The rest of the day dragged on in its
weary monotony. Josette had spent an hour with Louise at dinner-time,
when she had tried again, as she had done in the past ten days,
to rouse the unfortunate woman from her apathy. She did not tell
her about the seedy apothecary with the one leg, who had thrust
himself into her company only to vanish as mysteriously as he
had appeared. She was beginning to feel vaguely frightened about
that man: his actions had been so very strange that the conviction
grew upon her that he must be some sort of Government spy.
Maurice Reversac also came in for a hurried meal at midday, and
Josette spoke to him about the man at the Commissariat who had
insisted on coming with her to visit Louise and then disappeared
as if the cobble-stones of the great city had swallowed him up.
Maurice, who was always inclined to prudence, wished that Josette
had not been quite so free in her talk with the stranger. He dreaded
those Government spies who undoubtedly would be detailed to watch
the family of the murdered man; but whatever fears assailed him
he kept them buried in his heart and indeed did his best to reassure
Josette. But he did beg her to be more than ordinarily cautious.
He stayed talking with her for a little while and then went away.
It was too late now to trudge all the way to the Batignolles in
search of the public letter-writer, and Maurice, well aware of
Josette's impetuosity at the bare mention of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
thought it best to say nothing to her to-night on the subject.
He was trying to put what order he could in the affairs of the
late advocate, and to save what could possibly be saved out of
the wreckage of his fortune for the benefit of the widow and the
child.
"I have been promised a permit," he said, "to go
down into the Dauphiné for a day or two. I can then see
the bailiff and perhaps make some arrangement with him by which
he can send Madame a small revenue from the estate every month.
Then, if they let me carry on the practice..."
"Do you think they will?"
Maurice shrugged.
"One never knows. It all depends if lawyers are scarce now
that they have killed so many. There is always some litigation
afoot."
Finally he added, with a great show of confidence which he was
far from feeling:
"Don't lose heart, Josette chérie. Every moment of
my life I will devote to making Madame and the boy comfortable
because I know that is the way to make you happy."
But Josette found it difficult not to lose heart. She was convinced
in her own mind that danger greater than ever now threatened Louise
entirely because of her, Josette's, indiscretion, and that the
maimed man of the Commissariat whom she had so foolishly trusted
was nothing but a Government spy.
The truth did not dawn upon her, not until many hours later, after
she had spent her afternoon as usual at the workshop and then
came home in the late afternoon.
As soon as Josette entered the living-room she knew that the miracle
had happened - the miracle to which she had pinned her faith,
for which she had hoped and prayed and striven. She had left Louise
lying like a log on the sofa, silent, dry-eyed, sullen, with Charles-Léon,
quietly whimpering in his small bed. She found her a transformed
being with eyes bright and colour in her cheeks. But it was not
this sudden transformation of her friend, nor yet Louise's cry:
"Josette chérie! You were right and I was wrong to
doubt." It was something more subtle, more intangible, that
revealed to this ardent devotee that the hero of her dreams had
filled the air with the radiance of his personality, that he had
brought joy where sorrow reigned, and security and happiness where
unknown danger threatened. Louise had run up to Josette as soon
as she heard the turn of the latch-key in the door. She was laughing
and crying, and after she had embraced Josette she ran back into
the living-room and picked Charles-Léon up in her arms
and hugged him to her breast.
"My baby," she murmured, "my baby! He will get
strong and well and we shall be delivered from this hateful country."
Then she put Charles-Léon down, threw herself on the sofa,
and burying her face in her arms she burst into tears. She cried
and sobbed; her shoulders quivered convulsively. Josette made
no movement towards her: it was best that she should cry for a
time. The reaction from a state of dull despair had evidently
been terrific, and the poor woman's over-wrought nerves would
be all the better for this outlet of tears. How could Josette
doubt for a moment that the miracle had happened?
As soon as she was a little more calm, Louise dried her eyes,
then she drew a much-creased paper from the pocket of her skirt
and without a word held it out to Josette. It was a letter written
in a bold clear hand and was addressed to Citizeness Croissy at
No. 43, Rue Picpus, on the second floor, and this is what it said:
"As soon as you receive this, believe that sincere friends are working for your safety. You must leave Paris and France immediately, not only for the boy's health's sake, but because very serious danger threatens you and him if you remain. This evening at eight o'clock take your boy in your arms and an empty market basket in your hand. Your concierge will probably challenge you; say that you are going to fetch your bread ration which you omitted to get this morning because of the bad weather. If the concierge makes a remark about your having the child with you, say that the Citizen Doctor ordered you to take him out as soon as the rain had ceased. Do not on any account hasten downstairs or through the porte-cochère, just walk quietly as if in truth you were going to the baker's shop. Then walk quietly along the street till you come to the district bakery. There will probably be a queue waiting for rations at the door. Take your place in the queue and go in and get your bread. In the crowd you will see a one-legged man dressed in seedy black. When he walks out of the shop, follow him. Divest yourself of all fear. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel will see you safely out of Paris and out of France to England or Belgium, whichever you wish. But the first condition for your safety and that of the child is implicit trust in the ability of the League to see you through, and, as a consequence of trust, implicit obedience."
The letter bore no signature, but in the corner there was a small device, a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink. Josette murmured under her breath:
"The Scarlet Pimpernel! I knew that he would come."
Had she been alone she would have raised the paper to her lips,
that blessed paper on which her hero's hand had rested. As it
was she just held it tight in her hot little palm, and hoped that
in her excitement Louise would forget about it and leave it with
her as a precious relic.
"And of course you will come with me and Charles-Léon,
Josette chérie."
Louise had to reiterate this more than once before the sense of
it penetrated to Josette's inner consciousness. Even after the
third repetition she still looked vague and ununderstanding.
"Josette chérie, of course you will come."
"But, Louise, no! How can I?" the girl murmured.
"How do you mean, how can you?"
Josette held up the precious letter.
"He does not speak of me in this."
"The English League probably knows nothing about you, Josette."
"But he does."
"How do you know?"
Josette evaded the direct question. She quoted the last few words
of the letter:
"As a consequence of trust, implicit obedience."
"That does not mean..."
"It means," Josette broke in firmly, "that you
must follow the directions given you in this letter, word for
word. It is the least you can do, and you must do it for the sake
of Charles-Léon. I am in no danger here, and I would not
go if I were. Maurice will be here to look after me."
"You are talking nonsense, chérie. You know I would
not go without you."
"You would sacrifice Charles-Léon for me?"
Then as Louise made no reply - how could she? - Josette continued
with simple determination and unshaken firmness:
"I assure you, Louise chérie, that I am in no danger.
Maurice cannot go away while he has Bastien's affairs to look
after. He wouldn't go if he could, and it would be cowardly to
leave him all alone here to look after things."
"But, Josette..."
"Don't say anything more about it, Louise. I am in no danger
and I am not going. And what's more," she added softly, "I
know that the Scarlet Pimpernel will look after me. Don't be afraid,
he knows all about me."
And not another word would she say.
Louise, no doubt, knew her of old. Josette was one of those dear,
gentle creatures whom nothing in the world could move once she
was set on a definite purpose - especially if that purpose had
in it the elements of self-sacrifice. The time, too, was getting
on. It was already past seven o'clock. Louise busied herself with
Charles-Léon, putting on him all the warm bits of garments
she still possessed. Josette was equally busy warming up some
milk, the little there was over the fire in the tiny kitchen.
At eight o'clock precisely Louise was ready. She prepared to gather
the child in her arms. Josette had a big shawl ready to wrap round
them both: she thrust the empty market basket over Louise's arm.
Her heart ached at thought of this parting. God alone knew when
they would meet again. But it all had to be done, it all had to
be endured for the sake of Charles-Léon. Louise had declared
her intention of going to England rather than to Belgium. She
would meet a greater number of friends there.
"I will try and write to you, Josette chérie,"
she said. "My heart is broken at parting from you, and I
shall not know a happy hour until we are together again. But you
know, ma chérie, that Bastien was always convinced
that this abominable Revolution could not last much longer; and
- who knows? - Charlets-Léon and I may be back in Paris
before the year is out."
She was, perhaps, too excited to feel the sorrow of parting quite
as deeply as did Josette. Indeed, Louise was in a high state of
exultation, crying one moment and laughing the next, and the hand
with which she clung to Josette was hot and dry as if burning
with fever. Just at the last she was suddenly shaken with a fit
of violent trembling, her teeth chattered and she sank into a
chair, for her knees were giving way under her.
"Josette!" she gasped. "You do not think, perchance...?"
"What, chérie?"
"That this... this letter is all a hoax? And that we - Charles-Léon
and I - are walking into a trap?"
But Josette, who still held the letter tightly clasped in her
hand, was quite sure that it was not a hoax. She recalled the
seedy apothecary at the Commissariat and his gentle voice when
he spoke to her, and there had been a moment when his steady gaze
had drawn her eyes to him. She had not thought about it much at
the time, but since then she had reflected and remembered the
brief but very strange spell which seemed to have been cast over
her at the moment. No, the letter was not a hoax. Josette would
have staked her life on it that it was dictated, or perhaps even
written, by the hero of her dreams.
"It is not a trap, Louise," she said firmly, "but
the work of the finest man that ever lived. I am as convinced
as that I am alive that the one-legged man in seedy black whom
you will see in the bakery is the Scarlet Pimpernel himself."
It was Josette who lifted Charles-Léon and placed him in
Louise's arms. A final kiss to them both and they were gone. Josette
stood in the middle of the room, motionless, hardly breathing,
for she tried to catch the last sound of Louise's footsteps going
down the stairs. It was only after she had heard the opening and
closing of the outside door of the house that she at last gave
way to tears.
Just like this Josette had cried when Louise, after her marriage
to Bastien de Croissy, left the little farm in the Dauphiné
in order to take up her position as a great lady in Paris society.
The wedding had taken place in the small village church, and everything
had been done very quietly because General de Vandeleur, Louise's
father, had only been dead a year and Louise refused to be married
from the house of one of her grand relations. Papa and Maman Gravier
and Josette were the three people she had cared for most in all
the world until Bastien came along, and she had the sentimental
feeling that she wished to walk straight out of the one house
where her happy girlhood had been passed into the arms of the
man to whom she had given her heart.
The wedding had been beautiful and gay, with the whole village
hung about with flags and garlands of flowers; and previous to
it there had been all the excitement of getting Louise's trousseau
together, and of journeys up to Paris in order to try on the wedding
gown. And Josette had been determined that no tears or gloomy
looks from her should cast a shadow over her friend's happiness.
It was when everything was over, when Louise drove away in the
barouche en route for Paris, that Josette was suddenly
overwhelmed with the sorrow which she had tried to hold in check
for so long. Then as now she had thrown herself down on the sofa
and cried out her eyes in self-pity for her loneliness. But what
was the loneliness of that day in comparison with what it was
now? In those days Josette still had her father and mother: there
were the many interests of the farm, the dogs, the cows, haymaking,
harvesting. Now there was nothing but dreariness ahead. Dreariness
and loneliness. No one to look after, no one to fuss over. No
Charles-Léon to listen to tales of heroism and adventure.
Only the Government workshop, the girls there with their idle
chatter and their reiterated complaints: only the getting up in
the morning, the munching of stale food, the stitching of shirts,
and the going to bed at night!
Josette thought of all this later on when bedtime came along,
and she knelt beside Charles-Léon's empty cot and nearly
cried her eyes out. Nearly but not quite, for presently Maurice
came home. And it was wonderful how his presence put a measure
of comfort in Josette's heart. Somehow the moment she heard the
turn of his latchkey in the door, and his footsteps across the
hall, her life no longer appeared quite so empty. There was someone
left in Paris after all, who would need care and attention and
fussing over when he was sick; his future would have to be planned,
suitable lodgings would have to be found for him, and life generally
re-ordained according to the new conditions.
And first of all there was the excitement of telling Maurice all
about those new conditions.
Even before he came into the room Josette had jumped to her feet
and hastily dried her eyes. But he saw in a moment that she had
been crying.
"Josette!" he cried out, "what is it?"
"Take no notice, Maurice," Josette replied, still struggling
with her tears, "I am not really crying... it is only because
I am so... ever so happy!"
"Why? What has happened?"
"He came, Maurice," she said solemnly, "and they
have gone."
Of course Maurice could not make head or tail of that.
"He? They?" he murmured frowning. "Who came, and
who has gone?"
She made him sit down on the ugly horse-hair sofa and she sat
down beside him and told him about everything. Her dreams had
turned to reality, the Scarlet Pimpernel had come to take Louise
and Charles-Léon away out of all this danger and all this
misery: he had come to take them away to England where Louise
would be safe, and Charles-Léon would get quite well and
strong.
"And left you here!" Maurice exclaimed involuntarily,
when Josette paused, out of breath, after she had imparted the
great and glorious news: "gone to safety and left you here
to face..."
But Josette with a peremptory gesture put her small hand across
his mouth.
"Wait, Maurice," she said, "let me tell you."
She drew the precious letter from under her fichu - Louise, fortunately,
had not demanded its return - and she read its contents aloud
to Maurice.
"Now you see!" she concluded triumphantly, and fixed
her glowing eyes on the young man.
"I only see," he retorted almost roughly, "that
they had no right to leave you here... all alone."
"Not alone, Maurice," she replied; "are you not
here... to take care of me?"
That, of course, was a heavenly moment in Maurice's life. Never
had Josette - Josette who was so independent and self-reliant
- spoken like this before, never had she looked quite like she
did now, adorable always, but more so with that expression of
dependence and appeal in her eyes. The moment was indeed so heavenly
that Maurice felt unable to say anything. He was so afraid that
the whole thing was not real, that he was only dreaming, and that
if he spoke the present rapture would at once be dispelled. He
felt alternately hot and cold, his temples throbbed. He tried
to express with a glance all that went on in his heart. His silence
and his looks did apparently satisfy Josette, for after a moment
or two she explained to him just what her feelings were about
the letter.
"The Scarlet Pimpernel demands trust and obedience, Maurice,"
she said with naïve earnestness. "Well! would that have
been obedience if Louise had lugged me along with her? He doesn't
mention me in the letter. If he had meant me to come, he would
have said so."
With this pronouncement Maurice had perforce to be satisfied;
but one thing more he wanted to know: what had become of the letters?
But Josette couldn't tell him. Ever since Bastien's death, Louise
had never spoken of them, or given the slightest hint of what
she had done with them.
"Let's hope she has destroyed them," Maurice commented
with a sigh.
The next day they spent in hunting for new lodgings for Maurice.
Strange! Josette no longer felt lonely. She still grieved after
Louise and Charles-Léon, but somehow life no longer seemed
as dreary as she thought it would be.