The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel | Page 6

gazed upon his own majesty, which was second only to that of God. An
eternity went by. He was immortal.
Then suddenly, through all the mystic music, the clarion sounds and
songs of praise, there came a sound, so strange and yet so human, that
the almighty dictator's wandering spirit was in an instant hurled back to
earth, brought down with a mighty jerk which left him giddy, sick, with
throat dry and burning eyes. He could not stand on his feet, indeed

would have fallen but that the negro had hastily pulled a chair forward,
into which he sank, swooning with unaccountable horror.
And yet that sound had been harmless enough: just a peal of laughter,
merry and inane - nothing more. It came faintly echoing form beyond
the heavy portière. Yet it had unnerved the most ruthless despot in
France. He looked about him, scared and mystified. Nothing had been
changed since he had gone wandering into Elysian fields. He was still
in a stuffy, curtained room; there was the dais on which he had sat; the
two women still chanted their weird lament; and there was the old
necromancer in her shapeless, colourless robe, coolly setting down the
crystal globe upon its carved stand. There was the blackamoor,
grinning and mischievous, the metal vessel, the oil lamp, the threadbare
carpet. What of all this had been a dream? The clouds and the trumpets,
or that peal of human laughter with the quaint, inane catch in it? No
one looked scared: the girls chanted, the old hag mumbled vague
directions to her black attendant, who tried to look solemn, since he
was paid to keep his impish mirth in check.
"What was that?" Robespierre murmured at last.
The old woman looked up.
"What was what, O Chosen One?" she asked.
"I heard a sound-" he mumbled. "A laugh... Is anyone else in the
room?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"People are waiting in the antechamber," she replied carelessly, "until it
is the pleasure of the Chosen One to go. As a rule they wait patiently,
and in silence. But one of them may have laughed." Then, as he made
no further comment but still stood there silent, as if irresolute, she
queried with a great show of deference: "What is thy next pleasure, O
thou who art beloved of the people of France?"
"Nothing... nothing!" he murmured. "I'll go now."

She turned straight to him and made him elaborate obeisance, waving
her arms about her. The two girls struck the ground with their foreheads.
The Chosen One, in his innermost heart vaguely conscious of ridicule,
frowned impatiently.
"Do not," he said peremptorily, "let anyone know that I have been
here."
"Only those who idolize thee-" she began.
"I know - I know," he broke in more gently, for the fulsome adulation
soothed his exacerbated nerves. "But I have many enemies... and thou
too art watched with malevolent eyes.... Let not our enemies make
capital of our intercourse."
"I swear to thee, O Mighty Lord, that thy servant obeys thy behests in
all things."
"That is well," he retorted drily. "But thy adepts are wont to talk too
much. I'll not have my name bandied about for the glorification of thy
necromancy."
"Thy name is sacred to thy servants," she insisted with ponderous
solemnity. "As sacred as is thy person. Thous art the regenerator of the
true faith, the Elect of the First Cause, the high priest of a new religion.
We are but thy servants, thy handmaids, thy worshippers."
All this charlatanism was precious incense to the limitless vanity of the
despot. His impatience vanished, as did his momentary terror. He
became kind, urbane, condescending. At the last, the old hag almost
prostrated herself before him, and clasping her wrinkled hands together,
she said in tones of reverential entreaty:
"In the name of thyself, of France, of the entire world, I adjure thee to
lend ear to what the spirits have revealed this day. Beware the danger
that comes to thee from the scarlet flower. Set thy almighty mind to
compass its destruction. Do not disdain a woman's help, since the
spirits have proclaimed that through a woman thou shalt be saved.

Remember! Remember!" she adjured him with ever-growing
earnestness. "Once before, the world was saved through a woman. A
woman crushed the serpent beneath her foot. Let a woman now crush
that scarlet flower beneath hers. Remember!"
She actually kissed his feet; and he, blinded by self-conceit to the folly
of this fetishism and the redicule of his own acceptance of it, raised his
hand above her head as if in the act of pronouncing a benediction.
Then without another word he turned to go. The young negro brought
him his hat and cloak. The latter he wrapped closely round his