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The Scarlet Pimpernel-Part34_Baroness Emmuska Orczy(1865-1947)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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sound of the cart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within

the shadow of the ditches which lined the road, that she would not be



seen by Desgas' men, when they approached, or by the patrols, which

she concluded were still on duty.



Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary

journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to



Miquelon, and then on to the Pere Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal

spot might be, probably over rough roads: she cared not.



The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was

wary with mentalfatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could



easily keep up with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who was

sure to be half-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent



rests. The road lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either

side by shrubs and stunted trees, sparsely covered with meagre foliage,



all turning away from the North, with their branches looking in the

semi-darkness, like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind.



Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep between the

clouds, and Marguerite hugging the edge of the road, and keeping close



to the low line of shrubs, was fairly safe from view. Everything

around her was so still: only from far, very far away, there came like



a long soft moan, the sound of the distant sea.

The air was keen and full of brine; after that enforced period



of inactivity, inside the evil-smelling, squalid inn, Marguerite would

have enjoyed the sweet scent of this autumnal night, and the distant



melancholy rumble of the autumnal night, and the distant melancholy

rumble of the waves; she would have revelled in the calm and stillness



of this lonely spot, a calm, broken only at intervals by the strident

and mournful cry of some distant gull, and by the creaking of the



wheels, some way down the road: she would have loved the cool

atmosphere, the peaceful immensity of Nature, in this lonely part of



the coast: but her heart was too full of cruel foreboding, of a great

ache and longing for a being who had become infinitely dear to her.



Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it safest

not to walk near the centre of the road, and she found it difficult to



keep up a sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it

best not to keep too near to the cart; everything was so still, that



the rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe guide.

The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of



Calais lay far behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human

habitation, not even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter



anywhere near; far away on her right was the edge of the cliff, below

it the rough beach, against which the incoming tide was dashing itself



with its constant, distant murmur. And ahead the rumble of the

wheels, bearing an implacable enemy to his triumph.



Marguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this lonely

coast, Percy could be at this moment. Not very far surely, for he had



had less than a quarter of an hour's start of Chauvelin. She wondered

if he knew that in this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there



lurked many spies, all eager to sight his tall figure, to track him to

where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then, to close the



net over him and them.

Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's vehicle,



was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together, with

content, as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through



which that ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape.

As the time went on, and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely



along the dark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale

of this exciting chase after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel.



The capture of the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf

in Citoyen Chauvelin's wreath of glory. Caught, red-handed, on the



spot, in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the

Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his



own country. Chauvelin had, in any case, fully made up his mind that

all intervention should come too late.



Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart,

as to the terrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate



wife, who had unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of

fact, Chauvelin had ceased even to think of her: she had been a useful



tool, that was all.

The Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She was going



along at a slow jog trot, and her driver had to give her long and

frequent halts.



"Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?" asked Chauvelin from

time to time.



"Not very far, your Honour," was the uniform placid reply.




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