The Scarlet PimpernelEmmuska Orczy Orczy (Baroness)





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THE
SCARLET PIMPERNEL
!
BT
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BARONESS ORCZY
New York
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers


THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
526.V4S
ASTOn, LENOX
TILCE.N
Published, September, 1905
Reprinted, January, xpo6; July, 1906
September, 1906; June, 1907; October, 1907
February, 1908; November, 1908 ; January, 1909
April, 1909; March, 1910; September, igio
TO* Itnlcfccrtwcfeer pre*e» Hew fiocft


80
JULIA NEILSON AND FRED TERRY
WHOSE GENIUS CREATED THE uftl.ES OF
SIR MRCY AND LADY BLAKENEY
ON THE STAGE,
THIS BOOK
IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.





I
CONTENTS
I. PA»H: SEPTEMBER 1792 . . . i
II. DOVER: "THEFISHEEHAN'I REST" . . n
III. THE RBFDGKBS ..... 33
IV. THE LKAGUI OP T.I SCARLET PIMFBKNBL . 33
v.MARGUERITE .... 49
VI. AN EXQUISITE OF'92 ... 49
VII. THE SECRET ORCHARD . .61
VIII. THE ACCREDITED AGENT . . . 69
INTHE OUTRAGE ... .81
X. IN TMB OPERA Box .... 90
XI. LOED GKBNVII.I.B'S BALL ... 108
XII. Turn SCRAP OP PAPBB . . . .116
XIII. EITHBR—OR? . . . . .126
XIV. OlfB O'CLOCK PlBCISBLTl . . .139
XV. DOUBT 139
xvi. RICHMOND . . . . .146
XVII. FAEBWBLL . . . . .163
x v in. THB MYSTBEIOOS DBVICI • • . 179


ri CONTENTS
cur. mam
XIX. THE SCAM.BT PIMPERNEL . . .178
XX. THB FRIBND . . . . . 189
XXI. SUSPENSB . . . . . 197
XXII. CALAIS . . . . .107
XXIII. HOPB ...... 219
XXIV. THE DEATHTRAP . . . .228
XXV. THE EAGLE AND THE Fox . . .936
XXVI. THB JBW 246
XXVII. ON THE TRACK a$8
XXVIII. THB PfcRK BLANCHAKD'S HOT . . 267
XXIX. TKAPPBD ... .378
XXX. THE SCHOONER .... 284
XXXI. THB ESCAPE . . . 299


ILLUSTRATIONS
•• My wife is a demned clever woman." . Frontispiece
"Now then, Sally, me girl, now then! ... stop that
fooling with them young jackanapes" . . . 18
"Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy" .... 58
•• Pretty women . . . ought to have a good time in
England, since all the pleasant things are forbidden
them—the very things they do every day" . . 76
''Allow me, Comtesse, to introduce to you Lady Blakeney,
who honours us with her friendship" . . .112
"And you believed them then and there," she said with
great vehemence, "without a proof or question I" . 154
"The agent or spy of the French Government—the man
hauvelin, I mean—is on my track!" . . . 202
"La! he seems ill-tempered, and methought he had such
an engaging countenance" ..... 250
Reproduced from the original photographs by the courtesy of
Messrs.Ellis & Waller, London
J





The Scarlet Pimpernel
CHAPTER I
PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1791
A SURGING, seething, murmuring crowd, of beings that
are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they
seem naught but savage creatures, animated by vile
passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate.
The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place,
the West Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade
later, a proud tyrant raised an undying monument to the
nation's glory and his own vanity.
During the greater part of the day the guillotine had
been kept busy at its ghastly work: all that France had
boasted of in the past centuries, of ancient names, and
blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for liberty and for
fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this late
hour of the day because there were other more interesting
sights for the people to witness, a little while before the
final closing of the barricades for the night.
And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la
Greve and made for the various barricades in order to
watch this interesting and amusing sight
.
It was to be seen every day, for those aristos wero


2 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
such fools I They were traitors to the people of course,
all of them, men, women, and children, who happened
to be descendants of the great men who since the
Crusades had made the glory of France: her old
noblesse. Their ancestors had oppressed the people,
had crushed them under the scarlet heels of their dainty
buckled shoes, and now the people had become the
rulers of France and crushed their former masters—not
beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in
these days—but beneath a more effectual weight, the
knife of the guillotine.
And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture
claimed its many victims—old men, young women,
tiny children, even until the day when it would finally
demand the head of a King and of a beautiful
young Queen.
~^-But this was as it should be: were not the people
now the rulers of France? Every aristocrat was a
traitor, as his ancestors had been before him: for two
hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled,
and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extrava-
gance; 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 venge-
ance of the people.
And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just
the fun of the whole thing. Every afternoon before the
gates closed and the market carts went out in proces-
sion by the various barricades, some fool of an aristo
endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of
Public Safety. In various disguises, under various
pretexts, they tried to slip through the barriers which
were so well guarded by citizen soldiers of the Republic
Men in women's clothes, women in male attire, childr


PARIS: SKPTKMRKR
disguised in beggars' rags: there were some of all sorts:
ci-dtvant counts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to
fly from France, reach England or some other equally
accursed country, and there try to rouse foreign feeling
against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an army in
order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple,
who had once called themselves sovereigns of France.
But they were nearly always caught at the barricades.
Sergeant Bibot especially at the West Gate had a
wonderful nose for scenting an aristo in the most
perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began.
Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the
mouse, play with him, sometimes for quite a quarter of
an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by the disguise, by
the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid
the identity of a ci-devant noble marquise or count.
Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was
well worth hanging round that West Barricade, in order
to see him catch an aristo in the very act of trying to
flee from the vengeance of the people.
Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by
the gates, allowing him to think for the space of two
minutes at least that he really had escaped out of Paris,
and might even manage to reach the coast of England in
safety: but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk
about ten metres towards the open country, then he
would send two men after him and bring him back,
stripped of his disguise.
Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the
fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud
marchioness, who looked terribly comical when she
found herself in Bibot's clutches after all, and knew that
a summary trial would await her the next day and after
that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.


4 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September
the crowd round Bibot's gate was eager and excited.
The lust of blood grows with its satisfaction, there is no
satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble heads fall
beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure
that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.
Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask
close by the gate of the barricade; a small detachment
of citoyen soldiers was under his command. The work
had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were
becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of
Paris: men, women and children, whose ancestors, even
in remote ages, had served those traitorous Bourbons,
were all traitors themselves and right food for the
guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of
unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them
back to be tried by the Committee of Public Safety,
presided over by that good patriot, Citoyen Foucquier-
Tinville.
Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot
for his zeal, and Bibot was proud of the fact that he on
his own initiative had sent at least fifty aristos to the
guillotine.
But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various
barricades had had special orders. Recently a very great -
number of aristos had succeeded in escaping out of
France and in reaching England safely. There were
curious rumours about these escapes; they had become
very frequent and singularly daring; the people's minds
were becoming strangely excited about it all. Sergeant
Grospierre had been sent to the guillotine for allowing a
whole family of aristos to slip out of the North Gate
under his very nose.
It was asserted that these escapes were organised by
I


PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1792 5
a band of Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be
unparalleled, and who, from sheer desire to meddle in
what did not concern them, spent their spare time in
snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame
la Guillotine. These rumours soon grew in extrava-
gance; there was no doubt that this hand of meddlesome
Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be under
the leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity
were almost fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of
how he and those aristos whom he rescued became
suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and
escaped out of the gates by sheer supernatural agency.
No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as
for their leader, he was never spoken of, save with a super-
stitious shudder. Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville would in the
course of the day receive a scrap of paper from some
mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the
pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him
by someone in the crowd, whilst he was on his way to
the sitting of the Committee of Public Safety. The
paper always contained a brief notice that the band of
meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was
always signed with a device drawn in red—a little star-
shaped flower, which we in England call the Scarlet
Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this
impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of
Public Safety would hear that so many royalists and
aristocrats had succeeded in reaching the coast, and
were on their way to England and safety.
The guards at the gates had been doubled, the
sergeants in command had been threatened with death,
whilst liberal rewards were offered for the capture of
these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was
a sum of five thousand francs promised to the man


6 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
who laid hands on the mysterious and elusive Scarlet
Pimpernel.
Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and
Bibot allowed that belief to take firm root in every-
body's mind; and so, day after day, people came to
watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he
laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be
accompanied by that mysterious Englishman.
"Bah!" he said to his trusted corporal, "Citoyen
Grospierre was a fool I Had it been me now, at that
North Gate last week . . ."
Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his
contempt for his comrade's stupidity.
"How did it happen, citoyen?" asked the corporal
.
"Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch,"
began Bibot, pompously, as the crowd closed in round
him, listening eagerly to his narrative. "We've all heard
of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed Scarlet
Pimpernel . He won't get through my gate, morbleul
unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a
fool. The market carts were going through the gates;
there was one laden with casks, and driven by an old
man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit
drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he looked
into the casks—most of them, at least—and saw they
were empty, and let the cart go through."
A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the
group of ill-clad wretches, who crowded round Citoyen
Bibot.
"Half an hour later," continued the sergeant, "up
comes a captain of the guard with a squad of some
dozen soldiers with him. 'Has a cart gone through?'
he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. 'Yes,' says G:
pier re, ' not half an hour ago.' 'And you have let them


PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1792 7
escape,' shouts the captain furiously. "You'll go to
the guillotine for this, citoyen sergeant ! that cart
held concealed the ci-devant Due de Chalis and all his
family !' "What!' thunders Grospierre, aghast. "Aye I
and the driver was none other than that cursed English-
man, the Scarlet Pimpernel.'"
A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen
Grospierre had paid for his blunder on the guillotine,
but what a fool ! oh! what a fool!
Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it
was some time before he could continue.
'"After them, my men,' shouts the captain," he
said, after a while, "' remember the reward; after them,
they cannot have gone far!' And with that he rushes
through the gate, followed by his dozen soldiers."
"But it was too late !" shouted the crowd, excitedly.
"They never got them!"
'' Curse that Grospierre for his folly !"
"He deserved his fate !"
"Fancy not examining those casks properly! *
But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot
exceedingly; he laughed until his sides ached, and the
tears streamed down his cheeks.
"Nay, nay !" he said at last, "those aristos
weren't in the cart; the driver was not the Scarlet
Pimpernel !"
"What?"
"No I The captain of the guard was that damned
Englishman in disguise, and everyone of his soldiers
aristos !"
The crowd this time said nothing: the story cer-
tainly savoured of the supernatural, and though the
Republic had abolished God, it had not quite succeeded
in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of the


8 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil
himself.
The sun was sinking low down in the west . Bibot
prepared himself to close the gates.
"En avant the carts," he said.
Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row,
ready to leave town, in order to fetch the produce
from the country close by, for market the next morning.
They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went
through his gate twice every day on their way to and
from the town. He spoke to one or two of their drivers —mostly women—and was at great pains to examine
the inside of the carts.
"You never know," he would say, "and I'm not going
to be caught like that fool Grospierre."
The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de la Grève, beneath the platform of"he guillotine, knitting and gossiping, whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the Reign
of Terror claimed every day. It was "great fun
to see the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame
la Guillotine, and the places close by the platform were
very much sought after. Bibot, during the day, had
been on duty on the Place. He recognized most of the
old hags, "tricotteuses," as they were called, who sat there and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath the
knife, and they themselves got quite bespattered* with
the blood of those cursed aristos.
"m ! la mere!" said Bibot to one of these horrible
hags, "what have you got there?"
He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting
and the whip of her cart close beside her. Now she
had fastened a row of curly locks to the whip handle,
all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she


PARIS: SEPTEMBER 1792 9
stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed
at Bibot.
"I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover," she
said with a coarse laugh, "he cut these off for me from
the heads as they rolled down. He has promised me
some more to-morrow, but I don't know if I shall be at
my usual place."
"Ah! how is that, la mire?" asked Bibot, who,
hardened soldier though he was, could not help shudder-
ing at the awful loathsomeness of this semblance of a
woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip.
"My grandson has got the small-pox," she said with a
jerk of her thumb towards the inside of her cart, "some
say it's the plague! If it is, I sha'n't be allowed to come
into Paris to-morrow."
At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had
stepped hastily backwards, and when the old hag spoke
of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could.
"Curse you!" he muttered, whilst the whole crowd
hastily avoided the cart, leaving it standing all alone in
the midst of the place.
The old hag laughed.
"Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward," she said.
"Bah ! what a man to be afraid of sickness."
"Morbleu ! the plague !"
Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror
for the loathsome malady, the one thing which still had
the power to arouse terror and disgust in these savage,
brutalised creatures.
"Get out with you and with your plague-stricken
brood !" shouted Bibot, hoarsely.
And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old
hag whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of
the gate.


io THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people
were terrified of these two horrible curses, the two
maladies which nothing could cure, and which were the
precursors of an awful and lonely death They hung
about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while,
eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as
if by instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their
midst . Presently, as in the case of Grospierre, a captain
of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to
Bibot, and there was no fear of his turning out to be a
sly Englishman in disguise.
"A cart, . . . " he shouted breathlessly, even before
he had reached the gates.
"What cart?" asked Bibot, roughly.
"Driven by an old hag. ... A covered cart ... "
"There were a dozen ..."
"An old hag who said her son had the plague ? "
"Yes ..."
"You have not let them go?"
"Morbku!" said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had
suddenly become white with fear.
"The cart contained the ci-devant Comtesse de
Tournay and her two children, all of them traitors and
condemned to death."
"And their driver ?" muttered Bibot, as a superstitious
shudder ran down his spine.
"Sacré tonnerre," said the captain, "but it is feared
that it was that accursed Englishman himself—the
Scarlet Pimpernel."


CHAPTER II
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 stock-pot stood in a comer, and the
jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented
alternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of
beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around,
eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well
tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over
some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally's
back was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid
in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued
grumble, while she stirred the stock-pot methodically over
the fire.
"What ho! Sally!" came in cheerful if none too
melodious accents from the coffee-room close by.
"Lud bless my soul !" exclaimed Sally, with a good-
humoured laugh, "what be they all wanting now, I
wonder I"
"Beer, of course," grumbled Jemima, "you don't
'expect Jimmy Pitkin to 'ave done with one tankard, do
ye?"
"Mr 'Arry, 'e looked uncommon thirsty too," simpered
Martha, one of the little kitchen-maids; and her beady
black eyes twinkled as they met those of her companion,
II


la THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
whereupon both started on a round of short and sup-
pressed giggles.
Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully
rubbed her hands against her shapely hips; her palms
were itching, evidently, to come in contact with Martha's
rosy cheeks—but inherent good-humour prevailed, and
with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention to the fried potatoes.
"What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!"
And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient
hands against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accom-
panied the shouts for mine host's buxom daughter.
"Sally I" shouted a more persistent voice, "are ye
goin' to be all night with that there beer?"
"I do think father might get the beer for them,"
muttered Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further
comment, took a couple of foam-crowned jugs from the
shelf, and began filling a number of pewter tankards
with some of that home-brewed ale for which "The Fisherman's Rest" had been famous since the days of King Charles. "'E knows 'ow busy we are in 'ere."
"Your father is too busy discussing politics with M
'Empseed to worry 'isself about you and the kitchen,'
grumbled Jemima under her breath.
Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a
corner of the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her
hair and setting her frilled cap at its most becoming
angle over her dark curls; then she took up the tankards
by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and
laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through
into the coffee-room.
There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and
activity which kept four women busy and hot in the
glowing kitchen beyond.


DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST" 13
The coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" is a
show place now at the beginning of the twentieth cen-
tury. At the end of the eighteenth, in the year of grace
1792, it had not yet gained that notoriety and import-
ance which a hundred additional years and the craze of
the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an
old place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were
already black with age—as were the panelled seats, with
their tall backs, and the long polished tables between,
on which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic
patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window,
high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue
larkspur gave the bright note of colour against the dull
background of the oak.
That Mr Jellyband, landlord of "The Fisherman's
Rest" at Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course
clear to the most casual observer. The pewter on the
fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth,
shone like gold and silver—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 neces-
sitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high
standard of elegance and order.
As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and
displaying a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted
with shouts and chorus of applause.
"Why, here's Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for
pretty Sally !"
"I thought you'd brown deaf in that kitchen of yours,"
muttered Jimmy Pitkin, as he passed the back of his
hand across his very dry lips.
"All riM all ri'!" laughed Sally, as she deposited the
freshly-filled tankards upon the tables, "why, what a


14 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
'urry, to be sure! And is your gran'mother a-dyin', an'
you wantin' to see the pore soul afore she'm gone I I
never see'd such a mighty rushin'!"
A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this
witticism, which gave the company there present, food
for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now
seemed in less of a hurry to get back to her pots and
pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager,
bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her attention
and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent
Jimmy Pitkin's fictitious grandmother flew from mouth
to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of pungent tobacco
smoke. Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay
pipe in his mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr
Jellyband, landlord of "The Fisherman's Rest," as his
father had been before him, aye, and his grandfather
and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in
build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate,
Mr Jellyband was indeed a typical rural John Bull of
those days—the days when our prejudiced insularity
was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he lord,
yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of
Europe was a den of immorality, and the rest of the
world an unexploited land of savages and cannibals.
There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set
up on his limbs, smoking his long churchwarden and
caring nothing for nobody at home, and despising
everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waist-
coat, with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches,
the grey worsted stockings and smart buckled shoes,
that characterised every self-respecting innkeeper in
Great Britain in these days—and while pretty, motherless
Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the


DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST" 15
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 Jellyband's customers appeared
red and pleasant to look at, and on good terms with
themselves, their host and all the world, from every
side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant, if
not highly intellectual, conversation—while Sally's re-
peated giggles testified to the good use Mr Harry Waite
was making of the short time she seemed inclined to
spare him.
They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr
Jellyband's coffee-room, but fishermen are known to
be very thirsty people; the salt which they breathe in,
when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched
throats when onshore. But "The Fisherman's Rest"
was something more than a rendezvous for these humble
folk. The London and Dovercoach started from the
hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel, and those who started for the "grand tour," all became acquainted with Mr Jellyband, his French
wines and his home-brewed ales. It was towards the close of September 1792, and the
weather which had been brilliant and hot throughout
the month had suddenly broken up; for two days
torrents of rain had deluged the south of England,
doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples
and pears and late plums had of becoming really
fine, self-respecting fruit . Even now it was beating
against the leaded windows, and tumbling down the


16 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the
hearth.
"Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr
Jellyband?" asked Mr Hempseed.
He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr
Hempseed, for he was an authority and an important per-
sonage not only at "The Fisherman's Rest," where Mr
Jellyband always made a special selection of him as a
foil for political arguments, but throughout the neigh-
bourhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge
of the Scriptures, was held in the most profound awe
and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious
pockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately-
worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long
clay pipe, Mr Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly
across the room at the rivulets of moisture which
trickled down the window panes.
"No," replied Mr Jellyband sententiously, " I dunno,
Mr 'Empseed, as I ever did. An' I've been in these
parts nigh on sixty years."
"Aye! you wouldn't rec'llect the first three years of
them sixty, Mr Jellyband," quietly interposed Mr Hemp-
seed. "I dunno as I ever see'd an infant take much
note of the weather, leastways not in these parts, an' I've
lived 'ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr Jellyband."
The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable
that for the moment Mr Jellyband was not ready with
his usual flow of argument.
"It do seem more like April than September, don't
it?" continued Mr Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of
rain-drops fell with a sizzle upon the fire.
"Aye! that it do," assented the worthy host, "but
then what can you 'xpect, Mr 'Empseed, I says, with
sich a government as we've got?"


DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST" 17
Mr Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of
wisdom, tempered by deeply-rooted mistrust of the
British climate and the British Government
.
"I don't 'xpect nothing, Mr Jellyband," he said, "Pore folks like us is of no account up there in Lunnon,
I knows that, and it's not often as I do complain. But
when it comes to sich wet weather in September, and all
me fruit a-rottin' and a-dyin' like the 'Guptian mother's
first-born, and doin' no more good than they did, pore
dears, save to a lot of Jews, pedlars and sich, with
their oranges and sich like foreign ungodly fruit, which
nobody'd buy if English apples and pears was nicely
swelled. As the Scriptures say—"
"That's quite right, Mr 'Empseed," retorted Jelly-
band, "and as I says, what can you 'xpect? There's
all them Frenchy devils over the Channel yonder a-
murderin' their king and nobility, and Mr Pitt and Mr
Fox and Mr Burke a-fightin' and a-wranglin' between
them, if we Englishmen should low them to go on in
their ungodly way. 'Let 'em murder!' says Mr Pitt.
'Stop 'em !' says Mr Burke."
"And let 'em murder, says I, and be demmed to 'em,"
said Mr Hempseed, emphatically, for he had but little
liking for his friend Jellyband's political arguments,
wherein he always got out of his depth, and had but
little chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which
had earned for him so high a reputation in the neigh-
bourhood and so many free tankards of ale at "The
Fisherman's Rest."
"Let 'em murder," he repeated again, "but don't let's 'ave sich rain in September, for that is agin the law and
the Scriptures which says—"
"Lud I Mr 'Airy, 'ow you made me jump!"
It was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this 


18 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
remark of hers should have occurred at the precise
moment when Mr Hempseed was collecting his breath,
in order to deliver himself of one of those Scriptural
utterances which had made him famous, for it brought
down upon her pretty head the full flood of her father's
wrath.
"Now then, Sally, me girl, now then !" he said, trying
to force a frown upon his good-humoured face, "stop
that fooling with them young jackanapes and get on
with the work."
"The work's gettin' on all ri', father."
But Mr Jellyband was peremptory. He had other
views for his buxom daughter, his only child, who would
in God's good time become the owner of "The Fisher-
man's Rest," than to see her married to one of these
young fellows who earned but a precarious livelihood
with their net.
"Did ye hear me speak, me girl?" he said in that
quiet tone, which no one inside the inn dared to disobey.
"Get on with my Lord Tony's supper,- for, if it ain't the
best we can do, and 'e not satisfied, see what you'll get,
that's all."
Reluctantly Sally obeyed.
"Is you 'xpecting special guests then to-night, Mr
Jellyband?" asked Jimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to
divert his host's attention from the circumstances con-
nected with Sally's exit from the room.
"Aye! that I be," replied Jellyband, "friends of my
Lord Tony hisself. Dukes and duchesses from over the
water yonder, whom the young lord and his friend, Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young noblemen have
helped out of the clutches of them murderin' devils."
But this was too much for Mr Hempseed's queruloua
philosophy.



"Now then, Sally, me girl, now then' . . . stop that fooling
with them young jackanapes."





DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST" 19
"Lud!" he said, "what they do that for, I wonder?
I don't 'old not with interferin' in other folks' ways. As
the Scriptures say—"
"Maybe, Mr "Empseed," interrupted Jellyband,
with biting sarcasm, "as you're a personal friend of Mr
Pitt, and as you says along with Mr Fox: 'Let 'em
murder I' says you."
"Pardon me, Mr Jellyband," feebly protested Mr
Hempseed, "I dunno as I ever did."
But Mr Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting
upon his favourite hobby-horse, and had no intention of
dismounting in any hurry.
"Or maybe you've made friends with some of them
French chaps 'oo they do say have come over here o' pur-
pose to make us Englishmen agree with their murderin'
ways."
"I dunno what you mean, Mr Jellyband," suggested
Mr Hempseed, "all I know is—"
"All / know is," loudly asserted mine host, "that
there was my friend Peppercorn, 'oo owns the 'Blue-
Faced Boar,' an' as true and loyal an Englishman as
you'd see in the land. And now look at 'im !—'E made
friends with some o' them frog-eaters, 'obnobbed with
them just as if they was Englishmen, and not just a lot
of immoral, God-forsaking furrin' spies. Well I and
what happened? Peppercorn 'e now ups and talks of
revolutions, and liberty, and down with the aristocrats,
just like Mr 'Empseed over 'ere!"
"Pardon me, Mr Jellyband," again interposed Mr
Hempseed, feebly, " I dunno as I ever did—"
Mr Jellyband had appealed to the company in general,
who were listening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the
recital of Mr Peppercorn's defalcations. At one table
two customers—gentlemen apparently by their clothes


20 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
—had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes,
and had been listening for some time, and evidently
with much amusement at Mr Jellyband's international
opinions. One of them now, with a quiet, sarcastic
smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile
mouth, turned towards the centre of the room where
Mr Jellyband was standing.
"You seem to think, mine honest friend," he said
quietly, "that these Frenchmen—spies I think you
called them—are mighty clever fellows to have made
mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr Peppercorn's
opinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you ?"
"Lud! sir, I suppose they talked 'im over. Those
Frenchies, I've 'card it said, 'ave got the gift of the gab
—and Mr 'Empseed 'ere will tell you 'ow it is that they
just twist some people round their little finger like."
"Indeed, and is that so, Mr Hempseed?" inquired
the stranger politely.
"Nay, sir !" replied Mr Hempseed, much irritated,
"I dunno as I can give you the information you
require."
"Faith, then," said the stranger, "let us hope, my
worthy host, that these clever spies will not succeed in
upsetting your extremely loyal opinions."
But this was too much for Mr Jellyband's pleasant
equanimity. He burst into an uproarious fit of laughter,
which was soon echoed by those who happened to be in
his debt.
"Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!" He laughed in every
key, did my worthy host, and laughed until his sides
ached, and his eyes streamed. "At me! hark at that!
Did ye 'ear 'im say that they'd be upsetting, my opinions?
—Eh ?—Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer
things."


DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST" 21
"Well, Mr Jellyband," said Mr Hempseed, senten-
tiously, "you know what the Scriptures say: 'Let 'im
'oo stands take 'eed lest 'e fall.'"
"But then hark'ee, Mr'Empseed,"retorted Jellyband,
still holding his sides with laughter, "the Scriptures
didn't know me. Why, I wouldn't so much as drink a
glass of ale with one o' them murderin' Frenchmen, and
nothin' 'd make me change my opinions. Why ! I've
'card it said that them frog-eaters can't even speak the
King's English, so, of course, if any of 'em tried to
speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should
spot them directly, see!—and forewarned is forearmed,
as the saying goes."
"Aye! my honest friend," assented the stranger
cheerfully, "I see that you are much too sharp, and a
match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here's to your
very good health, my worthy host, if you'll do me the
honour to finish this bottle of mine with me."
"I am sure you're very polite, sir," said Mr Jellyband,
wiping his eyes ,which were still streaming with the
abundance of his laughter, "and I don't mind if I do."
The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of
wine, and having offered one to mine host, he took the
other himself.
"Loyal Englishmen as we all are," he said, whilst the
same humorous smile played round the corners of his
thin lips—"loyal as we are, we must admit that this at
least is one good thing which comes to us from France."
"Aye I we'll none of us deny that, sir," assented mine
host.
"And here's to the best landlord in England, our
worthy host, Mr Jellyband," said the stranger in a loud
tone of voice.
"Hip, hip, hurrah !" retorted the whole company


22 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
present. Then there was loud clapping of hands, and
mugs and tankards made a rattling music upon the
tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing
in particular, and of Mr Jellyband's muttered exclama-
tions:
"Just fancy me bein' talked over by any God-forsaken
furriner!—What?—Lud love you, sir, but you do say
some queer things."
To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented.
It was certainly a preposterous suggestion that anyone
could ever upset Mr Jellyband's firmly-rooted opinions
anent the utter worthlessness of the inhabitants of the
whole continent of Europe.


24 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
even now a dethroned queen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob: and surely 'twas not—so argued
Mr Fox—for the whole of England to take up arms,
because one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another.
As for Mr Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though
they looked upon all foreigners with withering contempt,
they were royalist and anti-revolutionists to a man, and
at this present moment were furious with Pitt for his
caution and moderation, although they naturally under-
stood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided
that great man's policy.
But now Sally came running back, very excited and
very eager. The joyous company in the coffee-room
had heard nothing of the noise outside, but she had
spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped at the
door of "The Fisherman's Rest," and while the stable
boy ran forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss
Sally went to the front door to greet the welcome visitor.
"I think I see'd my Lord Antony's horse out in the
yard, father," she said, as she ran across the coffee-room.
But already the door had been thrown open from out-
side, and the next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth
and dripping with the heavy rain, was round pretty
Sally's waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the
polished rafters of the coffee-room.
"Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp,
my pretty Sally," said the man who had just entered,
whilst worthy Mr Jellyband came bustling forward,
eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one of
the most favoured guests of his hostel.
"Lud, I protest, Sally," added Lord Antony, as he
deposited a kiss on Miss Sally's blooming cheeks, "but
you are growing prettier and prettier every time I see
you—and my honest friend, Jellyband here, must have 


THE REFUGEES 25
hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of
yours. What say you, Mr Waite?"
Mr Waite—torn between his respect for my lord and
his dislike of that particular type of joke—only replied
with a doubtful grunt
.
Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke
of Exeter, was in those days a very perfect type of a
young English gentleman—tall, well set-up, broad of
shoulders and merry of face, his laughter rang loudly
wherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively com-
panion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with
not too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a
universal favourite in London drawing-rooms or in the
coffee-rooms of village inns. At" The Fisherman's Rest"
everyone knew him—for he was fond of a trip across to
France, and always spent a night under worthy Mr
Jellyband's roof on his way there or back.
He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at
last released Sally's waist, and crossed over to the hearth
to warm and dry himself: as he did so, he cast a quick,
somewhat suspicious glance at the two strangers, who
had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and for a
moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety,
clouded his jovial young face.
But only for a moment; the next he had turned to
Mr Hempseed, who was respectfully touching his
forelock.
"Well, Mr Hempseed, and how is the fruit?"
"Badly, my lord, badly," replied Mr Hempseed, dole-
fully, "but what can you 'xpect with this 'ere govern-
ment favourin' them rascals over in France, who would
murder their king and all their nobility."
"Odd's life !" retorted Lord Antony; "so they would,
honest Hempseed,—at least those they can get hold of,


a6 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
worse luck I But we have got some friends coming here
to-night, who at anyrate have evaded their clutches."
It almost seemed, when the young man said these
words, as if he threw a defiant look towards the quiet
strangers in the corner.
"Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I ve
heard it said," said Mr Jellyband.
But in a moment Lord Antony's hand fell warningly
on mine host's arm.
"Hush !" he said peremptorily, and instinctively once
again looked towards the strangers.
"Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord,"
retorted Jellyband; "don't you be afraid, I wouldn't
have spoken, only I knew we were among friends. That
gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of
King George as you are yourself, my lord, saving your
presence. He is but lately arrived in Dover, and is
settling down in business in these parts."
"In business? Faith, then, it must be as an under-
taker, for I vow I never beheld a more rueful coun-
tenance."
"Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a
widower, which no doubt would account for the melan-
choly of his bearing—but he is a friend, nevertheless, 11I
vouch for that—and you will own, my lord, that who
should judge of a face better than the landlord of a
popular inn—"
"Oh, that's all right, then, if we are among friends,"
said Lord Antony, who evidently did not care to discuss
the subject with his host. "But, tell me, you have no
one else staying here, have you?"
"No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, let-
ways—"
"Leastways?"


THE REFUGEES 27
"No one your lordship would object to, I know."
"Who is it?"
"Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will
be here presently, but they ain't a-goin' to stay—"
"Lady Blakeney?" queried Lord Antony, in some
astonishment
.
"Aye, my lord. Sir Percy's skipper was here just
now. He says that my lady's brother is crossing over
to France to-day in the Day Dream, which is Sir Percy's
yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady will come with him as
far as here to see the last of him. It don't put you out,
do it, my lord?"
"No, no, it doesn't put me out, friend; nothing will
put me out, unless that supper is not the very best which
Miss Sally can cook, and which has ever been served in
'The Fisherman's Rest.'"
"You need have no fear of that, my lord," said Sally,
who all this while had been busy setting the table for
supper. And very gay and inviting it looked, with a
large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias in the centre,
and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about
.
"How many shall I lay for, my lord?"
"Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be
enough for ten at least—our friends will be tired, and,
I hope, hungry. As for me, I Tow I could demolish a
baron of beef to-night."
"Here they are, I do believe," said Sally, excitedly,
as a distant clatter of horses and wheels could now be
distinctly heard, drawing rapidly nearer.
There was general commotion in the coffee-room.
Everyone was curious to see my Lord Antony's swell
friends from over the water. Miss Sally cast one or two
quick glances at the little bit of mirror which hung on
the wall, and worthy Mr Jellyband bustled out in order


a8 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
to give the first welcome himself to his distinguished
guests. Only the two strangers in the corner did not
participate in the general excitement. They were
calmly finishing their game of dominoes, and did not
even look once towards the door.
"Straight ahead, Comtesse, the door on your right,"
said a pleasant voice outside.
"Aye! there they are, all right enough," said Lord
Antony, joyfully; "off with you, my pretty Sally, and see
how quickly you can dish up the soup."
The door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by
Mr Jellyband, who was profuse in his bows and
welcomes, a party of four—two ladies and two gentle-
men—entered the coffee-room.
"Welcome! Welcome to old England!" said Lord
Antony, effusively, as he came eagerly forward with both
hands outstretched towards the newcomers.
"Ah, you are Lord Antony Dewhurst, I think," said
one of the ladies, speaking with a strong foreign accent
.
"At your service, Madame," he replied, as he
ceremoniously kissed the hands of both the ladies,
then turned to the men and shook them both warmly
by the hand.
Sally was already helping the ladies to take off their
travelling cloaks, and both turned, with a shiver, towards
the brightly-blazing hearth.
There was a general movement among the company
in the coffee-room. Sally had bustled off to her
kitchen, whilst Jellyband, still profuse with his respect-
ful salutations, arranged one or two chairs around the fire.
Mr Hempseed, touching his forelock, was quietly
vacating the seat in the hearth. Everyone was staring
curiously, yet deferentially, at the foreigners.
"Ah, Messieurs! what can I say?" said the elder of 


THE REFUGEES 29
the two ladies, as she stretched a pair of fine, aristocratic
hands to the warmth of the blaze, and looked with anspeakable gratitude first at Lord Antony, then at one of
the young men who had accompanied her party, and
who was busy divesting himself of his heavy, caped coat.
"Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse,"
replied Lord Antony, "and that you have not suffered
too much from your trying voyage."
"Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England," she
said, while her eyes filled with tears, "and we have
already forgotten all that we have suffered."
Her voice was musical and low, and there was a
great deal of calm dignity and of many sufferings nobly
endured marked in the handsome, aristocratic face,
with its wealth of snow-white hair dressed high above
the forehead, after the fashion of the times.
"I hope my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, proved an
entertaining travelling companion, madame?"
"Ah, indeed, Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How
could my children and I ever show enough gratitude to
you all, Messieurs?"
Her companion, a dainty, girlish figure, childlike and
pathetic in its look of fatigue and of sorrow, had said
nothing as yet, but her eyes, large, brown, and full of
tears, looked up from the fire and sought those of Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, who had drawn near to the hearth
and to her; then, as they met his, which were fixed
with unconcealed admiration upon the sweet face
before him, a thought of warmer colour rushed up to
her pale cheeks.
"So this is England," she said, as she looked round
with childlike curiosity at the great open hearth, the oak
rafters, and the yokels with their elaborate smocks and
jovial, rubicund, British countenances.


30 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"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
(mile, fleet and sweet, illumined her dainty face. She
said nothing, and Sir Andrew too, was silent, yet those
two young people understood one another, as young
people have a way of doing all the world over, and have
done since the world began.
"But, I say, supper!" here broke in Lord Antony's
jovial voice, "supper, honest Jellyband. Where is that
pretty wench of yours and the dish of soup? Zooks,
man, while you stand there gaping at the ladies, they
will faint with hunger."
"One moment! one moment, my lord," said Jelly-
band, as he threw open the door that led to the kitchen
and shouted lustily: "Sally! Hey, Sally there, are ye
ready, my girl?"
Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared
in the doorway carrying a gigantic tureen, from which
rose a cloud of steam and an abundance of savoury odour.
"Odd's my life, supper at last!" ejaculated Lord
Antony, merrily, as he gallantly offered his arm to the
Comtesse.
"May I have the honour?" he added ceremoniously,
as he led her towards the supper table.
There was general bustle in the coffee-room: Mr
Hempseed and most of the yokels and fisher-folk had
gone to make way for "the quality," and to finish
smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two strangers
stayed on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game
of dominoes and sipping their wine; whilst at another
table Harry Waite, who was fast losing his temper,
watched pretty Sally bustling round the table.
She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life,
and no wonder that the susceptible young Frenchman


THE REFUGEES 31
could scarce take his eyes off her pretty face. The
Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a beard-
less boy, on whom the terrible tragedies which were
being enacted in his own country had made but little
impression. He was elegantly, and even foppishly
dressed, and once safely landed in England he was
evidently ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution
in the delights of English life.
"Pardi, if zis is England," he said as he continued to
ogle Sally with marked satisfaction, " I am of it satisfied."
It would be impossible at this point to record the
exact exclamation which escaped through Mr Harry
Waite's clenched teeth. Only respect for "the quality,"
and notably for my Lord Antony, kept his marked dis-
approval of the young foreigner in check.
"Nay, but this is England, you abandoned young
reprobate," interposed Lord Antony with a laugh, "and
do not I pray, bring your loose foreign ways into this
most moral country."
Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the
table with the Comtesse on his right. Jellyband wu
bustling round, filling glasses and putting chairs straight,
Sally waited, ready to hand round the soup. Mr Harry
Waite's friends had at last succeeded in taking him out
of the room, for his temper was growing more and more
violent under the Vicomte's obvious admiration for Sally.
"Suzanne," came in stern, commanding accents from
the rigid Comtesse.
Suzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and
of place, whilst she had stood beside the fire, allowing
the handsome young Englishman's eyes to dwell upon
her sweet face, and his hand, as if unconsciously, to rest
upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back to
reality once more, and with a submissive "Yes, Mama,"
she too took her place at the sapper table.


CHAPTER IV
THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPKRNEL
They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round the table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord
Antony Dewhurst, two typical good-looking, well-born
and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace 1792,
and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two
children, who had just escaped from such dire perils, and
found a safe retreat at last on the shores of protecting
England.
In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished
their game; one of them arose, and standing with his
back to the merry company at the table, he adjusted with
much deliberation his large triple caped coat. As he did
so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone
was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the
words " All safe!": his companion then, with the alertness
borne of long practice, slipped on to his knees in a
nrjment, 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 Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in 


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 33
hand, and with the graceful affectation peculiar to the
times, he raised it aloft, and said in broken English,—
"To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless
him for his hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France."
"His Majesty the King!" echoed Lord Antony and
Sir Andrew as they drank loyally to the toast
.
"To His Majesty King Louis of France," added Sir
Andrew, with solemnity. "May God protect him, and
give him victory over his enemies."
Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The
fate of the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner
of his own people, seemed to cast a gloom even over
Mr Jellyhand's pleasant countenance.
"And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive," said
Lord Antony, merrily. "May we welcome him in
England before many days are over."
"Ah, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, as with a slightly
trembling hand she conveyed her glass to her lips, "I
scarcely dare to hope,"
But already Lord Antony had served out the soup,
and for the next few moments all conversation ceased,
while Jellyband and Sally handed round the plates and
everyone began to eat.
"Faith, Madame I" said Lord Antony, after a while,
"mine was no idle toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle
Suzanne and my friend the Vicomte safely in England
now, surely you must feel reassured as to the fate of
Monsieur le Comte."
"Ah, Monsieur," replied the Comtesse, with a heavy
sigh, "I trust in God—I can but pray—and hope ..."
"Aye, Madame !" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
"trust in God by all means, but believe also a little in your
English friends, who have sworn to bring the Count safely
c


34 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
across the Channel, even as they have brought you today'' "Indeed, indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "I have the
fullest confidence in you and in your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread throughout the whole of
France. The way some of my own friends have escaped
from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was
nothing short of a miracle—and all done by you and
your friends—"
"We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . ."
"But my husband, Monsieur," said the Comtesse,
whilst unshed tears seemed to veil her voice, "he is in
such deadly peril—I would never have left him,
only . . . there were my children ... I was torn
between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go
without me . . . and you and your friends assured me
so solemnly that my husband would be safe. But, oh!
now that I am here—amongst you all—in this beautiful,
free England—I think of him, flying for his life, hunted
like a poor beast ... in such peril. . . . Ah! I should
not have left him . . . I should not have left him! ..."
The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue,
sorrow and emotion had overmastered her rigid, aristo-
cratic bearing. She was crying gently to herself, whilst
Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her tears.
Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to
interrupt the Comtesse whilst she was speaking. There
was no doubt that they felt deeply for her; their very
silence testified to that—but in every century, and ever
since England has been what it is, an Englishman has
always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of
his own sympathy. And so the two young men said
nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide their feel-
ings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 35
"As for me, Monsieur," said Suzanne, suddenly, as
she looked through a wealth of brown curls across at Sir
Andrew, " I trust you absolutely, and I know that you
will bring my dear father safely to England, just as you
brought us to-day."
This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered
hope and belief, that it seemed as if by magic to dry the
mother's eyes, and to bring a smile upon everybody's lips.
"Nay I you shame me, Mademoiselle," replied Sir
Andrew; "though my life is at your service, I have
been but a humble tool in the hands of our great leader,
who organised and effected your escape."
He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence
that Suzanne's eyes fastened upon him in undisguised
wonder.
"Your leader, Monsieur?" said the Comtesse, eagerly.
"Ah ! of course, you must have a leader. And I did
not think of that before! But tell me where is he? I
must go to him at once, and I and my children must
throw ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he
has done for us."
"Alas, Madame!" said Lord Antony, "that is impossible."
"Impossible?---- Why?"
"Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark,
and his identity is only known under a solemn oath of
secrecy to his immediate followers."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel ?" said Suzanne, with a merry
laugh. "Why! what a droll name! What is the
Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?"
She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The
young man's face had become almost transfigured. His
eyes shone with enthusiasm; hero-worship, love, admiretion for his leader seemed literally to glow upon his face.


36 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle," he said at
last "is the name of a humble English wayside flower;
but it is also the name chosen to hide the identity of the
best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may
better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set himself to do."
"Ah, yes," here interposed the young Vicomte, "I
have heard speak of this Scarlet Pimpernel. A little
flower—red ?—yes! They say in Paris that every time
a royalist escapes to England that devil, Foucquier-
Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with
that little flower dessinated in red upon it. ... Yes?"
"Yes, that is so," assented Lord Antony.
"Then he will have received one such paper to-day?"
"Undoubtedly."
"Oh! I wonder what he will say" said Suzanne,
merrily. "I have heard that the picture of that little red
flower is the only thing that frightens him."
"Faith, then," said Sir Andrew, "he will have many
more opportunities of studying the shape of that small
scarlet flower."
"Ah! monsieur," sighed the Comtesse, "it all sounds
like a romance, and I cannot understand it all."
"Why should you try, Madame?"
"But, tell me, why should your leader—why should
you all—spend your money and risk your lives—for it
is your lives you risk, Messieurs, when you set foot in
France—and all for us French men and women, who are
nothing to you?"
"Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport," asserted Lord
Antony, with his jovial, loud and pleasant voice; "we are
a nation of sportsmen, you know, and just now it is the
fashion to pull the hare from between the teeth of the
bound."


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 37
"Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a
more noble motive, I am sure, for the good work you
do."
"Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . as
for me, I vow, I love the game, for this is the finest
sport I have yet encountered.—Hair-breadth escapes . . .
the devil's own risks !—Tally ho!—and away we go!"
But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously.
To her it seemed preposterous that these young men
and their great leader, all of them rich, probably well-
born, and young, should for no other motive than sport,
run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantly
doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in
France, would be no safeguard to them. Anyone found
harbouring or assisting suspected royalists would be
ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed, what-
ever his nationality might be. And this band of young
Englishmen had, to her own knowledge, bearded the
implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the Revolution,
within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched
away condemned victims, almost from the very foot of
the guillotine. With a shudder, she recalled the events
of the last few days, her escape from Paris with her two
children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood of
a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and
cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled
"A la Ianterne les aristos !" at that awful West
Barricade.
It had all occurred in such a miraculous way : she and
her husband had understood that they had been placed on the list of " suspected persons," which meant that their
trial and death was but a matter of days—of hours,
perhaps.
Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious


38 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
epistle, signed with the enigmatical scarlet device; the
clear, peremptory directions; the parting from the
Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife's heart
in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two
children; the covered cart; that awful hag driving it,
who looked like some horrible evil demon, with the
ghastly trophy on her whip handle!
The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-
fashioned English inn, the peace of this land of civil and
religious liberty, and she closed her eyes to shut out the
haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the mob
retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the
plague.
Every moment under that cart she expected recogni-
tion, arrest, herself and her children tried and con-
demned, 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 I Suzanne's
eyes as she sought those of Sir Andrew plainly told him
that she thought that he at any rate rescued his fellow-
men from terrible and unmerited death, through a higher
and nobler motive than his friend would have her
believe.
"How many are there in your brave league,
Monsieur?" she asked timidly.
"Twenty all told, Mademoiselle," he replied, "one to
command, and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen,
and all pledged to the same cause—to obey our leader
and to rescue the innocent."
"May God protect you all, Messieurs," said the
Comtesse, fervently.
"He has done that so far, Madame."


LEAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 39
"It is wonderful to me, wonderful!—That you should
all be so brave, so devoted to your fellow-men—yet you
are English '—and in France treachery is rife—all in the
name of liberty and fraternity."
"The women even, in France, have been more bitter
against us aristocrats than the men," said the Vicomte,
with a sigh.
"Ah, yes," added the Comtesse, whilst a look of
haughty disdain and intense bitterness shot through her
melancholy eyes. "There was that woman, Marguerite
St Just, for instance. She denounced the Marquis de
St Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the
Terror."
"Marguerite St Just ?" said Lord Antony, as he shot
a quick and apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.
"Marguerite St Just ?—Surely . . ."
"Yes!" replied the Comtesse, "surely you know her.
She was a leading actress of the Cotn6die Franchise, and
she married an Englishman lately. You must know
her—"
"Know her?" said Lord Antony. "Know Lady
Blakeney—the most fashionable woman in London—
the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we
all know Lady Blakeney."
"She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in
Paris," interposed Suzanne, "and we came over to
England together to learn your language. I was very
fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever
did anything so wicked."
"It certainly seems incredible," said Sir Andrew.
"You say that she actually denounced the Marquis de St
Cyr? Why should she have done such a thing? Surely
there must be some mistake—"
"No mistake is possible, Monsieur," rejoined the


40 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
•
Comtesse, coldly, "Marguerite St Just's brother is a
noted republican. There was some talk of a family feud
between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St Cyr.
The St Justs' are quite plebeian, and the republican
government employs many spies. I assure you there is
no mistake. . . . You had not heard this story?"
"Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it,
but in England no one would credit it. ... Sir Percy
Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man, of high
social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of
Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and
society in London."
"That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead
a very quiet life in England, but I pray God that while
I remain in this beautiful country, I may never meet
Marguerite St Just."
The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over
the merry little company gathered round the table.
Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir Andrew fidgeted
uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased in
the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid
and unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for
Lord Antony, he looked extremely uncomfortable, and
glanced once or twice apprehensively towards Jellyband,
who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.
"At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady
Blakeney?" he contrived to whisper unobserved, to
mine host.
"Any moment, my lord," whispered Jellyband in
reply.
Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an
approaching coach: louder and louder it grew, one or
two shouts became distinguishable, then the rattle of
horses' hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the next


'EAGUE OF SCARLET PIMPERNEL 41
moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room
door and rushed in excitedly.
"Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady," he shouted at
the top of his voice, "they're just arriving."
And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron
hoofs upon the stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by
four superb bays, had halted outside the porch of " The
Fisherman's Rest."


CHAPTER V
MARGUERITE
In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of
the inn became the scene of hopeless confusion and
discomfort . At the first announcement made by the
stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had
jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and
confused directions to poor bewildered Jellyband, who
seemed at his wits' end what to do.
"For goodness' sake, man," admonished his lordship,
"try to keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a
moment, while the ladies withdraw. Zounds !" he added,
with another more emphatic oath, "this is most
unfortunate."
"Quick, Sally I the candles!" shouted Jellyband, as
hopping about from one leg to another, he ran hither
and thither, adding to the general discomfort of every-
body.
The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and
erect, trying to hide her excitement beneath more becom-
ing sang-froid, she repeated mechanically,—
"I will not set her!—I will not see her!"
Outside, the st .itement attendant upon the arrival of
very important guests grew apace.
"Good-day, Sir Percy!—Good-day to your ladyship !
Your servant, Sir Percy I"—was heard in one long,
continued chorus, with alternate more feeble tones of—
42


MARGUERITE 43
"Remember the poor blind man ! of your charity, lady
and gentleman !"
Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard
through all the din.
"Let the poor man be—and give him some supper at
my expense."
The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song
in it, and a faint soupcon of foreign intonation in the
pronunciation of the consonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused,
instinctively listening to it for a moment. Sally was
holding the candles by the opposite door, which led to
the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was in the act
of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned
such a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was
preparing to follow her mother, whilst casting regretful
glances towards the door, where she hoped still to see
her dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and
blindly hoping to avert the catastrophe, which he felt was
in the air, and the same low, musical voice said, with a
merry laugh and mock consternation,—
"B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! Dieu! has
anyone ever seen such a contemptible climate?"
"Suzanne, come with me at once—I wish it," said the
Comtesse, peremptorily.
"Oh ! Mama !" pleaded Suzanne.
"My lady ... er ... h'm! ... my lady! ... "
came in feeble accents from Jellyband, who stood
clumsily trying to bar the way.
"Pardieu, my good man," said Lady Blakeney, with
some impatience, "what are you standing in my way for,
dancing about like a turkey with a sore foot? Let me
get to the fire, I am perished with the cold."


44 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing
mine host on one side, had swept into the coffee room.
There are many portraits and miniatures extant of
Marguerite St Just—Lady Blakeney as she was then—
but it is doubtful if any of these really do her singular
beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with magnificent
presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even
the Comtesse paused for a moment in involuntary
admiration before turning her back on tofascinating an
apparition.
Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty,
and her beauty was at its most dazzling stage. The
large hat, with its undulating and waving plumes, threw a
soft shadow across the classic brow with the aureole of
auburn hair—free at the moment from any powder; the
sweet, almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose,
round chin, and delicate throat, all seemed set off by the
picturesque costume of the period. The rich blue velvet
robe moulded in its every line the graceful contour of
the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity all
its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of
ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had
taken to carrying recently.
With a quick glance all round the room, Marguerite
Blakeney had taken stock of every one there. She
nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whilst
extending a hand to Lord Antony.
"Hello! my Lord Tony, why — what are you doing
here in Dover?" she said merrily.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced
the Comtesse and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up
with additional brightness, as she stretched out both
arms towards the young girl.
"Why! if that isn't my little Suzanne over there


MARGUERITE 45
Pardteu, little citizeness, how came you to be in
England? And Madame too!"
She went up effusively to them both, with not a single
touch of embarrassment in her manner or in her smile.
Lord Tony and Sir Andrew watched the little scene with
eager apprehension. English though they were, they
had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with
the French, to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter
hatred with which the old noblesse of France viewed all
those who had helped to contribute to their downfall
Armand St Just, the brother of beautiful Lady Blakeney
—though known to hold moderate and conciliatory
views—was an ardent republican: his feud with the
ancient family of St Cyr—the rights and wrongs of
which no outsider ever knew—had culminated in the
downfall, the almost total extinction, of the latter. In
France, St Just and his party had triumphed, and here in
England, face to face with these three refugees driven
from their country, flying for their lives, bereft of all
which centuries of luxury had given them, there stood a
fair scion of those same republican families which had
hurled down a throne, and uprooted an aristocracy
whose origin was lost in the dim and distant vista of by-
gone centuries.
She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand
to them, as if she would, by that one act, bridge over the
conflict and bloodshed of the past decade.
"Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman," said
the Comtesse, sternly, as she placed a restraining hand
upon her daughter's arm.
She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and
understand; the two young English gentlemen as well
u the common innkeeper and his daughter. The latter


46 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
literally gasped with horror at this foreign insolence, this
impudence before her ladyship—who was English, now
that she was Sir Percy's wife, and a friend of the
Princess of Wales to boot.
As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their
very hearts seemed to stand still with horror at this
gratuitous insult. One of them uttered an exclamation
of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctively
both glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow,
drawly, not unpleasant voice had already been heard.
Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and
the Comtesse de Tournay had remained seemingly
unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect and defiant, with one
hand still upon her daughter's arm, seemed the very
personification of unbending pride. For the moment
Marguerite's sweet face had become as white as the soft
fichu which swathed her throat, and a very keen observer
might have noted that the hand which held the tall, be-
ribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.
But this was only momentary; the next instant the
delicate eyebrows were raised slightly, the lips curved
sarcastically upwards, the clear blue eyes looked straight
at the rigid Comtesse, and with a slight shrug of the
shoulders—
"Hoity-toity, citizeness," she said gaily, "what fly
stings you, pray?"
"We are in England now, Madame," rejoined the
Comtesse, coldly, "and I am at liberty to forbid my
daughter to touch your hand in friendship. Come,
Suzanne."
She beckoned to her daughter, and without another
look at Marguerite Blakeney, but with a deep, old-
fashioned curtsey to the two young men, she sailed
majestically out of the room.


MARGUERITE 47
There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment,
as the rustle of the Comtesse's skirts died away down the
passage. Marguerite, rigid as a statue, followed with
hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it disappeared
through the doorway—but as little Suzanne, humble and
obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set
expression suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost
pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney's
eyes.
Little Suzanne caught that look; the child's sweet
nature went out to the beautiful woman, scarce older
than herself; filial obedience vanished before girlish
sympathy; at the door she turned, ran back to
Marguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her
effusively; then only did she follow her mother, Sally
bringing up the rear, with a pleasant smile on her
dimpled face, and with a final curtsey to my lady.
Suzanne's sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the
unpleasant tension. Sir Andrew's eyes followed the
pretty little figure, until it had quite disappeared, then
they met Lady Blakeney's with unassumed merriment.
Marguerite, with dainty affectation, had kissed her
hand to the ladies, as they disappeared through the door,
then a humorous smile began hovering round the
corners of her mouth.
"So that's it, is it?" she said gaily. "La! Sir Andrew,
did you ever see such an unpleasant person? I hope
when I grow old I shan't look like that."
She gathered up her skirts, and assuming a majestic
gait, stalked towards the fireplace.
"Suzanne," she said, mimicking the Comtesse's voice,
"I forbid you to speak to that woman !"
The laugh, which accompanied this sally, sounded
perhaps a trifle forced and hard, but neither Sir Andrew


48 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
nor Lord Tony were very keen observers. The mimicry
was so perfect, the tone of the voice so accurately
reproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty
cheerful "Bravo!"
"Ah! Lady Blakeneyl" added Lord Tony, "how
they must miss you at the Come'die Francaise, and how
the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having taken you
away."
"Lud, man," rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her
graceful shoulders, "'tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for
anything; his witty sallies would disarm even Mada_ s
la Comtesse herself."
The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow
his mother in her dignified exit, now made a step forward,
ready to champion the Comtesse should Lady Blakeney
aim any further shafts at her. But before he could utter
a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant, though
distinctly inane laugh, was heard from outside, and the
next moment an unusually tall and very richly dressed
figure appeared in the doorway.


CHAPTER VI
AN EXQUISITE OF '93
Sir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time
inform us, was in this year of grace 1792, still a year or
two on the right side of thirty. Tall, above the average,
even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered and massively
built, he would have been called unusually good-looking,
but for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes,
and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure
his strong, clearly-cut mouth.
It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney,
Bart., one of the richest men in England, leader of all
the fashions, and intimate friend of the Prince of Wales,
had astonished fashionable society in London and
Bath, by bringing home, from one of his journeys abroad,
a beautiful, fascinating, clever, French wife He, the
sleepiest, dullest, most British Britisher that had ever
set a pretty woman yawning, had secured a brilliant
matrimonial prize for which, as all chroniclers aver, there
had been many competitors.
Marguerite St Just had first made her debutin artistic
Parisian circles, at the very moment when the greatest
social upheaval the world has ever known was taking
place within its very walls. Scarcely eighteen, lavishly
gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by a
young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round
her in her charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, O 4f


50 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
a coterie which was as brilliant as it was exclusive
—exclusive, that is to say, only from one point of view,
Marguerite St Just was from principle and by conviction
a republican—equality of birth was her motto—inequality
of fortune was in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but
the only inequality she admitted was that of talent
.
"Money and titles may be hereditary," she would say,
"but brains are not," and thus her charming salon was
reserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and
wit, for clever men and talented women, and the entrance
into it was soon looked upon in the world of intellect—
which even in those days and in those troublous times
found its pivot in Paris—as the seal to an artistic career.
Clever men, distinguished men, and even men of
exalted station formed a perpetual and brilliant court
round the fascinating young actress of the Come'die
Francaise, and she glided through republican, revolu-
tionary, bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a
trail behind her of all that was most distinguished, most
interesting, in intellectual Europe.
Then the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and
called it an artistic eccentricity, others looked upon it as
a wise provision, in view of the many events which were
crowding thick and fast in Paris just then, but to all, the
real motive of that climax remained a puzzle and a
mystery. Anyway, Marguerite St Just married Sir Percy
Blaksney one fine day, just like that, without any
warning to her friends, without a soiree de contrat, or
diner de fianfailles or other appurtenances of a fashion-
able French wedding.
How that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be
admitted within the intellectual circle which revolved
round "the cleverest woman in Europe," as her friends unanimously called her, no one ventured to guess—


AN EXQUISITE OF '92 51
golden key is said to open every door, asserted the more
malignantly inclined.
Enough, she married him, and the cleverest woman
in Europe " had linked her fate to that "demmed idiot"
Blakeney, and not even her most intimate friends could
assign to this strange step any other motive than that of
supreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew, laughed
to scorn the idea that Marguerite St, Just had married a
fool for the sake of the worldly advantages with which
he might endow her. They knew, as a matter of fact,
that Marguerite St Just cared nothing about money, and
still less about a title ; moreover, there were at least half
a dozen other men in the cosmopolitan world equally
well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney, who would
have been only too happy to give Marguerite St Just any
position she might choose to covet
.
As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to
be totally unqualified for the onerous post he had taken
upon himself. His chief qualifications for it seemed to
consist in his blind adoration for her, his great wealth,
and the high favour in which he stood at the English
court: but London society thought that, taking into
consideration his own intellectual limitations, it would
have been wiser on his part, had he bestowed those
worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and witty wife.
Although lately he had been so prominent a figure in
fashionable English society, he had spent most of his
early life abroad. His father, the late Sir Algernon
Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune of seeing an
idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two
years of happy married life. Percy had just been born
when the late Lady Blakeney fell a prey to the terrible
malady which in those days was looked upon as hope-
lessly incurable and nothing short of a curse of God


AN EXQUISITE OF '92 53
proud of his clever wife, and to care little that she took
no pains to disguise that good-natured contempt which
she evidently felt for him, and that she even amused
herself by sharpening her ready wits at his expense.
But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the
ridicule with which his clever wife covered him, and if
his matrimonial relations with the fascinating Parisienne
had not turned out all that his hopes and his dog-like
devotion for her had pictured, society could never do
more than vaguely guess at it.
In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second
fiddle to his clever wife with imperturbable bonhomie; he
lavished jewels and luxuries of all kinds upon her, which
she took with inimitable grace, dispensing the hospitality
of his superb mansion with the same graciousness with
which she had welcomed the intellectual coterie of Paris,
Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably hand-
some—always excepting the lazy, bored look which was
habitual to him. He was always irreproachably dressed,
and wore the exaggerated " Incroyable" fashions, which
had just crept across from Paris to England, with the
perfect good taste innate in an English gentleman. On
this special afternoon in September, in spite of the long
journey by coach, in spite of rain and mud, his coat set
irreproachably across his fine shoulders, his hands looked
almost femininely white, as they emerged through billowy
frills of finest Mechlin lace: the extravagantly short-
waisted satin coat, wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-
fitting striped breeches, set off his massive figure to
perfection, and in repose one might have admired so
fine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish
ways, the affected movements, the perpetual inane laugh,
brought one's admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an
abrupt close.


54 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
He had lolled into the old-fashioned inn parlour,
shaking the wet off his fine overcoat ; then putting up
a gold-rimmed eye-glass to his lazy blue eye, he sur-
veyed the company, upon whom an embarrassed silence
had suddenly fallen. •
"How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?" he said, re-
cognizing the two young men and shaking them by the
hand. "Zounds, my dear fellow," he added, smothering
a slight yawn, "did you ever see such a beastly day?
Demmed climate this."
With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and
half of sarcasm, Marguerite had turned towards her hus-
band, and was surveying him from head to foot, with an
amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes.
"La!" said Sir Percy, after a moment or two's silence,
as no one '>,,ered any comment, "how sheepish you all
look, . . . What's up?"
"Oh, nothing, Sir Percy," replied Marguerite, with a
certain amount of gaiety, which, however, sounded some-
what forced, "nothing to disturb your equanimity—only
an insult to your wife."
The laugh which accompanied this remark was evi-
dently intended to reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity
of the incident . It apparently succeeded in that, for,
echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly—
'' La, m'dear! you don't say so. Begad! who was
the bold man who dared to tackle you—eh?"
Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to
do so, for the young Vicomte had already quickly stepped
forward.
"Monsieur," he said, prefixing his little speech with
an elaborate bow, and speaking in broken English, "my
mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, has
offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot


56 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
though still bewildered, was beginning to lose his
temper.
"You are a sportsman, Lord Tony," said Marguerite,
merrily; "ten to one on the little bantam."
But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a
moment or two, through his partly closed heavy lids, then
he smothered another yawn, stretched his long limbs,
and turned leisurely away.
"Lud love you, sir," he muttered good-humouredly.
"Demmit, young man, what's the good of your sword
to me?"
What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment,
when that long-limbed Englishman treated him with
such marked insolence, might fill volumes of sound re-
flections. . . . What he said resolved itself into a single
articulate word, for all the others were choked in his
throat by his surging wrath—
"A duel, Monsieur," he stammered.
Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude
looked down on the choleric little man before him; but
not even for a second did he seem to lose his own im-
perturbable good-humour. He laughed his own pleasant
and inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into
the capacious pocketsof his overcoat, he said leisurely—
"A duel? La ! is that what he meant? Odd's fish!
you are a bloodthirsty young ruffian. Do you want to
make a hole in a law-abiding man? ... As for me,
sir, I never fight duels," he added, as he placidly sat
down and stretched his long, lazy legs out before
him. "Demoted uncomfortable things, duels, ain't they,
Tony?"
Now the Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in
England the fashion of duelling amongst gentlemen had
been suppressed by the law with a very stern hand; still


AN EXQUISITE OF '92 57
to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of bravery and
honour were based upon a code that had centuries of
tradition to back it, the spectacle of a gentleman actually
refusing to fight a duel was little short of an enormity.
In his mind he vaguely pondered whether he should
strike that long-legged Englishman in the face and call
him a coward, or whether such conduct in a lady's
presence might be deemed ungentlemanly, when Mar-
guerite happily interposed.
"I pray you, Lord Tony," she said in that gentle,
sweet, musical voice of hers, "I pray you play the peace-
maker. The child is bursting with rage, and," she added
with a soupconof dry sarcasm, "might do Sir Percy an
injury." She laughed a mocking little laugh, which,
however, did not in the least disturb her husband's
placid equanimity. "The British turkey has had the
Jay," she said. "Sir Percy would provoke all the saints
in the calendar and keep his temper the while."
But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had
joined in the laugh against himself.
'"Demmed smart that now, wasn't it ?" he said, turn-
ing pleasantly to the Vicomte. "Clever woman my wife,
sir, . . . You will find that out if you live long enough
in England."
"Sir Percy is in the right, Vicomte," here interposed
Lord Antony, laying a friendly hand on the young
Frenchman's shoulder. "It would hardly be fitting that
you should commence your career in England by pro-
voking him to a duel."
For a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then
with a slight shrug of the shoulders directed against the
extraordinary code of honour prevailing in this fog-
ridden island, he said with becoming dignity,—
"Ah, well I if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs.


58 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
You, mi'lor', are our protector. If I have done wrong,
I withdraw myself."
"Aye, do I" rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of
satisfaction, "withdraw yourself over there. Demmed
excitable little puppy," he added under his breath.
"Faith, Ffoulkes, if that's a specimen of the goods you
and your friends bring Over from France, my advice to
you is, drop 'em 'mid Channel, my friend, or I shall have
to see old Pitt about it, get him to clap on a prohibitive
tariff, and put you in the stocks an you smuggle."
"La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you," said
Marguerite, coquettishly, "you forget that you yourself
have imported one bundle of goods from France."
Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep
and elaborate bow before his wife, he said with consum-
mate gallantry,—
"I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste
is unerring."
"More so than your chivalry, I fear," she retorted
sarcastically.
"Odd's life, m'dear I be reasonable! Do you think I
am going to allow my body to be made a pincushion of,
by every little frog-eater who don't like the shape of
your nose?"
"Lud, Sir Percy !" laughed Lady Blakeney as she
bobbed him a quaint and pretty curtsey, "you need not
be afraid ! Tis not the men who dislike the shape of
my nose."
"Afraid be demmed ! Do you impugn my bravery,
Madame? I don't patronise the ring for nothing, do I
Tony? I've put up the fists with Red Sam before now,
and—and he didn't get it all his own way either—"
"S'faith, Sir Percy," said Marguerite, with a long and
merry laugh, that went echoing along the old oak rafters



*
>.
n)


"<-.!, 1--NOX
. •'. t-'.Vi% ATI ,N


AN EXQUISITE OF '92 59
of the parlour, "I would I had seen you then ... ha !
ha! ha! ha!—you must have looked a pretty picture
. . . and . . . and to be afraid of a little French boy
... ha ! ha ! ... ha! ha!"
"Ha! ha ! ha ! he! he! he !" echoed Sir Percy, good-
humouredly. "La, Madame, you honour me! Zooks !
Ffoulkes, mark ye that! I have made my wife laugh!
—The cleverest woman in Europe ! ... Odd's fish, we
must have a bowl on that! " and he tapped vigorously
on the table near him. "Hey ! Jelly ! Quick, man !
Here, Jelly !"
Harmony was once more restored. Mr Jellyband,
with a mighty effort, recovered himself from the many
emotions he had experienced within the last half hour.
"A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong, eh?" said
Sir Percy. "The wits that have just made a clever
woman laugh must be whetted! Ha ! ha ! ha ! Hasten,
my good Jelly !"
"Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy," interposed Mar-
guerite. "The skipper will be here directly and my
brother must get on board, or the Day Dream will miss
the tide."
"Time, m'dear? There is plenty of time for any
gentleman to get drunk and get on board before the
turn of the tide."
"I think, your ladyship," said Jellyband, respectfully,
"that the young gentleman is coming along now with
Sir Percy's skipper." -h
"That's right," said Blakeney, "then Arm-
join us in the merry bowl . Think you, -'ng . e
added, turning towards the Vicomte, "t1 "th a curious
napes of yours will join us in a glass? massive chin-and
drink in token of reconciliation." gait which mvan-
"In fact you are all such merry c. Mn> a 7oun8« shKn«


6o THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
guerite, "that I trust you will forgive me if I bid my
brother good-bye in another room."
It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord
Antony and Sir Andrew felt that Lady Blakeney could
not altogether be in tune with them at that moment.
Her love for her brother, Armand StJust, was deep and
touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few
weeks with her in her English home, and was going
back to serve his country, at a moment when death was the usual reward for the most enduring devotion.
Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife.
With that perfect, somewhat affected gallantry which
characterised his every movement, he opened the coffee-
room door for her, and made her the most approved and
elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated,
as she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him
more than a passing, slightly contemptuous glance.
Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought since he
had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more
gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious look
of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion, with
which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the
retreating figure of his brilliant wife.


CHAPTER VII
THE SECRET ORCHARD
Once outside the noisy coffee-room, alone in the dimly-
lighted passage, Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe
more freely. She heaved a deep sigh, like one who had
long been oppressed with the heavy weight of constant
self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheeded
down her cheeks.
Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly
passing clouds, the pale rays of an after-storm sun shone
upon the beautiful white coast of Kent and the quaint,
irregular houses that clustered round the Admiralty
Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch
and looked out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever-
changing sky, a graceful schooner, with white sails set,
was gently dancing in the breeze. The Day Dream it
was, Sir Percy Blakeney's yacht, which was ready to take
Armand St Just back to France into the very midst of
that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing
a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society,
in order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a
new Utopia, of which a few men dreamed, but which
none had the power to establish.
In the distance two figures were approaching "The
Fisherman's Rest": one, an oldish man, with a curious
fringe of grey hairs round a rotund and massive chin, and
who walked with that peculiar rolling gait which invari-
ably betrays the seafaring man: the other, a young, slight
fa


62 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
figure, neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many-
caped overcoat; he was clean-shaved, and his dark hair
was taken well backover a clear and noble forehead.
"Armand!" said Marguerite Blakeney, as soon as
she saw him approaching from the distance, and a happy
smile shone on her sweet face, even through the tears.
A minute or two later brother and sister were locked
in each other's arms, while the old skipper stood respect-
fully on one side.
"How much time have we got, Briggs?" asked Lady
Blakeney, "before M. St,J ust need go on board?"
"We ought to weigh anchor before half an hour,
your ladyship," replied the old man, pulling at his grey
forelock.
Linking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother
towards the cliffs.
"Half an hour," she said, looking wistfully out to sea,
"half an hour more and you'll be far from me, Armand!
Oh! I can't believe that you are going, dear! These
last few days—whilst Percy has been away, and I've had
you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream."
"I am not going far, sweet one," said the young man
gently, " a narrow channel to cross—a few miles of road
—I can soon come back."
"Nay, 'tis not the distance, Armand—but that awful
Paris . . . just now . . ."
They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle
sea-breeze blew Marguerite's hair about her face, and
sent the ends of her soft lace fichu waving round her,
like a white and supple make. 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.


THE SECRET ORCHARD 63
"Our own beautiful country, Marguerite," said
Armand, who seemed to have divined her thoughts.
"They are going too far, Armand," she said
vehemently, "You are a republican, so am I ... we
have the same thoughts, the same enthusiasm for liberty
and equality . . . but even you must think that they are going too far . . ."
"Hush!—" said Armand, instinctively, as he threw a
quick, apprehensive glance around him.
"Ah I you see: you don't think yourself that it it
safe even to speak of these things—here in England !"
She clung to him suddenly with strong, almost motherly,
passion: "Don't go, Armand !" she begged; "don't
go back ! What should I do if ... if ... if . ."
Her voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue
and loving, gazed appealingly at the young man, who in
his turn looked steadfastly into hers.
"You would in any case be my own brave sister," he
said gently, "who would remember that, when France
is in peril, it U not for her son, to turn their backs on
her."
Even as he spoke, that sweet, childlike smile crept back
into her face, pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed
drowned in tears.
"Oh ! Armand !" she said quaintly, "I sometimes
wish you had not so many lofty virtues . . . I assure
you little sins are far less dangerous and uncom-
fortable. But you will be prudent?" she added
earnestly.
"As far as possible ... I promise you.''"Remember, dear, I have only you . . . to . . . to
care for me. . . I "Nay, sweet one, youhave other interests now.
Percy cares for you. . . ."


64 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes u
she murmured,—
"He did ... once . . ."
"But surely . . ."
"There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my
account. Percy is very good . . ."
"Nay I" he interrupted energetically, "I will distress
myself on your account, my Margot. Listen, dear, I
have not spoken of these things to you before ; some-
thing 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 ques-
tion. . . . 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 deStCyr?"
She laughed — a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous
laugh, which was like a jarring chord in the music of
her voice.
"That I denounced the Marquis de St Cyr, you mean,
to the tribunal that ultimately sent him and all his
family to the guillotine? Yes, he does know. ... I
told him after I married him. . . ."
"You told him all the circumstances—which so com-
pletely 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 betuean myself
by trying to explain--" "And?"


THE SECRET ORCHARD 65
"And now I have the satisfaction, Armand, of know-
ing that the biggest fool in England has the most com-
plete contempt for his wife."
She spoke with vehement bitterness this time, and
Armand St Just, who loved her so dearly, felt that he had
placed a somewhat clumsy finger, upon an aching wound.
"But Sir Percy loved you, Margot," he repeated
gently.
"Loved me ?—Well, Armand, I thought at one time
that he did, or I should not have married him. I dare-
say," she added, speaking very rapidly, as if she were
glad at last to lay down a heavy burden, which had
oppressed her for months, "I daresay that even you
thought—as everybody else did—that I married Sir
Percy because of his wealth—but I assure you, dear,
that it was not so. He seemed to worship me with a
curious intensity of concentrated passion, which went
straight to my heart. I had never loved any one 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 . . . wor-
shipped, in fact—and the very fact that Percy was slow
and stupid was an attraction for me, as I thought he
would love me all the more. A clever man would
naturally have other interests, an ambitious man other
hopes. ... I thought that a fool would worship, and
think of nothing else. And I was ready to respond,
Armand; I would have allowed myself to be worshipped,
and given infinite tenderness in return. . . ."
She sighed—and there was a world of disillusionment
in that sigh. Armand St Just had allowed her to speak
on without interruption: he listened to her, whilst
allowing his own thoughts to run riot. It was terrible to


66 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
see a young and beautiful woman—a girl in all but name
—still standing almost at the threshold of her life, yet
bereft of hope, bereft of illusions, bereft of those golden
and fantastic dreams, which should have made her youth
one long, perpetual holiday.
Yet perhaps—though he loved his sister dearly—
perhaps he understood: he had studied men in many
countries, men of all ages, men of every grade of social
and intellectual status, and inwardly he understood
what Marguerite had left unsaid. Granted that Percy
Blakeney was dull-witted, but in his slow-going mind,
there would still be room for that ineradicable pride of
a descendant of a long line of English gentlemen. A
Blakeney had died on Bosworth Field, another had
sacrificed life and fortune for the sake of a treacherous
Stuart: and that same pride—foolish and prejudiced as
the republican Armand would call it—must have been
stung to the quick on hearing of the sin which lay at
Lady Blakeney's door. She had been young, misguided,
ill-advised perhaps. Armand knew that: and those who
took advantage of Marguerite's youth, her impulses and
imprudence, knew it still better; but Blakeney was
slow-witted, he would not listen to "circumstances,"
he only clung to facts, and these had shown him Lady
Blakeney denouncing a fellow-man to a tribunal that
knew no pardon: and the contempt he would feel for
the deed she had done, however unwittingly, would kill
that same love in him, in which sympathy and intellect-
uality could never have had a part.
Yet even now, his own sister puzzled him. Life and
love have such strange vagaries. Could it be that with
the waning of her husband's love, Marguerite's heart had
awakened with love for him? Strange extremes meet in
love's pathway: this woman, who had had half in-


THE SECRET ORCHARD 67
tellectual 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 pre-
sently it seemed to him that something which glittered
for a moment in the golden evening light, fell from her
eyes onto her dainty fichu of lace.
But he could not broach that subject with her. He
knew her strange, passionate nature so well, and knew
that reserve which lurked behind her frank, open ways.
They had always been together, these two, for their
parents had died when Armand was still a youth, and
Marguerite but a child. He, some eight years her
senior, had watched over her until her marriage; had
chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in
the flat of the Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her
enter upon this new life of hers, here in England, with
much sorrow and some foreboding.
This was his first visit to England since her marriage,
and the few months of separation had already seemed
to have built up a slight, thin partition between brother
and sister; the same deep, intense love was still there,
on both sides, but each now seemed to have a secret
orchard, into which the other dared not penetrate.
There was much Armand St Just could not tell his
sister; the political aspect of the revolution in France
was changing almost every day; she might not under-
stand 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 hii


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


CHAPTER VIII
THE ACCREDITED AGENT
The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a
long, chilly English summer's evening was throwing a
misty pall over the green Kentish landscape.
The Day Dream had set sail, and Marguerite Blake-
ney stood alone on the edge of the cliff for over an hour,
watching those white sails, which bore so swiftly away
from her the only being who really cared for her, whom
she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.
Some little distance away to her left the lights from
the coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" glittered
yellow in the gathering mist; from time to time it
seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from
thence, the sound of merry-making and of jovial talk,
or even that perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband's,
which grated continually upon her sensitive ears.
Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely
alone. She supposed that, in his own stupid, good-
natured way, he may have understood that she would
wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared
into the vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose
notions of propriety and decorum were supersensitive,
had not suggested even, that an attendant should remain
within call. Marguerite was grateful to her husband
for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for
his thoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his
gen crosity, which really was boundless. She tried even
69


70 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter thoughts of him,
which made her—in spite of herself—say cruel, insulting
things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him.
Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him
feel that she too held him in contempt, that she too had
forgotten that once she had almost loved him. Loved
that inane fop I whose thoughts seemed unable to soar
beyond the tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat
.
Bah ! And yet ! ... vague memories, that were sweet
and ardent and attuned to this calm summer's evening,
came wafted back to her memory, on the invisible wings
of the light sea-breeze: the time when first he wor-
shipped her; he seemed so devoted—a very slave—
and there was a certain latent intensity in that love
which had fascinated her.
Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which through-
out his courtship she had looked upon as the slavish
fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanish completely. Twenty-
four hours after the simple little ceremony at old St Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently,
she had spoken of certain matters connected with the
Marquis de St Cyr before some men—her friends—
who had used this information against the unfortunate
Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.
She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear
brother, had loved Angele de St Cyr, but St Just was a
plebeian, and the Marquis full of the pride and arrogant
prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, the respect-
ful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem—
enthusiastic, ardent, passionate — to the idol of his
dreams. The next night he was waylaid just outside
Paris by the valets of the Marquis de St Cyr, and
ignominiously thrashed—thrashed like a dog within an
inch of his life—because he had dared to raise his eyes 


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 71
to the daughter of the aristocrat. The incident was one
which, in those days, some two years before the great
Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France;
incidents of that type, in fact, led to the bloody reprisals,
which a few years later sent most of those haughty heads
to the guillotine.
Marguerite remembered it all: what her brother must
have suffered in his manhood and his pride must have
been appalling; what she suffered through him and with
him she never attempted even to analyse.
Then the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and his
kind had found their masters, in those same plebeians
whom they had despised. Armand and Marguerite, both
intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with the enthusiasm
of their years the Utopian doctrines of the Revolution,
while the Marquis de St <Cyr and his family fought inch
by inch for the retention of the -e privileges, which had
placed them socially above their fellow-men. Marguerite,
impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the purport of her
words, still smarting under the terrible insult her brother
had suffered at the Marquis' hands, happened to hear—
amongst her own coterie—that the StCyrs were in
treasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to
obtain the Emperor's support to quell the growing
revolution in their own country.
In those days one denunciation was sufficient: Mar-
guerite's few thoughtless words, anent the Marquis de
St. Cyr, bore fruit within twenty-four hours. He was
arrested. His papers were searched: letters from the
Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the
Paris populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned
for treason against the nation, and sent to the guillotine,
whilst his family, his wife and his sons, shared this awful
fate.


72 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of
her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the
Marquis: her own coterie, the leaders of the revolutionary
movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine: and when she
married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps alto-
gether realise how severely he would look upon the sin,
which she had so inadvertently committed, and which
still lay heavily upon her soul. She made full confession
of it to her husband, trusting to his blind love for her,
her boundless power over him, to soon make him forget
what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear.
Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very
quietly; hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the
meaning of all she said; but what was more certain still,
was that never after that could she detect the slightest
sign of that love, which she once believed had been
wholly hers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and
Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his love for her,
as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse him
by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect;
endeavoured to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse
his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in
vain. He remained the same, always passive, drawling,
sleepy, always courteous, invariably a gentleman: she
had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give
to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's even-
ing, with the white sails of the Day Dream finally hidden
by the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that
poor tramp who plodded his way wearily along the rugged
cliffs.
With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned
her back upon the sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back
towards "The Fisherman's Rest." As she drew near, the
sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew louder and


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 73
more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes" pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws,
her husband's occasional, drawly, sleepy comments;
then realising the loneliness of the road and the fast
gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps . . .
the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly
towards her. Marguerite did not look up: she was not
the least nervous, and "The Fisherman's Rest" was
now well within call.
The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming
quickly towards him, and just as she was about to slip
past him, he said very quietly:
"Citoyenne St.Just."
Marguerite uttered a little, cry of astonishment, at thus
hearing her own familiar maiden name uttered to close
to her. She looked up at the stranger, and this time,
with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively towards him.
"Chauvelin !" she exclaimed.
"Himself, citoyenne, at your service," said the stranger,
gallantly kissing the tips of her fingers.
Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she
surveyed with obvious delight the not very prepossessing
little figure before her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty
than thirty—a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a
curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken eyes. He
was the same stranger who an hour or two previously
had joined Mr Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.
"Chauvelin . . . my friend . . ." said Marguerite,
with a pretty little sigh of satisfaction. "I am mightily
pleased to see you."
No doubt poor Marguerite St Just, lonely in the midst
of her grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy
to see a face that brought back memories of that happy


74 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
time in Paris, when she reigned—a queen—over the
intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not
notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered
round the thin lips of Chauvelin.
"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world,
or whom in the world, are you doing here in England?"
She had resumed her walk towards the inn, and
Chauvelin turned and walked beside her.
"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady," he
said. "What of yourself?"
"Oh, I ?" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Je
m'ennujfr mon ami, that is all."
They had reached the porch of " The Fisherman's Rest,"
but Marguerite seemed loth to go within. The evening
air was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend
who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew Armand
well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends
whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under
the pretty porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer-
window of the coffee-room came sounds of laughter, of calls
for " Sally " and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and clinking
of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and
mirthless laugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd,
pale, yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, which looked so
sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight.
"You surprise me, citoyenne," he said quietly, as he
took a pinch of snuff.
"Do I now?" she retorted gaily. "Faith, my little
Chauvelin, I should have thought that, with your pene-
tration, you would have guessed that an atmosphere
composed of fogs and virtues would never suit Marguerite
St Just."
"Dear me ! is it as bad as that?" he asked, in mock
consternation.


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 75
"Quite," she retorted, "and worse."
"Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman
would have found English country life peculiarly at-
tractive."
"Yes! so did I," she said with a sigh. "Pretty
women,"she added meditatively, "ought to have a good
time in England, since all the pleasant things are for-
bidden them—the very things they do every day."
"Quite sol"
"You'll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin," she
said earnestly, "but I often pass a whole day—a whole
day—without encountering a single temptation."
"No wonder,"retorted Chauvelin, gallantly. "thatthe
cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ennui."
She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike
laughs.
"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?" she said archly,
"or I should not have been so pleased to see you."
"And this within a year of a romantic love match !..."
"Yes ! ... a year of a romantic love match . . .
that's just the difficulty ..."
"Ah! . . . that idyllic folly," said Chauvelin, with
quiet sarcasm, "did not then survive the lapse of ...
weeks?"
"Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin. . . .
They come upon us like the measles . . . and are as
easily cured."
Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed
very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent
in those days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff
a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances
with which he strove to read the very souls of those with
whom he came in contact
.
"No wonder," he repeated, with the same gallantry,


76 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with
ennui."
"I was in hopes that you had a prescription against
the malady, my little Chauvelin."
"How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy
Blakeney has failed to accomplish?"
"Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for
the present, my dear friend?" she said drily.
"Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what
we cannot very well do," said Chauvelin, whilst once
again his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted
a quick glance at Marguerite. "I have a most perfect
prescription against the worst form of ennui, which I
would have been happy to submit to you, but—"
"But what?"
"There is Sir Percy."
"What has he to do with it?"
"Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I
would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name:
Work!"
"Work?"
Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinis-
ingly. It seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were
reading every one of her thoughts. They were alone
together; the evening air was quite still, and their soft
whispers were drowned in the noise which came from
the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or two
from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all
round him, then, seeing that indeed no one was within
earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.
"Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?"
he asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent
his thin, fox-like face singular earnestness.
"La, man !" she replied flippantly, "how serious you 



_J





THE ACCREDITED AGENT 77
look all of a sudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I
would render France a small service—at anyrate, it
depends upon the kind of service she—or you—want."
"Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
Citoyenne St Just?" asked Chauvelin, abruptly.
"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?" she retorted with
a long and merry laugh, " Faith, man! we talk of nothing
else. . . . We have hats 'a la Scarlet Pimpernel'; our
horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the Prince of
Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'soufflé
a la Scarlet Pimpernel.' . . . Lud!" she added gaily,
"the other day I ordered at my milliner's a blue dress
trimmed with green, and, bless me, if she did not call
that'a la Scarlet Pimpernel" Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily
along; he did not even attempt to stop her when her
musical voice and her childlike laugh went echoing
through the still evening air. But he remained serious
and earnest, whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear,
incisive, and hard, was not raised above his breath as
he said,—
"Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical person-
age, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and known,
that the man who hides his identity under that strange
pseudonym, in the most bitter enemy of our republic,
of France ... of men like Armand .-1 Just." "La ! . . ."she said, with a quaint little sigh, "I dare
swear he is. ... France has many bitter enemies
these days."
"But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and
should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril." "My brother Armand devotes his life to France," she
retorted proudly; "as for me, I can do nothing . . .
here in England. . . ."


78 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"Yes, you ..." he urged still more earnestly, whilst
his thin fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown
impressive and full of dignity, "here, in England,
citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. ... Listen!—
I have been sent over here by the Republican' Govern-
ment as its representative: I present my credentials to
Mr Pitt in London to-morrow. One of my duties here
is to find out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimper-
nel, which has become a standing menace to France,
since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats—traitors
to their country, and enemies of the people—to escape
from the just punishment which they deserve. You
know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they are over
here, those French emigres try to rouse public feeling
against the Republic. . . . They are ready to join issue
with any enemy bold enough to attack France. . . .
Now, within the last month, scores of these Emigres,
some only suspected of treason, others actually con-
demned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded
in crossing the Channel. Their escape in each instance
was planned, organised and effected by this society of
young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose
brain seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious.
All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies
have failed to discover who he is; whilst the others are
the hands, he is the head, who, beneath this strange
anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France.
I mean to strike at that head, and for this I want your
help—through him afterwards I can reach the rest of
the gang: he is a young buck in English society, of
that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne !" he
urged, "find him for France !"
Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned
speech without uttering a word, scarce making a move-


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 79
mem, hardly daring to breathe. She had told him before,
that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the
smart set to which she belonged ; already, before this,
her heart and her imagination had been stirred by the
thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had
rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an un-
merciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with
those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride
of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive
was so typical an example; but, republican and liberal-
minded though she was from principle, she hated and
loathed the methods which the young Republic had
chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in
Paris for some months; the horrors and bloodshed of
the Reign of Terror, culminating in the September mas-
sacres, had only come across the Channel to her as a
faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not
known in their new guise of bloody justiciaries, merci-
less wielders of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled
in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her
brother Armand—moderate republican as he was—
might become one day the holocaust.
Then, when first she heard of this band of young
English enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellow-
men, dragged women and children, old and young men,
from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride
for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul
went out to the gallant and mysterious leader of the
reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who
gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake
of humanity.
Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished
speaking, the lace at her bosom rose and fell with her
quick, excited breathing; she no longer heard the noise of


THE ACCREDITED AGENT 81
him to the guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when
there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we can apologise—
humbly—to the British Government, and, if necessary,
pay compensation to the bereaved family."
"What you propose is horrible. Chauvelin," she said,
drawing away from him as from some noisome insect.
"Whoever the man may be. he is brave and noble, and
never—do you hear me ?—never would I lend a hand to
such villainy."
"You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat
who comes to this country?"
Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny
shaft. Marguerite's fresh young cheeks became a
thought more pale and she bit her under lip, for she
would not let him see that the shaft had struck home.
"That is beside the question," she said at last with
Indifference. "I can defend myself, but I refuse to do
any dirty work for you—or for France. You have other
means at your disposal; you must use them, my friend."
And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite
Blakeney turned her back on him and walked straight
into the inn.
"That is not your last word, citoyenne," said Chau-
velin, as a flood of light from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, " we meet in London, I hope!'
"We meet in London," she said, speaking over her
shoulder at him, "but that is my last word."
She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared
from his view, but he remained under the porch for a
moment or two, taking a pinch of snuff. He had re-
ceived a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like
face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the
contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly
satisfied, played around the corners of his thin lips.


CHAPTER IX
THE OUTRAGE
A Beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of
incessant rain: a cool, balmy, late summer's night,
essentially English in its suggestion of moisture and
scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.
The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest
thoroughbreds in England, had driven off along the
London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney on the box,
holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and
beside him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A
fifty-mile drive on a starlit summer's night ! Marguerite
had hailed the notion of it with delight. ... Sir Percy
was an enthusiastic whip; his four thoroughbreds, which
had been sent down to Dover a couple of days before,
were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the
expedition, and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of
the few hours of solitude, with the soft night breeze
fanning her cheeks, her thoughts wandering, whither
away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy
would speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on
his beautiful coach for hours at night, from point to
point, without making more than one or two casual
remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads. He
was very fond of driving by night, and she had very
quickly adopted his fancy: as she sat next to him hour
after hour, admiring the dexterous, certain way in which
he handled the reins, she often wondered what went on
82


THE OUTRAGE 83
in that slow-going head of his. He never told her, and
she had never cared to ask.
At " The Fisherman's Rest" Mr Jellyband was going
the round, putting out the lights. His bar customers
had all gone, but upstairs in the snug little bedrooms,
Mr Jellyband had quite a few important guests: the
Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzanne, and the Vicomte,
and there were two more bedrooms ready for Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, if the
two young men should elect to honour the ancient
hostelry and stay the night.
For the moment these two young gallants were com-
fortably installed in the coffee-room, before the huge
log-fire, which, in spite of the mildness of the evening,
had been allowed to burn merrily.
"I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?" asked Lord Tony,
as the worthy landlord still busied himself clearing away
glasses and mugs.
"Everyone, as you see, my lord."
"And all your servants gone to bed?"
"All except the boy on duty in the bar, and," added
Mr Jellyband with a laugh, "I expect he'll be asleep
afore long, the rascal."
"Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an
hour?"
"At your service, my lord.... I'll leave your candles
on the dresser . . . and your rooms are quite ready . . .
I sleep at the top of the house myself, but if your lord-
ihip'll only call loudly enough, I daresay I shall hear."
"All right, Jelly . . . and ... I say, put the lamp
out—the fire'll give us all the light we need—and we
don't want to attract the passer-by."
"Allri', my lord."
Mr Jellyband did as he was bid—he turned out the


84 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
quaint old lamp that hung from the raftered ceiling and
blew out all the candles.
"Let's have a bottle of wine, Jelly," suggested Sir
Andrew.
"All ri', sir!"
Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room
now was quite dark, save for the circle of ruddy and fitful
light formed by the brightly blazing logs in the hearth.
"Is that all, gentlemen?" asked Jellyband, as he
returned with a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses,
which he placed on the table.
"That'll do nicely, thanks, Jelly !" said Lord Tony.
"Good-night, my lord! Good-night, sir!"
"Good-night, Jelly!"
The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread
of Mr Jellyband was heard echoing along the passage
and staircase. Presently even that sound died out,
and the whole of "The Fisherman's Rest" seemed
wrapt in sleep, save the two young men drinking in
silence beside the hearth.
For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee-
room, save the ticking of the old grandfather's clock
and the crackling of the burning wood.
"All right again this time, Ffoulkes?" asked Lord
Antony at last.
Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing
into the fire, and seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty,
piquant face, with large brown eyes and a wealth of
dark curls round a childish forehead.
"Yes !" he said, still musing, "all right !"
"No hitch?"
"None."
Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself
out another glass of wine.


THE OUTRAGE 85
"I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the
journey plea ant this time?'
"No, friend, you need not ask," replied Sir Andrew,
gaily. "It was all right.'
"Then here's to her very good health," said jovial
Lord Tony. "She's a bonnie lass, though she is a
French one. And here's to your courtship—may it
flourish and prosper exceedingly.'
He drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his
friend beside the hearth.
"Well! you'll be doing the journey next, Tony, I
expect," said Sir Andrew, rousing himself from his
meditations, "you and Hastings, certainly; and I hope
you may have as pleasant a task as I had, and as
charming a travelling companion. You have no idea,
Tony . . . ."
"No! I haven't," interrupted his friend pleasantly,
"but Ill take your word for it. And now," he added,
whilst a sudden earnestness crept over his jovial young
face, "how about business?"
The two young men drew their chairs closer together,
and instinctively, though they were alone, their voices
sank to a whisper.
"I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few
moments in Calais," said Sir Andrew, "a day or two
ago. He crossed over to England two days before
we did. He had escorted the party all the way from
Paris, dressed—you'll never credit it!—as an old market
woman, and driving—until they were safely out of the
city—the covered cart, under which the Comtesse de
Tournay, Mile. Suzanne, and the Vicomte lay concealed
among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of
course, never suspected who their driver was. He drove
them right through a line of soldiery and a yelling


86 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
mob, who were screaming, 'A has les aristosl' But
the market cart got through along with some others,
and the Scarlet Pimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood,
yelled 'A has les aristos!' louder than anybody. Faith!"
added the young man, as his eyes glowed with en-
thusiasm for the beloved leader, "that man's a marvel!
His cheek is preposterous, I vow!—and that's what
carries him through."
Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited
than that of his friend, could only find an oath or two
with which to show his admiration for his leader.
"He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais,"
said Sir Andrew, more quietly, "on the and of next
month. Let me see I that will be next Wednesday."
"Yes."
"It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay,
this time; a dangerous task, for the Comte, whose
escape from his chateau, after he had been declared a
'suspect' by the Committee of Public Safety, was a
masterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel's ingenuity, is
now under sentence of death. It will be rare sport
to get him out of France, and you will have a narrow
escape, if you get through at all. Sujust has actually
gone to meet him—of course, no one suspects Stjust
as yet; but after that ... to get them both out of the
country! I'faith, 'twill be a tough job, and tax even the
ingenuity of our chief. I hope I may yet have orders
to be of the party."
"Have you any special instructions for me?"
"Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It
appears that the Republican Government have sent
an accredited agent over to England, a man named
Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter against
our league, and determined to discover the identity of


THE OUTRAGE 87
our leader, so that he may have him kidnapped, the
next time he attempts to set foot in France. This
Chauvelin has brought a whole army of spies with
him, and until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks
we should meet as seldom as possible on the business
of the league, and on no account should talk to each
other in public places for a time. When he wants to
speak to us, he will contrive to let us know."
The two young men were both bending over the fire,
for the blaze had died down, and only a red glow from
the dying embers cast a lurid light on a narrow semi-
circle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room lay
buried in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a
pocket-book from his pocket, and drawn therefrom a
paper, which he unfolded, and together they tried to
read it by the dim red firelight. So intent were they
upon this, so wrapt up in the cause, the business they
had so much at heart, so precious was this document
which came from the very hand of their adored leader,
that they had eyes and ears only for that. They lost
count of the sounds around them, of the dropping of
crisp ash from the grate, of the monotonous ticking
of the clock, of the soft, almost imperceptible rustle
of something on the floor close beside them. A figure
had emerged from under one of the benches; with
make-like, noiseless movements it crept closer and
closer to the two young men, not breathing, only
gliding along the floor, in the inky blackness of the
room.
"You are to read these instructions and commit
them to memory," said Sir Andrew, "then destroy
them."
He was about to replace the letter-case into his
pocket, when a tiny slip of paper fluttered from it and


88 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
fell on to the floor. Lord Antony stooped and picked
it up.
"What's that? "he asked.
"I don't know," replied Sir Andrew.
"It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly
did not seem to be with the other paper."
"Strange!—I wonder when it got there? It is from
the chief," he added, glancing at the paper.
Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap
of paper on which a few words had been hastily scrawled,
when suddenly a slight noise attracted their attention,
which seemed to come from the passage beyond.
"What's that ?" said both instinctively. Lord Antony
crossed the room towards the door, which he threw open
quickly and suddenly; at that very moment he received
a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw him back
violently into the room. Simultaneously the crouching,
snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled
itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew,
felling him to the ground.
All this occurred within the short space of two or three
seconds, and before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew
had time or chance to utter a cry, or to make the faintest
struggle. They were each seized by two men, a muffler
was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and they were
pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands,
and legs securely fastened.
One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door;
he wore a mask and now stood motionless while the
others completed their work.
"All safe, citoyen!" said one of the men, as he took
a final survey of the bonds which secured the two young
men.
"Good!" replied the man at the door; "now


THE OUTRAGE 89
March their pockets and give me all the papers you
find."
This was promptly and quietly done. The masked
man having taken possession of all the papers, listened
for a moment or two if there were any sound within " The
Fisherman's Rest." Evidently satisfied that this
dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more
opened the door and pointed peremptorily down the
passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord
Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly
as they had come, they bore the two pinioned young
gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into
the gloom beyond.
In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring
attempt was quickly glancing through the stolen papers.
"Not a bad day's work on the whole," he muttered,
as he quietly took off his mask, and his pale, fox-like
eyes glittered in the red glow of the fire. "Not a bad
day's work."
He opened one or two more letters from Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes' pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper
which the two young men had only just had time to
read; but one letter specially, signed Armand St Just,
seemed to give him strange satisfaction.
"Armand St.Just a traitor after all," he murmured.
"Now, fair Marguerite Blakeney," he added viciously
between his clenched teeth, "I think that you will help
me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."


IN THE OPERA BOX 91
coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about
from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with
those of his more intimate friends.
In Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting
personality attracted everyone's attention; a thin, small
figure with shrewd, sarcastic face and deep-set eyes,
attentive to the music, keenly critical of the audience,
dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair free from
any powder. Lord Grenville—Foreign Secretary of
State—paid him marked, though frigid deference.
Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English
types of beauty, one or two foreign faces stood out in
marked contrast: the haughty aristocratic cast of coun-
tenance' of the many French royalist émigrés who, per-
secuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their
country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On
these faces sorrow and care were deeply writ; the women
especially paid but little heed, either to the music or to
the brilliant audience; no doubt their thoughts were far
away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril, or
lately succumbed to a cruel fate.
Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,
but lately arrived from France, was a most conspicuous
figure: dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with only a
white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning
about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who
was vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad
jokes, to bring a smile to the Comtesse's sad mouth.
Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both
silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers.
Suzanne's eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered
the crowded house, she had looked eagerly all round,
scanned every face, scrutinised every box. Evidently
the one face she wished to see was not there, for she


92 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
settled herself down quietly behind her mother, listened
apathetically to the music, and took no further interest
in the audience itself.
" Ah, Lord Grenville said Lady Portarles, as follow-
ing a discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the
Secretary of State appeared in the doorway of the box,
"you could not arrive more a propos. Here is Madame
la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the
latest news from France."
The distinguished diplomatist had come forward and
was shaking hands with the ladies.
"Alas!" he said sadly, " it is of the very worst. The
massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and
the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day."
Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her
chair, listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic
account of what went on in her own misguided country.
"Ah, Monsieur !" she said in broken English, "it is
dreadful to hear all that—and my poor husband still in
that awful country. It is terrible for me to be sitting
here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst he is in
such peril."
"Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles,
"your sitting in a convent won't make your husband
safe, and you have your children to consider: they are
too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature
mourning." ,
The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the
Vehemence of her friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice
and manner would not have misfitted a jockey, had a
heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and
most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse
manners affected by some ladies at that time.
"Besides which, Madame," added Lord Grenville,


IN THE OPERA BOX 93
"did you not tell me yesterday that the League of the
Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their honour to bring
M. le Comte safely across the Channel?"
"Ah, yes!" replied the Comtesse, "and that a my
only hope. I saw Lord Hastings yesterday ... he
reassured me again."
"Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the
league have sworn, that they surely will accomplish.
Ah !" added the old diplomatist with a sigh, "if I were
but a few years younger ..."
"La, man!" interrupted honest Lady Portarles, "you
are still young enough to turn your back on that French
scarecrow that sits enthroned in your box to-night."
"I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remem-
ber that in serving our country we must put prejudices
aside. M. Chauvelin is the accredited agent of his
Government ..."
"Odd's fish, man!" she retorted, "you don't call
those bloodthirsty ruffians over there a government, do
you?"
"It has not been thought advisable as yet," said the
Minister, guardedly, " for England to break off diplomatic
relations with France, and we cannot therefore refuse to
receive with courtesy the agent she wishes to send to us."
"Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord ! That
sly little fox over there is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant,
and you'll find—an I'm much mistaken, that he'll con-
cern himself little with diplomacy, beyond trying to do
mischief to royalist refugees—to our heroic Scarlet Pim-
pernel and to the members of that brave little league."
"I am sure," said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin
lips, "that if this Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in Lady Blakeney."
"Bless the woman I" ejaculated Lady Portarles, "did


94 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
ever anyone see such perversity? My Lord Grenville.
you have the gift of the gab, will you please explain t«
Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In
your position here in England, Madame," she added,
turning a wrathful and resolute face towards the
Comtesse, "you cannot afford to put on the hoity-toity
airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady
Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those
ruffians in France; she may or may not have had anything
to do with the arrest and condemnation of St Cyr, or
whatever the man's name is, but she is the leader of
fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more
money than any half-dozen other men put together, he is
hand and glove with royalty, and your trying to snub
Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you
look a fool. Isn't that so, my lord?"
But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to
what reflections this homely tirade of Lady PC rtarlesled
the Comtesse de Tournay, remained unspoken, for the
curtain had just risen on the third act of Orpheus,
and admonishments to silence came from every part
of the house.
Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and
slipped back into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat
all through this entr'acte, with his eternal snuff-box in
his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed upon
a box opposite to him, where, with much frou-frou of
silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity
amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just
entered, accompanied by her husband, and looking
divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden, reddish
curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at
the nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow.
Always dressed in the very latest vagary of fashion,


IN THE OPERA BOX 95
Marguerite alone among the ladies that night had dis-
carded the cross-over fichu and broad-labelled over-
dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or
three years. She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped
gown, which so soon was to become the approved mode
in every country in Europe. It suited her graceful, regal
figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering
stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.
As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box,
taking stock of all those present whom she knew. Many
bowed to her as she did so, and from the royal box there
came also a quick and gracious salute.
Chauvelin watched her intently all through the com-
mencement of the third act, as she sat enthralled with
the music, her exquisite little hand toying with a small
jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms and neck,
covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems,
the gift of the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely
by her side.
Marguerite was passionately fond of music, Orpheus
charmed her to-night. The very joy of living was writ
plainly upon the sweet young face, it sparkled out of the
merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurked around the
lips. She was after all but five-arid twenty, in the hey-
day of youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored,
fitted,petted, cherished. Two days ago the Day
Dream had returned from Calais, bringing her news
that her idolised brother had safely landed, that
he thought of her, and would be prudent for her
sake.
What wonder for the moment, and listening to Cluck's
impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments,
forgot her vanished love-dreams, forgot even the lazy,
good-humoured nonentity who had made up for his


96 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly ad-
vantages upon her.
He had stayed beside her in the box just as long u
convention demanded, making way for His Royal
Highness, and for the host of admirers who in a con-
tinued procession came to pay homage to the queen
of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to
more congenial friends probably. Marguerite did not
even wonder whither he had gone—she cared so little;
she had had a little court round her, composed of
the jeunesse dorés of London, and had just dismissed
them all, wishing to be alone with Gliick for a brief
while.
A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.
"Come in," she said with some impatience, without
turning to look at the intruder.
Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that
she was alone, and now, without pausing for that
impatient " Come in," he quietly slipped into the box,
and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's
chair.
"A word with you, citoyenne," he said quietly.
Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not
altogether feigned.
"Lud, man I you frightened me," she said with a
forced little laugh, "your presence is entirely inoppor-
tune. I want to listen to Glück, and have no mind for
talking."
"But this is my only opportunity," he said, as quietly,
and without waiting for permission, he drew a chair close
behind her—so close that he could whisper in her ear,
without disturbing the audience, and without being seen,
in the dark background of the box. "This is my only


IN THE OPERA BOX 97
opportunity," he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no
reply, "Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so
feted by her court, that a mere old friend has but very
little chance."
"Faith, man !" she said impatiently, "you must seek
for another opportunity then. I am going to Lord
Grenville's ball to-night after the opera. So are you,
probably. I'll give you five minutes then . . . ."
"Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite
sufficient for me," he rejoined placidly, "and I think
that you would be wise to listen to me, Citoyenne St Just."
Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not
raised his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly
taking a pinch of snuff, yet there was something in his
attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which seemed
to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of
some deadly hitherto unguessed peril.
"Is that a threat, citoyen ?" she asked at last.
"Nay, fair lady," he said gallantly, "only an arrow
shot into the air."
He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse
running heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with
that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be
done. Then he said quietly—
"Your brother, St Just, is in peril."
Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him.
He could only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed
to be watching the stage intently, but Chauvelin was a
keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the
eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost
paralysed, tension of the beautiful, graceful figure.
"Lud, then," she said, with affected merriment, "since
'tis one of your imaginary plots, you'd best go back to
your own seat and leave me to enjoy the music."
o


98 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
And with her hand she began to beat time nervously
against the cushion of the box. Selina Storace was
singing the "Che faro" to an audience that hung spell-
bound upon the prima donna's lips. Chauvelin did not
move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous
hand, the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck
home.
"Well ?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with
the same feigned unconcern.
"Well, citoyenne ?" he rejoined placidly,
"About my brother?"
"I have news of him for you which, I think, will
interest you, but first let me explain. . . . May I?"
The question was unnecessary. He felt, though
Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him,
that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had
to say.
"The other day, citoyenne," he said, "I asked for
your help. . . . France needed it, and I thought I could
rely on you, but you gave me your answer. . . . Since
then the exigencies of my own affairs and your own
social duties have kept us apart . . . although many
things have happened. . . ."
"To the point, I pray you, citoyen," she said lightly;
"the music is entrancing, and the audience will get
impatient of your talk."
"One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had
the honour of meeting you at Dover, and less than an
hour after I had your final answer, I obtained possession
of some papers, which revealed another of those subtle
schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats
—that traitor de Tournay amongst others—all organised
by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of
the threads, too, of this mysterious organisation have


IN THE OPERA BOX 99
fallen into my hands, but not all, and I want you—nay I
you must help me to gather them together."
Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with
marked impatience; she now shrugged her shoulders
and said gaily—
"Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care
nought about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimper-
nel. And had you not spoken about my brother . . I "A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne," he continued
imperturbably. "Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dew-
hurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at 'The Fisherman's
Rest' at Dover that same night."
"I know. I saw them there."
"They were already known to my spies as members
of that accursed league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay and her children
across the Channel. When the two young men were
alone, my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of
the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants, seized
their papers, and brought them to me."
In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers?
. . . Had Armand been imprudent? . . . The very
thought struck her with nameless terror. Still she would
not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily
and lightly.
"Faith ! and your impudence passes belief," she said
merrily. "Robbery and violence !—in England !—in a
crowded inn I Your men might have been caught in the
act !"
"What if they had? They are children of France,
and have been trained by your humble servant. Had
they been caught they would have gone to jail, or even
to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion;
at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is


IN THE OPERA BOX 101
—was in Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as
if she had seen the letter with her own eyes; and Chau-
velin would hold that letter for purposes of his own, until
it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against
Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to
laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before.
"La, man !" she said, speaking over her shoulder and
looking him full and squarely in the face, "did I not say
it was some imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with
that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel ! ... Armand busy
helping those French aristocrats whom he despises ! ...
Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination!'
"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said
Chauvelin, with the same unruffled calm, "I must assure
you that St Just is compromised beyond the slightest
hope of pardon."
Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment
or two. Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert,
trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realise
what had best be done.
In the house Storace had finished the aria, and was
even now bowing in her classic garb, but in approved
eighteenth-century fashion, to the enthusiastic audience,
who cheered her to the echo.
"Chauveiin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last,
quietly, and without that touch of bravado which had
characterised her attitude all along, "Chauvelin, my
friend, shall we try to understand one another. It
seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with
this damp climate. Now, tell me, you are very anxious
to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn't
that so?"
"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne ... all the
more dangerous, as he works in the dark.'


102 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!—and
you would now force me to do some spying work for you
in exchange for my brother Armand's safety ?—Is that it?"
"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady," protested
Chauvelin, urbanely. "There can be no question of
force, and the service which I would ask of you, in the
name of France, could never be called by the shocking
name of spying."
"At anyrate, that is what it is called over here," she
said drily. "That is your intention, is it not?"
"My intention is, that you yourself win a free pardon
for Armand St Just by doing me a small service."
"What is it?"
"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St Just," he
said eagerly. "Listen: among the papers which were
found about the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there
was a tiny note. See!" he added, taking a tiny scrap of
paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.
It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago,
the two young men had been in the act of reading, at
the very moment when they were attacked by Chauvelin's
minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and stooped
to read it. There were only two lines, written in a dis-
torted, evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them
half aloud—
"' Remember we must not meet more often than is
strictly necessary. You have all instructions for the
and. If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be at
G.'s ball.'"
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand."
"There a device here in the corner, a small red
flower . . I 


IN THE OPERA BOX 103
"Yes."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel," she said eagerly, "and
G.'s ball means Grenville's ball. ... He will be at my
Lord Grenville's ball to-night."
"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne," con-
cluded Chauvelin, blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst
and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were pinioned and
searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a
lonely house on the Dover Road, which I had rented
for the purpose: there they remained close prisoners
until this morning. But having found this tiny scrap of
paper, my intention was that they should be in London,
in time to attend my Lord Grenville's ball. You see, do
you not? that they must have a great deal to say to
their chief. . . and thus they will have an opportunity of
speaking to him to-night, just as he directed them to do.
Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants found
every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the
Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good
horses standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard.
I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely
conclude that they did not draw rein until they reached
London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne!"
"It does seem simple, doesn't it?" she said, with a
final bitter attempt at flippancy, "when you want to kill
a chicken . . . you take hold of it ... then you
wring its neck . . . it's only the chicken who does not
find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my
throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find
it simple. ... I don't."
"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the
brother you love from the consequences of his own folly."
Marguerite's face softened, her eyes at last grew
moist, as she murmured, half to herself:


104 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"The only being in the world who has loved me truly
and constantly. . . . But what do you want me to do,
Chauvelin?" she said, with a world of despair in her
tear-choked voice. "In my present position, it is well-
nigh impossible I"
"Nay, citoyenne," he said drily and relentlessly, not
heeding that despairing, childlike appeal, which might
have melted a heart of stone, "as Lady Blakeney, no
one suspects you, and with your help to-night I may
—who knows?—succeed in finally establishing the iden-
tity of the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . . You are going to
the ball anon. . . . Watch for me there, citoyenne,
watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you hear a
chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone
to whom Sir Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst
will speak. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now.
The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville's ball
to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the
word of France that your brother shall be safe."
Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat.
Marguerite felt herself entangled in one of those
webs, from which she could hope for no escape. A
precious hostage was being held for her obedience: for
she knew that this man would never make an empty
threat. No doubt Armand was already signalled to the
Committee of Public Safety as one of the "suspect";
he would not be allowed to leave France again, and
would be ruthlessly struck, if she refused to obey
Chauvelin. For a moment—woman-like—she still
hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this
man, whom she now feared and hated.
"If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin,"
she said pleasantly, "will you give me that letter of
St Just's?"


IN THE OPERA BOX 105
"If you render me useful assistance to-night, citoy-
enne," he replied with a sarcastic smile, "I will give
you that letter . . . to-morrow."
"You do not trust me?"
"I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St Just's life
is forfeit to his country ... it rests with you to
redeem it."
"I may be powerless to help you," she pleaded, " were
I ever so willing."
"That would be terrible indeed," he said quietly,
"for you . . . and for St Just."
Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man
she could expect no mercy. All-powerful, he held the
beloved life in the hollow of his hand. She knew him
too well not to know that, if he failed in. gaining his
own ends, he would be pitiless.
She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of the
opera-house. The heart-appealing strains of the music
seemed to reach her, as from a distant land. She drew
her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders, and sat
silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream.
For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the
loved one who was in danger, to that other man who
also had a claim on her confidence and her affection.
She felt lonely, frightened for Armand's sake; she
longed to seek comfort and advice from some one, who
would know how to help and console. Sir Percy
Blakeney had loved her once; he was her husband;
why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal?
He had very little brains, it is true, but he had plenty of
muscle: surely, if she provided the thought, and he the
manly energy and pluck, together they could outwit the
astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from his venge-
ful hands, without imperilling the life of the noble


106 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy
knew St Just well—he seemed attached to him—she
was sure that he could help.
Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He
had said his cruel "Either—or—" and left her to decide.
He, in his turn now, appeared to be absorbed in the
soul-stirring melodies of Orpheus, and was beating time
to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.
A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her
thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-
humoured, and wearing that half-shy, half-inane smile,
which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve.
"Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m'dear," he said,
with his most exasperating drawl, "I suppose you will
want to go to that dem med ball. . . . Excuse me—er—
Monsieur Chauvelin—I had not observed you. . . ."
He extended two slender, white fingers towards
Chauvelin, who had risen when Sir Percy entered the
box.
"Are you coming, m'dear?"
"Hush! Sh! Sh!" came in angry remonstrance
from different parts of the house.
"Demmed impudence," commented Sir Percy ,with a
good-natured smile.
Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed
suddenly to have vanished away. She wrapped her
cloak round her and without looking at her husband:
"I am ready to go," she said, taking his arm. At
the door of the box she turned and looked straight at
Chauvelin, who, with his chapeau-bras under his arm,
and a curious smile round his thin lips, was preparing to
follow the strangely ill-assorted couple.
"It is only au rewrir, Chauvelin," she said pleasantly,
"we shall meet at my Lord Grenville's ball, anon."


IN THE OPERA BOX 107
And in her eyes the astute Frenchman read, no doubt,
something which caused him profound satisfaction, for,
with a sarcastic smile, he took a delicate pinch of snuff,
then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot, he rubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together.


CHAPTER XI
LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL
THE historic ball given by the then Secretary of State
for Foreign Affairs—Lord Grenville—was the most
brilliant function of the year. Though the autumn
season had only just begun, everybody who was any-
body had contrived to be in London in time to be
present there, and to shine at this ball, to the best of
his or her respective ability.
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised
to be present. He was coming on presently from the
opera. Lord Grenville himself had listened to the two
first acts of Orpheus, before preparing to receive his
guests. At ten o'clock—an unusually late hour in those
days—the grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely
decorated with exotic palms and flowers, were filled to
overflowing. One room had been set apart for dancing,
and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft accom-
paniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the
numerous and brilliant company.
In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stair-
way, the distinguished host stood ready to receive his
guests. Distinguished men, beautiful women, not-
abilities from every European country had already filed
past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies
with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time de-
manded, and then, laughing and talking, had dispersed
in the ball, reception, and card rooms beyond.
108


LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL 109
Not far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against
one of the console tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproach-
able black costume, was taking a quiet survey of the
brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady
Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes
glanced quickly towards the door every time a new-
comer appeared.
He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Re-
volutionary Government of France was not likely to be
very popular in England, at a time when the news of the
awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror
and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the
Channel.
In his official capacity he had been received cour-
teously by his English colleagues: Mr Pitt had shaken
him by the hand; Lord Grenville had entertained him
more than once; but the more intimate circles of
London society ignored him altogether; the women
openly turned their backs upon him; the men who held
no official position refused to shake his hand.
But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself
about these social amenities, which he called mere
incidents in his diplomatic career. He was blindly
enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised
all social inequalities, and he had a burning love for
his own country: these three sentiments made him
supremely indifferent to the snubs he received in this
fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England.
But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart . He
firmly believed that the French aristocrat was the most
bitter enemy of France; he would have wished to see
every one of them annihilated: he was one of those who,
during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to
utter the historic and ferocious desire "that aristocrats


no THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
might have but one head between them, so that it
might be cut off with m single stroke of the guillotine."
And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat, who
had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much
prey of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably
cheated. There is no doubt that those royalist émigrés,
once they had managed t o cross the frontier, did their
very best to stir up foreign indignation against France.
Plots without end were hatched in England, in Belgium,
in Holland, to try and induce some great power to
send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King
Louis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders
of that monster republic.
Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mys-
terious personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel was a
source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He and the few
young jackanapes under his command, well furnished
with money, armed with boundless daring, and acute
cunning, had succeeded in rescuing hundreds of aristo-
crats from France. Nine-tenths of the émigrés, who
were filed at the English court, owed their safety to
that man and to his league.
Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris
that he would discover the identity of that meddlesome
Englishman, entice him over to France, and then . . .
Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the
very thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling
under the knife of the guillotine, as easily as that of
any other man.
Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome
staircase, all conversation stopped for a moment as the
major-domo's voice outside announced,—
"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite,
Sir Percy Blakeney, Lady Blakeney."


LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL ill
Lord Granville went quickly to the door to receive his
exalted guest.
The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court
suit of salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with
gold, entered with Margaret Blakeney on his arm; and
on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous shimmering cream
satin, cut in the extravagant " Incroyable " style, his fair
hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and
wrists, and the Bat .:*r.au-bras under his arm.
After the few conventional words of deferential greet-
ing, Lord Grenville said to his royal guest,—
"Will your Highness permit me to introduce M.
Chauvelin, the accredited agent of the French Govern-
ment?"
Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had
stepped forward, expecting this introduction. He
bowed very low, whilst the Prince returned his salute
with a curt nod of the head.
"Monsieur," said His Royal Highness coldly, "we
will try to forget the government that sent you, and look
upon you merely as our guest—a private gentleman from
France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur."
"Monseigneur," rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once
again. "Madame," he added, bowing ceremoniously
before Marguerite.
"Ah I my little Chauvelin !" she said with uncon-
cerned gaiety, and extending her tiny hand to him.
"Monsieur and I are old friends, your Royal Highness."
"Ah, then," said the Prince, this time very graciously,
"you are doubly welcome, Monsieur."
"There is someone else I would crave permission to
present to your Royal Highness," here interposed Lord
Grenville.
"Ah ! who is it ?" asked tne Prince.


"2 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and
her family, who have but recently come from France."
"By all means !—They are among the lucky ones
then!"
Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who
sat at the further end of the room.
"Lud love me !" whispered his Royal Highness to
Marguerite, as soon as he had caught sight of the rigid
figure of the old lady; "Lud love me! she looks very
virtuous and very melancholy."
"Faith, your Royal Highness," she rejoined with a
smile, "virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant
when it is crushed."
"Virtue, alas!" sighed the Prince, "is mostly un-
becoming to your charming sex, Madame."
"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,"
said Lord Grenville, introducing the lady.
"This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you
know, is ever glad to welcome those of your compatriots
whom France has driven from her shores."
"Your Royal Highness is ever gracious," replied the
Comtesse with becoming dignity. Then, indicating her
daughter, who stood timidly by her side: "My daughter
Suzanne, Monseigneur," she said.
"Ah I charming !—charming!" said the Prince, " and
now allow me, Comtesse, to introduce to you, Lady
Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You and
she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every
compatriot of Lady Blakeney's is doubly welcome for
her sake . . her friends are our friends . . . her
enemies, the enemies of England."
Marguerite's blue eyes had twinkled with merriment
at this gracious speech from her exalted friend. The
Comtesse de Tournay, who lately had so flagrantly








114 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
this gentleman's display of gratitude; the name of that
'interesting red flower is well known to me—and to
France."
The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.
"Faith, then, Monsieur," he said, "perhaps you know
more about our national hero than we do ourselves . . .
perchance you know who he is. ... See I " he added,
turning to the groups round the room, "the ladies
hang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself
popular among the fair sex if you were to gratify their
curiosity."
"Ah, Monseigneur," said Chauvelin, significantly,
"rumour has it in France that your Highness could—
an you would—give the truest account of that enig-
matical wayside flower."
He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he
spoke; but she betrayed no emotion, and her eyes met
his quit fearlessly.
"Nay, man," replied the Prince, "my lips are sealed!
and the members of the league jealously guard the
secret of their chief ... so his fair adorers have to be
content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England,
Monsieur," he added, with wonderful charm and dignity,
"we but name the Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair
cheek is suffused with a blush of enthusiasm. None
have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know
not if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-
formed; but we know that he is the bravest gentleman
in all the world, and we all feel a little proud, Monsieur,
when we remember that he is an Englishman."
"Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin," added Marguerite, look-
ing almost with defiance across at the placid, sphinx-lit e
face of the Frenchman, "His Royal Highness should
add that we ladies think of him as of a hero of old . . .


LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL 115
we worship him ... we wear his badge ... we tremble
for him when he is in danger, and exult with him in the
hour of his victory."
Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the
Prince and to Marguerite; he felt that both speeches
were intended—each in their way—to convey contempt
or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince he de-
spised; the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair
wore a spray of small red flowers composed of rubies
and diamonds—her he held in the hollow of his hand:
he could afford to remain silent and to await events.
A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence
which had fallen over everyone.
"And we poor husbands," came in slow, affected
accents from gorgeous Sir Percy, "we have to stand by
. . . while they worship a demmed shadow."
Everyone laughed—the Prince more loudly than
anyone. The tension of subdued excitement was re-
lieved, and the next moment everyone was laughing and
chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed
in the adjoining rooms.



-
CHAPTER XII
THE SCRAP OF PAPER
Marguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed
and chatted, though she was more admired, more
surrounded, more/eted than any woman there, she felt
like one condemned to death, living her last day upon
this earth.
Her nerves were in a state of painful tension, which
had increased a hundredfold during that brief hour
which she had spent in her husband's company, between
the opera and the ball. The short ray of hope—that
she might find in this good-natured, lazy individual a
valuable friend and adviser—had vanished as quickly as it had come, the moment she found herself alone with
him. The same feeling of good-humoured contempt
which one feels for an animal or a faithful servant, made
her turn away with a smile from the man who should
have been her moral support in this heart-rending crisis through which she was passing: who should have been
her cool-headed adviser, when feminine sympathy and
sentiment tossed her hither and thither, between her love
for her brother, who was far away and in mortal peril, and
horror of the awful service which Chauvelin had exacted
from her, in exchange for Armand's safety.
There he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed
adviser, surrounded by a crowd of brainless, empty-
headed young fops, who were even now repeating from
mouth to mouth, and with every sign of the keenest
116


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 117
enjoyment, a doggerel couplet which he had just given
forth.
Everywhere the absurd, silly words met her: people
seemed to have little else to speak about, even the Prince
had asked her, with a laugh, whether she appreciated her
husband's latest poetic efforts.
"All done in the tying of a cravat," Sir Percy had
declared to his clique of admirers.
"We seek him here, we seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven ?—Is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel?"
Sir Percy's ban mot had gone the round of the brilliant
reception-rooms. The Prince was enchanted. He
vowed that life without Blakeney would be but a dreary
desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had led him to the
card-room, and engaged him in a long game of hazard.
Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gather-
ings seemed to centre round the card-table, usually
allowed his wife to flirt, dance, to amuse or bore herself
as much as she liked. And to-night, having delivered
himself of his ban mot, he had left Marguerite surrounded
by a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and
willing to help her to forget that somewhere in the
spacious reception-rooms, there was a long, lazy being
who had been fool enough to suppose that the cleverest
woman in Europe would settle down to the prosaic
bonds of English matrimony.
Her still overwrought nerves, her excitement and
agitation, lent beautiful Marguerite Blakeney much
additional charm: escorted by a veritable bevy of men
of all ages and of most nationalities, she calledforth many
exclamations of admiration from everyone as she passed.
She would not allow herself any more time to think.


Ii8 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Her early, somewhat Bohemian training had made her
something of a fatalist. She felt that events would
shape themselves, that the directing of them was not in
her hands. From Chauvelin she knew that she could
expect no mercy. He had set a price upon Armand's
head, and left it to her to pay or not, as she chose.
Later on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, who seemingly
had just arrived. She noticed at once that Sir Andrew
immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournay, and
that the two young people soon managed to isolate
themselves in one of the deep embrasures of the
mullioned windows, there to carry on a long conversa-
tion, which seemed very earnest and very pleasant on
both sides.
Both the young men looked a little haggard and
anxious, but otherwise they were irreproachably dressed,
and there was not the slightest sign, about their courtly
demeanour, of the terrible catastrophe, which they must
have felt hovering round them and round their chief.
That the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no
intention of abandoning its cause, she had gathered
through little Suzanne herself, who spoke openly of the
assurance she and her mother had had that the Comte
de Tournay would be rescued from France by the
league, within the next few days. Vaguely she began to
wonder, as she looked at the brilliant and fashionable
crowd in the gaily-lighted ball-room, which of these
worldly men round her was the mysterious "Scarlet
Pimpernel," who held the threads of such daring plots,
and the fate of valuable lives in his hands.
A burning curiosity seized her to know him: although
for months she had heard of him and had accepted his
anonymity, as everyone else in society had done; but


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 119
oow she longed to know—quite impersonally, quite
apart from Armand, and oh! quite apart from Chauvelin
—only for her own sake, for the sake of the enthusiastic
admiration she had always bestowed on his bravery and
cunning. He was at the ball, of course, somewhere, since Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst were here,
evidently expecting to meet their chief—and perhaps to
get a fresh mot tfordre from him.
Marguerite looked round at everyone, at the aristocratic
high-typed Norman faces, the squarely-built, fair-haired
Saxon, the more gentle, humorous caste of the Celt,
wondering which of these betrayed the power, the energy,
the cunning which had imposed its will and its leader-
ship upon a number of high-born English gentlemen,
among whom rumour asserted was His Royal Highness
himself.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle
blue eyes, which were looking so tenderly and longingly
after little Suzanne, who was being led away from the
pleasant tete-a-tete by her stern mother. Marguerite
watched him across the room, as he finally turned away
with a sigh, and seemed to stand, aimless and lonely,
now that Suzanne's dainty little figure had disappeared
in the crowd.
She watched him as he strolled towards the doorway,
which led to a small boudoir beyond, then paused and
leaned against the framework of it, looking still anxiously
all round him.
Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her
present attentive cavalier, and she skirted the fashion-
able crowd, drawing nearer to the doorway, against
which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get
closer to him, she could not have said: perhaps she was


120 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
impelled by an all-powerful fatality, which so often seems
to rule the destinies of men.
Suddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to
stand still, her eyes, large and excited, flashed for a
moment towards that doorway, then as quickly were
turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was still in
the same listless position by the door, but Marguerite
had distinctly seen that Lord Hastings—a young buck,
a friend of her husband's and one of the Prince's set—
had, as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something
into his hand.
For one moment longer—oh! it was the merest flash
—Marguerite paused: the next she had, with admirably
played unconcern, resumed her walk across the room—
but this time more quickly towards that doorway whence
Sir Andrew had now disappeared.
All this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught
sight of Sir Andrew leaning against the doorway, until
she followed him into the little boudoir beyond, had
occurred in less than a minute. Fate is usually swift
when she deals a blow.
Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It
was Marguerite St Just who was there only: Marguerite
St Just who had passed her childhood, her early youth,
in the protecting arms of her brother Armand. She had
forgotten everything else—her rank, her dignity, her secret
enthusiasms—everything save that Armand stood in peril
of his life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her,
in the small boudoir which was quite deserted, in the
very hands of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, might be the talisman
which would save her brother's life.
Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between
the moment when Lord Hastings slipped the mysterious
" something" into Sir Andrew's hand, and the one when


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 121
she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir
Andrew was standing with his back to her and close to
a table upon which stood a massive silver candelabra.
A slip of paper was in his hand, and he was in the very
act of perusing its contents.
Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the
slightest sound upon the heavy carpet, not daring to
breathe until she had accomplished her purpose, Mar-
guerite slipped close behind him. ... At that moment
he looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan,
passed her hand across her forehead, and murmured
faintly,—
"The heat in the room was terrible . . . I felts^-
faint. ... Ah! ..." ____ —"
She tottered almost-as—ifshewould fall, and Sir
Andrew, quickly recovering himself, and crumpling in
his hand the tiny note he had been reading, was only,
apparently, just in time to support her.
"You are ill, Lady Blakeney?" he asked with much
concern. "Let me . . ."
"No, no, nothing—" she interrupted quickly. "A
chair—quick."
She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing
back her head, closed her eyes.
"There I" she murmured, still faintly; "the giddiness
is passing off. . . . Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I
assure you I already feel better."
At moments like these there is no doubt—and psycho-
logists actually assert it—that there is in us a sense
which has absolutely nothing to do with the other five:
it is not that we see, it is not that we hear or touch, yet
we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there
with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was
immediately behind her, and on her right was the table


122 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
with the five-armed candelabra upon it. Before her
mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand's
face. Armand, whose life was in the most imminent
danger, and who seemed to be looking at her from a
background upon which were dimly painted the seething
crowd of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of Public
Safety, with Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor,
demanding Armand's life in the name of the people of
France, and the lurid guillotine with its stained knife
waiting for another victim . . . Armand !...
For one moment there was dead silence in the little
boudoir. Beyond, from the brilliant ball-room, the
sweet notes of the gavotte, the frou-frou of rich
dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry
crowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the
drama which was being enacted here.
Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it
was that that extra sense became potent in Marguerite
Blakeney. She could not see, for her eyes were closed;
she could not hear, for the noise from the ball-room
drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of
paper; nevertheless she knew—as if she had both seen
and heard—that Sir Andrew was even now holding the
paper to the flame of one of the candles.
At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she
opened her eyes, raised her hand and, with two dainty
fingers, had taken the burning scrap of paper from the
young man's hand. Then she blew out the flame, and
held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.
"How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew," she said gaily,
"surely'twas your grandmother who taught you that the
smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy against
giddiness."
She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly


THE SCRAP OF PAPER 125
with a playful sigh, "making havoc in the heart of some
impressionable duchess, whilst conquering the affections
of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well I I do believe it
was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened
the entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just
on purpose to make me drop love's message, before
it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. To think
that, a moment longer, and I might have known the
secrets of an erring duchess."
"You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney," said Sir*
Andrew, now as calm as she was herself, "if I resume
the interesting occupation which you had interrupted?"
"By all means, Sir Andrew I How should I venture
to thwart the love-god again? Perhaps he would mete
out some terrible chastisement against my presumption.
Burn your love-token, by all means !"
Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long
spill, and was once again holding it to the flame of the
candle, which had remained alight. He did not notice
the strange smile on the face of his fair vis-á-vt's, so
intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps,
had he done so, the look of relief would have faded
from bis face. He watched the fateful note, as it curled
under the flame. Soon the last fragment fell on the
floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes.
"And now, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite Blakeney,
with the pretty nonchalance peculiar to herself, and
with the most winning of smiles, "will you venture
to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking
me to dance the minuet?"


EITHER—OR? 137
and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand
loved her, would have willingly trusted his life in her
hands, and now, when she could save him from death,
she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her brother's
kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be
looking reproachfully at her. "You might have saved
me, Margot!" he seemed to say to her, "and you chose
the life of a stranger, a man you do not know, whom you
have never seen, and preferred that he should be safe,
whilst you sent me to the guillotine!"
All these conflicting thoughts raged through Mar-
guerite's brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she
glided through the graceful mazes of the minuet. She
noted—with that acute sense of hers—that she had
succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew's fears.
Her self-control had been absolutely perfect—she was
a finer actress at this moment, and throughout the
whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon
the boards of the Comédie Française; but then, a
beloved brother's life had not depended upon her
histrionic powers.
She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no
further allusions to the supposed billet doux, which had
caused Sir Andrew Ffoullces such an agonising five
minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under
her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever
doubt may have crossed his mind at the moment, she
had, by the time the last bars of the minuet had been
played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he never
realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what
effort it cost her to keep up a constant ripple of banal
conversation.
When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew
to take her into the next room.


128 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal Highness," she said, "but before we part, tell
me ... am I forgiven?"
"Forgiven?"
"Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . .
But, remember, I am not an Englishwoman, and I
do not look upon the exchanging of billet doux as a
crime, and I vow 111 not tell my little Suzanne. But
now, tell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on
Wednesday?"
"I am not sure, Lady Blakeney," he replied evasively.
"I may have to leave London to-morrow."
"I would not do that, if I were you," she said
earnestly; then seeing the anxious look once more
reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily; "No one
can throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew,
we should so miss you on the bowling-green."
He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where
already His Royal Highness was waiting for the beautiful
Lady Blakeney.
"Madame, supper awaits us," said the Prince, offering
his arm to Marguerite, "and I am full of hope. The
goddess Fortune has frowned so persistently on me at
hazard, that I look with confidence for the smiles of the
goddess of Beauty."
"Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card
tables?" asked Marguerite, as she took the Prince's
arm.
"Aye I most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content
with being the richest among my father's subjects,
has also the most outrageous luck. By the way, where
is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life
would be but a dreary desert without your smiles and
his sallies."


CHAPTER XIV
ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY I
Supper had been extremely gay. All those present
declared, that never had Lady Blakeney been more
adorable, nor that "demmed idiot" Sir Percy more
amusing.
His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears
streamed down his cheeks at Blakeney's foolish yet
funny repartees. His doggerel verse, "We seek him
here, we seek him there," etc., was sung to the tune of
"Ho I Merry Britons!" and to the accompaniment of
glasses knocked loudly against the table. Lord Gren-
ville, moreover, had a most perfect cook—some wags
asserted that he was a scion of the old French noblesse,
who, having lost his fortune, had come to seek it in the
cuisine of the Foreign Office.
Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood,
and surely not a soul in that crowded supper-room had
even an inkling of the terrible struggle which was raging
within her heart.
The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long
past midnight, and even the Prince of Wales was think-
ing of leaving the supper-table. Within the next half-
hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted
against one another—the dearly-beloved brother and he,
the unknown hero.
Marguerite had not even tried to see Chauvelin during
this last hour; she knew that his keen, fox-like eyes
I 1*9


ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY! 131
That could never be, never. ... As for the stranger,
the hero . . . well I there, let Fate decide. Marguerite
would redeem her brother's life at the hands of the
relentless enemy, then let that cunning Scarlet Pimper-
nel extricate himself after that.
Perhaps—vaguely—Marguerite hoped that the daring
plotter, who for so many months had baffled an army of
spies, would still manage to evade Chauvelin and remain
immune to the end.
She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty
discourse of the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt
that he had found in Lady Blakeney a most perfect
listener. Suddenly she saw the keen, fox-like face of
Chauvelin peeping through the curtained doorway.
"Lord Fancourt," she said to the Minister, "will you
do me a service?"
"I am entirely at your ladyship's service," he replied
gallantly.
"Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room?
And if he is, will you tell him that I am very tired, and
would be glad to go home soon."
The commands of a beautiful woman are binding on
all mankind, even on Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt
prepared to obey instantly.
"I do not like to leave your ladyship alone," he said.
"Never fear. I shall be quite safe here—and, I think,
undisturbed . . . but I am really tired. You know Sir
Percy will drive back to Richmond. It is a long way.
and we shall not—an we do not hurry—get home before
daybreak."
Lord Fancourt had perforce to go.
The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped
into the room, and the next instant stood calm and im-
passive by her side.


132 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"You have news for me ?" he said.
An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round
Marguerite's shoulders ; though her cheeks glowed with
fire, she felt chilled and numbed. Oh, Armand ! will
you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride, of dignity,
of womanliness a devoted sister is making for your sake?
"Nothing of importance," she said, staring mechanic-
ally before her, "but it might prove a clue. I contrived
—no matter how—to detect Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the
very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, in
this very room. That paper I succeeded in holding
between my fingers for the space of two minutes, and to
cast my eye on it for that of ten seconds."
"Time enough to learn its contents ?" asked Chauvelin,
quietly.
She nodded. Then she continued in the same even,
mechanical tone of voice—
"In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough
device of a small star-shaped flower. Above it I read
two lines, everything else was scorched and blackened
by the flame."
"And what were these two lines?"
Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For
an instant she felt that she could not speak the words,
which might send a brave man tohis death.
"It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned,"
added Chauvelin, with dry sarcasm, "for it might have
fared ill with Armand St Just . What were the two lines,
citoyenne?"
"One war, 'I start myself to-morrow,'" she said
quietly; "the other—' If you wish to speak to me, I
shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely.""
Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the
mantelpiece.


ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY I 133
"Then I have plenty of time," he said placidly.
"What are you going to do ?" she asked.
She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her
head and heart throbbed with the awful strain upon her
nerves. Oh, this was cruel! cruel! What had she done
to have deserved all this? Her choice was made: had
she done a vile action or one that was sublime? The
recording angel, who writes in the book of gold, alone
could give an answer.
"What are you going to do ?" she repeated mechanic-
ally.
"Oh, nothing for the present . After that it will
depend."
"On what?"
"On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one
o'clock precisely."
"You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But
you do not know him."
"No. But I shall presently."
"Sir Andrew will have warned him."
"I think not. When you parted from him after the
minuet he stood and watched you, for a moment or two,
with a look which gave me to understand that something
had happened between you. It was only natural, was it
not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature
of that 'something.' I thereupon engaged the young
gallant in a long and animated conversation—we dis-
cussed Herr Gluck's singular success in London—until
a lady claimed his arm for supper."
"Since then?"
"I did not lose sight of him through supper. When
we all came upstairs again, Lady Portarles buttonholed
him and started on the subject of pretty Mdlle. Suzanne
de Tournay. I knew he would not move until Lady


134 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Portarles had exhausted the subject, which will not be
for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five
minutes to one now."
He was preparing to go, and went up to the door-
way, where, drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a
moment pointing out to Marguerite the distant figure of
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with Lady
Portarles.
"I think," he said, with a triumphant smile, "that I
may safely expect to find the person I seek in the
dining-room, fair lady."
"There may be more than one."
"Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be
shadowed by one of my men; of these, one, or perhaps
two, or even three, will leave for France to-morrow.
One of these will be the 'Scarlet Pimpernel.' *
"Yes?—And?"
"I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow.
The papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, speak of the neighbourhood of Calais,
of an inn which I know well, called 'Le Chat Gris,' of a
lonely place somewhere on the coast—the Pere Blan-
chard's hut—which I must endeavour to find. All
these places are given as the point, where this meddle-
some Englishman has bidden the traitor de Tournay
and others to meet his emissaries. But it seems that he
has decided not to send his emissaries, that 'he will
start himself to-morrow.' Now, one of those persons
whom I shall see anon in the supper-room, will be
journeying to Calais, and I shall follow that person, until
I have tracked him to where those fugitive aristocrats
await him; for that person, fair lady, will be the man
whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man
whose energy has outdone me, whose ingenuity has


ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY! 135
baffled me, whose audacity has set me wondering—yes!
me!—who have seen a trick or two in my time—the
mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel."
"And Armand?" she pleaded.
"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that
the day the Scarlet Pimpernel and I start for France, I
will send you that imprudent letter of his by special
courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of
France, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome
Englishman, St Just will be here in England, safe inthe arms of his charming sister."
And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look
at the clock, Chauvelin glided out of the room.
It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise,
all the din of music, dancing, and laughter, she could
hear his cat-like tread, gliding through the vast reception-
rooms; that she could hear him go down the massive
staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door.
Fate had decided, had made her speak, had made her
do a vile and abominable thing, for the sake of the
brother she loved. She lay back in her chair, passive
and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever
present before her aching eyes.
When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was
quite deserted. It had that woebegone, forsaken,
tawdry appearance, which reminds one 10 much of a
ball-dress, the morning after.
Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded
napkins lay about, the chairs — turned towards one
another in groups of twos and threes—seemed like the
seats of ghosts, in close conversation with one another.
There were sets of two chairs — very close to one
another—in the far corners of the room, which spoke of
recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and


136 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
champagne; there were sets of three and four chairs,
that recalled pleasant, animated discussions over the
latest scandals; there were chairs straight up in a row
that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated
dowagers; there were a few isolated, single chairs, close
to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most
recherche dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that
spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's
cellars.
It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable
gathering upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house,
where balls and good suppers are given; a picture
drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and
colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gor-
geously embroidered coats were no longer there to fill
in the foreground, and now that the candles flickered
sleepily in their sockets.
Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin
hands together, he looked round the deserted supper-
room, whence even the last flunkey had retired in order
to join his friends in the hall below. All was silence in
the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte,
the hum of distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of
an occasional coach outside, only seemed to reach this
palace of the Sleeping Beauty as the murmur of some
flitting spooks far away.
It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that
the keenest observer—a veritable prophet—could never
have guessed that, at this present moment, that deserted
supper-room was nothing but a trap laid for the capture
of the most cunning and audacious plotter, those stirring
times had ever seen.
Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the im-
mediate future. What would this man be like, whom he


140 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
fearless lion to succumb to the gnawing of a rat ! Ah I
had Armand's life not been at stake! . . .
"Faith! your ladyship must have thought me very
remiss," said a voice suddenly, close to her elbow. "I
had a deal of difficulty in delivering your message, for
I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first . . ."
Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and
her message to him; his very name, as spoken by Lord
Fancourt, sounded strange and unfamiliar to her, so
completely had she in the last five minutes lived her old
life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always
near her to love and protect her, to guard her from the
many subtle intrigues which were for ever raging in Paris
in those days.
"I did find him at last," continued Lord Fancourt,
"and gave him your message. He said that he would
give orders at once for the horses to be put to."
"Ah!" she said, still very absently, "you found my
husband, and gave him my message?"
"Yes; he was in the dining-room fast asleep. I could
not manage to wake him up at first."
"Thank you very much," she said mechanically, try-
ing to collect her thoughts.
"Will your ladyship honour me with the contredanse
until your coach is ready ?" asked Lord Fancourt.
"No, I thank you, my lord, but—an you will forgive
me—I really am too tired, and the heat in the ball-room
has become oppressive."
"The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take
you there, and then get you something. You seem
ailing, Lady Blakeney."
"I am only very tired," she repeated wearily, as she
allowed Lord Fancourt to lead her, where subdued lights
and green plants lent coolness to the air. He got her •


DOUBT 141
chair, into which she sank. This long interval of waiting
was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tell
her the result of his watch?
Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely
heard what he said, and suddenly startled him by
asking abruptly,—
"Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the
dining-room just now besides Sir Percy Blakeney?"
"Only the agent of the French Government, M.
Chauvelin, equally fast asleep in another corner," he
said. "Why does your ladyship ask?"
"I know not ... I ... Did you notice the time
when you were there?"
"It must have been about five or ten minutes past
one. ... I wonder what your ladyship is thinking
about," he added, for evidently the fair lady's thoughts
were very far away, and she had not been listening to his
intellectual conversation.
But indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only
one storey below, in this same house, in the dining-room
where sat Chauvelin still on the watch. Had he failed?
For one instant that possibility rose before her as a
hope—the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been
warned by Sir Andrew, and that Chauvelin's trap had
failed to catch his bird; but that hope soon gave way to
fear. Had he failed? But then—Armand !
Lord Fancourt had given up talking since he found
that he had no listener. He wanted an opportunity for
slipping away: for sitting opposite to a lady, however
fair, who is evidently not heeding the most vigorous
efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating,
even to a Cabinet Minister.
"Shall I find out if your ladyship's coach is ready,"
he said at last, tentatively.


142 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"Oh, thank you . . . thank you ... if you would be
to kind ... I fear I am but sorry company . . . but I
am really tired . . . and, perhaps, would be best alone."
She had been longing to be rid of him, for she hoped
that, like the fox he so resembled, Chauvelin would be
prowling round, thinking to find her alone.
But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not
come. Oh I what had happened? She felt Armand's
fate trembling in the balance . . . she feared—now with
a deadly fear—that Chauvelin had failed, and that the
mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once
more; then she knew that she need hope for no pity, no
mercy, from him.
He had pronounced his " Either—or—" and nothing
less would content him: he was very spiteful, and would
affect the belief that she had wilfully misled him, and
having failed to trap the eagle once again, his revengeful
mind would be content with the humble prey—Armand!
Yet she had done her best; had strained every nerve
for Armand's sake. She could not bear to think that
all had failed. She could not sit still; she wanted to go
and hear the worst at once; she wondered even that
Chauvelin had not come yet, to vent his wrath and satire
upon her.
Lord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that
her coach was ready, and that Sir Percy was already
waiting for her—ribbons in hand. Marguerite said
"Farewell" to her distinguished host; many of her
friends stopped her, as she crossed the rooms, to talk to
her, and exchange pleasant au rcvoirs.
The Minister only took final leave of beautiful Lady
Blakeney on the top of the stairs; below, on the landing,
a veritable army of gallant gentlemen were waiting to
bid "Good-bye" to the queen of beauty and fashion,


DOUBT 143
whilst outside, under the massive portico, Sir Percy's
magnificent bays were impatiently pawing the ground.
At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final
leave of her host, she suddenly saw Chauvelin; he was
coming up the stairs slowly, and rubbing his thin hands
very softly together.
There was a curious look on his mobile face, partly
amused and wholly puzzled, and as his keen eyes met
Marguerite's they became strangely sarcastic.
"M. Chauvelin," she said, as he stopped on the top
of the stairs, bowing elaborately before her, "my coach
if outside; may I claim your arm?"
As gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and led her
downstairs. The crowd was very great, some of the
Minister's guests were departing, others were leaning
against the banisters watching the throng as it filed up
and down the wide staircase.
"Chauvelin," she said at last desperately, "I must
know what has happened."
"What has happened, dear lady?" he said, with
affected surprise. "Where? When?"
"You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped
you to-night . . . surely I have the right to know.
What happened in the dining-room at one o'clock just
now?"
She spoke in a .. .isper, trusting that in the general
hubbub of the crowd her words would remain unheeded
by all, save the man at her side.
"Quiet and peace reigned supreme, fair lady; at that
hour I was asleep in the corner of one sofa and Sir
Percy Blakeney in another."
"Nobody came into the room at all?"
*• Nobody."
"Then we have failed, you and I? ..."


144 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"Yes,we have failed—perhaps . . ."
"But, Armand?" she pleaded.
"Ah! Armand St Just's chances hang on a thread
. . . pray heaven, dear lady, that that thread may not
snap."
"Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly
. . . remember. . . ."
"I remember my promise," he said quietly; "the day
that the Scarlet Pimpernel and I meet on French soil,
St Just will be in the arms of his charming sister."
"Which means that a brave man's blood will be on
my hands," she said, with a shudder.
"His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the
present moment you must hope, as I do, that the
enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel will start for Calais
to-day—"
"I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen."
"And that is?"
"That Satan, your master, will have need of you,
elsewhere, before the sun rises to-day."
"You flatter me, citoyenne."
She had detained him for a while, midway down the
stairs, trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond
that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin remained
urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a line betrayed to the
poor, anxious woman whether she d .ed fear or whether
she dared to hope.
Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded.
Lady Blakeney never stepped from any house into her
coach, without an escort of fluttering human moths
around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she
finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held out a tiny
hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal
which was so essentially her own.


DOUBT 145
"Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin," she
pleaded.
With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny
hand, which looked so dainty and white through the
delicately transparent black lace mitten, and kissing the
tips of the rosy fingers:—
"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap," he
repeated, with his enigmatic smile.
And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter
more closely round the candle, and the brilliant throng
of thejeuntsse dorêe, eagerly attentive to Lady Blakeney's
every movement, hid the keen, fox-like face from her


CHAPTER XVI
RICHMOND
A FEW minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cosy
furs, near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his
magnificent coach, and the four splendid bays had
thundered down the quiet street.
The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze
which fanned Marguerite's burning cheeks. Soon
London houses were left behind, and rattling over old
Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays
rapidly towards Richmond.
The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate
curves, looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering
rays of the moon. Long shadows from overhanging
trees spread occasional deep palls right across the road.
The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held
but slightly back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.
These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London
were a source of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and
she appreciated her husband's eccentricity keenly, which
caused him to adopt this mode of taking her home every
night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead of
living in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his
spirited horses along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she
loved to sit on the box-seat, with the soft air of an
English late summer's night fanning her face after the hot
atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was 146


RICHMOND 147
not a long one—less than an hour, sometimes, when
the bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full
rein.
To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his
fingers, and the coach seemed to fly along the road,
beside the river. As usual, he did not speak to her,
but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seeming
to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Mar-
guerite looked at him tentatively once or twice; she
could see his handsome profile, and one lazy eye, with
its straight fine brow and drooping heavy lid.
The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest,
and recalled to Marguerite's aching heart those happy
days of courtship, before he had become the lazy nin-
compoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent in
card and supper rooms.
But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the
expression of the lazy blue eyes; she could only see
the outline of the firm chin, the corner of the strong
mouth, the well-cut massive shape of the forehead;
truly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults
must all be laid at the door of that poor, half-crazy
mother, and of the distracted heart-broken father,
neither of whom had cared for the young life, which
was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps,
their very carelessness was already beginning to wreck.
Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her
husband. The moral crisis she had just gone through
made her feel indulgent towards the faults, the delin-
quencies, of others.
How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and
overmastered by Fate, had been borne in upon her with
appalling force. Had anyone told her a week ago that
she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she would


148 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of
a relentless enemy, she would have laughed the idea to
scorn.
Yet she had done these things: anon, perhaps the
death of that brave man would be at her door, just as
two years ago the Marquis de St Cyr had perished
through a thoughtless word of hers; but in that case
she was morally innocent—she had meant no serious
harm—fate merely had stepped in. But this time she
had done a thing that obviously was base, had done it
deliberately, for a motive which, perhaps, high moralists
would not even appreciate.
And as she felt her husband's strong arm beside her,
she also felt how much more he would dislike and
despise her, if he knew of this night's work. Thus
human beings judge of one another, superficially,
casually, throwing contempt on one another, with but
little reason, and no charity. She despised her husband
for his inanities and vulgar, unintellectual occupations;
and he, she felt, would despise her still worse, because
she had not been strong enough to do right for right's
sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates of her
conscience.
Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this
hour in the breezy summer night all too brief; and it
was with a feeling of keen disappointment, that she
suddenly realised that the bays had turned into the
massive gates of her beautiful English home.
Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become
a historic one: palatial in its dimensions, it stands in
the midst of exquisitely laid - out gardens, with a
picturesque terrace and frontage to the river. Built in
Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls look
eminently picturesque in the midst of a bower of green,


RICHMOND 149
the beautiful lawn, with its old sun-dial, adding the true
note of harmony to its foreground. Great secular trees
lent cool shadows to the grounds, and now, on this
warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to
russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic
and peaceful in the moonlight.
With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the
four bays to a standstill immediately in front of the fine
Elizabethan entrance hall; in spite of the lateness of
the hour, an army of grooms seemed to have emerged
from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up,
and were standing respectfully round.
Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Mar-
guerite to alight. She lingered outside for a moment,
whilst he gave a few orders to one of his men. She
skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking
out dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed
exquisitely at peace, in comparison with the tumultuous
emotions she had gone through: she could faintly hear
the ripple of the river and the occasional soft and ghost-
like fall of a dead leaf from a tree.
All else was quiet round her. She had heard the
horses prancing as they were being led away to their
distant stables, the hurrying of servants' feet as they had
all gone within to rest: the house also was quite still.
In two separate suites of apartments, just above the
magnificent reception-rooms, lights were still burning;
they were her rooms, and his, well divided from each
other by the whole width of the house, as far apart as
their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed—
at that moment she could really not have told why.
She was suffering from unconquerable heartache.
Deeply and achingly she was sorry for herself. Never
had she felt so pitiably lonely, so bitterly in want of


ISO THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she
turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely
wondering if, after such a night, she could ever find rest
and sleep.
Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a
firm step upon the crisp gravel, and the next moment
her husband's figure emerged out of the shadow. He,
too, had skirted the house, and was wandering along the
lawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving
coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself
had set in fashion, but he had thrown it well back,
burying his hands as was his wont, in the deep pockets
of his satin breeches: the gorgeous white costume he
had worn at Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of price-
less lace, looked strangely ghostly against the dark
background of the house.
He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few
moments' pause, he presently turned back towards the
house, and walked straight up to the terrace.
"Sir Percy!"
He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace
steps, but at her voice he started, and paused, then
looked searchingly into the shadows whence she had
called to him.
She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as
soon as he saw her, he said, with that air of consummate
gallantry he always wore when speaking to her,—
"At your service, Madame I"
But his foot was still on the step, and in his whole
attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible
to her, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a
midnight interview.
"The air is deliciously cool," she said, "the moon-
light peaceful and poetic, and the garden inviting. Will


RICHMOND 151
you not stay in it awhile; the hour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you, that you are in a
hurry to rid yourself of it?"
"Nay, Madame," he rejoined placidly, " but 'tis on the
other foot the shoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll
find the midnight air more poetic without my company:
no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction the better
your ladyship will like it."
He turned once more to go.
"I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy," she said
hurriedly, and drawing a little closer to him; "the
estrangement, which, alas! has arisen between us, was
none of my making, remember."
"Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame I" he
protested coldly, "my memory was always of the
shortest."
He looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy
nonchalance which had become second nature to him.
She returned his gaze for a moment, then her eyes
softened, as she came up quite close to him, to the foot
of the terrace steps.
"Of the shortest, Sir Percy? Faith ! how it must
have altered! Was it three years ago or four that you
saw me for one hour in Paris, on your way to the East
.
When you came back two years later you had not for-
gotten me."
She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the
moonlight, with the fur-cloak sliding off her beautiful
shoulders, the gold embroidery on her dress shimmering
around her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fully at
him.
He stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the
clenching of his hand against the stone balustrade of
the terrace.


152 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"You desired my presence, Madame," he said frigidly,
"I take it that it was not with a view to indulging in
tender reminiscences."
His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising:
his attitude before her, stiff and unbending. Womanly
decorum would have suggested that Marguerite should
return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past
him without another word, only with a curt nod of the
head: but womanly instinct suggested that she should
remain—that keen instinct, which makes a beautiful
woman conscious of her powers long to bring to her
knees, the one man who pays her no homage. She
stretched out her hand to him.
"Nay, Sir Percy, why not? the present is not so
glorious but that I should not wish to dwell a little in
the past."
He bent his tall figure, and taking hold of the ex-
treme tip of the fingers which she still held out to him,
he kissed them ceremoniously.
"I' faith, Madame," he said, "then you will pardon
me, if my dull wits cannot accompany you there."
Once again he attempted to go, once more her
voice, sweet, childlike, almost tender, called him
back.
"Sir Percy."
"Your servant, Madame."
"Is it possible that love can die?" she said with
sudden, unreasoning vehemence. "Methought that the
passion which you once felt for me would outlast the
span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love,
Percy . . . which might help you ... to bridge over
that sad estrangement ?"
His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to
him, to stiffen still more, the strong mouth hardened, a


RICHMOND 153
look of relentless obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy
blue eyes.
"With what object, I pray you, Madame?" he asked
coldly.
"I do not understand you."
"Yet 'tis simple enough," he said with sudden bitter-
ness, which seemed literally to surge through his words,
though he was making visible efforts to suppress it, "I
humbly put the question to you, for my slow wits are
unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden
new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the
devilish sport which you played so successfully last
year? Do you wish to see me once more a love-sick
suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have
the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome
lap-dog?"
She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment:
and again she looked straight at him, for it was thus she
remembered him a year ago.
"Percy! I entreat you!" she whispered, "can we not
bury the past?"
"Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say
that your desire was to dwell in it."
"Nay! I spoke not of that past, Percy !" she said,
while a tone of tenderness crept into her voice. "Rather
did I speak of the time when you loved me still ! and I
... oh ! I was vain and frivolous; your wealth and
position allured me: I married you, hoping in my heart
that your great love for me would beget in me a love for
you . . . but, alas! , . ."
The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of
clouds. In the east a soft grey light was beginning to
chase away the heavy mantle of the night. He could
only see her graceful outline now, the small queenly


154 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
head, with its wealth of reddish golden c rl •, and the
glittering gems forming the small, star-shaped, red flower
which she wore as a diadem in her hair.
"Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the
Marquis de St Cyr and all his family perished on the
guillotine, and the popular rumour reached me that it
was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send
them there."
"Nay I I myself told you the truth of that odious
tale."
"Not till after it had been recounted to me by
strangers, with all its horrible details."
"And you believed them then and there," she said
with great vehemence, "without a proof or question—
you believed that I, whom you vowed you loved more
than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that Icould do a thing so base as these strangers chose to
recount. You thought I meant to deceive you about it
all—that I ought to have spoken before I married you:
yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to
the very morning on which St Cyr went to the guillotine,
I was straffing every nerve, using every influence I pos-
sessed, to save him and his family. But my pride sealed
my lips, when your love seemed to perish, as if under the
knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told
you how I was duped ! Aye! I, whom that same
popular rumour had endowed with the sharpest wits in
France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men
who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother,
and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural?"
Her voice became choked with tears. She paused
for a moment or two, trying to regain some sort of com-
posure. She looked appealingly at him, almost as if he
were her judge. He had allowed her to speak on in her


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\ RICHMOND 155
own vehement, impassioned way, offering no comment,
4 no word of sympathy: and now, while she paused,
trying to swallow down the hot tears that gushed to her eyes, he waited, impassive and still. The dim, grey
light of early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller
and more rigid. The lazy, good-natured face looked
strangely altered. Marguerite, excited, as she was, could
fsee that the eyes were no longer languid, the mouth no
longer good-humoured and inane. A curious look of
intense passion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping
lids, the mouth was tightly closed, the lips compressed,
as if the will alone held that surging passion in check.
Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with
all a woman's fascinating foibles, all a woman's most
lovable sins. She knew in a moment that for the past
few months she had been mistaken: that this man who
stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her
musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had
loved her a year ago: that his passion might have been
dormant, but that it was there, as strong, as intense, as
overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long,
maddening kiss.
Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she
meant to win back that conquest which had been hers
before. Suddenly it seemed to her, that the only happi-
ness life could ever hold for her again would be in feel-
ing that man's kiss once more upon her lips.
"Listen to the tale, Sir Percy," she said, and her
voice now was low, sweet, infinitely tender. "Armand
was all in all to me ! We had no parents, and brought
one another up. He was my little father, and I, his
tiny mother; we loved one another so. Then one day
—do you mind me, Sir Percy? the Marquis de St Cyr
had my brother Armand thrashed—thrashed by his 


156 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
lacqueys—that brother whom I loved better than all
the world ! And his offence? That he, a plebeian,
had dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat; for
that he was waylaid and thrashed . . . thrashed like
a dog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered !
his humiliation had eaten into my very soul! When
the opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my
revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that
proud marquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted
with Austria against his own country. Chance gave me
knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I did not know—
how could I guess ?—they trapped and duped me. When
I realised what I had done, it was too late."
"It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame," said Sir
Percy, after a moment of silence between them, "to
go back over the past. I have confessed to you that
my memory is short, but the thought certainly lingered
in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis' death, I
entreated you for an explanation of those same noisome
popular rumours. If that same memory does not, even
now, play me a trick, I fancy that you refused me all
explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliat-
ing allegiance it was not prepared to give."
"I wished to test your love for me, and it did
not bear the test . You used to tell me that you
drew the very breath of life but for me, and for love
of me."
"And to probe that love, you demanded that I
should forfeit mine honour," he said, whilst gradually
his impassiveness seemed to leave him, his rigidity to
relax; "that I should accept without murmur or ques-
tion, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of
my mistress. My heart overflowing with love and
passion, I asked for no explanation—I waited for one,


RICHMOND 157
not doubting—only hoping. Had you spoken but one
word, from you I would have accepted any explanation
and believed it. But you left me without a word,
beyond a bald confession of the actual horrible facts;
proudly you returned to your brother's house, and left
me alone ... for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in
whom to believe, since the shrine, which contained my
one illusion, lay shattered to earth at my feet."
She need not complain now that he was cold and
impassive; his very voice shook with an intensity of
passion, which he was making superhuman efforts to
keep in check.
"Aye! the madness of my pride I" she said sadly.
"Hardly had I gone, already I had repented. But
when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered! wearing
already that mask of somnolent indifference which
you have never laid aside until . . . until now."
She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was
wafted against his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears,
maddened him, the music in her voice sent fire through
his veins. But he would not yield to the magic charm
of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at
whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He
closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that
sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure,
round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just
beginning to hover playfully.
"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he said icily; "I swore
to you . . . once, that my life was yours. For months
now it has been your plaything ... it has served its
purpose."
But now she knew that that very coldness was a
mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through
last night, suddenly came back to her mind, but no


158 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this
man, who loved her, would help her to bear the
burden.
"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "Heaven knows
you have been at pains to make the task, which I had
set to myself, terribly difficult to accomplish. You
spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it
that, if you will, I wished to speak to you . . . be-
cause . . I because I was in trouble . . . and had
need ... of your sympathy."
"It is yours to command, Madame."
"How cold you are!" she sighed. "Faith! I can
scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear
in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I
come to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and
... and ..."
"I pray you, Madame," he said, whilst his voice shook
almost as much as hers, "in what way can I serve
you?"
"Percy !—Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his ... rash, impetuous, as were all his actions,
and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, has fallen into
the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly com-
promised . . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested
. . . after that the guillotine . . . unless . . . unless
... oh! it is horrible !"... she said, with a sudden
wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came
rushing back to her mind, "horrible ! ... and you
do not understand . . . you cannot . . . and I have
no one to whom I can turn ... for help ... or even
for sympathy. . . ."
Tears now refused to be held back. All her troubles, her struggles, the awful uncertainty of Armand's fate
overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready to fall, and


RICHMOND 159
leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her
face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.
At first mention of Armand St Just's name and of
the peril in which he stood, Sir Percy's face had become
a shade more pale; and the look of determination and
obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between
his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment,
but watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with
sobs, watched her until unconsciously his face softened,
and what looked almost like tears, seemed to glisten in
his eyes.
"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murder-
ous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands
that fed it? ... Begad, Madame," he added very
gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically,
"will you dry your tears? ... I never could bear
to see a pretty woman cry, and I ..."
Instinctively, with sudden, overmastering passion,
at sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched
out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and
held her to him, protected from every evil with his very
life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had the
better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained
himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly,
though still very gently,—
"Will you not turn to me, Madame? and tell me in
what way I may have the honour to serve you?"
She made a violent effort to control herself, and
turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more
held out her hand, which he kissed with the same
punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers, this
time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer
than was absolutely necessary, and this was because
she had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly and


160 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold at
marble.
"Can you do ought for Armand?" she said sweetly
and simply. "You have so much influence at court
... so many friends . . ."
"Nay, Madame, should you not rather seek the in-
fluence of your French friend, M. Chauvelin? His
extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the Republican
Government of France."
"I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared
to tell you . . . but . . . but ... he has put a price
on my brother's head, which . . ."
She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage
then to tell him everything ... all she had done that
night—how she had suffered and how her hand had
been forced. But she dared not give way to that im-
pulse . . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel
that he still loved her, when she hoped that she could
win him back. She dared not make another confession
to him. After all, he might not understand; he
might not sympathise with her struggles and tempta-
tion. His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of
death.
Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind.
His whole attitude was one of intense longing—a verit-
able prayer for that confidence, which her foolish pride
withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed,
and said with marked coldness—
"Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not
speak of it. ... As for Armand, I pray you have no
fear. I pledge you my word that he shall be safe. Now,
have I your permission to go? The hour is getting late,
and . I ."
"You will at least accept my gratitude ?" she said, as


RICHMOND 161
she drew quite close to him, and speaking with real
tenderness.
With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have
taken her then in his arms, for her eyes were swimming
in tears, which he longed to kiss away; but she had
lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside like an
ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a
caprice, and he was too proud to lend himself to it once
again.
"It is too soon, Madame!" he said quietly; "I have
done nothing as yet . The hour is late, and you must be
fatigued. Your women will be waiting for you upstairs."
He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a
quick sigh of disappointment. His pride and her beauty
had been in direct conflict, and his pride had remained
the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she had been de-
ceived just now; what she took to be the light of love
in his eyes might only have been the passion of pride or,
who knows, of hatred instead of love. She stood look-
ing at him for a moment or two longer. He was again
as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered,
and he cared naught for her. The grey of dawn was
gradually yielding to the rosy light of the rising sun.
Birds began to twitter; Nature awakened, smiling in
happy response to the warmth of this glorious October
morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a
strong, impassable barrier, built up of pride on both
sides, which neither of them cared to be the first to
demolish.
He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow,
as she finally, with another bitter little sigh, began to
mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept
the dead leaves off the steps, making a faint harmonious
L


162 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
sh—sh—sh as she glided up, with one hand resting on
the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an
aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies
on her head and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall
glass doors which led into the house. Before entering,
she paused once again to look at him, hoping against
hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear
his voice calling her back. But he had not moved; his
massive figure looked the very personification of unbend-
ing pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she would
not let him see them, she turned quickly within, and ran
as fast as she could up to her own rooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once
more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that
which would have made her own sufferings seem but
light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed with
his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given
way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless.
He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately in love,
and as soon as her light footstep had died away within the
house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the
very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places
where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balus-
trade there, where her tiny hand had rested last
.


CHAPTER XVII
FAREWELL
When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid
terribly anxious about her.
"Your ladyship will be so tired," said the poor woman,
whose own eyes were half closed with sleep. "It is past
five o'clock."
"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently,"
said Marguerite, kindly; "but you are very tired now,
so go to bed at once. I'll get into bed alone."
"But, my lady . . ."
"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me
a wrap, and leave me alone."
Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her
mistress's gorgeous ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a
soft billowy gown.
"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?" she asked, when that was done.
"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go
out."
"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady."
"Good-night, Louise."
When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the
curtains and threw open the windows. The garden and
the river beyond were flooded with rosy light. Far away
to the east, the rays of the rising sun had changed the
rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and
Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had
161


^4 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
167
stood a few moments ago trying vainly to win back a
man's love, which once had been so wholly hers.
It was strange that through all her troubles, all her
anxiety for Armand, she was mostly conscious at the
present moment of a keen and bitter heartache.
Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the
love of a man who had spurned her, who had resisted
her tenderness, remained cold to her appeals, and had
not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris
were not all dead and forgotten.
How strange it all was! She loved him still. And
now that she looked back upon the last few months of
misunderstandings and of loneliness, she realised that
she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish
inanities, his empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were
nothing but a mask; that the real man, strong, pas-
sionate, wilful, was there still—the man she had loved,
whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality
attracted her, since she always felt that behind his
apparently slow wits there was a certain something, which
he kept hidden from all the world, and most especially
from her.
A woman's heart is, such a complex problem—the
owner thereof is often most incompetent to find the
solution of this puzzle.
Did Marguerite Blakeney, "the cleverest woman in
Europe," really love a fool? Was it love that she had
felt for him a year ago when she married him? Was it
love she felt for him now that she realised that he still
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her
passionate, ardent lover once again? Nay ! Marguerite
herself could not have told that. Not at this moment


FAREWELL 165
at anyrate; perhaps her pride had sealed her mind
against a better understanding of her own heart. But
this she did know—that she meant to capture that
obstinate heart back again. That she would conquer
once more . . . and then, that she would never lose
him. . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve
it, and cherish it; for this much was certain, that there
was no longer any happiness possible for her without
that one man's love.
Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions
rushed madly through her mind. Absorbed in them,
she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps, tired out
with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes
and sank into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly
fleeting dreams seemed but the continuation of her
anxious thoughts—when suddenly she was roused, from
dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside
her door.
Nervously she jumped up and listened: the house
itself was as still as ever; the footsteps had retreated.
Through her wide-open windows the brilliant rays of the
morning sun were flooding her room with light. She
looked up at the clock; it was half-past six—too early
for any of the household to be already astir.
She certainly must have dropped asleep, quite un-
consciously. The noise of the footsteps, also of
hushed, subdued voices had awakened her—what could
they be?
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the room and opened
the door to listen; not a sound—that peculiar stillness
of the early morning when sleep with all mankind is at
its heaviest. But the noise had made her nervous, and
when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she
saw something white lying there—a letter evidently—


166 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
she hardly dared touch it. It seemed so ghostlike. It
certainly was not there when she came upstairs; had
Louise dropped it? or was some tantalising spook at
play, showing her fairy letters where none existed?
At last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled
beyond measure, she saw that the letter was addressed
to herself in her husband's large, businesslike-looking
hand. What could he have to say to her, in the middle
of the night, which could not be put off until the
morning?
She tore open the envelope and read:—
"A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave
for the North immediately, so I beg your ladyship's
pardon if I do not avail myself of the honour of bidding
you good-bye. My business may keep me employed
for about a week, so I shall not have the privilege of
being present at your ladyship's water-party on Wednes-
day. I remain your ladyship's most humble and most
obedient servant, Percy Blakeney."
Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her
husband's slowness of intellect, for she had perforce to
read the few simple lines over and over again, before she
could fully grasp their meaning.
She stood on the landing, turning over and over in her
hand this curt and mysterious epistle, her mind a blank,
her nerves strained with agitation and a presentiment
she could not very well have explained.
Sir Percy owned considerable property in the North,
certainly, and he had often before gone there alone and
stayed away a week at a time; but it seemed so very
strange that circumstances should have arisen between
five and six o'clock in the morning that compelled him
to start in this extreme hurry.


FAREWELL 16;
Vainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling
of nervousness: she was trembling from head to foot.
A wild, unconquerable desire seized her to see her
husband again, at once, if only he had not already
started.
Forgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad
in a morning wrap, and that her hair lay loosely about
her shoulders, she flew down the stairs, right through the
hall towards the front door.
It was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor
servants were not yet up; but her keen ears had
detected the sound of voices and the pawing of a
horse's hoof against the flag-stones.
With nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the
bolts one by one, bruising her hands, hurting her nails,
for the locks were heavy and stiff. But she did not
care; her whole frame shook with anxiety at the very
thought that she might be too late; that he might have
gone without her seeing him and bidding him "God-
speed!"
At last, she had turned the key and thrown open the
door. Her ears had not deceived her. A groom was
standing close by holding a couple of horses; one of
these was Sultan, Sir Percy's favourite and swiftest
horse, saddled ready for a journey.
The next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round
the further corner of the house and came quickly
towards the horses. He had changed his gorgeous ball
costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly
apparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and
ruffles, high top-boots, and riding breeches.
Marguerite went forward a few steps. He looked
up and saw her. A slight frown appeared between his
eyes. 


168 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"You are going?" she said quickly and feverishly.
"Whither?"
"As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship,
urgent, most unexpected business calls me to the North
this morning," he said, in his usual cold, drawly manner.
"But . . . your guests to-morrow . . ."
"I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble
excuses to His Royal Highness. You are such a perfect
hostess, I do not think that I shall be missed."
"But surely you might have waited for your journey
. . . until after our water-party . . ." she said, still
speaking quickly and nervously. "Surely the business
is not so urgent . . . and you said nothing about it—
just now."
"My business, as I had the honour to tell you,
Madame, is as unexpected as it is urgent. . . . May I
therefore crave your permission to go. ... Can I do
aught for you in town? ... on my way back?"
"No ... no ... thanks . . . nothing. . . . But
you will be back soon?"
"Very soon."
"Before the end of the week?"
"I cannot say."
He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was
straining every nerve to keep him back for a moment
or two.
"Percy," she said, "will you not tell me why you go
to-day? Surely I, as your wife, have the right to know.
You have not been called away to the North. I know
it. There were no letters, no couriers from there before
we left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting
for you when we returned from the ball. . . . You are
not going to the North, I feel convinced. . . . There a
some mystery . . . and . . ."


17o THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
depart. She stood on one side whilst he jumped on to
Sultan's back, then, as he galloped out of the gates, she
waved him a final "Adieu."
A bend in the road soon hid him from view; his
confidential groom had some difficulty in keeping pace
with him, for Sultan flew along in response to his
master's excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was
almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went
back to her room, for suddenly, like a tired child, she
felt quite sleepy.
Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace,
and, though it still ached with undefined longing, a
vague and delicious hope soothed it as with a balm.
She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man
who had just ridden away, bent on helping her brother,
inspired her with complete confidence in his strength
and in his power. She marvelled at herself for having
ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, that
was a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt
to his faith and to his love. His passion would have
overmastered him, and he would not let her see how
much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.
But now all would be well: she would crush her own
pride, humble it before him, tell him everything, trust
him in everything; and those happy days would come
back, when they used to wander off together in the
forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little—for he
was always a silent man—but when she felt that against
that strong heart she would always find rest and
happiness.
The more she thought of the events of the past night,
the less fear had she of Chauvelin and his schemes. He
had failed to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pim-
pernel, of that she felt sure. Both Lord Fancourt and


CHAPTER XVIII
THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE
The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke,
refreshed by her long sleep. Louise had brought her
some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, and she partook of
this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite.
Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she
munched her grapes; most of them went galloping
away after the tall, erect figure of her husband, whom
she had watched riding out of sight more than five
hours ago.
In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back
the news that the groom had come home with Sultan,
having left Sir Percy in London. The groom thought
that his master was about to get on board his schooner,
which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir
Percy had ridden thus far, had then met Briggs, the
skipper of the Day Dream, and had sent the groom back
to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle.
This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where
could Sir Percy be going just now in the Day Dream?
On Armand's behalf, he had said. Well! Sir Percy
had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was
going to Greenwich, or ... but Marguerite ceased to
conjecture ; all would be explained anon: he said that
he would come back, and that he would remember.
A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was ex-
pecting the visit of her old school-fellow, little Suzanne


THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE 173
de Tournay. With all the merry mischief at her
command, she had tendered her request for Suzanne's
company to the Corntesse in the presence of the Prince
of Wales last night. His Royal Highness had loudly
applauded the notion, and declared that he would give
himself the pleasure of calling on the two ladies in the
course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared
to refuse, and then and there was entrapped into a
promise to send little Suzanne to spend a long and
happy day at Richmond with her friend.
Marguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a
chat about old schooldays with the child; she felt that
she would prefer Suzanne's company to that of anyone
else, and together they would roam through the fine old
garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the river.
But Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being
dressed, prepared to go downstairs. She looked quite a
girl this morning in her simple muslin frock, with a
broad blue sash round her slim waist, and the dainty
cross-over fichu into which, at her bosom, she had fastened
a few late crimson roses.
She crossed the landing outside her own suite of
apartments, and stood still for a moment at the head of
the fine oak staircase, which led to the lower floor. On
her left were her husband's apartments, a suite of rooms
which she practically never entered.
They consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception-
room, and, at the extreme end of the landing, of a small
study, which, when Sir Percy did not use it, was always
kept locked. His own special and confidential valet,
Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever
allowed to go inside. My lady had never cared to do
to,and the other servants had, of course, not dared to
break this hard-and-fast rule.


J74 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Marguerite had often, with that good-natured con-
tempt which she had recently adopted towards her
husband, chaffed him about this secrecy which sur-
rounded his private study. Laughingly she had always
declared that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from
his sanctum for fear they should detect how very little
"study " went on within its four walls: a comfortable
arm-chair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt,
its most conspicuous piece of furniture.
Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October
morning as she glanced along the corridor. Frank
was evidently busy with his master's rooms, for most
of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst
the others.
A sudden, burning, childish curiosity seized her to
have a peep at Sir Percy's sanctum. The restriction, of
course, did not apply to her, and Frank would, of
course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that
the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms,
that she might have that one quick peep in secret, and
unmolested.
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like
Blue Beard's wife, trembling half with excitement and
wonder, she paused a moment on the threshold,
strangely perturbed and irresolute.
The door was ajar, and she could not see anything
within. She pushed it open tentatively: there was no
sound: Frank was evidently not there, and she walked
boldly in.
At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of
everything around her: the dark and heavy hangings,
the massive oak furniture, the one or two maps on the
wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about
town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of


THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE 175
fashion, that was the outward representation of Sir
Percy Blakeney.
There was no sign here, at anyrate, of hurried departure. Everything was in its place, not a scrap of
paper littered the floor, not a cupboard or drawer was
left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and
through the open window the fresh morning air was
streaming in.
Facing the window, and well into the centre of the
room, stood a ponderous business-like desk, which
looked as if it had seen much service. On the wall
to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor
to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a
woman, magnificently framed, exquisitely painted, and
signed with the name of Boucher. It was Percy's mother.
Marguerite knew very little about her, except that
she had died abroad, ailing in body as well as in mind,
when Percy was still a lad. She must have been a very
beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and
as Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but
be struck by the extraordinary resemblance which must
have existed between mother and son. There was the
same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fair
hair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set, somewhat
lazy blue eyes, beneath firmly marked, straight brows;
and in those eyes there was the same intensity behind
that apparent laziness, the same lateru passion which
used to light up Percy's face in the olden days before
his marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted,
last night at dawn, when she had come quite close to
him, and had allowed a note of tenderness to creep
into her voice.
Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her:


176 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
after that she turned and looked again at the ponderous
desk. It was covered with a mass of papers, all neatly
tied and docketed, which looked like accounts and
receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never
before struck Marguerite—nor had she, alasI found it
worth while to inquire—as to how Sir Percy, whom all
the world had credited with a total lack of brains, ad-
ministered the vast fortune which his father left had him.
Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she
had been taken so much by surprise, that this obvious
proof of her husband's strong business capacities did
not cause her more than a passing thought of wonder.
But it also strengthened her in the now certain know-
ledge that, with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways,
and foolish talk, he was not only wearing a mask, but
was playing a deliberate and studied part.
Marguerite wondered again. Why should he take all
this trouble? Why should he—who was obviously a
serious, earnest man—wish to appear before his fellow-
men as an empty-headed nincompoop?
He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who
held him in contempt . . . but surely such an object
could have been gained at less sacrifice, and with far
less trouble than constant incessant acting of an un-
natural part.
She looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was
horribly puzzled, and a nameless dread, before all this
strange, unaccountable mystery, had begun to seize
upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly
in this severe and dark room. There were no pictures
on the wall, save the fine Boucher portrait, only a
couple of maps, both of parts of France, one of the
North coast and the other of the environs of Paris.
What did Sir Percy want with those, she wondered.


CHAPTER XIX
THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept
into Marguerite's mind, she could not herself afterwards
have said. With the ring tightly clutched in her hand,
she had run out of the room, down the stairs, and
out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone
with the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could
look again at the ring, and study that device more
closely.
Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade
of an overhanging sycamore, she was looking at the
plain gold shield, with the star-shaped little flower
engraved upon it.
Bah ! It was ridiculous! she was dreaming! her
nerves were overwrought, and she saw signs and
mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had not
everybody about town recently made a point of affecting
the device of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet
Pimpernel?
Did she not herself wear it embroidered on her
gowns? set in gems and enamel in her hair? What
was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should have
chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might
easily have done that ... yes ... quite easily . . .
and . . . besides . . . what connection could there be
between her exquisite dandy of a husband, with his fine
clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter
178


i8o THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
suppose now that you are a married woman you won't
care to talk secrets with me any longer. Oh! what lots
and lots of secrets we used to have at school! Do you
remember?—some we did not even confide to Sister
Theresa of the Holy Ange..—though she was such a
dear."
"And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little
one?" said Marguerite, merrily, "which you are forth-
with going to confide to me. Nay, you need not blush,
chérie," she added, as she saw Suzanne's pretty little
face crimson with blushes. "Faith, there's naught to
be ashamed of! He is a noble and a true man, and
one to be proud of as a lover, and ... as a husband."
"Indeed, chine, I am not ashamed," rejoined Suzanne,
softly; "and it makes me very, very proud to hear you
speak so well of him. I think maman will consent,"
she added thoughtfully, "and I shall be—oh! so happy
—but, of course, nothing is to be thought of until papa
is safe. ..."
Marguerite started. Suzanne's father! the Comte de
Tournay!—one of those whose life would be jeopardised
if Chauvelin succeeded in establishing the identity of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.
She had understood all along from the Comtesse, and
also from one or two of the members of the league, that
their mysterious leader had pledged his honour to bring
the fugitive Comte de Tournay safely out of France.
Whilst little Suzanne—unconscious of all—save her own
all-important little secret, went prattling on, Marguerite's
thoughts went back to the events of the past night.
Armand's peril, Chauvelin's threat, his cruel "Either
—or—" which she had accepted.
And then her own work in the matter, which should
have culminated at one o'clock in Lord Grenville'i


182 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here in
England in less than four days."
"Yes," said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were
fastened on Suzanne's lips, as she continued merrily:
"Oh, we have no fear now! You don't know, chérie,
that that great and noble Scarlet Pimpernel himself, has
gone to save papa. He has gone, chine . . . actually
gone . . ." added Suzanne excitedly. "He was in
London this morning; he will be in Calais, perhaps,
to-morrow . . . where he will meet papa . . . and then
. . . and then . . I The blow had fallen. She had expected it all along,
though she had tried for the last half-hour to delude
herself and to cheat her fears. He had gone to Calais,
had been in London this morning ... he ... the
Scarlet Pimpernel. . . Percy Blakeney . . . her husband
. . . whom she had betrayed last night to Chauvelin. . . .
Percy . . . Percy . . . her husband . . . the Scarlet
Pimpernel. . . . Oh! how could she have been so blind?
She understood it now—all at once . . . that part he
played—the mask he wore ... in order to throw dust
in everybody's eyes.
And all for sheer sport and devilry of course !—saving
men, women and children from death, as other men
destroy and kill animals for the excitement, the love of
the thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aim in life
—he, and the few young bucks he enrolled under his
banner, had amused themselves for months in risking
their lives for the sake of an innocent few.
Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first
married; and then the story of the Marquis de St Cyr
had come to his ears, and he had suddenly turned from
her, thinking, no doubt, that she might some day betray
him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him:


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 183
and so he had tricked her, as he tricked all others,
whilst hundreds now owed their lives to him, and many
families owed him both life and happiness.
The mask of the inane fop had been a good one, and
the part consummately well played. No wonder that
Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect, in the apparently
brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless daring
and resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French
spies, both in France and in England. Even last night
when Chauvelin went to Lord Grenville's dining-room
to seek that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, he only saw that
inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast asleep in a corner of the
sofa.
Had his astute mind guessed the secret, then? Here
lay the whole awful, horrible, amazing puzzle. In be-
traying a nameless stranger to his fate in order to save
her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husband
to his death?
No! noI no I a thousand times no! Surely Fate could
not deal a blow like that: Nature itself would rise in
revolt: her hand, when it held that tiny scrap of paper
last night, would surely have been struck numb ere it
committed a deed so appalling and so terrible.
"But what is it, cherie!" said little Suzanne, now
genuinely alarmed, for Marguerite's colour had become
dull and ashen. "Are you ill, Marguerite? What it it?"
"Nothing, nothing, child," she murmured, as in a
dream. "Wait a moment ... let me think . . .
think! . . . You said . . . the Scarlet Pimpernel had
gone to-day. . . .?"
"Marguerite, chérie, what is it? Youfrighten
me,..."
"It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing. ... I


184 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
must be alone a minute—and—dear one ... I may
have to curtail our time together to-day. ... I may
have to go away—you'll understand?"
"I understand that something has happened, cherie,
and that you want to be alone. I won't be a hindrance
to you. Don't think of me. My maid, Lucile, has not
yet gone ... we will go back together . . . don't think
of me."
She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite.
Child as she was, she felt the poignancy of her friend's
grief, and with the infinite tact of her girlish tenderness,
she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to efface
herself.
She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked
sadly back across the lawn. Marguerite did not move,
she remained there, thinking . . . wondering what wu
to be done.
Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace
steps, a groom came running round the house towards
his mistress. He carried a sealed letter in his hand.
Suzanne instinctively turned back; her heart told her
that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend,
and she felt that her poor Margot was not in a fit state
to bear any more.
The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then
he handed her the sealed letter.
"What is that ?" asked Marguerite.
"Just come by runner, my lady."
Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned
it over in her trembling fingers.
"Who sent it ?" she said.
"The runner said, my lady," replied the groom, "that
his orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship
would understand from whom it came."


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 185
Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her
instinct had told her what it contained, and her eyes
only glanced at it mechanically.
It was a letter written by Armand St Just to Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes—the letter which Chauvelin's spies had
stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest," and which Chauvelin
had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience
Now he had kept his word—he had sent her back St
Just's compromising letter ... for he was on the track
of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Marguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to
be leaving her body; she tottered, and would have fallen
but for Suzanne's arm round her waist. With super-
human effort she regained control over herself—there
was yet much to be done.
"Bring that runner here to me," she said to the
servant, with much calm. "He has not gone?"
"No, my lady."
The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.
"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get
ready. I fear I must send you home, child. And—
stay, tell one of the maids to prepare a travelling dress
and cloak for me."
Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite
tenderly, and obeyed without a word; the child was over-
awed by the terrible, nameless misery in her friend's face.
A minute later the groom returned, followed by the
runner who had brought the letter.
"Who gave you this packet ?" asked Marguerite.
"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at 'The
Rose and Thistle' inn opposite Charing Cross. He
said you would understand."
"At 'The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"


i86 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which
he had ordered."
"The coach?"
"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I
understood from his man that he was posting straight to
Dover."
"That's enough. You may go." Then she turned
to the groom: "My coach and the four swiftest horses
in the stables, to be ready at once."
The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey.
Marguerite remained standing for a moment on the lawn
quite alone. Her graceful figure was as rigid as a statue,
her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightly clasped
across her breast; her lips moved as they murmured
with pathetic heart-breaking persistence,—
"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where
to find him ?—Oh, God! grant me light."
But this was not the moment for remorse and despair.
She had done—unwittingly—an awful and terrible
thing—the very worst crime, in her eyes, that woman
ever committed—she saw it in all its horror. Her very
blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret
seemed now to her another deadly sin. She ought to
have known! she ought to have known!
How could she imagine that a man who could love
with so much intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her
from the first, —how could such a man be the brainless
idiot he chose to appear? She, at least, ought to have
known that he was wearing a mask, and having found
that out, she should have torn it from his face, whenever
they were alone together.
Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily
crushed by her own pride; and she, too, had worn a
mask in assuming a contempt for him, whilst, as a matter
of fact, she completely misunderstood him.


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL 187
But there was no time now to go over the past. By
her own blindness she had sinned; now she must repay,
not by empty remorse, but by prompt and useful action.
Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the
fact that his most relentless enemy was on his heels.
He had set sail early that morning from London Bridge.
Provided he had a favourable wind, he would no doubt
be in France within twenty-four hours; no doubt he had
reckoned on the wind and chosen this route.
Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover,
charter a vessel there, and undoubtedly reach Calais
much about the same time. Once in Calais, Percy would
meet all those who were eagerly waiting for the noble
and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue
them from horrible and unmerited death. With Chau-
velin's eyes now fixed upon his every movement, Percy
would thus not only be endangering his own life, but
that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and
of those other fugitives who were waiting for him and
trusting in him. There was also Armand, who had gone
to meet de Tournay, secure in the knowledge that the
Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety.
All these lives and that of her husband, lay in
Marguerite's hands; these she must save, if human
pluck and ingenuity were equal to the task.
Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone.
Once in Calais she would not know where to find her
husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealing the papers at
Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above every-
thing, she wished to warn Percy.
She knew enough about him by now to understand
that he would never abandon those who trusted in him,
that he would not turn back from danger, and leave the
Comte de Tournay to fall into the bloodthirsty hands
that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he might


CHAPTER XX
THE
LESS than half an hour later, Marguerite, buried in
thoughts, sat inside her coach, which was bearing her
swiftly to London.
She had taken an affectionate farewell of little
Suzanne, and seen the child safely started with her
maid, and in her own coach, back to town. She had
sent one courier with a respectful letter of excuse to His Royal Highness, begging for a postponement of the
august visit on account of pressing and urgent business,
and another on ahead to bespeak a fresh relay of horses
at Faversham.
Then she had changed her muslin frock for a dark
travelling costume and mantle, had provided herself
with money — which her husband's lavishness always
placed fully at her disposal — and had started on her
way.
She did not attempt to delude herself with any vain
and futile hopes; the safety of her brother Armand was
to have been conditional on the imminent capture of the
Scarlet Pimpernel. As Chauvelin had sent her back
Armand's compromising letter, there was no doubt that
he was quite satisfied in his own mind that Percy
Blakeney was the man, whose death he had sworn to
bring about.
No! there was no room for any fond delusions !
Percy, the husband whom she loved with all the ardour
which her admiration for his bravery had kindled, was 184


,190 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
in immediate, deadly peril, through her hand. She had
betrayed him to his enemy—unwittingly 'tis true—but
she had betrayed him, and if Chauvelin succeeded in
trapping him, who so far was unaware of his danger,
then his death would be at her door. His death ! when
with her very heart's blood, she would have defended
him and given willingly her life for his.
She had ordered her coach to drive her to the
"Crown" inn; once there, she told her coachman to
give the horses food and rest. Then she ordered a
chair, and had herself carried to the house in Pall Mall
where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lived.
Among all Percy's friends, who were enrolled under
his daring banner, she felt that she would prefer to
confide in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He had always been
her friend, and now his love for little Suzanne had
brought him closer to her still. Had he been away
from home, gone on the mad errand with Percy, per-
haps, then she would have called on Lord Hastings or
Lord Tony—for she wanted the help of one of these
young men, or she would be indeed powerless to save
her husband.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, however, was at home, and his
servant introduced her ladyship immediately. She went
upstairs to the young man's comfortable bachelor's
chambers, and was shown into a small, though luxuri-
ously furnished, dining-room. A moment or two later
Sir Andrew himself appeared.
He had evidently been much startled when he heard
who his lady visitor was, for he looked anxiously—even
suspiciously — at Marguerite, whilst performing the
elaborate bows before her, which the rigid etiquette
of the time demanded.
Marguerite had laid aside every vestige of nervous-


THE FRIEND 191
ness; she was perfectly calm, and having returned
the young man's elaborate salute, she began very
calmly,—
"Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time
in much talk. You must take certain things I am going
to tell you for granted. These will be of no importance.
What is important is, that your leader and comrade, the
Scarlet Pimpernel. . . my husband . . . Percy Hlakeney
... is in deadly peril."
Had she had the remotest doubt of the correctness
of her deductions, she would have had them confirmed
now, for Sir Andrew, completely taken by surprise, had grown very pale, and was quite incapable of making
the slightest attempt at clever parrying.
"No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew," she con-
tinued quietly; "thank God that I do, and that perhaps
it is not too late to save him. Unfortunately, I cannot
do this quite alone, and therefore have come to you for
help."
"Lady Blaker.ey," iaid the young man, trying to
recover himself, "I ..."
"Will you hear me first?" she interrupted, "this is how
the matter stands. When the agent of the French
Government stole your papers that night in Dover, he
found amongst them certain plans, which you or your
leader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte
de Tournayand others. The Scarlet Pimpernel—Percy,
my husband—has gone on this errand himself to-day.
Chauvelin knows that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy
Blakeney are one and the same person. He will follow
him to Calais, and there will lay hands on him. You
know as well as I do the fate that awaits him at the
hands of the Revolutionary Government of France. No
interference from England—from King George himself—


192 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
would save him. Robespierre and his gang would see
to it that the interference came too late. But not only
that, the much-trusted leader will also have been
unconsciously the means of revealing the hiding-place
of the Comte de Tournay and of all those who, even now,
are placing their hopes in him."
She had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with
firm, unbending resolution. Her purpose was to make
that young man trust and help her, for she could do
nothing without him.
"I do not understand," he repeated, trying to gain
time, to think what was best to be done.
"Aye I but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must
know that I am speaking the truth. Look these facts
straight in the face. Percy has sailed for Calais, I
presume for some lonely part of the coast, and Chauvelin
is on his track. He has posted for Dover, and will
cross the Channel probably to-night. What do you
think will happen?"
The young man was silent
.
"Percy will arrive at his destination: unconscious of
being followed he will seek out de Tournay and the
others—among these is Armand St Just, my brother—
he will seek them out, one after another, probably, not
knowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching
his every movement. When he has thus unconsciously
betrayed those who blindly trust in him, when nothing
can be gained from him, and he is ready to come back
to England, with those whom he has gone so bravely to
save, the doors of the trap will close upon him, and he
will be sent to end his noble life upon the guillotine."
Still Sir Andrew was silent.
"You do not trust me," she said passionately. "Oh,
God! cannot you see that I am in deadly earnest?


THE FRIEND 193
Man, man," she added, while, with her tiny hands she
seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing
him to look straight at her, "tell me, do I look like that
vilest thing on earth—a woman who would betray her
own husband?"
"God forbid, Lady Blakeney," said the young man
at last, "that I should attribute such evil motives to you,
but . . ."
"But what? . . . tell me. . . . Quick, man I . . .
the very seconds are precious I"
"Will you tell me," he asked resolutely, and looking
searchingly into her blue eyes, "whose hand helped to
guide M. Chauvelin to the knowledge which you say he
possesses?"
"Mine," she said quietly, "I own it—I will not lie to
you, for I wish you to trust me absolutely. But I had
no idea—how could I have ?—of the identity of the Scarlet
Pimpernel . . . and my brother's safety was to be my
prize if I succeeded."
"In helping Chauvelin to track the Scarlet Pimpernel?"
She nodded.
"It is no use telling you how he forced my hand.
Armand is more than a brother to me, and . . . and
. . . how could I guess? . . . But we waste time,
Sir Andrew . . . every second is precious . . . in the
name of God I . . my husband is in peril . . . your
friend!—your comrade!—Help me to save him."
Sir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward
one. The oath he had taken before his leader and
comrade was one of obedience and secrecy; and yet
the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust her,
was undoubtedly in earnestI his friend and leader was
equally undoubtedly in imminent danger and . . .
"Lady Blakeney," he said at last, "God knows you 


194 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
have perplexed me, so that I do not know which way
my duty lies. Tell me what you wish me to do. There
are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for the
Scarlet Pimpernel if he is in danger."
"There is no need for lives just now, my friend," she
said drily; "my wits and four swift horses will serve
the necessary purpose. But I must know where to find
him. See," she added, while her eyes filled with tears,
"I have humbled myself before you, I have owned my
fault to you; shall I also confess my weakness ?—My
husband and I have been estranged, because he did not
trust me, and because I was too blind to understand.
You must confess that the bandage which he put over
my eyes was a very thick one. Is it small wonder that
I did not see through it? But last night, after I led
him unwittingly into such deadly peril, it suddenly fell
from my eyes. If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I
would still strive to save my husband, I would still exert
every faculty I possess for his sake; but I might be
powerless, for I might arrive too late, and nothing would
be left for you but lifelong remorse, and . . . and . . .
for me, a broken heart."
"But, Lady Blakeney," said the young man, touched
by the gentle earnestness of this exquisitely beautiful
woman, "do you know that what you propose doing is
man's work?—you cannot possibly journey to Calais
alone. You would be running the greatest possible
risks to yourself, and your chances of finding your
husband now—were I to direct you ever tocarefully—
are infinitely remote."
"Oh, I hope there are risks !" she murmured softly.
"I hope there are dangers, too !—I have so much to
atone for. But I fear you are mistaken. Chauvelin'i
eyes are fixed upon you all he will scarce notice me.


THE FRIEND 195
Quick, Sir Andrew!—the coach is ready, and there is
not a moment to be lost. ... I must get to him! I
must/" she repeated with almost savage energy, "to
warn him that that man is on his track. . . . Can't
you see—can't you see, that I must get to him . . .
even . . . even if it be too late to save him ... at
least . . , to be by his side ... at the last."
"Faith, Madame, you must command me. Gladly
would I or any of my comrades lay down our lives for
your husband. If you will go yourself . . ."
"Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if
I let you go without me." She stretched out her hand
to him. "You will trust me?"
"I await your orders," he said simply.
"Listen, then. My coach is ready to take me to
Dover. Do you follow me, as swiftly as horses will take
you. We meet at nightfall at 'The Fisherman's Rest.'
Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known there, and I
think it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your
escort to Calais ... as you say, I might miss Sir Percy
were you to direct me ever so carefully. We'll charter
a schooner at Dover and cross over during the night
.
Disguised, if you will agree to it, as my lacquey, you will,
I think, escape detection."
"I am entirely at your service, Madame," rejoined the
young man earnestly. "I trust to God that you will
sight the Day Dream before we reach Calais. With
Chauvelin at his heels, every step the Scarlet Pimpernel
takes on French soil is fraught with danger."
"God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We
meet to-night at Dover! It will be a race between
Chauvelin and me across the Channel to-night—and the
prize—the life of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
He kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her


196 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
chair. A quarter of an hour later she was back at the
"Crown" inn, where her coach and horses were ready
and waiting for her. The next moment they thundered
along the London streets, and then straight on to the
Dover road at maddening speed.
She had no time for despair now. She was up and
doing and had no leisure to think. With Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes as her companion and ally, hope had once
again revived in her heart.
God would be merciful. He would not allow so
appalling a crime to be committed, as the death of a
brave man, through the hand of a woman who loved
him, and worshipped him, and who would gladly have
died for his sake.
Marguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious
hero, whom she had always unconsciously loved, when
his identity was still unknown to her. Laughingly, in
the olden days, she used to call him the shadowy king
of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that this
enigmatic personality whom she had worshipped, and
the man who loved her so passionately, were one and
the same: what wonder that one or two happier Visions
began to force their way before her mind? She vaguely
wondered what she would say to him when first they
would stand face to face.
She had had so many anxieties, so much excitement
during the past few hours, that she allowed herself the
luxury of nursing these few more hopeful, brighter
thoughts. Gradually the rumble of the coach wheels,
with its incessant monotony, acted soothingly on her
nerves: her eyes, aching with fatigue and many shed
and unshed tears, closed involuntarily, and she fell into
a troubled sleep.


CHAPTER XXI
SUSPENSE
It was late into the night when she at last reached "The
Fisherman's Rest." She had done the whole journey in
less than eight hours, thanks to innumerable changes of
horses at the various coaching stations, for which she always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very best and
swiftest that could be had.
Her coachman, too, had been indefatigable; the promise
of special and rich reward had no doubt helped to keep
him up, and he had literally burned the ground beneath
his mistress' coach wheels.
The arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the
night caused a considerable flutter at "The Fisherman's
Rest." Sally jumped hastily out of bed, and Mr Jelly-
band was at great pains how to make his important guest
comfortable.
Both these good folk were far too well drilled in the
manners appertainingto innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest
surprise at Lady Blakeney's arrival, alone, at this extra-
ordinary hour. No doubt they thought all the more,
but Marguerite was far too absorbed in the importance
—the deadly earnestness—of her journey, to stop and
ponder over trifles of that sort
.
The coffee-room—the scene lately of the dastardly
outrage on two English gentlemen—was quite deserted.
Mr Jellyband hastily relit the lamp, rekindled a cheerful


198 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
bit of fire in the great hearth, and then wheeled a
comfortable chair by it, into which Marguerite gratefully
sank.
"Will your ladyship stay the night?" asked pretty
Miss Sally, who was already busy laying a snow-white
cloth on the table, preparatory to providing a simple
supper for her ladyship.
"No I not the whole night," replied Marguerite. "At
anyrate, I shall not want any room but this, if I can
have it to myself for an hour or two."
"It is at your ladyship's service," said honest Jelly-
band, whose rubicund face was set in its tightest folds,
lest it should betray before "the quality " that boundless
astonishment which the worthy fellow had begun to feel.
"I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide,"
said Marguerite, "and in the first schooner I can get
.
But my coachman and men will stay the night, and pro-
bably several days longer, so I hope you will make them
comfortable."
"Yes, my lady; I'll look after them. Shall Sally bring
your ladyship some supper?"
"Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and
as soon as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes comes, show him in
here."
"Yes, my lady."
Honest Jellyband's face now expressed distress in
spite of himself. He had great regard for Sir Percy
Blakeney, and did not like to see his lady running away
with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was no business of his, and Mr Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his
heart, he recollected that her ladyship was after all only
one of them " furriners "; what wonder that she was im-
moral like the rest of them?"
"Don't sit up, honest Jellyband," continued Marguerite,
I


SUSPENSE 201
A sudden commotion outside roused her from her
meditations. Evidently it was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
just arrived in mad haste, for she heard his horse's
hoofs thundering on the flag-stones outside, then
Mr Jellyband's sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him
welcome.
For a moment, then, the awkwardness of her position
struck Marguerite; alone at this hour, in a place where
she was well known, and having made an assignation
with a young cavalier equally well known, and who
arrives in disguise ! What food for gossip to those
mischievously inclined.
The idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous
side: there was such quaint contrast between the
seriousness of her errand, and the construction which
would naturally be put on her actions by honest Mr
Jellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a
little smile began playing round the corners of her
childlike mouth, and when, presently, Sir Andrew, almost
unrecognisable in his lacquey-like garb, entered the
coffee-room, she was able to greet him with quite •
merry laugh,
"Faith! Monsieur, my lacquey," she said, "I am
satisfied with your appearance!"
Mr Jellyband had followed Sir Andrew, looking
strangely perplexed. The young gallant's disguise had
confirmed his worst suspicions. Without a smile upon
his jovial face, he drew the cork from the bottle of wine,
set the chairs ready, and prepared to wait.
"Thanks, honest friend," said Marguerite, who was
still smiling at the thought of what the worthy fellow
must be thinking at that very moment, "we shall
require nothing more: and here's for all the trouble you
have been put to on our account."


202 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
She handed two or three gold pieces to Jellyband, who
took them respectfully, and with becoming gratitude.
"Stay, Lady Blakeney," interposed Sir Andrew, as
Jellyband was about to retire, "I am afraid we shall
require something more of my friend Jelly's hospitality.
I am sorry to say we cannot cross over to-night."
"Not cross over to-night?" she repeated in amaze-
ment. "But we must, Sir Andrew, we must I There
can be no question of cannot, and whatever it may cost,
we must get a vessel to-night."
But the young man shook his head sadly.
"I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady
Blakeney. There is a nasty storm blowing from France,
the wind is dead against us, we cannot possibly sail until
it has changed."
Marguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen
this. Nature herself was playing her a horrible, cruel
trick. Percy was in danger, and she could not go to
him, because the wind happened to blow from the coast
of France.
"But we must go !—we must!" she repeated with
strange, persistent energy, "you know, we must go!
—can't you find a way?"
"I have been down to the shore already," he said,
"and had a talk to one or two skippers. It is quite
impossible to set sail to-night, so every sailor assured me.
No one," he added, looking significantly at Marguerite,
"NOone could possibly put out of Dover to-night."
Marguerite at once understood what he meant. No
one included Chauvelin as well as herself. She nodded
pleasantly to Jellyband.
"Well, then, I must resign myself," she said to him.
"Have you a room for me?"
"Oh, yes, your ladyship. A nice, bright, airy room.





204 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"He may have left before the storm broke out."
"God grant he may," said Sir Andrew, merrily, "for
very likely then he'll have been driven out of his course!
Who knows? He may now even be lying at the bottom
of the sea, for there is a furious storm raging, and it will
fare ill with all small craft which happen to be out.
But I fear me we cannot build our hopes upon the ship-
wreck of that cunning devil, and of all his murderous
plans. The sailors I spoke to, all assured me that no
schooner had put out of Dover for several hours: on
the other hand, I ascertained that a stranger had arrived
by coach this afternoon, and had, like myself, made some
inquiries about crossing over to France."
"Then Chauvelin is still in Dover?"
"Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my
sword through him? That were indeed the quickest
way out of the difficulty."
"Nay! Sir Andrew, do not jest ! Alas ! I have often
since last night caught myself wishing for that friend's death. But what you suggest is impossible! The laws
of this country do not permit of murder ! It is only in
our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done
lawfully, in the name of Liberty and of brotherly love."
Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table,
to partake of some supper and to drink a little wine.
This enforced rest of at least twelve hours, until the next
tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to bear in the state
of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in
these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat
and drink.
Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all
those who are in love, made her almost happy by talking
to her about her husband. He recounted to her some
of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel had


SUSPENSE 205
contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relent-
less and bloody revolution was driving out of their
country. He made her eyes glow with enthusiasm by
telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his resourceful-
ness, when it meant snatching the lives of men, women,
and even children from beneath the very edge of that
murderous, ever-ready guillotine.
He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her
of the Scarlet Pimpernel's quaint and many disguises,
through which he had baffled the strictest watch set
against him at the barricades of Paris. This last time, the
escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her children had
been a veritable masterpiece—Blakeney disguised as a
hideous old market-woman, in filthy cap and straggling
grey locks, was a sight fit to make the gods laugh.
Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to
describe Blakeney's appearance, whose gravest difficulty
always consisted in his great height, which in France
made disguise doubly difficult.
Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to
spend in enforced inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose
from the table with an impatient sigh. She looked for-
ward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs, with
terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the
howling of the storm to help chase sleep away.
She wondered where Percy was now. The Day Dream
was a strong, well-built, sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had
expressed the opinion that no doubt she had got in the
lee of the wind before the storm broke out, or else per-
haps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying
quietly at Gravesend.
Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a
schooner as well as any master mariner. There was no
danger for them from the storm.


206 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite
retired to rest. As she had feared, sleep sedulously
avoided her eyes. Her thoughts were of the blackest
during these long, weary hours, whilst that incessant storm
raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The
sound of the distant breakers made her heart ache with
melancholy. She was in the mood when the sea has a
saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we
are very happy, that we can bear to gaze merrily upon
the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and on
with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accom-
paniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When
they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they
are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring
additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness
and of the pettiness of all our joys. 


CHAPTER XXII
CALAIS
The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later
must perforce come to an end.
Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute
mental torture as well-nigh drove her crazy. After
a sleepless night, she rose early, wild with excite-
ment, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest further
obstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else
in the house was astir, so frightened was she, lest she
should miss the one golden opportunity of making a
start
.
When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes sitting in the coffee-room. He had been out
half an hour earlier, and had gone to the Admiralty Pier,
only to find that neither the French packet nor any
privately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet.
The storm was then at its fullest, and the tide was on
the turn. If the wind did not abate or change, they would
perforce have to wait another ten or twelve hours until
the next tide, before a start could be made. And the
storm had not abated, the wind had not changed, and
the tide was rapidly drawing out.
Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard
this melancholy news. Only the most firm resolution
kept her from totally breaking down, and thus adding to
s07


208 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
the young man's anxiety, which evidently had become
very keen.
Though he tried to disguise it, Marguerite could see
that Sir Andrew was just as anxious as she was to reach
his comrade and friend. This enforced inactivity was
terrible to them both.
How they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Mar-
guerite could never afterwards say. She was in terror of
showing herself, lest Chauvelin's spies happened to be
about, so she had a private sitting-room, and she and Sir
Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at long
intervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would
bring them, with nothing to do but to think, to conjec-
ture, and only occasionally to hope.
The storm had abated just too late; the tide was by
then too far out to allow a vessel to put off to sea. The
wind had changed, and was settling down to a comfort-
able north-westerly breeze—a veritable godsend for a
speedy passage across to France.
And there those two waited, wondering if the hour
would ever come when they could finally make a start
.
There had been one happy interval in this long weary
day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once
again to the pier, and presently came back to tell
Marguerite that he had chartered a quick schooner,
whose skipper was ready to put to sea the moment the
tide was favourable.
From that moment the hours seemed less wearisome;
there was less hopelessness in the waiting; and at last,
at five o'clock in the afternoon, Marguerite, closely
veiled and followed by Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who, in
the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number of im-
pedimenta, found her way down to the pier.
Once on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her


CALAIS an
heavy rain here during the storm last night, and some-
times Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for the
roads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer
from a lamp inside a house.
But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts:
"We may meet Blakeney at the 'Chat Gris,"1 Sir
Andrew had said, when they landed, and she was walk-
ing as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, for she was going to
meet him almost at once.
At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew
evidently knew the road, for he had walked unerringly
in the dark, and had not asked his way from anyone.
It was too dark then for Marguerite to notice the outside
aspect of this house. The "Chat Gris," as Sir Andrew
had called it, was evidently a small wayside inn on the
outskirts of Calais, and on the way to Gris Nez. It lay
some little distance from the coast, for the sound of the
sea seemed to come from afar.
Sir Andrew knocked at the door with the knob of his
cane, and from within Marguerite heard a sort of grunt
and the muttering of a number of oaths. Sir Andrew
knocked again, this time more peremptorily: more oaths
were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed to draw
near the door. Presently this was thrown open, and Mar-
guerite found herself on the threshold of the mo t dilapi-
dated, most squalid room she had ever seen in all her life.
The paper, such as it was, was hanging from the walls
in strips; there did not seem to be a single piece of
furniture in the room that could, by the wildest stretch
of imagination, be called "whole." Most of the chairs
had broken backs, others had no seats to them, one
corner of the table was propped up with a bundle of
faggots, there where the fourth leg had been broken.
In one corner of the room there was a huge hearth,


212 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
over which hung a stock-pot, with a not altogether
unpalatable odour of hot soup emanating therefrom.
On one side of the room, high up in the wall, there
was a species of loft, before which hung a tattered blue-
and-white checked curtain. A rickety set of steps led
up to this loft.
On the great bare walls, with their colourless paper,
all stained with varied filth, there were chalked up at
intervals in great bold characters, the words: "Liberte—
Egalite"—Fraternite."
The whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by
an evil-smelling oil-lamp, which hung from the rickety
rafters of the ceiling. It all looked so horribly squalid,
so dirty and uninviting, that Marguerite hardly dared
to cross the threshold.
Sir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly
forward.
"English travellers, citoyen I" he said boldly, and
speaking in French.
The individual who had come to the door in response
to Sir Andrew's knock, and who, presumably, was the
owner of this squalid abode, was an elderly, heavily-built
peasant, dressed in a dirty blue blouse, heavy sabots,
from which wisps of straw protruded all round, shabby
blue trousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tri-
colour cockade, that proclaimed his momentary political
views. He carried a short wooden pipe, from which the
odour of rank tobacco emanated. He looked with some
suspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two
travellers, muttered "Sacrrrés Anglais!" and spat upon
the ground to further show his independence of spirit,
but, nevertheless, he stood aside to let them enter, no
doubt well aware that these same Sacrrrés Anglais
always had well-filled purses.


CALAIS 213
"Oh, lud !" said Marguerite, as she advanced into the
room, holding her handkerchief to her dainty nose,
"what a dreadful hole ! Are you sure this is the place?"
"Aye! 'tis the place, sure enough," replied the young
man as, with his lace-edged, fashionable handkerchief,
he dusted a chair for Marguerite to sit on; "but I vow
I never saw a more villainous hole."
"Faith ! " she said, looking round with some curiosity
and a great deal of horror at the dilapidated walls, the
broken chairs, the rickety table, "it certainly does not
look inviting."
The landlord of the "Chat Gris "—by name, Brogard
—had taken " • further notice of his guests; he con-
cluded that presently they would order supper, and in
the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen to show
deference, or even courtesy, to anyone, however smartly
they might be dressed.
By the hearth sat a huddled-up figure clad, seemingly,
mostly in rags: that figure was apparently a woman,
although even that would have been hard to distinguish,
except for the cap, which had once been white, and for
what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was
sitting mumbling to herself, and from time to time
stirring the brew in her stock-pot.
"Hey, my friend!" said Sir Andrew at last, "we
should like some supper. . . . The citoyenne there,"
he added, pointing to the huddled-up bundle of rags by
the hearth, "is concocting some delicious soup, I'll
warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for several
hours."
It took Brogard some few moments to consider the
question. A free citizen does not respond too readily
to the wishes of those, who happen to require something
of him.


214 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"Sacrrrés aristos ! " he murmured, and once more spat upon the ground.
Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood
in a corner of the room; from this he took an old
pewter soup-tureen and slowly, and without a word,
he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same silence,
began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-
pot.
Marguerite had watched all these preparations with
absolute horror; were it not for the earnestness of her
purpose, she would incontinently have fled from this
abode of dirt and evil smells.
"Faith ! our host and hostess are not cheerful
people," said Sir Andrew, seeing the look of horror on
Marguerite's face. "I would I could offer you a more
hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you
will find the soup eatable and the wine good; these
people wallow in dirt, but live well as a rule."
"Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew," she said gently, "be
not anxious about me. My mind is scarce inclined to
dwell on thoughts of supper."
Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome prepara-
tions; he had placed a couple of spoons, also two
glasses on the table, both of which Sir Andrew took the
precaution of wiping carefully.
Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some
bread, and Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair
to the table and to make some pretence at eating. Sir
Andrew, as befitting his roleof lacquer, stood behind
her chair.
"Nay, Madame, I pray you," he said, seeing that
Marguerite seemed quite unable to eat, "I beg of you
to try and swallow some food—remember you have need
of all your strength.'


CALAIS 215
The soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted
good. Marguerite might have enjoyed it, but for the.
horrible surroundings. She broke the bread, however,' and drank some of the wine.
"Nay, Sir Andrew," she said, "I do not like to see you
standing. You have need of food just as much as I
have. This creature will only think that I am an
eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if
you'll fit down and partake of this semblance of supper
beside me."
Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly
necessary upon the table, seemed not to trouble himself
any further about his guests. The Mere Brogard had
quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood and
lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, some-
times under Marguerite's very nose, as any free-born
citizen who was anybody's equal should do.
"Confound the brute !" said Sir Andrew, with native
British wrath, as Brogard leant up against the table,
smoking and looking down superciliously at these two
sacrrris Anglais.
"In Heaven's name, man," admonished Marguerite,
hurriedly, seeing that Sir Andrew, with British-born
instinct, was ominously clenching his fist, "remember
that you are in France, and that in this year of grace
this is the temper of the people."
"I'd like to scrag the brute !" muttered Sir Andrew,
savagely.
He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her
at table, and they were both making noble efforts to
deceive one another, by pretending to eat and drink.
"I pray you," said Marguerite, "keep the creature in
a good temper, so that he may answer the questions we must put to him."


CALAIS 217
strong in death"; of Percy running into the wildest,
maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat upon his back,
and the laces of his jabot unruffled.
"Oh! the foolhardiness of it I" she sighed. "Quick,
Sir Andrew! ask the man when he went."
"Ah, yes, my friend," said Sir Andrew, addressing
Brogard, with the same assumption of carelessness, "my
lord always wears beautiful clothes; the tall Englishman
you saw, was certainly my lady's friend. And he has
gone, you say?"
"He went ... yes ... but he's coming back . . .
here—he ordered supper . . ."
Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of
warning upon Marguerite's arm ; it came none too soon,
for the next moment her wild, mad joy would have
betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming back
here presently, she would see him in a few moments
perhaps. . . . Oh ! the wildness of her joy seemed almost
more than she could bear.
"Here!" she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly
to have been transformed in her eyes into some heaven-
born messenger of bliss. "Here !—did you say the
English gentleman was coming back here?"
The heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the
floor, to express his contempt for all and sundry aristos,
who chose to haunt the "Chat Gris."
"Heu!" he muttered, "he ordered supper—he will
come back. . . . Saerré Anglais !" he added, by way of
protest against all this fuss for a mere Englishman.
"But where is he now?—Do you know ?" she asked
eagerly, placing her dainty white hand upon the dirty
sleeve of his blue blouse.
"He went to get a horse and cart," said Brogard,
laconically, as, with a surly gesture, he shook off from


2i8 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
his arm that pretty hand which princes had been proud
to kiss.
"At what time did he go?"
But Brogard had evidently had enough of these
questionings. He did not think that it was fitting for a
citizen—who was the equal of anybody—to be thus
catechised by these sacrres aristos, even though they
were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting
to his new-born dignity to be as rude as possible; it was
a sure sign of servility to meekly reply to civil questions.
"I don't know," he said, surlily. "I have said
enough, voyons, lei aristos! ... He came to-day.
He ordered supper. He went out.—He'll come back.
Voila t"
And with this parting assertion of his rights as a
citizen and a free man, to be as rude as he well pleased,
Brogard shuffled out of the room, banging the door
after him.


CHAPTER XXIII
HOPE
"Faith, Madame !" said Sir Andrew, seeing that Mar-
guerite seemed desirous to call her surly host back
again, "I think we'd better leave him alone. We
shall not get anything more out of him, and we might
arouse his suspicions. One never knows what spies
may be lurking around these God-forsaken places."
"What care I?" she replied lightly, "now I know
that my husband is safe, and that I shall see him almost
directly!"
"Hush!" he said in genuine alarm, for she had
talked quite loudly, in the fulness of her glee, "the
very walls have ears in France, these days."
He rose quickly from the table, and walked round
the bare, squalid room, listening attentively at the door,
through which Brogard had just disappeared, and whence
only muttered oaths and shuffling footsteps could be
heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led to
the attic, to assure himself that there were no spies of
Chauvelin's about the place.
"Are we alone, Monsieur, my lacquey?" said Mar-
guerite, gaily, as the young man once more sat down
beside her. "May we talk?"
"As cautiously as possible!" he entreated.
"Faith, man! but you wear a glum face ! As for me,
I could dance with joy ! Surely there is no longer any
cause for fear. Our boat is on the beach, the Foam
•19


220 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Crest not two miles out at sea, and my husband will
be here, under this very roof, within the next half hour
perhaps. Sure! there is naught to hinder us. Chauve-
lin and his gang have not yet arrived."
"Nay, madam! that I fear we do not know."
"What do you mean?"
"He was at Dover at the same time that we were."
"Held up by the same storm, which kept us from
starting."
"Exactly. But—I did not speak of it before, for I
feared to alarm you—I saw him on the beach not five
minutes before we embarked. At least, I swore to
myself at the time that it was himself; he was dis-
guised as a cure, so that Satan, his own guardian, would
scarce have known him. But I heard him then, bar-
gaining for a vessel to take him swiftly to Calais;
and he must have set sail less than an hour after
we did."
Marguerite's face had quickly lost its look of joy.
The terrible danger in which Percy stood, now that
he was actually on French soil, became suddenly and
horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was close upon his
heels; here in Calais, the astute diplomatist was all-
powerful; a word from him and Percy could be tracked
and arrested and . . .
Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins;
not even during the moments of her wildest anguish
in England had she so completely realised the im-
minence of the peril in which her husband stood.
Chauvelin had sworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel
to the guillotine, and now the daring plotter, whose
anonymity hitherto had been his safeguard, stood re-
vealed through her own hand, to his most bitter, most
relentless enemy.


HOPE 341
Chauvelin—when he waylaid Lord Tony and Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes in the coffee-room of "The Fisher-
man's Rest"—had obtained possession of all the plans
of this latest expedition. Armand St Just, the Comte
de Tournay and other fugitive royalists were to have
met the Scarlet Pimpernel—or rather, as it had been
originally arranged, two of his emissaries — on this
day, the and of October, at a place evidently known
to the league, and vaguely alluded to as the "Pere
Blanchard's hut."
Armand, whose connection with the Scarlet Pimper-
nel and disavowal of the brutal policy of the Reign of
Terror was still unknown to his countrymen, had left
England a little more than a week ago, carrying with
him the necessary instructions, which would enable
him to meet the other fugitives and to convey them to
this place of safety
This much Marguerite had fully understood from the
first, and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had confirmed her sur-
mises. She knew, too, that when Sir Percy realised that
his own plans and his directions to his lieutenants had
been stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communi-
cate with Armand, or to send fresh instructions to the
fugitives.
They would, of necessity, be at the appointed time
and place, not knowing how grave was the danger
which now awaited their brave rescuer.
Blakeney, who as usual had planned and organised
the whole expedition, would not allow any of his
younger comrades to run the risk of almost certain
capture. Hence his hurried note to them at Lord
Grenville's ball—" Start myself to-morrow—alone."
And now with his identity known to his most bitter
enemy, his every step would be dogged, the moment he


322 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
set foot in France. He would be tracked by Chauve-
lin's emissaries, followed until he reached that mysterious
hut where the fugitives were waiting for him, and there
the trap would be closed on him and on them.
There was but one hour—the hour's start which
Marguerite and Sir Andrew had of their enemy—in
which to warn Percy of the imminence of his danger,
and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy expedi-
tion, which could only end in his own death.
But there was that one hour.
"Chauvelin knows of this inn, from the papers he
stole," said Sir Andrew, earnestly, "and on landing will
make straight for it."
"He has not landed yet," she said, "we have an
hour's start of him, and Percy will be here directly.
We shall be mid-Channel ere Chauvelin has realised
that we have slipped through his fingers."
She spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse
into her young friend some of that buoyant hope,
which still clung to her heart. But he shook his head
sadly. "Silent again, Sir Andrew?" she said with some
impatience. "Why do you shake your head and look
to glum?"
"Faith, Madame," he replied, "'tis only because in
making your rose-coloured plans, you are forgetting the
most important factor."
"What in the world do you mean ?—I am forgetting
nothing. . . . What factor do you mean?" she added
with more impatience.
"It stands six foot odd high," replied Sir Andrew,
quietly, "and hath name Percy Blakeney."
"I don't understand," she murmured.
"Do you think that Blakeney would leave Calais


HOPE 323
without having accomplished what he set out to
do?"
"You mean . . .?"
"There's the old Comte de Tournay . . P "TheComte . . .?" she murmured.
"And St Just . . . and others . . ."
"My brother!" she said with a heart-broken sob
of anguish. "Heaven help me, but I fear I had
forgotten."
"Fugitives as they are, these men at this moment
await with perfect confidence and unshaken faith the
arrival of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who has pledged his
honour to take them safely across the Channel."
Indeed, she had forgotten ! With the sublime selfish-
ness of a woman who loves with her whole heart, she
had in the last twenty-four hours had no thought save
for him. His precious, noble life, his danger—he, the
loved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind.
"My brother!" she murmured, as one by one the
heavy tears gathered in her eyes, as memory came back
to her of Armand, the companion and darling of her
childhood, the man for whom she had committed the
deadly sin, which had so hopelessly imperilled her brave
husband's life.
"Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted,
honoured leader of a score of English gentlemen,"
said Sir Andrew, proudly, "if he abandoned those who
placed their trust in him. As for breaking his word,
the very thought is preposterous!"
There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite
had buried her face in her hands, and was letting the
tears slowly trickle through her trembling fingers. The
young man said nothing; his heart ached for this beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had


224 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
felt the terrible impasse in which her own rash act had
plunged them all. He knew his friend and leader so
well, with his reckless daring, his mad bravery, his
worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew
that Blakeney would brave any danger, run the wildest
risks sooner than break it, and, with Chauvelin at his
very heels, would make a final attempt, however desper-
ate, to rescue those who trusted in him.
"Faith, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite at last, making
brave efforts to dry her tears, "you are right, and I
would not now shame myself by trying to dissuade him
from doing his duty. As you say, I should plead in
vain. God grant him strength and ability," she added
fervently and resolutely, "to outwit his pursuers. He
will not refuse to take you with him, perhaps, when he
starts on his noble work; between you, you will have
cunning as well as valour ! God guard you both! In
the meanwhile I think we should lose no time. I still
believe that his safety depends upon his knowing that
Chauvelin is on his track."
"Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his
command. As soon as he is aware of his danger he
will exercise more caution: his ingenuity is a veritable
miracle."
"Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in
the village whilst I wait here against his coming !—You
might come across Percy's track and thus save valuable
time. If you find him, tell him to beware I—his bitterest
enemy is on his heels !"
"But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait
in."
"Nay, that I do not mind !—But you might ask our
surly host if he could let me wait in another room, where
I could be safer from the prying eyes of any chance


HOPE 225
traveller. Offer him some ready money, Bo that he
should not fail to give me word the moment the tall
Englishman returns" She spoke quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking
out her plans, ready for the worst if need be; she would
show no more weakness, she would prove herself worthy
of him, who was about to give his life for the sake of his
fellow-men.
Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment.
Instinctively he felt that hers now was the stronger
mind; he was willing to give himself over to her
guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the
directing head.
He went to the door of the inner room, through which
Brogard and his wife had disappeared before, and
knocked; as usual, he was answered by a salvo of
muttered oaths.
"Hey ! friend Brogard I" said the young man peremp-
torily, "my lady would wish to rest here awhile. Could
you give her the use of another room? She would wish
to be alone."
He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed
it to jingle significantly in his hand. Brogard had
opened the door, and listened, with his usual surly
apathy, to the young man's request. At sight of the gold,
however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly; he took his
pipe from his mouth and shuffled into the room.
He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in
the wall.
"She can wait up there ! " he said with a grunt. "It's
comfortable, and I have no other room."
"Nothing could be better," said Marguerite in
English; she at once realised the advantages such a
position hidden from view would give her. "Give him


226 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
the money, Sir Andrew; I shall be quite happy up there,
and can see everything without being seen."
She nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up
to the attic, and to shake up the straw that lay on the
floor.
"May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash,"
said Sir Andrew, as Marguerite prepared in her turn to
ascend the rickety flight of steps. "Remember this
place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you,
reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely
certain that you are alone with him."
Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this
caution: Marguerite was as calm, as clear-headed as
any man. There was no fear of her doing anything that
was rash.
"Nay," she said, with a slight attempt at cheerfulness,
"that can I faithfully promise you, I would not
jeopardise my husband's life, nor yet his plans, by
speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear, I will
watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I
think he needs it most."
Brogard had come down the steps again, and Mar-
guerite was ready to go up to her safe retreat.
"I dare not kiss your hand, madam," said Sir Andrew,
as she began to mount the steps, "since I am your
lacquey, but I pray you be of good cheer. If I do not
come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return,
expecting to find him here."
"Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for
half an hour. Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before
that. God grant that either you or I may have seen
Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend! Have no
fear for me."
Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that


THE DEATH-TRAP 229
the weight of his fist, had overawed this free-born citizen
of France, or he would never have been at such trouble
for any sacrrt arista.
When the table was set—such as it was—Brogard
surveyed it with evident satisfaction. He then dusted
one of the chairs with the corner of his blouse, gave a
stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots
on to the fire, and slouched out of the room.
Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She
had spread her travelling cloak over the straw, and was
sitting fairly comfortably, as the straw was fresh, and the
evil odours from below came up to her only in a modified
form.
But, momentarily, she was almost happy; happy
because, when she peeped through the tattered curtains,
she could see a rickety chair, a torn table-cloth, a glass,
a plate and a spoon; that was all. But those mute and
ugly things seemed to say to her, that they were waiting
for Percy; that soon, very soon, he would be here, that
the squalid room being still empty, they would be alone
together.
That thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed
her eyes in order to shut out everything but that . In
a few minutes she would be alone with him; she would
run down the ladder, and let him see her; then he
would take her in his arms, and she would let him see
that, after that, she would gladly die for him, and with
him, for earth could hold no greater happiness than that.
And then what would happen? She could not even
remotely conjecture. She knew, of course, that Sir
Andrew was right, that Percy would do everything he
had set out to accomplish; that she—now she was here
—could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious,
since Chauvelin himself was on his track. After having


230 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
cautioned him, she would perforce have to see him go
off upon his terrible and daring mission; she could not
even with a word or look, attempt to keep him back.
She would have to obey, whatever he told her to do,
even perhaps have to efface herself, and wait, in inde-
scribable agony, whilst he, perhaps, went to his death.
But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the
thought that he should never know how much she loved
him—that at anyrate would be spared her; the squalid
room itself, which seemed to be waiting for him, told
her that he would be here soon.
Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of
distant footsteps drawing near; her heart gave a wild
leap of joy! Was it Percy at last? No! the step did
not seem quite as long, nor quite as firm as his; she
also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of
footsteps. Yes! that was it! two men were coming this
way. Two strangers perhaps, to get a drink, or ...
But she had not time to conjecture, for presently
there was a peremptory call at the door, and the next
moment it was violently thrown open from the outside,
whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted,—
"Hey ! Citoyen Brogard! Hola!"
Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through
a hole in one of the curtains, she could observe one
portion of the room below.
She heard Brogard's shuffling footsteps, as he came
out of the inner room, muttering his usual string of
oaths. On seeing the strangers, however, he paused in
the middle of the room, well within range of Marguerite's
vision, looked at them, with even more withering
contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests,
and muttered, "Sacrrree soutane!"
Marguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating.


232 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Chauvelin's secretary and confidential factotum, whom
she had often seen in Paris, in the days gone by. He
crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened
attentively at the Brogards' door.
"Not listening ?" asked Chauvelin, curtly.
"No, citoyen."
For a second Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin
should order Desgas to search the place; what would
happen if she were to be discovered, she hardly dared to
imagine. Fortunately, however, Chauvelin seemed more
impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid of spies,
for he called Desgas quickly back to his side.
"The English schooner?" he asked
"She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen," replied
Desgas, "but was then making west, towards Cap Gris
Nez."
"Ah !—good !—" muttered Chauvelin, "and now,
about Captain Jutley ?—what did he say?"
"He assured me that all the orders you sent him last
week have been implicitly obeyed. All the roads which
converge to this place have been patrolled night and day
ever since: and the beach and cliffs have been most
rigorously searched and guarded."
"Does he know where this 'P£re Blanchard's hut'
is?"
"No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that
name. There are any amount of fishermen's huts all
along the coast, of course . . . but . . I "That'll do. Now about to-night?" interrupted
Chauvelin, impatiently.
"The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual,
citoyen, and Captain Jutley awaits further orders."
"Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send
reinforcement to the various patrols; and especially to
those along the beach—you understand?"


THE DEATH-TRAP 233
Chauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every
word he uttered struck at Marguerite's heart like the
death-knell of her fondest hopes.
"The men," he continued, "are to keep the sharpest
possible look-out for any stranger who may be walking,
riding, or driving, along the road or the beach, more
especially for a tall stranger, whom I need not describe
further, as probably he will be disguised; but he cannot
very well conceal his height, except by stooping. You understand?"
"Perfectly, citoyen," replied Desgas.
'' As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger,
two of them are to keep him in view. The man who
loses sight of the tall stranger, after he is once seen, will
pay for his negligence with his life; but one man is to
ride straight back here and report to me. Is that
clear?"
"Absolutely clear, citoyen."
"Very well, then. Go and see Jutley at once. See
the reinforcements start off for the patrol duty, then ask
the captain to let you have half-a-dozen more men and
bring them here with you. You can be back in ten
minutes. Go—"
Desgas saluted and went to the door.
As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin's
directions to his underling, the whole of the plan for
the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel became appallingly
clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the fugitives should
be left in false security, waiting in their hidden retreat
until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter was
to be surrounded and caught red-handed, in the very
act of aiding and abetting royalists, who were traitors to
the republic. Thus, if his capture were noised abroad,
even the British Government could not legally protest
in his favour; having plotted with the enemies of the


234 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
French Government, France had the right to put him
to death.
Escape for him and them would be impossible. All
the roads patrolled and watched, the trap well set, the
net, wide at present, but drawing together tighter and
tighter, until it closed upon the daring plotter, whose
superhuman cunning even, could not rescue him from its
meshes now.
Desgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more
called him back. Marguerite vaguely wondered what
further devilish plans he could have formed, in order
to entrap one brave man, alone, against two-score of
others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to
Desgas; she could just see his face beneath the broad-
brimmed cure's hat . There was at that moment so
much deadly hatred, such fiendish malice in the thin
face and pale, small eyes, that Marguerite's last hope
died in her heart, for she felt that from this man she
could expect no mercy.
"I had forgotten," repeated Chauvelin, with a weird
chuckle, as he rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one
against the other, with a gesture of fiendish satisfaction.
"The tall stranger may show fight. In any case no
shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want
that tall stranger alive ... if possible."
He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh
at sight of the torture of the damned. Marguerite had
thought that by now she had lived through the whole
gamut of horror and anguish that human heart could
bear; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she re-
mained alone in this lonely, squalid room, with that
fiend for company, she felt as if all that she had
suffered was nothing compared with this. He con-
tinued to laugh and chuckle to himself for a while,


THE DEATH-TRAP 835
rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his
triumph.
His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph !
not a loophole was left, through which the bravest, the
most cunning man might escape. Every road guarded,
every corner watched, and in that lonely hut somewhere
on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their
rescuer, and leading him to his death—nay! to worse
than death. That fiend there, in a holy man's garb,
was too much of a devil to allow a brave man to die
the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of duty.
He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who
had so long baffled him, helpless in his power; he wished
to gloat over him, to enjoy his downfall, to inflict upon
him what moral and mental torture a deadly hatred alone
can devise. The brave eagle, captured, and with noble
wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of
the rat. And she, his wife, who loved him, and who
had brought him to this, could do nothing to help him.
Nothing, save to hope for death by his side, and for
one brief moment in which to tell him that her love—
whole, true and passionate—was entirely his. Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table; he had
taken off his hat, and Marguerite could just see the
outline of his thin profile and pointed chin, as he bent
over his meagre supper. He was evidently quite con-
tented, and awaited events with perfect calm; he even
seemed to enjoy Brogard's unsavoury fare. Marguerite
wondered how so much hatred could lurk in one human
being against another.
Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught
her ear, which turned her very heart to stone. And yet
that sound was not calculated to inspire anyone with
horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of a gay,
fresh voice singing lustily, "God save the King '"


CHAPTER XXV
THE EAGLE AND THE FOX
Marguerite's breath stopped short; she seemed to feel
her very life standing still momentarily whilst she
listened to that voice and to that song. In the singer
she had recognised her husband. Chauvelin, too, had
heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door,
then hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and
clapped it over his head.
The voice drew nearer; for one brief second the wild
desire seized Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly
across the room, to stop that song at any cost, to beg
the cheerful singer to fly—fly for his life, before it be too
late. She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin
would stop her before she reached the door, and, more-
over, she had no idea if he had any soldiers posted
within his call. Her impetuous act might prove the
death-signal of the man she would have died to save.
"Long to reign over us,
God savethe King !"
sang the voice more lustily than ever. The next
moment the door was thrown open and there was dead
silence for a second or so.
Marguerite could not see the door: she held her
breath, trying to imagine what was happening.
Percy Blakeney on entering had, of course, at once


THE EAGLE AND THE FOX 337
caught sight of the curt at the table; his hesitation
lasted less than five seconds, the next moment Mar-
guerite saw his tall figure crossing the room, whilst he
called in a loud, cheerful voice,—
"Hello, therel no one about? Where's that fool
Brogard?"
He wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which
he had on when Marguerite last saw him at Richmond,
so many hours ago. As usual, his get-up was absolutely
irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace at his neck and
wrists was immaculate in its gossamer daintiness, his
hands looked slender and white, his fair hair was care-
fully brushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual
affected gesture. In fact, at this moment, Sir Percy
Blakeney, Bart., might have been on his way to a
garden-party at the Prince of Wales', instead of deliber-
ately, cold-bloodedly running his head in a trap, set for
him by his deadliest enemy.
He stood for a moment in the middle of the room,
whilst Marguerite, absolutely paralysed with horror,
seemed unable even to breathe.
Every moment she expected that Chauvelin would
give a signal, that the place would fill with soldiers, that
she would rush down and help Percy to sell his life
dearly. As he stood there, suavely unconscious, she
very nearly screamed out to him,—
"Fly Percy!—'tis your deadly enemy!—fly before it
be too latel"
But she had not time even to do that, for the next
moment Blakeney quietly walked to the table, and,
jovially clapping the cure on the back, said in his own
drawly, affected way,—
"Odds fish! . . . er . . . M. Chanvelin. . . , I
vow I never thought of meeting you here."


142 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
had quite controlled her impulse by now of rushing down
and disclosing herself to her husband. A man capable
of acting a part, in the way he was doing at the present
moment, did not need a woman's word to warn him to
be cautious.
Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every
tender woman's heart, of looking at the man she loved.
She looked through the tattered curtain, across at the
handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue eyes,
and behind whose inane smile, she could now so plainly
see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had
caused the Scarlet Pimpernel to be reverenced and
trusted by his followers. "There are nineteen of as
ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady
Blakeney," Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she
looked at the forehead, low, but square and broad, the
eyes, blue, yet deep-set and intense, the whole aspect of
the man, of indomitable energy, hiding, behind a perfectly
acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of will
and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the fascination
which he exercised over his followers, for had he not also
cast his spells over her heart and her imagination?
Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience
beneath his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at
his watch. Desgas should not be long: another two or
three minutes, and this impudent Englishman would be
secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley's
most trusted men.
"You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?" he asked
carelessly.
"Odd's life, no," replied Blakeney, with a laugh.
"Only as far as Lille—not Paris for me ... beastly
uncomfortable place Paris, just now . . . eh, Monsieur
Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin I"


248 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen,"
"Ah?"
"Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty: twenty went down to the beach. He
again assured me that the watch has been constant all
day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the beach,
or reach a boat, without being sighted."
"That's good.—Do the men know their work?"
"They have had very clear orders, citoyen: and I
myself spoke to those who were about to start. They
are to shadow—as secretly as possible—any stranger
they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he
would disguise his height."
"In no case to detain such a person, of course," said
Chauvelin, eagerly. "That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel
would slip through clumsy fingers. We must let him
get to the Pere Blanchard's hut now; there surround
and capture him."
"The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as
soon as a tall stranger has been sighted, he must be
shadowed, whilst one man is to turn straight back and
report to you."
"That is right," said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands,
well pleased.
"I have further news for you, citoyen."
"What is it?"
"A tall Englishman had a long conversation about
three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by
name, who lives not ten paces from here."
"Yes—and?" queried Chauvelin, impatiently.
"The conversation was all about a horse and cart,
which the tall Englishman wished to hire, and which
was to have been ready for him by eleven o'clock."
"It a past that now. Where does that Reuben live ?"


THE SCARLET PIMPEFJ4EL
ful of success, unless he himself was there to watch,
direct and superintend the capture of this impudent
Englishman.
About five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by
an elderly Jew, in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn
greasy across the shoulders. His red hair, which he wore
after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the corkscrew
curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with
grey—a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and
his chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome
appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his
race affected in mock humility in past centuries, before
the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith,
and he walked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling
gait, which has remained the characteristic of the Jew
trader in continental Europe to this day.
Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman's prejudice
against the despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep
at a respectful distance. The group of the three men
were standing just underneath the hanging oil-lamp, and
Marguerite had a clear view of them all.
"Is this the man ?" asked Chauvelin.
"No, citoyen," replied Desgas, "Reuben could not be
found, so presumably his cart has gone with the stranger:
but this man here seems to know something, which he is willing to sell for a consideration."
"Ah!" said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust
from the loathsome specimen of humanity before him.
The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly
on one side, leaning on a thick knotted staff, his greasy,
broad-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his grimy
face, waiting for the noble Excellency to deign to put
some questions to him.
"Thecitoyen tells me," said Chauvelin peremptorily


L.

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THE JEW 251
to him, "that you know something of my friend, the tall
Englishman, whom I desire to meet. . . . Alorbieu!
keep your distance, man," he added hurriedly, as the
Jew took a quick and eager step forward.
"Yes, your Excellency," replied the Jew, who spoke
the language with that peculiar lisp, which denotes Eastern
origin, "I and Reuben Goldstein met a tall Englishman,
on the road, close by here this evening."
"Did you speak to him?"
"He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to
know if he could hire a horse and cart to go down along
the St Martin Road, to a place he wanted to reach
to-night."
"What did you say?"
"I did not say anything," said the Jew in an injured
tone, " Reuben Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son
of Belial ..."
"Cut that short, man,"interrupted Chauvelin, roughly,
"and go on with your story."
"He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency;
when I was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my
horse and cart, to take him wheresoever he chose,
Reuben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved
nag, and his broken-down cart."
"And what did the Englishman do?"
"He listened to Reuben Goldstein, your Excellency,
and put his hand in his pocket then and there, and
took out a handful of gold, which he showed to that
descendant of Belzebub, telling him that all that would
be his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by
eleven o'clock"
"And, of course, the horse and cart were ready?"
"Well! they were ready in a manner, so to speak,
your Excellency. Reuben's nag was lame as usual; she


252 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
refused to budge at first. It was only after a time and
with plenty of kicks, that she at last could be made to
move," said the Jew with a malicious chuckle.
"Then they started?"
"Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I wu
disgusted with that stranger's folly. An Englishman
too !—He ought to have known Reuben's nag was not
fit to drive."
"But if he had no choice?"
"No choice, your Excellency?" protested the Jew, in
a rasping voice, "did I not repeat to him a dozen times,
that my horse and cart would take him quicker, and
more comfortably than Reuben's bag of bones. He
would not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such
insinuating ways. The stranger was deceived. If he
was in a hurry, he would have had better value for his
money by taking my cart."
"You have a horse and cart too, then?" asked
Chauvelin, peremptorily.
"Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your
Excellency wants to drive ..."
"Do you happen to know which way my friend went
in Reuben Goldstein's cart?"
Thoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Mar-
guerite's heart was beating well-nigh to bursting. She
had heard the peremptory question ; she looked anxiously
at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath the
shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt
somehow as if he held Percy's fate in his long, dirty
hands.
There was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned
impatiently, at the stooping figure before him : at last the
Jew slowly put his hand in his breast pocket, and drew
out from its capacious depths, a number of silver coins


THE JEW 253
He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a
quiet tone of voice,—
"This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove
away with Reuben, for holding my tongue about him,
and his doings."
Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently.
"How much is there there?" he asked.
"Twenty francs, your Excellency," replied the Jew,
"and I have been an honest man all my life."
Chauvelin without further comment took a few pieces
of gold out of his own pocket, and leaving them in the
palm of his hand, he allowed them to jingle as he held
them out towards the Jew.
"How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my
hand ?" he asked quietly.
Evidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but
to conciliate him, for his own purposes, for his manner
was pleasant and suave. No doubt he feared that
threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive
methods of that type, might addle the old man's brains,
and that he would be more likely to be useful through
greed of gain, than through terror of death.
The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the
gold in his interlocutor's hand.
"At least five, I should say, your Excellency," he
replied obsequiously.
"Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue
of yours?"
"What does your Excellency wish to know?"
"Whether your horse and cart can take me to where
I can find my friend the tall stranger, who has driven off
in Reuben Goldstein's cart?"
"My horse and cart can take your Honour there, when
you please."


254 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"To a place called the Fire Blanchard's hut?"
"Your Honour has guessed?" said the Jew in astonishment.
"You know the place?"
"I know it, your Honour."
"Which road leads to it?"
"The St Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath
from there to the cliffs."
"You know the road?" repeated Chauyelin, roughly.
"Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour,"
replied the Jew quietly.
Chauvelin without another word threw the five pieces
of gold one by one before the Jew, who knelt down, and
on his hands and knees struggled to collect them. One
rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for it had
lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly
waited while the old man scrambled on the floor, to find
the piece of gold.
When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said,—
"How soon can your horse and cart be ready?"
"They are ready now, your Honour."
"Where?"
"Not ten mètres from this door. Will your
Excellency deign to look?"
"I don't want to see it. How far can you drive me
in it?"
"As far as the Pere Blanchard's hut, your Honour, and
further than Reuben's nag took your friend. I am sure
that, not two leagues from here, we shall come across
that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart and the tall stranger
all in a heap in the middle of the road."
"How far is the nearest village from here?"
"On the road which the Englishman took, Miqueloa
M the nearest village, not two leagues from here."


THE JEW 355
"There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted
to go further?"
"He could—if he ever got so far."
"Can you?"
'*"*" Will your Excellency try?" said the Jew simply.
"That is my intention," said Chauvelin very quietly,
" but remember, if you have deceived me, I shall tell
off two of my most stalwart soldiers to give you such a
beating, that your breath will perhaps leave your ugly
body for ever. But if we find my friend the tall
Englishman, either on the road or at the Pere Blanchard's hut, there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you
accept the bargain?"
The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He
looked at the money in his hand, then at his stern
interlocutor, and at Desgas, who had stood silently be-
hind him all this while. After a moment's pause, he
said deliberately,—
"I accept."
"Go and wait outside then," said Chauvelin, "and
remember to stick to your bargain, or by Heaven, I will
keep to mine."
With a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old
Jew shuffled out of the room. Chauvelin seemed
pleased with his interview, for he rubbed his hands
together, with that usual gesture of his, of malignant
satisfaction.
"My coat and boots," he said to Desgas at last
.
Desgas went to the door, and apparently gave the
necessary orders, for presently a soldier entered, carry-
ing Chauvelin's coat, boots, and hat.
He took oil his soutane, beneath which he was
wearing close-fitting breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and
began changing his attire.
"You, c toy en, in the meanwhile," he said to Desgas,


256 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
"go back to Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and
tell him to let you have another dozen men, and bring
them with you along the St Martin Road, where I
daresay you will soon overtake the Jew's cart with
myself in it. There will be hot work presently, ifw
mistake not, in the Pere Blanchard's hut. We shall
corner our game there, I'll warrant, for this impudent
Scarlet Pimpernel has had the audacity — or the
stupidity, I hardly know which—to adhere to his
original plans. He has gone to meet de Tournay, St
Just and the other traitors, which for the moment, I
thought, perhaps, he did not intend to do. When we
find them, there will be a band of desperate men at bay.
Some of our men will I presume be put hors de combat.
These royalists are good swordsmen, and the English-
man is devilish cunning, and looks very powerful. SSl^
we shall be five against one at least. You can follow
the cart closely with your men, all along the St Martin
Road, through Miquelon. The Englishman is ahead of
us, and not likely to look behind him."
Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had
completed his change of attire. The priest's costume
had been laid aside, and he was once more dressed in
his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At last he took up
his hat.
"I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into
your hands," he said with a chuckle, as with unwonted
familiarity he took Desgas' arm, and led him towards
the door. "We won't kill him outright, eh, friend
Desgas? The Pere Blanchard's hut is—an I mistake
not—a lonely spot upon the beach, and our men will
enjoy a bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox.
Choose your men well, friend Desgas ... of the sort
who would enjoy that type of sport—eh? We must see


CHAPTER XXVII
ONTHE TRACK
Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate
The last sounds outside the "Chat Gris" had died away
in the night. She had heard Desgas giving orders to
his men, and then starting off towards the fort, to get a
reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not
thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman,
whose resourceful brain was even more dangerous than
his valour and his strength.
Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky
voice, again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the
rumble of wheels, and noise of a rickety cart bumping
over the rough road.
Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife, terrified of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life;
they hoped to be forgotten, and at anyrate to remain
unperceived: Marguerite could not even hear their usual
volleys of muttered oaths.
She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly
slipped down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak
closely round her and slipped out of the inn.
The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at anyrate
to hide her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears
kept count of the sound of the cart going on ahead. She
hoped by keeping well within the shadow of the ditches
which lined the road, that she would not be seen by Desgas'


ON THE TRACK 259
men, when they approached, or by the patrols, which
she concluded wr-re still on duty.
Thus she started to do this, the last stage on her weary
journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three
leagues to Miquelon, and then on to the Pere Blanchard's
hut, wherever that fatal spot might be, probably over
rough roads: she cared not.
The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though
she was weary with mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could easily keep up with it, on a hilly
road, where the poor beast, who was sure to be half-
starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent
rests. The road lay some distance from the sea,
bordered on either side by shrubs and stunted trees,
sparsely covered with meagre foliage, all turning away
from the North, with their branches looking in the semi-
darkness, like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual
wind.
Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep
between the clouds, and Marguerite hugging the edge
of the road, and keeping close to the low line of shrubs,
was fairly safe from view. Everything around her was
so still: only from far, very far away, there came like a
long, soft moan, the sound of the distant sea.
The air was keen and full of brine; after that enforced
period of inactivity, inside the evil-smelling, squalid inn,
Marguerite would have enjoyed the sweet scent of this
autumnal night, and the distant melancholy rumble of
the waves: she would have revelled in the calm and
stillness of this lonely spot, a calm, broken only at
intervals by the strident and mournful cry of some
distant gull, and by the creaking of the wheels, some way
down the road: she would have loved the cool atmo-
sphere, the peaceful immensity of Nature, in this lonely


2<5o THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
part of the coast: but her heart was too full of cruel fore,
boding, of a great ache and longing for a being, who had
become infinitely dear to her.
Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought
it safest not to walk near the centre of the road, and she
found it difficult to keep up a sharp pace along the
muddy incline. She even thought it best not to keep
too near to the cart; everything was so still, that the
rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe
guide.
The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim
lights of Calais lay far behind, and on this road there
was not a sign of human habitation, not even the hut of
a fisherman or of a woodcutter anywhere near; far away
on her right was the edge of the cliff, below it the rough
beach, against which the incoming tide was dashing itself
with its constant, distant murmur. And ahead the
rumble of the wheels, bearing an implacable enemy to his
triumph.
Marguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this
lonely coast, Percy could be at this moment. Not very
far surely, for he had had less than a quarter of an hour's
start of Chauvelin. She wondered if he knew, that in
this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there lurked many
spies, all eager to sight his tall figure, to track him to
where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then,
to close the net over him and them.
Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's
vehicle, was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed
his hands together, with content, as he thought of the
web which he had woven, and through which that
ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to
escape. As the time went on, and the old Jew drove
him leisurely but surely along the dark road, he felt more


ON THE TRACK 261
and more eager for the grand finale of this exciting chase
after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel.
The capture of the audacious plotter would be the
finest leaf in Citoyen Chauvelin's wreath of glory.
Caught, red-handed, on the spot, in the very act of
aiding and abetting the traitors against the Republic of
France, the Englishman could claim no protection from
his own country. Chauvelin, had, in any case, fully
made up his mind that all intervention should come too
late.
Never for a moment, did the slightest remorse enter his
heart, as to the terrible position in which he had placed
the unfortunate wife, who had unconsciously betrayed
her husband. As a matter of fact, Chauvelin had ceased
even to think of her: she had been a useful tool, that
was all.
The Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She
was going along at a slow jog trot, and her driver had
to give her long and frequent halts.
"Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?" asked
Chauvelin from time to time.
"Not very far, your Honour," was the uniform placid
reply.
"We have not yet come across your friend and mine,
lying in a heap in the roadway," was Chauvelin's
sarcastic comment.
"Patience, noble Excellency," rejoined the son of
Moses, "they are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of
the cart wheels, driven by that traitor, that son of the
Amalekite."
"You are sure of the road?"
"As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold
pieces in the noble Excellency's pockets, which I trust
will presently be mine."


ON THE TRACK 963
"What news?"
Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle.
Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the
midnight sky. She could hear their voices, and the
snorting of their horses, and now, behind her, some
little distance off, the regular and measured tread of a
body of advancing men: Desgas and his soldiers.
There had been a long pause, during which, no doubt,
Chauvelin satisfied the men as to his identity, for pre-
sently, questions and answers followed each other in
quick succession.
"You have seen the stranger?" asked Chauvelin,
eagerly.
"No, citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger; we came
by the edge of the cliff."
"Then?"
"Less than a quarter of a league beyond Miquelon,
we came across a rough construction of wood, which
looked like the hut of a fisherman, where he might keep
his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it seemed
to be empty, and, at first we thought that there was
nothing suspicious about it, until we saw some smoke
issuing through an aperture at the side. I dismounted
and crept close to it . It was then empty, but in one
corner of the hut, there was a charcoal fire, and a couple
of stools were also in the hut . I consulted with my
comrades, and we decided that they should take cover
with the horses, well out of sight, and that I should
remain on the watch, which I did."
"Well! and did you see anything?"
"About half an hour later, I heard voices, citoyen,
ai.ii presently, two men came along towards the edge of
the cliff; they seemed to me to have come from the
Lille Road. One was young, the other quite old They


264 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
were talking in a whisper, to one another, and I could
not hear what they said."
One was young, the other quite old. Marguerite's
aching heart almost stopped beating as she listenedI was the young one Armand ?—her brother ?—and the
old one de Tournay—were they the two fugitives who,
unconsciously, were used as a decoy, to entrap their
fearless and noble rescuer.
"The two men presently went into the hut," continued
the soldier, whilst Marguerite's aching nerves seemed to
catch the sound of Chauvelin's triumphant chuckle,
"and I crept nearer to it then. The hut is very roughly
built, and I caught snatches of their conversation."
"Yes?—Quick !—What did you hear?"
"The old man asked the young one, if he were sure
that was the right place. 'Oh, yes,' he replied, "tis the
place sure enough,' and by the light of the charcoal fire
he showed to his companion a paper, which he carried,
'Here is the plan,' he said, 'which he gave me before I
left London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan,
unless I had contrary orders, and I have had none. Here
is the road we followed, see . . . here the fork . . . here
we cut across the St Martin Road . . . and here is the
footpath which brought us to the edge of the cliff,' I
must have made a slight noise then, for the young man
came to the door of the hut, and peered anxiously all
round him. When he again joined his companion, they
whispered so low, that I could no longer hear them."
"Well?—and?" asked Chauvelin, impatiently.
"There were six of us altogether, patrolling that part
of the beach, so we consulted together, and thought it
best that four should remain behind and keep the hut in
sight, and I and my comrade rode back at once to
make report of what we had seen."


266 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
fast approaching, and Marguerite could hear their foot
steps within a hundred yards behind her now. She
thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and un-
necessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed
suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering:
her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have become
numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminat-
ing in this awful despair.
For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope.
Within two short leagues of this spot, the fugitives were
waiting for their brave deliverer. He was on his way,
somewhere on this lonely road, and presently he would
join them; then the well-laid trap would close, two dozen
men, led by one, whose hatred was as deadly as his
cunning was malicious, would close round the small
band of fugitives, and their daring leader. They would
all be captured. Armand, according to Chauvelin's
pledged word would be restored to her, but her husband,
Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to
love and worship more and more, he would fall into the
hands of a remorseless enemy, who had no pity for a
brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble
soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning
antagonist, who had baffled him so long.
She heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to
the Jew, then she retired quickly to the edge of the road,
and cowered behind some low shrubs, whilst Desgas and
his men came up.
All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they
all started down the dark road. Marguerite waited until
she reckoned that they were well outside the range of
earshot, then, she too in the darkness, which suddenly
seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly
along.


CHAPTER XXVIII
pinx BLANCHARD'S Hut
As in a dream, Marguerite followed on; the web wu
drawing more and more tightly every moment round
the beloved life, which had become dearer than all,
To see her husband once again, to tell him how she
had suffered, how much she had wronged, and how
little understood him, had become now her only aim.
She had abandoned all hope of saving him: she saw
him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and, in despair,
she gazed round her into the darkness, and wondered
whence he would presently come, to fall into the death-
trap which his relentless enemy had prepared for him.
The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder;
the occasional dismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled
her with unspeakable horror. She thought of the
ravenous beasts—in human shape—who lay in wait
for their prey, and destroyed them, as mercilessly as
any hungry wolf, for the satisfaction of their own
appetite of hate. Marguerite was not afraid of the
darkness, she only feared that man, on ahead, who
was sitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart,
nursing thoughts of vengeance, which would have made
the very demons in hell chuckle with delight.
Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her,
from sheer bodily fatigue. For days now she had
lived in a wild turmoil of excitement; she had not had


THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT 269
against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without
being seen or heard. Fortunately—as is usual in this
part of France—the footpath was bordered by a low,
rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled with
coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find
shelter; she was quite hidden from view, yet could
contrive to get within three yards of where Chauvelin
stood, giving orders to his men.
"Now," he was saying in a low and peremptory
whisper, "where is the Pere Blanchard's hut?"
"About eight hundred metres from here, along the
footpath," said the soldier who had lately been
directing the party, "and half-way down the cliff."
"Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin
to descend the cliff, you shall creep down to the hut,
as noiselessly as possible, and ascertain if the traitor
royalists are there? Do you understand?"
"I understand, citoyen."
"Now listen very attentively, all of you," continued
Chauvelin, impressively, and addressing the soldiers
collectively, "for after this we may not be able to
exchange another word, so remember every syllable I
utter, as if your very lives depended on your memory.
Perhaps they do," he added drily.
"We listen, citoyen," said Desgas, "and a soldier of
the Republic never forgets an order."
"You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep
inside. If an Englishman is there with those traitors, a
man who is tall above the average, or who stoops as if
he would disguise his height, then give a sharp, quick
whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you," he
added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively,
"then quickly surround and rush into the hut, and each
seize one of the men there, before they have time to


THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT 271
"Benjamin Rosenbanm, so it please your Honour,"he replied humbly.
"It does not please me to hear your voice, but it
does please me to give you certain orders, which you
will find it wise to obey."
"So please your Honour . . ."
"Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay
here, do you hear ? with your horse and cart until our
return. You are on no account to utter the faintest
sound, or to breathe even louder than you can help;
nor are you, on any consideration whatever, to leave
your post, until I give you orders to do so. Do you
understand?"
"But your Honour—" protested the Jew pitiably.
"There is no question of 'but' or of any argument,"
said Chauvelin, in a tone that made the timid old man
tremble from head to foot . "If, when I return, I do not
find you here, I most solemnly assure you that, wherever
you may try and hide yourself, I can find you, and that
punishment swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or later
overtake you. Do you hear me?"
"But your Excellency . . ."
"I said, do you hear me ? "
The soldiers had all crept away; the three men stood
alone together in the dark and lonely road, with Mar-
guerite there, behind the hedge, listening to Chauvelin's
orders, as she would to her own death sentence.
"I heard your Honour," protested the Jew again, while
he tried to draw nearer to Chauvelin, "and I swear by
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that I would obey your
Honour most absolutely, and that I would not move from
this place until your Honour once more deigned to shed
the light of your countenance upon your humble servant;
but remember, your Honour, I am a poor old man; my


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
nerves are not as strong as those of a young soldier. If
midnight marauders should come prowling round this
lonely road! I might scream or run in my fright! and is
my life to be forfeit, is some terrible punishment to come
on my poor old head for that which I cannot help?"
The Jew seemed in real distress; he was shaking from
head to foot . Clearly he was not the man to be left by
himself on this lonely road. The man spoke truly;
he might unwittingly, in sheer terror, utter the shriek
that might prove ft warning to the wily Scarlet
Pimpernel.
Chauvelin reflected for a moment
.
"Will your horse and cart be safe alone, here, do you think?" he asked roughly.
"I fancy, citoyen," here interposed Desgas, "that
they will be safer, without that dirty, cowardly Jew, as
with him. There seems no doubt that, if he gets
scared, he will either make a bolt of it, or shriek his head off."
"But what am I to do with the brute?"
"Will you send him back to Calais, citoyen?"
"No, for we shall want him to drive back the wounded
presently," said Chauvelin, with grim significance.
There was a pause again—Desgas, waiting for the
decision of his chief, and the old Jew whining beside his
nag.
"Well, you lazy, lumbering old coward," said Chauve-
lin at last, "you had better shuffle along behind us.
Here, Citoyen Desgas, tie this handkerchief tightly
round the fellow's mouth."
Chauvelin handed a scarf to Desgas, who solemnly
began winding it round the Jew's mouth. Meekly
Benjamin Rosenbaum allowed himself to be gagged;
he, evidently, preferred this uncomfortable state to that


THE PfeRE BLANCHARD'S HUT 273
of being left alone, on the dark St Martin Road. Then
the three men fell in line.
"Quick!" said Chauvelin, impatiently, "we have
already wasted much valuable time."
And the firm footsteps of Chauvelin and Desgas, the
shuffling gait of the old Jew, soon died away along the
footpath.
Marguerite had not lost a single one of Chauvelin's
words of command. Her every nerve was strained to
completely grasp the situation first, then to make a
final appeal to those wits which had so often been called
the sharpest in Europe, and which alone might be of
service now.
Certainly the situation was desperate enough; a tiny
band of unsuspecting men, quietly awaiting the arrival of
their rescuer, who was equally unconscious of the trap laid
for them all. It seemed so horrible, this net, as it were
drawn in a circle, at dead of night, on a lonely beach,
round a few defenceless men, defenceless because they
were tricked and unsuspecting; of these one was the
husband she idolised, another the brother she loved.
She vaguely wondered who the others were, who were
also calmly waiting for the Scarlet Pimpernel, while
death lurked behind every boulder of the cliffs.
For the moment she could do nothing but follow the
soldiers and Chauvelin. She feared to lose her way,
or she would have rushed forward and found that wooden
hut, and perhaps been in time to warn the fugitives and
their brave deliverer yet
.
For a second, the thought flashed through her mind
of uttering the piercing shrieks, which Chauvelin seemed
to dread, as a possible warning to the Scarlet Pimpernel
and his friends—in the wild hope that they would hear,
and have yet time to escape before it was too late. But
I


274 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
she did not know how far from the edge of the cliff she
was; she did not know if her shrieks would reach the
ears of the doomed men. Her effort might be prema-
ture, and she would never be allowed to make another.
Her mouth would be securely gagged, like that of the
Jew, and she, a helpless prisoner in the hands of Chauve-
lin's men.
Like a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge:
she had taken her shoes off, and her stockings were by
now torn off her feet. She felt neither soreness nor
weariness; indomitable will to reach her husband in
spite of adverse Fate, and of a cunning enemy, killed all
sense of bodily pain within her, and rendered her
instincts doubly acute.
She heard nothing save the soft and measured foot-
steps of Percy's enemies on in front; she saw nothing
but—in her mind's eye—that wooden hut, and he, her husband, walking blindly to his doom.
Suddenly, those same keen instincts within her made
her pause in her mad haste, and cower still further within
the shadow of the hedge. The moon, which had proved
a friend to her by remaining hidden behind a bank of
clouds, now emerged in all the glory of an early autumn
night, and in a moment flooded the weird and lonely
landscape with a rush of brilliant light.
There, not two hundred metres ahead, was the edge
of the cliff, and below, stretching far away to free and
happy England, the sea rolled on smoothly and peace-
ably. Marguerite's gaze rested for an instant on the
brilliant, silvery waters, and as she gazed her heart, which
had been numb with pain for all these hours, seemed to
soften and distend, and her eyes filled with hot tears:
not three miles away, with white sails set, a graceful
schooner lay in wait.


THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT 275
Marguerite had guessed rather than recognized her.
It was the Day Dream, Percy's favourite yacht, with
old Briggs, that prince of skippers, aboard, and all her
crew of British sailors: her white sails, glistening in the
moonlight, seemed to convey a message to Marguerite
of joy and hope, which yet she feared could never be.
She waited there, out at sea, waited for her master, like
a beautiful white bird all ready to take flight, and he
would never reach her, never see her smooth deck again,
never gaze any more on the white cliffs of England, the
land of liberty and of hope.
The sight of the schooner seemed to infuse into the
poor, wearied woman the superhuman strength of
despair. There was the edge of the cliff, and some way
below was the hut, where presently, her husband would
meet his death. But the moon was out: she could see
her way now: she would see the hut from a distance,
ran to it, rouse them all, warn them at any rate to be
prepared and to sell their lives dearly, rather than be
caught like so many rats in a hole.
She stumbled on behind the hedge in the low, thick
grass of the ditch. She must have run on very fast, and
had outdistanced Chauvelin and Desgas, for presently
she reached the edge of the cliff, and heard their foot-
steps distinctly behind her. But only a very few yards
away, and now the moonlight was full upon her, her
figure must have been distinctly silhouetted against the
silvery background of the sea.
Only for a moment, though; the next she had
cowered, like some animal doubled up within itself.
She peeped down the great rugged cliffs—the descent
would be easy enough, as they were not precipitous,
and the great boulders afforded plenty of foothold
Suddenly, as she gazed, she saw at some little distance


276 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
on her left, and about midway down the cliffs, a rough
wooden construction, through the walls of which a tiny
red light glimmered like a beacon. Her very heart
seemed to stand still, the eagerness of joy was so great,
that it felt like an awful pain.
She could not gauge how distant the hut was, but
without hesitation she began the steep descent, creeping
from boulder to boulder, caring nothing for the enemy be-
hind, or for the soldiers, who evidently had all taken cover
since the tall Englishman had not yet appeared.
On she pressed, forgetting the deadly foe on her track,
running, stumbling, foot-sore, half-dazed, but still on
. . . When, suddenly, a crevice, or stone, or slippery bit
of rock, threw her violently to the ground. She struggled
again to her feet, and started running forward once more
to give them that timely warning, to beg them to flee
before he came, and to tell him to keep away—away
from this death-trap—away from this awful doom. But
now she realised that other steps, quicker than her own,
were already close at her heels. The next instant a
hand dragged at her skirt, and she was down on her
knees again, whilst something was wound round her
mouth to prevent her uttering a scream.
Bewildered, half frantic with the bitterness of disap-
pointment, she looked round her helplessly, and, bend-
ing down quite close to her, she saw through the mist,
which seemed to gather round her, a pair of keen,
malicious eyes, which appeared to her excited brain to
have a weird, supernatural green light in them.
She lay in the shadow of a great boulder; Chauvelin
could not see her features, but he passed his thin, white
fingers over her face.
"A woman I" he whispered, " by all the Saints in the
calendar."


280 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
nay, and two other men unknown to you, for the arrival
of the mysterious rescuer, whose identity has for so long
puzzled our Committee of Public Safety—the audacious
Scarlet Pimpernel. No doubt if you scream, if there is
a scuffle here, if shots are fired, it is more than likely
that the same long legs that brought this scarlet enigma
here, will as quickly take him to some place of safety.
The purpose then, for which I have travelled all these
miles will remain unaccomplished. On the other hand
it only rests with yourself that your brother—Armand—
shall be free to go off with you to-night if you like, to
England, or any other place of safety."
Marguerite could not utter a sound, as the handker-
chief was wound very tightly round her mouth, but
Chauvelin was peering through the darkness very
closely into her face; no doubt too her hand gave a
responsive appeal to his last suggestion, for presently
he continued:—
"What I want you to do to ensure Armand's safety
is a very simple thing, dear lady."
"What is it?" Marguerite's hand seemed to convey
to his, in response.
"To remain—on this spot, without uttering a sound,
until I give you leave to speak. Ah I but I think you
will obey," he added, with that funny dry chuckle of his
as Marguerite's whole figure seemed to stiffen, in defiance
of this order, "for let me tell you that if you scream,
nay! if you utter one sound, or attempt to move from
here, my men—there are thirty of them about—will
seize St Just, de Tournay, and their two friends, and
shoot them here—by my orders—before your eyes."
Marguerite had listened to her implacable enemy's
speech with ever-increasing terror. Numbed with
physical pain, she yet had sufficient mental vitality


TRAPPED 281
in her, to realize the full horror of this terrible "either
'" he was once more putting before her; an "either
'ten thousand times more appalling and horrible,
than the one he had suggested to her that fatal night at
the ball.
This time it meant that she should keep still, and
allow the husband she worshipped to walk uncon-
sciously to his death, or that she should, by trying
to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might
even be unavailing, actually give the signal for her own
brother's death, and that of three other unsuspecting men.
She could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost
feel those keen, pale eyes of his fixed maliciously
upon her helpless form, and his hurried, whispered
words reached her ear, as the death-knell of her last
faint, lingering hope.
"Nay, fair lady," he added urbanely, "you can have
no interest in anyone save in St Just, and all you need
do for his safety is to remain where you are, and to
keep silent. My men have strict orders to spare him
in every way. As for that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel,
what is he to you? Believe me, no warning from you, could
possibly save him. And now dear lady, let me remove
this unpleasant coercion, which has been placed before
your pretty mouth. You see I wish you to be perfectly
free, in the choice which you are about to make."
Her thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her
nerves paralyzed, her body numb with pain, Marguerite
sat there, in the darkness which surrounded her as with
a pall. From where she sat she could not see the sea, but she heard the incessant mournful murmur of the
incoming tide, which spoke of her dead hopes, her lost
love, the husband she had with her own hand betrayed,
and sent to his death.


THE SCHOONER 283
she saw the little red gleam through the chinks of the
hut; she ran up to it and fell against its wooden walls,
which she began to hammer with clenched fists in an
almost maniacal frenzy, while she shouted,—
"Armand ! Armand ! for God's sake fire! your leader
is near! he is coming! he is betrayed! Armand!
Armand! fire in Heaven's name!"
She was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay
there moaning, bruised, not caring, but still half-sobbing,
half-shrieking,—
"Percy, my husband, for God's sake fly! Armand!
Armand! why don't you fire?"
"One of you stop that woman screaming," hissed
Chauvelin, who hardly could refrain from striking her.
Something was thrown over her face; she could not
breathe, and perforce she was silent
.
The bold singer, too, had become silent, warned, no
doubt, of his impending danger by Marguerite's frantic
shrieks. The men had sprung to their feet, there was
no need for further silence on their part; the very cliffs
echoed the poor, heart-broken woman's screams.
Chauvelin, with a muttered oath, which boded no good
to her, who had dared to upset his most cherished plans,
had hastily shouted the word of command,—
"Into it, my men, and let no one escape from that
hutalive!"
The moon had once more emerged from between the
clouds: the darkness on the cliffs had gone, giving place
once more to brilliant, silvery light. Some of the soldiers
had rushed to the rough, wooden door of the hut, whilst
one of them kept guard over Marguerite.
The door was partially open; one of the soldiers
pushed it further, but within all was darkness, the
charcoal fire only lighting with a dim, red light the


THE SCHOONER 289
have reached the creek, and got into the boat, and the
nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut.
Where had that daring singer got to. Unless Satan
himself had lent him wings, he could not have covered
that mile on a rocky cliff in the space of two minutes:
and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and
the sound of the boat's oars away at sea. He must have
remained behind, and was even now hiding somewhere
about the cliffs; the patrols were still about, he would
still be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopeful once
again.
One or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives,
were now slowly working their way up the cliff: one of
them reached Chauvelin's side, at the very moment that
this hope arose in the astute diplomatist's heart
.
. "We were too late, citoyen," the soldier said, "we
reached the beach just before the moon was hidden by
that bank of clouds. The boat had undoubtedly been
on the look-out behind that first creek, a mile off, but she
had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the beach,
and was already some way out to sea. We fired after
her, but of course, it was no good. She was making
straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw her very
clearly in the moonlight."
"Yes," said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, "she
had shoved off some time ago, you said, and the nearest
creek is a mile further on."
"Yes, citoyen I I ran all the way, straight to the beach,
though I guessed the boat would have waited somewhere
near the creek, as the tide would reach there earliest.
The boat must have shoved off some minutes before the
woman began to scream."
Some minutes before the woman began to scream I
Then Chauvelin's hopes had not deceived him. The
I


192 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
cautiously for fear of the patrols. At anyrate, there is
a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each
man who gets to that creek before that long-legged
Englishman."
"I know a short cut across the cliffs," said the soldier,
and with an enthusiastic shout, he rushed forward,
followed closely by his comrades.
Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died
away in the distance. Chauvelin listened to them for a
moment; the promise of the reward was lending spurs
to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and
anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his
face.
Close to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive,
waiting for further orders, whilst two soldiers were
kneeling beside the prostrate form of Marguerite.
Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well-
laid plan had failed, its sequel was problematical; there
was still a great chance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel
might yet escape, and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning
fury, which sometimes assails a strong nature, was longing
to vent his rage on somebody.
The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the
ground, though she, poor soul, was not making the
faintest struggle. Overwrought nature had at last per-
emptorily asserted herself, and she lay there in a dead
swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that told
of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp
round her forehead, her lips parted in a sharp curve
that spoke of physical pain.
The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and
fashionable Lady Blakeney, who had dazzled London
society with her beauty, her wit and her extravagances,
presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out, suffering


THE SCHOONER 293
womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the
hard, vengeful heart of her baffled enemy.
"It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is
half dead," he said spitefully to the soldiers, "when
you have allowed five men who were very much alive
to escape."
Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet.
"You'd better try and find that footpath again for me,
and that broken-down cart we left on the road."
Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him.
"Ah ! by-the-bye ! where is the Jew?"
"Close by here, citoyen," said Desgas; "I gagged
him and tied his legs together as you commanded."
From the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached
Chauvelin's ears. He followed his secretary, who led
the way to the other side of the hut, where, fallen into an
absolute heap of dejection, with his legs tightly pinioned
together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate
descendant of Israel.
His face in the silvery light of the moon, looked
positively ghastly with terror: his eyes were wide open
and almost glassy, and his whole body was trembling, as
if with ague, while a piteous wail escaped his bloodless
lips. The rope which had originally been wound round
his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it
lay in a tangle about his body, but he seemed quite
unconscious of this, for he had not made the slightest
attempt to move from the place where Desgas had
originally put him: like a terrified chicken which looks
upon a line of white chalk, drawn on a table, as on a
string which paralyzes its movements.
"Bring the cowardly brute here," commanded
ChauveUn.
He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he 


294 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
had no reasonable grounds for venting his ill-humour on
the soldiers who had but too punctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the despised race would
prove an excellent butt. With true French contempt of
the Jew, which has survived the lapse of centuries even
to this day, he would not go too near him, but said with
biting sarcasm, as the wretched old man was brought in
full light of the moon by the two soldiers,—
"I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good
memory for bargains?"
"Answer !" he again commanded, as the Jew with
trembling lips seemed too frightened to speak.
"Yes, your Honour," stammered the poor wretch.
"You remember, then, the one you and I made to-
gether in Calais, when you undertook to overtake
Reuben Goldstein, his nag and my friend the tall
stranger? Eh?"
"B . . . b . . . but . . . your Honour . . ."
"There is no ' but." I said, do you remember?"
"Y . . . y. . . y . . . yes . . . your Honour 1"
"What was the bargain?"
There was dead silence. The unfortunate man
looked round at the great cliffs, the moon above, the
stolid faces of the soldiers, and even at the poor,
prostrate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing.
"Will you speak?" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.
He did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not
.
There was no doubt, however, that he knew what to
expect from the stern man before him.
"Your Honour . . ." he ventured imploringly.
"Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your
tongue," said Chauvelin, sarcastically, "I must needs
refresh your memory. It was agreed between us, that if
we overtook my friend the tall stranger, before he


THE SCHOONER 295
reached this place, you were to have ten pieces of
gold."
A low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips.
"But," added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, "if you
deceived me in your promise, you were to have a sound
beating, one that would teach you not to tell lies."
"I did not, your Honour; I swear it by Abraham . . ."
"And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfor-
tunately, they are still in Hades, I believe, according to
your creed, and cannot help you much in your present
trouble. Now, you did not fulfil your share of the bar-
gain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here," he added,
turning to the soldiers, "the buckle-end of your two
belts to this confounded Jew."
As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy
leather belts, the Jew set up a howl that surely would
have been enough to bring all the patriarchs out of
Hades and elsewhere, to defend their descendant from
the brutality of this French official.
"I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers,"laughed
Chauvelin, maliciously, "to give this old liar the best
and soundest beating he has ever experienced. But
don't kill him," he added drily.
"We will obey, citoyen," replied the soldiers as
imperturbably as ever.
He did not wait to see his orders carried out: he
knew that he could trust these soldiers—who were still
smarting under his rebuke—not to mince matters, when
given a free hand to belabour a third party.
"When that lumbering coward has had his punish-
ment," he said to Desgas, "the men can guide us as far
as the cart, and one of them can drive us in it back to
Calais. The Jew and the woman can look after each
other," he added roughly, "until we can .mi somebody


298 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here,
though a trifle the worse for wear at the present moment,
will prove a gallant defender of your fair person, I have
no doubt. At dawn I will send an escort for you; until
then, I feel sure that you will find him devoted, though
perhaps a trifle slow."
Marguerite only had the strength to turn her head
away. Her heart was broken with cruel anguish. One
awful thought had returned to her mind, together with
gathering consciousness: "What had become of Percy?
—What of Armand?"
She knew nothing of what had happened after she
heard the cheerful song, "God save the King," which
she believed to be the signal of death.
"I, myself," concluded Chauvelin, "must now very
reluctantly leave you. Aurevoir, fair lady. We meet,
I hope, soon in London. Shall I see you at the Prince
of Wales' garden party ?—No ?—Ah, well, au revoir !—
Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Blakeney."
And, with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more
kissed her hand, and disappeared down the footpath in
the wake of the soldiers, and followed by the imperturb-
able Desgas.


300 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
The physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that
she hoped confidently her tired body could rest here
for ever, after all the turmoil, the passion, and the
intrigues of the last few days—here, beneath that clear
sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy
autumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All
was so solitary, so silent, like unto dreamland. Even
the last faint echo of the distant cart had long ago died
away, afar.
Suddenly ... a sound . . . the strangest, undoubtedly,
that these lonely cliffs of France had ever heard, broke
the silent solemnity of the shore.
So strange a sound was it, that the gentle breeze ceased
to murmur, the tiny pebbles to roll down the steep in-
cline! So strange, that Marguerite, wearied, overwrought
as she was, thought that the beneficial unconsciousness
of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping
sense a weird and elusive trick.
It was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British
"Damn I"
The sea gulls in their nests awoke and looked round
in astonishment; a distant and solitary owl set up a
midnight hoot, the tall cliffs frowned down majestically
at the strange, unheard-of sacrilege.
Marguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising
herself on her hands, she strained every sense to see
or hear, to know the meaning of this very earthly
sound.
All was still again for the space of a few seconds; the
same silence once more fell upon the great and lonely
vastness.
Then Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance,
who felt she must be dreaming with that cool, magnetic
moonlight overhead, heard again; and this time her


THE ESCAPE 301
heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated, looked
round her, not daring to trust to her other sense.
"Odd's life I but I wish those demmed fellows had
not hit quite so hard !"
This time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular
pair of essentially British lips could have uttered those
words, in sleepy, drawly, affected tones.
''Damn I" repeated those same British lips, emphatic-
ally. "Zounds ! but I'm as weak as a rat I"
In a moment Marguerite was on her feet.
Was she dreaming? Were those great, stony cliffs
the gates of paradise? Was the fragrant breath of the
breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of angels' wings,
bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after all her
sufferings, or—faint and ill—was she the prey of delirium?
She listened again, and once again she heard the same
very earthly sounds of good, honest British language,
not the least akin to whisperings from paradise or flutter
of angels' wings.
She looked round her eagerly at the tall cliffs, the
lonely hut, the great stretch of rocky beach. Somewhere
there, above or below her, behind a boulder or inside a
crevice, but still hidden from her longing, feverish eyes,
must be the owner of that voice, which once used to
irritate her, but which now would make her the happiest
woman in Europe, if only she could locate it.
"Percy, Percy!" she shrieked hysterically, tortured
between doubt and hope, "I am here! Come to me I
Where are you? Percy I Percy! ..."
"It's all very well calling me, m'dear!" said the same
sleepy, drawly voice, "but odd's my life, I cannot come
to you: those demmed frog-eaters have trussed me like a
goose on a spit, and I am as weak as a mouse ... I
cannot get away."


302 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
And still Marguerite did not understand. She did
not realise for at least another ten seconds whence came
that voice, so drawly, so dear, but alas! with a strange
accent of weakness and of suffering. There was no one
within sight . . . except by that rock . . . Great God!
. . . the Jew ! ... Was she mad or dreaming? . . .
His back was against the pale moonlight, he was half-
crouching, trying vainly to raise himself with his arms
tightly pinioned. Marguerite ran up to him, took his
head in both her hands . . . and looked straight into a
pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused—
shining out of the weird and distorted mask of the Jew.
"Percy! . . . Percy I ... my husband!" she gasped,
faint with the fulness of her joy. "Thank God! Thank
Godl"
"La! m'dear," he rejoined good-humouredly, "we
will both do that anon, an you think you can loosen
these demmed ropes, and release me from my inelegant
attitude."
She had no knife, her fingers were numb and weak,
but she worked away with her teeth, while great welcome
tears poured from her eyes, onto those poor, pinioned
hands.
"Odd's life!" he said, when at last, after frantic
efforts on her part, the ropes seemed at last to be giving
way, "but I marvel whether it has ever happened before,
that an English gentleman allowed himself to be licked
by a demmed foreigner, and made no attempt to give as
good as he got."
It was very obvious that he was exhausted from sheer
physical pain, and when at last the rope gave way, he fell
in a heap against the rock.
Marguerite looked helplessly round her.
"Oh ! for a drop of water on this awful beach !" she


THE ESCAPE 303
cried in agony, seeing that he was ready to faint
again.
"Nay, m'dear," he murmured with his good-humoured
smile," personally I should prefer a drop of good French
brandy I an you'll dive in the pocket of this dirty old
garment, you'll find my flask. ... I am demmed if I
can move."
When he had drunk some brandy, he forced Marguerite
to do likewise.
"Lai that's better now ! Eh! little woman?" he
said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Heigh-ho I but this is
a queer rig-up for Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., to be found
in by his lady, and no mistake. Begad I" he added,
passing his hand over his chin, " I haven't been shaved
for nearly twenty hours: I must look a disgusting object.
As for these curls ..."
And laughingly he took off the disfiguring wig and
curls, and stretched out his long limbs, which were
cramped from many hours' stooping. Then he bent
forward and looked long and searchingly into his wife's
blue eyes.
"Percy," she whispered, while a deep blush suffused
her delicate cheeks and neck, "if you only knew ..."
"I do know, dear . . . everything," he said with
infinite gentleness.
"And can you ever forgive?"
"I have naught to forgive, sweetheart; your heroism,
your devotion, which I, alas ! so little deserved, have
more than atoned for that unfortunate episode at the
ball."
"Then you knew? ..." she whispered, "all the
time ..."
"Yes!" he replied tenderly, "I knew ... all the
time. . . . But, begad ! had I but known what a noble


304 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
heart yours was, my Margot, I should have trusted you, as you deserved to be trusted, and you would not have
had to undergo the terrible sufferings of the past few
hours, in order to run after a husband, who has done so
much that needs forgiveness."
They were sitting side by side, leaning up against a
rock, and he had rested his aching head on her shoulder.
She certainly now deserved the name of "the happiest
woman in Europe."
"It is a case of the blind leading the lame, sweetheart,
is it not?" he said with his good-natured smile of old.
"Odd's life! but I do not know which are the more
sore, my shoulders or your little feet."
He bent forward to kiss them, for they peeped out
through her torn stockings, and bore pathetic witness
to her endurance and devotion.
"But Armand ..." she said, with sudden terror and
remorse, as in the midst of her happiness the image of
the beloved brother, for whose sake she had so deeply
sinned, rose now before her mind.
"OhI have no fear for Armand, sweetheart," he said
tenderly, "did I not pledge you my word that he should
be safe? He with de Tournay and the others are ever?
now on board the Day Dream."
"But how ?" she gasped, " I do not understand."
"Yet, 'tis simple enough, m'dear," he said with that
funny, half-shy, half-inane laugh of his, "you see! when
I found that that brute Chauvelin meant to stick to me
like a leech, I thought the best thing I could do, as I
could not shake him off, was to take him along with me.
I had to get to Armand and the others somehow, and all
the roads were patrolled, and every one on the look-out
for your humble servant. I knew that when I slipped
through Chauvelin's fingers at the 'Chat Gris,' that he


THE ESCAPE 305
would lie in wait for me here, whichever way I took. I
wanted to keep an eye on him and his doings, and a
British head is as good as a French one any day."
Indeed it had proved to be infinitely better, and
Marguerite's heart was filled with joy and marvel, as he
continued to recount to her the daring manner in which
he had snatched the fugitives away, right from under
Chauvelin's very nose.
"Dressed ai the dirty old Jew," he said gaily, "I knew
I should not be recognised. I had met Reuben Gold-
stein in Calais earlier in the evening. For a few gold
pieces he supplied me with this rig-out, and undertook to
bury himself out of sight of everybody, whilst he lent me
his cart and nag."
"But if Chauvelin had discovered you," she gasped
excitedly, "your disguise was good . . . but he is so
sharp."
"Odd's fish!" he rejoined quietly, "then certainly
the game would have been up. I could but take the risk.
I know human nature pretty well by now," he added,
with a note of sadness in his cheery, young voice, "and I
know these Frenchmen out and out. They so loathe a
Jew, that they never come nearer than a couple of yards
of him, and begad ! I fancy that I contrived to make
myself look about as loathsome an object as it is possible
to conceive."
"Yes !—and then ?" she asked eagerly.
"Zooks !—then I carried out my little plan : that is to
say, at first I only determined to leave everything to
chance, but when I heard Chauvelin giving his orders to
the soldiers, I thought that Fate and I were going to work
together after all. I reckoned on the blind obedience
of the soldiers. Chauvelin had ordered them on pain of
death, not to stir until the tall Englishman came. Desgas


jo6 THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
had thrown me down in a heap quite close to the hut; tba
soldiers took DO notice of the Jew, who had driven
Citoyen Chauvelin to this spot. I managed to free my
hands from the ropes, with which the brute had trussed
me; I always carry pencil and paper with me wherever I
go, and I hastily scrawled a few important instructions
on a scrap of paper ; then I looked about me. I crawled
up to the hut, under the very noses of the soldiers, who
lay under cover without stirring, just as Chauvelin had
ordered them to do, then I dropped my little note into
the hut, through a chink in the wall, and waited. In
this note I told the fugitives to walk noiselessly out of
the hut, creep down the cliffs, keep to the left until they
came to the first creek, to give a certain signal, when the
boat of the Day Dream, which lay in wait not far out to
sea, would pick them up. They obeyed implicitly,
fortunately for them and for me. The soldiers who saw
them were equally obedient to Chauvelin's orders. They
did not stir! I waited for nearly half an hour; when I
knew that the fugitives were safe I gave the signal, which
caused so much stir."
And that was the whole story. It seemed so simple !
and Marguerite could but marvel at the wonderful
ingenuity, the boundless pluck and audacity which had
evolved and helped to carry out this daring plan.
"But those brutes struck you ! " she gasped in horror,
at the bare recollection of the fearful indignity.
"Well! that could not be helped," he said gently,
"whilst my little wife's fate was so uncertain, I had to
remain here by her side. Odd's life !" he added merrily,
"never fear! Chauvelin will lose nothing by waiting, I
warrant ! Wait till I get him back to England!—La ! he
shall pay for the thrashing he gave me with compound
interest, I promise you."


THE ESCAPE 307
Marguerite laughed. It was so good to be beside him,
to hear his cheery voice, to watch that good-humoured
twinkle in his blue eyes, as he stretched out his strong
arms, in longing for that foe, and anticipation of his
well-deserved punishment.
Suddenly, however, she started: the happy blush left
her cheek, the light of joy died out of her eyes : she had
heard a stealthy footfall overhead, and a stone had rolled
down from the top of the cliffs right down to the beach
below.
"What's that ?" she whispered in horror and alarm.
"Oh! nothing, m'dear," he muttered with a pleasant
laugh, "only a trifle you happened to have forgotten . . .
my friend, Ffoulkes ..."
"Sir Andrew !" she gasped.
Indeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted friend
and companion, who had trusted and stood by her
during all these hours of anxiety and suffering. She
remembered him now, tardily and with a pang of
remorse.
"Aye! you had forgotten him, hadn't you, m'dear,"
said Sir Percy, merrily, "fortunately, I met him,
not far from the 'Chat Gris,' before I had that interest-
ing supper party, with my friend Chauvelin. . . . Odd's
life! but I have a score to settle with that young repro-
bate !—but in the meanwhile, I told him of a very long,
very roundabout road, that would bring him here by a
very circuitous road which Chauvelin's men would never
suspect, just about the time when we are ready for him,
eh, little woman?"
"And he obeyed ?" asked Marguerite, in utter astonish-
ment
.
"Without word or question. See, here he comes,
He was not in the way when I did not want him, and


THE ESCAPE 311
when at last they reached the creek beyond Gris Nez.
The galley lay in wait: in answer to a signal from Sir
Percy, she drew near, and two sturdy British sailors had
the honour of carrying my lady into the boat.
Half an hour later, they were on board the Day Dream.
The crew, who of necessity were in their master's secrets,
and who were devoted to him heart and soul, were not
surprised to see him arriving in so extraordinary a
disguise.
Armand St Just and the other fugitives were eagerly
awaiting the advent of their brave rescuer; he would
not stay to hear the expressions of their gratitude, but
found his way to his private cabin as quickly as he
could, leaving Marguerite quite happy in the arms of her
brother.
Everything on board the Day Dream was fitted with
that exquisite luxury, so dear to Sir Percy Blakeney's
heart, and by the time they all landed at Dover he had
found time to get into some of the sumptuous clothes
which he loved, and of which he always kept a supply
on board his yacht.
The difficulty was to provide Marguerite with a pair
of shoes, and great was the little middy's joy when my
lady found that she could put foot on English shore in
his best pair.
The rest is silence !—silence and joy for those who
had endured so much suffering, yet found at last a great
and lasting happiness.
But it is on record that at he brilliant wedding of Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes, Bart., with Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay
de Basserive, a function at which H.R.H. the Prince of
Wales and all the elite of fashionable society were
present, the most beautiful woman there was unques-
tionably Lady Blakeney, whilst the clothes Sir Percy


THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
Blakeney wore, were the talk of the ieunesse dorte of
London for many days.
It is also a fact that M. Chauvelin, the accredited
agent of the French Republican Government, was not
present at that or any other social function in London,
after that memorable evening at Lord Grenville's ball