The Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 6

hardened soldier that he
was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this
semblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her
whip.
"My grandson has got the small-pox," she said with a jerk of her thumb
towards the inside of her cart, "some say it's the plague! If it is, I sha'n't

be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow." At the first mention of the
word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily backwards, and when the
old hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could.
"Curse you!" he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the
cart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place.
The old hag laughed.
"Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward," she said. "Bah! what a man
to be afraid of sickness."
"MORBLEU! the plague!"
Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the
loathsome malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse
terror and disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.
"Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!" shouted Bibot,
hoarsely.
And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up
her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.
This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of
these two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure,
and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung
about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another
suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague
lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a
captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot,
and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in
disguise.
"A cart,. . ." he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the
gates.
"What cart?" asked Bibot, roughly.
"Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart. . ."
"There were a dozen. . ."
"An old hag who said her son had the plague?"
"Yes. . ."
"You have not let them go?"
"MORBLEU!" said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become
white with fear.
"The cart contained the CI-DEVANT Comtesse de Tourney and her
two children, all of them traitors and condemned to death." "And their

driver?" muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down his spine.
"SACRE TONNERRE," said the captain, "but it is feared that it was
that accursed Englishman himself--the Scarlet Pimpernel."


CHAPTER II
DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST"

In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy--saucepans and frying-pans
were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood
in a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented
alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two
little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting, with
cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling
over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally's back was
turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in
bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the
stock-pot methodically over the fire.
"What ho! Sally!" came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from
the coffee-room close by.
"Lud bless my soul!" exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh,
"what be they all wanting now, I wonder!"
"Beer, of course," grumbled Jemima, "you don't `xpect Jimmy Pitkin to
`ave done with one tankard, do ye?"
"Mr. `Arry, `e looked uncommon thirsty too," simpered Martha, one of
the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met
those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short
and suppressed giggles.
Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands
against her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in
contact with Martha's rosy cheeks--but inherent good-humour prevailed,
and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention to
the fried potatoes.
"What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!"
And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the

oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host's
buxom daughter.
"Sally!" shouted a more persistent voice, "are ye goin' to be all night
with that there beer?"
"I do think father might get the beer for them," muttered Sally, as
Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of
foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of
pewter tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which "The
Fisherman's Rest" had been famous since that days of King Charles.
"`E knows `ow busy we are in `ere."
"Your father is