The Scarlet Pimpernel (9 page)

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

Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own
thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: his own coterie, the
leaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine:
and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogether
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 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;
endeavouring to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love;
tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He remained the
same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous, invariably a
gentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give to
a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's evening, with the white
sails of the DAY DREAM finally hidden by the evening shadows, she felt
more lonely than that poor tramp who plodded his way wearily along the
rugged cliffs.

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

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

"Citoyenne St. Just."

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

"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world, or whom in the
world, are you doing here in England?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Quite," she retorted, "and worse."

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

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

"Quite so!"

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

"No wonder," retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, "that the cleverest woman in
Europe is troubled with ENNUI."

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

"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?" she asked archly, "or I should not
have been so pleased to see you."

"And this within a year of a romantic love match . . . that's just the
difficulty . . ."

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

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

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

"No wonder," he repeated, with the same gallantry, "that the most active
brain in Europe is troubled with ENNUI."

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

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

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

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

"But what?"

"There IS Sir Percy."

"What has he to do with it?"

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

"Work?"

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as
if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts.
They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their
soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room.
Still, Chauvelin took as 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 a singular
earnestness.

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

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

"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?" she retorted with a long and merry
laugh, "Faith man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats 'a la
Scarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the
Prince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'souffle 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 personage, citoyenne, you
must also have guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identity
under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic,
of France . . . of men like Armand St. Just." "La!" she said, with a
quaint little sigh, "I dare swear he is. . . . France has many bitter
enemies these days."

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

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

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

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

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

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