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The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy · English · Gutenberg #60 · 505,257 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Scarlet Pimpernel

Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy


        
Release date: March 8, 2006 [eBook #60]
                Most recently updated: September 23, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/60

Credits: Conway Yee and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL ***




The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Orczy


Contents

 I. PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792
 II. DOVER: “THE FISHERMAN’S REST”
 III. THE REFUGEES
 IV. THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
 V. MARGUERITE
 VI. AN EXQUISITE OF ’92
 VII. THE SECRET ORCHARD
 VIII. THE ACCREDITED AGENT
 IX. THE OUTRAGE
 X. IN THE OPERA BOX
 XI. LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL
 XII. THE SCRAP OF PAPER
 XIII. EITHER—OR?
 XIV. ONE O’CLOCK PRECISELY!
 XV. DOUBT
 XVI. RICHMOND
 XVII. FAREWELL
 XVIII. THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE
 XIX. THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
 XX. THE FRIEND
 XXI. SUSPENSE
 XXII. CALAIS
 XXIII. HOPE
 XXIV. THE DEATH-TRAP
 XXV. THE EAGLE AND THE FOX
 XXVI. THE JEW
 XXVII. ON THE TRACK
 XXVIII. THE PÈRE BLANCHARD’S HUT
 XXIX. TRAPPED
 XXX. THE SCHOONER
 XXXI. THE ESCAPE




CHAPTER I.
PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792


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 Grève 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 beneath 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, even 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, if they wished to avoid
the tardy vengeance of the people.

And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun of
the whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market
carts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool of an
aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of Public
Safety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to
slip through the barriers which were so well guarded by citizen
soldiers of the Republic. Men in women’s clothes, women in male attire,
children disguised in beggars’ rags: there were some of all sorts:
_ci-devant_ counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to fly from
France, reach England or some other equally accursed country, and there
try to rouse foreign feeling against the glorious Revolution, or to
raise an army in order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the
Temple, who had once called themselves sovereigns of France.

But they were nearly always caught at the barricades. Sergeant Bibot
especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristo
in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. Bibot
would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him,
sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by
the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which
hid the identity of a _ci-devant_ noble marquise or count.

Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging
round that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in the
very act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.

Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing
him to think for the space of two minutes at least that he really had
escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast of
England in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk
about ten mètres towards the open country, then he would send two men
after him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.

Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would
prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly
comical when she found herself in Bibot’s clutches after all, and knew
that a summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the
fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.

No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round
Bibot’s gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with its
satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble
heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that
it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.

Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate of
the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under his
command. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were
becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris: men,
women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had served
those traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right food
for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of
unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried by
the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good patriot,
Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville.

Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal, and Bibot
was proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at least
fifty aristos to the guillotine.

But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricades had
had special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos had
succeeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely.
There were curious rumours about these escapes; they had become very
frequent and singularly daring; the people’s minds were becoming
strangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent to
the guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of
the North Gate under his very nose.

It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of
Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheer
desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time
in snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la Guillotine.
These rumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no doubt that this
band of meddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be
under the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost
fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom
he rescued became suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and
escaped out of the gates by sheer supernatural agency.

No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, he
was never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. Citoyen
Foucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap of
paper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the
pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone in
the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee of
Public Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that the band
of meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always signed with a
device drawn in red—a little star-shaped flower, which we in England
call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this
impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety would
hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reaching
the coast, and were on their way to England and safety.

The guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command had
been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for the
capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a sum of
five thousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the
mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.

Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed that
belief to take firm root in everybody’s mind; and so, day after day,
people came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he
laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied by
that mysterious Englishman.

“Bah!” he said to his trusted corporal, “Citoyen Grospierre was a fool!
Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . .”

Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his
comrade’s stupidity.

“How did it happen, citoyen?” asked the corporal.

“Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch,” began Bibot,
pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his
narrative. “We’ve all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this
accursed Scarlet Pimpernel. He won’t get through _my_ gate, _morbleu!_
unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market
carts were going through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and
driven by an old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit
drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he looked into the
casks—most of them, at least—and saw they were empty, and let the cart
go through.”

A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad
wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.

“Half an hour later,” continued the sergeant, “up comes a captain of
the guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. ‘Has a cart
gone through?’ he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. ‘Yes,’ says
Grospierre, ‘not half an hour ago.’ ‘And you have let them escape,’
shouts the captain furiously. ‘You’ll go to the guillotine for this,
citoyen sergeant! that cart held concealed the _ci-devant_ Duc de
Chalis and all his family!’ ‘What!’ thunders Grospierre, aghast. ‘Aye!
and the driver was none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet
Pimpernel.’”

A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for
his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool!

Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before
he could continue.

“‘After them, my men,’ shouts the captain,” he said, after a while,
“‘remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!’ And with
that he rushes through the gate, followed by his dozen soldiers.”

“But it was too late!” shouted the crowd, excitedly.

“They never got them!”

“Curse that Grospierre for his folly!”

“He deserved his fate!”

“Fancy not examining those casks properly!”

But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed
until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.

“Nay, nay!” he said at last, “those aristos weren’t in the cart; the
driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

“What?”

“No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise,
and every one of his soldiers aristos!”

The crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the
supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not
quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts
of the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.

The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to
close the gates.

“_En avant_ the carts,” he said.

Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town,
in order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the
next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went
through his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He
spoke to one or two of their drivers—mostly women—and was at great
pains to examine the inside of the carts.

“You never know,” he would say, “and I’m not going to be caught like
that fool Grospierre.”

The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de
la Grève, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and
gossiping, whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the
victims the Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see
the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the
places close by the platform were very much sought after. Bibot, during
the day, had been on duty on the Place. He recognized most of the old
hags, “tricotteuses,” as they were called, who sat there and knitted,
whilst head after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got
quite bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.

“Hé! la mère!” said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, “what have you
got there?”

He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of
her cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to
the whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and
she stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.

“I made friends with Madame Guillotine’s lover,” she said with a coarse
laugh, “he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. He
has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don’t know if I shall be at
my usual place.”

“Ah! how is that, la mère?” asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier though
he was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this
semblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her
whip.

“My grandson has got the small-pox,” she said with a jerk of her thumb
towards the inside of her cart, “some say it’s the plague! If it is, I
sha’n’t be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow.”

At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily
backwards, and when the old hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from
her as fast as he could.

“Curse you!” he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the
cart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place.

The old hag laughed.

“Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward,” she said. “Bah! what a man to
be afraid of sickness.”

“_Morbleu!_ the plague!”

Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the
loathsome malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse
terror and disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.

“Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!” shouted Bibot,
hoarsely.

And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up
her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.

This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of
these two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure,
and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung
about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another
suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague
lurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre,
a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot,
and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in
disguise.

“A cart, . . .” he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the
gates.

“What cart?” asked Bibot, roughly.

“Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart . . .”

“There were a dozen . . .”

“An old hag who said her son had the plague?”

“Yes . . .”

“You have not let them go?”

“_Morbleu!_” said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white
with fear.

“The cart contained the _ci-devant_ Comtesse de Tournay and her two
children, all of them traitors and condemned to death.”

“And their driver?” muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran down
his spine.

“_Sacré tonnerre_,” said the captain, “but it is feared that it was
that accursed Englishman himself—the Scarlet Pimpernel.”




CHAPTER II.
“THE FISHERMAN’S REST”


In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy—saucepans and frying-pans were
standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in a
corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented
alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two
little kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting,
with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and
giggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally’s
back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and
solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred
the stock-pot methodically over the fire.

“What ho! Sally!” came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from
the coffee-room close by.

“Lud bless my soul!” exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, “what
be they all wanting now, I wonder!”

“Beer, of course,” grumbled Jemima, “you don’t ’xpect Jimmy Pitkin to
’ave done with one tankard, do ye?”

“Mr. ’Arry, ’e looked uncommon thirsty too,” simpered Martha, one of
the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met
those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and
suppressed giggles.

Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands
against her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in
contact with Martha’s rosy cheeks—but inherent good-humour prevailed,
and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention
to the fried potatoes.

“What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!”

And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the
oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host’s
buxom daughter.

“Sally!” shouted a more persistent voice, “are ye goin’ to be all night
with that there beer?”

“I do think father might get the beer for them,” muttered Sally, as
Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of
foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewter
tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which “The Fisherman’s
Rest” had been famous since the days of King Charles. “’E knows ’ow
busy we are in ’ere.”

“Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. ’Empseed to worry
’isself about you and the kitchen,” grumbled Jemima under her breath.

Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of the
kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her frilled cap
at its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she took up the
tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and
laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the
coffee-room.

There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity which
kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.

The coffee-room of “The Fisherman’s Rest” is a show place now at the
beginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the eighteenth, in
the year of grace 1792, it had not yet gained that notoriety and
importance which a hundred additional years and the craze of the age
have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for
the oak rafters and beams were already black with age—as were the
panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables
between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic
patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of
pots of scarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of
colour against the dull background of the oak.

That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of “The Fisherman’s Rest” at Dover, was a
prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. The
pewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth,
shone like silver and gold—the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as the
scarlet geranium on the window sill—this meant that his servants were
good and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that order
which necessitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high standard
of elegance and order.

As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying a row of
dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus of
applause.

“Why, here’s Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!”

“I thought you’d grown deaf in that kitchen of yours,” muttered Jimmy
Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.

“All ri’! all ri’!” laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly-filled
tankards upon the tables, “why, what a ’urry, to be sure! And is your
gran’mother a-dyin’ an’ you wantin’ to see the pore soul afore she’m
gone! I never see’d such a mighty rushin’!”

A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this witticism, which gave
the company there present food for many jokes, for some considerable
time. Sally now seemed in less of a hurry to get back to her pots and
pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager, bright blue eyes,
was engaging most of her attention and the whole of her time, whilst
broad witticisms anent Jimmy Pitkin’s fictitious grandmother flew from
mouth to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke.

Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in his mouth,
stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of “The
Fisherman’s Rest,” as his father had been before him, aye, and his
grandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in
build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband
was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days—the days when our
prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he
lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a
den of immorality, and the rest of the world an unexploited land of
savages and cannibals.

There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs,
smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at home,
and despising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat,
with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, the grey worsted
stockings and smart buckled shoes, that characterised every
self-respecting innkeeper in Great Britain in these days—and while
pretty, motherless Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do
all the work that fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband
discussed the affairs of nations with his most privileged guests.

The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hung
from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme.
Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every
corner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband’s customers appeared red and
pleasant to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and
all the world; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied
pleasant, if not highly intellectual, conversation—while Sally’s
repeated giggles testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making
of the short time she seemed inclined to spare him.

They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband’s
coffee-room, but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the
salt which they breathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for
their parched throats when on shore. But “The Fisherman’s Rest” was
something more than a rendezvous for these humble folk. The London and
Dover coach started from the hostel daily, and passengers who had come
across the Channel, and those who started for the “grand tour,” all
became acquainted with Mr. Jellyband, his French wines and his
home-brewed ales.

It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had
been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for
two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its
level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had
of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating
against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the
cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth.

“Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?” asked Mr.
Hempseed.

He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for he
was an authority and an important personage not only at “The
Fisherman’s Rest,” where Mr. Jellyband always made a special selection
of him as a foil for political arguments, but throughout the
neighbourhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge of the
Scriptures was held in the most profound awe and respect. With one hand
buried in the capacious pockets of his corduroys underneath his
elaborately-worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long clay
pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly across the room at the
rivulets of moisture which trickled down the window panes.

“No,” replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, “I dunno, Mr. ’Empseed, as
I ever did. An’ I’ve been in these parts nigh on sixty years.”

“Aye! you wouldn’t rec’llect the first three years of them sixty, Mr.
Jellyband,” quietly interposed Mr. Hempseed. “I dunno as I ever see’d
an infant take much note of the weather, leastways not in these parts,
an’ _I_’ve lived ’ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jellyband.”

The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment
Mr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument.

“It do seem more like April than September, don’t it?” continued Mr.
Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of raindrops fell with a sizzle upon
the fire.

“Aye! that it do,” assented the worthy host, “but then what can you
’xpect, Mr. ’Empseed, I says, with sich a government as we’ve got?”

Mr. Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of wisdom, tempered by
deeply-rooted mistrust of the British climate and the British
Government.

“I don’t ’xpect nothing, Mr. Jellyband,” he said. “Pore folks like us
is of no account up there in Lunnon, I knows that, and it’s not often
as I do complain. But when it comes to sich wet weather in September,
and all me fruit a-rottin’ and a-dyin’ like the ’Guptian mother’s
first-born, and doin’ no more good than they did, pore dears, save to a
lot of Jews, pedlars and sich, with their oranges and sich like foreign
ungodly fruit, which nobody’d buy if English apples and pears was
nicely swelled. As the Scriptures say—”

“That’s quite right, Mr. ’Empseed,” retorted Jellyband, “and as I says,
what can you ’xpect? There’s all them Frenchy devils over the Channel
yonder a-murderin’ their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox
and Mr. Burke a-fightin’ and a-wranglin’ between them, if we Englishmen
should ’low them to go on in their ungodly way. ‘Let ’em murder!’ says
Mr. Pitt. ‘Stop ’em!’ says Mr. Burke.”

“And let ’em murder, says I, and be demmed to ’em,” said Mr. Hempseed,
emphatically, for he had but little liking for his friend Jellyband’s
political arguments, wherein he always got out of his depth, and had
but little chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which had
earned for him so high a reputation in the neighbourhood and so many
free tankards of ale at “The Fisherman’s Rest.”

“Let ’em murder,” he repeated again, “but don’t let’s ’ave sich rain in
September, for that is agin the law and the Scriptures which says—”

“Lud! Mr. ’Arry, ’ow you made me jump!”

It was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this remark of
hers should have occurred at the precise moment when Mr. Hempseed was
collecting his breath, in order to deliver himself of one of those
Scriptural utterances which had made him famous, for it brought down
upon her pretty head the full flood of her father’s wrath.

“Now then, Sally, me girl, now then!” he said, trying to force a frown
upon his good-humoured face, “stop that fooling with them young
jackanapes and get on with the work.”

“The work’s gettin’ on all ri’, father.”

But Mr. Jellyband was peremptory. He had other views for his buxom
daughter, his only child, who would in God’s good time become the owner
of “The Fisherman’s Rest,” than to see her married to one of these
young fellows who earned but a precarious livelihood with their net.

“Did ye hear me speak, me girl?” he said in that quiet tone, which no
one inside the inn dared to disobey. “Get on with my Lord Tony’s
supper, for, if it ain’t the best we can do, and ’e not satisfied, see
what you’ll get, that’s all.”

Reluctantly Sally obeyed.

“Is you ’xpecting special guests then to-night, Mr. Jellyband?” asked
Jimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to divert his host’s attention from
the circumstances connected with Sally’s exit from the room.

“Aye! that I be,” replied Jellyband, “friends of my Lord Tony hisself.
Dukes and duchesses from over the water yonder, whom the young lord and
his friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young noblemen have helped
out of the clutches of them murderin’ devils.”

But this was too much for Mr. Hempseed’s querulous philosophy.

“Lud!” he said, “what they do that for, I wonder? I don’t ’old not with
interferin’ in other folks’ ways. As the Scriptures say—”

“Maybe, Mr. ’Empseed,” interrupted Jellyband, with biting sarcasm, “as
you’re a personal friend of Mr. Pitt, and as you says along with Mr.
Fox: ‘Let ’em murder!’ says you.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband,” feebly protested Mr. Hempseed, “I dunno as
I ever did.”

But Mr. Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting upon his favourite
hobby-horse, and had no intention of dismounting in any hurry.

“Or maybe you’ve made friends with some of them French chaps ’oo they
do say have come over here o’ purpose to make us Englishmen agree with
their murderin’ ways.”

“I dunno what you mean, Mr. Jellyband,” suggested Mr. Hempseed, “all I
know is—”

“All _I_ know is,” loudly asserted mine host, “that there was my friend
Peppercorn, ’oo owns the ‘Blue-Faced Boar,’ an’ as true and loyal an
Englishman as you’d see in the land. And now look at ’im!—’E made
friends with some o’ them frog-eaters, ’obnobbed with them just as if
they was Englishmen, and not just a lot of immoral, God-forsaking
furrin’ spies. Well! and what happened? Peppercorn ’e now ups and talks
of revolutions, and liberty, and down with the aristocrats, just like
Mr. ’Empseed over ’ere!”

“Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband,” again interposed Mr. Hempseed, feebly, “I
dunno as I ever did—”

Mr. Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, who were
listening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the recital of Mr.
Peppercorn’s defalcations. At one table two customers—gentlemen
apparently by their clothes—had pushed aside their half-finished game
of dominoes, and had been listening for some time, and evidently with
much amusement at Mr. Jellyband’s international opinions. One of them
now, with a quiet, sarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of
his mobile mouth, turned towards the centre of the room where Mr.
Jellyband was standing.

“You seem to think, mine honest friend,” he said quietly, “that these
Frenchmen—spies I think you called them—are mighty clever fellows to
have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr. Peppercorn’s
opinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you?”

“Lud! sir, I suppose they talked ’im over. Those Frenchies, I’ve ’eard
it said, ’ave got the gift of gab—and Mr. ’Empseed ’ere will tell you
’ow it is that they just twist some people round their little finger
like.”

“Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Hempseed?” inquired the stranger politely.

“Nay, sir!” replied Mr. Hempseed, much irritated, “I dunno as I can
give you the information you require.”

“Faith, then,” said the stranger, “let us hope, my worthy host, that
these clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your extremely loyal
opinions.”

But this was too much for Mr. Jellyband’s pleasant equanimity. He burst
into an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by those who
happened to be in his debt.

“Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!” He laughed in every key, did my worthy host,
and laughed until his sides ached, and his eyes streamed. “At me! hark
at that! Did ye ’ear ’im say that they’d be upsettin’ my
opinions?—Eh?—Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.”

“Well, Mr. Jellyband,” said Mr. Hempseed, sententiously, “you know what
the Scriptures say: ‘Let ’im ’oo stands take ’eed lest ’e fall.’”

“But then hark’ee, Mr. ’Empseed,” retorted Jellyband, still holding his
sides with laughter, “the Scriptures didn’t know me. Why, I wouldn’t so
much as drink a glass of ale with one o’ them murderin’ Frenchmen, and
nothin’ ’d make me change my opinions. Why! I’ve ’eard it said that
them frog-eaters can’t even speak the King’s English, so, of course, if
any of ’em tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should
spot them directly, see!—and forewarned is forearmed, as the saying
goes.”

“Aye! my honest friend,” assented the stranger cheerfully, “I see that
you are much too sharp, and a match for any twenty Frenchmen, and
here’s to your very good health, my worthy host, if you’ll do me the
honour to finish this bottle of mine with me.”

“I am sure you’re very polite, sir,” said Mr. Jellyband, wiping his
eyes which were still streaming with the abundance of his laughter,
“and I don’t mind if I do.”

The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and having
offered one to mine host, he took the other himself.

“Loyal Englishmen as we all are,” he said, whilst the same humorous
smile played round the corners of his thin lips—“loyal as we are, we
must admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to us from
France.”

“Aye! we’ll none of us deny that, sir,” assented mine host.

“And here’s to the best landlord in England, our worthy host, Mr.
Jellyband,” said the stranger in a loud tone of voice.

“Hip, hip, hurrah!” retorted the whole company present. Then there was
loud clapping of hands, and mugs and tankards made a rattling music
upon the tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing in
particular, and of Mr. Jellyband’s muttered exclamations:

“Just fancy _me_ bein’ talked over by any God-forsaken
furriner!—What?—Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.”

To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. It was certainly
a preposterous suggestion that anyone could ever upset Mr. Jellyband’s
firmly-rooted opinions anent the utter worthlessness of the inhabitants
of the whole continent of Europe.




CHAPTER III.
THE REFUGEES


Feeling in every part of England certainly ran very high at this time
against the French and their doings. Smugglers and legitimate traders
between the French and English coasts brought snatches of news from
over the water, which made every honest Englishman’s blood boil, and
made him long to have “a good go” at those murderers, who had
imprisoned their king and all his family, subjected the queen and the
royal children to every species of indignity, and were even now loudly
demanding the blood of the whole Bourbon family and of every one of its
adherents.

The execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette’s young
and charming friend, had filled everyone in England with unspeakable
horror, the daily execution of scores of royalists of good family,
whose only sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for vengeance
to the whole of civilised Europe.

Yet, with all that, no one dared to interfere. Burke had exhausted all
his eloquence in trying to induce the British Government to fight the
revolutionary government of France, but Mr. Pitt, with characteristic
prudence, did not feel that this country was fit yet to embark on
another arduous and costly war. It was for Austria to take the
initiative; Austria, whose fairest daughter was even now a dethroned
queen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob; and surely ’twas
not—so argued Mr. Fox—for the whole of England to take up arms, because
one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another.

As for Mr. Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though they looked upon
all foreigners with withering contempt, they were royalist and
anti-revolutionists to a man, and at this present moment were furious
with Pitt for his caution and moderation, although they naturally
understood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided that great
man’s policy.

But now Sally came running back, very excited and very eager. The
joyous company in the coffee-room had heard nothing of the noise
outside, but she had spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped
at the door of “The Fisherman’s Rest,” and while the stable boy ran
forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss Sally went to the
front door to greet the welcome visitor.
 “I think I see’d my Lord Antony’s horse out in the yard, father,” she
 said, as she ran across the coffee-room.

But already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the next
moment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy rain,
was round pretty Sally’s waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the
polished rafters of the coffee-room.

“Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty Sally,”
said the man who had just entered, whilst worthy Mr. Jellyband came
bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one
of the most favoured guests of his hostel.

“Lud, I protest, Sally,” added Lord Antony, as he deposited a kiss on
Miss Sally’s blooming cheeks, “but you are growing prettier and
prettier every time I see you—and my honest friend, Jellyband here,
must have hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours.
What say you, Mr. Waite?”

Mr. Waite—torn between his respect for my lord and his dislike of that
particular type of joke—only replied with a doubtful grunt.

Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter, was in
those days a very perfect type of a young English gentleman—tall, well
set-up, broad of shoulders and merry of face, his laughter rang loudly
wherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively companion, a courteous,
well-bred man of the world, with not too much brains to spoil his
temper, he was a universal favourite in London drawing-rooms or in the
coffee-rooms of village inns. At “The Fisherman’s Rest” everyone knew
him—for he was fond of a trip across to France, and always spent a
night under worthy Mr. Jellyband’s roof on his way there or back.

He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last released
Sally’s waist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry himself:
as he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at the two
strangers, who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and for a
moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his jovial
young face.

But only for a moment; the next he had turned to Mr. Hempseed, who was
respectfully touching his forelock.

“Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?”

“Badly, my lord, badly,” replied Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, “but what can
you ’xpect with this ’ere government favourin’ them rascals over in
France, who would murder their king and all their nobility.”

“Odd’s life!” retorted Lord Antony; “so they would, honest Hempseed,—at
least those they can get hold of, worse luck! But we have got some
friends coming here to-night, who at any rate have evaded their
clutches.”

It almost seemed, when the young man said these words, as if he threw a
defiant look towards the quiet strangers in the corner.

“Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I’ve heard it said,”
said Mr. Jellyband.

But in a moment Lord Antony’s hand fell warningly on mine host’s arm.

“Hush!” he said peremptorily, and instinctively once again looked
towards the strangers.

“Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord,” retorted Jellyband;
“don’t you be afraid. I wouldn’t have spoken, only I knew we were among
friends. That gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of
King George as you are yourself, my lord, saving your presence. He is
but lately arrived in Dover, and is settling down in business in these
parts.”

“In business? Faith, then, it must be as an undertaker, for I vow I
never beheld a more rueful countenance.”

“Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower, which no
doubt would account for the melancholy of his bearing—but he is a
friend, nevertheless, I’ll vouch for that—and you will own, my lord,
that who should judge of a face better than the landlord of a popular
inn—”

“Oh, that’s all right, then, if we are among friends,” said Lord
Antony, who evidently did not care to discuss the subject with his
host. “But, tell me, you have no one else staying here, have you?”

“No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, leastways—”

“Leastways?”

“No one your lordship would object to, I know.”

“Who is it?”

“Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will be here presently,
but they ain’t a-goin’ to stay—”

“Lady Blakeney?” queried Lord Antony, in some astonishment.

“Aye, my lord. Sir Percy’s skipper was here just now. He says that my
lady’s brother is crossing over to France to-day in the _Day Dream_,
which is Sir Percy’s yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady will come with
him as far as here to see the last of him. It don’t put you out, do it,
my lord?”

“No, no, it doesn’t put me out, friend; nothing will put me out, unless
that supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can cook, and which
has ever been served in ‘The Fisherman’s Rest.’”

“You need have no fear of that, my lord,” said Sally, who all this
while had been busy setting the table for supper. And very gay and
inviting it looked, with a large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias
in the centre, and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about.

“How many shall I lay for, my lord?”

“Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be enough for ten at
least—our friends will be tired, and, I hope, hungry. As for me, I vow
I could demolish a baron of beef to-night.”

“Here they are, I do believe,” said Sally, excitedly, as a distant
clatter of horses and wheels could now be distinctly heard, drawing
rapidly nearer.

There was general commotion in the coffee-room. Everyone was curious to
see my Lord Antony’s swell friends from over the water. Miss Sally cast
one or two quick glances at the little bit of mirror which hung on the
wall, and worthy Mr. Jellyband bustled out in order to give the first
welcome himself to his distinguished guests. Only the two strangers in
the corner did not participate in the general excitement. They were
calmly finishing their game of dominoes, and did not even look once
towards the door.

“Straight ahead, Comtesse, the door on your right,” said a pleasant
voice outside.

“Aye! there they are, all right enough,” said Lord Antony, joyfully;
“off with you, my pretty Sally, and see how quickly you can dish up the
soup.”

The door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by Mr. Jellyband, who was
profuse in his bows and welcomes, a party of four—two ladies and two
gentlemen—entered the coffee-room.

“Welcome! Welcome to old England!” said Lord Antony, effusively, as he
came eagerly forward with both hands outstretched towards the
newcomers.

“Ah, you are Lord Antony Dewhurst, I think,” said one of the ladies,
speaking with a strong foreign accent.

“At your service, Madame,” he replied, as he ceremoniously kissed the
hands of both the ladies, then turned to the men and shook them both
warmly by the hand.

Sally was already helping the ladies to take off their travelling
cloaks, and both turned, with a shiver, towards the brightly-blazing
hearth.

There was a general movement among the company in the coffee-room.
Sally had bustled off to her kitchen, whilst Jellyband, still profuse
with his respectful salutations, arranged one or two chairs around the
fire. Mr. Hempseed, touching his forelock, was quietly vacating the
seat in the hearth. Everyone was staring curiously, yet deferentially,
at the foreigners.

“Ah, Messieurs! what can I say?” said the elder of the two ladies, as
she stretched a pair of fine, aristocratic hands to the warmth of the
blaze, and looked with unspeakable gratitude first at Lord Antony, then
at one of the young men who had accompanied her party, and who was busy
divesting himself of his heavy, caped coat.

“Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse,” replied Lord
Antony, “and that you have not suffered too much from your trying
voyage.”

“Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England,” she said, while her
eyes filled with tears, “and we have already forgotten all that we have
suffered.”

Her voice was musical and low, and there was a great deal of calm
dignity and of many sufferings nobly endured marked in the handsome,
aristocratic face, with its wealth of snow-white hair dressed high
above the forehead, after the fashion of the times.

“I hope my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, proved an entertaining
travelling companion, Madame?”

“Ah, indeed, Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How could my children and
I ever show enough gratitude to you all, Messieurs?”

Her companion, a dainty, girlish figure, childlike and pathetic in its
look of fatigue and of sorrow, had said nothing as yet, but her eyes,
large, brown, and full of tears, looked up from the fire and sought
those of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had drawn near to the hearth and to
her; then, as they met his, which were fixed with unconcealed
admiration upon the sweet face before him, a thought of warmer colour
rushed up to her pale cheeks.

“So this is England,” she said, as she looked round with childlike
curiosity at the great open hearth, the oak rafters, and the yokels
with their elaborate smocks and jovial, rubicund, British countenances.

“A bit of it, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir Andrew, smiling, “but all of
it, at your service.”

The young girl blushed again, but this time a bright smile, fleet and
sweet, illumined her dainty face. She said nothing, and Sir Andrew too
was silent, yet those two young people understood one another, as young
people have a way of doing all the world over, and have done since the
world began.

“But, I say, supper!” here broke in Lord Antony’s jovial voice,
“supper, honest Jellyband. Where is that pretty wench of yours and the
dish of soup? Zooks, man, while you stand there gaping at the ladies,
they will faint with hunger.”

“One moment! one moment, my lord,” said Jellyband, as he threw open the
door that led to the kitchen and shouted lustily: “Sally! Hey, Sally
there, are ye ready, my girl?”

Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared in the doorway
carrying a gigantic tureen, from which rose a cloud of steam and an
abundance of savoury odour.

“Odd’s my life, supper at last!” ejaculated Lord Antony, merrily, as he
gallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse.

“May I have the honour?” he added ceremoniously, as he led her towards
the supper table.

There was general bustle in the coffee-room: Mr. Hempseed and most of
the yokels and fisher-folk had gone to make way for “the quality,” and
to finish smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two strangers stayed
on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game of dominoes and
sipping their wine; whilst at another table Harry Waite, who was fast
losing his temper, watched pretty Sally bustling round the table.

She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, and no wonder
that the susceptible young Frenchman could scarce take his eyes off her
pretty face. The Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a beardless
boy, on whom the terrible tragedies which were being enacted in his own
country had made but little impression. He was elegantly and even
foppishly dressed, and once safely landed in England he was evidently
ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution in the delights of
English life.

“Pardi, if zis is England,” he said as he continued to ogle Sally with
marked satisfaction, “I am of it satisfied.”

It would be impossible at this point to record the exact exclamation
which escaped through Mr. Harry Waite’s clenched teeth. Only respect
for “the quality,” and notably for my Lord Antony, kept his marked
disapproval of the young foreigner in check.

“Nay, but this _is_ England, you abandoned young reprobate,” interposed
Lord Antony with a laugh, “and do not, I pray, bring your loose foreign
ways into this most moral country.”

Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the table with the
Comtesse on his right. Jellyband was bustling round, filling glasses
and putting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand round the
soup. Mr. Harry Waite’s friends had at last succeeded in taking him out
of the room, for his temper was growing more and more violent under the
Vicomte’s obvious admiration for Sally.

“Suzanne,” came in stern, commanding accents from the rigid Comtesse.

Suzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and of place whilst
she had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young Englishman’s
eyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if unconsciously,
to rest upon hers. Her mother’s voice brought her back to reality once
more, and with a submissive “Yes, Mama,” she too took her place at the
supper table.




CHAPTER IV.
THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL


They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round the
table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical
good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace
1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who
had just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at
last on the shores of protecting England.

In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game; one
of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at the
table, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple caped coat.
As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was
busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the words “All safe!”: his
companion then, with the alertness borne of long practice, slipped on
to his knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the
oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud “Good-night,” quietly walked
out of the coffee-room.

Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and
silent manœuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the
coffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.

“Alone, at last!” said Lord Antony, jovially.

Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with the
graceful affectation peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft, and
said in broken English,—

“To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for his
hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France.”

“His Majesty the King!” echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank
loyally to the toast.

“To His Majesty King Louis of France,” added Sir Andrew, with
solemnity. “May God protect him, and give him victory over his
enemies.”

Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of the
unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed
to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband’s pleasant countenance.

“And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Antony,
merrily. “May we welcome him in England before many days are over.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand
she conveyed her glass to her lips, “I scarcely dare to hope.”

But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next few
moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally handed round
the plates and everyone began to eat.

“Faith, Madame!” said Lord Antony, after a while, “mine was no idle
toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the Vicomte
safely in England now, surely you must feel reassured as to the fate of
Monsieur le Comte.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, “I trust in
God—I can but pray—and hope . . .”

“Aye, Madame!” here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, “trust in God by
all means, but believe also a little in your English friends, who have
sworn to bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as they have
brought you to-day.”

“Indeed, indeed, Monsieur,” she replied, “I have the fullest confidence
in you and in your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread
throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends have
escaped from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was
nothing short of a miracle—and all done by you and your friends—”

“We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . .”

“But my husband, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, whilst unshed tears
seemed to veil her voice, “he is in such deadly peril—I would never
have left him, only . . . there were my children . . . I was torn
between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without me . .
. and you and your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would
be safe. But, oh! now that I am here—amongst you all—in this beautiful,
free England—I think of him, flying for his life, hunted like a poor
beast . . . in such peril. . . . Ah! I should not have left him . . . I
should not have left him! . . .”

The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and emotion
had overmastered her rigid, aristocratic bearing. She was crying gently
to herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her
tears.

Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the Comtesse
whilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply for
her; their very silence testified to that—but in every century, and
ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt
somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And so the
two young men said nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide
their feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.

“As for me, Monsieur,” said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked through a
wealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, “I trust you absolutely,
and I _know_ that you will bring my dear father safely to England, just
as you brought us to-day.”

This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief,
that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother’s eyes, and to bring a
smile upon everybody’s lips.

“Nay! you shame me, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir Andrew; “though my life
is at your service, I have been but a humble tool in the hands of our
great leader, who organised and effected your escape.”

He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne’s eyes
fastened upon him in undisguised wonder.

“Your leader, Monsieur?” said the Comtesse, eagerly. “Ah! of course,
you must have a leader. And I did not think of that before! But tell me
where is he? I must go to him at once, and I and my children must throw
ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he has done for us.”

“Alas, Madame!” said Lord Antony, “that is impossible.”

“Impossible?—Why?”

“Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark, and his identity is
only known under a solemn oath of secrecy to his immediate followers.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel?” said Suzanne, with a merry laugh. “Why! what a
droll name! What is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?”

She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young man’s face had
become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm;
hero-worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed literally to glow
upon his face.

 “The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “is the name
 of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also the name chosen to
 hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the world, so
 that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set
 himself to do.”

“Ah, yes,” here interposed the young Vicomte, “I have heard speak of
this Scarlet Pimpernel. A little flower—red?—yes! They say in Paris
that every time a royalist escapes to England that devil,
Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with that
little flower dessinated in red upon it. . . . Yes?”

“Yes, that is so,” assented Lord Antony.

“Then he will have received one such paper to-day?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Oh! I wonder what he will say!” said Suzanne, merrily. “I have heard
that the picture of that little red flower is the only thing that
frightens him.”

“Faith, then,” said Sir Andrew, “he will have many more opportunities
of studying the shape of that small scarlet flower.”

“Ah! Monsieur,” sighed the Comtesse, “it all sounds like a romance, and
I cannot understand it all.”

“Why should you try, Madame?”

“But, tell me, why should your leader—why should you all—spend your
money and risk your lives—for it is your lives you risk, Messieurs,
when you set foot in France—and all for us French men and women, who
are nothing to you?”

“Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport,” asserted Lord Antony, with his
jovial, loud and pleasant voice; “we are a nation of sportsmen, you
know, and just now it is the fashion to pull the hare from between the
teeth of the hound.”

“Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a more noble
motive, I am sure, for the good work you do.”

“Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . . . as for me, I
vow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet
encountered.—Hair-breadth escapes . . . the devil’s own risks!—Tally
ho!—and away we go!”

But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. To her it seemed
preposterous that these young men and their great leader, all of them
rich, probably well-born, and young, should for no other motive than
sport, run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantly
doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in France, would be no
safeguard to them. Anyone found harbouring or assisting suspected
royalists would be ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed,
whatever his nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen
had, to her own knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty
tribunal of the Revolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and
had snatched away condemned victims, almost from the very foot of the
guillotine. With a shudder, she recalled the events of the last few
days, her escape from Paris with her two children, all three of them
hidden beneath the hood of a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of
turnips and cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled “À
la lanterne les aristos!” at that awful West Barricade.

It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband had
understood that they had been placed on the list of “suspected
persons,” which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of
days—of hours, perhaps.

Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed with
the enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; the
parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife’s heart
in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the
covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible
evil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!

The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the
peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her
eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the
mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.

Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself
and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under
the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their
lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other
innocent people.

And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne’s eyes as she sought those
of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that _he_ at any rate
rescued his fellow-men from terrible and unmerited death, through a
higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.

“How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?” she asked timidly.

“Twenty all told, Mademoiselle,” he replied, “one to command, and
nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same
cause—to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent.”

“May God protect you all, Messieurs,” said the Comtesse, fervently.

“He has done that so far, Madame.”

“It is wonderful to me, wonderful!—That you should all be so brave, so
devoted to your fellow-men—yet you are English!—and in France treachery
is rife—all in the name of liberty and fraternity.”

“The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us
aristocrats than the men,” said the Vicomte, with a sigh.

“Ah, yes,” added the Comtesse, whilst a look of haughty disdain and
intense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes. “There was that
woman, Marguerite St. Just, for instance. She denounced the Marquis de
St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror.”

“Marguerite St. Just?” said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and
apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew. “Marguerite St. Just?—Surely
. . .”

“Yes!” replied the Comtesse, “surely you know her. She was a leading
actress of the Comédie Française, and she married an Englishman lately.
You must know her—”

“Know her?” said Lord Antony. “Know Lady Blakeney—the most fashionable
woman in London—the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we
all know Lady Blakeney.”

“She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,” interposed
Suzanne, “and we came over to England together to learn your language.
I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did
anything so wicked.”

“It certainly seems incredible,” said Sir Andrew. “You say that she
actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done
such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake—”

“No mistake is possible, Monsieur,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly.
“Marguerite St. Just’s brother is a noted republican. There was some
talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St.
Cyr. The St. Justs’ are quite plebeian, and the republican government
employs many spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not
heard this story?”

“Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no
one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very
wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince
of Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in
London.”

“That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet life
in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful
country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just.”

The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little
company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir
Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased in
the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid and
unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked
extremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively
towards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.

“At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?” he contrived
to whisper unobserved, to mine host.

“Any moment, my lord,” whispered Jellyband in reply.

Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach;
louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable,
then the rattle of horses’ hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the
next moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and
rushed in excitedly.

“Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady,” he shouted at the top of his voice,
“they’re just arriving.”

And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs upon the
stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had halted
outside the porch of “The Fisherman’s Rest.”




CHAPTER V.
MARGUERITE


In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn became the
scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement
made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had
jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions
to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits’ end what to do.

“For goodness’ sake, man,” admonished his lordship, “try to keep Lady
Blakeney talking outside for a moment, while the ladies withdraw.
Zounds!” he added, with another more emphatic oath, “this is most
unfortunate.”

“Quick, Sally! the candles!” shouted Jellyband, as hopping about from
one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general
discomfort of everybody.

The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying to
hide her excitement beneath more becoming _sang-froid_, she repeated
mechanically,—

“I will not see her!—I will not see her!”

Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very important
guests grew apace.

“Good-day, Sir Percy!—Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir
Percy!”—was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate more
feeble tones of—“Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady and
gentleman!”

Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.

“Let the poor man be—and give him some supper at my expense.”

The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, and a
faint _soupçon_ of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the
consonants.

Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused, instinctively
listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the
opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was
in the act of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned such
a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her
mother, whilst casting regretful glances towards the door, where she
hoped still to see her dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.

Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping
to avert the catastrophe which he felt was in the air, and the same
low, musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock consternation,—

“B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! _Dieu!_ has anyone ever seen such
a contemptible climate?”

“Suzanne, come with me at once—I wish it,” said the Comtesse,
peremptorily.

“Oh! Mama!” pleaded Suzanne.

“My lady . . . er . . . h’m! . . . my lady! . . .” came in feeble
accents from Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to bar the way.

“_Pardieu_, my good man,” said Lady Blakeney, with some impatience,
“what are you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with
a sore foot? Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold.”

And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing mine host on one
side, had swept into the coffee-room.

There are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite St.
Just—Lady Blakeney as she was then—but it is doubtful if any of these
really do her singular beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with
magnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even the
Comtesse paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turning
her back on so fascinating an apparition.

Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, and her beauty
was at its most dazzling stage. The large hat, with its undulating and
waving plumes, threw a soft shadow across the classic brow with the
aureole of auburn hair—free at the moment from any powder; the sweet,
almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, and
delicate throat, all seemed set off by the picturesque costume of the
period. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the
graceful contour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a
dignity all its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of
ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying
recently.

With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had taken
stock of everyone there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.

“Hello! my Lord Tony, why—what are _you_ doing here in Dover?” she said
merrily.

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse
and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as
she stretched out both arms towards the young girl.

“Why! if that isn’t my little Suzanne over there. _Pardieu_, little
citizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too!”

She went up effusively to them both, with not a single touch of
embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew
watched the little scene with eager apprehension. English though they
were, they had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with
the French to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred with
which the old _noblesse_ of France viewed all those who had helped to
contribute to their downfall. Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful
Lady Blakeney—though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views—was
an ardent republican; his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr—the
rights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew—had culminated in the
downfall, the almost total extinction, of the latter. In France, St.
Just and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face
with these three refugees driven from their country, flying for their
lives, bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them, there
stood a fair scion of those same republican families which had hurled
down a throne, and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the
dim and distant vista of bygone centuries.

She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of
beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by
that one act, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past
decade.

“Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said the Comtesse,
sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter’s arm.

She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and understand; the
two young English gentlemen as well as the common innkeeper and his
daughter. The latter literally gasped with horror at this foreign
insolence, this impudence before her ladyship—who was English, now that
she was Sir Percy’s wife, and a friend of the Princess of Wales to
boot.

As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their very hearts seemed to
stand still with horror at this gratuitous insult. One of them uttered
an exclamation of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctively
both glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow, drawly, not
unpleasant voice had already been heard.

Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and the Comtesse de
Tournay had remained seemingly unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect and
defiant, with one hand still upon her daughter’s arm, seemed the very
personification of unbending pride. For the moment Marguerite’s sweet
face had become as white as the soft fichu which swathed her throat,
and a very keen observer might have noted that the hand which held the
tall, beribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.

But this was only momentary; the next instant the delicate eyebrows
were raised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically upwards, the clear
blue eyes looked straight at the rigid Comtesse, and with a slight
shrug of the shoulders—

“Hoity-toity, citizeness,” she said gaily, “what fly stings you, pray?”

“We are in England now, Madame,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly, “and I
am at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship.
Come, Suzanne.”

She beckoned to her daughter, and without another look at Marguerite
Blakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to the two young men,
she sailed majestically out of the room.

There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, as the rustle of
the Comtesse’s skirts died away down the passage. Marguerite, rigid as
a statue, followed with hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it
disappeared through the doorway—but as little Suzanne, humble and
obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set expression
suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look
stole into Lady Blakeney’s eyes.

Little Suzanne caught that look; the child’s sweet nature went out to
the beautiful woman, scarce older than herself; filial obedience
vanished before girlish sympathy; at the door she turned, ran back to
Marguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her effusively; then
only did she follow her mother, Sally bringing up the rear, with a
pleasant smile on her dimpled face, and with a final curtsey to my
lady.

Suzanne’s sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension.
Sir Andrew’s eyes followed the pretty little figure, until it had quite
disappeared, then they met Lady Blakeney’s with unassumed merriment.

Marguerite, with dainty affectation, had kissed her hand to the ladies,
as they disappeared through the door, then a humorous smile began
hovering round the corners of her mouth.

“So that’s it, is it?” she said gaily. “La! Sir Andrew, did you ever
see such an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I sha’n’t look
like that.”

She gathered up her skirts, and assuming a majestic gait, stalked
towards the fireplace.

“Suzanne,” she said, mimicking the Comtesse’s voice, “I forbid you to
speak to that woman!”

The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a trifle forced
and hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were very keen
observers. The mimicry was so perfect, the tone of the voice so
accurately reproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty
cheerful “Bravo!”

“Ah! Lady Blakeney!” added Lord Tony, “how they must miss you at the
Comédie Française, and how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having
taken you away.”

“Lud, man,” rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her graceful
shoulders, “’tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty
sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse herself.”

The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow his mother in her
dignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the Comtesse
should Lady Blakeney aim any further shafts at her. But before he could
utter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant, though distinctly
inane laugh, was heard from outside, and the next moment an unusually
tall and very richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway.




CHAPTER VI.
AN EXQUISITE OF ’92


Sir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time inform us, was in
this year of grace 1792, still a year or two on the right side of
thirty. Tall, above the average, even for an Englishman,
broad-shouldered and massively built, he would have been called
unusually good-looking, but for a certain lazy expression in his
deep-set blue eyes, and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to
disfigure his strong, clearly-cut mouth.

It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., one of the
richest men in England, leader of all the fashions, and intimate friend
of the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in London
and Bath by bringing home, from one of his journeys abroad, a
beautiful, fascinating, clever, French wife. He, the sleepiest,
dullest, most British Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman
yawning, had secured a brilliant matrimonial prize for which, as all
chroniclers aver, there had been many competitors.

Marguerite St. Just had first made her _début_ in artistic Parisian
circles, at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval the world
has ever known was taking place within its very walls. Scarcely
eighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by a
young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her, in her
charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was as
brilliant as it was exclusive—exclusive, that is to say, only from one
point of view: Marguerite St. Just was from principle and by conviction
a republican—equality of birth was her motto—inequality of fortune was
in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only inequality she
admitted was that of talent. “Money and titles may be hereditary,” she
would say, “but brains are not,” and thus her charming salon was
reserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and wit, for
clever men and talented women, and the entrance into it was soon looked
upon in the world of intellect—which even in those days and in those
troublous times found its pivot in Paris—as the seal to an artistic
career.

Clever men, distinguished men, and even men of exalted station formed a
perpetual and brilliant court round the fascinating young actress of
the Comédie Française, and she glided through republican,
revolutionary, bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a trail
behind her of all that was most distinguished, most interesting, in
intellectual Europe.

Then the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and called it an artistic
eccentricity, others looked upon it as a wise provision, in view of the
many events which were crowding thick and fast in Paris just then, but
to all, the real motive of that climax remained a puzzle and a mystery.
Anyway, Marguerite St. Just married Sir Percy Blakeney one fine day,
just like that, without any warning to her friends, without a _soirée
de contrat_ or _dîner de fiançailles_ or other appurtenances of a
fashionable French wedding.

How that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be admitted within the
intellectual circle which revolved round “the cleverest woman in
Europe,” as her friends unanimously called her, no one ventured to
guess—a golden key is said to open every door, asserted the more
malignantly inclined.

Enough, she married him, and “the cleverest woman in Europe” had linked
her fate to that “demmed idiot” Blakeney, and not even her most
intimate friends could assign to this strange step any other motive
than that of supreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew, laughed to
scorn the idea that Marguerite St. Just had married a fool for the sake
of the worldly advantages with which he might endow her. They knew, as
a matter of fact, that Marguerite St. Just cared nothing about money,
and still less about a title; moreover, there were at least half a
dozen other men in the cosmopolitan world equally well-born, if not so
wealthy as Blakeney, who would have been only too happy to give
Marguerite St. Just any position she might choose to covet.

As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to be totally
unqualified for the onerous post he had taken upon himself. His chief
qualifications for it seemed to consist in his blind adoration for her,
his great wealth, and the high favour in which he stood at the English
court; but London society thought that, taking into consideration his
own intellectual limitations, it would have been wiser on his part had
he bestowed those worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and witty
wife.

Although lately he had been so prominent a figure in fashionable
English society, he had spent most of his early life abroad. His
father, the late Sir Algernon Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune
of seeing an idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two
years of happy married life. Percy had just been born when the late
Lady Blakeney fell a prey to the terrible malady which in those days
was looked upon as hopelessly incurable and nothing short of a curse of
God upon the entire family. Sir Algernon took his afflicted young wife
abroad, and there presumably Percy was educated, and grew up between an
imbecile mother and a distracted father, until he attained his
majority. The death of his parents following close upon one another
left him a free man, and as Sir Algernon had led a forcibly simple and
retired life, the large Blakeney fortune had increased tenfold.

Sir Percy Blakeney had travelled a great deal abroad, before he brought
home his beautiful, young, French wife. The fashionable circles of the
time were ready to receive them both with open arms. Sir Percy was
rich, his wife was accomplished, the Prince of Wales took a very great
liking to them both. Within six months they were the acknowledged
leaders of fashion and of style. Sir Percy’s coats were the talk of the
town, his inanities were quoted, his foolish laugh copied by the gilded
youth at Almack’s or the Mall. Everyone knew that he was hopelessly
stupid, but then that was scarcely to be wondered at, seeing that all
the Blakeneys, for generations, had been notoriously dull, and that his
mother had died an imbecile.

Thus society accepted him, petted him, made much of him, since his
horses were the finest in the country, his _fêtes_ and wines the most
sought after. As for his marriage with “the cleverest woman in Europe,”
well! the inevitable came with sure and rapid footsteps. No one pitied
him, since his fate was of his own making. There were plenty of young
ladies in England, of high birth and good looks, who would have been
quite willing to help him to spend the Blakeney fortune, whilst smiling
indulgently at his inanities and his good-humoured foolishness.
Moreover, Sir Percy got no pity, because he seemed to require none—he
seemed very proud of his clever wife, and to care little that she took
no pains to disguise that good-natured contempt which she evidently
felt for him, and that she even amused herself by sharpening her ready
wits at his expense.

But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the ridicule with
which his clever wife covered him, and if his matrimonial relations
with the fascinating Parisienne had not turned out all that his hopes
and his dog-like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do
more than vaguely guess at it.

In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second fiddle to his
clever wife with imperturbable _bonhomie_; he lavished jewels and
luxuries of all kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace,
dispensing the hospitality of his superb mansion with the same
graciousness with which she had welcomed the intellectual coterie of
Paris.

Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome—always excepting
the lazy, bored look which was habitual to him. He was always
irreproachably dressed, and wore the exaggerated “Incroyable” fashions,
which had just crept across from Paris to England, with the perfect
good taste innate in an English gentleman. On this special afternoon in
September, in spite of the long journey by coach, in spite of rain and
mud, his coat set irreproachably across his fine shoulders, his hands
looked almost femininely white, as they emerged through billowy frills
of finest Mechlin lace: the extravagantly short-waisted satin coat,
wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting striped breeches, set off
his massive figure to perfection, and in repose one might have admired
so fine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish ways, the
affected movements, the perpetual inane laugh, brought one’s admiration
of Sir Percy Blakeney to an abrupt close.

He had lolled into the old-fashioned inn parlour, shaking the wet off
his fine overcoat; then putting up a gold-rimmed eye-glass to his lazy
blue eye, he surveyed the company, upon whom an embarrassed silence had
suddenly fallen.

“How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?” he said, recognising the two young
men and shaking them by the hand. “Zounds, my dear fellow,” he added,
smothering a slight yawn, “did you ever see such a beastly day? Demmed
climate this.”

With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half of sarcasm,
Marguerite had turned towards her husband, and was surveying him from
head to foot, with an amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes.

“La!” said Sir Percy, after a moment or two’s silence, as no one
offered any comment, “how sheepish you all look. . . . What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing, Sir Percy,” replied Marguerite, with a certain amount of
gaiety, which, however, sounded somewhat forced, “nothing to disturb
your equanimity—only an insult to your wife.”

The laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended to
reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparently
succeeded in that, for, echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly—

“La, m’dear! you don’t say so. Begad! who was the bold man who dared to
tackle you—eh?”

Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to do so, for the young
Vicomte had already quickly stepped forward.

“Monsieur,” he said, prefixing his little speech with an elaborate bow,
and speaking in broken English, “my mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de
Basserive, has offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot ask
your pardon for my mother; what she does is right in my eyes. But I am
ready to offer you the usual reparation between men of honour.”

The young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and looked
very enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot as he gazed at six foot odd
of gorgeousness, as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.

“Lud, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite, with one of her merry infectious
laughs, “look on that pretty picture—the English turkey and the French
bantam.”

The simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey looked down with
complete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam, which
hovered quite threateningly around him.

“La! sir,” said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye-glass and
surveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, “where, in
the cuckoo’s name, did you learn to speak English?”

“Monsieur!” protested the Vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way his
warlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman.

“I protest ’tis marvellous!” continued Sir Percy, imperturbably,
“demmed marvellous! Don’t you think so, Tony—eh? I vow I can’t speak
the French lingo like that. What?”

“Nay, I’ll vouch for that!” rejoined Marguerite. “Sir Percy has a
British accent you could cut with a knife.”

“Monsieur,” interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in still more broken
English, “I fear you have not understand. I offer you the only
posseeble reparation among gentlemen.”

“What the devil is that?” asked Sir Percy, blandly.

“My sword, Monsieur,” replied the Vicomte, who, though still
bewildered, was beginning to lose his temper.

“You are a sportsman, Lord Tony,” said Marguerite, merrily; “ten to one
on the little bantam.”

But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment or two,
through his partly closed heavy lids, then he smothered another yawn,
stretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away.

“Lud love you, sir,” he muttered good-humouredly. “Demmit, young man,
what’s the good of your sword to me?”

What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, when that long-limbed
Englishman treated him with such marked insolence, might fill volumes
of sound reflections. . . . What he said resolved itself into a single
articulate word, for all the others were choked in his throat by his
surging wrath—

“A duel, Monsieur,” he stammered.

Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude looked down on
the choleric little man before him; but not even for a second did he
seem to lose his own imperturbable good-humour. He laughed his own
pleasant and inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into the
capacious pockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely—
 “A duel? La! is that what he meant? Odd’s fish! you are a bloodthirsty
 young ruffian. Do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man? . . .
 As for me, sir, I never fight duels,” he added, as he placidly sat
 down and stretched his long, lazy legs out before him. “Demmed
 uncomfortable things, duels, ain’t they, Tony?”

Now the Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in England the fashion
of duelling amongst gentlemen had been suppressed by the law with a
very stern hand; still to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of bravery
and honour were based upon a code that had centuries of tradition to
back it, the spectacle of a gentleman actually refusing to fight a duel
was little short of an enormity. In his mind he vaguely pondered
whether he should strike that long-legged Englishman in the face and
call him a coward, or whether such conduct in a lady’s presence might
be deemed ungentlemanly, when Marguerite happily interposed.

“I pray you, Lord Tony,” she said in that gentle, sweet, musical voice
of hers, “I pray you play the peacemaker. The child is bursting with
rage, and,” she added with a _soupçon_ of dry sarcasm, “might do Sir
Percy an injury.” She laughed a mocking little laugh, which, however,
did not in the least disturb her husband’s placid equanimity. “The
British turkey has had the day,” she said. “Sir Percy would provoke all
the saints in the calendar and keep his temper the while.”

But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had joined in the laugh
against himself.

“Demmed smart that now, wasn’t it?” he said, turning pleasantly to the
Vicomte. “Clever woman my wife, sir. . . . You will find _that_ out if
you live long enough in England.”

“Sir Percy is in the right, Vicomte,” here interposed Lord Antony,
laying a friendly hand on the young Frenchman’s shoulder. “It would
hardly be fitting that you should commence your career in England by
provoking him to a duel.”

For a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then with a slight shrug of
the shoulders directed against the extraordinary code of honour
prevailing in this fog-ridden island, he said with becoming dignity,—

“Ah, well! if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs. You, mi’lor’,
are our protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself.”

“Aye, do!” rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of satisfaction,
“withdraw yourself over there. Demmed excitable little puppy,” he added
under his breath. “Faith, Ffoulkes, if that’s a specimen of the goods
you and your friends bring over from France, my advice to you is, drop
’em ’mid Channel, my friend, or I shall have to see old Pitt about it,
get him to clap on a prohibitive tariff, and put you in the stocks an
you smuggle.”

“La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you,” said Marguerite,
coquettishly, “you forget that you yourself have imported one bundle of
goods from France.”

Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep and elaborate bow
before his wife, he said with consummate gallantry,—

“I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste is unerring.”

“More so than your chivalry, I fear,” she retorted sarcastically.

“Odd’s life, m’dear! be reasonable! Do you think I am going to allow my
body to be made a pincushion of, by every little frog-eater who don’t
like the shape of your nose?”

“Lud, Sir Percy!” laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint and
pretty curtsey, “you need not be afraid! ’Tis not the _men_ who dislike
the shape of my nose.”

“Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame? I don’t patronise
the ring for nothing, do I, Tony? I’ve put up the fists with Red Sam
before now, and—and he didn’t get it all his own way either—”

“S’faith, Sir Percy,” said Marguerite, with a long and merry laugh,
that went echoing along the old oak rafters of the parlour, “I would I
had seen you then . . . ha! ha! ha! ha!—you must have looked a pretty
picture . . . and . . . and to be afraid of a little French boy . . .
ha! ha! . . . ha! ha!”

“Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he!” echoed Sir Percy, good-humouredly. “La,
Madame, you honour me! Zooks! Ffoulkes, mark ye that! I have made my
wife laugh!—The cleverest woman in Europe! . . . Odd’s fish, we must
have a bowl on that!” and he tapped vigorously on the table near him.
“Hey! Jelly! Quick, man! Here, Jelly!”

Harmony was once more restored. Mr. Jellyband, with a mighty effort,
recovered himself from the many emotions he had experienced within the
last half hour.
 “A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong, eh?” said Sir Percy. “The
 wits that have just made a clever woman laugh must be whetted! Ha! ha!
 ha! Hasten, my good Jelly!”

“Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy,” interposed Marguerite. “The skipper
will be here directly and my brother must get on board, or the _Day
Dream_ will miss the tide.”

“Time, m’dear? There is plenty of time for any gentleman to get drunk
and get on board before the turn of the tide.”

“I think, your ladyship,” said Jellyband, respectfully, “that the young
gentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy’s skipper.”

“That’s right,” said Blakeney, “then Armand can join us in the merry
bowl. Think you, Tony,” he added, turning towards the Vicomte, “that
that jackanapes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that we
drink in token of reconciliation.”

“In fact you are all such merry company,” said Marguerite, “that I
trust you will forgive me if I bid my brother good-bye in another
room.”

It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord Antony and Sir Andrew
felt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with them at
that moment. Her love for her brother, Armand St. Just, was deep and
touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with her in her
English home, and was going back to serve his country, at a moment when
death was the usual reward for the most enduring devotion.

Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. With that perfect,
somewhat affected gallantry which characterised his every movement, he
opened the coffee-room door for her, and made her the most approved and
elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as she sailed
out of the room without bestowing on him more than a passing, slightly
contemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought
since he had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more gentle, more
innately sympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of
deep and hopeless passion, with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy
followed the retreating figure of his brilliant wife.




CHAPTER VII.
THE SECRET ORCHARD


Once outside the noisy coffee-room, alone in the dimly-lighted passage,
Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe more freely. She heaved a deep
sigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the heavy weight of
constant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheeded
down her cheeks.

Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly passing clouds,
the pale rays of an after-storm sun shone upon the beautiful white
coast of Kent and the quaint, irregular houses that clustered round the
Admiralty Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch and looked
out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever-changing sky, a graceful
schooner, with white sails set, was gently dancing in the breeze. The
_Day Dream_ it was, Sir Percy Blakeney’s yacht, which was ready to take
Armand St. Just back to France into the very midst of that seething,
bloody Revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy, attacking a
religion, destroying a society, in order to try and rebuild upon the
ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of which a few men dreamed, but which
none had the power to establish.

In the distance two figures were approaching “The Fisherman’s Rest”:
one, an oldish man, with a curious fringe of grey hairs round a rotund
and massive chin, and who walked with that peculiar rolling gait which
invariably betrays the seafaring man: the other, a young, slight
figure, neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many-caped overcoat;
he was clean-shaved, and his dark hair was taken well back over a clear
and noble forehead.

“Armand!” said Marguerite Blakeney, as soon as she saw him approaching
from the distance, and a happy smile shone on her sweet face, even
through the tears.

A minute or two later brother and sister were locked in each other’s
arms, while the old skipper stood respectfully on one side.

“How much time have we got, Briggs?” asked Lady Blakeney, “before M.
St. Just need go on board?”

“We ought to weigh anchor before half an hour, your ladyship,” replied
the old man, pulling at his grey forelock.

Linking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother towards the cliffs.

“Half an hour,” she said, looking wistfully out to sea, “half an hour
more and you’ll be far from me, Armand! Oh! I can’t believe that you
are going, dear! These last few days—whilst Percy has been away, and
I’ve had you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream.”

“I am not going far, sweet one,” said the young man gently, “a narrow
channel to cross—a few miles of road—I can soon come back.”

“Nay, ’tis not the distance, Armand—but that awful Paris . . . just now
. . .”

They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle sea-breeze blew
Marguerite’s hair about her face, and sent the ends of her soft lace
fichu waving round her, like a white and supple snake. She tried to
pierce the distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of France:
that relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound of flesh,
the blood-tax from the noblest of her sons.

“Our own beautiful country, Marguerite,” said Armand, who seemed to
have divined her thoughts.

“They are going too far, Armand,” she said vehemently. “You are a
republican, so am I . . . we have the same thoughts, the same
enthusiasm for liberty and equality . . . but even _you_ must think
that they are going too far . . .”

“Hush!—” said Armand, instinctively, as he threw a quick, apprehensive
glance around him.

“Ah! you see: you don’t think yourself that it is safe even to speak of
these things—here in England!” She clung to him suddenly with strong,
almost motherly, passion: “Don’t go, Armand!” she begged; “don’t go
back! What should I do if . . . if . . . if . . .”

Her voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue and loving, gazed
appealingly at the young man, who in his turn looked steadfastly into
hers.

“You would in any case be my own brave sister,” he said gently, “who
would remember that, when France is in peril, it is not for her sons to
turn their backs on her.”

Even as he spoke, that sweet, childlike smile crept back into her face,
pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed drowned in tears.

“Oh! Armand!” she said quaintly, “I sometimes wish you had not so many
lofty virtues. . . . I assure you little sins are far less dangerous
and uncomfortable. But you _will_ be prudent?” she added earnestly.

“As far as possible . . . I promise you.”

“Remember, dear, I have only you . . . to . . . to care for me. . . .”

“Nay, sweet one, you have other interests now. Percy cares for you. . .
.”

A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes as she murmured,—

“He did . . . once . . .”

“But surely . . .”

“There, there, dear, don’t distress yourself on my account. Percy is
very good . . .”

“Nay!” he interrupted energetically, “I will distress myself on your
account, my Margot. Listen, dear, I have not spoken of these things to
you before; something always seemed to stop me when I wished to
question you. But, somehow, I feel as if I could not go away and leave
you now without asking you one question. . . . You need not answer it
if you do not wish,” he added, as he noted a sudden hard look, almost
of apprehension, darting through her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked simply.

“Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that . . . I mean, does he know the part
you played in the arrest of the Marquis de St. Cyr?”

She laughed—a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which was like a
jarring chord in the music of her voice.

“That I denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr, you mean, to the tribunal
that ultimately sent him and all his family to the guillotine? Yes, he
does know. . . . I told him after I married him. . . .”

“You told him all the circumstances—which so completely exonerated you
from any blame?”

“It was too late to talk of ‘circumstances’; he heard the story from
other sources; my confession came too tardily, it seems. I could no
longer plead extenuating circumstances: I could not bemean myself by
trying to explain—”

“And?”

“And now I have the satisfaction, Armand, of knowing that the biggest
fool in England has the most complete contempt for his wife.”

She spoke with vehement bitterness this time, and Armand St. Just, who
loved her so dearly, felt that he had placed a somewhat clumsy finger
upon an aching wound.

“But Sir Percy loved you, Margot,” he repeated gently.

“Loved me?—Well, Armand, I thought at one time that he did, or I should
not have married him. I daresay,” she added, speaking very rapidly, as
if she were glad at last to lay down a heavy burden, which had
oppressed her for months, “I daresay that even you thought—as everybody
else did—that I married Sir Percy because of his wealth—but I assure
you, dear, that it was not so. He seemed to worship me with a curious
intensity of concentrated passion, which went straight to my heart. I
had never loved anyone before, as you know, and I was four-and-twenty
then—so I naturally thought that it was not in my nature to love. But
it has always seemed to me that it _must_ be _heavenly_ to be loved
blindly, passionately, wholly . . . worshipped, in fact—and the very
fact that Percy was slow and stupid was an attraction for me, as I
thought he would love me all the more. A clever man would naturally
have other interests, an ambitious man other hopes. . . . I thought
that a fool would worship, and think of nothing else. And I was ready
to respond, Armand; I would have allowed myself to be worshipped, and
given infinite tenderness in return. . . .”

She sighed—and there was a world of disillusionment in that sigh.
Armand St. Just had allowed her to speak on without interruption: he
listened to her, whilst allowing his own thoughts to run riot. It was
terrible to see a young and beautiful woman—a girl in all but
name—still standing almost at the threshold of her life, yet bereft of
hope, bereft of illusions, bereft of those golden and fantastic dreams,
which should have made her youth one long, perpetual holiday.

Yet perhaps—though he loved his sister dearly—perhaps he understood: he
had studied men in many countries, men of all ages, men of every grade
of social and intellectual status, and inwardly he understood what
Marguerite had left unsaid. Granted that Percy Blakeney was
dull-witted, but in his slow-going mind, there would still be room for
that ineradicable pride of a descendant of a long line of English
gentlemen. A Blakeney had died on Bosworth Field, another had
sacrificed life and fortune for the sake of a treacherous Stuart: and
that same pride—foolish and prejudiced as the republican Armand would
call it—must have been stung to the quick on hearing of the sin which
lay at Lady Blakeney’s door. She had been young, misguided, ill-advised
perhaps. Armand knew that: and those who took advantage of Marguerite’s
youth, her impulses and imprudence, knew it still better; but Blakeney
was slow-witted, he would not listen to “circumstances,” he only clung
to facts, and these had shown him Lady Blakeney denouncing a fellow-man
to a tribunal that knew no pardon: and the contempt he would feel for
the deed she had done, however unwittingly, would kill that same love
in him, in which sympathy and intellectuality could never have had a
part.

Yet even now, his own sister puzzled him. Life and love have such
strange vagaries. Could it be that with the waning of her husband’s
love, Marguerite’s heart had awakened with love for him? Strange
extremes meet in love’s pathway: this woman, who had had half
intellectual Europe at her feet, might perhaps have set her affections
on a fool. Marguerite was gazing out towards the sunset. Armand could
not see her face, but presently it seemed to him that something which
glittered for a moment in the golden evening light, fell from her eyes
onto her dainty fichu of lace.

But he could not broach that subject with her. He knew her strange,
passionate nature so well, and knew that reserve which lurked behind
her frank, open ways.
 They had always been together, these two, for their parents had died
 when Armand was still a youth, and Marguerite but a child. He, some
 eight years her senior, had watched over her until her marriage; had
 chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in the flat of the
 Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her enter upon this new life of hers,
 here in England, with much sorrow and some foreboding.

This was his first visit to England since her marriage, and the few
months of separation had already seemed to have built up a slight, thin
partition between brother and sister; the same deep, intense love was
still there, on both sides, but each now seemed to have a secret
orchard, into which the other dared not penetrate.

There was much Armand St. Just could not tell his sister; the political
aspect of the revolution in France was changing almost every day; she
might not understand how his own views and sympathies might become
modified, even as the excesses, committed by those who had been his
friends, grew in horror and in intensity. And Marguerite could not
speak to her brother about the secrets of her heart; she hardly
understood them herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury,
she felt lonely and unhappy.

And now Armand was going away; she feared for his safety, she longed
for his presence. She would not spoil these last few sadly-sweet
moments by speaking about herself. She led him gently along the cliffs,
then down to the beach; their arms linked in one another’s, they had
still so much to say that lay just outside that secret orchard of
theirs.




CHAPTER VIII.
THE ACCREDITED AGENT


The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long, chilly
English summer’s evening was throwing a misty pall over the green
Kentish landscape.

The _Day Dream_ had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on
the edge of the cliff for over an hour, watching those white sails,
which bore so swiftly away from her the only being who really cared for
her, whom she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.

Some little distance away to her left the lights from the coffee-room
of “The Fisherman’s Rest” glittered yellow in the gathering mist; from
time to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from
thence the sound of merry-making and of jovial talk, or even that
perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband’s, which grated continually
upon her sensitive ears.

Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely alone. She
supposed that, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have
understood that she would wish to remain alone, while those white sails
disappeared into the vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose
notions of propriety and decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested
even that an attendant should remain within call. Marguerite was
grateful to her husband for all this; she always tried to be grateful
to him for his thoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his
generosity, which really was boundless. She tried even at times to curb
the sarcastic, bitter thoughts of him, which made her—in spite of
herself—say cruel, insulting things, which she vaguely hoped would
wound him.

Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him feel that she too held
him in contempt, that she too had forgotten that once she had almost
loved him. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts seemed unable to soar
beyond the tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. Bah! And yet! .
. . vague memories, that were sweet and ardent and attuned to this calm
summer’s evening, came wafted back to her memory, on the invisible
wings of the light sea-breeze: the time when first he worshipped her;
he seemed so devoted—a very slave—and there was a certain latent
intensity in that love which had fascinated her.

Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which throughout his courtship
she had looked upon as the slavish fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanish
completely. Twenty-four hours after the simple little ceremony at old
St. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had
spoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr before
some men—her friends—who had used this information against the
unfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.

She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear brother, had loved
Angèle de St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian, and the Marquis full of
the pride and arrogant prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, the
respectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem—enthusiastic,
ardent, passionate—to the idol of his dreams. The next night he was
waylaid just outside Paris by the valets of the Marquis de St. Cyr, and
ignominiously thrashed—thrashed like a dog within an inch of his
life—because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of the
aristocrat. The incident was one which, in those days, some two years
before the great Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France;
incidents of that type, in fact, led to the bloody reprisals, which a
few years later sent most of those haughty heads to the guillotine.

Marguerite remembered it all: what her brother must have suffered in
his manhood and his pride must have been appalling; what she suffered
through him and with him she never attempted even to analyse.

Then the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and his kind had found their
masters, in those same plebeians whom they had despised. Armand and
Marguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with the
enthusiasm of their years the Utopian doctrines of the Revolution,
while the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family fought inch by inch for the
retention of those privileges which had placed them socially above
their fellow-men. Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating
the purport of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult her
brother had suffered at the Marquis’ hands, happened to hear—amongst
her own coterie—that the St. Cyrs were in treasonable correspondence
with Austria, hoping to obtain the Emperor’s support to quell the
growing revolution in their own country.

In those days one denunciation was sufficient: Marguerite’s few
thoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr bore fruit within
twenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched: letters
from the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the Paris
populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned for treason against
the nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family, his wife and
his sons, shared this awful fate.

Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own
thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: her own coterie,
the leaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a
heroine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps
altogether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she
had so inadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her
soul. She made full confession of it to her husband, trusting to his
blind love for her, her boundless power over him, to soon make him
forget what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear.

Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly; hardly, in
fact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she said; but what
was more certain still, was that never after that could she detect the
slightest sign of that love, which she once believed had been wholly
hers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have
laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She
tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull
intellect; endeavoured to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse
his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He
remained the same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous,
invariably a gentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy
husband can give to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer’s
evening, with the white sails of the _Day Dream_ finally hidden by the
evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor tramp who plodded
his way wearily along the rugged cliffs.

With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back upon the
sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back towards “The Fisherman’s Rest.”
As she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew
louder and more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’
pleasant voice, Lord Tony’s boisterous guffaws, her husband’s
occasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness of
the road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she quickened her
steps . . . the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly
towards her. Marguerite did not look up: she was not the least nervous,
and “The Fisherman’s Rest” was now well within call.

The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him,
and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly:

“Citoyenne St. Just.”

Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus hearing her
own familiar maiden name uttered so close to her. She looked up at the
stranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out
both her hands effusively towards him.

“Chauvelin!” she exclaimed.

“Himself, citoyenne, at your service,” said the stranger, gallantly
kissing the tips of her fingers.

Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed with
obvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her.
Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty—a clever, shrewd-looking
personality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken
eyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously had joined
Mr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.

“Chauvelin . . . my friend . . .” said Marguerite, with a pretty little
sigh of satisfaction. “I am mightily pleased to see you.”

No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her grandeur,
and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back
memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned—a queen—over the
intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not notice the
sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips of
Chauvelin.

“But tell me,” she added merrily, “what in the world, or whom in the
world, are you doing here in England?”
 She had resumed her walk towards the inn, and Chauvelin turned and
 walked beside her.

“I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady,” he said. “What of
yourself?”

“Oh, I?” she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. “Je m’ennuie, mon
ami, that is all.”

They had reached the porch of “The Fisherman’s Rest,” but Marguerite
seemed loth to go within. The evening air was lovely after the storm,
and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew
Armand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends whom
she had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty porch, while
through the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the coffee-room came sounds
of laughter, of calls for “Sally” and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and
clinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney’s inane and mirthless
laugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed
on the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft
English summer twilight.

“You surprise me, citoyenne,” he said quietly, as he took a pinch of
snuff.

“Do I now?” she retorted gaily. “Faith, my little Chauvelin, I should
have thought that, with your penetration, you would have guessed that
an atmosphere composed of fogs and virtues would never suit Marguerite
St. Just.”

“Dear me! is it as bad as that?” he asked, in mock consternation.

“Quite,” she retorted, “and worse.”

“Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found English
country life peculiarly attractive.”

“Yes! so did I,” she said with a sigh. “Pretty women,” she added
meditatively, “ought to have a good time in England, since all the
pleasant things are forbidden them—the very things they do every day.”

“Quite so!”

“You’ll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin,” she said earnestly,
“but I often pass a whole day—a whole day—without encountering a single
temptation.”

“No wonder,” retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, “that the cleverest woman
in Europe is troubled with _ennui_.”

She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs.

“It must be pretty bad, mustn’t it?” she said archly, “or I should not
have been so pleased to see you.”

“And this within a year of a romantic love match! . . .”

“Yes! . . . a year of a romantic love match . . . that’s just the
difficulty . . .”

“Ah! . . . that idyllic folly,” said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm,
“did not then survive the lapse of . . . weeks?”

“Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin. . . . They come upon
us like the measles . . . and are as easily cured.”

Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted to
that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, he
found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick,
shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those
with whom he came in contact.

“No wonder,” he repeated, with the same gallantry, “that the most
active brain in Europe is troubled with _ennui_.”

“I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, my
little Chauvelin.”

“How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed
to accomplish?”

“Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear
friend?” she said drily.

“Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well
do,” said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of a fox
on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. “I have a most
perfect prescription against the worst form of _ennui_, which I would
have been happy to submit to you, but—”

“But what?”

“There _is_ Sir Percy.”

“What has he to do with it?”

“Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I would offer, fair
lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!”

“Work?”

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as if
those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts.
They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their
soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the
coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or two from under the porch,
looked quickly and keenly all round him, then, seeing that indeed no
one was within earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.

“Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?” he asked, with a
sudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face singular
earnestness.

“La, man!” she replied flippantly, “how serious you look all of a
sudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I _would_ render France a small
service—at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she—or
you—want.”

“Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St. Just?”
asked Chauvelin, abruptly.

“Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?” she retorted with a long and merry
laugh, “Faith, man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats ‘à la
Scarlet Pimpernel’; our horses are called ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’; at the
Prince of Wales’ supper party the other night we had a ‘oufflé à la
Scarlet Pimpernel.’ . . . Lud!” she added gaily, “the other day I
ordered at my milliner’s a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me,
if she did not call that ‘à la Scarlet Pimpernel.’”

Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he did not
even attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laugh
went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and
earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, incisive, and hard,
was not raised above his breath as he said,—

“Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you
must also have guessed, and known, that the man who hides his identity
under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic,
of France . . . of men like Armand St. Just.”

“La! . . .” she said, with a quaint little sigh, “I dare swear he is. .
. . France has many bitter enemies these days.”

“But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to
help her in a moment of deadly peril.”

“My brother Armand devotes his life to France,” she retorted proudly;
“as for me, I can do nothing . . . here in England. . . .”

“Yes, you . . .” he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin
fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of
dignity, “here, in England, citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. . .
. Listen!—I have been sent over here by the Republican Government as
its representative: I present my credentials to Mr. Pitt in London
to-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League
of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France,
since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats—traitors to their
country, and enemies of the people—to escape from the just punishment
which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they
are over here, those French _émigrés_ try to rouse public feeling
against the Republic. . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy
bold enough to attack France. . . . Now, within the last month, scores
of these _émigrés_, some only suspected of treason, others actually
condemned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing
the Channel. Their escape in each instance was planned, organised and
effected by this society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man
whose brain seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the
most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover
who he is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath
this strange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. I
mean to strike at that head, and for this I want your help—through him
afterwards I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck in
English society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne!”
he urged, “find him for France!”

Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin’s impassioned speech without
uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe.
She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the
talk of the smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her
heart and her imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave
man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a
terrible, often an unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy
with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of
caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an
example; but, republican and liberal-minded though she was from
principle, she hated and loathed the methods which the young Republic
had chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some
months; the horrors and bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, culminating
in the September massacres, had only come across the Channel to her as
a faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not known in their
new guise of bloody justiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine.
Her very soul recoiled in horror from these excesses, to which she
feared her brother Armand—moderate republican as he was—might become
one day the holocaust.

Then, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts,
who, for sheer love of their fellow-men, dragged women and children,
old and young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with
pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to
the gallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who
risked his life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation, for
the sake of humanity.

Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished speaking, the lace at
her bosom rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing; she no
longer heard the noise of drinking from the inn, she did not heed her
husband’s voice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering in
search of the mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have
loved, had he come her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic
imagination; his personality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of
those who served under him in the same noble cause, and, above all,
that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo of romantic glory.

“Find him for France, citoyenne!”

Chauvelin’s voice close to her ear roused her from her dreams. The
mysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a
man was drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty.

“La! man,” she said with a return of her assumed flippancy, “you are
astonishing. Where in the world am I to look for him?”

“You go everywhere, citoyenne,” whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly,
“Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am told . . . you
see everything, you _hear_ everything.”

“Easy, my friend,” retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her full
height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the
small, thin figure before her. “Easy! you seem to forget that there are
six feet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand
between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose.”

“For the sake of France, citoyenne!” reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly.

“Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway; for even if you did know who this
Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him—an Englishman!”

“I’d take my chance of that,” said Chauvelin, with a dry, rasping
little laugh. “At any rate we could send him to the guillotine first to
cool his ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we can
apologise—humbly—to the British Government, and, if necessary, pay
compensation to the bereaved family.”

“What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin,” she said, drawing away from
him as from some noisome insect. “Whoever the man may be, he is brave
and noble, and never—do you hear me?—never would I lend a hand to such
villainy.”

“You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who comes to this
country?”

Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft. Marguerite’s
fresh young cheeks became a thought more pale and she bit her under
lip, for she would not let him see that the shaft had struck home.

“That is beside the question,” she said at last with indifference. “I
can defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you—or for
France. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, my
friend.”

And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her
back on him and walked straight into the inn.

“That is not your last word, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, as a flood of
light from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, “we
meet in London, I hope!”

“We meet in London,” she said, speaking over her shoulder at him, “but
that is my last word.”

She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his view, but
he remained under the porch for a moment or two, taking a pinch of
snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like
face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the contrary, a
curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the
corners of his thin lips.




CHAPTER IX.
THE OUTRAGE


A beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of incessant rain: a
cool, balmy, late summer’s night, essentially English in its suggestion
of moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.

The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds in
England, had driven off along the London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney
on the box, holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and beside
him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A fifty-mile drive on a
starlit summer’s night! Marguerite had hailed the notion of it with
delight. . . . Sir Percy was an enthusiastic whip; his four
thoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a couple of days
before, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the
expedition, and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the few hours of
solitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughts
wandering, whither away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy
would speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on his beautiful
coach for hours at night, from point to point, without making more than
one or two casual remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads.
He was very fond of driving by night, and she had very quickly adopted
his fancy: as she sat next to him hour after hour, admiring the
dexterous, certain way in which he handled the reins, she often
wondered what went on in that slow-going head of his. He never told
her, and she had never cared to ask.

At “The Fisherman’s Rest” Mr. Jellyband was going the round, putting
out the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs in the
snug little bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important guests:
the Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzanne, and the Vicomte, and there were
two more bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony
Dewhurst, if the two young men should elect to honour the ancient
hostelry and stay the night.

For the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installed in
the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of the
mildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily.

“I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?” asked Lord Tony, as the worthy
landlord still busied himself clearing away glasses and mugs.

“Everyone, as you see, my lord.”

“And all your servants gone to bed?”

“All except the boy on duty in the bar, and,” added Mr. Jellyband with
a laugh, “I expect he’ll be asleep afore long, the rascal.”

“Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an hour?”

“At your service, my lord. . . . I’ll leave your candles on the dresser
. . . and your rooms are quite ready . . . I sleep at the top of the
house myself, but if your lordship’ll only call loudly enough, I
daresay I shall hear.”

“All right, Jelly . . . and . . . I say, put the lamp out—the fire’ll
give us all the light we need—and we don’t want to attract the
passer-by.”

“All ri’, my lord.”

Mr. Jellyband did as he was bid—he turned out the quaint old lamp that
hung from the raftered ceiling and blew out all the candles.

“Let’s have a bottle of wine, Jelly,” suggested Sir Andrew.

“All ri’, sir!”

Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room now was quite dark, save
for the circle of ruddy and fitful light formed by the brightly blazing
logs in the hearth.

“Is that all, gentlemen?” asked Jellyband, as he returned with a bottle
of wine and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table.

“That’ll do nicely, thanks, Jelly!” said Lord Tony.

“Good-night, my lord! Good-night, sir!”

“Good-night, Jelly!”

The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread of Mr. Jellyband was
heard echoing along the passage and staircase. Presently even that
sound died out, and the whole of “The Fisherman’s Rest” seemed wrapt in
sleep, save the two young men drinking in silence beside the hearth.

For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee-room, save the
ticking of the old grandfather’s clock and the crackling of the burning
wood.

“All right again this time, Ffoulkes?” asked Lord Antony at last.

Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire, and
seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty, piquant face, with large brown eyes
and a wealth of dark curls round a childish forehead.

“Yes!” he said, still musing, “all right!”

“No hitch?”

“None.”

Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself out another glass
of wine.

“I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the journey pleasant this
time?”

“No, friend, you need not ask,” replied Sir Andrew, gaily. “It was all
right.”

“Then here’s to her very good health,” said jovial Lord Tony. “She’s a
bonnie lass, though she _is_ a French one. And here’s to your
courtship—may it flourish and prosper exceedingly.”

He drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his friend beside
the hearth.

“Well! you’ll be doing the journey next, Tony, I expect,” said Sir
Andrew, rousing himself from his meditations, “you and Hastings,
certainly; and I hope you may have as pleasant a task as I had, and as
charming a travelling companion. You have no idea, Tony. . . .”

“No! I haven’t,” interrupted his friend pleasantly, “but I’ll take your
word for it. And now,” he added, whilst a sudden earnestness crept over
his jovial young face, “how about business?”
 The two young men drew their chairs closer together, and
 instinctively, though they were alone, their voices sank to a whisper.

“I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few moments in Calais,” said
Sir Andrew, “a day or two ago. He crossed over to England two days
before we did. He had escorted the party all the way from Paris,
dressed—you’ll never credit it!—as an old market woman, and
driving—until they were safely out of the city—the covered cart, under
which the Comtesse de Tournay, Mlle. Suzanne, and the Vicomte lay
concealed among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of course,
never suspected who their driver was. He drove them right through a
line of soldiery and a yelling mob, who were screaming, ‘À bas les
aristos!’ But the market cart got through along with some others, and
the Scarlet Pimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood, yelled ‘À bas les
aristos!’ louder than anybody. Faith!” added the young man, as his eyes
glowed with enthusiasm for the beloved leader, “that man’s a marvel!
His cheek is preposterous, I vow!—and that’s what carries him through.”

Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of his friend,
could only find an oath or two with which to show his admiration for
his leader.

“He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais,” said Sir Andrew,
more quietly, “on the 2nd of next month. Let me see! that will be next
Wednesday.”

“Yes.”

“It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay, this time; a
dangerous task, for the Comte, whose escape from his château, after he
had been declared a ‘suspect’ by the Committee of Public Safety, was a
masterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel’s ingenuity, is now under sentence
of death. It will be rare sport to get _him_ out of France, and you
will have a narrow escape, if you get through at all. St. Just has
actually gone to meet him—of course, no one suspects St. Just as yet;
but after that . . . to get them both out of the country! I’faith,
’twill be a tough job, and tax even the ingenuity of our chief. I hope
I may yet have orders to be of the party.”

“Have you any special instructions for me?”

“Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It appears that the
Republican Government have sent an accredited agent over to England, a
man named Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter against our
league, and determined to discover the identity of our leader, so that
he may have him kidnapped, the next time he attempts to set foot in
France. This Chauvelin has brought a whole army of spies with him, and
until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we should meet as seldom
as possible on the business of the league, and on no account should
talk to each other in public places for a time. When he wants to speak
to us, he will contrive to let us know.”

The two young men were both bending over the fire, for the blaze had
died down, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a lurid light
on a narrow semicircle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room lay
buried in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a pocket-book from his
pocket, and drawn therefrom a paper, which he unfolded, and together
they tried to read it by the dim red firelight. So intent were they
upon this, so wrapt up in the cause, the business they had so much at
heart, so precious was this document which came from the very hand of
their adored leader, that they had eyes and ears only for that. They
lost count of the sounds around them, of the dropping of crisp ash from
the grate, of the monotonous ticking of the clock, of the soft, almost
imperceptible rustle of something on the floor close beside them. A
figure had emerged from under one of the benches; with snake-like,
noiseless movements it crept closer and closer to the two young men,
not breathing, only gliding along the floor, in the inky blackness of
the room.

“You are to read these instructions and commit them to memory,” said
Sir Andrew, “then destroy them.”

He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when a tiny
slip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor. Lord Antony
stooped and picked it up.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Sir Andrew.

“It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly did not seem to
be with the other paper.”

“Strange!—I wonder when it got there? It is from the chief,” he added,
glancing at the paper.

Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper on which
a few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight noise
attracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage
beyond.

“What’s that?” said both instinctively. Lord Antony crossed the room
towards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly; at that
very moment he received a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw
him back violently into the room. Simultaneously the crouching,
snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled itself from
behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to the ground.

All this occurred within the short space of two or three seconds, and
before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or chance to utter a
cry or to make the faintest struggle. They were each seized by two men,
a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and they were
pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands, and legs
securely fastened.

One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a mask and
now stood motionless while the others completed their work.

“All safe, citoyen!” said one of the men, as he took a final survey of
the bonds which secured the two young men.

“Good!” replied the man at the door; “now search their pockets and give
me all the papers you find.”

This was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having taken
possession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if there
were any sound within “The Fisherman’s Rest.” Evidently satisfied that
this dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more opened the
door and pointed peremptorily down the passage. The four men lifted Sir
Andrew and Lord Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly
as they had come, they bore the two pinioned young gallants out of the
inn and along the Dover Road into the gloom beyond.

In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt was quickly
glancing through the stolen papers.

“Not a bad day’s work on the whole,” he muttered, as he quietly took
off his mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in the red glow of
the fire. “Not a bad day’s work.”

He opened one or two more letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes’
pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had
only just had time to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand St.
Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction.

“Armand St. Just a traitor after all,” he murmured. “Now, fair
Marguerite Blakeney,” he added viciously between his clenched teeth, “I
think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel.”




CHAPTER X.
IN THE OPERA BOX


It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of
the autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.

The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and the pit, as
well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Glück’s
_Orpheus_ made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the
house, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliant
throng, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this “latest
importation from Germany.”

Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand _aria_ by her
numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of the
ladies, had received special gracious recognition from the royal box;
and now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to the second
act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound on the magic strains
of the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of
satisfaction, previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and
frivolous tongues.

 In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces were to be seen.
 Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding brief
 relaxation in to-night’s musical treat; the Prince of Wales, jovial,
 rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about
 from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of his
 more intimate friends.

In Lord Grenville’s box, too, a curious, interesting personality
attracted everyone’s attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd,
sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenly
critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair
free from any powder. Lord Grenville—Foreign Secretary of State—paid
him marked, though frigid deference.

Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty,
one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the haughty
aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist _émigrés_
who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their
country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrow
and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed,
either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their
thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in
peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.

Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived
from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy
black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of
mourning about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was
vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a
smile to the Comtesse’s sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and
the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers.
Suzanne’s eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded
house, she had looked eagerly all around, scanned every face,
scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was not
there, for she settled herself down quietly behind her mother, listened
apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the
audience itself.

“Ah, Lord Grenville,” said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet
knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared
in the doorway of the box, “you could not arrive more _à propos_. Here
is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest
news from France.”

The distinguished diplomatist had come forward and was shaking hands
with the ladies.

“Alas!” he said sadly, “it is of the very worst. The massacres
continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a
hundred victims a day.”

Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening
horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her
own misguided country.

“Ah, Monsieur!” she said in broken English, “it is dreadful to hear all
that—and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is terrible
for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst
he is in such peril.”

“Lud, Madame!” said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, “your sitting in a
convent won’t make your husband safe, and you have your children to
consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature
mourning.”

The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend.
Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a
jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and most
gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some
ladies at that time.

“Besides which, Madame,” added Lord Grenville, “did you not tell me
yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their
honour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?”

“Ah, yes!” replied the Comtesse, “and that is my only hope. I saw Lord
Hastings yesterday . . . he reassured me again.”

“Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, that
they surely will accomplish. Ah!” added the old diplomatist with a
sigh, “if I were but a few years younger . . .”

“La, man!” interrupted honest Lady Portarles, “you are still young
enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits enthroned
in your box to-night.”

“I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remember that in serving
our country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the
accredited agent of his Government . . .”

“Odd’s fish, man!” she retorted, “you don’t call those bloodthirsty
ruffians over there a government, do you?”

“It has not been thought advisable as yet,” said the Minister,
guardedly, “for England to break off diplomatic relations with France,
and we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she
wishes to send to us.”

“Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox over
there is nothing but a spy, I’ll warrant, and you’ll find—an I’m much
mistaken, that he’ll concern himself little with diplomacy, beyond
trying to do mischief to royalist refugees—to our heroic Scarlet
Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little league.”

“I am sure,” said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips, “that if this
Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in
Lady Blakeney.”

“Bless the woman!” ejaculated Lady Portarles, “did ever anyone see such
perversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of the gab, will you
please explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In
your position here in England, Madame,” she added, turning a wrathful
and resolute face towards the Comtesse, “you cannot afford to put on
the hoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady
Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those ruffians in France;
she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and
condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man’s name is, but she is the
leader of fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money
than any half-dozen other men put together, he is hand and glove with
royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but
will make you look a fool. Isn’t that so, my lord?”

But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflections
this homely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de Tournay,
remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the third act of
_Orpheus_, and admonishments to silence came from every part of the
house.

Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back
into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat all through this _entr’acte_,
with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes
intently fixed upon a box opposite to him, where, with much frou-frou
of silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity amongst
the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered, accompanied by her
husband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden,
reddish curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at the
nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed in
the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladies
that night had discarded the cross-over fichu and broad-lapelled
over-dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or three years.
She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown, which so soon was to
become the approved mode in every country in Europe. It suited her
graceful, regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering
stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.

As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking stock of
all those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she did so, and
from the royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute.

Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the
third act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little
hand toying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms
and neck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, the gift of
the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely by her side.

Marguerite was passionately fond of music. _Orpheus_ charmed her
to-night. The very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet young
face, it sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that
lurked around the lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the
heyday of youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, _fêted_,
petted, cherished. Two days ago the _Day Dream_ had returned from
Calais, bringing her news that her idolised brother had safely landed,
that he thought of her, and would be prudent for her sake.

What wonder for the moment, and listening to Glück’s impassioned
strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished
love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had made
up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly
advantages upon her.

He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention
demanded, making way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of
admirers who in a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen
of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial
friends probably. Marguerite did not even wonder whither he had
gone—she cared so little; she had had a little court round her,
composed of the _jeunesse dorée_ of London, and had just dismissed them
all, wishing to be alone with Glück for a brief while.

A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.

“Come in,” she said with some impatience, without turning to look at
the intruder.

Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, and
now, without pausing for that impatient “Come in,” he quietly slipped
into the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite’s
chair.

“A word with you, citoyenne,” he said quietly.

Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether feigned.

“Lud, man! you frightened me,” she said with a forced little laugh,
“your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Glück, and
have no mind for talking.”

“But this is my only opportunity,” he said, as quietly, and without
waiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her—so close that
he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the audience, and
without being seen, in the dark background of the box. “This is my only
opportunity,” he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no reply, “Lady
Blakeney is always so surrounded, so _fêted_ by her court, that a mere
old friend has but very little chance.”

“Faith, man!” she said impatiently, “you must seek for another
opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville’s ball to-night after
the opera. So are you, probably. I’ll give you five minutes then. . .
.”

“Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me,”
he rejoined placidly, “and I think that you would be wise to listen to
me, Citoyenne St. Just.”

Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice
above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there
was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes,
which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of
some deadly hitherto unguessed peril.
 “Is that a threat, citoyen?” she asked at last.

“Nay, fair lady,” he said gallantly, “only an arrow shot into the air.”

He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly
by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of
mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly—

“Your brother, St. Just, is in peril.”

Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see
it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently,
but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of
the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed
tension of the beautiful, graceful figure.

“Lud, then,” she said, with affected merriment, “since ’tis one of your
imaginary plots, you’d best go back to your own seat and leave me to
enjoy the music.”

And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion
of the box. Selina Storace was singing the “Che farò” to an audience
that hung spellbound upon the prima donna’s lips. Chauvelin did not
move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only
indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.

“Well?” she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned
unconcern.

“Well, citoyenne?” he rejoined placidly.

“About my brother?”

“I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but
first let me explain. . . . May I?”

The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her
head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to
hear what he had to say.

“The other day, citoyenne,” he said, “I asked for your help. . . .
France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me
your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and your
own social duties have kept us apart . . . although many things have
happened. . . .”

“To the point, I pray you, citoyen,” she said lightly; “the music is
entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk.”

“One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meeting
you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I
obtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of those
subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats—that
traitor de Tournay amongst others—all organised by that arch-meddler,
the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious
organisation have fallen into my hands, but not all, and I want
you—nay! you _must_ help me to gather them together.”

Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she
now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily—

“Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your
schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my
brother . . .”

“A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,” he continued imperturbably.
“Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at
‘The Fisherman’s Rest’ at Dover that same night.”

“I know. I saw them there.”

“They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed
league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay
and her children across the Channel. When the two young men were alone,
my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and
pinioned the two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to
me.”

In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand been
imprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless terror.
Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily
and lightly.

“Faith! and your impudence passes belief,” she said merrily. “Robbery
and violence!—in England!—in a crowded inn! Your men might have been
caught in the act!”

“What if they had? They are children of France, and have been trained
by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to
jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or
indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is
safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have
experience.”

“Well? And those papers?” she asked carelessly.

“Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of certain names .
. . certain movements . . . enough, I think, to thwart their projected
_coup_ for the moment, it would only be for the moment, and still
leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“La! my friend,” she said, with the same assumed flippancy of manner,
“then you are where you were before, aren’t you? and you can let me
enjoy the last strophe of the _aria_. Faith!” she added, ostentatiously
smothering an imaginary yawn, “had you not spoken about my brother . .
.”

“I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter
to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just.”

“Well? And?”

“That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of
France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.”

The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been
expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem
unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be
prepared for it, to have all her wits about her—those wits which had
been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She
knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too
blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of
his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low,
purposeless falsehoods.

That letter of Armand’s—foolish, imprudent Armand—was in Chauvelin’s
hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own
eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own,
until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand.
All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more
loudly than she had done before.

“La, man!” she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full
and squarely in the face, “did I not say it was some imaginary plot. .
. . Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel! . . .
Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises! . . .
Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination!”

“Let me make my point clear, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, with the same
unruffled calm, “I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyond
the slightest hope of pardon.”

Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite
sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face
the situation, to realise what had best be done.

In the house Storace had finished the _aria_, and was even now bowing
in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the
enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.

“Chauvelin,” said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without
that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all along,
“Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another. It seems
that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Now,
tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, isn’t that so?”

“France’s most bitter enemy, citoyenne . . . all the more dangerous, as
he works in the dark.”

“All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!—and you would now force me
to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand’s
safety?—Is that it?”

“Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady,” protested Chauvelin, urbanely.
“There can be no question of force, and the service which I would ask
of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking
name of spying.”

“At any rate, that is what it is called over here,” she said drily.
“That is your intention, is it not?”

“My intention is, that you yourself win a free pardon for Armand St.
Just by doing me a small service.”

“What is it?”

“Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just,” he said eagerly.
“Listen: among the papers which were found about the person of Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!” he added, taking a tiny
scrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.

It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two young men
had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they were
attacked by Chauvelin’s minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and
stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a distorted,
evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud—

“‘Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly necessary. You
have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be at G.’s ball.’”


“What does it mean?” she asked.

“Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand.”

“There is a device here in the corner, a small red flower . . .”

“Yes.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said eagerly, “and G.’s ball means
Grenville’s ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville’s ball
to-night.”

“That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,” concluded Chauvelin,
blandly. “Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were
pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a
lonely house on the Dover Road, which I had rented for the purpose:
there they remained close prisoners until this morning. But having
found this tiny scrap of paper, my intention was that they should be in
London, in time to attend my Lord Grenville’s ball. You see, do you
not? that they must have a great deal to say to their chief . . . and
thus they will have an opportunity of speaking to him to-night, just as
he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning, those two young
gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the
Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good horses standing
ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not seen them yet, but I
think we may safely conclude that they did not draw rein until they
reached London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne!”

“It does seem simple, doesn’t it?” she said, with a final bitter
attempt at flippancy, “when you want to kill a chicken . . . you take
hold of it . . . then you wring its neck . . . it’s only the chicken
who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my
throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find it simple. . . .
I don’t.”

“Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love
from the consequences of his own folly.”

Marguerite’s face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as she
murmured, half to herself:

“The only being in the world who has loved me truly and constantly. . .
. But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin?” she said, with a world of
despair in her tear-choked voice. “In my present position, it is
well-nigh impossible!”

“Nay, citoyenne,” he said drily and relentlessly, not heeding that
despairing, childlike appeal, which might have melted a heart of stone,
“as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your help to-night I
may—who knows?—succeed in finally establishing the identity of the
Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to the ball anon. . . . Watch
for me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you
hear a chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutely
beyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville’s
ball to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word of France
that your brother shall be safe.”

Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite felt herself
entangled in one of those webs, from which she could hope for no
escape. A precious hostage was being held for her obedience: for she
knew that this man would never make an empty threat. No doubt Armand
was already signalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the
“suspect”; he would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be
ruthlessly struck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a
moment—woman-like—she still hoped to temporise. She held out her hand
to this man, whom she now feared and hated.

“If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin,” she said
pleasantly, “will you give me that letter of St. Just’s?”

“If you render me useful assistance to-night, citoyenne,” he replied
with a sarcastic smile, “I will give you that letter . . . to-morrow.”

“You do not trust me?”

“I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just’s life is forfeit to
his country . . . it rests with you to redeem it.”

“I may be powerless to help you,” she pleaded, “were I ever so
willing.”

“That would be terrible indeed,” he said quietly, “for you . . . and
for St. Just.”

Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no
mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved life in the hollow of his
hand. She knew him too well not to know that, if he failed in gaining
his own ends, he would be pitiless.

She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of the opera-house. The
heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from a
distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders,
and sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream.

For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who was in
danger, to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and
her affection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand’s sake; she
longed to seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to
help and console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once; he was her
husband; why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He
had very little brains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle:
surely, if she provided the thought, and he the manly energy and pluck,
together they could outwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage
from his vengeful hands, without imperilling the life of the noble
leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just
well—he seemed attached to him—she was sure that he could help.

Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his cruel
“Either—or—” and left her to decide. He, in his turn now, appeared to
be absorbed in the soul-stirring melodies of _Orpheus_, and was beating
time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.

A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It was
Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing that
half-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her every
nerve.

“Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m’dear,” he said, with his most
exasperating drawl, “I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball.
. . . Excuse me—er—Monsieur Chauvelin—I had not observed you. . . .”

He extended two slender, white fingers towards Chauvelin, who had risen
when Sir Percy entered the box.

“Are you coming, m’dear?”

“Hush! Sh! Sh!” came in angry remonstrance from different parts of the
house.
 “Demmed impudence,” commented Sir Percy with a good-natured smile.

Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to have
vanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without looking at
her husband:

“I am ready to go,” she said, taking his arm. At the door of the box
she turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his
_chapeau-bras_ under his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips,
was preparing to follow the strangely ill-assorted couple.

“It is only _au revoir_, Chauvelin,” she said pleasantly, “we shall
meet at my Lord Grenville’s ball, anon.”

And in her eyes the astute Frenchman read, no doubt, something which
caused him profound satisfaction, for, with a sarcastic smile, he took
a delicate pinch of snuff, then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot,
he rubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together.




CHAPTER XI.
LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL


The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs—Lord Grenville—was the most brilliant function of the year.
Though the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who was anybody
had contrived to be in London in time to be present there, and to shine
at this ball, to the best of his or her respective ability.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present. He
was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville himself had
listened to the two first acts of _Orpheus_, before preparing to
receive his guests. At ten o’clock—an unusually late hour in those
days—the grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely decorated with
exotic palms and flowers, were filled to overflowing. One room had been
set apart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft
accompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the numerous
and brilliant company.

In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, the
distinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished
men, beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had
already filed past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies
with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then,
laughing and talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card
rooms beyond.

Not far from Lord Grenville’s elbow, leaning against one of the console
tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking a
quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady
Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes glanced quickly
towards the door every time a newcomer appeared.

He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary Government
of France was not likely to be very popular in England, at a time when
the news of the awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror
and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the Channel.

In his official capacity he had been received courteously by his
English colleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord Grenville
had entertained him more than once; but the more intimate circles of
London society ignored him altogether; the women openly turned their
backs upon him; the men who held no official position refused to shake
his hand.

But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these social
amenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. He
was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised all
social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country:
these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs he
received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England.

But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believed
that the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France; he
would have wished to see every one of them annihilated: he was one of
those who, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to
utter the historic and ferocious desire “that aristocrats might have
but one head between them, so that it might be cut off with a single
stroke of the guillotine.” And thus he looked upon every French
aristocrat, who had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey
of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no
doubt that those royalist _émigrés_, once they had managed to cross the
frontier, did their very best to stir up foreign indignation against
France. Plots without end were hatched in England, in Belgium, in
Holland, to try and induce some great power to send troops into
revolutionary Paris, to free King Louis, and to summarily hang the
bloodthirsty leaders of that monster republic.

Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality
of the Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He
and the few young jackanapes under his command, well furnished with
money, armed with boundless daring, and acute cunning, had succeeded in
rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the
_émigrés_, who were _fêted_ at the English court, owed their safety to
that man and to his league.

Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would discover
the identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over to France,
and then . . . Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the very
thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the knife of the
guillotine, as easily as that of any other man.

Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, all
conversation stopped for a moment as the major-domo’s voice outside
announced,—

“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney,
Lady Blakeney.”

Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest.

The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of
salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with
Marguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous
shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant “Incroyable” style, his
fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and
the flat _chapeau-bras_ under his arm.

After the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord
Grenville said to his royal guest,—

“Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the accredited
agent of the French Government?”

Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped forward,
expecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the Prince
returned his salute with a curt nod of the head.

“Monsieur,” said His Royal Highness coldly, “we will try to forget the
government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest—a
private gentleman from France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur.”

“Monseigneur,” rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. “Madame,” he
added, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite.

“Ah! my little Chauvelin!” she said with unconcerned gaiety, and
extending her tiny hand to him. “Monsieur and I are old friends, your
Royal Highness.”

“Ah, then,” said the Prince, this time very graciously, “you are doubly
welcome, Monsieur.”

“There is someone else I would crave permission to present to your
Royal Highness,” here interposed Lord Grenville.

“Ah! who is it?” asked the Prince.

“Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family, who have
but recently come from France.”

“By all means!—They are among the lucky ones then!”

Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at the further
end of the room.

“Lud love me!” whispered His Royal Highness to Marguerite, as soon as
he had caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; “Lud love me!
she looks very virtuous and very melancholy.”

“Faith, your Royal Highness,” she rejoined with a smile, “virtue is
like precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed.”

“Virtue, alas!” sighed the Prince, “is mostly unbecoming to your
charming sex, Madame.”

“Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Grenville,
introducing the lady.

“This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is ever glad
to welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from her
shores.”

“Your Royal Highness is ever gracious,” replied the Comtesse with
becoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by
her side: “My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur,” she said.

“Ah! charming!—charming!” said the Prince, “and now allow me, Comtesse,
to introduce to you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship.
You and she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every
compatriot of Lady Blakeney’s is doubly welcome for her sake . . . her
friends are our friends . . . her enemies, the enemies of England.”

Marguerite’s blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at this gracious
speech from her exalted friend. The Comtesse de Tournay, who lately had
so flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson, at
which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Comtesse, for whom
respect of royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well-schooled
in courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, as
the two ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another.

“His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame,” said Marguerite,
demurely, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling blue eyes,
“but here there is no need for his kind mediation. . . . Your amiable
reception of me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly in my
memory.”

“We poor exiles, Madame,” rejoined the Comtesse, frigidly, “show our
gratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Monseigneur.”

“Madame!” said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsey.

“Madame,” responded the Comtesse with equal dignity.

The Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious words to the
young Vicomte.

“I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte,” he said. “I knew your
father well when he was ambassador in London.”

“Ah, Monseigneur!” replied the Vicomte, “I was a leetle boy then . . .
and now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector, the Scarlet
Pimpernel.”

“Hush!” said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he indicated
Chauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the whole of
this little scene, watching Marguerite and the Comtesse with an amused,
sarcastic little smile around his thin lips.

“Nay, Monseigneur,” he said now, as if in direct response to the
Prince’s challenge, “pray do not check this gentleman’s display of
gratitude; the name of that interesting red flower is well known to
me—and to France.”

The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.

“Faith, then, Monsieur,” he said, “perhaps you know more about our
national hero than we do ourselves . . . perchance you know who he is.
. . . See!” he added, turning to the groups round the room, “the ladies
hang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself popular among the
fair sex if you were to gratify their curiosity.”

“Ah, Monseigneur,” said Chauvelin, significantly, “rumour has it in
France that your Highness could—an you would—give the truest account of
that enigmatical wayside flower.”

He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke; but she
betrayed no emotion, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly.

“Nay, man,” replied the Prince, “my lips are sealed! and the members of
the league jealously guard the secret of their chief . . . so his fair
adorers have to be content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England,
Monsieur,” he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, “we but name the
Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair cheek is suffused with a blush of
enthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know
not if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-formed; but
we know that he is the bravest gentleman in all the world, and we all
feel a little proud, Monsieur, when we remember that he is an
Englishman.”

“Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin,” added Marguerite, looking almost with
defiance across at the placid, sphinx-like face of the Frenchman, “His
Royal Highness should add that we ladies think of him as of a hero of
old . . . we worship him . . . we wear his badge . . . we tremble for
him when he is in danger, and exult with him in the hour of his
victory.”

Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the Prince and to
Marguerite; he felt that both speeches were intended—each in their
way—to convey contempt or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince he
despised; the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair wore a spray of
small red flowers composed of rubies and diamonds—her he held in the
hollow of his hand: he could afford to remain silent and to await
events.

A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence which had fallen
over everyone.
 “And we poor husbands,” came in slow, affected accents from gorgeous
 Sir Percy, “we have to stand by . . . while they worship a demmed
 shadow.”

Everyone laughed—the Prince more loudly than anyone. The tension of
subdued excitement was relieved, and the next moment everyone was
laughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed
in the adjoining rooms.




CHAPTER XII.
THE SCRAP OF PAPER


Marguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed and chatted, though
she was more admired, more surrounded, more _fêted_ than any woman
there, she felt like one condemned to death, living her last day upon
this earth.

Her nerves were in a state of painful tension, which had increased a
hundredfold during that brief hour which she had spent in her husband’s
company, between the opera and the ball. The short ray of hope—that she
might find in this good-natured, lazy individual a valuable friend and
adviser—had vanished as quickly as it had come, the moment she found
herself alone with him. The same feeling of good-humoured contempt
which one feels for an animal or a faithful servant, made her turn away
with a smile from the man who should have been her moral support in
this heart-rending crisis through which she was passing: who should
have been her cool-headed adviser, when feminine sympathy and sentiment
tossed her hither and thither, between her love for her brother, who
was far away and in mortal peril, and horror of the awful service which
Chauvelin had exacted from her, in exchange for Armand’s safety.

There he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed adviser, surrounded
by a crowd of brainless, empty-headed young fops, who were even now
repeating from mouth to mouth, and with every sign of the keenest
enjoyment, a doggerel quatrain which he had just given forth.

Everywhere the absurd, silly words met her: people seemed to have
little else to speak about, even the Prince had asked her, with a
laugh, whether she appreciated her husband’s latest poetic efforts.

“All done in the tying of a cravat,” Sir Percy had declared to his
clique of admirers.

“We seek him here, we seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven?—Is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel?”


Sir Percy’s _bon mot_ had gone the round of the brilliant
reception-rooms. The Prince was enchanted. He vowed that life without
Blakeney would be but a dreary desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had
led him to the card-room, and engaged him in a long game of hazard.

Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gatherings seemed to
centre round the card-table, usually allowed his wife to flirt, dance,
to amuse or bore herself as much as she liked. And to-night, having
delivered himself of his _bon mot_, he had left Marguerite surrounded
by a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and willing to help her
to forget that somewhere in the spacious reception-rooms, there was a
long, lazy being who had been fool enough to suppose that the cleverest
woman in Europe would settle down to the prosaic bonds of English
matrimony.

Her still overwrought nerves, her excitement and agitation, lent
beautiful Marguerite Blakeney much additional charm: escorted by a
veritable bevy of men of all ages and of most nationalities, she called
forth many exclamations of admiration from everyone as she passed.

She would not allow herself any more time to think. Her early, somewhat
Bohemian training had made her something of a fatalist. She felt that
events would shape themselves, that the directing of them was not in
her hands. From Chauvelin she knew that she could expect no mercy. He
had set a price upon Armand’s head, and left it to her to pay or not,
as she chose.

Later on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and
Lord Antony Dewhurst, who seemingly had just arrived. She noticed at
once that Sir Andrew immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournay,
and that the two young people soon managed to isolate themselves in one
of the deep embrasures of the mullioned windows, there to carry on a
long conversation, which seemed very earnest and very pleasant on both
sides.

Both the young men looked a little haggard and anxious, but otherwise
they were irreproachably dressed, and there was not the slightest sign,
about their courtly demeanour, of the terrible catastrophe, which they
must have felt hovering round them and round their chief.

That the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no intention of abandoning
its cause, she had gathered through little Suzanne herself, who spoke
openly of the assurance she and her mother had had that the Comte de
Tournay would be rescued from France by the league, within the next few
days. Vaguely she began to wonder, as she looked at the brilliant and
fashionable crowd in the gaily-lighted ball-room, which of these
worldly men round her was the mysterious “Scarlet Pimpernel,” who held
the threads of such daring plots, and the fate of valuable lives in his
hands.

A burning curiosity seized her to know him: although for months she had
heard of him and had accepted his anonymity, as everyone else in
society had done; but now she longed to know—quite impersonally, quite
apart from Armand, and oh! quite apart from Chauvelin—only for her own
sake, for the sake of the enthusiastic admiration she had always
bestowed on his bravery and cunning.

He was at the ball, of course, somewhere, since Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and
Lord Antony Dewhurst were here, evidently expecting to meet their
chief—and perhaps to get a fresh _mot d’ordre_ from him.

Marguerite looked round at everyone, at the aristocratic high-typed
Norman faces, the squarely-built, fair-haired Saxon, the more gentle,
humorous caste of the Celt, wondering which of these betrayed the
power, the energy, the cunning which had imposed its will and its
leadership upon a number of high-born English gentlemen, among whom
rumour asserted was His Royal Highness himself.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle blue eyes, which were
looking so tenderly and longingly after little Suzanne, who was being
led away from the pleasant _tête-à-tête_ by her stern mother.
Marguerite watched him across the room, as he finally turned away with
a sigh, and seemed to stand, aimless and lonely, now that Suzanne’s
dainty little figure had disappeared in the crowd.

She watched him as he strolled towards the doorway, which led to a
small boudoir beyond, then paused and leaned against the framework of
it, looking still anxiously all round him.

Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her present attentive
cavalier, and she skirted the fashionable crowd, drawing nearer to the
doorway, against which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get
closer to him, she could not have said: perhaps she was impelled by an
all-powerful fatality, which so often seems to rule the destinies of
men.

Suddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to stand still, her eyes,
large and excited, flashed for a moment towards that doorway, then as
quickly were turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was still in the
same listless position by the door, but Marguerite had distinctly seen
that Lord Hastings—a young buck, a friend of her husband’s and one of
the Prince’s set—had, as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something
into his hand.

For one moment longer—oh! it was the merest flash—Marguerite paused:
the next she had, with admirably played unconcern, resumed her walk
across the room—but this time more quickly towards that doorway whence
Sir Andrew had now disappeared.

All this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught sight of Sir
Andrew leaning against the doorway, until she followed him into the
little boudoir beyond, had occurred in less than a minute. Fate is
usually swift when she deals a blow.

Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It was Marguerite St.
Just who was there only: Marguerite St. Just who had passed her
childhood, her early youth, in the protecting arms of her brother
Armand. She had forgotten everything else—her rank, her dignity, her
secret enthusiasms—everything save that Armand stood in peril of his
life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her, in the small
boudoir which was quite deserted, in the very hands of Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes, might be the talisman which would save her brother’s life.

Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between the moment when Lord
Hastings slipped the mysterious “something” into Sir Andrew’s hand, and
the one when she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir Andrew
was standing with his back to her and close to a table upon which stood
a massive silver candelabra. A slip of paper was in his hand, and he
was in the very act of perusing its contents.

Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the slightest sound upon
the heavy carpet, not daring to breathe until she had accomplished her
purpose, Marguerite slipped close behind him. . . . At that moment he
looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan, passed her hand across
her forehead, and murmured faintly,—

“The heat in the room was terrible . . . I felt so faint. . . . Ah! . .
.”

She tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir Andrew, quickly
recovering himself, and crumpling in his hand the tiny note he had been
reading, was only, apparently, just in time to support her.

“You are ill, Lady Blakeney?” he asked with much concern. “Let me . .
.”

“No, no, nothing—” she interrupted quickly. “A chair—quick.”

She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing back her head,
closed her eyes.

“There!” she murmured, still faintly; “the giddiness is passing off. .
. . Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I assure you I already feel better.”

At moments like these there is no doubt—and psychologists actually
assert it—that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing to
do with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not that we hear
or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there
with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was immediately behind her,
and on her right was the table with the five-armed candelabra upon it.
Before her mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand’s
face. Armand, whose life was in the most imminent danger, and who
seemed to be looking at her from a background upon which were dimly
painted the seething crowd of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of
Public Safety, with Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor,
demanding Armand’s life in the name of the people of France, and the
lurid guillotine with its stained knife waiting for another victim . .
. Armand! . . .

For one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir. Beyond,
from the brilliant ball-room, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the
frou-frou of rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry
crowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the drama which was
being enacted here.

 Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that that extra
 sense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not see, for her
 eyes were closed; she could not hear, for the noise from the ball-room
 drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of paper; nevertheless
 she knew—as if she had both seen and heard—that Sir Andrew was even
 now holding the paper to the flame of one of the candles.

At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened her eyes,
raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the burning
scrap of paper from the young man’s hand. Then she blew out the flame,
and held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.

“How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew,” she said gaily, “surely ’twas your
grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a
sovereign remedy against giddiness.”

She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly between her
jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save her brother
Armand’s life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed for the moment
to realise what had actually happened; he had been taken so completely
by surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp the fact that the
slip of paper, which she held in her dainty hand, was one perhaps on
which the life of his comrade might depend.

Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.

“Why do you stare at me like that?” she said playfully. “I assure you I
feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual. This room is
most delightfully cool,” she added, with the same perfect composure,
“and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is fascinating and
soothing.”

She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way, whilst
Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the
quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that
beautiful woman’s hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts
rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her nationality, and
worst of all, recollected that horrible tale anent the Marquis de St.
Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the sake of Sir Percy,
as well as for her own.

“What? Still dreaming and staring?” she said, with a merry laugh, “you
are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of it, you
seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do
believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet a
remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny
scrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love’s last
cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!” she added,
playfully holding up the scrap of paper, “does this contain her final
_congé_, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?”

“Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, who was gradually
recovering his self-possession, “this little note is undoubtedly mine,
and . . .”
 Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled ill-bred
 towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the note; but
 Marguerite’s thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions, under
 pressure of this intense excitement, were swifter and more sure. She
 was tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked over
 the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which fell
 down with a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.

She gave a quick cry of alarm:

“The candles, Sir Andrew—quick!”

There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had blown out
as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease upon the
valuable carpet; one had ignited the paper shade over it. Sir Andrew
quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the candelabra
upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do, and those
seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at
the paper, and to note its contents—a dozen words in the same distorted
handwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same device—a
star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.

When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw on her face alarm
at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue; whilst the tiny
and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly the
young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved, as his
fingers closed tightly over it.

“For shame, Sir Andrew,” she said, shaking her head with a playful
sigh, “making havoc in the heart of some impressionable duchess, whilst
conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well! I do
believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened the
entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make
me drop love’s message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet
eyes. To think that, a moment longer, and I might have known the
secrets of an erring duchess.”

“You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, now as calm as
she was herself, “if I resume the interesting occupation which you had
interrupted?”

“By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the love-god
again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement against my
presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!”

Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill, and was
once again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had remained
alight. He did not notice the strange smile on the face of his fair
_vis-à-vis_, so intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps, had
he done so, the look of relief would have faded from his face. He
watched the fateful note, as it curled under the flame. Soon the last
fragment fell on the floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes.

“And now, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite Blakeney, with the pretty
nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of smiles,
“will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking me
to dance the minuet?”




CHAPTER XIII.
EITHER—OR?


The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the
half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate.
“Start myself to-morrow. . . .” This she had read quite distinctly;
then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated
the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another
sentence, which was now standing clearly and distinctly, like letters
of fire, before her mental vision. “If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be in the supper-room at one o’clock precisely.” The whole was
signed with the hastily-scrawled little device—a tiny star-shaped
flower, which had become so familiar to her.

One o’clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last minuet
was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney
leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate figures.

Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock upon its
ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours
more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In two hours she
must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly
gained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she
will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his
fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It
seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too,
was noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved
her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when
she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her
brother’s kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be
looking reproachfully at her. “You might have saved me, Margot!” he
seemed to say to her, “and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you
do not know, whom you have never seen, and preferred that he should be
safe, whilst you sent me to the guillotine!”

All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite’s brain, while,
with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mazes of
the minuet. She noted—with that acute sense of hers—that she had
succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew’s fears. Her self-control
had been absolutely perfect—she was a finer actress at this moment, and
throughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the
boards of the Comédie Française; but then, a beloved brother’s life had
not depended upon her histrionic powers.

She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further allusions to
the supposed _billet doux_, which had caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such
an agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under
her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever doubt may have
crossed his mind at the moment, she had, by the time the last bars of
the minuet had been played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he
never realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what effort it
cost her to keep up a constant ripple of

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