Pelham — CompleteLytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
History
Pelham — Complete
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
Adventure stories; English fiction -- 19th century; Great Britain -- History -- 19th century -- Fiction
What were the exact reflections of Monsieur Margot, in that position, I
cannot pretend to determine, because he never favoured me with them;
but about an hour afterwards, Vincent and I (who had been delayed on the
road), strolling up the street, according to our appointment, perceived,
by the dim lamps, some opaque body leaning against the wall of Madame
Laurent’s house, at about the distance of fifteen feet from the ground.
We hastened our steps towards it; a measured and serious voice, which
I well knew, accosted us--“For God’s sake, gentlemen, procure me
assistance; I am the victim of a perfidious woman, and expect every
moment to be precipitated to the earth.”
“Good Heavens!” said I, “surely it is Monsieur Margot, whom I hear. What
are you doing there?”
“Shivering with cold,” answered Monsieur Margot, in a tone tremulously
slow.
“But what are you in? for I can see nothing but a dark substance.”
“I am in a basket,” replied Monsieur Margot, “and I should be very much
obliged to you to let me out of it.”
“Well--indeed,” said Vincent, (for I was too much engaged in laughing
to give a ready reply,) “your Chateau-Margot has but a cool cellar. But
there are some things in the world easier said than done. How are we to
remove you to a more desirable place?”
“Ah,” returned Monsieur Margot, “how indeed! There is to be sure a
ladder in the porter’s lodge long enough to deliver me; but then, think
of the gibes and jeers of the porter--it will get wind--I shall be
ridiculed, gentlemen--I shall be ridiculed--and what is worse, I shall
lose my pupils.”
“My good friend,” said I, “you had better lose your pupils than your
life; and the day-light will soon come, and then, instead of being
ridiculed by the porter, you will be ridiculed by the whole street!”
Monsieur Margot groaned. “Go, then, my friend,” said he, “procure the
ladder! Oh, those she devils!--what could make me such a fool!”
Whilst Monsieur Margot was venting his spleen in a scarcely articulate
mutter, we repaired to the lodge, knocked up the porter, communicated
the accident, and procured the ladder. However, an observant eye had
been kept upon our proceedings, and the window above was re-opened,
though so silently that I only perceived the action. The porter,
a jolly, bluff, hearty-looking fellow, stood grinning below with a
lantern, while we set the ladder (which only just reached the basket)
against the wall.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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