The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 4

At first I squandered money, tried
judicial means, set an army of sleuth-hounds on the track. I tried
bribery, corruption. I went to the wretch himself and abased myself in
the dust before him. He only laughed at me and told me that his love
for me had died long ago; he now was lavishing its treasures upon the
faithful friend and companion--that awful woman, Simonne
Evrard--who had stood by him in the darkest hours of his misfortunes.
Then it was that I decided to adopt different tactics. Since my child was
to be reared in the midst of murderers and thieves, I, too, would haunt
their abodes. I became a street-singer, dancer, what you will. I wear
rags now and solicit alms. I haunt the most disreputable cabarets in the

lowest slums of Paris. I listen and I spy; I question every man, woman,
and child who might afford some clue, give me some indication. There
is hardly a house in these parts that I have not visited and whence I
have not been kicked out as an importunate beggar or worse. Gradually
I am narrowing the circle of my investigations. Presently I shall get a
clue. I shall! I know I shall! God cannot allow this monstrous thing to
go on!"
Again there was silence. The poor woman had completely broken down.
Shame, humiliation, passionate grief, had made of her a mere miserable
wreckage of humanity.
The man waited awhile until she was composed, then he said simply:
"You have suffered terribly, Madame; but chiefly, I think, because you
have been alone in your grief. You have brooded over it until it has
threatened your reason. Now, if you will allow me to act as your friend,
I will pledge you my word that I will find your son for you. Will you
trust me sufficiently to give up your present methods and place yourself
entirely in my hands? There are more than a dozen gallant gentlemen,
who are my friends, and who will help me in my search. But for this I
must have a free hand, and only help from you when I require it. I can
find you lodgings where you will be quite safe under the protection of
my wife, who is as like an angel as any man or woman I have ever met
on this earth. When your son is once more in your arms, you will, I
hope, accompany us to England, where so many of your friends have
already found a refuge. If this meets with your approval, Madame, you
may command me, for with your permission I mean to be your most
devoted servant."
Dante, in his wild imaginations of hell and of purgatory and fleeting
glimpses of paradise, never put before us the picture of a soul that was
lost and found heaven, after a cycle of despair. Nor could Madeleine
Lannoy ever explain her feelings at that moment, even to herself. To
begin with, she could not quite grasp the reality of this ray of hope,
which came to her at the darkest hour of her misery. She stared at the
man before her as she would on an ethereal vision; she fell on her knees
and buried her face in her hands.

What happened afterwards she hardly knew; she was in a state of semi-
consciousness. When she once more woke to reality, she was in
comfortable lodgings; she moved and talked and ate and lived like a
human being. She was no longer a pariah, an outcast, a poor, half-
demented creature, insentient save for an infinite capacity for suffering.
She suffered still, but she no longer despaired. There had been such
marvellous power and confidence in that man's voice when he said: "I
pledge you my word." Madeleine Lannoy lived now in hope and a
sweet sense of perfect mental and bodily security. Around her there
was an influence, too, a presence which she did not often see, but
always felt to be there: a woman, tall and graceful and sympathetic,
who was always ready to cheer, to comfort, and to help. Her name was
Marguerite. Madame Lannoy never knew her by any other. The man
had spoken of her as being as like an angel as could be met on this
earth, and poor Madeleine Lannoy fully agreed with him.
III
Even that bloodthirsty tiger, Jean Paul Marat, has had his apologists.
His friends have called him a martyr, a selfless and incorruptible
exponent of social and political ideals. We may take it that Simonne
Evrard loved him, for a more impassioned obituary speech was,
mayhap, never spoken than the one which she delivered before the
National Assembly in honour of that sinister demagogue, whose
writings and activities will for ever sully some of the