The Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 3

SCARLET
PIMPERNEL V. MARGUERITE VI. AN EXQUISITE OF '92 VII.
THE SECRET ORCHARD VIII. THE ACCREDIT
ED AGENT IX. THE OUTRAGE X. IN THE OPERA BOX XI.
LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL XII. THE SCRAP OF PAPER XIII.
EITHER XIV. ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY! XV. DOUBT XVI.
RICHMOND XVII. FAREWELL XVIII. THE MYSTERIOUS
DEVICE XIX. THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL XX. THE FRIEND XXI.
SUSPENSE XXII. CALAIS XXIII. HOPE XXIV. THE DEATH XXV.
THE EAGLE AND THE FOX XXVI. THE JEW XXVII. ON THE
TRACK XXVIII. THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT XXIX.
TRAPPED XXX. THE SCHOONER XXXI. THE ESCAPE

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

CHAPTER I
PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792

A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in
name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures,
animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate. The
hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West Barricade,
at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant raised an undying
monument to the nation's glory and his own vanity.
During the greater part of the day the guillotine had been kept busy at
its ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the past centuries, of
ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for liberty
and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this late hour of the
day because there were other more interesting sights for the people to
witness, a little while before the final closing of the barricades for the
night.
And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Greve and made
for the various barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing
sight.
It was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools! They
were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, and
children, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since
the Crusades had made the glory of France: her old NOBLESSE. Their
ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet
heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the
rulers of France and crushed their former masters--not beneath their
heel, for they went shoeless mostly in these days--but a more effectual
weight, the knife of the guillotine.
And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many
victims--old men, young women, tiny children until the day when it
would finally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful young
Queen.
But this was as it should be: were not the people now the rulers of

France? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been before
him: for two hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled,
and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extravagance; now the
descendants of those who had helped to make those courts brilliant had
to hide for their lives--to fly, if they wished to avoid the tardy
vengeance of the people.
And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun of the
whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market
carts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool of an
aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of Public
Safety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to slip
through the barriers, which were so well guarded by citizen soldiers of
the Republic. Men in women's clothes, women in male attire, children
disguised in beggars' rags: there were some of all sorts: CI-DEVANT
counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to fly from France, reach
England or some other equally accursed country, and there try to rouse
foreign feelings against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an army in
order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple, who had once
called themselves sovereigns of France.
But they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant Bibot
especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristo
in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. Bibot
would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him,
sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by
the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid
the identity of a CI-DEVANT noble marquise or count.
Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging
round that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in the
very act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.
Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing
him to think for the space of two minutes at least