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Produced by Conway Yee and David Widger


By Baroness Orczy





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 that he really
had escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast of
England in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk about
ten metres towards the open country, then he would send two men after
him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.

Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would
prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly comical
when she found herself in Bibot's clutches after all, and knew that
a summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the fond
embrace of Madame la Guillotine.

No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round
Bibot's gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with its
satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble
heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that it
would see another hundred fall on the morrow.

Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate
of the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under his
command. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were
becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris: men,
women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had served
those traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right
food for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of
unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried
by the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good patriot,
Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville.

Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal and Bibot
was proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at least
fifty aristos to the guillotine.

But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricades
had had special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos had
succeeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely.
There were curious rumours about these escapes; they had become very
frequent and singularly daring; the people's minds were becoming
strangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent to
the guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of the
North Gate under his very nose.

It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of
Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheer
desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time in
snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la Guillotine. These
rumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no doubt that this band of
meddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be under
the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost fabulous.
Strange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom he rescued
became suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and escaped out
of the gates by sheer supernatural agency.

No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, he
was never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. Citoyen
Foucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap of
paper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the
pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone in
the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee of
Public Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that the band
of meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always signed with a
device drawn in red - a little star-shaped flower, which we in England
call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this
impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety would
hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reaching
the coast, and were on their way to England and safety.

The guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command had
been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for the
capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a sum of five
thousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the mysterious and
elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.

Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed that
belief to take firm root in everybody's mind; and so, day after day,
people came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he
laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied by
that mysterious Englishman.

"Bah!" he said to his trusted corporal, "Citoyen Grospierre was a fool!
Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . ."

Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his
comrade's stupidity.

"How did it happen, citoyen?" asked the corporal.

"Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch," began Bibot,
pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his
narrative. "We've all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed
Scarlet Pimpernel. He won't get through MY gate, MORBLEU! unless he
be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market carts were
going through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and driven by
an old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he
thought himself very clever; he looked into the casks - most of them, at
least - and saw they were empty, and let the cart go through."

A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad
wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.

"Half an hour later," continued the sergeant, "up comes a captain of
the guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. 'Has a car gone
through?' he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. 'Yes,' says Grospierre,
'not half an hour ago.' 'And you have let them escape,' shouts the
captain furiously. 'You'll go to the guillotine for this, citoyen
sergeant! that cart held concealed the CI-DEVANT Duc de Chalis and all
his family!' 'What!' thunders Grospierre, aghast. 'Aye! and the driver
was none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for
his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool!

Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before
he could continue.

"'After them, my men,' shouts the captain," he said after a while,
"'remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!' And with
that he rushes through the gate followed by his dozen soldiers."

"But it was too late!" shouted the crowd, excitedly.

"They never got them!"

"Curse that Grospierre for his folly!"

"He deserved his fate!"

"Fancy not examining those casks properly!"

But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed
until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Nay, nay!" he said at last, "those aristos weren't in the cart; the
driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!"


"No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise,
and everyone of his soldiers aristos!"

The crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the
supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not
quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of
the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.

The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to
close the gates.

"EN AVANT The carts," he said.

Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town,
in order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the
next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went through
his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He spoke
to one or two of their drivers - mostly women - and was at great pains to
examine the inside of the carts.

"You never know," he would say, "and I'm not going to be caught like
that fool Grospierre."

The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de la
Greve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping,
whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the
Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see the aristos
arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the places close
by the platform were very much sought after. Bibot, during the day,
had been on duty on the Place. He recognized most of the old hats,
"tricotteuses," as they were called, who sat there and knitted, whilst
head after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got quite
bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.

"He! la mere!" said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, "what have you
got there?"

He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of
her cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to
the whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she
stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.

"I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover," she said with a coarse
laugh, "he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. He
has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don't know if I shall be at
my usual place."

"Ah! how is that, la mere?" asked Bibot, who, 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,

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

"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."


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

"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 too busy discussing politics with Mr. 'Empseed to worry
'isself about you and the kitchen," grumbled Jemima under her breath.

Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of the
kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her frilled cap
at its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she took up
the tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and
laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the coffee

There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity which
kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.

The coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" is a show place now at the
beginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the eighteenth, in the
year of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the notoriety and importance
which a hundred additional years and the craze of the age have since
bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oak
rafters and beams were already black with age - as were the panelled
seats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between,
on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns of
many-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots of
scarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of colour
against the dull background of the oak.

That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of "The Fisherman's Reef" at Dover, was
a prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. The
pewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth,
shone like silver and gold - the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as the
scarlet geranium on the window sill - this meant that his servants were
good and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that order
which necessitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high standard
of elegance and order.

As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying a row
of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus of

"Why, here's Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!"

"I thought you'd grown deaf in that kitchen of yours," muttered Jimmy
Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.

"All ri'! all ri'!" laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly-filled
tankards upon the tables, "why, what a 'urry to be sure! And is your
gran'mother a-dyin' an' you wantin' to see the pore soul afore she'm
gone! I never see'd such a mighty rushin'" A chorus of good-humoured
laughter greeted this witticism, which gave the company there present
food for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now seemed in
less of a hurry to get back to her pots and pans. A young man with
fair curly hair, and eager, bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her
attention and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent Jimmy
Pitkin's fictitious grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with
heavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke.

Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in his
mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of
"The Fisherman's Rest," as his father had before him, aye, and his
grandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in build,
jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband was
indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days - the days when our
prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he
lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a den
of immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savages
and cannibals.

There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs,
smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at home, and
despising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat, with
shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey worsted stockings
and smart buckled shoes, that characterised every self-respecting
innkeeper in Great Britain in these days - and while pretty, motherless
Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the work that
fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband discussed the affairs of
nations with his most privileged guests.

The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hung
from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme.
Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every
corner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband's customers appeared red and pleasant
to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and all the
world; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant,
if not highly intellectual, conversation - while Sally's repeated giggles
testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short time
she seemed inclined to spare him.

They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband's coffee-room,
but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the salt which they
breathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched throats
when on shore, but "The Fisherman's Rest" was something more than a
rendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach started
from the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel,
and those who started for the "grand tour," all became acquainted with
Mr. Jellyband, his French wines and his home-brewed ales.

It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had
been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for
two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its
level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had
of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating

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