 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007. THE SCARLET PIMPANEL By Baroness Orsey 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 pool over the green, kentish landscape. The daydream had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on the edge of the cliff 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 husbands, 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 super-sensitive, 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 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. Roche, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had spoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de Saint-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, loved Angel de Saint-Cyr. But Saint-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 way late, just outside Paris, by the valets of Marquis de Saint-Cyr, and ignominously 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 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 analyze. Then the day of retribution came. Saint-Cyr and his kin 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 Saint-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 purpose of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult her brother had suffered at the Marquis's hands, happened to hear, amongst her own coterie, that the Saint-Cyrs were intreasonable correspondents 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 and then to the Marquis de Saint-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 in this awful fate. Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis. His own coterie, 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, realize 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 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 a part, 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, endeavouring 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, drawing, 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 daydream finally hidden by the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor tramp who plotted his way wearily along the rugged cliffs. With another 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 Folk's pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's occasional drawly, sleepy comments. Then realizing 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 core. 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, Citoyen sans juste. 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, Citoyen, 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. Jelly-Band 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 sans juste, 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 cordury 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? 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 loath 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 our Moundwell, 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, 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 surprised 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 Marguerites and Juste. 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 have 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 our nuit. She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs. It must be pretty bad, mustn't it? she asked, archly, or I should not have been so pleased to see you. And this within 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 our nuit. 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 for the question for the present, my dear friend?" she said dryly. 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 our nuit, which I would have been happy to submit to you, but—but what? There is, Sir Percy. What is 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 scrutinizingly. 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, Hitoïen? He asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face a singular earnestness. La man, she replied fippantly, 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 pimpinel, Hitoïen Saint-Just? Asked Chauvelin abruptly. Heard of the scarlet pimpinel, she retorted with a long and merry laugh. Faith-man, we talk of nothing else. We have hats à la scarlet pimpinel. Our horses are called scarlet pimpinel. At the Prince of Wales supper-party the other night, we had a souffle à la scarlet pimpinel. Lunt, 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 a la scarlet pimpinel. 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 enigmatic personage, Citoyenne, you must also have guessed and know 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 Saint-Just. La! she said with a quaint little sigh, I dareswear 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 affected by the Society of Young English Jackenaves, 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 his 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. Magritte 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 stirred by the thought of the brave man who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste, of whom the Comteste Tournée de Basse-Rive 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 blanchet 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 judiciaries 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, here 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 that 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 Blakene 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 Blakene and a long line of ancestors to stand between Lady Blakene and such a thing as you propose. For the sake of France, Citoyenne, re-iterated Chauvelin earnestly. Tush, man, you talk nonsense, anyway. For even if you did know who this scarlet pimpanel is, you could do nothing to him an Englishman. I 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 underlip, 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 port 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, barmy, 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 reveled in anticipation of the few hours of solitude with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughts wondering wither 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 rains, 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. Jelly Band was going the round, putting out the lights. His bar-customers had all gone, but upstairs in the snug little bedrooms Mr. Jelly Band had quite a few important guests, the Comte de Tournay, with Susan and the Vic Comte, and there were two more bedrooms ready, for Sir Andrew Folks and Lord Anthony Dewhurst, who young men should elect to honour the ancient hostory 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. Jelly Band with a laugh. I expect he'll be asleep before 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 will only call loud enough, I dare say I shall hear. All right, Jelly, and I say, put the lamp out. The fire will give us all the light we need, and we don't want to attract the passer-by. All right, my Lord? Mr. Jelly Band did as he was bid. He turned out the quaint old lamp that hung from the rafted ceiling, and blew out all the candles. Let's have a bottle of wine, Jelly, suggested Sir Andrew. All right, sir? Jelly Band 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 half. Is that all, gentlemen? Asked Jelly Band 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. Jelly Band was heard echoing along the passage and staircase. Presently even that sound died out, and the whole of the fisherman's rest seemed wrapped 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, folks? Asked Lord Anthony at last. Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire, and seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty, pecan't 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 Anthony 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 Gailey. 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 pimpinelle 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 journée, mademoiselles sous-ins, 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, Abba les Aristos. But the market cart got through along with some others, and the scarlet pimpinelle, in shawl, petticoat, in hood, yelled, Abba 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 Anthony, 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 second of next month. Let me see. That will be next Wednesday. Yes. It is, of course, the case of the comte de journée this time. A dangerous task. For the comte, whose escape from his chateau after he had been declared a suspect by the Committee of Public Safety, was a masterpiece of the scarlet pimpinelle'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 it all. Saint-Just has actually gone to meet him. Of course, no one suspects Saint-Just as yet. But after that, to get them both out of the country, in faith, it will 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 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-brook from his pocket, and drawn there from a paper, which he unfolded, and together they tried to read it by the dim red fire-light. So intent were they upon this, so wrapped up in the cause, the business they had so much at heart, 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 the 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 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 Anthony 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 does 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 dry 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 Anthony 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 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 Anthony 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 Anthony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly as they had come, they bore the two pinioned young dallands 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 letters from Sir Andrew Folk's pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had only just had time to read, but one letter specifically, signed Armin Saint-Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction. Armin Saint-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 pimpinelle." 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 well packed, both in the smart orchestra-boxes and in the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Gluck'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. Selena Storis had been duly applauded after her grand aria by her numerous admirers. Benjamin Incaldon, 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 spellbound on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, previous letting loose its hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues. In the smart orchestra-boxes many well-known faces were to be seen. Mr. Pitt, over-weighted with cares of state, was finding brief relaxation in tonight'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 emigres 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 Tournée de Basse-Rive, but lately arrived from France, was a most conspicuous figure, dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with only a white lace handkerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning about her person. She sat beside Lady Portals, who was vainly trying by witty sallies in 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, scanning every face, scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled herself quietly behind her mother, listened apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the audience itself. Ah! Lord Grenville, said Lady Portals, 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 apropos. Here is Madame la Conteste de Tournée positively dying to hear the latest news from France. The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands with the ladies. Alas! he said sadly, it is of the very worst. Massacres continue, Paris literally reeks with blood, and the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day. Pale and tearful, the Conteste 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, while he is in such peril. La d'madame! said honest, bluff Lady Portiles. You're 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 Conteste smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend. Lady Portiles, 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 course 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 Monsieur Le Comte safely across the channel? Ah, yes, replied the Comte, 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 will surely accomplish. Ah, added the old diplomat with a side. If I were but a few years younger. La man, interrupted honest Lady Portiles, you are still young enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits enthroned in your box tonight. I wish I could, but your ladyship must remember that in serving our country we must put prejudices aside. Monsieur Chauvelin is the accredited agent of his government. Odds 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 agents you wish is to send to us. Diplomatic relations be damned, my lord. That sly little fox over there is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find—and I'm much mistaken— that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy beyond trying to do mischief to royalist refugees, from our heroic scarlet pimpinel 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 portals. Did ever anyone see such pervacity? My lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab. Will you please explain to madame la comtesse that she is acting like a fool? In your position here in England, madame," the Chauvelin resolute face toward 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 Saint 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 handing love with royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney to calm 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 comely tirade of Lady Portals led the comtesse to tournée, 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 Monsieur Chauvelin had sat through this entract with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite him, where with much fru-fru of silken skirts, much laughter and general stare 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 at least that night had discarded the crossover fichu and broad, lapeled overdress, 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 lent for a moment out of the box, taking stock of all those present whom she knew. Many bowed 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 towing with a small, jeweled 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 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, fated, petted, cherished. Two days ago the daydream 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 her looks, impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured non-entity 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 his 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 Gluck 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, she quietly slipped into the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's chair. A word with you, suitoyen, he said quietly. Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm which was not altogether feigned. "'Ludman, you frightened me,' she said, with a forced little laugh. Your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Gluck 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 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 vowed to save him no reply. Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so fated 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 bore to-night after the opera. So are you, probably. I'll give you five minutes then.' The secrecy of this box are quite sufficient for me,' he rejoined placidly, "'and I think that you will be wise to listen to me, citoyen, sans juste.' Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelain had not raised his voice up of 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, sans juste, 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 Chauvelain was a keen observer. He noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralyzed tension of the beautiful, graceful figure. "'That, 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 enjoy the music.' And with her hand, she began to beat time nervously against the cushion of the box. Selena Storis was seeing the guffarot to an audience that hung spellbound upon the primadonna's lips. Chauvelain 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, citoyen,' 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 Margrete still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had to say. "'The other day, citoyen,' 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, citoyen.' "'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 Dournay amongst others, all organised by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpanel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious organisation have come into my hands, but not all. And I want you, Naye. 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 not about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpanel? And had you not spoken about my brother, a little patience I entreat, citoyen?' He continued imperturbably. "'Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Duhest and Sir Andrew Folks, 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 Folks who escorted the Comtesse Dournay 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 our man 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 have they had? They are children of France, and they 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 those little operations than you think, and my men have experience.' "'Well,' and those papers?' she asked carelessly. "'Unfortunately, though they have given me cognizance 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 pimpenel.' "'Pla, 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 trough 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 Folks, written by your brother, sans juste. "'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 Pimpenel.' 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 our man's foolish, imprudent our man was in Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter of 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 our man. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before. Our 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, our man in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpenel, our man busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises? 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 Saint-Just is compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon. Outside the orchestra-box all were silent for a moment or two. Marguerite sat straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realize what had best be done. In the house, Storys had finished the aria and was even now bowing in her classic garb, but in an approved eighteenth-century fashion to the enthusiastic audience who cheered her to the echo. Chauvelin, said Marguerite, blakely at last, quietly, and without that touch of bravado which had characterized 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 Pimponel, 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 Arman'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, dryly. That is your intention, is it not? My intention is that you yourself win the free pardon for Arman Saint-Just by doing me a small service. What is it? Only watch for me tonight, Citoyenne Saint-Just, he said, eagerly. Listen! Among the papers which were found about the person of Sir Andrew Folks 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 second. 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 pimponel, she said eagerly. And G's ball means Grenville's ball. He will be at my Lord Grenville's ball tonight. That is how I interpreted the note, Citoyenne, concluded Chauvelin blandly. Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Folks, after they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a lonely house in 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 boat open in that lonely house on the Dover Road. Their jailers disappeared, and two good horses standing ready-sattled and tethered in the yard. I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely conclude that they did not draw rain 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 ring 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. Margaret'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 dryly 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 tonight, 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. Watch and listen. You can tell me if you hear a chance word or whisper. You can note everyone to whom Sir Andrew Folks or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville's ball tonight. 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. Margaret 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, womanlike, she still hoped to temper eyes. 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 Saint-Just's? If you render me useful service to Knighty-Toyen," he replied with a sarcastic smile, I will give you that letter tomorrow. You do not trust me? I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but Saint-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 Saint-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 costelé 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 our man'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 imperiling the life of the noble leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy knew Saint-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-an-ane smile which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve. Uh, your chair is outside, my dear," he said with his most exasperating roar. I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball. Excuse me, uh, Monsieur Chauvelin, I had not observed you. He extended two slender white fingers toward Chauvelin who had risen when Sir Percy entered the box. Are you coming, my dear? Hush! shh! shh! 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 hopes seemed suddenly to have vanished away. She wrapped her cloak around 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 voir, Chauvelin, she said pleasantly, we shall meet at my Lord Grenville's ball and on. 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 laced jubble, he rubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together. End of CHAPTER X This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, March 2007 The Scarlet Pimpinel by Baroness Orsey 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 first two 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 into the hall, 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 frong. 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 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 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 emigres, who 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 blood-thirsty 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. Chauvelin, well furnished with money, armed with boundless staring and acute cunning, had succeeded in rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the emigres who were fated 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 and the knife of the guillotine as easily as that of any other man. Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase. All conversations stopped for a moment as the major domo's voice outside announced, his royal highness, the Prince of Wales, and sweet, Sir Percy Blakeney, Lady Blakeney. Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exhorted guest. The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent courtsuit of salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with Marguerite Blakeney on his arm, and 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 Monsieur 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. Monsignor rejoined Chauvelin bowing once again. Madame, he added, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite. Ah, my little Chauvelin, she said with unconcerned gaiety, and extending 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 Contesse de Tournée de Basse-Rive 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 Contesse, who sat at the further end of the room. Lord love me, whispered his royal highness to Marguerite, as soon as he had caught sight of the frigid figure of the old lady. Lord 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, side the Prince, is mostly unbecoming to your charming sex, Madame. Madame la Contesse de Tournée de Basse-Rive, said Lord Grenville and Madame, my royal father, as you know, is ever glad to welcome those of your compatriots whom France is driven from her shores. Your royal highness is ever gracious," replied the Contesse, with becoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by her side, my daughter, Suzanne Montseigneur, she said, ah, charming, charming, said the Prince, and now allow me, Contesse, to introduce you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You and she are welcome. 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 Contesse de Tournée who lately had so flagrantly insulted her was here receiving a public lesson, at which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Contesse, for whom respective royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well schooled in courtly etiquette to show the brightest sign of embarrassment, as the two ladies' curtsied ceremoniously to one another. His Royal Highness is ever-gracious, madame, said Marguerite de Muley, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling blue eyes. But there is no need for his kind of meditation. Your amiable reception of me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly in my memory. We poor exiles, madame, rejoined the Contesse fritidly, show our gratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Montseigneur. Madame, said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsy, madame responded the Contesse 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, Montseigneur! replied the Vicomte. I was a little boy, then, and now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector, the Scarlet Pimponel. 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 Contesse with an amused, sarcastic little smile around his thin lips. Né, Montseigneur! 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. Perchance, you know more about our national hero than we do ourselves. Perchance, you know who he is. See? he added, turning to the groups around 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, Montseigneur! said Chauvelin, significantly. Rumour has it in France that your highness could, and you would, give the truest account of that enigmatic oasis flower. He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite but she betrayed no emotion, and her eyes made 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 worshiping a shadow. Here in England, monsieur, he added with wonderful charm and dignity, we would name the scarlet pimponelle 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 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 hand. He could afford to remain silent and to wait 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 the Percy. We have to stand by while they worship a dimmed shadow. Everyone laughed. The prince more loudly than anyone. The tension of subdued excitement was relieved, and to the next moment everyone was laughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed in the adjoining rooms. End of CHAPTER XI This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas March 2007 The Scarlet Pimpinel By Baroness Orzee CHAPTER XII The Scrap of Paper Marguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed and chatted, though she was more admired, more surrounded, more fated 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 advisor approached as quickly as it had come, the moment she found herself alone with him. The same feeling of good-human 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 advisor when feminine sympathy and sentiment tossed her hither and thither between her love for her brother, who was far away in immortal peril, and horror of the awful words which Chauvelin had exacted from her in exchange for our man's safety. There he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed advisor, 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 dog-roll 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 little help 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 damned, elusive pimpinelle! Sir Percy's bon-mort had gone the round of the brilliant reception-rooms. The prince was enchanted. He vowed that life without destiny 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 gathering seemed to centre around the card-table, usually allowed his wife to flirt, dance, to amuse or bore herself as much as she liked. And tonight, having delivered himself of his bon-mort, he had left Marguerite surrounded by a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and willing to help her to forget 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-overraught 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 on 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 Folks and Lord Anthony Dewhurst, who seemingly had just arrived. She noticed at once that Sir Andrew immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournet 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 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 Tournet 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 in the gaily lighted ballroom 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 our mind 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 Folks and Lord Anthony Dewhurst were here, evidently expecting to meet their chief and perhaps to get a fresh Maud 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 cast of the Kelt 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 Folks? 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 tether-teth 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 around 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 returned away again. Sir Andrew folks 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 and one of the princes said 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 when 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 Saint-Just who was there only. Marguerite Saint-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 enthusiasm. Everything saved 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 folks 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. 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 Blatney? He asked with much concern. Let me. No, no. Nothing. She interrupted quickly. A chair. Quick. A 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 asserted 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 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 Fouquiette-en-Ville, the public prosecutor, demanding Armand's life in the name of the people of France seeking for another victim. Armand! For one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir. Beyond, from the brilliant ballroom, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the fru-fru 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 the noise from the ballroom 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 it was 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 dueled fingers, that talisman which perhaps would save her brother Arman's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, two dazed for the moment to realize 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 the life of his comrade, might depend. Margrete 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 delightedly cool, she added, with the same perfect composure, and the sound of the gavotte from the ballroom 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 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 tail and then marquee de censure, 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 ungalled, Sir Andrew, and now I come to think of it. You saw me just now. I do believe, after all, that it was not concerned for my health, nor yet a remedy taught to 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 conger, 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 Stortz flew quicker than his own. Her actions under pressure of his 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 candle, 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 style, and bearing the same device, a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink. When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he saw only upon 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. Eagley 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 humble 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 a 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 earring duchess. You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney, said Sir Andrew, now as calm as she was in an interesting occupation which you have interrupted. By all means, Sir Andrew, how should I venture to thwart the love-god again? Perhaps he would meet 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 them newet? End of Chapter 12 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org read by Karen Savage Waco Texas March 2007 The Scarlet Pimpinel by Baron Estor-Z Chapter 13 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 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 Folk's and beautiful Lady Blakeney leading the couples through its delicate and intricate figures. Close upon eleven. The hands of the handsome Louis 15 clock upon its ormaloo bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours more, and her fate in that of our man would be sealed. In two hours she must make up her mind whether she can only gain to herself and leave her brother to his fate or whether she will willfully 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 our man. Our man, too, was noble and brave. Our man, too, was unsuspecting. And our man 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, Margo, 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 send 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 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 through the whole of this minuet, then she had ever been upon the boards of the Comédie Francaise. 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 be-et-doux which had caused Sir Andrew's folks at an agonizing 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 banal conversation. When the minuet was over she asked Sir Andrew to take her almost to go down to supper with his royal highness, she said. But before we part, tell me, am I forgiven? Forgiven? Yes. Confess. I gave you a fright just now. But remember, I am not an English woman and I do not look upon the exchanging of a be-et-doux as a crime and I vow I will not tell my little Suzanne. But now tell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on Wednesday? I am not sure, Lady Blakeney. He replied evasively. I would not do that if I were you, she said earnestly. Then seeing the anxious look reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily, no one can throw a ball better than you, Sir Andrew. We should so miss you on the bowling-green. He had led her across the room to one beyond where already his royal highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney. Madam, supper awaits us," said the prince, offering his arm to Marguerite, and I am full of hope. The goddess's fortune has frowned and I look with confidence for the smiles of the goddess of beauty. Your highness has been unfortunate at the card-tables?" asked Marguerite as she took the prince's arm. I, most unfortunate, Blakeney, not content with being the richest among my father's subjects, has also the most outrageous luck. By the way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, madam, that this life would be but a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies. End of CHAPTER XIII This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage Waco Texas March 2007 The Scarlet Pimpernel By Baroness Orzee CHAPTER XIV One O'clock Precisely Supper had been extremely gay. All those present declared that never had Lady Blakeney been more adorable, nor that damned idiots a Percy more amusing. His royal highness had laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeks at Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartets. His dog-roll verse—we seek him here, we seek him there, etc.—was sung to the tune of Ho-Merry Britons and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly against the table. Lord Gremville, moreover, had a most perfect cook. Some wags asserted that he was a scion of the old French noblesse who, having lost his fortune, had come to seek it in the cuisine of the foreign office. Margaret Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely not a soul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terrible struggle which was raging within her heart. The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past midnight, and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table. Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted against one another—the dearly beloved brother, and he, the unknown hero. Margaret had not tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour. She knew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once and incline the balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him, there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, undefined hope that something would occur—something big, enormous, epic-making which would shift from her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden of responsibility having to choose between two such cruel alternatives. But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariably seem to assume when our very nerves ache with their incessant ticking. After supper dancing was resumed. His royal highness had left, and there was general talk of departing among the older guests. The young were indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte which would fill the next quarter of an hour. Margaret did not feel equal to another limit to the most enduring of self-control. Escorted by a cabinet minister, she had once more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still the most deserted among all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must be lying in wait for her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible opportunity for a tete-a-tete. His eyes had met hers for a moment after the force-up of Minuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat, with those searching, pale eyes of his, had divined that her work had been accomplished. Fate had wielded so. Margaret, torn by the most terrible conflict heart of women can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees. But Armand must be saved at any cost. He, first of all, for he was her brother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a tiny babe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying a traitor's death on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell upon. Impossible, in fact. That could never be. Never. As for the stranger, the hero. Well, there let Fate decide. Margaret would redeem her brother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy, then let that cunning scarlet pimpenel extricate himself after that. Perhaps, vaguely, Margaret hoped that the daring plotter, who for so many months had baffled an army of spies, would still manage to evade Chauvelin and remain immune to the end. She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty discourse of the cabinet-minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had found in Lady Blakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the king, fox-like face of Chauvelin peeping through the curtain doorway. "'Lord Fancourt,' she said to the minister, "'will you do me a service?' "'I am entirely at your ladyship service,' he replied gallantly. "'Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if he is, will you tell him that I am very tired and would be glad to go home soon?' The wonderful women are binding on all mankind, even on cabinet-ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly. "'I do not like to leave your ladyship alone,' he said. "'Never fear. I shall be quite safe here, and I think undisturbed. But I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive back to Richmond. It is a long way, and we shall not, and we do not hurry, get home before daybreak.' Lord Fancourt had perforced to go. The moment he had disappeared, he went into the room, and the next instant stood calm and impassive by her side. "'You have news for me?' he said. An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round Marguerite's shoulders, though her cheeks glowed with fire. She felt chilled and numbed. "'Oh, amand, will you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride, of dignity, of womanliness a devoted sister is making for your sake?' "'Nothing of importance,' she said, staring mechanically before her. She might prove a clue. I contrived, no matter how, to detect Sir Andrew Folks in the very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, in this very room. That paper I succeeded in holding between my fingers for the space of two minutes, and to cast my eyes on it for that of ten seconds.' "'Time enough to learn its contents?' asked Chauvelin quietly. She nodded, then continued in the same, even, mechanical tone of voice. In the corner of the paper there was an unusual rough device of a small star-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines. Everything else was scorched and blackened by the flame.' And what were the two lines? Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant she felt that she could not speak the words which might send a brave man to his death. "'It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned,' added Chauvelin with dry sarcasm, again.' One was, "'I start myself tomorrow,' she said quietly. The other, "'If you wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper room at one o'clock precisely.' Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece. "'Then I have plenty of time,' he said placidly. "'What are you going to do?' she asked. She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head and heart throbbed with the awful strain upon her nerves. This was cruel, cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this?' Her choice was made. Had she done a vile action, or one that was sublime? The recording angel who writes in the Book of Gold alone could give an answer. "'What are you going to do?' she repeated mechanically. "'Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend.' "'On what?' "'On whom I shall see in the supper room at one o'clock precisely. You will see the scarlet course. "'But you do not know him?' "'No. But I shall presently.' Sir Andrew will have warned him. "'I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he stood and watched you for a moment or two, with a look which gave me to understand that something had happened between you. It was only natural, was it not, that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature of that something. I, thereupon, engaged the young until a lady claimed his arm for supper. Since then? I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came upstairs again, Lady Portiles buttoned hold him and started on the subject of pretty Mademoiselle Suzanne de Tournai. I knew he would not move until Lady Portiles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one now. He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where, drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a moment, pointing out to Marguerite, the distant figure of Sir Andrew Folks in close conversation with Lady Portiles. I think," he said with a triumphant smile, that I may safely expect to find the person I seek in the dining-room, Fair Lady. There may be more than one. Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed by one of my men. Of these, one, or perhaps two or even three, will leave for France to-morrow. One of these will be the Scarlet Pimpenel. Yes. And? I also, Fair Lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Folks speak of the neighborhood of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called Le Chagri, of a lonely place somewhere on the coast, the Père Blanchard's hut, which I must endeavour to find. All these places are given as the point where this meddlesome Englishman has bitten the traitor de Dornay and others to meet his emissaries. But it seems that he has decided not to send his emissaries, that he will start himself to-morrow. Now one of these persons whom I shall see anon in the supper room, will be journeying to Calais, and I shall follow that person, until I have tracked him to where those fugitive aristocrats await him. For that person, Fair Lady, will be the man whom I have sought for—for nearly a year—the man whose energies has outdone me, whose ingenuity has baffled me, whose audacity has set me wondering—yes, me—who have seen a trick or two in my time—the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpenel. And Armand—she pleaded—have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the Scarlet Pimpenel and I start for France, I will send you that imprudent letter of his by special courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of France, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome Englishman, Saint-Just will be here in England, safe in the arms of his charming sister. And with a deep and elaborate bow, and another look at the clock, Chauvelin glided out of the room. It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the din of music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like tread gliding through the vast reception rooms, that she could hear him go down the massive staircase, reach the dining room, and open the door. Fate had decided. Had made her speak. Had made her do a vile and abominable thing for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay back in her chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever present before her aching eyes. When Chauvelin reached the supper-room, it was quite deserted. It had that woe-be-gone, forsaken, tawdry appearance which reminds one so much of a ball-dress the morning after. Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the chairs turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes, very close to one another, in the far corners of the room, which spoke of recent whispered flirtations of a cold, game-pie and champagne. There were sets of three and four chairs that called pleasant, animated discussions over the latest scandal. There were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowager. There were a few isolated single-chairs close to the table that spoke of gourmands intent on the most resherched dishes, and others overturned on the floor that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's cellars. It was a ghost-like replica, in fact, of that fashionable gathering upstairs, a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers are given, a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and colorless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered coats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the candles flickered sleepily in their sockets. Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands together, he looked round the deserted supper room, whence even the last flunky had retired in order to join his friends in the hall below. All were silence in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavote, the hum of distant talk and laughter, the rumble of an occasional coach outside, only seemed to reach this palace of the sleeping beauty as the murmur of some flitting spooks far away. It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that the keenest observer, a veritable prophet, could never have guessed that, at this present moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laid for the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those stirring times had ever seen. Chauvelin pondered, and tried to peer into the immediate future. What would this man be like, whom he and the leaders of the whole revolution had sworn to bring to his death? Everything about him was weird and mysterious—his personality, which he so cunningly concealed—the power he wielded over nineteen English gentlemen, who seemed to obey his every command blindly and enthusiastically. The passionate love and submission he had roused in his little trained band, and above all, his marvellous audacity, which he had never seen before. He had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before, and had never seen before… but he. In the endless audacity, the boundless impudence, which had caused him to beard his most implacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris, no wonder that in France yesobroquée of the mysterious Englishman roused in the people a superstitious shudder. Chauvelin himself, as he gazed around the deserted room, where presently the weird hero would appear, felt a strange feeling of awe, creeping all down his spine. But his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the scarlet pimpenal had not been warned, and equally sure that Marguerite Blakeney had not played him false. If she had, a cruel look that would have made her shudder gleamed in Chauvin's keen pale eyes. If she had played him a trick, Armin Saint-Just would suffer the extreme penalty. But no, no, of course she had not played him false. Fortunately the supper-room was deserted. This would make Chauvin's task all the easier, when presently that unsuspecting enigma would enter it alone. No one was here now save Chauvin himself. Stay! As he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude of the room, the cunning agent of the French government became aware of the peaceful monotonous breathing of some one of my Lord Grenville's guests, who, no doubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was enjoying a quiet sleep away from the din of the dancing above. Chauvin looked round once more, and there in the corner of a sofa, in the dark angle of the room, his mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweet sounds of peaceful slumbers proceeding from his nostrils, reclined the gorgeously apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman in Europe. Chauvin looked at him as he lay there, placid, unconscious, at peace with all the world and himself after the best of suppers, and a smile that was almost one of pity softened for a moment the hard lines of the Frenchman's face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes. Evidently the slumberer, deep and dreamless sleep, would not interfere with Chauvin's trap for catching that cunning scarlet pimponel. Again he rubbed his hands together, and following the example of Supercey Blakeney, he too stretched himself out in the corner of another sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave all sounds of peaceful breathing, and waited. CHAPTER 15 Doubt Marguerite Blakeney had watched the slight, sable-clad figure of Chauvin as he worked his way through the ballroom. Then, per force, she had had to wait, while her nerves tingled with excitement. Listlessly she sat in the small, still-deserted bourgeois, looking out through the curtain doorway on the dancing couples beyond, looking at them, yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of nought-saver feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting. Her mind conjured up before her the vision of what was, perhaps at this very moment, passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining-room, the fateful hour, chauvin on the watch. Then, precise to the moment, the entrance of a man, he, the scarlet pimponel. The mysterious leader, who, to Marguerite, had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird, was this hidden identity. She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watching him as he entered. She knew that her woman's penetration would at once recognize in the stranger's face, whoever he might be, that strong individuality which belongs to a leader of men, to a hero, to the mighty, high-soring eagle whose daring wings were becoming entangled in the ferret's trap. Womanlike, she thought of him with unmixed sadness. The irony of that fate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to the gnawing of a rat. Had our man's life not been at stake. "'Faith, your ladyship must have thought me very remiss,' said a voice suddenly close to her elbow. I had a deal of difficulty in delivering your message, for I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first.' Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message to him. His very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange and unfamiliar to her, so completely had she, in the last five minutes, lived her old life in the rue de Richelieu again, with our man always near her to love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigues which were forever raging in Paris in those days. "'I did find him at last,' continued Lord Fancourt, and gave him your message. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to be put to. "'Ah,' she said, still very absently. You found my husband and gave him my message. Yes. He was in the dining-room, fast asleep. I could not manage to wake him up at first. "'Thank you very much,' she said mechanically, trying to collect her thoughts. "'Will your ladyship honour me with the contredence until your coach is ready?' asked Lord Fancourt. "'No, I thank you, my lord, but—and you will forgive me. I really am too tired, and the heat in the ballroom has become oppressive. The conservatory is deliciously cool. Let me take you there, and then get you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blakeney. I am only very tired,' she repeated wearily, as she allowed Lord Fancourt to lead her, where subdued lights and green plants lent coolness to the air. He got her a chair, into which she sank. This long interval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tell her the result of his watch? Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and suddenly startled him by asking abruptly, "'Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now besides Sir Percy Blakeney? Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast asleep in another corner,' he said. "'Why does your ladyship ask?' "'I know not. I—' "'Did you notice the time when you were there? It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. "'I wonder what your ladyship is thinking about,' he added. For evidently the fair lady's thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to his intellectual conversation. But indeed, her thoughts were not very far away. Only one story below, in this same house, in the dining-room, where sat Chauvelin still on the watch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before as a hope—the hope that the scarlet pimpenal had been warned by Sir Andrew, and that Chauvelin's trap had failed to catch his bird. But that hope soon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then, are mount.' Lord Fancourt had given up talking, since he found that he had no listener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away. For sitting opposite to a lady, however fair, who is evidently not heeding the most vigorous efforts made for entertainment, is not exhilarating, even to a cabinet minister. "'Shall I find out if your ladyship's coach is ready?' he said at last, tentatively. "'Oh, thank you. Thank you, if you would be so kind. I fear I am but sorry, company. But I am really tired, and perhaps would be best alone.' But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not come. "'Oh, what had happened?' she felt our mount's fate trembling in the balance. She feared, now with the deadly fear, that Chauvelin had failed, and that the mysterious scarlet pimpenal had proved elusive once more. Then she knew that she needed hope for no pity, no mercy from him. He had pronounced his either or, and nothing less would content him. He was very spiteful, and would affect the belief that she had willfully misled him, and having failed to trap the eagle once again, his revengeful mind would be content with the humble prey. "'Oh, mount.' Yet she had done her best, had strained every nerve for our mount's sake. She could not bear to think that all had failed. She could not sit still. She wanted to go and hear the worst at once. She wondered even that Chauvelin had not come yet to vent his rough and satire upon her. Lord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that her coach was ready, and that Saperce was already waiting for her, ribbons in hand. Marguerite said farewell to her distinguished host. Many of her friends stopped her as she crossed the rooms, to talk to her and exchange pleasant auroirs. The minister only took final leave of beautiful Lady Blakeney on the top of the stairs. Below, on the landing, a veritable army of gallant gentlemen were waiting to bid good-bye to the queen of beauty and fashion, whilst outside, under the massive portico, Saperce's magnificent bays were impatient, pouring the ground. At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final leave of her host, she suddenly saw Chauvelin. He was coming up the stairs slowly and rubbing his thin hands very softly together. There was a curious look on his mobile face—partly amused and wholly puzzled. As his keen eyes met Marguerite's, they became strangely sarcastic. Mr. Chauvelin! she said as he stopped on the top of the stairs, bowing elaborately before her. My coach is outside. May I claim your arm? As gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and led her downstairs. The crowd was very great. Some of the minister's guests were departing, others were leaning against the banisters, watching the throng as it filed up and down the wide staircase. Chauvelin! she said at last desperately. I must know what has happened. What has happened, dear lady? he said, with effected surprise. Where? When? You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped you to-night. Surely I have the right to know. What happened in the dining-room at one o'clock just now? She spoke in a whisper, trusting that in the general hubbub of the crowd her words would remain unheeded by all, save the man at her side. Shared and peace-rained supreme, fair lady. At that hour I was asleep in one corner of one sofa, and Sir Percy Blakeney in another. Nobody came into the room at all? Nobody. Then we have failed, you and I? Yes. We have failed. Perhaps. But our manned, she pleaded. Ah! Our man's injurious chances hang on a thread. Pray heaven, dear lady, that that thread may not snap. Chauvelin, I worked for you sincerely, earnestly, remember. I remember my promise, he said quietly. The day that the scarlet pimpanel and I meet on French soil, sans juste will be in the arms of his charming sister. Which means that a brave man's blood will be on my hands, she said with a shudder. His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the present moment you must hope, as I do, that the enigmatical scarlet pimpanel will start for Calais today. I am only conscious of one hope, Citoyenne. And that is? That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere before the sun rises to-day. You flatter me, Citoyenne. She had detained him for a while, midway down the stairs, trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious. Not a line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman, whether she need fear, or whether she dared to hope. Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvelin she held out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal, which was essentially her own. Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin, she pleaded. With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which looked so dainty and white through the delicately transparent black lace mitten, and kissing the tips of the rosy fingers. Pray heaven that the thread may not snap! he repeated, with his enigmatic smile. And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more closely round the candle, and the brilliant frong of the jeunesse d'orée, eagerly attentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement, hid the keen fox-like face from her view.