THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL (& Its Sequel Sir Percy Leads the Band). Emma Orczy

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL (& Its Sequel Sir Percy Leads the Band) - Emma Orczy


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       Emma Orczy

      THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

      (& Its Sequel Sir Percy Leads the Band)

      Historical Action-Adventure Novels

      Published by

      Books

      - Advanced Digital Solutions & High-Quality eBook Formatting -

       [email protected]

      2018 OK Publishing

      ISBN 978-80-272-4468-3

       The Scarlet Pimpernel

       Sir Percy Leads the Band

      The Scarlet Pimpernel

       Table of Contents

       CHAPTER I PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792

       CHAPTER II DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST"

       CHAPTER III THE REFUGEES

       CHAPTER IV THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

       CHAPTER V MARGUERITE

       CHAPTER VI AN EXQUISITE OF '92

       CHAPTER VII THE SECRET ORCHARD

       CHAPTER VIII THE ACCREDITED AGEN

       CHAPTER IX THE OUTRAGE

       CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX

       CHAPTER XI LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL

       CHAPTER XII THE SCRAP OF PAPER

       CHAPTER XIII EITHER — OR?

       CHAPTER XIV ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY!

       CHAPTER XV DOUBT

       CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND

       CHAPTER XVII FAREWELL

       CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE

       CHAPTER XIX THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

       CHAPTER XX THE FRIEND

       CHAPTER XXI SUSPENSE

       CHAPTER XXII CALAIS

       CHAPTER XXIII HOPE

       CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH-TRAP

       CHAPTER XXV THE EAGLE AND THE FOX

       CHAPTER XXVI THE JEW

       CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK

       CHAPTER XXVIII THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT

       CHAPTER XXIX TRAPPED

       CHAPTER XXX THE SCHOONER

       CHAPTER XXXI THE ESCAPE

      CHAPTER I

       PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792

       Table of Contents

      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,


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