The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 7

threatening to tear to pieces in its rage.
The parlour and even Simonne's room were also filled with people:
men, most of whom Mole knew by sight; friends or enemies of the
ranting demagogue who lay murdered in the very bath which his casual
servant had prepared for him. Every one was discussing the details of
the murder, the punishment of the youthful assassin. Simonne Evrard
was being loudly blamed for having admitted the girl into citizen
Marat's room. But the wench had looked so simple, so innocent, and
she said she was the bearer of a message from Caen. She had called
twice during the day, and in the evening the citizen himself said that he
would see her. Simonne had been for sending her away. But the citizen
was peremptory. And he was so helpless... in his bath ... name of a
name, the pitiable affair!
No one paid much attention to Mole. He listened for a while to

Simonne's impassioned voice, giving her version of the affair; then he
worked his way stolidly into the bathroom.
It was some time before he succeeded in reaching the side of that awful
bath wherein lay the dead body of Jean Paul Marat. The small room
was densely packed--not with friends, for there was not a man or
woman living, except Simonne Evrard and her sisters, whom the
bloodthirsty demagogue would have called "friend"; but his powerful
personality had been a menace to many, and now they came in crowds
to see that he was really dead, that a girl's feeble hand had actually
done the deed which they themselves had only contemplated. They
stood about whispering, their heads averted from the ghastly spectacle
of this miserable creature, to whom even death had failed to lend his
usual attribute of tranquil dignity.
The tiny room was inexpressibly hot and stuffy. Hardly a breath of
outside air came in through the narrow window, which only gave on
the bedroom beyond. An evil-smelling oil-lamp swung from the low
ceiling and shed its feeble light on the upturned face of the murdered
man.
Mole stood for a moment or two, silent and pensive, beside that
hideous form. There was the bath, just as he had prepared it: the board
spread over with a sheet and laid across the bath, above which only the
head and shoulders emerged, livid and stained. One hand, the left,
grasped the edge of the board with the last convulsive clutch of
supreme agony.
On the fourth finger of that hand glistened the shoddy ring which Marat
had said was not worth stealing. Yet, apparently, it roused the cupidity
of the poor wretch who had served him faithfully for these last few
days, arid who now would once more be thrown, starving and
friendless, upon the streets of Paris.
Mole threw a quick, furtive glance around him. The crowd which had
come to gloat over the murdered Terrorist stood about whispering, with
heads averted, engrossed in their own affairs. He slid his hand
surreptitiously over that of the dead man. With dexterous manipulation

he lifted the finger round which glistened the metal ring. Death
appeared to have shrivelled the flesh still more upon the bones, to have
contracted the knuckles and shrunk the tendons. The ring slid off quite
easily. Mole had it in his hand, when suddenly a rough blow struck him
on the shoulder.
"Trying to rob the dead?" a stern voice shouted in his ear. "Are you a
disguised aristo, or what?"
At once the whispering ceased. A wave of excitement went round the
room. Some people shouted, others pressed forward to gaze on the
abandoned wretch who had been caught in the act of committing a
gruesome deed.
"Robbing the dead!"
They were experts in evil, most of these men here. Their hands were
indelibly stained with some of the foulest crimes ever recorded in
history. But there was something ghoulish in this attempt to plunder
that awful thing lying there, helpless, in the water. There was also a
great relief to nerve-tension in shouting Horror and Anathema with
self- righteous indignation; and additional excitement in the suggested
"aristo in disguise."
Mole struggled vigorously. He was powerful and his fists were heavy.
But he was soon surrounded, held fast by both arms, whilst half a
dozen hands tore at his tattered clothes, searched him to his very skin,
for the booty which he was thought to have taken from the dead.
"Leave me alone, curse you!" he shouted, louder than his aggressors.
"My name is Paul Mole, I tell you. Ask the citizeness Evrard. I waited
on citizen Marat I prepared his bath. I was the only friend who did not
turn away from him in his sickness and his poverty. Leave me alone, I
say! Why,"