Читать книгу The Man in Grey - Baroness Orczy - Страница 5

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The men were cowering together in a burrow constructed of dead branches and caked mud, with a covering of heath and dried twigs. Their heads were close to one another and the dim light of a dark lanthorn placed upon the floor threw weird, sharp shadows across their eager faces, making them appear grotesque and almost ghoulish—the only bright spots in the surrounding gloom.

One man on hands and knees was crouching by the narrow entrance, his keen eyes trying to pierce the density of the forest beyond.

The booty was all there, spread out upon the damp earth—small coins and bundles of notes all smeared with grease and mud; there were some trinkets, too, but of obviously little value: a pair of showy gold earrings, one or two signets, a heavy watch in a chased silver case. But these had been contemptuously swept aside—it was the money that mattered. The man with the wooden leg had counted it all out and was now putting coins and notes back into a large leather wallet.

“Six thousand two hundred and forty-seven francs,” he said quietly, as he drew the thongs of the wallet closely together and tied them securely into a knot. “One of the best hauls we’ve ever had. ’Tis Madame who will be pleased.”

“Our share will have to be paid out of that first,” commented one of his companions.

“Yes, yes!” quoth the other lightly. “Madame will see to it. She always does. How many of you are there?” he added carelessly.

“Seven of us all told. They were a pack of cowards in that coach.”

“Well!” concluded the man with the wooden leg, “we must leave Madame to settle accounts. I’d best place the money in safety now.”

He struggled up into a standing position—which was no easy matter for him with his stump and in the restricted space—and was about to hoist the heavy wallet on to his powerful shoulders, when one of his mates seized him by the wrist.

“Hold on, Silver-Leg!” he said roughly, “we’ll pay ourselves for our trouble first. Eh, friends?” he added, turning to the others.

But before any of them could reply there came a peremptory command from the man whom they had called “Silver-Leg.”

“Silence!” he whispered hoarsely. “There’s someone moving out there among the trees.”

At once the others obeyed, every other thought lulled to rest by the sense of sudden danger. For a minute or so every sound was hushed in the narrow confines of the lair save the stertorous breathing which came from panting throats. Then the look-out man at the entrance whispered under his breath:

“I heard nothing.”

“Something moved, I tell you,” rejoined Silver-Leg curtly. “It may only have been a beast on the prowl.”

But the brief incident had given him the opportunity which he required; he had shaken off his companion’s hold upon his wrist and had slung the wallet over his shoulder. Now he stumped out of the burrow.

“Friend Hare-Lip,” he said before he went, in the same commanding tone wherewith he had imposed silence awhile ago on his turbulent mates, “tell Monseigneur that it will be ‘Corinne’ this time, and you, Mole-Skin, ask Madame to send Red-Poll over on Friday night for the key.”

The others growled in assent and followed him out of their hiding-place. One of the men had extinguished the lanthorn, and another was hastily collecting the trinkets which had so contemptuously been swept aside.

“Hold on, Silver-Leg!” shouted the man who had been called Hare-Lip; “short reckonings make long friends. I’ll have a couple of hundred francs now,” he continued roughly. “It may be days and weeks ere I see Madame again, and by that time God knows where the money will be.”

But Silver-Leg stumped on in the gloom, paying no heed to the peremptory calls of his mates. It was marvellous how fast he contrived to hobble along, winding his way in and out in the darkness, among the trees, on the slippery carpet of pine needles and carrying that heavy wallet—six thousand two hundred francs, most of it in small coin—upon his back. The others, however, were swift and determined, too. Within the next minute or two they had overtaken him, and he could no longer evade them; they held him tightly, surrounding him on every side and clamouring for their share of the spoils.

“We’ll settle here and now, friend Silver-Leg,” said Hare-Lip, who appeared to be the acknowledged spokesman of the malcontents. “Two hundred francs for me out of that wallet, if you please, ere you move another step, and two hundred for each one of us here, or—”

The man with the wooden leg had come to a halt, but somehow it seemed that he had not done so because the others held and compelled him, but because he himself had a desire to stand still. Now when Hare-Lip paused, a world of menace in every line of his gaunt, quivering body, Silver-Leg laughed with gentle irony, as a man would laugh at the impotent vapourings of a child.

“Or what, my good Hare-Lip?” he queried slowly.

Then as the other instinctively lowered his gaze and mumbled something between his teeth, Silver-Leg shrugged his shoulders and said with kind indulgence, still as if he were speaking to a child:

“Madame will settle, my friend. Do not worry. It is bad to worry. You remember Fear-Nought: he took to worrying—just as you are doing now—wanted to be paid out of his turn, or more than his share, I forget which. But you remember him?”

“I do,” muttered Hare-Lip with a savage oath. “Fear-Nought was tracked down by the police and dragged to Vincennes, or Force, or Bicêtre—we never knew.”

“To the guillotine, my good Hare-Lip,” rejoined Silver-Leg blandly, “along with some other very brave Chouans like yourselves, who also had given their leaders some considerable trouble.”

“Betrayed by you,” growled Hare-Lip menacingly.

“Punished—that’s all,” concluded Silver-Leg as he once more turned to go.

“Treachery is a game at which more than one can play.”

“The stakes are high. And only one man can win,” remarked Silver-Leg dryly.

“And one man must lose,” shouted Hare-Lip, now beside himself with rage, “and that one shall be you this time, my fine Silver-Leg. À moi, my mates!” he called to his companions.

And in a moment the men fell on Silver-Leg with the vigour born of terror and greed, and for the first moment or two of their desperate tussle it seemed as if the man with the wooden leg must succumb to the fury of his assailants. Darkness encompassed them all round, and the deep silence which dwells in the heart of the woods. And in the darkness and the silence these men fought—and fought desperately—for the possession of a few hundred francs just filched at the muzzle of a pistol from a few peaceable travellers.

Pistols of course could not be used; the police patrols might not be far away, and so they fought on in silence, grim and determined, one man against half a dozen, and that one halt, and weighted with the spoils. But he had the strength of a giant, and with his back against a stately fir tree he used the heavy wallet as a flail, keeping his assailants at arm’s length with the menace of death-dealing blows.

Then, suddenly, from far away, even through the dull thuds of this weird and grim struggle, there came the sound of men approaching—the click of sabres, the tramp and snorting of horses, the sense of men moving rapidly even if cautiously through the gloom. Silver-Leg was the first to hear it.

“Hush!” he cried suddenly, and as loudly as he dared, “the police!”

Again, with that blind instinct born of terror and ever-present danger, the others obeyed. The common peril had as swiftly extinguished the quarrel as greed of gain had fanned it into flame.

The cavalcade was manifestly drawing nearer.

“Disperse!” commanded Silver-Leg under his breath. “Clear out of the wood, but avoid the tracks which lead out of it, lest it is surrounded. Remember ‘Corinne’ for Monseigneur, and that Red-Poll can have the key for Madame on Friday.”

Once again he had made use of his opportunity. Before the others had recovered from their sudden fright, he had quietly stumped away, and in less than five seconds was lost in the gloom among the trees. For a moment or two longer an ear, attuned by terror or the constant sense of danger, might have perceived the dull, uneven thud of his wooden leg against the soft carpet of pine needles, but even this soon died away in the distance, and over the kingdom of darkness which held sway within the forest there fell once more the pall of deathlike silence. The posse of police in search of human quarry had come and gone, the stealthy footsteps of tracked criminals had ceased to resound from tree to tree; all that could be heard was the occasional call of a night-bird, or the furtive movement of tiny creatures of the wild.

Silence hung over the forest for close upon an hour. Then from behind a noble fir a dark figure detached itself and more stealthily, more furtively than any tiny beast it stole along the track which leads to the main road. The figure, wrapped in a dark mantle, glided determinedly along despite the difficulties of the narrow track, complicated now by absolute darkness. Hours went by ere it reached the main road, on the very spot where some few hours ago the mail-coach had been held up and robbed by a pack of impudent thieves. Here the figure halted for awhile, and just then the heavy rain clouds, which had hung over the sky the whole evening, slowly parted and revealed the pale waning moon. A soft light gradually suffused the sky and vanquished the impenetrable darkness.

Not a living soul was in sight save that solitary figure by the roadside—a man, to all appearances, wearing a broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his face; the waning moon threw a cold light upon the grey mantle which he wore. On ahead the exquisite tower of the church of Notre Dame appeared vague and fairylike against the deep sapphire of the horizon far away. Then the solitary figure started to walk briskly in the direction of the city.