up the mysterious message. Here it is," she said, and drew from the folds of her fichu a crumpled piece of paper. "I have not parted from it since I picked it up and read its contents. Listen what it says: 'The Abbé Edgeworth, vicaire of St. André, who accompanied the King of France to the scaffold will claim your hospitality to-day for the night.' Look at it, Monsieur l'Abbé. Isn't it extraordinary? I have shown it to maman, of course, and to François. They couldn't understand at all where it came from, until milord Devinne threw a still more puzzling light on the whole thing."
She held the paper out to the priest who took it from her, put his spectacles on his nose and glanced down on the mysterious note.
"It certainly is very curious," he said, "and it is not signed."
"Only with a rough drawing of a small scarlet flower," the girl observed. The priest handed the paper back to her. She took it, folded it together almost reverently and replaced it in the folds of her fichu. The abbé turned to the young Englishman.
"And you, milord," he asked, "can actually throw some light on the sender of this anonymous message?"
"Not exactly that," Devinne protested, "but I can tell you this: that small scarlet flower is a device adopted by the chief of a band of English gentlemen who have pledged themselves to save innocent men and women and children from the tragic fate that befell the King of France to-day."
The old priest hastily crossed himself.
"May God forgive the sacrilege," he murmured. Then he went on: "But what a high ideal, milord! Saving the innocent! And Englishmen, you say? Are you a member of that heroic band yourself?"
"I have that honour."
"And your chief? Who is he?"
"Ah!" Devinne replied, "that is our secret — and his."
"Your pardon, milord! I had not thought to be indiscreet. The whole thing simply amazes me. It is so wonderful to do such noble deeds, to risk one's life for the sake of others who may be nothing to you, and do it all unknown, probably unthanked! And to think that I owe my life to such men as you, milord, to your friends and to your chief! And that little red flower? It is a Scarlet Pimpernel, is it not?"
"Yes!"
"I seem to have heard something about it. But only vaguely. The police here speak of an anonymous English spying organisation."
"We do no spying, Monsieur l'Abbé. The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel has nothing to do with politics."
"I am sure it has not. But I understand that even the government is greatly disturbed by its activities, and has offered a large reward for the apprehension, milord, of your chief. But God will protect him, never fear."
It was after this that the old priest seemed to collapse. He gave a gasp and sank back in his chair in a faint. François de la Rodière hastily called to Paul, and together the two men carried the old man upstairs to the room which had been prepared for him and put him to bed. When they came back and explained that Monsieur l'Abbé appeared to be very ill, Madame la Marquise gave orders to Paul that Dr. Pradel be fetched at once.
"The doctor is in the house now, Madame la Marquise," Paul observed.
"Doing what?" Madame asked.
"I sent for him, maman," François put in; "Stella needed a purge, and César got a splinter in his paw. But I thought he would be gone by now."
"And why hasn't he gone?"
"Marie had one of her bad attacks of rheumatism, Madame la Marquise, and Berthe the kitchen girl had a poisoned finger. The doctor has been seeing to them."
"Tell him to go up to Monsieur l'Abbé at once," François commanded.
When Paul had gone, he turned to Lord Devinne.
"This is very unfortunate," he said. "I do hope it won't be a long affair. I don't mind the abbé being here, say, a day or two, but you didn't say anything about his being a sick man."
"I didn't know that he was," the Englishman observed.
"Your wonderful chief should have told you," the other retorted with obvious ill-humour. "It won't be over-safe either for maman or for the rest of us to be harbouring a man who is under the ban of this murdering government. Believe me, milord, I —— "
He was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of Simon Pradel. Madame la Marquise gave him a gracious nod, and Cécile a kindly glance. François, on the other hand, did not take the trouble to greet him.
"It is upstairs you have got to go," he said curtly; "a friend of ours who was here at supper was suddenly taken ill."
Simon took no notice of the insolence of the young man's tone. He only frowned slightly, took his professional tablet and pencil from his pocket and asked:
"What is the name of your friend, Monsieur le Marquis?"
"His name has nothing to do with you," the other retorted tartly.
"I am afraid it has, Monsieur le Marquis. I am bound by law to report to the local Section every case I attend within this area."
Madame la Marquise sighed and turned her head away; the word "Section" or "law" invariably upset her. But François suffered contradiction badly, especially on the part of this fellow Pradel whom he knew to hold democratic if not revolutionary views.
"You can go and report to the devil," he said with growing exasperation. He was still in a fume over the affair of the abbé's inconvenient sickness, and now, what he considered presumption on the part of this purveyor of pills and purges, turned his annoyance into fury.
"Either," he went on, not attempting to control his temper, "either you go and attend to my guest upstairs or you clear out of my house in double quick time."
There was not much meekness in Simon Pradel either. The arrogance of these aristocrats exasperated him just as much as his own attitude exasperated them. His face went very white, and he was on the point of making a retort which probably would have had unpleasant consequences for everyone concerned when he caught a glance, an appealing glance, levelled at him out of Cécile's beautiful eyes.
"Our friend is old, Monsieur le Docteur," she said gently, "and very ill. I am sure he will tell you his name himself, for he has no reason to hide it."
The glance and the words froze the sharp retort on Pradel's lips. He succeeded in keeping his rising temper under control and without another word, and just a slight inclination of the head he went out of the room. François on the other hand made no attempt to swallow his wrath: he turned on his sister and said acidly:
"You were a fool, Cécile. What that fellow wanted was a sound thrashing: your amiability will only encourage him in his insolence. All his like ought to have tasted the whip-lash long ago. If they had, we shouldn't be in the plight we are in to-day. Don't you agree with me, maman?" he concluded, appealing to his stately mother.
But Madame la Marquise who was very much upset by the incident had already sailed out of the room.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
An Outrage
