CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH-TRAP
The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly.
In the room downstairs, Brogard had for a while busied himself with
clearing the table, and re-arranging it for another guest.
It was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite
found the time slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that
this semblance of supper was being got ready. Evidently Brogard had a
certain amount of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to
take some trouble in making the place look a trifle less uninviting
than it had done before.
He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser,
what actually looked like a table-cloth; and when he spread it out,
and saw it was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while,
then was at much pains so to spread it over the table as to hide most
of its blemishes.
Then he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but
possessing some measure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully
wiped the glasses, spoons and plates, which he put on the table.
Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched
all these preparations, which Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment
of muttered oaths. Clearly the great height and bulk of the
Englishman, or perhaps the weight of his fist, had overawed this
free-born citizen of France, or he would never have been at such
trouble for any SACRRE ARISTO.
When the table was set--such as it was--Brogard surveyed it
with evident satisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the
corner of his blouse, gave a stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh
bundle of faggots on to the fire, and slouched out of the room.
Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She had
spread her travelling cloak over the straw, and was sitting fairly
comfortably, as the straw was fresh, and the evil odours from below
came up to her only in a modified form.
But, momentarily, she was almost happy; happy because, when
she peeped through the tattered curtains, she could see a rickety
chair, a torn table-cloth, a glass, a plate and a spoon; that was all.
But those mute and ugly things seemed to say to her that they were
waiting for Percy; that soon, very soon, he would be here, that the
squalid room being still empty, they would be alone together.
That thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed her eyes
in order to shut out everything but that. In a few minutes she would
be alone with him; she would run down the ladder, and let him see her;
then he would take her in his arms, and she would let him see that,
after that, she would gladly die for him, and with him, for earth
could hold no greater happiness than that.
And then what would happen? She could not even remotely
conjecture. She knew, of course, that Sir Andrew was right, that
Percy would do everything he had set out to accomplish; that she--now
she was here--could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious,
since Chauvelin himself was on his track. After having cautioned him,
she would perforce have to see him go off upon the terrible and daring
mission; she could not even with a word or look, attempt to keep him
back. She would have to obey, whatever he told her to do, even
perhaps have to efface herself, and wait, in indescribable agony,
whilst he, perhaps, went to his death.
But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the thought
that he should never know how much she loved him--that at any rate
would be spared her; the squalid room itself, which seemed to be
waiting for him, told her that he would be here soon.
Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of distant
footsteps drawing near; her heart gave a wild leap of joy! Was it
Percy at last? No! the step did not seem quite as long, nor quite as
firm as his; she also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of
footsteps. Yes! that was it! two men were coming this way.
Two strangers perhaps, to get a drink, or...
But she had not time to conjecture, for presently there was a
peremptory call at the door, and the next moment it was violently open
from the outside, whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted,--
"Hey! Citoyen Brogard! Hola!"
Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through a hole in
one of the curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below.
She heard Brogard's shuffling footsteps, as he came out of the
inner room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the
strangers, however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within
range of Marguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering
contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered,