders. His
red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the
corkscrew curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with
grey—a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and his chin, gave
him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome appearance. He had the habitual
stoop, those of his race affected in mock humility in past centuries,
before the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, and he
walked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling gait which has
remained the characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to
this day.

Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman’s prejudice against the despised
race, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful distance. The
group of the three men were standing just underneath the hanging
oil-lamp, and Marguerite had a clear view of them all.

“Is this the man?” asked Chauvelin.

“No, citoyen,” replied Desgas, “Reuben could not be found, so
presumably his cart has gone with the stranger; but this man here seems
to know something, which he is willing to sell for a consideration.”

“Ah!” said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the loathsome
specimen of humanity before him.

The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one side,
leaning on a thick knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat casting
a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble Excellency to
deign to put some questions to him.

“The citoyen tells me,” said Chauvelin peremptorily to him, “that you
know something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I desire to
meet. . . . Morbleu! keep your distance, man,” he added hurriedly, as
the Jew took a quick and eager step forward.

“Yes, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, who spoke the language with
that peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin, “I and Reuben
Goldstein met a tall Englishman, on the road, close by here this
evening.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he could hire a
horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin Road, to a place he
wanted to reach to-night.”

“What did you say?”

“I did not say anything,” said the Jew in an injured tone, “Reuben
Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial . . .”

“Cut that short, man,” interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, “and go on with
your story.”

“He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency; when I was about
to offer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart, to take him
wheresoever he chose, Reuben had already spoken, and offered his
half-starved nag, and his broken-down cart.”

“And what did the Englishman do?”

“He listened to Reuben Goldstein, your Excellency, and put his hand in
his pocket then and there, and took out a handful of gold, which he
showed to that descendant of Beelzebub, telling him that all that would
be his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by eleven o’clock.”

“And, of course, the horse and cart were ready?”

“Well! they were ready in a manner, so to speak, your Excellency.
Reuben’s nag was lame as usual; she refused to budge at first. It was
only after a time and with plenty of kicks, that she at last could be
made to move,” said the Jew with a malicious chuckle.

“Then they started?”

“Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I was disgusted with that
stranger’s folly. An Englishman too!—He ought to have known Reuben’s
nag was not fit to drive.”

“But if he had no choice?”

“No choice, your Excellency?” protested the Jew, in a rasping voice,
“did I not repeat to him a dozen times, that my horse and cart would
take him quicker, and more comfortably than Reuben’s bag of bones. He
would not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such insinuating ways.
The stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry, he would have had
better value for his money by taking my cart.”

“You have a horse and cart too, then?” asked Chauvelin, peremptorily.

“Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your Excellency wants to
drive . . .”

“Do you happen to know which way my friend went in Reuben Goldstein’s
cart?”

Thoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Marguerite’s heart was
beating well-nigh to bursting. She had heard the peremptory question;
she looked anxiously at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath
the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt somehow as if he
held Percy’s fate in his long, dirty hands.

There was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned impatiently at the
stooping figure before him: at last the Jew slowly put his hand in his
breast pocket, and drew out from its capacious depths a number of
silver coins. He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a quiet
tone of voice,—

“This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove away with
Reuben, for holding my tongue about him, and his doings.”

Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

“How much is there there?” he asked.

“Twenty francs, your Excellency,” replied the Jew, “and I have been an
honest man all my life.”

Chauvelin without further comment took a few pieces of gold out of his
own pocket, and leaving them in the palm of his hand, he allowed them
to jingle as he held them out towards the Jew.

“How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand?” he asked
quietly.

Evidently he had no desire to terrorise the man, but to conciliate him,
for his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt
he feared that threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive
methods of that type, might addle the old man’s brains, and that he
would be more likely to be useful through greed of gain, than through
terror of death.

The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in his
interlocutor’s hand.

“At least five, I should say, your Excellency,” he replied
obsequiously.

“Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue of yours?”

“What does your Excellency wish to know?”

“Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend
the tall stranger, who has driven off in Reuben Goldstein’s cart?”

“My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where you please.”

“To a place called the Père Blanchard’s hut?”

“Your Honour has guessed?” said the Jew in astonishment.

“You know the place?”

“I know it, your Honour.”

“Which road leads to it?”

“The St. Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath from there to the
cliffs.”

“You know the road?” repeated Chauvelin, roughly.

“Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour,” replied the Jew
quietly.

Chauvelin without another word threw the five pieces of gold one by one
before the Jew, who knelt down, and on his hands and knees struggled to
collect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for
it had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly waited while
the old man scrambled on the floor, to find the piece of gold.

When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said,—

“How soon can your horse and cart be ready?”

“They are ready now, your Honour.”

“Where?”

“Not ten mètres from this door. Will your Excellency deign to look?”

“I don’t want to see it. How far can you drive me in it?”

“As far as the Père Blanchard’s hut, your Honour, and further than
Reuben’s nag took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues from
here, we shall come across that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart and the
tall stranger all in a heap in the middle of the road.”

“How far is the nearest village from here?”

“On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon is the nearest
village, not two leagues from here.”

“There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted to go further?”

“He could—if he ever got so far.”

“Can you?”

“Will your Excellency try?” said the Jew simply.

“That is my intention,” said Chauvelin very quietly, “but remember, if
you have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most stalwart soldiers
to give you such a beating, that your breath will perhaps leave your
ugly body for ever. But if we find my friend the tall Englishman,
either on the road or at the Père Blanchard’s hut, there will be ten
more gold pieces for you. Do you accept the bargain?”

The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money in
his hand, then at his stern interlocutor, and at Desgas, who had stood
silently behind him all this while. After a moment’s pause, he said
deliberately,—

“I accept.”

“Go and wait outside then,” said Chauvelin, “and remember to stick to
your bargain, or by Heaven, I will keep to mine.”

With a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew shuffled out of
the room. Chauvelin seemed pleased with his interview, for he rubbed
his hands together, with that usual gesture of his, of malignant
satisfaction.

“My coat and boots,” he said to Desgas at last.

Desgas went to the door, and apparently gave the necessary orders, for
presently a soldier entered, carrying Chauvelin’s coat, boots, and hat.

He took off his soutane, beneath which he was wearing close-fitting
breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire.

“You, citoyen, in the meanwhile,” he said to Desgas, “go back to
Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and tell him to let you have another
dozen men, and bring them with you along the St. Martin Road, where I
daresay you will soon overtake the Jew’s cart with myself in it. There
will be hot work presently, if I mistake not, in the Père Blanchard’s
hut. We shall corner our game there, I’ll warrant, for this impudent
Scarlet Pimpernel has had the audacity—or the stupidity, I hardly know
which—to adhere to his original plans. He has gone to meet de Tournay,
St. Just and the other traitors, which for the moment, I thought,
perhaps, he did not intend to do. When we find them, there will be a
band of desperate men at bay. Some of our men will, I presume, be put
hors de combat. These royalists are good swordsmen, and the
Englishman is devilish cunning, and looks very powerful. Still, we
shall be five against one at least. You can follow the cart closely
with your men, all along the St. Martin Road, through Miquelon. The
Englishman is ahead of us, and not likely to look behind him.”

Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed his
change of attire. The priest’s costume had been laid aside, and he was
once more dressed in his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At last he
took up his hat.

“I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your hands,” he
said with a chuckle, as with unwonted familiarity he took Desgas’ arm,
and led him towards the door. “We won’t kill him outright, eh, friend
Desgas? The Père Blanchard’s hut is—an I mistake not—a lonely spot upon
the beach, and our men will enjoy a bit of rough sport there with the
wounded fox. Choose your men well, friend Desgas . . . of the sort who
would enjoy that type of sport—eh? We must see that Scarlet Pimpernel
wither a bit—what?—shrink and tremble, eh? . . . before we finally . .
.”—he made an expressive gesture, whilst he laughed a low, evil laugh,
which filled Marguerite’s soul with sickening horror.

“Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas,” he said once more, as he led
his secretary finally out of the room.