The Elusive Pimpernel

Excerpt: ...of appealing wonder, seemed to be waiting for her to speak. A priest of the good God, my dear child, replied the old man with a deep sigh and a shake of his scanty locks, who is not allowed to serve his divine Master any longer. A poor old fellow, very harmless and very helpless, who had been set here to watch over you. You must not look upon me as a jailer because of what I say, my child, he added with a quaint air of deference and apology. I am very old and very small, and only take up a very little room. I can make myself very scarce; you shall hardly know that I am here. They forced me to it much against my will. But they are strong and I am weak, how could I deny them since they put me here. After all, he concluded naively, perhaps it is the will of le bon Dieu, and He knows best, my child, He knows best. The shoes evidently refused to respond any further to the old man's efforts at polishing them. He contemplated them now, with a whimsical look of regret on his furrowed face, then set them down on the floor and slipped his stockinged feet into them. Marguerite was silently watching him, still leaning on her elbow. Evidently her brain was still numb and fatigued, for she did not seem able to grasp all that the old man said. She smiled to herself too as she watched him. How could she look upon him as a jailer? He did not seem at all like a Jacobin or a Terrorist, there was nothing of the dissatisfied democrat, of the snarling anarchist ready to lend his hand to any act of ferocity directed against a so-called aristocrat, about this pathetic little figure in the ragged soutane and worn shoes. He seemed singularly bashful too and ill at ease, and loath to meet Marguerite's great, ardent eyes, which were fixed questioningly upon him. You must forgive me, my daughter, he said shyly, for concluding my toilet before you. I had hoped to be quite ready before you woke, but I had some trouble with my shoes; except for a little water and soap...