 Chapter 8 of The Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orksi. Chapter 8 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 Blackney 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 love, and 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. So 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. 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 Sincere 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 Sincere, but just was a plebeian, and the Marquis full of pride and the arrogant prejudices of his cast. One day, Armand, a respectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem, enthusiastic, ardent, passionate, to the idol of his dreams. The next night, he was way-laid just outside Paris by the valets of Marquis de Sincere and ignominiously thrashed, thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of the aristocrat. The incident was one which, in those days, some two years before the Great Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France. Incidents of that type, in fact, led to 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 a retribution came. Sincere 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 Sincere and his family fought inch by inch for the retention of those privileges which had placed them socially above their fellow men. Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the purport of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult her brother had suffered at the Marquis' hands, happened to hear, amongst her own coterie, that the Sincere's were intreasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to obtain the Emperor's support to quell the growing Revolution in their own country. In those days, one denunciation was sufficient. Marguerite's few thoughtless words about the Marquis de Sincere bore fruit within 24 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 Maki. His 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, inadvertently committed, and would 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 could she detect the slightest sign of that love which she had once believed had been wholly hers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting love. 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 and the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor tramp who plotted his way wearily along the rugged cliffs. With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back upon the sea in the 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 Faulk's pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's occasional drawly, sleepy comments. Then realising the loneliness of the road and the fast-gathering gloom around her, she quickened her steps. The next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards her. Marguerite did not look up. She was not in the least nervous and the fisherman's rest was now well within call. The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly, 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, with her faint pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively towards him. Shovla! She exclaimed, himself, Citoyane, 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. Shovlaan was then nearer 40 than 30, a clever shrew-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. Shovlaan, my friend, said Marguerite with a pretty little sigh of satisfaction. I am mightily pleased to see you. No doubt poor Marguerite's angiost, lonely in the midst of her grandeur and her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back memories of that happy time in Paris when she reigned a queen over the intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered around the thin lips of Shovlaan. 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'ennuis, mon ami, that is all. The head reached the porch of the fisherman's wrist, but Marguerite seemed lost to go within. The evening air was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew Armand well, and who could talk of all the merrily brilliant friends whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer window of a coffee room, sounds of laughter, of calls for Sally and for beer, of tapping of mugs and clinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blackney's inane and mirthless laugh. Shovlaan stood beside her, his shrewd pale yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight. You surprise me, Citoyenne. He said quietly as he took a pinch of snuff. Do I now? She retorted gaily. Faith, my little Shovlaan, I should have thought that with your penetration you would have guessed that an atmosphere composed of fogs and virtues would never suit Marguerite Saint-Just. Dear me, is it as bad as that? He asked in mock consternation. Quite! She retorted, and worse. Strange! Now I thought that a pretty woman would have found English country life peculiarly attractive. Yes, so did I. She said with a sigh. Pretty women, she added meditatively, ought to have a good time in England since all the pleasant things are forbidden them, the very things they do every day. Quite so. You'll hardly believe it, my little Shovlaan. She said earnestly. It often passes a whole day, a whole day, without encountering a single temptation. No wonder, retorted Shovlaan gallantly, that the cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ennui. She laughed one of her melodious rippling childlike laughs. It must be pretty bad, mustn't it? She 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 Edelic Folly said Shovlaan with quiet sarcasm. Did not then survive the lapse of weeks? Edelic Follies never last, my little Shovlaan. They come upon us like the measles and are as easily cured. Shovlaan 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 strived to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact. No wonder, he repeated with the same gallantry, that the most attractive brain in Europe is troubled with ennui. I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the melody, my little Shovlaan. How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish? Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear friend? She said dryly. Ah, my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well do. Said Shovlaan, whilst once again his eyes keen as those of a fox on the alert darted a quick glance at Marguerite. I have a most perfect prescription against the worst form of ennui, which I would have been happy to submit to you, but— But what? There is Sir Percy. What has he to do with it? Quite a good deal, I'm afraid. The prescription I would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name. Work. Work? Shovlaan looked at Marguerite long and scrutinizingly. It seemed as if those keen pair lies 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 Shovlaan took a step or two from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all around him, then seeing that indeed no one was within earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite. Will you render France a small service, Citoyenne? He asked with a sudden change of manner, which lent his thin fox-like face a singular earnestness. Ha! La man! She replied flippantly. How serious you look all of a sudden. Indeed I do not know if I would render France a small service. At any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she or you want. Have you ever heard of the Scullet Pimpernel, Citoyenne's Unjuiced? I asked Shovlaan abruptly. Heard of the Scullet Pimpernel? She retorted with a long and merry laugh. Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Faith, man, we talk of nothing else. We have hats, a la Scullet Pimpernel. Our horses are called Scullet Pimpernel. At the Prince of Wales supper-party the other night we had a souffle a la Scullet Pimpernel. Ha! Lod! Ha! 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 Scullet Pimpernel. Shovlaan 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 while 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 quiet 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 at the 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 while 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 tomorrow. 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 emigres 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 emigres, some only suspected of treason, others actually condemned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the channel. Their escape in each instance was planned, organised and effected by this society of young English jack-o'-naps, headed by a man whose brain seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover who he is. Whilst the others are the hands, he is the head who beneath this strange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. I mean to strike at that head. And for this I want your help. Through him, afterwards I can reach the rest of the gang. He is a young buck in English society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, Citoyenne. He urged. Find him for France. Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned speech without uttering a word, scarce making a movement hardly daring to breathe. She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged. Already before this, her heart and her imagination had stirred by the thought of the brave man 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 countess de Torne de Bassarive was so typical an example. But Republican and liberal minded, though she was from principle, she hated and loathed the methods which the young Republic had chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some months. The horrors and bloodshed of the reign of terror culminating in the September massacres had only come across the channel to her as a faint echo. Robespierre Danton Marat, she had not known in their new guise of bloody judiceries 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 she first 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 aglowed 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, he 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. Ha! La man! She said with a return of her assumed flippancy. You are astonishing. Where in the world have I to look for him? You go everywhere, Citoyenne. Whispered Chauvelin insinuatingly. Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am told. You see everything. You hear everything. Easy, my friend, retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small thin figure before her. Easy! You seem to forget that there are six feet of surprise Blakeney and a long line of ancestors to stand between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose. For the sake of France, Citoyenne. Reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly. Tush, man, you talked nonsense anyway. For even if you did know who this scullet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him, an Englishman. I'd take my chance at that. Citauvelin 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 diplomatic fuss about it, we can apologise, humbly, to the British government and, if necessary, pay compensation to the bereaved family. What she proposes, horrible Chauvelin. She said drawing away from him is 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 a short 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 say that the shaft had struck home. That is beside the question. She said it 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, Citauyen. Chauvelin as a flood of light from the passage illuminated her elegant richly clad figure. We meet in London, I hope. We meet in London. She said, speaking over her shoulder at him. But that is my last word. She threw open the coffee room door and disappeared from his view, but he remained under the porch for a moment or two taking a pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like face looked neither abashed nor disappointed. On the contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners of his thin lips. End of Chapter 8 CHAPTER IX. THE OUTRAGE. A beautiful starlet night had followed on the day of incessant rain. A cool, balmy late summer's night, essentially English in its suggestion of moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves. The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds in England, had driven off along the London Road, with Sir Percy Blakeney on the box, holding the reins in his slender, feminine hands, and beside him Lady Blakeney wrapped in glossy furs. A fifty-mile drive on a starlet 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 wandering 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 contest at Hornet, with Suzanne, and the Vicont, and there were two more bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Folks and Lord Anthony Newhurst, if the two young men should elect to honour the ancient hostelry and stay the night. For the moment, these two young gallants were comfortably installed in the coffee-room before the huge log fire, which, in spite of the mildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily. I say, Jelly, has everyone gone? Asked Lord Tony, as the worthy landlord still busied himself clearing away glasses and mugs. Everyone as you see, my lord. And all your servants gone to bed? I'll accept the boy on duty in the bar, and... Added Mr. Jelly-Band with the laugh. Ah, 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 you 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 loudly enough, I daresay 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 raftered 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 was now quite dark, saved for the circle of ready and fitful light formed by the brightly blazing logs in the hearth. Is that all, gentlemen? Mr. Jelly-Band as he returned with a bottle of wine in a couple of glasses which he placed on the table. That'll do nicely. Thanks, Jelly. 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, saved the two young men drinking in silence beside the hearth. For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee room, saved the ticking of the old grandfather's clock and the crackling of the burning wood. All right again this time, Fuchs? Asked Lord Antony at last. Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire, and seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty, pecan-to-face with large brown eyes and a wealth of dark curls round a childish forehead. Yes. He said, still musing. All right. No hitch. None. Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself out another glass of wine. I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found this journey pleasant this time. No, friend, you need not ask. Replied Sir Andrew gaily. It was all right. Then here's to her very good health. Said Jovial Lord Antony. 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, Antony. No, I haven't. Interrupted his friend pleasantly. But I'll take your word for it. And now, he added, whilst the sudden earnestness crapped 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 away 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 Comptiste de Tournée, Mme Moselle-Sousanne, and Evie Compte, 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 was screaming, but the market cart got through along with some others, and the scarlet pimpinelle, in shawl, petticoat and hood, yelled, louder than anybody. Faith! The man, as his eyes glowed with enthusiasm for the beloved leader. That man's a marvel. His cheek is preposterous, I vow, and that's what carries him through. Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of his friend, could only find an oath or two with which to show his admiration for his leader. He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais. Said Sir Andrew more quietly. On the second of next month. Let me see. That will be next Wednesday. Yes. It is, of course, the case of the comte de tournée 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. You have actually gone to meet him. Of course, no one suspects Saint-Jusse as yet. But after that, to get them both out of the country, you 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 Chauvalin, 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. The Chauvalin has brought a whole army of spies with him, and until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we should meet as seldom as possible on the business of the league, and on no account should talk to each other in public places for a time. When he wants to speak to us, he will contrive to let us know. The two young men were both bending over the fire for the blaze had died down, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a lurid light on a narrow semi-circle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room lay buried in complete gloom. Sir Andrew had taken a pocket-book from his pocket and drawn 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, so precious was this document which came from the very hand of their adored leader, that they had eyes and ears only for that. They lost count of the sounds around them, of the dropping of 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 that crept closer and closer to the two young men not breathing, only gliding along the floor in the inky blackness of the room. You are to read these instructions and commit them to memory." said Sir Andrew. Then destroy them. He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket when a tiny slip of paper flooded from it and fell onto 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. He added, glancing at the paper. Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper on which a few words had been hastily scrawled when suddenly a slight noise attracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage beyond. What's that? said both instinctively. Lord 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 car-chings, snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to the ground. All this occurred within the short space of two or three seconds, and before either Lord 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 the beach, 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. The mask now stood motionless while the others completed their work. All safe, Sir Tonya, 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 man had remained unheard, he once more opened the door and pointed preemptorily down the passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord Antony from the ground and as quietly as noiselessly as they had come, they bore the two pinion young gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into the gloom beyond. In the coffee room the masked leader of the staring 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 specially, signed Armand Saint-Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction. Armand Saint-Just, a traitor after all? He murmured. Now, fair magrite brickney. He added viciously between his clenched teeth. I think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of the Scarlet Pimpernel This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emma Orksy Chapter 10 In the Opera Box in Milanites at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the autumn season in this memorable year of Grace 1792. The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and the pit, as well as in the more plebblian balconies and galleries above. Gluck's Orpheus made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the house, whilst the fashionable woman, the gaily dressed and brilliant throng, spoke to the eyes of those who cared but little for this latest importation from Germany. 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 to letting loose his hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues. In the smart orchestra boxes, many well-known faces were to be seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighed with cares of state, was finding brief reliance of the great maestro, and the audience, which had hung spellbound on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction. Mr. Pitt, overweighed with cares of state, was finding brief relaxation in tonight's musical treat. The Prince of Wales, Jovial, Rotan, 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 shrewid sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, with dark hair free from any powder. Lord Grenville, Foreign Secretary of State, paid him marked their frigid deference. Here and there, doubted 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 woman 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 contest to tournée de Basservet, but lately arrived from France, was the most conspicuous figure, dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning about her person. She sat beside Lady Portolais, who was vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes to bring a smile to the Countess's sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the V-cont, 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, scrutinized 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 Portolais, 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. Heroes would not come toast to tournée, positively dying to hear the latest news from France. The distinguished diplomatist had come forward and was shaking hands with the ladies. Alas! he said sadly, It is of the very worst sort. The massacres continue. Paris literally reeks with blood, and the flames a hundred victims a day. Pale and tearful, the Countess was leaning back in her chair, listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic count 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 theater all safe and in peace while he is at such power. So, Lord Madame, said honest, bluff Lady Portolese, you are sitting in a convent, won't make your husband safe, and you have your children to consider. They are too young to be doused with anxiety and premature mourning. The Countess smiled through her tears at the remnants of her friend. Lady Portolese, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a jockey, had a heart of gold and hid the most genuine sympathy and most gentle kindliness beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some ladies at that time. Did you not tell me yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their honor to bring the Sherlock Comps safely across the channel? Yes, replied the Countess. And that is my only hope. I saw Lord Hastings yesterday. He always showed me again. Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the League has warned, that they surely will accomplish. Ah, added the old diplomatist with a sigh. If I were but a few years younger. You did honestly, Lady Portolese. You were still young enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that says and thrown in your box tonight. I wish I could. But your ladyship must remember that in serving our country we must put prejudice aside. Is your shovel on, is the accredited agent of the government? Oh, it's Fishman, 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, we have relations with France. And we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she wishes to send to us. Diplomatic relations with Denver, my lord. That sly little fox over there is nothing but a spy I want, 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. To our heroics, go to Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little League. I am sure, said the Countess pursing up her thin lips, if this chauveline wishes to do as mischief, he will find a faithful ally and Lady Blackney. Bless the woman. Ejaculated Lady Portales. Did ever anyone see such perversity? My lord Grenda, you have the gift of gab. Will you please explain to Madame the contest that she is acting like a fool? In your position here in England, Madame. She added, turning a wrathful and resolute face toward the contest. You cannot afford to put on the hoity-toity airs your French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady Blackney may or may not be in sympathy with those Refiens in France. She may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man's name is. But she is the leader of fashion in this country. So Percy Blackney has more money than any half-dozen other men put together. He is hand in glove with royalty. And you're trying to snub Lady Blackney while I tell her, but will make you look a fool. Isn't that so, my lord? But what Lord Granville thought of this matter, or to what reflections it is commonly tirade of Lady Portalaise that the contest to Tornais 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 Granville took a hasty farewell of the ladies, and slipped back into his box where Montchor Chauvelin had sat through this entract with his internal stuffed box in his hand and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite him, where, with much frou-fru of silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity, he had no idea what was going on when he entered, so much laughter and general stir of curiosity amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered, accompanied by her husband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden reddish curls, slightly bespringled with powder, and tied back at the nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed in the very latest vaguery of fashion, Marguerite, alone among the ladies that night, had discarded the cross-over fissue and broad labelled 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 golden broidery. As she entered, she lent for a moment out of the box, taking stock of all those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she did so, and from the royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute. Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the third act, and she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little hand toying 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 tonight. 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, fetid, 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 Gluck's impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished loved dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured non-entity who had made up for his lack of spiritual attainments and bearing worldly advantages upon her. He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention demanded, making way for his royal highness and for the host of admirers who, in a continued procession, came to pay homage to the queen of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away to talk to more congenial friends, probably. Marguerite did not even wonder whether he had gone. She cared so little. She had had a little court round her composed of the genest ore of London and had just dismissed them all, Gluck for a brief while. A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment. She said with some impatience without turning to look at the intruder. Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone and now, without pausing for that impatient come in, he quietly slipped into the box and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's chair. A world with you, citoyenne. He said quietly, Marguerite turned quickly in alarm and together feigned. Lord man, you frightened me! She said with a forced little laugh. Your presence is entirely an opportune. 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 close that he could whisper in her ear without disturbing the audience and without being seen in the dark background of the box. This is my only opportunity. He repeated as she vouchsafed him no reply. Lady Blackney is always so surrounded, so feted 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 for tonight after the opera. So are you probably. I'll give you five minutes then. Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me. He rejoined placently. And I think that you will be wise to listen to me, citoyenne Saint-Just. Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice above a whisper. He was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff. Yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins as with the sight of some deadly hither-toe unguessed peril. Is that a threat, citoyenne? She asked at last. He said gallantly, only an arrow short into the air. He paused a moment like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly by, with that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly, Your brother Saint-Just is in peril. Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently. But Chauvelin was a keen observer. He noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralyzed tension of the beautiful graceful figure. Love, then! She said with effected merriment. The imaginary plots you'd best go back to your own seat and leave me to enjoy the music. And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion of the box. Selina Storis was singing the cheffareau to an audience that hung spellbound upon the primadonna's lips. Chauvelin did not move from his seat. He quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck home. She said suddenly and irrelevantly and with the same feigned unconcern. Well, citoyenne? About my brother. I have news of him for you which I think will interest you. But first, let me explain. May I? The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had to say. The other day, citoyenne, 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, citoyenne. She said lightly, the music isn't trancing and the audience will get impatient of your talk. One moment, citoyenne, the day on which I had the honour of meeting you at Dover and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I obtained possession of some papers which revealed another of those subtle schemes for the escape of our batch of French aristocrats. That traitor de Tornay, 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 near 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, Gaeli. Bah, man, have I not already told you that I care not about your schemes of Pimpanel, and had you not spoken about my brother? A little patience I entreat, citoyenne. He continued in perturbably. Two gentlemen, Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Folkes, 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 Folkes who escorted the contest to Tornay and her children across the channel. For 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 out to me. In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? Had her mom 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 pass as belief. She said merrily, robbery and violence in England. Your men might have been caught in the act. What if they had? They are children of France and have been trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught, they would have gone to jail, or even to the gallows without a word of protest or indiscretion. At any rate, it was well o'er the risk. A crowded inn is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have experience. Well, and those papers? She asked carelessly? Unfortunately. Though they have given me 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 that still leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the scowler to Pimponel. Love, 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 face. She added, ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yarn. Had you not spoken about my brother? I am coming to him now, Zitoien. Among the papers, there was a letter to Sir Andrew Fulks written by your brother, Saint Just. Well, and? That letter shows him not only in sympathy with the enemies of France, but actually a helpa if not a member of the League of the Scarlet Pimponel. 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 revolution, so purposeless falsehoods. That letter of Armand's, foolish and prudent Armand, was in Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own eyes, and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before. Laughman! She said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full and squarely in the face. It was some imaginary plot. Armand, in league with that enigmatic scarlet pimpenel. Armand, busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises. Faith detailed us infinite credit to your imagination. Let me make my point clear, citoyen. Such chauvelin with the same unruffled calm. I must assure you that Saint-Just is compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon. Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite sat straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face the situation to realize what had best be done. In the house Storys had finished the aria and was now even 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 Pimpanel, isn't that so? France's most bitter enemy, citoyen. All are the more dangerous as he works in the dark. All the more noble you mean. Well, and you would now force me to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand's safety. Is that it? Faye, two very ugly words, fair lady. Protesters Chauvelin are vainly. 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 Armand Saint-Just by doing me a small service. What is it? Only watch for me tonight, citoyen Saint-Just. He said eagerly. Listen, among the papers which were found at the person of Sir Andrew Fuchs, there was a tiny note. See! He added taking a tiny scrap of paper from his pocketbook 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 that is strictly necessary. You have all the 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, citoyen, and you will understand. There's a device here in the corner, a small red flower. Yes. The scarlet pimpenel. 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 interpret the note, citoyen. Concluded, Chauvelin, blandly. Lord Anthony Dewhurst answered Andrew Folks after they were opinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a lonely house in Dover Road which I had oriented 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 tonight just as he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning, these two young gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the Dover Road. Their jailors disappeared and two good horses standing ready, saddled and tethered in the yard. They 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, citoyen. 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 from my obedience. You find it simple. I don't. Ne, citoyen, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love from the consequences of his own folly. Marguerite's face softened. Her eyes at last grew moist as she murmured half to herself. The only being in the world who has ever loved me truly and constantly. But what do you want me to do, chauvelin? She said with world of despair in her tear-choked voice. In my present position it is well nigh impossible. Ne, citoyen. He said dryly and relentlessly, not heeding that despairing childlike appeal which might have melted a heart of stone. Has Lady Blakeney? No one suspects you. For help tonight I may, who knows, succeed in finally establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpanel. You are going to the ball, Anon. Watch for me there, citoyen. Watch and listen. You can tell me if you hear a chance word or whisper. You can note everyone to whom, Sir Andrew Fox or Lord Antony Juerst will speak. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpanel will be at Lord Grenville's ball tonight. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the world of France that your brother shall be safe. Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite felt herself entangled in one of those webs from which she could hope for no escape. A precious hostage was being held for her obedience, for she knew that this man would never make an empty threat. No doubt Armand was already signalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the suspect. He would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be ruthlessly struck if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment, woman-like, she still hoped to temporize. 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-Jusque's? If you render me useful service tonight, Citoyenne. 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-Jusque'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-Jusque. Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no mercy. All-powerful he held the beloved life in the hollow of his hand. She knew him too well not to know that if he failed in gaining his own ends he would be pitiless. She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of the opera house. The heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her as from a distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders and sat silently watching the brilliant scene as if in a dream. For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who was in danger to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and her affection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand's sake. She longed to seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to help and console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once. He was her husband. Why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He had very little brains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle. Surely if she provided the thought and he the manly energy in Plak, 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 sent you as well. He seemed attached to him. She was sure that he could help. Chevalon was taking no further heed of her. He had set 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-humored, and wearing that half-shy, half-anane smile which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve. Her? Your chair is outside, my dear. He said with his most exasperating droll. I suppose you will want to go to the damned ball. Excuse me, Air-monster Chauvin. I heard it of the old you. He extended two slender white fingers towards Chevalon who had risen when Sir Percy entered the box. Are you coming, my dear? Shhh! Hush! Hush! Came an angry remonstrance from different parts of the house. Timed impudence! commented Sir Percy with a good-natured smile. Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to have vanished away. She wrapped her cloak 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 Chevalon, who, with his chauve bras under his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips was repairing to follow the strangely ill-assorted couple. It is only au revoir, Chevalon. She said pleasantly, We shall meet at my Lord Grenville's ball anon. And in her eyes the astute Frenchman read, no doubt, something which caused him profound satisfaction. For, with a sarcastic smile, he took a delicate pinch of snuff, then, having dusted his dainty-laysche beau, he rubbed his thin bony hands contentedly together. End of CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI. OF THE SCARLET PIMPURNAL. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Missy. Guangzhou, China. The Scarlet Pimpernel. By Baroness Emma Ortsy. 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 guest. 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 guest. Distinguished men, beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had already filed past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then, laughing and talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card rooms beyond. Not far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against one of the console tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking a quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen pale eyes glanced quickly towards the door every time a newcomer appeared. He stood somewhat isolated. The envoy of the revolutionary government of France was not likely to be very popular in England at a time when the news of the awful September massacres and of the reign of terror and anarchy had just begun to filtrate across the channel. In his official capacity he had been received courteously by his English colleagues. Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand. Lord Grenville had entertained him more than once. But the more intimate circles of London's society ignored him altogether. The women openly turned their backs upon him. The men who held no official position refused to shake his hand. But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these social amenities which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. He was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause. He despised all social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country. These three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs he received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England. But above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believed that the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France. He would have wished to see every one of them annihilated. He was one of those who, during this awful reign of terror, had been the first to utter the historic and ferocious desire that aristocrats might have but one head between them so that it might be cut off with a single stroke of the guillotine. And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat who had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no doubt that those royalist emigres, once they had managed to cross the frontier, did their very best to stir up foreign indignation against France. Plots without end were hatched in England, in Belgium, in Holland, to try and induce some great power to send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King Louis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders of that monster republic. It is a small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality of the scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He and the few young jackenapes under his command, well furnished with money, armed with boundless daring and acute cunning, had succeeded in rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the 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 falling under the knife of the guillotine, as easily as that of any other man. Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase. All 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 exalted guest. The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of salmon-coloured velvet, richly embroidered with gold, entered with margarite Blakeney on his arm, and on his left, so Percy, in gorgeous shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant, incroyable style, his fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrist, and the flat, chepe-ho-bra under his arm. After the few conventional words of differential 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. That his royal Highness coldly, we will try to forget the government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest, a private gentleman from France. As such, you are welcome, Monsieur. Monseigneur. Rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. Madame. He added, bowing ceremoniously before margarite. Oh, my little Chauvelin. Rejoined with unconcerned gaiety, and extending her tiny hand to him. Monsieur and I are old friends, your royal Highness. Are they? This time very graciously. You are doubly welcome, Monsieur. There is someone else I would create permission to present to your royal Highness. Here interpose, Lord Grenville. Ah, who is it? Ask the Prince. Madame La Contessa de Tonnet de Basseurie, 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 Contess, who sat at the further end of the room. Lord love me. Whispered his royal Highness to margarite, as soon as he had caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady. Lord love me. She looked very virtuous, and very melancholy. Faith your royal Highness. She rejoined with a smile. Virtuous like precious odours, more fragrant when it is crushed. Here to alas. Said the Prince. Is mostly unbecoming to your charming sex, Madame. Madame La Contessa de Tonnet de Basseurie. Said Lord Grenville, introducing the lady. This is a pleasure, Madame. My royal father, as you know, is ever glad to welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from her shores. Lord Highness is ever-glacious. Replied the Contess with becoming dignity. Then indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by her side. My Doctor Susan Morsigny. She said. Ah, charming, charming. Said the Prince. And now allow me, Contess, to introduce you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You and she will have much to say to one another by vow. Every compatriot of Lady Blakeney 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 Contess de Tonnet, who lately had so flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson at which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Contess, for whom respective royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well-schooled and courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, as the two ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another. His Royal Highness is ever-gracious, Madam. Said Marguerite, demurely, and with the 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. Report, Exiles, Madam. Rejoined the Contess frigidly. Show our gratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Monseigneur. Madam. Said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsy. Madam. Responded the Contess with equal dignity. The Prince, in the meanwhile, was saying a few gracious words to the young Viscont. Happy to know you, Monsieur Le Viscont. He said, I knew your father well when he was Ambassador in London. Ah, Monsieur. Replied the Viscont. He was a little boy then. And now he owe the honor of this meeting to our Protector, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Hush. Said the Prince earnestly and quickly, as he indicated chauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the whole of this little scene. Watching Marguerite and the Contess with an amused, sarcastic little smile around his thin lips. Name, Monseigneur. He said now, as if in direct response to the Prince's challenge. Pray do not check this gentleman's display of gratitude. The name of that interesting red flower is well known to me and to France. The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two. Faith then, Monsieur. He said, Perhaps you know more about our national hero than we do ourselves. Perhaps 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, Monseigneur. So chauvelin significantly. Rumor has it in France that your Highness could and you would give the trist account of that enigmatic Loisade flower. He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke, but she betrayed no emotion and her eyes met his quite fearlessly. Name, Anne. 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 but name the Scarlet Pimpernel and every fair cheek is suffused with a blush of enthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know not if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-formed, but we know that he is the bravest gentleman in all the world. And we all feel a little proud, Monsieur, when we remember that he is an Englishman. Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin! added Marguerite, looking almost with defiance across at the placid, sphinx-like face of the Frenchman. His Royal Highness should add that we ladies think of him as a hero of old. We worship him, we wear his badge, we tremble for him when he is in danger and exult with him in the hour of his victory. Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the prince and to Marguerite. He felt that both speeches were intended, each in their way, to convey contempt or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle prince he despised. The beautiful woman, who in her golden hair wore a spray of small red flowers composed of rubies and diamonds, her he held in the hollow of his hand. He could afford to remain silent and to wait events. A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence which had fallen over everyone. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And we poor husbands came in slow, affected accents from gorgeous Sir Percy. We have to stand by while they worship a damned shadow. Everyone laughed, the prince more loudly than anyone. The tension of subdued excitement was relieved and the next moment everyone was laughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed in the adjoining rooms. Marguerite suffered intensely, though she laughed and chatted, though she was more admired, more surrounded, more fetid 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 had vanished as quickly as it had come, the moment she found herself alone with him. The same feeling of good-humored 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 and in mortal peril and horror of the awful service which Chauvelin had exacted from her in exchange for Armand's safety. With the moral support, the cool-headed advisor surrounded by a crowd of brainless, empty-headed young fobs who were even now repeating from mouth to mouth and with every sign of the keenest enjoyment, a doggerel quartrain 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 laugh whether she appreciated her husband's latest poetic efforts. All done in the time 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 Pimpernel. Sir Percy's bon-mau had gone the round of the brilliant reception rooms. The prince was enchanted. He vowed that life without blank knee would be but a dreary desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had led him to the card-room and engaged him in a long game of hazard. Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gatherings seemed to centre round the card-table, usually allowed his wife to flirt dance to amuse or bore herself as much as she liked. And tonight, having delivered himself of his bon-mau, he left Marguerite surrounded by a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and willing to help her forget that somewhere in the spacious reception rooms there was a long, lazy being who had been fool enough to suppose when in Europe would settle down to the prosaic bonds of English matrimony. Her still-overwrought nerves, her excitement and agitation lent beautiful Marguerite blank knee much additional charm. Escorted by a veritable bevy of men of all ages and 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 she could expect no mercy. He had set a price in Armand's head and left it to her to pay it 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 Susanne de Tournai and that the two young people soon managed to isolate themselves in one of the deep embrasures of the mullioned windows, 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 irreprochably dressed and there was not the slightest sign about their courtly demeanor of the terrible catastrophe which they must have felt hovering round them and round their chief. That the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no intention of abandoning its cause she had gathered through little Susanne herself who spoke openly of the assurance she and her mother had had that Sir Andrew de Tournai would be rescued from France by the League within the next few days. Magley she began to wonder as she looked at the brilliant and fashionable in the gaily lighted ballroom which of these worldly men around her was the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel who held the thread of such daring plots in the fate of valuable lives in his hands. A burning curiosity seized her to know him although for months she had heard of him and had accepted his anonymity as everyone else in society had done but now she longed to know quite impersonally, quite apart from Armand and oh, quite apart from Chauvelin only for her own sake for the sake of the enthusiastic admiration she had always bestowed on his bravery and cunning. He was at the ball, of course, somewhere since Sir Andrew folks and Lord Anthony de Oerst were here evidently expecting to meet their chief and perhaps to get a fresh mot d'ordre from him. Marguerite looked round at everyone at the aristocratic high-type Norman faces the squirrely-built fair-haired Saxon the more gentle humorous case of the Celts 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 rumours 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 head to head 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 bourgeois beyond, then paused and leaned against the framework of it looking still anxiously all round him. Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her present attentive cavalier and she skirted the fashionable crowd drawing nearer to the doorway against which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get closer to him she could not have said. Perhaps she was impelled by an all-powerful fatality which so often seems to rule the destinies of men. Suddenly she stopped. Her very heart seemed to stand still, her eyes large and excited flash for a moment towards that doorway then as quickly were turned away again. Sir Andrew folks was still in the same this list positioned by the door but Marguerite had distinctly seen that Lord Hastings the young buck, a friend of her husband's and one of the princess's set, had as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something into his hand. For one moment longer, oh it was the nearest flash, Marguerite paused. The next she had, with admirably played on concern, 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 as the little bourgeois 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 Sangeust who was there only, Marguerite Sangeust 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 enthousiasms. Everything saved that Armand stood in peril of his life and that there, not twenty feet away from her, was a small bourgeois 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 bourgeois. Sir Andrew was standing with his back to her and stood 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 cleaning 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, Oh! 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 Blakeney. He asked with much concern. Let me. No, no, nothing. She interrupted quickly. A chair. Quick. She sank into the chair close to the table and throwing back her head, closing her eyes. Ah! She muttered, still faintly. The giddiness is passing off. Do not heed me, Sir Andrew. I assure you I already feel better. At moments like these there is no doubt and psychologists actually assert it, that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing to do with the other five. It is not that we see, it is not that we hear or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was immediately behind her and on her right was a 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 Foucault's Tinville, the public prosecutor, demanding Armand's life in the name of the people of France and the lurid guillotine with its stained knife waiting for another victim, Armand. For one moment there was dead silence in the little bourgeois. Beyond, from the brilliant ballroom, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the frou-frou of rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry crowd came as a strange weird accompaniment to the drama which was being enacted here. Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that that extrasense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not see, for her two eyes were closed. She could not hear 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 of 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 jeweled fingers that talisman which perhaps would save her brother Armand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her two days 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 her dainty hand was one perhaps in which the life of his comrade might depend. Marguerite burst into a long, merry, peel 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, while Sir Andrew, in agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that beautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts rushed through his mind. He suddenly remembered her nationality and, worst of all, recollected that horrible take on at the Marquis de Saint-Sœur, 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 un-gallant, Sir Andrew, and now I come to think of it, you seemed most startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do believe, after all, that it was not concerned for my health, nor yet a remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny scrap of paper. I vow it must have been your lady love's last cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess! She added, playfully holding up the scrap of paper. Does this contain her final 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 toward a lady. The young man had made a bold dash for the note, but Marguerite's thoughts flew quicker than his own. Her actions under pressure of this intense excitement were swifter and more sure. She was tall and strong, she took a quick step backwards and knocked over the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which fell down with the crash, together with the mass of Candelabra upon it. She gave a quick cry of alarm. Oh! The Candles, Sir Andrew, quick! There was not much damage done. One or two of the Candles had blown out as the Candelabra fell. Others had merely sent some grease upon the valuable carpet. One had ignited the paper shade over it. Sir Andrew quickly and exteriously put out the flames and replaced the Candelabra upon the table. But this had taken him a few seconds to do. In those seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at the paper and to note its contents. A dozen words in the same distorted handwriting she had seen before and bearing the same device, a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink. When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw 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. Eagerly, the young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved as his fingers closed tightly over it. For shame, Sir Andrew! Ha! She said, shaking her head with a playful sigh, making havoc in the heart of some impressionable Duchess, whilst conquering the affections of my sweet little Cezanne. Well, well, I do believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you and threatened the entire foreign office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make me drop love's message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. I have to think that a moment longer, and I might have known the secrets of an erring Duchess. You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney. He said Sir Andrew now as calm as she was herself. If I resumed the interesting occupation which you have interrupted— By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the love-guard again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement against my presumption. Burn your love token by all means. Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill, and was once again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had remained alight. He did not notice the strange smile on the face of his fair viovie. 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. Then Marguerite Blakeney, with the pretty nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of smiles. Will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking me to dance the minuet? CHAPTER XIII OF THE SCARLET PEMPRONEL This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Reading by Belinda Brown of Indianapolis, Indiana. THE SCARLET PEMPRONEL BY BARONESS EMMA OR SEA CHAPTER XIII EITHER OR The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the half-scorched piece of paper seemed literally to be the words of fate. Start myself to-morrow. This she had read quite distinctly, then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle which obliterated the next few words. But right at the bottom there was another sentence. 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 menuette was being danced with Sir Andrew Fulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney leading the couples through its delicate and intricate figures. Close upon eleven, the hands of the handsome Louis the fifteenth-clock upon its armulow bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours more and her fate and that of our mind would be sealed. In two hours she must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly gained to herself and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she will 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 mind. Our mind, too, was noble and brave. Our mind, too, was unsuspecting, and our mind loved her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh, it was monstrous! Her brother's kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be looking reproachfully at her. You might have saved me, Margot, he seemed to say to her, and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you do not know whom you have never seen and preferred that he should be safe whilst you sent me to the guillotine. All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mesas of the minuet. She noted, with that acute sense of hers, that she succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew's fears. Her self-control had been absolutely perfect. She was a finer actress at this moment, and throughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the boards of the comedic francais. 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 allusion to the supposed belay-du, which had caused Sir Andrew Folks such 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 played, succeeded in completely dispelling it. He never realized, and 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 into the next room. I had promised 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 be-a-du as a crime. And I vow I'll 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 may have to leave London to-morrow. I would not do that if I were you. She said earnestly. Then, seeing the anxious look reappearing in his eyes, she added galey. No one can throw a ball better than you, Cancer Andrew. We should so miss you on the bowling-green. He had led her across the room. To one beyond were already his royal highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney. Madame, supper awaits us. Said the prince, offering his arm to Marguerite. And I am full of hope. The goddess fortune has frowned so persistently on me at hazard that I look with confidence for the smiles of the goddess of beauty. Your highness has been unfortunate at the con-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 out-made-us luck. By the way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madame, that this life would be but a dreary desert without your smiles and his valley. 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 dem-didiots or Percy more amusing. His royal highness had laughed into the tears streamed down his cheeks at Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel verse, we seek him here, we seek him there, etc., was sung to the tune of Ho, Mary Britons, and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly against the table. Lord Grenville, 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. Marguerite 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. In 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. Marguerite had not tried to see Chauhela 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 our maw. While she did not see him, there still lingered in her heart of hearts a big, undefined hope that something would occur. Something big, enormous, epic-making which would shift from her young weak shoulders this terrible burden of responsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives. But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariably seemed 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 nuke-avot which would fill the next quarter of an hour. Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance. There was a 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 Chauhela 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 four supper minuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat with those searching, pale eyes of his had divined that her work was accomplished. Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible conflict Heart of Woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees. But our maw 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 our maw 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. Marguerite would redeem her brother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy, then let that cunning scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that. Perhaps, vaguely, Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter who for so many months had baffled an army of spies would still manage to evade Chauvala 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 keen, fox-like face of Chauvala peeping through the curtain doorway. Lord Fancor, she said to the Minister, will you do me a service? I am entirely at your ladyship's 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 commands of a beautiful woman are binding on all mankind, even on Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancor prepared to obey instantly. I do not like to leave your ladyship alone. She said, Never fear, I shall be quite safe here. And I think, undisturbed. But I am really tired. You know, Sir Percival, drive back to Olishman. It is a long way, and we shall not, and we do not hurry, get home before daybreak. Lord Fancor had perforced to go. The moment he had disappeared, Chauvala slipped into the room, and the next instance 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. O Armah, 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. But it might prove a clue. I contrived, no matter how, to detect Sir Andrew Fawkes 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? Chauvala quietly. She nodded, then continued in the same even mechanical tone of voice. In the corner of the paper there was the usual 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 Chauvala with dry sarcasm. For it might have fared ill with Armand Saint-Just. What were the two lines, Citoyenne? One was, I start myself to-morrow. She said quietly, The other, if you wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock, precisely. And I 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. Oh, this was cruel, cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her choice was made. Did she do 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 Pimpernel, of 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 that 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 man in a long and animated conversation. We discussed Haigluck's singular success in London, 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, a lady Porta-Ales button-holded him and started on the subject of pretty mamma Zellia Susanne de Hornay. I knew he would not move until Lady Porta-Ales had exhausted 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 Fuchs in close conversation with Lady Porta-Ales. I think... He said with a triumphant smile... That I may safely expect to find the person I seek in the dining room after, lady. There may be more than one. Whoever is there as the clock strikes one will be shuddered by one of my men. Of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will leave for France tomorrow. One of these will be the Scarlet Pimponel. Yes. And? I also, fair lady, will leave for France tomorrow. The papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Fuchs speak of the neighborhood of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called Luchagri, of which 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 bidden the treta de tournai and others to meet his emissaries, but it seems that he has decided not to send his emissaries, that he will start himself tomorrow. 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 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, of a mysterious and elusive scarlet pimponel. And Armand, she pleaded, Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the scarlet pimponel and I start for France, I will send you that impudent letter of his by special courier. For that, I will pledge you the world of France, that the day I lay hands on that melsome 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 margarite 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-begon, 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 over cold game pie and champagne. There were sets of three and four chairs that were called pleasant animated discussions over the latest scandal. There were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowagers. There were a few isolated single chairs close to the table that spoke of gourmand's intent on the most resherché dishes, and others, overturned on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville 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 was silence in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, the hum of distant talk and laughter and 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 had 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 train-band, and, above all, his marvellous 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 the sober-kay of the mysterious Englishman roused in the people of superstitious shutter. Chauvelin himself, as he gazed round 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 Pimpernel had not been warned, and felt equally sure that Marguerite Plakeney had not played him false. If she had—a cruel look that would have made her shudder gleamed in Chauvelin's key pale eyes—if she had played him a trick, Armand Saint-Juist would suffer the extreme penalty. But no. Of course she had not played him false. Fortunately the supper-room was deserted. This would make Chauvelin's task all the easier when presently that unsuspecting enigma would enter it alone. No one was here now, save Chauvelin himself. Stay. As he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude of the room, the cutting agent of the French government became aware of the peaceful monotonous breathing of some one of my Lord Granville'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. Chauvelin 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. Then I 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 a sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes. Evidently the slumber, deep and dreamless sleep, would not interfere with Chauvelin's trap for catching that cunning scarlet Pimpernel. Again he rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir Percy Blakeney, he too stretched himself out on the corner of another sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave four sounds of peaceful breathing, and waited.