 1. Paris, September 1792. A surging, seething, sea-themed island of Paris. 1. Paris, September 1792. A surging, sea-themed island of Paris. 1. Paris, September 1792. A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem nought but savage creatures, animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate. 2. The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant raised an undying monument to the nation's glory and his own vanity. 3. During the greater part of the day, the guillotine had been kept busy at its ghastly work. All that France had boasted of in the past centuries of ancient names and blue blood had paid toll to her desire for liberty and for fraternity. 4. The carnage had only ceased at this late hour of the day because there were other, more interesting sites for the people to witness, a little while before the final closing of the barricades for the night. 5. And so, the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Grève and made for the various barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing sight. 6. It was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools. They were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women and children, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since the Crusades had made the glory of France, her old noblesse. 7. Their ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the rulers of France and crushed their former masters. 8. Not beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in these days, but a more effectual weight, the knife of the guillotine. 9. And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many victims, old men, young women, tiny children, until the day when it would finally demand the head of a king and of a beautiful young queen. 10. But this was as it should be, were not the people now the rulers of France. Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been before him. 11. For two hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled, and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extravagance. 12. Now the descendants of those who had helped to make those courts brilliant had to hide for their lives, to fly if they wished to avoid the tardy vengeance of the people. 13. And they did try to hide, and tried to fly. That was just the fun of the whole thing. 14. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market carts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool of an aristow endeavored to obey the clutches of the Committee of Public Safety. 15. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to slip through the barriers which were so well guarded by citizen soldiers of the Republic. 16. Men in women's clothes, women in male attire, children disguised in beggars' rags, there were some of all sorts. 17. Cidevon counts, marqueses, even dukes, who wanted to fly from France, reach England or some other equally accursed country, and there try to rouse foreign feelings against the glorious revolution, or to raise an army in order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the temple, who had once called themselves sovereigns of France. 18. But they were nearly always caught at the barricades. Sergeant Bibel, especially at the West Gate, had a wonderful nose for senting an aristow in the most perfect disguise. 19. Then, of course, the fun began. 20. Bibel would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him, sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical makeup which hid the identity of a cidevon noble marquise or count. 20. Oh, Bibel had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging round that West Barricade in order to see him catch an aristow in the very act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people. 21. Sometimes Bibel would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing him to think for the space of two minutes at least that he really had escaped out of Paris and might even manage to reach the coast of England in safety. 22. But Bibel would let the unfortunate wretch walk about ten metres towards the open country, then he would send two men after him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise. 23. Oh, that was extremely funny. For as often as not, the fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud Marchioness, who looked terribly comical when she found herself in Bibel's clutches after all, and knew that a summary trial would await her the next day, and after that, the fond embrace of Madame Nagyotina. 24. No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September, the crowd round Bibel's gate was eager and excited. 25. The lust of blood grows with its satisfaction. There is no satiety. The crowd had seen a hundred noble heads fall beneath the guillotine today. 26. It wanted to make sure that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow. 27. Bibel was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate of the Barricade. A small detachment of Citoyan soldiers was under his command. 28. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris. 29. Men, women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had served those traitorous bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right food for the guillotine. 30. Every day, Bibel had had the satisfaction of unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried by the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good patriot, Citoyan Fouquier Thainville. 31. Horb's Pierre and Donton both had commended Bibel for his zeal, and Bibel was proud of the fact that he, on his own initiative, had sent at least fifty oristos to the guillotine. 32. But today, all the sergeants in command at the various barricades had had special orders. 33. Recently a very great number of aristos had succeeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely. 34. There were curious rumours about these escapes. They had become very frequent and singularly daring. The people's minds were becoming strangely excited about it all. 35. Sgt. Gruppier had been sent to the guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of the Northgate under his very nose. 36. It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheer desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time in snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame Naguillotine. 37. These rumours soon grew in extravagance. There was no doubt that this band of meddlesome Englishmen did exist. Moreover, they seemed to be under the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost fabulous. 38. Strange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom he rescued became suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and escaped out of the gates by sheer supernatural agency. 39. No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen. As for their leader, he was never spoken of, saved with a superstitious shudder. 40. Sgt. Gruppier Townville ward in the course of the day received a scrap of paper from some mysterious source. Sometimes he would find it in the pocket of his coat. 41. At others it would be handed to him by someone in the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee of Public Safety. 42. The paper always contained a brief notice that the band of meddlesome Englishmen were at work and it was always signed with a device drawn in red, a little star-shaped flower which we in England call the Scarlet Pimpernel. 43. Within a few hours of the receipt of this impudent notice, the Citoyans of the Committee of Public Safety would hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reaching the coast and were on their way to England and safety. 44. The guards at the gates had been doubled. The Sgt. Command had been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for the capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. 45. There was a sum of 5,000 francs promised to the man who laid hands on the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel. 46. Everyone felt that Bibble would be that man, and Bibble allowed that belief to take firm root in everybody's mind. 47. And so, day after day, people came to watch him at the West Gate. So was to be present when he laid hands on any fugitive Oristo who perhaps might be accompanied by that mysterious Englishman. 48. Bah! said he to his trusted corporal. 49. Citoyan Grospierre was a fool. Had it been me now at that North Gate last week? 50. Citoyan Bibble spat on the ground to express his contempt for his comrade's stupidity. 51. How did it happen, Citoyan? asked the corporal. 52. Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch. 53. Began Bibble pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his narrative. 54. We've all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed Scarlet Pimpernel. 55. He won't get through my gate, Lord Blue, unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. 56. The market-cats were going through the gates. 57. There was one laden with casks, and driven by an old man with a boy beside him. 58. Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he thought himself very clever. 59. He looked into the casks, most of them at least, and saw they were empty, and let the cart go through. 60. A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad wretches, who crowded around Citoyan Bibble. 51. Half an hour later. continued the sergeant. 52. Up comes a captain of the guard, with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. 53. Has a car gone through, he asks of Grospierre, breastlessly. 54. Yes, says Grospierre, not half an hour ago. 55. And you have let them escape, shouts the captain furiously. 56. You will go to the guillotine for this, Citoyan sergeant. 57. That cart held concealed the c-devant, dupe de chalet, and all his family. 58. What, Thunder's Grospierre aghast? 59. Aye, and the driver was none other than that cursed Englishman, the scarlet Pimpernel. 59. A howl of execration greeted this tale. 60. Citoyan Grospierre had paid for his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! Oh, what a fool! 61. Bibble was laughing so much at his own tale, that it was some time before he could continue. 62. After them, my men, shouts the captain. 63. He said, after a while. 62. Remember the reward. After them, they cannot have gone far. 63. With that, he rushes through the gate, followed by his dozen soldiers. 64. But it was too late! 65. Shouts the crowd, excitedly. 66. They never got them. 66. Cursed up Grospierre's folly. 66. He deserved his fate. 66. Thank you, not examining those castes properly. 66. But these sellies seemed to amuse Citoyan Bibble exceedingly. 66. He laughed until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks. 66. Nay, nay! 66. He said at last. 66. Those aristoes weren't in the cart. The driver was not the scarlet Pimpernel. 66. What? 66. No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise. 66. And every one of his soldiers are estos. 66. The crowd this time said nothing. 66. The story certainly savored of the supernatural. 66. And though the Republic had abolished God, 66. It had not quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural 66. in the hearts of the people. 66. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself. 66. The sun was sinking low down in the west. 66. Bibble prepared himself to close the gates. 66. I want the carts. 66. He said some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, 66. ready to leave town in order to fetch the produce from the country 66. close by for market the next morning. 66. They were mostly well known to Bibble as they went through 66. his gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. 66. He spoke to one or two of their drivers, 66. mostly women, and was at great pains to examine the inside of the carts. 66. You never know. 66. And I'm not going to be caught like that fool, Gross Pierre. 66. The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de la Grave 66. Beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping, 66. whilst they watched the rows of tumbrels arriving 66. with the victims the reign of terror claimed every day. 66. It was great fun to see the aristos arriving for the reception 66. of Madame Nagyotin, and the places close by the platform 66. were very much sought after. 66. Bibble, during the day, had been on duty on the Place. 66. He recognized most of the old hats, tricoteurs, as they were called, 66. who sat there and knitted whilst head after head fell beneath the knife, 66. and they themselves got quite bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos. 66. Hey, La Mer! 66. said Bibble to one of these horrible hags. 66. What have you got there? 66. He had seen her earlier in the day, 66. with her knitting and the whip of her cart close beside her. 66. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to the whip handle, 66. all colors, from gold to silver, fair to dark, 66. and she stroked them with her huge bony fingers as she laughed at Bibble. 66. I made friends with Madame Giyotin's lover, she said, with a coarse laugh. 66. He cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. 66. He has promised me some more tomorrow, 66. but I don't know if I shall be at my usual place. 66. Ah! How is that, La Mer? 66. asked Bibble, who, heart and soldier that he was, 66. could not help shattering at the awful loathesomeness of this semblance of a woman 66. with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip. 66. My grandson has got the smallpox. 66. She said with a jerk of her thumb towards the inside of her cart. 66. Some say it's the plague. 66. If it is, I shan't be allowed to come into Paris tomorrow. 66. At the first mention of the word smallpox, 66. Bibble had stepped hastily backwards, 66. and when the old hag spoke of the plague, 66. he retreated from her as fast as he could. 66. Curse you. 66. He muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the cart, 66. leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place. 66. The old hag laughed. 66. Curse you. 66. Sit in for being a courage. 66. She said. 66. Ah! What a man to be afraid of sickness. 66. More blue the plague. 66. Everyone was awestruck and silent, 66. filled with horror for the loathesomeness. 66. The one thing which still had the power to arouse terror and disgust 66. in these savage, brutalized creatures. 66. Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood. 66. shouted Bibble, hoarsely. 66. And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, 66. the old hag whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate. 66. This incident had spoiled the afternoon. 66. The people were terrified of these two horrible curses, 66. the two maladies which nothing could cure, 66. and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. 66. They hung about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, 66. eyeing one another suspiciously, 66. avoiding each other as if by instinct, 66. lest the plague lurked already in their midst. 66. Presently, as in the case of Gruppierre, 66. a captain of the guard appeared suddenly. 66. But he was known to Bibble, 66. and there was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise. 66. A cart! 66. He shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the gates. 66. What cart? 66. Asked Bibble, roughly. 66. Driven by an old hag, 66. a covered cart. 66. There were a dozen. 66. An old hag, who said her son had the plague. 66. Yes. 66. You have not let them go. 66. More blue. 66. Said Bibble, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white with fear. 66. The cart contained the Cydavan, Comtesse, the Torne, 66. and her two children. 66. All of them, traitors, had condemned to death. 66. And their driver? 66. Asked Bibble, as the superstitious shutter ran down his spine. 66. Saccerd準é! 66. Said the captain, 66. But his fear that it was that a cursed Englishman himself! 66. The scarlet Pipernell! CHAPTER II. DOVER. THE FISHERMAN'S REST. In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy, saucepans and frying pans were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stockpot stood in a corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two little kitchen maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over some private jokes of their own whenever Miss Sally's back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the stockpot methodically over the fire. Wado, Sally! came in cheerful, if none too melodious accents from the coffee room close by. Oh, bless my soul! exclaimed Sally, with a good, humid laugh. What'll they be wanting now, I wonder? Beer, of course! grumbled Jemima. You don't expect Jemima to pick him to a done with just one tanker, do you? Mr. Arrie, you looked uncommon first, you two. Simphad Martha, one of the little kitchen maids, and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and suppressed giggles. Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands against her shapely hips. Her palms were itching, evidently, to come in contact with Martha's rosy cheeks, with inherent good humour prevailed, and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention to the fried potatoes. What, home, Sally! Hey, Sally! When a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the oak tables of the coffee room, accompanied the shouts for mine hosts' buxom daughter, Sally shouted a more persistent voice. Are you going to be all night with that there, beer? I do think Martha might get the beer for them, muttered Sally. As Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of foam crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewter-tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which the fisherman's rest had been famous since the days of King Charles. He knows we're busy in here. Your father's too busy to discuss some politics in this dance, he'd worry yourself about you in the kitchen. Gumbled Jemima under her breath. Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her field cap at its most becoming angle over her dark curls. Then she took up the tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the coffee room. There there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity which kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond. The coffee room of the fisherman's rest is a show place now at the beginning of the 20th century. At the end of the 18th, in the year of Grace 1792, it had not yet gained the notoriety and importance which a hundred additional years and the craze of the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were already black with age, as were the panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns of many sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue larksburg gave the bright note of colour against the dull background of the oak. That Mr. Jelly Band, landlord of the fisherman's rest at Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. The pewter on the final dresses, the brass above the gigantic hearth, shone like silver and gold, the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as the scarlet geranium on the window sill. This meant that his servants were good and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that order which necessitated the keeping up of the coffee room to a high standard of elegance and order. As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns and displaying a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus of applause. Hey, there's Sally! What up, Sally? Hurrah, pretty Sally! I thought you'd come to effing that kitchen of yours. muttered Jimmy Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips. All right, all right! Laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly filled tankards upon the tables. Why, what a hurray to be sure! And as your grandmother had died and wanted to see the poor soul before she's gone, never seen such a mighty Russian. A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this witticism, which gave the company there present food for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now seemed in less of a hurry to get back to her pots and pans. A young man with fair curly hair and eager, bright blue eyes was engaging most of her attention and the whole of her time. Whilst broad witticisms and Aunt Jimmy Pitkin's fictitious grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke. Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in his mouth stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jelly Band, landlord of the fisherman's rest, as his father had been before him, I, and his grandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portley in build, jovial incontinence and somewhat bored of fate, Mr. Jelly Band was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days. The days when our prejudiced insularity was at its height, when, to an Englishman, be he lord, yellman or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a den of immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savages and cannibals. There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs, smoking his long church-warden and caring nothing for nobody at home, and despising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches and grey-worsted stockings and smart buckled shoes that characterised every self-respecting innkeeper in Great Britain in these days. And while pretty, motherless Sally had needed four pairs of brown hands to do all the work that fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jelly Band discussed the affairs of nations with his most privileged guests. The coffee room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps which hung from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme. Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every corner, the faces of Mr. Jelly Band's customers appeared red and pleasant to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host, and all the world. From every side of the room, loud guffaws accompanied pleasant, if not highly intellectual, conversation. While Sally's repeated giggles testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short time she seemed inclined to spare him. They were mostly fisherfolk who patronised Mr. Jelly Band's coffee room, but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people. The salt which they breathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched throats when on shore. But the fisherman's rest was something more than a rendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach started from the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the channel, and those who started for the grand tour, all became acquainted with Mr. Jelly Band, his French wines, and his home brood ales. It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up. For two days, torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now, it was beating against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth. Blueed, did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jelly Band? asked Mr. Hempseed. He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for he was an authority and important personage, not only at the fisherman's rest, where Mr. Jelly Band always made a special selection of him as a foil for political arguments, but throughout the neighbourhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge of the scriptures was held in the most profound awe and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious pockets of his corduroy underneath his elaborately worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long clay pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly across the room at the rivulets of moisture which trickled down the windowpains. No! replied Mr. Jelly Band, sententiously. I didn't know, Mr. Hempseed, as I ever did, and I've been in these parts, nigh on sixty years. Why, you wouldn't recollect the first three years of them sixty, Mr. Jelly Band. Quietly interposed, Mr. Hempseed. I don't know, as I ever see'd an infant take much no to the weather, least ways not in these parts. And I've lived there nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jelly Band. The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment Mr. Jelly Band was not ready with his usual flow of argument. It do seem more like April than September, don't it? continued Mr. Hempseed, dollfully, as a shower of raindrops fell with a sizzle upon the fire. Ah, that it do! assented the worthy host. But then, what can you expect, Mr. Hempseed, I says? We as such a government as we've got. Mr. Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of wisdom, tempered by deeply rooted mistrust of the British climate and the British government. I don't expect nothing, Mr. Jelly Band. Poor folks like us is of no account up there in London. I know that, and it's not often as I do complain. But when it comes to such wet weather in September, and all me flew to Rotten in a dying, like the Juptian mother's firstborn, and doing no more good than they did, poor dears, save a lot more Jews, peddlers and sitch, with their oranges, and sitch-lick foreign and godly fruit, which nobody'd buy if English apples and pears was nicely swelled, as the scriptures say. That's quite right, Mr. Hempseed. Retort to Jelly Band. And, as I says, what can you expect? There's all them Frenchy devils over the channel yonder of murdering their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt, and Mr. Fox, and Mr. Burke fighting and wrangling between them if we Englishmen should allow them to go on in their ungodly way. Let him murder, says Mr. Pitt. Stop him, says Mr. Burke. And let him murder, says I, and be dumb to him, said Mr. Hempseed. Emphatically, for he had but little liking for his friend Jelly Band's political arguments, wherein he always got out of his depth, and had but little chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which had earned for him so high a reputation in the neighbourhood, and so many free tankards of ale at the fisherman's rest. Let him murder, he repeated again, let's have such rain in September, for that is again the law in the scriptures which says. Come on, Mr. Harry, how you made me jump? It was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this remark of hers should have occurred at the precise moment when Mr. Hempseed was collecting his breath in order to deliver himself one of those scriptural utterances which made him famous, for it brought down upon her pretty head the full flood of her father's wrath. Now then, Sally, my girl, now then. He said, trying to force a frown upon his good-humoured face. Stop that fooling with the immune jack and apes and get on with the work. The work's getting on all right, Father. But Mr. Jelly Band was peremptory. He had other views for his buxom daughter, his only child, who would in God's good time become the owner of the fisherman's rest than to see her married to one of these young fellows who earned but a precarious livelihood with their net. Did you hear me speak, my girl? He said in that quiet tone, which no one inside the inn dared to disobey. Get on with my Lord Tony's supper, for if it ain't the best we can do and ye not satisfied, see what you'll get. That's all. Reluctantly Sally obeyed. Is you expecting special guests to enter tonight with the Jelly Punch? Asked Jimmy Pitkin in a loyal attempt to divert his host's attention from the circumstances connected with Sally's exit from the room. Aye, that I be. replied Jelly Band. Friends of my Lord Tony, his self, Dukes and Duchesses from over the water yonder, whom the young Lord and his friends, Sir Andrew Folks and other young noblemen have helped out of the clutches of them murdering devils. But this was too much for Mr. Hemsed's quarrelous philosophy. Lord, what do they do that for, I wonder? I don't hold not with interfering in other folks' ways, as the scriptures say. Maybe Mr. Hemsed Interrupted Jelly Band with biting sarcasm. As you're a personal friend of Mr. Pit, and as you says along with Mr. Fox, that immortal says you. Pardon me, Mr. Jelly Band. Fabley protested Mr. Hemsed. I don't know as I ever did. But Mr. Jelly Band had at last succeeded in getting upon his favourite hobby horse, and had no intention of dismounting in any hurry. Or maybe you've made friends with some of them French chap, who they do say have come over here on purpose to make us Englishmen agree with their murdering ways. I don't know what you mean, Mr. Jelly Band. Suggested Mr. Hemsed. All I know is... All I know is... That there was my friend Peppercorn, who owns the Blueface Boar, and as true and loyal an Englishman as you'd see in the land. And now look at him. He made friends with some of them frog-eaters, obnobbed with them just as if they were Englishmen, and not just a lot of immoral, ungodforsaken fur and spies. Well, and what happened? Peppercorn, he now ups and talks of revolutions and liberty and down with the aristocrats just like Mr. Hemsed over here. Pardon me, Mr. Jelly Band. Again interposed Mr. Hemsed feebly. I don't know as I ever did. Mr. Jelly Band had appealed to the company in general, who were listening all struck and open mouths at the recital of Mr. Peppercorn's defalcations. At one table two customers, gentlemen apparently by their clothes, had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes and had been listening for some time and evidently with much amusement at Mr. Jelly Band's international opinions. One of them now, with a quiet, sarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile mouth, turned towards the centre of the room when Mr. Jelly Band was standing. You seem to think, my nonest friend. He said quietly, that these Frenchmen, spies I think you called them, are mighty clever fellows to have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr. Peppercorn's opinions. How did they accomplish that now, thank you? Good sir, I suppose they talked him over. Those Frenchies I've heard said, have got the gift of gab. And Mr. Hemsed here will tell you how it is that they just twist some people round their little finger like. Indeed, and is that so Mr. Hemsed? Inquired the stranger politely. Nay, sir. Replied Mr. Hemsed, much irritated. I don't know as I can give you the information you require. Faith, then, said the stranger. Let us hope, my worthy host, that these clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your extremely loyal opinions. But this was too much for Mr. Jelly Band's pleasant equanimity. He burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by those who happened to be in his debt. Ha ha ha ha ha. He laughed in every key, did my worthy host, and laughed until his sides ached and his eyes streamed. At me? Hark at that, did your earim say that they'd be upsetting my opinions I love you sir, but you do say some queer things. Well Mr. Jelly Band said Mr. Hemsed sententiously. You know what the scriptures say, let Imoustans take heed lest he falls. But then hark ye, Mr. Ipsyde! Retort a jellyband, still holding his sides with laughter. The scriptures didn't know me. Why, I wouldn't so much as drink a glass of ale with one of them murdering Frenchmen. And nothing would make me change my opinions. Why, I've heard it said that them frog-eaters can't even speak the king's English. So of course, if any of him tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should spot them directly, see, and forewarned is forearmed as the saiyan goes. I, my honest friend, dissented the stranger chiefly. See that you are much too sharp and a match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here's to your very good health, my worthy host, if you'll do me the honour to finish this bottle of mine with me. I'm sure you're very polite, sir, said Mr. Jellyband, wiping his eyes which were still streaming with the abundance of his laughter. And I don't mind if I do. The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and having offered one to mine host, he took the other himself. Loyal Englishmen as we all are, he said, whilst the same humorous smile played round the corners of his thin lips. Loyal as we are, we must admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to us from France. I will none of us deny that, sir. I scented mine host. And here's to the best landlord in England, our worthy host, Mr. Jellyband. Said the stranger in a loud turn of voice. Hip hip hurrah! Retorted the whole company present. Then there was a loud clapping of hands, and mugs and tankards made a rattling music upon the tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing in particular, and of Mr. Jellyband's muttered exclamations. Just fancy me being talked over by any God-pursaken furriner. What? Lord love you, sir, but you do say some queer things. To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. It was certainly a preposterous suggestion that anyone could ever upset Mr. Jellyband's firmly-rooted opinions, and at the utter worthlessness of the inhabitants of the whole continent of Europe. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 The Refugees Feeling in every part of England certainly ran very high at this time against the French and their doings. Smugglers and legitimate traders between the French and the English coasts brought snatches of news from over the water, which made every honest Englishman's blood boil, and made him long to have a good go at those murderers, who had imprisoned their king and all his family, subjected the queen and the royal children to every species of indignity, and were even now loudly demanding the blood of the whole Bourbon family, and of every one of its adherents. The execution of the Princess de Lombal, Marie Antoinette's young and charming friend, had filled everyone in England with unspeakable horror. The daily execution of scores of royalists of good family, whose only sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for vengeance to the whole of civilized Europe. Yet with all that no one dared to interfere. Burke had exhausted all his eloquence in trying to induce the British government to fight the revolutionary government of France, but Mr. Pitt, with characteristic prudence, did not feel that this country was fit yet to embark on another arduous and costly war. It was for Austria to take the initiative. Austria, whose fairest daughter was even now a dethroned queen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob, surely T'was not, so argued Mr. Fox, for the whole of England to take up arms because one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another. As for Mr. Jellyband and his fellow John Bowles, though they looked upon all foreigners with withering contempt, they were royalist and anti-revolutionists to a man, and at this present moment were furious with Pitt for his caution and moderation, although they naturally understood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided that great man's policy. By now Sally came running back very excited and very eager. The joyous company in the coffee-room had heard nothing of the noise outside, but she had spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped at the door of the fisherman's rest, and while the stable-boy ran forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss Sally went to the front door to greet the welcome visitor. I think I see my Lord Antony's horse out in the yard, Father," she said as she ran across the coffee-room. But already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy rain, was round pretty Sally's waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the polished rafters of the coffee-room. I unbless your brown eyes by being such a shot my pretty Sally," said the man who had just entered. Whilst worthy, Mr. Jelly Band came bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one of the most favored guests of his hostel. Let I protest, Sally," added Lord Antony, as he deposited a kiss on Miss Sally's blooming cheeks. I'm growing pricier and pricier every time I see you. I, my honest friend Jelly Band here, have hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours. What say you, Mr. Wait?" Mr. Wait, torn between his respect for my Lord and his dislike of that particular type of joke, only replied with a doubtful grunt. Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter, was in those days a very perfect type of young English gentleman. Tall, well-set up, broad of shoulders and merry of face, his laughter rang loudly wherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively companion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with not too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a universal favorite in London drawing-rooms or in the coffee-rooms of village-ins. At the fisherman's rest, everyone knew him, for he was fond of a trip across to France and always spent a night under worthy Mr. Jelly Band's roof on his way there or back. He nodded to Wait, Pitkin, and the others, he at last released Jelly's waist and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry himself. As he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at the two strangers, who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes and, for a moment, a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his jovial young face. But only for a moment, the next he turned to Mr. Hempseed, who was respectfully touching his forelock. Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit? replied Mr. Hempseed dolefully. Oh, it's life! retorted Lord Anthony. It almost seemed when the young man said these words as if he threw a defiant look toward the quiet strangers in the corner. Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I've heard it said. said Mr. Jelly Band. But in a moment Lord Anthony's hand fell warningly on my host's arm. Hush! he said, peremptorily, and instinctively once again looked toward the strangers. Oh, lord, love you there, all right, my lord. retorted Jelly Band. That gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of King George as you are yourself, my lord, saving your presence. He is but lately arrived in Dover and is sitting down in business in these parts. In business? Faith then it must be as an undertaker for I vow I never beheld a more rueful countenance. Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower, which no doubt would account for the melancholy of his bearing, but he is a friend nevertheless. I'll vouch for that, and you will own my lord that who should judge of a face better than the landlord of a popular inn. Oh, that's all right then, if we're among friends. said Lord Anthony, who evidently did not care to discuss the subject with his host. But tell me, you have no one else staying here, have you? No one, my lord, and no one coming either, least ways. No one your lordship would object to, I know. Who is it? Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will be here presently, but they ain't going to stay. Lady Blakeney! queried Lord Anthony in some astonishment. I am, my lord. Sir Percy's skipper was here just now. He says that my lady's brother is crossing over to France today in the Daydream, which is Sir Percy's yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady will come with him as far as here to see the last of him. It don't put you out, do it, my lord? No, no, it doesn't put me out, friend. Nothing will put me out unless that supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can cook and which has ever been served in the fisherman's rest. You need to have no fear of that, my lord. said Sally, who all this time had been busy setting the table for supper, and very gay in inviting it looked with a large bunch of brilliantly colored dahlias in the center and the bright pewter goblets in blue china about. How many shall I life for you, my lord? Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be enough for ten at least. Our friends will be tired, and I hope hungry. As for me, I vow I could demolish a bar and a beef tonight. Here they are, I do believe, said Sally excitedly as a distant clatter of horses and wheels could now be distinctly heard drawing rapidly nearer. There was a general commotion in the coffee room. Everyone was curious to see my lord Antony's swell friends from over the water. Miss Sally cast one or two quick glances at the little bit of mirror which hung on the wall and worthy Mr. Jelly-Band bustled out in order to give the first welcome himself to his distinguished guests. Only the two strangers in the corner did not participate in the general excitement. They were calmly finishing their game of dominoes and did not even look once towards the door. Straight ahead come, Tissa, the door on your right. Said a pleasant voice outside. Aye, there they are, all right enough. Said Lord Antony joyfully. Off with you, my pretty Sally, and see how quick you can dish up the soup. The door was thrown wide open and preceded by Mr. Jelly-Band who was profuse in his bows and welcomes. A party of four, two ladies and two gentlemen entered the coffee room. Welcome, welcome to old England. Said Lord Antony effusively as he came eagerly forward with both hands outstretched towards the newcomers. Ah, you are Lord Antony Duhust, I think. Said one of the ladies speaking with a strong foreign accent. At your service, madame. He replied as he ceremoniously kissed the hands of both the ladies, then turned to the men and shook them both warmly by the hand. Sally was already helping the ladies to take off their travelling cloaks and both turned with a shiver towards the brightly blazing hearth. There was a general movement among the company in the coffee room. Sally had bustled off to her kitchen whilst Jelly-Band, still profuse with his respectful salutations, arranged one or two chairs around the fire. Mr. Hempseed touching his forelock was quietly vacating the seat in the hearth. Everyone was staring curiously, yet deferentially, at the foreigners. Ah, Miss Hills, what can I say? Said the elder of the two ladies as she stretched a pair of fine aristocratic hands to the warmth of the blaze and looked with unspeakable gratitude first at Lord Antony, the young men who had accompanied her party and who was busy divesting himself of his heavy-caped coat. Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse, replied Lord Antony, and that you would not suffer too much from your trying voyage. Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England, she said while her eyes filled with tears and we have already forgotten all that we have suffered. Her voice was musical and low and there was a great deal of calm dignity and of many sufferings nobly endured with its wealth of snowy white hair dressed high above the forehead after the fashion of the times. I hope my friend Sir Andrew Fuchs provided an entertaining travelling companion, Madame. Ah, indeed! Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How could my children and I ever show enough gratitude to you, O Lord Miss Hills? Her companion, a dainty girlish figure, childlike and pathetic in its look of fatigue and of sorrow, had said nothing as yet, so large, brown and full of tears, looked up from the fire and sought those of Sir Andrew Fuchs who had drawn near to the hearth and to her. Then as they met his which were fixed with unconcealed admiration upon the sweet face before him, a thought of warmer colour rushed up to her pale cheeks. So, this is England. She said as she looked round with childlike curiosity at the great hearth, the oak rafters and the yokels with their elaborate smocks of childish countenances. A bit of it, mademoiselle, replied Sir Andrew, smiling. But all of it at your service. The young girl blushed again, but this time a bright smile, fleet and sweet, illumined her dainty face. She said nothing, and Sir Andrew, too, was silent. Yet those two young people understood one another, as young people have a way of doing all the world over and have done since the world began. The young man said, as he thought, he was going to put the young lady's jovial voice. One moment, one moment, my lord, said Jelly Band as he threw open the door that lead to the kitchen and shouted lustily, SALLY! Hey, SALLY, there. Are you ready, my girl? Sally was ready and the next moment she appeared in the doorway carrying a gigantic terrine from which rose of savoury odor. —Odd's life, supper at last! —Ejaculated Lord Anthony merrily, as he gallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse. —May I have the honour? —He added ceremoniously, as he led her towards the supper table. There was a general bustle in the coffee-room. Mr. Himpseed and most of the yokels and fisherfolk had gone to make way for the quality, and to finish smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two strangers stayed on, quietly and unconcernedly, playing their game of dominoes and sipping their wine, whilst at another table Harry Waite, who was fast losing his temper, watched pretty Sally bustling round the table. She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, and no wonder that the susceptible young Frenchman could scarce take his eyes off her pretty face. The Vicomte de Tournai was scarce nineteen, a beardless boy, on whom terrible tragedies which were being enacted in his own country had made but little impression. He was elegantly and even foppishly dressed, and once safely landed in England, he was evidently ready to forget the horrors of the revolution, in the delights of English life. —Pardee, if this is England! —He said as he continued to ogle Sally with market satisfaction. —He am of it satisfied! —It would be impossible at this point to record the exact exclamation which escaped through Mr. Harry Waite's clenched teeth. Only respect for the quality, and notably for my Lord Anthony, kept his market disapproval of the young foreigner in check. —Nay, but this is England, you abandoned young reprobate! —Interposed Lord Anthony with a laugh. —And do not, I pray, bring your loose foreign ways into this most moral country! Lord Anthony had already sat down at the head of the table with the comtesse on his right. Jelly band was bustling round, filling glasses and putting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand round the soup. Mr. Harry Waite's friends had at last succeeded in taking him out of the room, for his temper was growing more and more violent under the Viscont's obvious admiration for Sally. —Suzanne? —came in stern commanding accents from the rigid comtesse. —Suzanne blushed again. She had lost count of time and of place while she had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young Englishman's eyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if unconsciously, to rest upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back to reality once more, and with a submissive, —Yes, Mama—she took her place at the supper table. Sir Andrew Fuchs and Lord Anthony Dewhurst, two typical good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grey 1792, and the aristocratic French contests with her two children, who had just escaped from such dire perils and found a safe retreat at last on the shores of protecting England. In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game. One of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at the table, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple-caped coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the words, —All safe! His companion, then, with the alertness born of long practice, slipped onto his knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the oak bench. The stranger, then, with a loud, —Good night! —quietly walked out of the coffee-room. Not one of those at the supper-table had noticed this curious and silent manoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the coffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief. —Alone at last! —said Lord Antony Jovially. Then the young, bicount deterne rose, glass in hand, and with the graceful affection peculiar to the times, he raised to loft and said in broken English, —To his majesty, George III of England, good bless him for his hospitality to all us poor exiles from France. —His Majesty the King echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank loyally to the toast. —To his majesty, King Louis of France, added Sir Andrew with solemnity, —May God protect him and give him victory over his enemies. Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fated the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jelly-Ban's pleasant countenance. —And to Monsieur Le Comte Tournée de Baselrieve, said Lord Antony Merrily, —May we welcome him in England before many days are over. —Ah, Monsieur. —said the contest, as with a slightly trembling hand, she conveyed her glass to her lips. —I scarcely dare to hope. —But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next few moments all conversations ceased, while Jelly-Ban and Sally handed round the plates and everyone began to eat. —Faith, madame. —said Lord Antony after a while. —Mine was no idle toast. Seeing yourself, Maboiselle Suzanne, and my friend the bicount, safely in England now, surely you must feel reassured as to the fate of Monsieur Le Comte. —Monsieur. —replied the contest with a heavy sigh. —I trust in God. I can but pray and hope. —I, madame. —hear interpose to your Andrew Fuchs. —trust in God by all means, but believe also a little in your English friends who have sworn to bring the count safely across the channel, even as they have brought you today. —Indeed, indeed, Monsieur. —she replied, —I have the fullest confidence in you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends have escaped from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was nothing short of a millcal, and all done by you and your friends. —We were but the hands, madame Le Comte, —but my husband, Monsieur, —said the contest, whilst unshed tears seemed to veil her voice. —He is in such daily peril. I would never have left him only. There were my children. I was torn between my duty to him and to them. They refused to go without me, and you and your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would be safe. But now that I am here amongst you all in this beautiful free England, I think of him flying for his life, hunted like a poor beast, and such pearl. I should not have left him. I should not have left him. —The poor woman had completely broken down. Fatigue, sorrow, and emotion had over-mastered her rigid aristocratic bearing. She was crying gently to herself while Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her tears. Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the contest while she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply for her. Their very silence testified to that. But in every century and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And so the two young men said nothing and busied themselves in trying to hide their feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish. —As for me, Monsieur— —said Suzanne suddenly as she looked through a wealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew. —I trust you absolutely, and I know that you will bring my dear father safely to England This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes and to bring a smile upon everybody's lips. —Nay. You shame me, mademoiselle— —replied Sir Andrew— —though my life is at your service, I have been but a humble tool in the hands of our great leader who organized and affected your escape. He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne's eyes fastened upon him in undisguised wonder. —You can't test eagerly. —Ah, of course. You must have a leader, and I did not think of that before. But tell me where he is, I must go to him at once, and I and my children must draw ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he has done for us. —Alas, madame— —said Lord Anthony— —that is impossible. —Impossible? Why? —Because the Scarlet Pimpinel works in the dark, and his identity is only known under immediate followers. —The Scarlet Pimpinel— —said Suzanne— —with a merry laugh. —What a droll name! What is the Scarlet Pimpinel, monsieur? She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young man's face had become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm, hero worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed literally to glow upon his face. —The Scarlet Pimpinel, mademoiselle— —he said at last— —is the name of a humble English wayside flower, but is also the name chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set himself to do. —Ah, yes— —he have heard speak of the Scarlet Pimpinel. A little flower, red? Yes? They say in Paris that every time a royaless escapes to England, that devil, Fouquier-Torvy, the public prosecutor, receives a papère with that little flower designated in red upon it. Yes? Yes, that is so. Then he will have received one such papère today. —Unditedly. —Oh, I wonder what he will say? —shed Suzanne Merrily. I have heard that the picture is the only thing that frightens him. —Faith then— —said Sir Andrew— —he will have many more opportunities of studying the shape of that small scarlet flower. —Ah, Monsieur— —side the contest— —it all sounds like a romance, and I cannot understand it all. —why should you try, madame? —but tell me, why should you are leader? Why should you all spend your money and risk your lives? —and all for us Frenchmen and women who are nothing to you. —Sport, madame Le Comte, sport! —asserted Lord Antony with his jovial, loud and pleasant voice. —We are a nation of sportsmen, you know, and just now it is the fashion to pull their hair from between their teeth at the hound. —Ah, no, no, no, sport only, Monsieur. You have a moral and noble motive. I am sure for the good work you do. —Faith, madame, I would like you to find it then. As for me, I'd buy what I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet encountered. Hair breath escapes, the devil's own risks, tally hoe, and away we go. —But the Countess shook her head still incredulously. To her it seemed preposterous that these young men and their great leader, all of them rich, probably well-born, and young should for no other motive than sport run the terrible risks which she knew they were constantly doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in France, would be no safeguard to them. Anyone found harboring their sistine suspected royalists would be ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed whatever his nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen head to her own knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the Revolution within the very walls of Paris itself, and it snatched away condemned victims almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With a shutter she recalled the events of the last few days. Her escape from Paris with her two children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood of a rickety cart, amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst the mob hailed à la lente en les oristaux at the awful west barricade. It had all occurred in such a miraculous way. She and her husband had understood that they had been placed on the list of suspected persons, which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days, of hours perhaps. Then came the hope of salvation, the mysterious epistle signed with the enigmatic scarlet device, the clear peremptory directions, the parting from the comte de tournée, which had torn the poor wife's heart in two, the hope of reunion, the flight with her two children, the covered cart, that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible evil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip-handle. The contests look round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the piece of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her eyes to shed out the haunting vision of that west barricade, and of the mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague. At that very moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other innocent people. And all only for sport? Impossible. Suzanne's eyes, as she sought those of Sir Andrew, plainly told him that she thought he, at any rate, rescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death through a higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe. How many are there on your brave leak, Monsieur? She asked timidly. Twenty all told, mademoiselle. He replied. One to command and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same cause, to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent. May God protect you all, Monsieures! Said the contest fervently. He has done that so far, madame. It is wonderful to me, wonderful, that you all be so brave, so devoted to your fellowmen. Yet you are all English, and in France totally is life, all in the name of liberty and fraternity. The women, even in France, have been more bitter against us aristocrats than the men. Said the vicant with a sigh. Ah, yes. I did the contest with a look of haughty disdain and intense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes. Because of that woman, Magarite sent juice for instance. She denounced the Marquis de Sarcière and all his family to the awful tribunal of that terror. Magarite's injustice? Said Lord Antony as he shot a quick and apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew. Magarite's injustice? Surely. Yes, replied the contest. Surely you'll know her. She was a leading actress at the Comédie Francais and she married an Englishman lately. You must know her. Know her? Know Lady Blakeney? No, Lady Blakeney. The most fashionable woman in London. The wife of the richest man in England. Of course we all know Lady Blakeney. She was a school fellow of mine at the Convent in Paris. Interbose Hussain. And we came over to England together to learn your language. I was very fond of Magarite and I cannot believe that she ever did anything so wicked. It certainly seems incredible. Said Sir Andrew. You say that she actually denounced the Marquis de Sarcière? Why should she have done such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake. No mistake is possible, Monsieur. Rejoin the contest, coldly. Magarite Saint-Juice-Brasa is a native Republican. There was some talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, Saint-Marquis de Sarcière. The Saint-Juice are quite plebeian and the Republican government employs many spades. I assure you there was no mistake. You had not heard this story? Faith, Madame. I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no one would credit it. Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of Wales. And Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in London. That may be, Monsieur. And we shall, of course, lead a very quiet life in England. But I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful country, I may never meet Magarite Saint-Juice. The proverbial wet blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent. Sir Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the contest, encased in the plate armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat rigid and unbending in her straight back chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked extremely uncomfortable and glanced once or twice apprehensively towards Jelly Band, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself. At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney? He contrived to whisper unobserved to my host, Any moment, my lord! whispered Jelly Band in reply. Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach. Louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable, then the rattle of horses' hoofs on the uneven cobblestones, and the next moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and rushed in excitedly. Sir Percy Blakeney on my lady! he shouted at the top of his voice, They're just arriving! First shouting, jingling of harness and iron hoofs upon the stones, a magnificent coach drawn by four superb bays had halted outside the porch of the fisherman's rest. End of Chapter 4 Recording by Tiffany Pinkham in Saint-Paul-de-Lenois, Quebec The Scarlet Pimpinol by Baroness Emma Oxie Chapter 5 Marguerite In a moment, the pleasant oak-rafted coffee-room of the inn became the scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had jumped up from his seat and was now giving many in confused directions to poor bewildered Jelly Band, who seemed at his wit's end what to do. For goodness' sake, man! admonished his lordship. Try to keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies withdraw. Sounds! he added with a more emphatic oath. This is most unfortunate. Quick! Sally! The candles! shouted Jelly Band. As hopping about from one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general discomfort of everybody. The Comptes, too, had risen to her feet, rigid and erect, trying to hide her excitement beneath more becoming Saint-Paul. She repeated mechanically, I will not see her! I will not see her! Outside the excitement attended upon the arrival of very important guests, grew apace. Good day, Sir Patsy! Good day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir Patsy! Was heard in one long, continued chorus with alternate, more feeble tones of Remember the poor, blind man of your charity, lady and gentlemen? Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din. Let the poor man be and give him some supper at my expense. The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it and a faint souson of borne intonation in the pronunciation of the consonants. Everyone in the coffee room heard it and paused instinctively, listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comptes was in the act of beating a hasty retreat before the enemy who owned such a sweet musical voice. Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her mother, while casting regretful glances toward the door, where she hoped still to see her dearly beloved erstwhile school fellow. The lady band threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping to avert the catastrophe which she felt was in the air and the same low musical voice said with a merry laugh and mock consternation Ugh, I'm as wet as a herring. Dear, has anyone ever seen such a contemptible climate? Suzanne, come with me at once. I wish it! said the Comptes peremptorily. Oh, mama! slated Suzanne. My lady... My lady... I came in feeble accents from Jelly Band who stood clumsily trying to bow the way. Pardon you, my good man, said Lady Blackney with some impatience. What are you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with a sore foot? Let me get to the fire I am perished with the cold. And the next moment Lady Blackney, gently pushing mine host to one side, had swept into the coffee room. There are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite Saint-Geste, Lady Blackney as she was then, but it is doubtful if any of these are beauty justice. Tall above the average with magnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even the Comptes paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turning her back on so fascinating an apparition. Marguerite Blackney was then scarcely 5 and 20, and her beauty was at its most dazzling stage, the large hat with its undulating and waving plumes through a soft shadow across the classic brow with the oriol of urban hair, free at the moment of any powder, the sweet almost childlike mouth, round nose, round chin and delicate throat, all seem set off by the picturesque costume of the period. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the graceful contour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held with a dignity all its own, the tall stick adorned with a bunch of ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying recently. With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blackney had taken stock of everyone there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Fox whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony. Hello my Lord Tony, why what are you doing here in Dover? She said merrily. Then without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness as she stretched out both arms toward the young girl. Why if that isn't my little Susanne over there? Pot you little citizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too? She went up effusive to them both, with not a single touch of embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew watched the little scene with eager apprehension. He had often been in France and had mixed sufficiently with the French to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred which with the old noblesse of France viewed all those who had helped contribute to their downfall. Armand Sous-Jus, the brother of beautiful lady Blackney, though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views, was an ardent Republican. His feud with the ancient family of Sincere, the rights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew, had culminated in the downfall, the almost total extinction of the latter. In France Sous-Jus and his party had triumphed here in England, face to face with these three refugees driven from their country, flying for their lives, bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them. There stood a fair sign of those same Republican families which had hurled down a throne and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the dim and distant vista of bygone centuries. She stood there before them in all the unconscious insolence of beauty and stretched out her dainty hand to them as if she would by that one act bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past decade. Susan, I forbid you to speak to that woman. Said the Comtess sternly as she placed her restraining hand upon her daughter's arm. She had spoken in English so that all might hear and understand the two young English gentlemen as well as the common innkeeper and his daughter. The latter literally gasped with horror at this foreign insolence, this impudence before her ladyship, who was English now that she was Sir Percy's wife and a friend of the Princess of Wales to boot. As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Fox, their very heart seemed to stand still with horror at this gratuitous insult. One of them uttered an exclamation of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctively both glanced hurriedly toward the door whence a slow, drawly, not unpleasant voice had already been heard. Alone among those present, Marguerite Blackney and the Comtess de Torne had remained seemingly unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect and defiant with one hand still upon her daughter's arm seemed the very personification of unbending pride. For the moment Marguerite's sweet face had become as white as a soft fissue which shwafed her throat and an observer might have noted that the hand which held the tall baribbon's deck was clenched and trembled somewhat. But this was only momentary. The next instant the delicate eyebrows were raised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically upwards, the clear blue eyes looked straight at the rigid Comtess and with a slight shrug of the shoulders Whitey-toity, Citizen S. She said gaily, We are in England now, madame. rejoined the Comtess coldly and I am at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship. Come, Suzanne. She beckoned to her daughter and without another look at Marguerite Blackney but with a deep old-fashioned curtsy to the two young men she sailed majestically out of the room. There was silence in the old impala for a moment as the rustle of the Comtess's skirts died away down the passage. Marguerite rigid as a statue followed with hard set eyes the upright figure as it disappeared through the doorway. But as little Suzanne, humble and obedient was about to follow her mother the hard set expression suddenly vanished and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blackney's eyes. Little Suzanne caught that look. The child's sweet nature went out to the beautiful woman scarcely older than herself. Filial obedience vanished before girlish sympathy. At the door she turned ran back to Marguerite and putting her arms around her kissed her effusively. Then only did she follow her mother salivating up the rear with the final curtsy to my lady. Suzanne's sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension. So Andrew's eyes followed the pretty little figure until it had quite disappeared. Then they met Lady Blackney's with unassumed merriment. Marguerite with dainty affection had kissed her hand to the ladies as they disappeared through the door. Then a humorous smile began hovering round the corners of her mouth. So that's it, is it? she said gaily. Lassar, Andrew, did you ever see such an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I shan't look like that. She gathered up her skirts and assuming a majestic gate stalked towards the fireplace. Suzanne. she said mimicking the Comtess's voice. I forbid you to speak to that woman. The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a trifle forced and hard. But neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were very keen observers. The mimicry was so perfect and the tone of voice so accurately reproduced that both the young men joined in a hearty cheerful Bravo! Bravo! Ah, Lady Blackney. added Lord Tony. How they must miss you at the Comédie Française. And how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having taken you away. Lotman. rejoined Marguerite with a shrug of her graceful shoulders. It is impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything. His witty sallys would desire even Madame Le Comtess herself. The young Big Compte, who had not elected to follow his mother in her dignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the Comtess should Lady Blackney aim any further shafts at her. But before he could utter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant though distinctly inane laugh was heard from outside. And the next moment, an unusually tall and very richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 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. Narration by Missy Guangzhou, China The Scarlet Pimpernel By Baroness Emma Ortsy Chapter 6 An Exquisite of 92 Sir Percy Blackney Sir Percy Blackney, as the chronicles of the time inform us, was in this year of grace 1792 still a year or two on the right side of 30. Tall, above the average even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered and massively built, he would have been called unusually good-looking, but for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes, and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure his strong, clearly-cut mouth. It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blackney, Baronet, one of the richest men in England, leader of all the fashions an intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in London and Bath by bringing home from one of his journeys abroad a beautiful, fascinating, clever, French wife. He, the sleepiest, dullest, most British-Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman yawning, had secured a brilliant matrimony prize for which, as all chroniclers aver there had been many competitors. Marguerite Saint-Just had first made her debut in artistic Parisian circles at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval the world has ever known was taking place within its very walls. Scarcely 18, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by a young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her in her charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was as brilliant as it was exclusive. Exclusive, that is to say, only from one point of view. Marguerite Saint-Just was from principle and by conviction a Republican. Equality of birth was her motto. Inequality of fortune was in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only inequality she admitted was that of talent. Money and titles may be hereditary, but brains are not. And thus her charming salon was reserved for originality and intellect. For brilliance and wit, for clever men and talented women and the entrance into it was soon looked upon in the world of intellect, which even in those days and in those troubleous times found its pivot in Paris as the seal to an artistic career. Clever men, distinguished men and even men of exalted station formed a perpetual and brilliant court round the fascinating young actress of the comedy Français. And she glided through Republican revolutionary bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a trail behind her of all that was most distinguished, most interesting in intellectual Europe. Then the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and called it an artistic eccentricity. Others looked upon it as a wise provision in view of the many events which were crowding thick and fast in Paris just then, but to all, the real motive of that climax remained a puzzle and a mystery. Anyway, Marguerite Saint-Just married Sir Percy Blakeney one fine day, just like that, without any warning to her friends, without a soireille de contrat, or dîner des fiancéles, or other appurtenances of a fashionable French wedding. How that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be admitted within the intellectual circle which revolved round the cleverest woman in Europe, as her friends unanimously called her, no one ventured to gas. Golden Key, is said to open every door, asserted the more malignantly inclined. Enough, she married him and the cleverest woman in Europe had linked her fate to that damned idiot Blakeney and not even her most intimate friends could assign to this strange step any other motive than that of supreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew laugh to score in the idea that Marguerite Saint-Just had married a fool for the sake of the worldly advantages with which he might endow her. They knew as a matter of fact that Marguerite Saint-Just cared nothing about money and still less about a title. Moreover, there were at least half a dozen other men in the cosmopolitan world equally well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney, who would have been only too happy to give Marguerite Saint-Just any position she might choose to covet. As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to be unqualified for the honorous post he had taken upon himself. His chief qualifications for it seemed to consist in his blind adoration for her, his great wealth and the high favor in which he stood at the English court. But London society thought that taking into consideration his own intellectual limitations, it would have been wiser on his part had he bestowed those worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and witty wife. Although lately he had been so prominent a figure in fashionable English society, he had spent most of his early life abroad. His father, the late Sir Algernon Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune of seeing an idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two years of happy married life. Percy had just been born when the late Lady Blakeney fell prey to the terrible malady which in those days was looked upon as hopelessly incurable and nothing short of a curse of God upon the entire family. Sir Algernon took his afflicted young wife abroad and there presumably Percy was educated and grew up between an imbecile mother and a distracted father until he attained his majority. The death of his parents following close upon one another left him a free man, and as Sir Algernon had led a forcibly simple and retired life, the large Blakeney fortune had increased tenfold. Sir Percy Blakeney had traveled a great deal abroad before he brought home his beautiful young French wife. The fashionable circles of the time were ready to receive them both with open arms. Sir Percy was rich, his wife was accomplished, the Prince of Wales took a very great liking to them both. Within six months they were the acknowledged leaders of fashion and of style. Sir Percy's coats were the talk of the town, his inanities were quoted, his foolish laugh copied by the gilded youth at Almax or the Mall. Everyone knew that he was hopelessly stupid but then that was scarcely to be wondered at seeing that all the Blakeneys for generations had been notoriously dull and that his mother died in imbecile. Thus society accepted him, petted him, made much of him, since his horses were the finest in the country, his fates and wines the most sought after. As for his marriage with the cleverest woman in Europe, well, the inevitable came with sure and rapid footsteps. No one pitied him since his fate was of his own making. There were plenty of young ladies in England of high birth and good looks who would have been quite willing to help him spend the Blakeney fortune whilst smiling indulgently at his inanities and his good-humored foolishness. Moreover Sir Percy got no pity because he seemed to require none. He seemed very proud of his clever wife and to care little that she took no pains to disguise that good-natured contempt which she evidently felt for him and that she even amused herself by sharpening her ready wits at his expense. But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the ridicule with which his wife covered him, and if his matrimonial relations with the fascinating Parisienne had not turned out all that his hopes and dog-like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do more than vaguely guess at it. In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second fiddle to his clever wife with imperturbable bond homie. He lavished jewels and luxuries of all kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace dispensing the hospitality of his superb mansion with the same graciousness with which she had welcomed the intellectual coterie of Paris. Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome, always accepting the lazy, bored look which was habitual to him. He was always irreproachably dressed and wore the exaggerated, incroyable fashions which had just crept across from Paris to England with the perfect good taste innate in an English gentleman. On this special afternoon in September he played the long journey by coach. In spite of rain and mud his coat set irreproachably across his fine shoulders. His hands looked almost femininely white as they emerged through billowy frills of finest match-line lace. The extravagantly short-waisted satin coat, wide-lapel waistcoat and tight-fitting striped britches set off his massive figure to perfection. And in repose one might have admired so fine a specimen of English manhood until the thoppish ways, the perpetual inane laugh brought one's admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an abrupt close. He had lulled into the old-fashioned impaler, shaking the wet off his fine overcoat, then putting up a gold-rimmed eye-glass to his lazy blue eye, he surveyed the company upon whom an embarrassed silence had suddenly fallen. Howdy, Tony, howdy, folks! He said, recognizing the two young men and shaking them by the hand, Jones, my dear fellow! He added, smothering a slight yawn Did you ever see such a beastly day jammed climb at this? With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half of sarcasm, Marguerite had turned towards her husband and was surveying him from head to foot with an amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes. Love! said Sir Percy after a moment or two silence as no one offered any comment. How sheepish you all look! What's up? Oh, nothing, Sir Percy! He replied, Marguerite, with a certain amount of degaity which, however, sounded somewhat forced. Nothing to disturb your equanimity. Only an insult to your wife. The laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended to reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparently succeeded in that for echoing the laugh he rejoined placidly. Oh, my dear, you don't say so. Big! Who was the bald man who dared to tackle you, huh? Lord Tony tried to interpose but had no time to do so, for the young Vicomte had already quickly stepped forward. Monsieur? He said, prefixing his little speech with an elaborate bow and speaking in broken English. My mother, the contest to tournée de Bassarif has offenced, madame. Who I see is your wife. He cannot ask your pardon for me, mother. What she does is right in my eyes. But I am ready to offer you the usual reparation between men of honour. The young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and looked very enthusiastic, very proud and very hot, as he gazed at six-foot odd of gorgeousness as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney Berenet. Lord Sir Andrew, said Marguerite with one of her merry infectious laughs. Look on that pretty picture, the English turkey and the French plantum. The simile was quite perfect and the English turkey looked down with complete bewilderment upon the dainty little French plantum which hovered quite threateningly around him. Lausseur! said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eyeglass and surveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment. Where in the cacchus' name did you learn to speak English? Monsieur! protested the vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way his warlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous looking Englishman. Continued Sir Percy, imperturbably. Damned marvellous! Don't you think so, Johnny, huh? I vow I cannot speak the French lingo like that word. Nay, I'll vouch for that. So Percy has a British accent you could cut with a knife. And to pose the vicomte earnestly and in still more broken English. If here you have not understand, I offer you the only possible reparation among gentlemen. What a devil is that? asked Sir Percy blandly. My sword, Monsieur! replied the vicomte, who, though still bewildered, was beginning to lose his temper. You are a sportsman, Lord Tony! said Marguerite Merrily. But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the vicomte for a moment or two through his partly closed heavy lids. Then he smothered another yawn, stretched his long limbs and turned leisurely away. I love you, sir! What is the good of your sword to me? What the vicomte thought and felt at that moment when that long-limbed Englishman treated him with such marked insolence might fill volumes of sound reflections. What he said resolved itself into a single articulate word for all the others were choked in his throat by his surging wrath. I do not miss you! He stammered. Once more, Blakeney turned and from his high altitude looked down on the choleric little man before him. But not even for a second did he seem to lose his own imperturbable good humor. He laughed his own pleasant and inane laugh and, burying his slender long hands into the capacious pockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely, A blood-toasted young Ruffian, do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man? As for me, sir, I never fight too else. He added as he placidly sat down and stretched his long, lazy legs out before him. Damn uncomfortable things! Do else, aren't they, Johnny? Now, the Vicompt had no doubt vaguely heard that in England the fashion of dueling amongst gentlemen had been suppressed by the law with a very stern hand. Still, to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of bravery and honour were based upon a code that had centuries of tradition to back it, the spectacle of a gentleman actually refusing to fight a duel was little short of an enormity. In his mind he vaguely pondered whether he should strike that long-legged Englishman in the face and call him a coward, or whether such conduct in a lady's presence might be deemed un-gentlemanly when Marguerite happily interposed. I pray you, Lord Tony. She said in that gentle, sweet musical voice of hers, I pray you play the peacemaker. The child is bursting with rage and she added with a sous-en of dry sarcasm. She laughed a mocking little laugh which, however, did not in the least disturb her husband's placid equanimity. Oh! The British turkey has had the day, she said. So Percy would provoke all the saints in the calendar and keep his temper the while. But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had joined in the laugh against himself. Damn smart Dad now, wasn't it? He said, turning pleasantly to the vicomte, Gleaver or my wife sir you will find Dad out if you live long enough in England. So Percy is right, Vicomte. It would hardly be fitting that you should commend your career in England by provoking him to a duel. For a moment longer the vicomte hesitated, then with a slight shrug of the shoulders directed against the extraordinary coat of honour prevailing in this fog-ridden island he said with becoming dignity. Ah, well, if me sure is satisfied, I have no griefs. You, me, Lord, are our protector. If I have done wrong, I will have no griefs. You, me, Lord, if I have done wrong, I will draw myself. I do. Rejoin Blakeney with a long sigh of satisfaction. Would you yourself, oh, what dear? Damn the excitable little puppy. He added under his breath, Fat folks, if that is the specimen of the Curse you and your friends will bring over from French, my advice to you is, drop them mid-channel, my friend, or I shall have to see you all pit about it. Get him to clave on a prohibitive tariff and put you in the stalks and in smuggle. Last, O Percy, your chivalry misguided you, said Marguerite coquettishly. You forget that you yourself have imported one bundle of goods from France. Blakeney slowly rose to his feet and, making a deep and elaborate bow before his wife, he said with consummate gallantry, I had to pick up the market, madam, and my taste is unerring. More so than your chivalry, I fear. All this life, my dear, be reasonable. Do you think I am going to allow my body to be made a pincushion of by every little frog-eater who don't like the shape of your nose? Lots, O Percy. Laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint and pretty curtsy. You need not be afraid, just not the men who dislike the shape of my nose. Afraid be damned. Do you peel my bravery, ma'am? I don't patronize the ring for nothing. Do I, Tony? I have put out a face to sweet-rate Sainvi for now, and he didn't get it all his own way either. So face, Sir Percy. Said Marguerite with a long and merry laugh that went echoing along the old oak rafters of the parlor. I would I had seen you then. You must have looked a pretty picture and to be afraid of a little French boy. Ha ha ha ha. Echoed Sir Percy, good-humoredly. Ah, ma'am, you honor me. Jokes, folks mock your dad. I have made my wife love the clavorous doorman in Europe. Arts fish, we must have a ball on that. And he tapped vigorously on the table near him. Hey, jelly quick man, here jelly. Harmony was once more restored. Mr. Jelly-Band, with a mighty effort, recovered himself from the many emotions he had experienced within the last half hour. He bellowed punch jelly, hard and strong, eh? Said Sir Percy. The way to dad I've just made a clave of rum and love must be whetted. Ha ha ha ha. As soon, my good jelly. Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy. Interposed Marguerite. The skipper will be here directly and my brother must get on board or the daydream will miss the tide. Time, my dear. There's plenty of time for a gentleman to get drunk and get on board before the dawn of the tide. I think, your ladyship. Said Jelly-Band, respectfully, that the young gentleman's coming along now with Sir Percy's skipper. That's right. Said Blakeney. Then Armond can join us in the merry-bell. Thank you, Donny. He added, turning towards the vicomte, that the jacanapiz of yours will join us in a class. Tell them that we drink in token of reconciliation. In fact, you are all such merry company. Said Marguerite. That I trust you will forgive me if I bid my brother goodbye in another room. It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord Antony and Sir Andrew felt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with them at the moment. Her love for her brother, Armond St. Joost, was deep and touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with her in her English home and was going back to serve his country at the moment when death was the usual reward for the most enduring devotion. Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. With that perfect, somewhat affected gallantry which characterized his every movement, he opened the coffee room door for her and made her the most approved and elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him more than a passing, slightly contemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Bokes, whose every thought since he had met Suzanne de Ternay seemed keener, more gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the retreating figure of his brilliant wife. End of CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII THE SECRET ORCHARD Once outside the noisy coffee room along in the dimly-lighted passage, Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe more freely. She heaved a deep sigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the heavy weight of constant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheated down her cheeks. Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly passing clouds the pale arrays of an afterstorm sun shone upon the beautiful white coast of Kent and the quaint irregular houses that clustered round the Admiralty Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped onto the porch and looked out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever-changing sky, a graceful schooner with white sail set gently dancing in the breeze. The daydream it was, Sir Percy Blakeney's yacht which was ready to take Armand St. Just back to France into the very midst of that seething bloody revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society in order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new utopia of which a few men dreamed but which none had the power to establish. In the distance the figures were approaching the fisherman's rest. One, an oldish man with a curious fringe of grey hairs round a rotund and massive chin and who walked with that peculiar rolling gate which invariably betrays the seafaring man. The other, a young slight figure neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many-caped overcoat. He was clean-shaved and his dark hair was taken well back over a clear and noble forehead. Amal, said Marguerite Blakeney as soon as she saw him approaching from the distance and a happy smile shown on her sweet face even through the tears. A minute or two later brother and sister were locked in each other's arms while the old skipper stood respectfully on one side. How much time have we got, Briggs? asked Lady Blakeney before Monsieur Saint-Just need go on board. We ought to lay anchor half an hour before your ladyship. Replied the old man, pulling at his grey forelock. Linking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother toward the cliffs. Half an hour. She said, looking wistfully at to sea. Half an hour more and you'll be far for me, Amal. Oh, I can't believe that you're going, dear. These last few days whilst Percy has been away and I've had you all to myself have slipped by like a dream. I am not going far, sweet one, said the young man gently. A narrow channel to cross, a few miles of road. I can soon come back. Nate is not the distance, Amal, but that awful Paris. Just now. They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle sea breeze blew Marguerite's hair about her face and sent the ends of her soft lace fissue waving round her like a white and supple snake. She tried to pierce the distance far away beyond which lay the shores of France. That relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound of flesh, the blood tax from the noblest of her sons. Our own beautiful country, Marguerite, said Armand, who seemed to have devined her thoughts. They are going too far, Amal, she said vehemently. You are a Republican, so am I. We have the same thoughts, the same enthusiasm for liberty and equality, but even you must think that they are going too far. Hush! said Armand instinctively, as he threw a quick, apprehensive glance around him. Ah, you see. You don't think yourself that it is safe even to speak of these things here in England? She clung to him suddenly with strong, almost motherly passion. Don't go, Amal. She begged. Don't go back. What should I do if—if—if— Her voice was choked in sobs. Her eyes, tender, blue and loving, gazed appealingly at the young man who in his turn looked steadfastly into hers. You would in any case be my own brave sister. He said gently. Who would remember that when France is in peril it is not for her sons to turn their back on her? Even as he spoke, that sweet, childlike smile crept back into her face, pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed drowned in tears. Ah, Amal. She said quaintly. I sometimes wish you had not so many lofty virtues. I assure you little sins are far less dangerous and uncomfortable. But you will be prudent. She added earnestly. As far as possible, I promise you. Remember, dear, I have only you two to care for me. Nay, sweet one, you have other interests now. Percy cares for you? A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes as she murmured. He did—once. But surely— There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my account. Percy is very good. Nay! He interrupted energetically. I will distress myself on your account, my Margo. Listen, dear, I have not spoken of these things to you before. Something always seemed to stop me when I wished to question you. But somehow I feel as if I could not go away and leave you now without asking you one question. You need not answer it if you do not wish. He added, as he noted a sudden hard look, almost of apprehension, darting through her eyes. What is it? She asked simply. Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that—I mean, does he know the part you played in the arrest of the Marquis de Saint-Sère? She laughed, a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which was like a jarring chord in the music of her voice. Oh! That I denounced the Marquis de Saint-Sère, you mean, to the tribunal that ultimately sent him and all his family to the guillotine. Yes, he does know. I told him after I married him. You told him all the circumstances, which so completely exonerated you from any blame? It was too late to talk of circumstances. He heard the story from other sources. My confession came too tardily, it seems. I could no longer plead extenuating circumstances. I could not demean myself by trying to explain— And? And now I had the satisfaction, Amal, of knowing that the biggest fool in England has the most complete contempt for his wife. She spoke with vehement bitterness this time. And Armand St. Just, who loved her so dearly, felt that he had placed a somewhat clumsy finger upon an aching wound. But Sir Percy loved you, Marco, he repeated gently. Loved me? Well, Amal, I thought at one time that he did or I should not have married him. I daresay— She added, speaking very rapidly, as if she were about to lay down a heavy burden which had oppressed her for months. I daresay that even you thought, as everybody else did, that I married Sir Percy because of his wealth. But I assure you, dear, that it was not so. He seemed to worship me with a curious intensity of concentrated passion which went straight to my heart. I had never loved anyone before, as you know. And I was four and twenty then, so I naturally thought that it was not in my nature to love. But it has always seemed to me that it must be heavenly, to be loved blindly, passionately, wholly, worshipped in fact. And the very fact that Percy was slow and stupid was an attraction for me, as I thought he would love me all the more. A clever man would naturally have other interests, an ambitious man other hopes. I thought that a fool would worship and think of nothing else. And I was ready to respond, Amal. I would have allowed myself to be worshipped and given infinite tenderness and return. She sighed. And there was a world of disillusionment in that sigh. Armand St. Just had allowed her to speak on without interruption. He listened to her, whilst allowing his own thoughts to run riot. It was terrible to see a young and beautiful woman, a girl in all but name, still standing almost at the threshold of her life, yet bereft of hope, bereft of illusions, bereft of all those golden and fantastic dreams which should have made her youth one long perpetual holiday. Yet perhaps, though he loved his sister dearly, perhaps he understood. He had studied men in many countries, men of all ages, men of every grade of social and intellectual status, and inwardly he understood what Marguerite had left unsaid. Granted that Percy Blakeney was dull-witted, but in his slow-going mind there would still be room for that ineradicable pride of a descendant of a long line of English gentlemen. A Blakeney had died on Bosworth Field, another had sacrificed life and fortune for the sake of a treacherous steward, and that same pride, foolish and prejudiced as the Republican Armand would call it, must have been stung to the quick on hearing of the sin which lay at Lady Blakeney's door. She had been young, misguided, ill-advised perhaps, Armand knew that, her impulses and imprudence knew it still better. But Blakeney was slow-witted, he would not listen to circumstances, he only clung to facts, and these had shown him Lady Blakeney denouncing a fellow man to a tribunal that knew no pardon, and the contempt he would feel for the deed she had done, however unwittingly, would kill that same love in him in which sympathy and intellectuality could never had a part. Yet even now, his own sister puzzled him, life and love have such strange vagaries. Could it be that with the waning of her husband's love Marguerite's heart had awakened with love for him? Strange extremes meet in love's pathway. This woman, who had had half intellectual Europe at her feet, might perhaps have set her affections on a fool. Marguerite was gazing out towards the sunset. Armand could not see her face, but presently it seemed to him that something which glittered for a moment in the golden evening light fell from her eyes onto her dainty fissue of lace. But he could not broach that subject with her. He knew her strange, passionate nature so well, and knew that reserve which lurked behind her frank open ways. They had always been together, these two, for their parents had died when Armand was still a youth, and Marguerite but a child. He, some eight years her senior, had watched over her until her marriage, had chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in the flat of the Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her enter upon this new life of hers here in England with much sorrow and some foreboding. This was his first visit to England since her marriage, and a few months of separation had already seemed to have built up a quite thin partition between brother and sister. The same deep, intense love was still there on both sides, but each now seemed to have a secret orchard into which the other dared not penetrate. There was much Armand Saint-Just could not tell his sister. The political aspect of the revolution in France was changing almost every day. She might not understand how his own views and sympathies might become modified, even as the excesses committed by those who had been his friends grew in horror and in intensity. And Marguerite could not speak to her brother about the secrets of her heart. She hardly understood them herself. She only knew that in the midst of luxury she felt lonely and unhappy. And now Armand was going away. She feared for his safety. She longed for his presence. She would not spoil these last few sadly sweet moments by speaking about herself. She led him gently along the cliffs then down to the beach. Their arms linked in one another's they had still so much to say that lay just outside that secret orchard of theirs. End of Chapter 7 Narration by Justin Barrett