"THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL\n\nBy Baroness Orczy\n\n\nContents:\n\n\n     I.      PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792\n     II.     DOVER: \"THE FISHERMAN'S REST\"\n     III.    THE REFUGEES\n     IV.     THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL\n     V.      MARGUERITE\n     VI.     AN EXQUISITE OF '92\n     VII.    THE SECRET ORCHARD\n     VIII.   THE ACCREDITED AGENT\n     IX.     THE OUTRAGE\n     X.      IN THE OPERA BOX\n     XI.     LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL\n     XII.    THE SCRAP OF PAPER\n     XIII.   EITHER\n     XIV.    ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY!\n     XV.     DOUBT\n     XVI.    RICHMOND\n     XVII.   FAREWELL\n     XVIII.  THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE\n     XIX.    THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL\n     XX.     THE FRIEND\n     XXI.    SUSPENSE\n     XXII.   CALAIS\n     XXIII.  HOPE\n     XXIV.   THE DEATH\n     XXV.    THE EAGLE AND THE FOX\n     XXVI.   THE JEW\n     XXVII.  ON THE TRACK\n     XXVIII. THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT\n     XXIX.   TRAPPED\n     XXX.    THE SCHOONER\n     XXXI.   THE ESCAPE\n\n\n\n\nTHE SCARLET PIMPERNEL\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792\n\n\n\nA surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in\nname, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage creatures,\nanimated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and of hate. The\nhour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the West Barricade,\nat the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant raised an undying\nmonument to the nation's glory and his own vanity.\n\nDuring the greater part of the day the guillotine had been kept busy at\nits ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the past centuries,\nof ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her desire for\nliberty and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at this late\nhour of the day because there were other more interesting sights for\nthe people to witness, a little while before the final closing of the\nbarricades for the night.\n\nAnd so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Greve and made for the\nvarious barricades in order to watch this interesting and amusing sight.\n\nIt was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such fools! They\nwere traitors to the people of course, all of them, men, women, and\nchildren, who happened to be descendants of the great men who since the\nCrusades had made the glory of France: her old NOBLESSE. Their ancestors\nhad oppressed the people, had crushed them under the scarlet heels of\ntheir dainty buckled shoes, and now the people had become the rulers\nof France and crushed their former masters--not beneath their heel, for\nthey went shoeless mostly in these days--but a more effectual weight,\nthe knife of the guillotine.\n\nAnd daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed its many\nvictims--old men, young women, tiny children until the day when it would\nfinally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful young Queen.\n\nBut this was as it should be: were not the people now the rulers of\nFrance? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors had been before\nhim: for two hundred years now the people had sweated, and toiled,\nand starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish extravagance; now the\ndescendants of those who had helped to make those courts brilliant\nhad to hide for their lives--to fly, if they wished to avoid the tardy\nvengeance of the people.\n\nAnd they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the fun of\nthe whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and the market\ncarts went out in procession by the various barricades, some fool of\nan aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the Committee of Public\nSafety. In various disguises, under various pretexts, they tried to slip\nthrough the barriers, which were so well guarded by citizen soldiers\nof the Republic. Men in women's clothes, women in male attire, children\ndisguised in beggars' rags: there were some of all sorts: CI-DEVANT\ncounts, marquises, even dukes, who wanted to fly from France, reach\nEngland or some other equally accursed country, and there try to rouse\nforeign feelings against the glorious Revolution, or to raise an army\nin order to liberate the wretched prisoners in the Temple, who had once\ncalled themselves sovereigns of France.\n\nBut they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant Bibot\nespecially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an aristo\nin the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began. Bibot\nwould look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with him,\nsometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be hoodwinked by\nthe disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical make-up which hid\nthe identity of a CI-DEVANT noble marquise or count.\n\nOh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth hanging\nround that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo in the\nvery act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.\n\nSometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates, allowing\nhim to think for the space of two minutes at least that he really\nhad escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the coast of\nEngland in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch walk about\nten metres towards the open country, then he would send two men after\nhim and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.\n\nOh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the fugitive would\nprove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked terribly comical\nwhen she found herself in Bibot's clutches after all, and knew that\na summary trial would await her the next day and after that, the fond\nembrace of Madame la Guillotine.\n\nNo wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd round\nBibot's gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows with its\nsatisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a hundred noble\nheads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to make sure that it\nwould see another hundred fall on the morrow.\n\nBibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the gate\nof the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was under his\ncommand. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed aristos were\nbecoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of Paris: men,\nwomen and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages, had served\nthose traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and right\nfood for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the satisfaction of\nunmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them back to be tried\nby the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by that good patriot,\nCitoyen Foucquier-Tinville.\n\nRobespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal and Bibot\nwas proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent at least\nfifty aristos to the guillotine.\n\nBut to-day all the sergeants in command at the various barricades\nhad had special orders. Recently a very great number of aristos had\nsucceeded in escaping out of France and in reaching England safely.\nThere were curious rumours about these escapes; they had become very\nfrequent and singularly daring; the people's minds were becoming\nstrangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had been sent to\nthe guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to slip out of the\nNorth Gate under his very nose.\n\nIt was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of\nEnglishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from sheer\ndesire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare time in\nsnatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la Guillotine. These\nrumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no doubt that this band of\nmeddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover, they seemed to be under\nthe leadership of a man whose pluck and audacity were almost fabulous.\nStrange stories were afloat of how he and those aristos whom he rescued\nbecame suddenly invisible as they reached the barricades and escaped out\nof the gates by sheer supernatural agency.\n\nNo one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their leader, he\nwas never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder. Citoyen\nFoucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a scrap of\npaper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it in the\npocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by someone in\nthe crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the Committee of\nPublic Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice that the band\nof meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always signed with a\ndevice drawn in red--a little star-shaped flower, which we in England\ncall the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the receipt of this\nimpudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety would\nhear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded in reaching\nthe coast, and were on their way to England and safety.\n\nThe guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in command had\nbeen threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were offered for the\ncapture of these daring and impudent Englishmen. There was a sum of five\nthousand francs promised to the man who laid hands on the mysterious and\nelusive Scarlet Pimpernel.\n\nEveryone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed that\nbelief to take firm root in everybody's mind; and so, day after day,\npeople came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present when he\nlaid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be accompanied by\nthat mysterious Englishman.\n\n\"Bah!\" he said to his trusted corporal, \"Citoyen Grospierre was a fool!\nHad it been me now, at that North Gate last week . . .\"\n\nCitoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for his\ncomrade's stupidity.\n\n\"How did it happen, citoyen?\" asked the corporal.\n\n\"Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch,\" began Bibot,\npompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his\nnarrative. \"We've all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this accursed\nScarlet Pimpernel. He won't get through MY gate, MORBLEU! unless he\nbe the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool. The market carts were\ngoing through the gates; there was one laden with casks, and driven by\nan old man, with a boy beside him. Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he\nthought himself very clever; he looked into the casks--most of them, at\nleast--and saw they were empty, and let the cart go through.\"\n\nA murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of ill-clad\nwretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.\n\n\"Half an hour later,\" continued the sergeant, \"up comes a captain of\nthe guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him. 'Has a cart gone\nthrough?' he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. 'Yes,' says Grospierre,\n'not half an hour ago.' 'And you have let them escape,' shouts the\ncaptain furiously. 'You'll go to the guillotine for this, citoyen\nsergeant! that cart held concealed the CI-DEVANT Duc de Chalis and all\nhis family!' 'What!' thunders Grospierre, aghast. 'Aye! and the driver\nwas none other than that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.'\"\n\nA howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre had paid for\nhis blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh! what a fool!\n\nBibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some time before\nhe could continue.\n\n\"'After them, my men,' shouts the captain,\" he said after a while,\n\"'remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!' And with\nthat he rushes through the gate followed by his dozen soldiers.\"\n\n\"But it was too late!\" shouted the crowd, excitedly.\n\n\"They never got them!\"\n\n\"Curse that Grospierre for his folly!\"\n\n\"He deserved his fate!\"\n\n\"Fancy not examining those casks properly!\"\n\nBut these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly; he laughed\nuntil his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his cheeks.\n\n\"Nay, nay!\" he said at last, \"those aristos weren't in the cart; the\ndriver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!\"\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman in disguise,\nand everyone of his soldiers aristos!\"\n\nThe crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured of the\nsupernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had not\nquite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the hearts of\nthe people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.\n\nThe sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself to\nclose the gates.\n\n\"EN AVANT the carts,\" he said.\n\nSome dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to leave town,\nin order to fetch the produce from the country close by, for market the\nnext morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot, as they went through\nhis gate twice every day on their way to and from the town. He spoke\nto one or two of their drivers--mostly women--and was at great pains to\nexamine the inside of the carts.\n\n\"You never know,\" he would say, \"and I'm not going to be caught like\nthat fool Grospierre.\"\n\nThe women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the Place de la\nGreve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting and gossiping,\nwhilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with the victims the\nReign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun to see the aristos\narriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine, and the places close\nby the platform were very much sought after. Bibot, during the day,\nhad been on duty on the Place. He recognized most of the old hats,\n\"tricotteuses,\" as they were called, who sat there and knitted, whilst\nhead after head fell beneath the knife, and they themselves got quite\nbespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.\n\n\"He! la mere!\" said Bibot to one of these horrible hags, \"what have you\ngot there?\"\n\nHe had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the whip of\nher cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of curly locks to\nthe whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair to dark, and she\nstroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she laughed at Bibot.\n\n\"I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover,\" she said with a coarse\nlaugh, \"he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled down. He\nhas promised me some more to-morrow, but I don't know if I shall be at\nmy usual place.\"\n\n\"Ah! how is that, la mere?\" asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier that\nhe was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this\nsemblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip.\n\n\"My grandson has got the small-pox,\" she said with a jerk of her thumb\ntowards the inside of her cart, \"some say it's the plague! If it is, I\nsha'n't be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow.\" At the first mention\nof the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped hastily backwards, and when the\nold hag spoke of the plague, he retreated from her as fast as he could.\n\n\"Curse you!\" he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily avoided the\ncart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the place.\n\nThe old hag laughed.\n\n\"Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward,\" she said. \"Bah! what a man to\nbe afraid of sickness.\"\n\n\"MORBLEU! the plague!\"\n\nEveryone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the loathsome\nmalady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse terror and\ndisgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.\n\n\"Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!\" shouted Bibot,\nhoarsely.\n\nAnd with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag whipped up her\nlean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.\n\nThis incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were terrified of\nthese two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing could cure,\nand which were the precursors of an awful and lonely death. They hung\nabout the barricades, silent and sullen for a while, eyeing one another\nsuspiciously, avoiding each other as if by instinct, lest the plague\nlurked already in their midst. Presently, as in the case of Grospierre,\na captain of the guard appeared suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, and\nthere was no fear of his turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise.\n\n\"A cart, . . .\" he shouted breathlessly, even before he had reached the\ngates.\n\n\"What cart?\" asked Bibot, roughly.\n\n\"Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart . . .\"\n\n\"There were a dozen . . .\"\n\n\"An old hag who said her son had the plague?\"\n\n\"Yes . . .\"\n\n\"You have not let them go?\"\n\n\"MORBLEU!\" said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly become white\nwith fear.\n\n\"The cart contained the CI-DEVANT Comtesse de Tourney and her two\nchildren, all of them traitors and condemned to death.\"\n\n\"And their driver?\" muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder ran\ndown his spine.\n\n\"SACRE TONNERRE,\" said the captain, \"but it is feared that it was that\naccursed Englishman himself--the Scarlet Pimpernel.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II DOVER: \"THE FISHERMAN'S REST\"\n\n\n\nIn the kitchen Sally was extremely busy--saucepans and frying-pans were\nstanding in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge stock-pot stood in\na corner, and the jack turned with slow deliberation, and presented\nalternately to the glow every side of a noble sirloin of beef. The two\nlittle kitchen-maids bustled around, eager to help, hot and panting,\nwith cotton sleeves well tucked up above the dimpled elbows, and\ngiggling over some private jokes of their own, whenever Miss Sally's\nback was turned for a moment. And old Jemima, stolid in temper and\nsolid in bulk, kept up a long and subdued grumble, while she stirred the\nstock-pot methodically over the fire.\n\n\"What ho! Sally!\" came in cheerful if none too melodious accents from\nthe coffee-room close by.\n\n\"Lud bless my soul!\" exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured laugh, \"what\nbe they all wanting now, I wonder!\"\n\n\"Beer, of course,\" grumbled Jemima, \"you don't 'xpect Jimmy Pitkin to\n'ave done with one tankard, do ye?\"\n\n\"Mr. 'Arry, 'e looked uncommon thirsty too,\" simpered Martha, one of\nthe little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as they met\nthose of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of short and\nsuppressed giggles.\n\nSally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her hands\nagainst her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to come in\ncontact with Martha's rosy cheeks--but inherent good-humour prevailed,\nand with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned her attention\nto the fried potatoes.\n\n\"What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!\"\n\nAnd a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands against the oak\ntables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for mine host's buxom\ndaughter.\n\n\"Sally!\" shouted a more persistent voice, \"are ye goin' to be all night\nwith that there beer?\"\n\n\"I do think father might get the beer for them,\" muttered Sally,\nas Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple of\nfoam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of pewter\ntankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which \"The Fisherman's\nRest\" had been famous since that days of King Charles. \"'E knows 'ow\nbusy we are in 'ere.\"\n\n\"Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. 'Empseed to worry\n'isself about you and the kitchen,\" grumbled Jemima under her breath.\n\nSally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of the\nkitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her frilled cap\nat its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she took up\nthe tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown hand, and\nlaughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the coffee\nroom.\n\nThere, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity which\nkept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.\n\nThe coffee-room of \"The Fisherman's Rest\" is a show place now at the\nbeginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the eighteenth, in the\nyear of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the notoriety and importance\nwhich a hundred additional years and the craze of the age have since\nbestowed upon it. Yet it was an old place, even then, for the oak\nrafters and beams were already black with age--as were the panelled\nseats, with their tall backs, and the long polished tables between,\non which innumerable pewter tankards had left fantastic patterns of\nmany-sized rings. In the leaded window, high up, a row of pots of\nscarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the bright note of colour\nagainst the dull background of the oak.\n\nThat Mr. Jellyband, landlord of \"The Fisherman's Rest\" at Dover, was\na prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual observer. The\npewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the gigantic hearth,\nshone like silver and gold--the red-tiled floor was as brilliant as the\nscarlet geranium on the window sill--this meant that his servants were\ngood and plentiful, that the custom was constant, and of that order\nwhich necessitated the keeping up of the coffee-room to a high standard\nof elegance and order.\n\nAs Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying a row\nof dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus of\napplause.\n\n\"Why, here's Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!\"\n\n\"I thought you'd grown deaf in that kitchen of yours,\" muttered Jimmy\nPitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.\n\n\"All ri'! all ri'!\" laughed Sally, as she deposited the freshly-filled\ntankards upon the tables, \"why, what a 'urry to be sure! And is your\ngran'mother a-dyin' an' you wantin' to see the pore soul afore she'm\ngone! I never see'd such a mighty rushin'\" A chorus of good-humoured\nlaughter greeted this witticism, which gave the company there present\nfood for many jokes, for some considerable time. Sally now seemed in\nless of a hurry to get back to her pots and pans. A young man with\nfair curly hair, and eager, bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her\nattention and the whole of her time, whilst broad witticisms anent Jimmy\nPitkin's fictitious grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with\nheavy puffs of pungent tobacco smoke.\n\nFacing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in his\nmouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of\n\"The Fisherman's Rest,\" as his father had before him, aye, and his\ngrandfather and great-grandfather too, for that matter. Portly in build,\njovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband was\nindeed a typical rural John Bull of those days--the days when our\nprejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he\nlord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a den\nof immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of savages\nand cannibals.\n\nThere he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his limbs,\nsmoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at home, and\ndespising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet waistcoat, with\nshiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey worsted stockings\nand smart buckled shoes, that characterised every self-respecting\ninnkeeper in Great Britain in these days--and while pretty, motherless\nSally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do all the work that\nfell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband discussed the affairs of\nnations with his most privileged guests.\n\nThe coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps, which hung\nfrom the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the extreme.\nThrough the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in every\ncorner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband's customers appeared red and pleasant\nto look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and all the\nworld; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied pleasant,\nif not highly intellectual, conversation--while Sally's repeated giggles\ntestified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making of the short time\nshe seemed inclined to spare him.\n\nThey were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband's coffee-room,\nbut fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the salt which they\nbreathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for their parched throats\nwhen on shore, but \"The Fisherman's Rest\" was something more than a\nrendezvous for these humble folk. The London and Dover coach started\nfrom the hostel daily, and passengers who had come across the Channel,\nand those who started for the \"grand tour,\" all became acquainted with\nMr. Jellyband, his French wines and his home-brewed ales.\n\nIt was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather which had\nbeen brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly broken up; for\ntwo days torrents of rain had deluged the south of England, doing its\nlevel best to ruin what chances the apples and pears and late plums had\nof becoming really fine, self-respecting fruit. Even now it was beating\nagainst the leaded windows, and tumbling down the chimney, making the\ncheerful wood fire sizzle in the hearth.\n\n\"Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?\" asked Mr.\nHempseed.\n\nHe sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr. Hempseed, for he\nwas an authority and important personage not only at \"The Fisherman's\nRest,\" where Mr. Jellyband always made a special selection of him as a\nfoil for political arguments, but throughout the neighborhood, where\nhis learning and notably his knowledge of the Scriptures was held in\nthe most profound awe and respect. With one hand buried in the capacious\npockets of his corduroys underneath his elaborately-worked, well-worn\nsmock, the other holding his long clay pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there\nlooking dejectedly across the room at the rivulets of moisture which\ntrickled down the window panes.\n\n\"No,\" replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, \"I dunno, Mr. 'Empseed, as I\never did. An' I've been in these parts nigh on sixty years.\"\n\n\"Aye! you wouldn't rec'llect the first three years of them sixty, Mr.\nJellyband,\" quietly interposed Mr. Hempseed. \"I dunno as I ever see'd an\ninfant take much note of the weather, leastways not in these parts, an'\n_I_'ve lived 'ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jellyband.\"\n\nThe superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment\nMr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument.\n\n\"It do seem more like April than September, don't it?\" continued Mr.\nHempseed, dolefully, as a shower of raindrops fell with a sizzle upon\nthe fire.\n\n\"Aye! that it do,\" assented the worthy host, \"but then what can you\n'xpect, Mr. 'Empseed, I says, with sich a government as we've got?\"\n\nMr. Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of wisdom, tempered\nby deeply-rooted mistrust of the British climate and the British\nGovernment.\n\n\"I don't 'xpect nothing, Mr. Jellyband,\" he said. \"Pore folks like us is\nof no account up there in Lunnon, I knows that, and it's not often as I\ndo complain. But when it comes to sich wet weather in September, and all\nme fruit a-rottin' and a-dying' like the 'Guptian mother's first born,\nand doin' no more good than they did, pore dears, save a lot more Jews,\npedlars and sich, with their oranges and sich like foreign ungodly\nfruit, which nobody'd buy if English apples and pears was nicely\nswelled. As the Scriptures say--\"\n\n\"That's quite right, Mr. 'Empseed,\" retorted Jellyband, \"and as I says,\nwhat can you 'xpect? There's all them Frenchy devils over the Channel\nyonder a-murderin' their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox\nand Mr. Burke a-fightin' and a-wranglin' between them, if we Englishmen\nshould 'low them to go on in their ungodly way. 'Let 'em murder!' says\nMr. Pitt. 'Stop 'em!' says Mr. Burke.\"\n\n\"And let 'em murder, says I, and be demmed to 'em.\" said Mr. Hempseed,\nemphatically, for he had but little liking for his friend Jellyband's\npolitical arguments, wherein he always got out of his depth, and had but\nlittle chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom which had earned for\nhim so high a reputation in the neighbourhood and so many free tankards\nof ale at \"The Fisherman's Rest.\"\n\n\"Let 'em murder,\" he repeated again, \"but don't lets 'ave sich rain in\nSeptember, for that is agin the law and the Scriptures which says--\"\n\n\"Lud! Mr. 'Arry, 'ow you made me jump!\"\n\nIt was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this remark of\nhers should have occurred at the precise moment when Mr. Hempseed\nwas collecting his breath, in order to deliver himself one of those\nScriptural utterances which made him famous, for it brought down upon\nher pretty head the full flood of her father's wrath.\n\n\"Now then, Sally, me girl, now then!\" he said, trying to force a\nfrown upon his good-humoured face, \"stop that fooling with them young\njackanapes and get on with the work.\"\n\n\"The work's gettin' on all ri', father.\"\n\nBut Mr. Jellyband was peremptory. He had other views for his buxom\ndaughter, his only child, who would in God's good time become the owner\nof \"The Fisherman's Rest,\" than to see her married to one of these young\nfellows who earned but a precarious livelihood with their net.\n\n\"Did ye hear me speak, me girl?\" he said in that quiet tone, which no\none inside the inn dared to disobey. \"Get on with my Lord Tony's supper,\nfor, if it ain't the best we can do, and 'e not satisfied, see what\nyou'll get, that's all.\"\n\nReluctantly Sally obeyed.\n\n\"Is you 'xpecting special guests then to-night, Mr. Jellyband?\" asked\nJimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to divert his host's attention from the\ncircumstances connected with Sally's exit from the room.\n\n\"Aye! that I be,\" replied Jellyband, \"friends of my Lord Tony hisself.\nDukes and duchesses from over the water yonder, whom the young lord and\nhis friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young noblemen have helped\nout of the clutches of them murderin' devils.\"\n\nBut this was too much for Mr. Hempseed's querulous philosophy.\n\n\"Lud!\" he said, \"what do they do that for, I wonder? I don't 'old not\nwith interferin' in other folks' ways. As the Scriptures say--\"\n\n\"Maybe, Mr. 'Empseed,\" interrupted Jellyband, with biting sarcasm, \"as\nyou're a personal friend of Mr. Pitt, and as you says along with Mr.\nFox: 'Let 'em murder!' says you.\"\n\n\"Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband,\" feebly protested Mr. Hempseed, \"I dunno as I\never did.\"\n\nBut Mr. Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting upon his favourite\nhobby-horse, and had no intention of dismounting in any hurry.\n\n\"Or maybe you've made friends with some of them French chaps 'oo they\ndo say have come over here o' purpose to make us Englishmen agree with\ntheir murderin' ways.\"\n\n\"I dunno what you mean, Mr. Jellyband,\" suggested Mr. Hempseed, \"all I\nknow is--\"\n\n\"All _I_ know is,\" loudly asserted mine host, \"that there was my friend\nPeppercorn, 'oo owns the 'Blue-Faced Boar,' an' as true and loyal an\nEnglishman as you'd see in the land. And now look at 'im!--'E made\nfriends with some o' them frog-eaters, 'obnobbed with them just as if\nthey was Englishmen, and not just a lot of immoral, Godforsaking furrin'\nspies. Well! and what happened? Peppercorn 'e now ups and talks of\nrevolutions, and liberty, and down with the aristocrats, just like Mr.\n'Empseed over 'ere!\"\n\n\"Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband,\" again interposed Mr. Hempseed feebly, \"I\ndunno as I ever did--\"\n\nMr. Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, who were\nlistening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the recital of Mr. Peppercorn's\ndefalcations. At one table two customers--gentlemen apparently by their\nclothes--had pushed aside their half-finished game of dominoes, and had\nbeen listening for some time, and evidently with much amusement at\nMr. Jellyband's international opinions. One of them now, with a quiet,\nsarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of his mobile mouth,\nturned towards the centre of the room where Mr. Jellyband was standing.\n\n\"You seem to think, mine honest friend,\" he said quietly, \"that these\nFrenchmen,--spies I think you called them--are mighty clever fellows\nto have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr. Peppercorn's\nopinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you?\"\n\n\"Lud! sir, I suppose they talked 'im over. Those Frenchies, I've 'eard\nit said, 'ave got the gift of gab--and Mr. 'Empseed 'ere will tell you\n'ow it is that they just twist some people round their little finger\nlike.\"\n\n\"Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Hempseed?\" inquired the stranger politely.\n\n\"Nay, sir!\" replied Mr. Hempseed, much irritated, \"I dunno as I can give\nyou the information you require.\"\n\n\"Faith, then,\" said the stranger, \"let us hope, my worthy host, that\nthese clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your extremely loyal\nopinions.\"\n\nBut this was too much for Mr. Jellyband's pleasant equanimity. He burst\ninto an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by those who\nhappened to be in his debt.\n\n\"Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!\" He laughed in every key, did my worthy host,\nand laughed until his sides ached, and his eyes streamed. \"At me!\nhark at that! Did ye 'ear 'im say that they'd be upsettin' my\nopinions?--Eh?--Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.\"\n\n\"Well, Mr. Jellyband,\" said Mr. Hempseed, sententiously, \"you know what\nthe Scriptures say: 'Let 'im 'oo stands take 'eed lest 'e fall.'\"\n\n\"But then hark'ee Mr. 'Empseed,\" retorted Jellyband, still holding his\nsides with laughter, \"the Scriptures didn't know me. Why, I wouldn't so\nmuch as drink a glass of ale with one o' them murderin' Frenchmen, and\nnothin' 'd make me change my opinions. Why! I've 'eard it said that them\nfrog-eaters can't even speak the King's English, so, of course, if any\nof 'em tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to me, why, I should spot\nthem directly, see!--and forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes.\"\n\n\"Aye! my honest friend,\" assented the stranger cheerfully, \"I see that\nyou are much too sharp, and a match for any twenty Frenchmen, and here's\nto your very good health, my worthy host, if you'll do me the honour to\nfinish this bottle of mine with me.\"\n\n\"I am sure you're very polite, sir,\" said Mr. Jellyband, wiping his eyes\nwhich were still streaming with the abundance of his laughter, \"and I\ndon't mind if I do.\"\n\nThe stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and having\noffered one to mine host, he took the other himself.\n\n\"Loyal Englishmen as we all are,\" he said, whilst the same humorous\nsmile played round the corners of his thin lips--\"loyal as we are, we\nmust admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to us from\nFrance.\"\n\n\"Aye! we'll none of us deny that, sir,\" assented mine host.\n\n\"And here's to the best landlord in England, our worthy host, Mr.\nJellyband,\" said the stranger in a loud tone of voice.\n\n\"Hi, hip, hurrah!\" retorted the whole company present. Then there was a\nloud clapping of hands, and mugs and tankards made a rattling music\nupon the tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter at nothing in\nparticular, and of Mr. Jellyband's muttered exclamations:\n\n\"Just fancy ME bein' talked over by any God-forsaken\nfurriner!--What?--Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things.\"\n\nTo which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. It was certainly\na preposterous suggestion that anyone could ever upset Mr. Jellyband's\nfirmly-rooted opinions anent the utter worthlessness of the inhabitants\nof the whole continent of Europe.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III THE REFUGEES\n\n\n\nFeeling in every part of England certainly ran very high at this time\nagainst the French and their doings. Smugglers and legitimate traders\nbetween the French and the English coasts brought snatches of news from\nover the water, which made every honest Englishman's blood boil, and\nmade him long to have \"a good go\" at those murderers, who had imprisoned\ntheir king and all his family, subjected the queen and the royal\nchildren to every species of indignity, and were even now loudly\ndemanding the blood of the whole Bourbon family and of every one of its\nadherents.\n\nThe execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette's young\nand charming friend, had filled every one in England with unspeakable\nhorror, the daily execution of scores of royalists of good family, whose\nonly sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for vengeance to the\nwhole of civilised Europe.\n\nYet, with all that, no one dared to interfere. Burke had exhausted all\nhis eloquence in trying to induce the British Government to fight the\nrevolutionary government of France, but Mr. Pitt, with characteristic\nprudence, did not feel that this country was fit yet to embark\non another arduous and costly war. It was for Austria to take the\ninitiative; Austria, whose fairest daughter was even now a dethroned\nqueen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob; surely 'twas not--so\nargued Mr. Fox--for the whole of England to take up arms, because one\nset of Frenchmen chose to murder another.\n\nAs for Mr. Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though they looked\nupon all foreigners with withering contempt, they were royalist and\nanti-revolutionists to a man, and at this present moment were furious\nwith Pitt for his caution and moderation, although they naturally\nunderstood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided that great\nman's policy.\n\nBy now Sally came running back, very excited and very eager. The joyous\ncompany in the coffee-room had heard nothing of the noise outside, but\nshe had spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped at the door\nof \"The Fisherman's Rest,\" and while the stable boy ran forward to take\ncharge of the horse, pretty Miss Sally went to the front door to greet\nthe welcome visitor. \"I think I see'd my Lord Antony's horse out in the\nyard, father,\" she said, as she ran across the coffee-room.\n\nBut already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the next\nmoment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy rain,\nwas round pretty Sally's waist, while a hearty voice echoed along the\npolished rafters of the coffee-room.\n\n\"Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty Sally,\"\nsaid the man who had just entered, whilst worthy Mr. Jellyband came\nbustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of one of\nthe most favoured guests of his hostel.\n\n\"Lud, I protest, Sally,\" added Lord Antony, as he deposited a kiss on\nMiss Sally's blooming cheeks, \"but you are growing prettier and prettier\nevery time I see you--and my honest friend, Jellyband here, have hard\nwork to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours. What say you, Mr.\nWaite?\"\n\nMr. Waite--torn between his respect for my lord and his dislike of that\nparticular type of joke--only replied with a doubtful grunt.\n\nLord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter, was in\nthose days a very perfect type of a young English gentlemen--tall, well\nset-up, broad of shoulders and merry of face, his laughter rang loudly\nwherever he went. A good sportsman, a lively companion, a courteous,\nwell-bred man of the world, with not too much brains to spoil his\ntemper, he was a universal favourite in London drawing-rooms or in the\ncoffee-rooms of village inns. At \"The Fisherman's Rest\" everyone knew\nhim--for he was fond of a trip across to France, and always spent a\nnight under worthy Mr. Jellyband's roof on his way there or back.\n\nHe nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last released Sally's\nwaist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry himself: as he did\nso, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at the two strangers,\nwho had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and for a moment a look\nof deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his jovial young face.\n\nBut only for a moment; the next he turned to Mr. Hempseed, who was\nrespectfully touching his forelock.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?\"\n\n\"Badly, my lord, badly,\" replied Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, \"but what\ncan you 'xpect with this 'ere government favourin' them rascals over in\nFrance, who would murder their king and all their nobility.\"\n\n\"Odd's life!\" retorted Lord Antony; \"so they would, honest Hempseed,--at\nleast those they can get hold of, worse luck! But we have got some\nfriends coming here to-night, who at any rate have evaded their\nclutches.\"\n\nIt almost seemed, when the young man said these words, as if he threw a\ndefiant look towards the quiet strangers in the corner.\n\n\"Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I've heard it said,\"\nsaid Mr. Jellyband.\n\nBut in a moment Lord Antony's hand fell warningly on mine host's arm.\n\n\"Hush!\" he said peremptorily, and instinctively once again looked\ntowards the strangers.\n\n\"Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord,\" retorted Jellyband;\n\"don't you be afraid. I wouldn't have spoken, only I knew we were among\nfriends. That gentleman over there is as true and loyal a subject of\nKing George as you are yourself, my lord saving your presence. He is\nbut lately arrived in Dover, and is setting down in business in these\nparts.\"\n\n\"In business? Faith, then, it must be as an undertaker, for I vow I\nnever beheld a more rueful countenance.\"\n\n\"Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower, which no doubt\nwould account for the melancholy of his bearing--but he is a friend,\nnevertheless, I'll vouch for that--and you will own, my lord, that who\nshould judge of a face better than the landlord of a popular inn--\"\n\n\"Oh, that's all right, then, if we are among friends,\" said Lord Antony,\nwho evidently did not care to discuss the subject with his host. \"But,\ntell me, you have no one else staying here, have you?\"\n\n\"No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, leastways--\"\n\n\"Leastways?\"\n\n\"No one your lordship would object to, I know.\"\n\n\"Who is it?\"\n\n\"Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will be here presently,\nbut they ain't a-goin' to stay--\"\n\n\"Lady Blakeney?\" queried Lord Antony, in some astonishment.\n\n\"Aye, my lord. Sir Percy's skipper was here just now. He says that my\nlady's brother is crossing over to France to-day in the DAY DREAM, which\nis Sir Percy's yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady will come with him as\nfar as here to see the last of him. It don't put you out, do it, my\nlord?\"\n\n\"No, no, it doesn't put me out, friend; nothing will put me out, unless\nthat supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can cook, and which\nhas ever been served in 'The Fisherman's Rest.'\"\n\n\"You need have no fear of that, my lord,\" said Sally, who all this while\nhad been busy setting the table for supper. And very gay and inviting\nit looked, with a large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias in the\ncentre, and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about.\n\n\"How many shall I lay for, my lord?\"\n\n\"Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be enough for ten at\nleast--our friends will be tired, and, I hope, hungry. As for me, I vow\nI could demolish a baron of beef to-night.\"\n\n\"Here they are, I do believe,\" said Sally excitedly, as a distant\nclatter of horses and wheels could now be distinctly heard, drawing\nrapidly nearer.\n\nThere was a general commotion in the coffee-room. Everyone was curious\nto see my Lord Antony's swell friends from over the water. Miss Sally\ncast one or two quick glances at the little bit of mirror which hung\non the wall, and worthy Mr. Jellyband bustled out in order to give\nthe first welcome himself to his distinguished guests. Only the two\nstrangers in the corner did not participate in the general excitement.\nThey were calmly finishing their game of dominoes, and did not even look\nonce towards the door.\n\n\"Straight ahead, Comtesse, the door on your right,\" said a pleasant\nvoice outside.\n\n\"Aye! there they are, all right enough.\" said Lord Antony, joyfully;\n\"off with you, my pretty Sally, and see how quick you can dish up the\nsoup.\"\n\nThe door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by Mr. Jellyband, who was\nprofuse in his bows and welcomes, a party of four--two ladies and two\ngentlemen--entered the coffee-room.\n\n\"Welcome! Welcome to old England!\" said Lord Antony, effusively, as he\ncame eagerly forward with both hands outstretched towards the newcomers.\n\n\"Ah, you are Lord Antony Dewhurst, I think,\" said one of the ladies,\nspeaking with a strong foreign accent.\n\n\"At your service, Madame,\" he replied, as he ceremoniously kissed the\nhands of both the ladies, then turned to the men and shook them both\nwarmly by the hand.\n\nSally was already helping the ladies to take off their travelling cloaks,\nand both turned, with a shiver, towards the brightly-blazing hearth.\n\nThere was a general movement among the company in the coffee-room. Sally\nhad bustled off to her kitchen whilst Jellyband, still profuse with his\nrespectful salutations, arranged one or two chairs around the fire. Mr.\nHempseed, touching his forelock, was quietly vacating the seat in\nthe hearth. Everyone was staring curiously, yet deferentially, at the\nforeigners.\n\n\"Ah, Messieurs! what can I say?\" said the elder of the two ladies, as\nshe stretched a pair of fine, aristocratic hands to the warmth of the\nblaze, and looked with unspeakable gratitude first at Lord Antony, then\nat one of the young men who had accompanied her party, and who was busy\ndivesting himself of his heavy, caped coat.\n\n\"Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse,\" replied Lord\nAntony, \"and that you have not suffered too much from your trying\nvoyage.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England,\" she said, while her\neyes filled with tears, \"and we have already forgotten all that we have\nsuffered.\"\n\nHer voice was musical and low, and there was a great deal of calm\ndignity and of many sufferings nobly endured marked in the handsome,\naristocratic face, with its wealth of snowy-white hair dressed high\nabove the forehead, after the fashion of the times.\n\n\"I hope my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, proved an entertaining\ntravelling companion, madame?\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed, Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How could my children and I\never show enough gratitude to you all, Messieurs?\"\n\nHer companion, a dainty, girlish figure, childlike and pathetic in its\nlook of fatigue and of sorrow, had said nothing as yet, but her eyes,\nlarge, brown, and full of tears, looked up from the fire and sought\nthose of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had drawn near to the hearth and to\nher; then, as they met his, which were fixed with unconcealed admiration\nupon the sweet face before him, a thought of warmer colour rushed up to\nher pale cheeks.\n\n\"So this is England,\" she said, as she looked round with childlike\ncuriosity at the great hearth, the oak rafters, and the yokels with\ntheir elaborate smocks and jovial, rubicund, British countenances.\n\n\"A bit of it, Mademoiselle,\" replied Sir Andrew, smiling, \"but all of\nit, at your service.\"\n\nThe young girl blushed again, but this time a bright smile, fleet and\nsweet, illumined her dainty face. She said nothing, and Sir Andrew too\nwas silent, yet those two young people understood one another, as young\npeople have a way of doing all the world over, and have done since the\nworld began.\n\n\"But, I say, supper!\" here broke in Lord Antony's jovial voice, \"supper,\nhonest Jellyband. Where is that pretty wench of yours and the dish of\nsoup? Zooks, man, while you stand there gaping at the ladies, they will\nfaint with hunger.\"\n\n\"One moment! one moment, my lord,\" said Jellyband, as he threw open the\ndoor that led to the kitchen and shouted lustily: \"Sally! Hey, Sally\nthere, are ye ready, my girl?\"\n\nSally was ready, and the next moment she appeared in the doorway\ncarrying a gigantic tureen, from which rose a cloud of steam and an\nabundance of savoury odour.\n\n\"Odd's life, supper at last!\" ejaculated Lord Antony, merrily, as he\ngallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse.\n\n\"May I have the honour?\" he added ceremoniously, as he led her towards\nthe supper table.\n\nThere was a general bustle in the coffee-room: Mr. Hempseed and most of\nthe yokels and fisher-folk had gone to make way for \"the quality,\" and\nto finish smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two strangers stayed\non, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game of dominoes and sipping\ntheir wine; whilst at another table Harry Waite, who was fast losing his\ntemper, watched pretty Sally bustling round the table.\n\nShe looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, and no wonder\nthat the susceptible young Frenchman could scarce take his eyes off her\npretty face. The Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a beardless\nboy, on whom terrible tragedies which were being enacted in his own\ncountry had made but little impression. He was elegantly and even\nfoppishly dressed, and once safely landed in England he was evidently\nready to forget the horrors of the Revolution in the delights of English\nlife.\n\n\"Pardi, if zis is England,\" he said as he continued to ogle Sally with\nmarked satisfaction, \"I am of it satisfied.\"\n\nIt would be impossible at this point to record the exact exclamation\nwhich escaped through Mr. Harry Waite's clenched teeth. Only respect\nfor \"the quality,\" and notably for my Lord Antony, kept his marked\ndisapproval of the young foreigner in check.\n\n\"Nay, but this IS England, you abandoned young reprobate,\" interposed\nLord Antony with a laugh, \"and do not, I pray, bring your loose foreign\nways into this most moral country.\"\n\nLord Antony had already sat down at the head of the table with the\nComtesse on his right. Jellyband was bustling round, filling glasses and\nputting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand round the soup.\nMr. Harry Waite's friends had at last succeeded in taking him out of\nthe room, for his temper was growing more and more violent under the\nVicomte's obvious admiration for Sally.\n\n\"Suzanne,\" came in stern, commanding accents from the rigid Comtesse.\n\nSuzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and of place whilst\nshe had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young Englishman's\neyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if unconsciously,\nto rest upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back to reality once\nmore, and with a submissive \"Yes, Mama,\" she took her place at the\nsupper table.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL\n\n\n\nThey all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round the\ntable; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical\ngood-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace\n1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who\nhad just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at last\non the shores of protecting England.\n\nIn the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game; one\nof them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at the\ntable, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple caped coat.\nAs he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was busy\nlaughing and chatting, and he murmured the words \"All safe!\": his\ncompanion then, with the alertness borne of long practice, slipped on to\nhis knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the oak\nbench. The stranger then, with a loud \"Good-night,\" quietly walked out\nof the coffee-room.\n\nNot one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent\nmanoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the\ncoffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.\n\n\"Alone, at last!\" said Lord Antony, jovially.\n\nThen the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with the\ngraceful affection peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft, and said\nin broken English,--\n\n\"To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for his\nhospitality to us all, poor exiles from France.\"\n\n\"His Majesty the King!\" echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank\nloyally to the toast.\n\n\"To His Majesty King Louis of France,\" added Sir Andrew, with solemnity.\n\"May God protect him, and give him victory over his enemies.\"\n\nEveryone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of the\nunfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed to\ncast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance.\n\n\"And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive,\" said Lord Antony, merrily.\n\"May we welcome him in England before many days are over.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur,\" said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand she\nconveyed her glass to her lips, \"I scarcely dare to hope.\"\n\nBut already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next few\nmoments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally handed round\nthe plates and everyone began to eat.\n\n\"Faith, Madame!\" said Lord Antony, after a while, \"mine was no idle\ntoast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the Vicomte\nsafely in England now, surely you must feel reasurred as to the fate of\nMonsieur le Comte.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur,\" replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, \"I trust in\nGod--I can but pray--and hope . . .\"\n\n\"Aye, Madame!\" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, \"trust in God by all\nmeans, but believe also a little in your English friends, who have sworn\nto bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as they have brought\nyou to-day.\"\n\n\"Indeed, indeed, Monsieur,\" she replied, \"I have the fullest confidence\nin you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread throughout\nthe whole of France. The way some of my own friends have escaped from\nthe clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was nothing short of a\nmiracle--and all done by you and your friends--\"\n\n\"We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . .\"\n\n\"But my husband, Monsieur,\" said the Comtesse, whilst unshed tears\nseemed to veil her voice, \"he is in such deadly peril--I would never\nhave left him, only . . . there were my children . . . I was torn between\nmy duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without me . . . and you\nand your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would be safe.\nBut, oh! now that I am here--amongst you all--in this beautiful, free\nEngland--I think of him, flying for his life, hunted like a poor beast\n. . . in such peril . . . Ah! I should not have left him . . . I should not\nhave left him! . . .\"\n\nThe poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and emotion\nhad overmastered her rigid, aristocratic bearing. She was crying gently\nto herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her\ntears.\n\nLord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the Comtesse\nwhilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply for\nher; their very silence testified to that--but in every century, and\never since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt\nsomewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And so\nthe two young men said nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide\ntheir feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.\n\n\"As for me, Monsieur,\" said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked through a\nwealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, \"I trust you absolutely, and\nI KNOW that you will bring my dear father safely to England, just as you\nbrought us to-day.\"\n\nThis was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief,\nthat it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes, and to bring a\nsmile upon everybody's lips.\n\n\"Nay! You shame me, Mademoiselle,\" replied Sir Andrew; \"though my life\nis at your service, I have been but a humble tool in the hands of our\ngreat leader, who organised and effected your escape.\"\n\nHe had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne's eyes\nfastened upon him in undisguised wonder.\n\n\"Your leader, Monsieur?\" said the Comtesse, eagerly. \"Ah! of course,\nyou must have a leader. And I did not think of that before! But tell me\nwhere is he? I must go to him at once, and I and my children must throw\nourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he has done for us.\"\n\n\"Alas, Madame!\" said Lord Antony, \"that is impossible.\"\n\n\"Impossible?--Why?\"\n\n\"Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark, and his identity is\nonly known under the solemn oath of secrecy to his immediate followers.\"\n\n\"The Scarlet Pimpernel?\" said Suzanne, with a merry laugh. \"Why! what a\ndroll name! What is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?\"\n\nShe looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young man's face\nhad become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm;\nhero-worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed literally to glow\nupon his face. \"The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle,\" he said at last\n\"is the name of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also the\nname chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the\nworld, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he\nhas set himself to do.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" here interposed the young Vicomte, \"I have heard speak of\nthis Scarlet Pimpernel. A little flower--red?--yes! They say in\nParis that every time a royalist escapes to England that devil,\nFoucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with that\nlittle flower designated in red upon it. . . . Yes?\"\n\n\"Yes, that is so,\" assented Lord Antony.\n\n\"Then he will have received one such paper to-day?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly.\"\n\n\"Oh! I wonder what he will say!\" said Suzanne, merrily. \"I have heard\nthat the picture of that little red flower is the only thing that\nfrightens him.\"\n\n\"Faith, then,\" said Sir Andrew, \"he will have many more opportunities of\nstudying the shape of that small scarlet flower.\"\n\n\"Ah, monsieur,\" sighed the Comtesse, \"it all sounds like a romance, and\nI cannot understand it all.\"\n\n\"Why should you try, Madame?\"\n\n\"But, tell me, why should your leader--why should you all--spend your\nmoney and risk your lives--for it is your lives you risk, Messieurs,\nwhen you set foot in France--and all for us French men and women, who\nare nothing to you?\"\n\n\"Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport,\" asserted Lord Antony, with his\njovial, loud and pleasant voice; \"we are a nation of sportsmen, you\nknow, and just now it is the fashion to pull the hare from between the\nteeth of the hound.\"\n\n\"Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a more noble motive,\nI am sure for the good work you do.\"\n\n\"Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . . . as for me, I\nvow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet\nencountered.--Hair-breath escapes . . . the devil's own risks!--Tally\nho!--and away we go!\"\n\nBut the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. To her it seemed\npreposterous that these young men and their great leader, all of them\nrich, probably wellborn, and young, should for no other motive than\nsport, run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantly\ndoing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in France, would be\nno safeguard to them. Anyone found harbouring or assisting suspected\nroyalists would be ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed, whatever\nhis nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen had, to her\nown knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the\nRevolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched away\ncondemned victims, almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With a\nshudder, she recalled the events of the last few days, her escape from\nParis with her two children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood\nof a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not\ndaring to breathe, whilst the mob howled, \"A la lanterne les aristos!\"\nat the awful West Barricade.\n\nIt had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband had\nunderstood that they had been placed on the list of \"suspected persons,\"\nwhich meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days--of\nhours, perhaps.\n\nThen came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed with\nthe enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; the\nparting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife's heart\nin two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the\ncovered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible\nevil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!\n\nThe Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the\npeace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her\neyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the\nmob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.\n\nEvery moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself\nand her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under\nthe guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their\nlives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other\ninnocent people.\n\nAnd all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought those\nof Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that HE at any rate\nrescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through a\nhigher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.\n\n\"How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?\" she asked timidly.\n\n\"Twenty all told, Mademoiselle,\" he replied, \"one to command, and\nnineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same\ncause--to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent.\"\n\n\"May God protect you all, Messieurs,\" said the Comtesse, fervently.\n\n\"He had done that so far, Madame.\"\n\n\"It is wonderful to me, wonderful!--That you should all be so brave, so\ndevoted to your fellowmen--yet you are English!--and in France treachery\nis rife--all in the name of liberty and fraternity.\"\n\n\"The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us aristocrats\nthan the men,\" said the Vicomte, with a sigh.\n\n\"Ah, yes,\" added the Comtesse, while a look of haughty disdain and\nintense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes, \"There was that\nwoman, Marguerite St. Just for instance. She denounced the Marquis de\nSt. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror.\"\n\n\"Marguerite St. Just?\" said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and\napprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.\n\n\"Marguerite St. Just?--Surely . . .\"\n\n\"Yes!\" replied the Comtesse, \"surely you know her. She was a leading\nactress of the Comedie Francaise, and she married an Englishman lately.\nYou must know her--\"\n\n\"Know her?\" said Lord Antony. \"Know Lady Blakeney--the most fashionable\nwoman in London--the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we\nall know Lady Blakeney.\"\n\n\"She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,\" interposed\nSuzanne, \"and we came over to England together to learn your language.\nI was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did\nanything so wicked.\"\n\n\"It certainly seems incredible,\" said Sir Andrew. \"You say that she\nactually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done such\na thing? Surely there must be some mistake--\"\n\n\"No mistake is possible, Monsieur,\" rejoined the Comtesse, coldly.\n\"Marguerite St. Just's brother is a noted republican. There was some\ntalk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr.\nThe St. Justs are quite plebeian, and the republican government employs\nmany spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not heard\nthis story?\"\n\n\"Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no\none would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very\nwealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince\nof Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in\nLondon.\"\n\n\"That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet\nlife in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful\ncountry, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just.\"\n\nThe proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little\ncompany gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir\nAndrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased\nin the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid and\nunbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked\nextremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively\ntowards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.\n\n\"At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?\" he contrived\nto whisper unobserved, to mine host.\n\n\"Any moment, my lord,\" whispered Jellyband in reply.\n\nEven as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach;\nlouder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable,\nthen the rattle of horses' hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the\nnext moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and rushed\nin excitedly.\n\n\"Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady,\" he shouted at the top of his voice,\n\"they're just arriving.\"\n\nAnd with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs upon the\nstones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had halted\noutside the porch of \"The Fisherman's Rest.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V MARGUERITE\n\n\n\nIn a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn became the\nscene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement\nmade by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had jumped\nup from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions to poor\nbewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits' end what to do.\n\n\"For goodness' sake, man,\" admonished his lordship, \"try to keep\nLady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies withdraw.\nZounds!\" he added, with another more emphatic oath, \"this is most\nunfortunate.\"\n\n\"Quick Sally! the candles!\" shouted Jellyband, as hopping about from\none leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general\ndiscomfort of everybody.\n\nThe Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying to\nhide her excitement beneath more becoming SANG-FROID, she repeated\nmechanically,--\n\n\"I will not see her!--I will not see her!\"\n\nOutside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very important\nguests grew apace.\n\n\"Good-day, Sir Percy!--Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir\nPercy!\"--was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate more\nfeeble tones of--\"Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady and\ngentleman!\"\n\nThen suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.\n\n\"Let the poor man be--and give him some supper at my expense.\"\n\nThe voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, and\na faint SOUPCON of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the\nconsonants.\n\nEveryone in the coffee-room heard it and paused instinctively, listening\nto it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the opposite door,\nwhich led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was in the act of\nbeating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned such a sweet musical\nvoice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her mother, while\ncasting regretful glances towards the door, where she hoped still to see\nher dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.\n\nThen Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping to\navert the catastrophe, which he felt was in the air, and the same low,\nmusical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock consternation,--\n\n\"B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! DIEU! has anyone ever seen such a\ncontemptible climate?\"\n\n\"Suzanne, come with me at once--I wish it,\" said the Comtesse,\nperemptorily.\n\n\"Oh! Mama!\" pleaded Suzanne.\n\n\"My lady . . . er . . . h'm! . . . my lady! . . .\" came in feeble accents\nfrom Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to bar the way.\n\n\"PARDIEU, my good man,\" said Lady Blakeney, with some impatience, \"what\nare you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with a sore\nfoot? Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold.\"\n\nAnd the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing mine host on one side,\nhad swept into the coffee-room.\n\nThere are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite St.\nJust--Lady Blakeney as she was then--but it is doubtful if any of these\nreally do her singular beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with\nmagnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even the\nComtesse paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turning\nher back on so fascinating an apparition.\n\nMarguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, and her beauty\nwas at its most dazzling stage. The large hat, with its undulating and\nwaving plumes, threw a soft shadow across the classic brow with the\naureole of auburn hair--free at the moment from any powder; the sweet,\nalmost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, and\ndelicate throat, all seemed set off by the picturesque costume of the\nperiod. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the graceful\ncontour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity all\nits own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of ribbons which\nfashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying recently.\n\nWith a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had taken\nstock of every one there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,\nwhilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.\n\n\"Hello! my Lord Tony, why--what are YOU doing here in Dover?\" she said\nmerrily.\n\nThen, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse and\nSuzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as she\nstretched out both arms towards the young girl.\n\n\"Why! if that isn't my little Suzanne over there. PARDIEU, little\ncitizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too?\"\n\nShe went up effusive to them both, with not a single touch of\nembarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew\nwatched the little scene with eager apprehension. English though they\nwere, they had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with the\nFrench to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred with which\nthe old NOBLESSE of France viewed all those who had helped to contribute\nto their downfall. Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful Lady\nBlakeney--though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views--was\nan ardent republican; his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr--the\nrights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew--had culminated in the\ndownfall, the almost total extinction of the latter. In France, St.\nJust and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face with\nthese three refugees driven from their country, flying for their lives,\nbereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them, there stood a\nfair scion of those same republican families which had hurled down a\nthrone, and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the dim and\ndistant vista of bygone centuries.\n\nShe stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of beauty,\nand stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by that one\nact, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past decade.\n\n\"Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,\" said the Comtesse,\nsternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter's arm.\n\nShe had spoken in English, so that all might hear and understand; the\ntwo young English gentlemen, as well as the common innkeeper and\nhis daughter. The latter literally gasped with horror at this foreign\ninsolence, this impudence before her ladyship--who was English, now that\nshe was Sir Percy's wife, and a friend of the Princess of Wales to boot.\n\nAs for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their very hearts seemed to\nstand still with horror at this gratuitous insult. One of them uttered\nan exclamation of appeal, the other one of warning, and instinctively\nboth glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow, drawly, not\nunpleasant voice had already been heard.\n\nAlone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and the Comtesse de\nTournay had remained seemingly unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect and\ndefiant, with one hand still upon her daughter's arm, seemed the very\npersonification of unbending pride. For the moment Marguerite's sweet\nface had become as white as the soft fichu which swathed her throat, and\na very keen observer might have noted that the hand which held the tall,\nberibboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.\n\nBut this was only momentary; the next instant the delicate eyebrows were\nraised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically upwards, the clear blue\neyes looked straight at the rigid Comtesse, and with a slight shrug of\nthe shoulders--\n\n\"Hoity-toity, citizeness,\" she said gaily, \"what fly stings you, pray?\"\n\n\"We are in England now, Madame,\" rejoined the Comtesse, coldly, \"and I\nam at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand in friendship.\nCome, Suzanne.\"\n\nShe beckoned to her daughter, and without another look at Marguerite\nBlakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to the two young men,\nshe sailed majestically out of the room.\n\nThere was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, as the rustle of\nthe Comtesse's skirts died away down the passage. Marguerite, rigid as\na statue followed with hard, set eyes the upright figure, as it\ndisappeared through the doorway--but as little Suzanne, humble and\nobedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set expression\nsuddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and childlike look\nstole into Lady Blakeney's eyes.\n\nLittle Suzanne caught that look; the child's sweet nature went out\nto the beautiful woman, scarcely older than herself; filial obedience\nvanished before girlish sympathy; at the door she turned, ran back to\nMarguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her effusively; then\nonly did she follow her mother, Sally bringing up the rear, with a final\ncurtsey to my lady.\n\nSuzanne's sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension.\nSir Andrew's eyes followed the pretty little figure, until it had quite\ndisappeared, then they met Lady Blakeney's with unassumed merriment.\n\nMarguerite, with dainty affection, had kissed her hand to the ladies, as\nthey disappeared through the door, then a humorous smile began hovering\nround the corners of her mouth.\n\n\"So that's it, is it?\" she said gaily. \"La! Sir Andrew, did you ever see\nsuch an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I sha'n't look like\nthat.\"\n\nShe gathered up her skirts and assuming a majestic gait, stalked towards\nthe fireplace.\n\n\"Suzanne,\" she said, mimicking the Comtesse's voice, \"I forbid you to\nspeak to that woman!\"\n\nThe laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a trifled forced\nand hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were very keen observers.\nThe mimicry was so perfect, the tone of the voice so accurately\nreproduced, that both the young men joined in a hearty cheerful \"Bravo!\"\n\n\"Ah! Lady Blakeney!\" added Lord Tony, \"how they must miss you at the\nComedie Francaise, and how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy for having\ntaken you away.\"\n\n\"Lud, man,\" rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her graceful shoulders,\n\"'tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty sallies would\ndisarm even Madame la Comtesse herself.\"\n\nThe young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow his mother in her\ndignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the Comtesse\nshould Lady Blakeney aim any further shafts at her. But before he could\nutter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant though distinctly inane\nlaugh, was heard from outside, and the next moment an unusually tall and\nvery richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI AN EXQUISITE OF '92\n\n\n\nSir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time inform us, was in this\nyear of grace 1792, still a year or two on the right side of thirty.\nTall, above the average, even for an Englishman, broad-shouldered and\nmassively built, he would have been called unusually good-looking,\nbut for a certain lazy expression in his deep-set blue eyes, and that\nperpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure his strong, clearly-cut\nmouth.\n\nIt was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., one of the\nrichest men in England, leader of all the fashions, and intimate friend\nof the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in London\nand Bath by bringing home, from one of his journeys abroad, a beautiful,\nfascinating, clever, French wife. He, the sleepiest, dullest, most\nBritish Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman yawning, had secured\na brilliant matrimonial prize for which, as all chroniclers aver, there\nhad been many competitors.\n\nMarguerite St. Just had first made her DEBUT in artistic Parisian\ncircles, at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval the\nworld has ever known was taking place within its very walls. Scarcely\neighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned only by\na young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her, in\nher charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was as\nbrilliant as it was exclusive--exclusive, that is to say, only from one\npoint of view. Marguerite St. Just was from principle and by conviction\na republican--equality of birth was her motto--inequality of fortune\nwas in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only inequality she\nadmitted was that of talent. \"Money and titles may be hereditary,\"\nshe would say, \"but brains are not,\" and thus her charming salon was\nreserved for originality and intellect, for brilliance and wit, for\nclever men and talented women, and the entrance into it was soon looked\nupon in the world of intellect--which even in those days and in those\ntroublous times found its pivot in Paris--as the seal to an artistic\ncareer.\n\nClever men, distinguished men, and even men of exalted station formed a\nperpetual and brilliant court round the fascinating young actress of\nthe Comedie Francaise, and she glided through republican, revolutionary,\nbloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a trail behind her of all\nthat was most distinguished, most interesting, in intellectual Europe.\n\nThen the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and called it an artistic\neccentricity, others looked upon it as a wise provision, in view of the\nmany events which were crowding thick and fast in Paris just then, but\nto all, the real motive of that climax remained a puzzle and a mystery.\nAnyway, Marguerite St. Just married Sir Percy Blakeney one fine day,\njust like that, without any warning to her friends, without a SOIREE DE\nCONTRAT or DINER DE FIANCAILLES or other appurtenances of a fashionable\nFrench wedding.\n\nHow that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be admitted within\nthe intellectual circle which revolved round \"the cleverest woman in\nEurope,\" as her friends unanimously called her, no one ventured\nto guess--golden key is said to open every door, asserted the more\nmalignantly inclined.\n\nEnough, she married him, and \"the cleverest woman in Europe\" had linked\nher fate to that \"demmed idiot\" Blakeney, and not even her most intimate\nfriends could assign to this strange step any other motive than that of\nsupreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew, laughed to scorn the idea\nthat Marguerite St. Just had married a fool for the sake of the worldly\nadvantages with which he might endow her. They knew, as a matter of\nfact, that Marguerite St. Just cared nothing about money, and still less\nabout a title; moreover, there were at least half a dozen other men in\nthe cosmopolitan world equally well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney,\nwho would have been only too happy to give Marguerite St. Just any\nposition she might choose to covet.\n\nAs for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to be totally\nunqualified for the onerous post he had taken upon himself. His chief\nqualifications for it seemed to consist in his blind adoration for her,\nhis great wealth and the high favour in which he stood at the English\ncourt; but London society thought that, taking into consideration his\nown intellectual limitations, it would have been wiser on his part had\nhe bestowed those worldly advantages upon a less brilliant and witty\nwife.\n\nAlthough lately he had been so prominent a figure in fashionable English\nsociety, he had spent most of his early life abroad. His father, the\nlate Sir Algernon Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune of seeing\nan idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two years of happy\nmarried life. Percy had just been born when the late Lady Blakeney\nfell prey to the terrible malady which in those days was looked upon as\nhopelessly incurable and nothing short of a curse of God upon the entire\nfamily. Sir Algernon took his afflicted young wife abroad, and there\npresumably Percy was educated, and grew up between an imbecile mother\nand a distracted father, until he attained his majority. The death of\nhis parents following close upon one another left him a free man, and\nas Sir Algernon had led a forcibly simple and retired life, the large\nBlakeney fortune had increased tenfold.\n\nSir Percy Blakeney had travelled a great deal abroad, before he brought\nhome his beautiful, young, French wife. The fashionable circles of the\ntime were ready to receive them both with open arms; Sir Percy was rich,\nhis wife was accomplished, the Prince of Wales took a very great liking\nto them both. Within six months they were the acknowledged leaders of\nfashion and of style. Sir Percy's coats were the talk of the town, his\ninanities were quoted, his foolish laugh copied by the gilded youth at\nAlmack's or the Mall. Everyone knew that he was hopelessly stupid, but\nthen that was scarcely to be wondered at, seeing that all the Blakeneys\nfor generations had been notoriously dull, and that his mother died an\nimbecile.\n\nThus society accepted him, petted him, made much of him, since his\nhorses were the finest in the country, his FETES and wines the most\nsought after. As for his marriage with \"the cleverest woman in Europe,\"\nwell! the inevitable came with sure and rapid footsteps. No one pitied\nhim, since his fate was of his own making. There were plenty of young\nladies in England, of high birth and good looks, who would have been\nquite willing to help him to spend the Blakeney fortune, whilst\nsmiling indulgently at his inanities and his good-humoured foolishness.\nMoreover, Sir Percy got no pity, because he seemed to require none--he\nseemed very proud of his clever wife, and to care little that she took\nno pains to disguise that good-natured contempt which she evidently felt\nfor him, and that she even amused herself by sharpening her ready wits\nat his expense.\n\nBut then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the ridicule with\nwhich his wife covered him, and if his matrimonial relations with the\nfascinating Parisienne had not turned out all that his hopes and his\ndog-like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do more than\nvaguely guess at it.\n\nIn his beautiful house at Richmond he played second fiddle to his clever\nwife with imperturbable BONHOMIE; he lavished jewels and luxuries of\nall kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace, dispensing the\nhospitality of his superb mansion with the same graciousness with which\nshe had welcomed the intellectual coterie of Paris.\n\nPhysically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome--always\nexcepting the lazy, bored look which was habitual to him. He was always\nirreproachable dressed, and wore the exaggerated \"Incroyable\" fashions,\nwhich had just crept across from Paris to England, with the perfect\ngood taste innate in an English gentleman. On this special afternoon in\nSeptember, in spite of the long journey by coach, in spite of rain and\nmud, his coat set irreproachably across his fine shoulders, his hands\nlooked almost femininely white, as they emerged through billowy frills\nof finest Mechline lace: the extravagantly short-waisted satin coat,\nwide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting striped breeches, set off his\nmassive figure to perfection, and in repose one might have admired so\nfine a specimen of English manhood, until the foppish ways, the affected\nmovements, the perpetual inane laugh, brought one's admiration of Sir\nPercy Blakeney to an abrupt close.\n\nHe had lolled into the old-fashioned inn parlour, shaking the wet off\nhis fine overcoat; then putting up a gold-rimmed eye-glass to his lazy\nblue eye, he surveyed the company, upon whom an embarrassed silence had\nsuddenly fallen.\n\n\"How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?\" he said, recognizing the two young\nmen and shaking them by the hand. \"Zounds, my dear fellow,\" he added,\nsmothering a slight yawn, \"did you ever see such a beastly day? Demmed\nclimate this.\"\n\nWith a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half of sarcasm,\nMarguerite had turned towards her husband, and was surveying him from\nhead to foot, with an amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes.\n\n\"La!\" said Sir Percy, after a moment or two's silence, as no one offered\nany comment, \"how sheepish you all look . . . What's up?\"\n\n\"Oh, nothing, Sir Percy,\" replied Marguerite, with a certain amount of\ngaiety, which, however, sounded somewhat forced, \"nothing to disturb\nyour equanimity--only an insult to your wife.\"\n\nThe laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended to\nreassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparently\nsucceeded in that, for echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly--\n\n\"La, m'dear! you don't say so. Begad! who was the bold man who dared to\ntackle you--eh?\"\n\nLord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to do so, for the young\nVicomte had already quickly stepped forward.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" he said, prefixing his little speech with an elaborate bow,\nand speaking in broken English, \"my mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de\nBasserive, has offenced Madame, who, I see, is your wife. I cannot ask\nyour pardon for my mother; what she does is right in my eyes. But I am\nready to offer you the usual reparation between men of honour.\"\n\nThe young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and looked\nvery enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot as he gazed at six foot odd\nof gorgeousness, as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.\n\n\"Lud, Sir Andrew,\" said Marguerite, with one of her merry infectious\nlaughs, \"look on that pretty picture--the English turkey and the French\nbantam.\"\n\nThe simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey looked down with\ncomplete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam, which\nhovered quite threateningly around him.\n\n\"La! sir,\" said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye glass and\nsurveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, \"where, in\nthe cuckoo's name, did you learn to speak English?\"\n\n\"Monsieur!\" protested the Vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way his\nwarlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman.\n\n\"I protest 'tis marvellous!\" continued Sir Percy, imperturbably, \"demmed\nmarvellous! Don't you think so, Tony--eh? I vow I can't speak the French\nlingo like that. What?\"\n\n\"Nay, I'll vouch for that!\" rejoined Marguerite, \"Sir Percy has a\nBritish accent you could cut with a knife.\"\n\n\"Monsieur,\" interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in still more broken\nEnglish, \"I fear you have not understand. I offer you the only posseeble\nreparation among gentlemen.\"\n\n\"What the devil is that?\" asked Sir Percy, blandly.\n\n\"My sword, Monsieur,\" replied the Vicomte, who, though still bewildered,\nwas beginning to lose his temper.\n\n\"You are a sportsman, Lord Tony,\" said Marguerite, merrily; \"ten to one\non the little bantam.\"\n\nBut Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment or two,\nthrough his partly closed heavy lids, then he smothered another yawn,\nstretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away.\n\n\"Lud love you, sir,\" he muttered good-humouredly, \"demmit, young man,\nwhat's the good of your sword to me?\"\n\nWhat the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, when that long-limbed\nEnglishman treated him with such marked insolence, might fill volumes\nof sound reflections. . . . What he said resolved itself into a single\narticulate word, for all the others were choked in his throat by his\nsurging wrath--\n\n\"A duel, Monsieur,\" he stammered.\n\nOnce more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude looked down on the\ncholeric little man before him; but not even for a second did he seem to\nlose his own imperturbable good-humour. He laughed his own pleasant\nand inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into the capacious\npockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely--\"a bloodthirsty young\nruffian, Do you want to make a hole in a law-abiding man? . . . As for\nme, sir, I never fight duels,\" he added, as he placidly sat down and\nstretched his long, lazy legs out before him. \"Demmed uncomfortable\nthings, duels, ain't they, Tony?\"\n\nNow the Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in England the fashion\nof duelling amongst gentlemen had been surpressed by the law with a\nvery stern hand; still to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of bravery and\nhonour were based upon a code that had centuries of tradition to back\nit, the spectacle of a gentleman actually refusing to fight a duel was a\nlittle short of an enormity. In his mind he vaguely pondered whether\nhe should strike that long-legged Englishman in the face and call him\na coward, or whether such conduct in a lady's presence might be deemed\nungentlemanly, when Marguerite happily interposed.\n\n\"I pray you, Lord Tony,\" she said in that gentle, sweet, musical voice\nof hers, \"I pray you play the peacemaker. The child is bursting with\nrage, and,\" she added with a SOUPCON of dry sarcasm, \"might do Sir Percy\nan injury.\" She laughed a mocking little laugh, which, however, did\nnot in the least disturb her husband's placid equanimity. \"The British\nturkey has had the day,\" she said. \"Sir Percy would provoke all the\nsaints in the calendar and keep his temper the while.\"\n\nBut already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had joined in the laugh\nagainst himself.\n\n\"Demmed smart that now, wasn't it?\" he said, turning pleasantly to the\nVicomte. \"Clever woman my wife, sir. . . . You will find THAT out if\nyou live long enough in England.\"\n\n\"Sir Percy is right, Vicomte,\" here interposed Lord Antony, laying a\nfriendly hand on the young Frenchman's shoulder. \"It would hardly be\nfitting that you should commence your career in England by provoking him\nto a duel.\"\n\nFor a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then with a slight shrug\nof the shoulders directed against the extraordinary code of honour\nprevailing in this fog-ridden island, he said with becoming dignity,--\n\n\"Ah, well! if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs. You mi'lor', are\nour protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself.\"\n\n\"Aye, do!\" rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of satisfaction,\n\"withdraw yourself over there. Demmed excitable little puppy,\" he added\nunder his breath, \"Faith, Ffoulkes, if that's a specimen of the goods\nyou and your friends bring over from France, my advice to you is, drop\n'em 'mid Channel, my friend, or I shall have to see old Pitt about it,\nget him to clap on a prohibitive tariff, and put you in the stocks an\nyou smuggle.\"\n\n\"La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you,\" said Marguerite,\ncoquettishly, \"you forget that you yourself have imported one bundle of\ngoods from France.\"\n\nBlakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep and elaborate bow\nbefore his wife, he said with consummate gallantry,--\n\n\"I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste is unerring.\"\n\n\"More so than your chivalry, I fear,\" she retorted sarcastically.\n\n\"Odd's life, m'dear! be reasonable! Do you think I am going to allow my\nbody to be made a pincushion of, by every little frog-eater who don't\nlike the shape of your nose?\"\n\n\"Lud, Sir Percy!\" laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a quaint and\npretty curtsey, \"you need not be afraid! 'Tis not the MEN who dislike\nthe shape of my nose.\"\n\n\"Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame? I don't patronise\nthe ring for nothing, do I, Tony? I've put up the fists with Red Sam\nbefore now, and--and he didn't get it all his own way either--\"\n\n\"S'faith, Sir Percy,\" said Marguerite, with a long and merry laugh, that\nwent echoing along the old oak rafters of the parlour, \"I would I\nhad seen you then . . . ha! ha! ha! ha!--you must have looked a pretty\npicture . . . and . . . and to be afraid of a little French boy . . . ha!\nha! . . . ha! ha!\"\n\n\"Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he!\" echoed Sir Percy, good-humouredly. \"La,\nMadame, you honour me! Zooks! Ffoulkes, mark ye that! I have made my\nwife laugh!--The cleverest woman in Europe! . . . Odd's fish, we must\nhave a bowl on that!\" and he tapped vigorously on the table near him.\n\"Hey! Jelly! Quick, man! Here, Jelly!\"\n\nHarmony was once more restored. Mr. Jellyband, with a mighty effort,\nrecovered himself from the many emotions he had experienced within the\nlast half hour. \"A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong, eh?\" said\nSir Percy. \"The wits that have just made a clever woman laugh must be\nwhetted! Ha! ha! ha! Hasten, my good Jelly!\"\n\n\"Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy,\" interposed Marguerite. \"The skipper\nwill be here directly and my brother must get on board, or the DAY DREAM\nwill miss the tide.\"\n\n\"Time, m'dear? There is plenty of time for any gentleman to get drunk\nand get on board before the turn of the tide.\"\n\n\"I think, your ladyship,\" said Jellyband, respectfully, \"that the young\ngentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy's skipper.\"\n\n\"That's right,\" said Blakeney, \"then Armand can join us in the merry\nbowl. Think you, Tony,\" he added, turning towards the Vicomte, \"that the\njackanapes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that we drink in\ntoken of reconciliation.\"\n\n\"In fact you are all such merry company,\" said Marguerite, \"that I trust\nyou will forgive me if I bid my brother good-bye in another room.\"\n\nIt would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord Antony and Sir Andrew\nfelt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with them at the\nmoment. Her love for her brother, Armand St. Just, was deep and touching\nin the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with her in her English\nhome, and was going back to serve his country, at the moment when death\nwas the usual reward for the most enduring devotion.\n\nSir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. With that perfect,\nsomewhat affected gallantry which characterised his every movement, he\nopened the coffee-room door for her, and made her the most approved and\nelaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as she sailed\nout of the room without bestowing on him more than a passing, slightly\ncontemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whose every thought since\nhe had met Suzanne de Tournay seemed keener, more gentle, more innately\nsympathetic, noted the curious look of intense longing, of deep and\nhopeless passion, with which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed\nthe retreating figure of his brilliant wife.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII THE SECRET ORCHARD\n\n\n\nOnce outside the noisy coffee-room, alone in the dimly-lighted passage,\nMarguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe more freely. She heaved a deep\nsigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the heavy weight of\nconstant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to fall unheeded down\nher cheeks.\n\nOutside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly passing clouds, the\npale rays of an after-storm sun shone upon the beautiful white coast of\nKent and the quaint, irregular houses that clustered round the Admiralty\nPier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch and looked out to sea.\nSilhouetted against the ever-changing sky, a graceful schooner, with\nwhite sails set, was gently dancing in the breeze. The DAY DREAM it was,\nSir Percy Blakeney's yacht, which was ready to take Armand St. Just back\nto France into the very midst of that seething, bloody Revolution which\nwas overthrowing a monarchy, attacking a religion, destroying a society,\nin order to try and rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of\nwhich a few men dreamed, but which none had the power to establish.\n\nIn the distance two figures were approaching \"The Fisherman's Rest\":\none, an oldish man, with a curious fringe of grey hairs round a rotund\nand massive chin, and who walked with that peculiar rolling gait which\ninvariably betrays the seafaring man: the other, a young, slight figure,\nneatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many caped overcoat; he was\nclean-shaved, and his dark hair was taken well back over a clear and\nnoble forehead.\n\n\"Armand!\" said Marguerite Blakeney, as soon as she saw him approaching\nfrom the distance, and a happy smile shone on her sweet face, even\nthrough the tears.\n\nA minute or two later brother and sister were locked in each other's\narms, while the old skipper stood respectfully on one side.\n\n\"How much time have we got, Briggs?\" asked Lady Blakeney, \"before M. St.\nJust need go on board?\"\n\n\"We ought to weigh anchor before half an hour, your ladyship,\" replied\nthe old man, pulling at his grey forelock.\n\nLinking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother towards the cliffs.\n\n\"Half an hour,\" she said, looking wistfully out to sea, \"half an hour\nmore and you'll be far from me, Armand! Oh! I can't believe that you are\ngoing, dear! These last few days--whilst Percy has been away, and I've\nhad you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream.\"\n\n\"I am not going far, sweet one,\" said the young man gently, \"a narrow\nchannel to cross--a few miles of road--I can soon come back.\"\n\n\"Nay, 'tis not the distance, Armand--but that awful Paris . . . just now\n. . .\"\n\nThey had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle sea-breeze blew\nMarguerite's hair about her face, and sent the ends of her soft lace\nfichu waving round her, like a white and supple snake. She tried to\npierce the distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of France:\nthat relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound of flesh,\nthe blood-tax from the noblest of her sons.\n\n\"Our own beautiful country, Marguerite,\" said Armand, who seemed to have\ndivined her thoughts.\n\n\"They are going too far, Armand,\" she said vehemently. \"You are a\nrepublican, so am I . . . we have the same thoughts, the same enthusiasm\nfor liberty and equality . . . but even YOU must think that they are\ngoing too far . . .\"\n\n\"Hush!--\" said Armand, instinctively, as he threw a quick, apprehensive\nglance around him.\n\n\"Ah! you see: you don't think yourself that it is safe even to speak of\nthese things--here in England!\" She clung to him suddenly with strong,\nalmost motherly, passion: \"Don't go, Armand!\" she begged; \"don't go\nback! What should I do if . . . if . . . if . . .\"\n\nHer voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue and loving, gazed\nappealingly at the young man, who in his turn looked steadfastly into\nhers.\n\n\"You would in any case be my own brave sister,\" he said gently, \"who\nwould remember that, when France is in peril, it is not for her sons to\nturn their backs on her.\"\n\nEven as he spoke, that sweet childlike smile crept back into her face,\npathetic in the extreme, for it seemed drowned in tears.\n\n\"Oh! Armand!\" she said quaintly, \"I sometimes wish you had not so many\nlofty virtues. . . . I assure you little sins are far less dangerous\nand uncomfortable. But you WILL be prudent?\" she added earnestly.\n\n\"As far as possible . . . I promise you.\"\n\n\"Remember, dear, I have only you . . . to . . . to care for me. . . .\"\n\n\"Nay, sweet one, you have other interests now. Percy cares for\nyou . . .\"\n\nA look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes as she murmured,--\n\n\"He did . . . once . . .\"\n\n\"But surely . . .\"\n\n\"There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my account. Percy is\nvery good . . .\"\n\n\"Nay!\" he interrupted energetically, \"I will distress myself on your\naccount, my Margot. Listen, dear, I have not spoken of these things to\nyou before; something always seemed to stop me when I wished to question\nyou. But, somehow, I feel as if I could not go away and leave you now\nwithout asking you one question. . . . You need not answer it if you\ndo not wish,\" he added, as he noted a sudden hard look, almost of\napprehension, darting through her eyes.\n\n\"What is it?\" she asked simply.\n\n\"Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that . . . I mean, does he know the part\nyou played in the arrest of the Marquis de St. Cyr?\"\n\nShe laughed--a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which was like a\njarring chord in the music of her voice.\n\n\"That I denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr, you mean, to the tribunal that\nultimately sent him and all his family to the guillotine? Yes, he does\nknow. . . . . I told him after I married him. . . .\"\n\n\"You told him all the circumstances--which so completely exonerated you\nfrom any blame?\"\n\n\"It was too late to talk of 'circumstances'; he heard the story from\nother sources; my confession came too tardily, it seems. I could no\nlonger plead extenuating circumstances: I could not demean myself by\ntrying to explain--\"\n\n\"And?\"\n\n\"And now I have the satisfaction, Armand, of knowing that the biggest\nfool in England has the most complete contempt for his wife.\"\n\nShe spoke with vehement bitterness this time, and Armand St. Just, who\nloved her so dearly, felt that he had placed a somewhat clumsy finger\nupon an aching wound.\n\n\"But Sir Percy loved you, Margot,\" he repeated gently.\n\n\"Loved me?--Well, Armand, I thought at one time that he did, or I should\nnot have married him. I daresay,\" she added, speaking very rapidly, as\nif she were about to lay down a heavy burden, which had oppressed her\nfor months, \"I daresay that even you thought--as everybody else did--that\nI married Sir Percy because of his wealth--but I assure you, dear,\nthat it was not so. He seemed to worship me with a curious intensity of\nconcentrated passion, which went straight to my heart. I had never\nloved any one before, as you know, and I was four-and-twenty then--so\nI naturally thought that it was not in my nature to love. But it has\nalways seemed to me that it MUST be HEAVENLY to be loved blindly,\npassionately, wholly . . . worshipped, in fact--and the very fact that\nPercy was slow and stupid was an attraction for me, as I thought he\nwould love me all the more. A clever man would naturally have other\ninterests, an ambitious man other hopes. . . . I thought that a fool\nwould worship, and think of nothing else. And I was ready to respond,\nArmand; I would have allowed myself to be worshipped, and given infinite\ntenderness in return. . . .\"\n\nShe sighed--and there was a world of disillusionment in that sigh.\nArmand St. Just had allowed her to speak on without interruption: he\nlistened to her, whilst allowing his own thoughts to run riot. It\nwas terrible to see a young and beautiful woman--a girl in all but\nname--still standing almost at the threshold of her life, yet bereft\nof hope, bereft of illusions, bereft of all those golden and fantastic\ndreams, which should have made her youth one long, perpetual holiday.\n\nYet perhaps--though he loved his sister dearly--perhaps he understood:\nhe had studied men in many countries, men of all ages, men of every\ngrade of social and intellectual status, and inwardly he understood what\nMarguerite had left unsaid. Granted that Percy Blakeney was dull-witted,\nbut in his slow-going mind, there would still be room for that\nineradicable pride of a descendant of a long line of English gentlemen.\nA Blakeney had died on Bosworth field, another had sacrified life\nand fortune for the sake of a treacherous Stuart: and that same\npride--foolish and prejudiced as the republican Armand would call\nit--must have been stung to the quick on hearing of the sin which lay\nat Lady Blakeney's door. She had been young, misguided, ill-advised\nperhaps. Armand knew that: her impulses and imprudence, knew it\nstill better; but Blakeney was slow-witted, he would not listen to\n\"circumstances,\" he only clung to facts, and these had shown him Lady\nBlakeney denouncing a fellow man to a tribunal that knew no pardon:\nand the contempt he would feel for the deed she had done, however\nunwittingly, would kill that same love in him, in which sympathy and\nintellectuality could never have a part.\n\nYet even now, his own sister puzzled him. Life and love have such\nstrange vagaries. Could it be that with the waning of her husband's\nlove, Marguerite's heart had awakened with love for him? Strange\nextremes meet in love's pathway: this woman, who had had half\nintellectual Europe at her feet, might perhaps have set her affections\non a fool. Marguerite was gazing out towards the sunset. Armand could\nnot see her face, but presently it seemed to him that something which\nglittered for a moment in the golden evening light, fell from her eyes\nonto her dainty fichu of lace.\n\nBut he could not broach that subject with her. He knew her strange,\npassionate nature so well, and knew that reserve which lurked behind\nher frank, open ways. They had always been together, these two, for their\nparents had died when Armand was still a youth, and Marguerite but a\nchild. He, some eight years her senior, had watched over her until her\nmarriage; had chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in the\nflat of the Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her enter upon this new life\nof hers, here in England, with much sorrow and some foreboding.\n\nThis was his first visit to England since her marriage, and the few\nmonths of separation had already seemed to have built up a slight, thin\npartition between brother and sister; the same deep, intense love\nwas still there, on both sides, but each now seemed to have a secret\norchard, into which the other dared not penetrate.\n\nThere was much Armand St. Just could not tell his sister; the political\naspect of the revolution in France was changing almost every day; she\nmight not understand how his own views and sympathies might become\nmodified, even as the excesses, committed by those who had been his\nfriends, grew in horror and in intensity. And Marguerite could not speak\nto her brother about the secrets of her heart; she hardly understood\nthem herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury, she felt\nlonely and unhappy.\n\nAnd now Armand was going away; she feared for his safety, she longed for\nhis presence. She would not spoil these last few sadly-sweet moments by\nspeaking about herself. She led him gently along the cliffs, then down\nto the beach; their arms linked in one another's, they had still so much\nto say that lay just outside that secret orchard of theirs.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII THE ACCREDITED AGENT\n\n\n\nThe afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long, chilly English\nsummer's evening was throwing a misty pall over the green Kentish\nlandscape.\n\nThe DAY DREAM had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on the\nedge of the cliff over an hour, watching those white sails, which bore\nso swiftly away from her the only being who really cared for her, whom\nshe dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.\n\nSome little distance away to her left the lights from the coffee-room of\n\"The Fisherman's Rest\" glittered yellow in the gathering mist; from time\nto time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from thence\nthe sound of merry-making and of jovial talk, or even that perpetual,\nsenseless laugh of her husband's, which grated continually upon her\nsensitive ears.\n\nSir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely alone. She supposed\nthat, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have understood that\nshe would wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared into\nthe vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose notions of propriety\nand decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested even that an\nattendant should remain within call. Marguerite was grateful to her\nhusband for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for his\nthoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his generosity, which really\nwas boundless. She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter\nthoughts of him, which made her--in spite of herself--say cruel,\ninsulting things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him.\n\nYes! she often wished to wound him, to make him feel that she too held\nhim in contempt, that she too had forgotten that she had almost loved\nhim. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts seemed unable to soar beyond\nthe tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. Bah! And yet! . . . vague\nmemories, that were sweet and ardent and attuned to this calm summer's\nevening, came wafted back to her memory, on the invisible wings of the\nlight sea-breeze: the tie when first he worshipped her; he seemed so\ndevoted--a very slave--and there was a certain latent intensity in that\nlove which had fascinated her.\n\nThen suddenly that love, that devotion, which throughout his courtship\nshe had looked upon as the slavish fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanish\ncompletely. Twenty-four hours after the simple little ceremony at old\nSt. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had\nspoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr before\nsome men--her friends--who had used this information against the\nunfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.\n\nShe hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear brother, loved Angele\nde St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian, and the Marquis full of\nthe pride and arrogant prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, the\nrespectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem--enthusiastic,\nardent, passionate--to the idol of his dreams. The next night he was\nwaylaid just outside Paris by the valets of Marquis de St. Cyr, and\nignominiously thrashed--thrashed like a dog within an inch of his\nlife--because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of the\naristocrat. The incident was one which, in those days, some two years\nbefore the great Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France;\nincidents of that type, in fact, led to bloody reprisals, which a few\nyears later sent most of those haughty heads to the guillotine.\n\nMarguerite remembered it all: what her brother must have suffered in\nhis manhood and his pride must have been appalling; what she suffered\nthrough him and with him she never attempted even to analyse.\n\nThen the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and his kin had found their\nmasters, in those same plebeians whom they had despised. Armand and\nMarguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with the\nenthusiasm of their years the Utopian doctrines of the Revolution,\nwhile the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family fought inch by inch for the\nretention of those privileges which had placed them socially above their\nfellow-men. Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the\npurport of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult her\nbrother had suffered at the Marquis' hands, happened to hear--amongst\nher own coterie--that the St. Cyrs were in treasonable correspondence\nwith Austria, hoping to obtain the Emperor's support to quell the\ngrowing revolution in their own country.\n\nIn those days one denunciation was sufficient: Marguerite's few\nthoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr bore fruit within\ntwenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched: letters\nfrom the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the Paris\npopulace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned for treason against\nthe nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family, his wife and\nhis sons, shared in this awful fate.\n\nMarguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own\nthoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: his own coterie, the\nleaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine:\nand when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogether\nrealise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she had so\ninadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her soul. She\nmade full confession of it to her husband, trusting his blind love for\nher, her boundless power over him, to soon make him forget what might\nhave sounded unpleasant to an English ear.\n\nCertainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly; hardly, in\nfact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she said; but what\nwas more certain still, was that never after that could she detect the\nslightest sign of that love, which she once believed had been wholly\nhers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have\nlaid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried\nto rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect;\nendeavouring to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love;\ntried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He remained the\nsame, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous, invariably a\ngentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give to\na pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's evening, with the white\nsails of the DAY DREAM finally hidden by the evening shadows, she felt\nmore lonely than that poor tramp who plodded his way wearily along the\nrugged cliffs.\n\nWith another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back upon the\nsea and cliffs, and walked slowly back towards \"The Fisherman's Rest.\"\nAs she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew\nlouder and more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'\npleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's\noccasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness of\nthe road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps\n. . . the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards\nher. Marguerite did not look up: she was not the least nervous, and \"The\nFisherman's Rest\" was now well within call.\n\nThe stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him,\nand just as she was about to slip past him, he said very quietly:\n\n\"Citoyenne St. Just.\"\n\nMarguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus hearing her\nown familiar maiden name uttered so close to her. She looked up at the\nstranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put out\nboth her hands effusively towards him.\n\n\"Chauvelin!\" she exclaimed.\n\n\"Himself, citoyenne, at your service,\" said the stranger, gallantly\nkissing the tips of her fingers.\n\nMarguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed with\nobvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her.\nChauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty--a clever, shrewd-looking\npersonality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunken\neyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously had joined\nMr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.\n\n\"Chauvelin . . . my friend . . .\" said Marguerite, with a pretty little\nsigh of satisfaction. \"I am mightily pleased to see you.\"\n\nNo doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her grandeur,\nand of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that brought back\nmemories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned--a queen--over\nthe intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not notice\nthe sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips of\nChauvelin.\n\n\"But tell me,\" she added merrily, \"what in the world, or whom in the\nworld, are you doing here in England?\"\n\n\"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady,\" he said. \"What of\nyourself?\"\n\n\"Oh, I?\" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. \"Je m'ennuie, mon ami,\nthat is all.\"\n\nThey had reached the porch of \"The Fisherman's Rest,\" but Marguerite\nseemed loth to go within. The evening air was lovely after the storm,\nand she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris, who knew\nArmand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends whom\nshe had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty porch, while\nthrough the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the coffee-room sounds of\nlaughter, of calls for \"Sally\" and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and\nclinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and mirthless\nlaugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed\non the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft\nEnglish summer twilight.\n\n\"You surprise me, citoyenne,\" he said quietly, as he took a pinch of\nsnuff.\n\n\"Do I now?\" she retorted gaily. \"Faith, my little Chauvelin, I should\nhave thought that, with your penetration, you would have guessed that an\natmosphere composed of fogs and virtues would never suit Marguerite St.\nJust.\"\n\n\"Dear me! is it as bad as that?\" he asked, in mock consternation.\n\n\"Quite,\" she retorted, \"and worse.\"\n\n\"Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found English\ncountry life peculiarly attractive.\"\n\n\"Yes! so did I,\" she said with a sigh, \"Pretty women,\" she added\nmeditatively, \"ought to have a good time in England, since all the\npleasant things are forbidden them--the very things they do every day.\"\n\n\"Quite so!\"\n\n\"You'll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin,\" she said earnestly,\n\"but I often pass a whole day--a whole day--without encountering a\nsingle temptation.\"\n\n\"No wonder,\" retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, \"that the cleverest woman in\nEurope is troubled with ENNUI.\"\n\nShe laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs.\n\n\"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?\" she asked archly, \"or I should not\nhave been so pleased to see you.\"\n\n\"And this within a year of a romantic love match . . . that's just the\ndifficulty . . .\"\n\n\"Ah! . . . that idyllic folly,\" said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm, \"did\nnot then survive the lapse of . . . weeks?\"\n\n\"Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin . . . They come upon us\nlike the measles . . . and are as easily cured.\"\n\nChauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addicted\nto that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, he\nfound the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick,\nshrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those with\nwhom he came in contact.\n\n\"No wonder,\" he repeated, with the same gallantry, \"that the most active\nbrain in Europe is troubled with ENNUI.\"\n\n\"I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, my\nlittle Chauvelin.\"\n\n\"How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failed\nto accomplish?\"\n\n\"Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dear\nfriend?\" she said drily.\n\n\"Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very well\ndo,\" said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of a\nfox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. \"I have a most\nperfect prescription against the worst form of ENNUI, which I would have\nbeen happy to submit to you, but--\"\n\n\"But what?\"\n\n\"There IS Sir Percy.\"\n\n\"What has he to do with it?\"\n\n\"Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I would offer, fair\nlady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!\"\n\n\"Work?\"\n\nChauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed as\nif those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts.\nThey were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and their\nsoft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room.\nStill, Chauvelin took a step or two from under the porch, looked\nquickly and keenly all round him, then seeing that indeed no one was\nwithin earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.\n\n\"Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?\" he asked, with a\nsudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face a singular\nearnestness.\n\n\"La, man!\" she replied flippantly, \"how serious you look all of a\nsudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I WOULD render France a small\nservice--at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she--or\nyou--want.\"\n\n\"Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St. Just?\"\nasked Chauvelin, abruptly.\n\n\"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?\" she retorted with a long and merry\nlaugh, \"Faith man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats 'a la\nScarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the\nPrince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'souffle a la\nScarlet Pimpernel.' . . . Lud!\" she added gaily, \"the other day I ordered\nat my milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if she\ndid not call that 'a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'\"\n\nChauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he did not\neven attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laugh\nwent echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and\nearnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, incisive, and hard,\nwas not raised above his breath as he said,--\n\n\"Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you\nmust also have guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identity\nunder that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic,\nof France . . . of men like Armand St. Just.\"\n\n\"La!\" she said, with a quaint little sigh, \"I dare swear he is. . . .\nFrance has many bitter enemies these days.\"\n\n\"But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to\nhelp her in a moment of deadly peril.\"\n\n\"My brother Armand devotes his life to France,\" she retorted proudly;\n\"as for me, I can do nothing . . . here in England. . . .\"\n\n\"Yes, you . . .\" he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox-like\nface seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of dignity,\n\"here, in England, citoyenne . . . you alone can help us. . . .\nListen!--I have been sent over here by the Republican Government as\nits representative: I present my credentials to Mr. Pitt in London\nto-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League\nof the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France,\nsince it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats--traitors to their\ncountry, and enemies of the people--to escape from the just punishment\nwhich they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they\nare over here, those French EMIGRES try to rouse public feeling against\nthe Republic . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold\nenough to attack France . . . Now, within the last month scores of these\nEMIGRES, some only suspected of treason, others actually condemned by\nthe Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the Channel.\nTheir escape in each instance was planned, organized and effected by\nthis society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose brain\nseems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the most\nstrenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover who\nhe is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath this\nstrange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. I mean\nto strike at that head, and for this I want your help--through him\nafterwards I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck in\nEnglish society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne!\"\nhe urged, \"find him for France.\"\n\nMarguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned speech without\nuttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe. She\nhad told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of\nthe smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her heart and\nher imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave man, who,\nunknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an\nunmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with those haughty\nFrench aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste, of whom the\nComtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an example; but\nrepublican and liberal-minded though she was from principle, she hated\nand loathed the methods which the young Republic had chosen for\nestablishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some months; the\nhorrors and bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, culminating in the\nSeptember massacres, had only come across the Channel to her as a faint\necho. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not known in their new guise\nof bloody judiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine. Her very\nsoul recoiled in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her\nbrother Armand--moderate republican as he was--might become one day the\nholocaust.\n\nThen, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts,\nwho, for sheer love of their fellowmen, dragged women and children, old\nand young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride\nfor them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to the\ngallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who risked\nhis life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake\nof humanity.\n\nHer eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished speaking, the lace at\nher bosom rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing; she no longer\nheard the noise of drinking from the inn, she did not heed her husband's\nvoice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering in search of\nthe mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had he\ncome her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination;\nhis personality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of those\nwho served under him in that same noble cause, and, above all, that\nanonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo of romantic glory.\n\n\"Find him for France, citoyenne!\"\n\nChauvelin's voice close to her ear roused her from her dreams. The\nmysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a man\nwas drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty.\n\n\"La! man,\" she said with a return of her assumed flippancy, \"you are\nastonishing. Where in the world am I to look for him?\"\n\n\"You go everywhere, citoyenne,\" whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly,\n\"Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am told . . . you see\neverything, you HEAR everything.\"\n\n\"Easy, my friend,\" retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her full\nheight and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small,\nthin figure before her. \"Easy! you seem to forget that there are six\nfeet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand\nbetween Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose.\"\n\n\"For the sake of France, citoyenne!\" reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly.\n\n\"Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway; for even if you did know who this\nScarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him--an Englishman!\"\n\n\"I'd take my chance of that,\" said Chauvelin, with a dry, rasping little\nlaugh. \"At any rate we could send him to the guillotine first to cool\nhis ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we can\napologise--humbly--to the British Government, and, if necessary, pay\ncompensation to the bereaved family.\"\n\n\"What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin,\" she said, drawing away from\nhim as from some noisome insect. \"Whoever the man may be, he is brave\nand noble, and never--do you hear me?--never would I lend a hand to such\nvillainy.\"\n\n\"You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who comes to this\ncountry?\"\n\nChauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft. Marguerite's\nfresh young cheeks became a touch more pale and she bit her under lip,\nfor she would not let him see that the shaft had struck home.\n\n\"That is beside the question,\" she said at last with indifference. \"I\ncan defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you--or for\nFrance. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, my\nfriend.\"\n\nAnd without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her\nback on him and walked straight into the inn.\n\n\"That is not your last word, citoyenne,\" said Chauvelin, as a flood of\nlight from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, \"we\nmeet in London, I hope!\"\n\n\"We meet in London,\" she said, speaking over her shoulder at him, \"but\nthat is my last word.\"\n\nShe threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his view,\nbut he remained under the porch for a moment or two, taking a pinch of\nsnuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like\nface looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the contrary, a curious\nsmile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners of\nhis thin lips.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX THE OUTRAGE\n\n\n\nA beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of incessant rain: a\ncool, balmy, late summer's night, essentially English in its suggestion\nof moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.\n\nThe magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest thoroughbreds in\nEngland, had driven off along the London road, with Sir Percy Blakeney\non the box, holding the reins in his slender feminine hands, and beside\nhim Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs. A fifty-mile drive on a\nstarlit summer's night! Marguerite had hailed the notion of it\nwith delight. . . . Sir Percy was an enthusiastic whip; his four\nthoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a couple of days\nbefore, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add zest to the\nexpedition and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the few hours of\nsolitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks, her thoughts\nwandering, whither away? She knew from old experience that Sir Percy\nwould speak little, if at all: he had often driven her on his beautiful\ncoach for hours at night, from point to point, without making more than\none or two casual remarks upon the weather or the state of the roads. He\nwas very fond of driving by night, and she had very quickly adopted his\nfancy: as she sat next to him hour after hour, admiring the dexterous,\ncertain way in which he handled the reins, she often wondered what went\non in that slow-going head of his. He never told her, and she had never\ncared to ask.\n\nAt \"The Fisherman's Rest\" Mr. Jellyband was going the round, putting\nout the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs in the snug\nlittle bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important guests: the\nComtesse de Tournay, with Suzannne, and the Vicomte, and there were two\nmore bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, if\nthe two young men should elect to honour the ancient hostelry and stay\nthe night.\n\nFor the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installed\nin the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of the\nmildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily.\n\n\"I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?\" asked Lord Tony, as the worthy\nlandlord still busied himself clearing away glasses and mugs.\n\n\"Everyone, as you see, my lord.\"\n\n\"And all your servants gone to bed?\"\n\n\"All except the boy on duty in the bar, and,\" added Mr. Jellyband with a\nlaugh, \"I expect he'll be asleep afore long, the rascal.\"\n\n\"Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an hour?\"\n\n\"At your service, my lord. . . . I'll leave your candles on the dresser\n. . . and your rooms are quite ready . . . I sleep at the top of the house\nmyself, but if your lordship'll only call loudly enough, I daresay I\nshall hear.\"\n\n\"All right, Jelly . . . and . . . I say, put the lamp out--the fire'll\ngive us all the light we need--and we don't want to attract the\npasser-by.\"\n\n\"Al ri', my lord.\"\n\nMr. Jellyband did as he was bid--he turned out the quaint old lamp that\nhung from the raftered ceiling and blew out all the candles.\n\n\"Let's have a bottle of wine, Jelly,\" suggested Sir Andrew.\n\n\"Al ri', sir!\"\n\nJellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room now was quite dark, save\nfor the circle of ruddy and fitful light formed by the brightly blazing\nlogs in the hearth.\n\n\"Is that all, gentlemen?\" asked Jellyband, as he returned with a bottle\nof wine and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table.\n\n\"That'll do nicely, thanks, Jelly!\" said Lord Tony.\n\n\"Good-night, my lord! Good-night, sir!\"\n\n\"Good-night, Jelly!\"\n\nThe two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread of Mr. Jellyband was\nheard echoing along the passage and staircase. Presently even that sound\ndied out, and the whole of \"The Fisherman's Rest\" seemed wrapt in sleep,\nsave the two young men drinking in silence beside the hearth.\n\nFor a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee-room, save the\nticking of the old grandfather's clock and the crackling of the burning\nwood.\n\n\"All right again this time, Ffoulkes?\" asked Lord Antony at last.\n\nSir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire, and seeing\ntherein, no doubt, a pretty, piquant face, with large brown eyes and a\nwealth of dark curls round a childish forehead.\n\n\"Yes!\" he said, still musing, \"all right!\"\n\n\"No hitch?\"\n\n\"None.\"\n\nLord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself out another glass of\nwine.\n\n\"I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the journey pleasant this\ntime?\"\n\n\"No, friend, you need not ask,\" replied Sir Andrew, gaily. \"It was all\nright.\"\n\n\"Then here's to her very good health,\" said jovial Lord Tony. \"She's\na bonnie lass, though she IS a French one. And here's to your\ncourtship--may it flourish and prosper exceedingly.\"\n\nHe drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his friend beside the\nhearth.\n\n\"Well! you'll be doing the journey next, Tony, I expect,\" said Sir\nAndrew, rousing himself from his meditations, \"you and Hastings,\ncertainly; and I hope you may have as pleasant a task as I had, and as\ncharming a travelling companion. You have no idea, Tony. . . .\"\n\n\"No! I haven't,\" interrupted his friend pleasantly, \"but I'll take your\nword for it. And now,\" he added, whilst a sudden earnestness crept over\nhis jovial young face, \"how about business?\" The two young men drew\ntheir chairs closer together, and instinctively, though they were alone,\ntheir voices sank to a whisper.\n\n\"I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few moments in Calais,\" said\nSir Andrew, \"a day or two ago. He crossed over to England two days\nbefore we did. He had escorted the party all the way from Paris,\ndressed--you'll never credit it!--as an old market woman, and\ndriving--until they were safely out of the city--the covered cart,\nunder which the Comtesse de Tournay, Mlle. Suzanne, and the Vicomte lay\nconcealed among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of course,\nnever suspected who their driver was. He drove them right through a line\nof soldiery and a yelling mob, who were screaming, 'A bas les aristos!'\nBut the market cart got through along with some others, and the Scarlet\nPimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood, yelled 'A bas les aristos!'\nlouder than anybody. Faith!\" added the young man, as his eyes glowed\nwith enthusiasm for the beloved leader, \"that man's a marvel! His cheek\nis preposterous, I vow!--and that's what carries him through.\"\n\nLord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of his friend,\ncould only find an oath or two with which to show his admiration for his\nleader.\n\n\"He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais,\" said Sir Andrew,\nmore quietly, \"on the 2nd of next month. Let me see! that will be next\nWednesday.\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay, this time; a\ndangerous task, for the Comte, whose escape from his chateau, after he\nhad been declared a 'suspect' by the Committee of Public Safety, was a\nmasterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel's ingenuity, is now under sentence\nof death. It will be rare sport to get HIM out of France, and you will\nhave a narrow escape, if you get through at all. St. Just has actually\ngone to meet him--of course, no one suspects St. Just as yet; but after\nthat . . . to get them both out of the country! I'faith, 'twill be a\ntough job, and tax even the ingenuity of our chief. I hope I may yet\nhave orders to be of the party.\"\n\n\"Have you any special instructions for me?\"\n\n\"Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It appears that the\nRepublican Government have sent an accredited agent over to England,\na man named Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter against our\nleague, and determined to discover the identity of our leader, so that\nhe may have him kidnapped, the next time he attempts to set foot in\nFrance. This Chauvelin has brought a whole army of spies with him, and\nuntil the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we should meet as seldom\nas possible on the business of the league, and on no account should talk\nto each other in public places for a time. When he wants to speak to us,\nhe will contrive to let us know.\"\n\nThe two young men were both bending over the fire for the blaze had died\ndown, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a lurid light on\na narrow semicircle in front of the hearth. The rest of the room lay\nburied in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a pocket-book from his\npocket, and drawn therefrom a paper, which he unfolded, and together\nthey tried to read it by the dim red firelight. So intent were they upon\nthis, so wrapt up in the cause, the business they had so much at heart,\nso precious was this document which came from the very hand of their\nadored leader, that they had eyes and ears only for that. They lost\ncount of the sounds around them, of the dropping of the crisp ash from\nthe grate, of the monotonous ticking of the clock, of the soft, almost\nimperceptible rustle of something on the floor close beside them. A\nfigure had emerged from under one of the benches; with snake-like,\nnoiseless movements it crept closer and closer to the two young men, not\nbreathing, only gliding along the floor, in the inky blackness of the\nroom.\n\n\"You are to read these instructions and commit them to memory,\" said Sir\nAndrew, \"then destroy them.\"\n\nHe was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when a tiny\nslip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor. Lord Antony\nstooped and picked it up.\n\n\"What's that?\" he asked.\n\n\"I don't know,\" replied Sir Andrew.\n\n\"It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly does not seem to\nbe with the other paper.\"\n\n\"Strange!--I wonder when it got there? It is from the chief,\" he added,\nglancing at the paper.\n\nBoth stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper on which\na few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight noise\nattracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage beyond.\n\n\"What's that?\" said both instinctively. Lord Antony crossed the room\ntowards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly; at that very\nmoment he received a stunning blow between the eyes, which threw him\nback violently into the room. Simultaneously the crouching, snake-like\nfigure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled itself from behind upon the\nunsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to the ground.\n\nAll this occurred within the short space of two or three seconds, and\nbefore either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or chance to utter a\ncry or to make the faintest struggle. They were each seized by two\nmen, a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of each, and they\nwere pinioned to one another back to back, their arms, hands, and legs\nsecurely fastened.\n\nOne man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a mask and\nnow stood motionless while the others completed their work.\n\n\"All safe, citoyen!\" said one of the men, as he took a final survey of\nthe bonds which secured the two young men.\n\n\"Good!\" replied the man at the door; \"now search their pockets and give\nme all the papers you find.\"\n\nThis was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having taken\npossession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if there were\nany sound within \"The Fisherman's Rest.\" Evidently satisfied that this\ndastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more opened the door and\npointed peremptorily down the passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrew\nand Lord Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly as they\nhad come, they bore the two pinioned young gallants out of the inn and\nalong the Dover Road into the gloom beyond.\n\nIn the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt was quickly\nglancing through the stolen papers.\n\n\"Not a bad day's work on the whole,\" he muttered, as he quietly took off\nhis mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in the red glow of the\nfire. \"Not a bad day's work.\"\n\nHe opened one or two letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pocket-book,\nnoted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had only just had\ntime to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand St. Just, seemed\nto give him strange satisfaction.\n\n\"Armand St. Just a traitor after all,\" he murmured. \"Now, fair\nMarguerite Blakeney,\" he added viciously between his clenched teeth, \"I\nthink that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX\n\n\n\nIt was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the\nautumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.\n\nThe house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and in the pit,\nas well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Gluck's\nORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the\nhouse, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliant\nthrong, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this \"latest\nimportation from Germany.\"\n\nSelina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA by her\nnumerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of the\nladies, had received special gracious recognition from the royal box;\nand now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to the second\nact, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound on the magic strains\nof the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of\nsatisfaction, previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and\nfrivolous tongues. In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces\nwere to be seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding\nbrief relaxation in to-night's musical treat; the Prince of Wales,\njovial, rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved\nabout from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of\nhis more intimate friends.\n\nIn Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting personality\nattracted everyone's attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd,\nsarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenly\ncritical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair\nfree from any powder. Lord Grenville--Foreign Secretary of State--paid\nhim marked, though frigid deference.\n\nHere and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty,\none or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the haughty\naristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist EMIGRES\nwho, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their\ncountry, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrow\nand care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed,\neither to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their\nthoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in peril,\nor lately succumbed to a cruel fate.\n\nAmong these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived\nfrom France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy black\nsilk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning\nabout her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly trying\nby witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to the\nComtesse's sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte,\nboth silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne's eyes\nseemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded house, she had\nlooked eagerly all around, scanning every face, scrutinised every box.\nEvidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled\nherself quietly behind her mother, listened apathetically to the music,\nand took no further interest in the audience itself.\n\n\"Ah, Lord Grenville,\" said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet\nknock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared\nin the doorway of the box, \"you could not arrive more _A_ PROPOS. Here\nis Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest\nnews from France.\"\n\nThe distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands with\nthe ladies.\n\n\"Alas!\" he said sadly, \"it is of the very worst. The massacres continue;\nParis literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundred\nvictims a day.\"\n\nPale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening\nhorror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her\nown misguided country.\n\n\"Ah, monsieur!\" she said in broken English, \"it is dreadful to hear all\nthat--and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is terrible\nfor me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst\nhe is in such peril.\"\n\n\"Lud, Madame!\" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, \"your sitting in a\nconvent won't make your husband safe, and you have your children to\nconsider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature\nmourning.\"\n\nThe Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend.\nLady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a\njockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and most\ngentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some\nladies at that time.\n\n\"Besides which, Madame,\" added Lord Grenville, \"did you not tell me\nyesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their\nhonour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?\"\n\n\"Ah, yes!\" replied the Comtesse, \"and that is my only hope. I saw Lord\nHastings yesterday . . . he reassured me again.\"\n\n\"Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, that\nthey surely will accomplish. Ah!\" added the old diplomat with a sigh,\n\"if I were but a few years younger . . .\"\n\n\"La, man!\" interrupted honest Lady Portarles, \"you are still young\nenough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits enthroned in\nyour box to-night.\"\n\n\"I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remember that in serving\nour country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the accredited\nagent of his Government . . .\"\n\n\"Odd's fish, man!\" she retorted, \"you don't call those bloodthirsty\nruffians over there a government, do you?\"\n\n\"It has not been thought advisable as yet,\" said the Minister,\nguardedly, \"for England to break off diplomatic relations with France,\nand we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she\nwishes to send to us.\"\n\n\"Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox over\nthere is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find--an I'm much\nmistaken, that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy, beyond\ntrying to do mischief to royalist refugees--to our heroic Scarlet\nPimpernel and to the members of that brave little league.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips, \"that if this\nChauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in Lady\nBlakeney.\"\n\n\"Bless the woman!\" ejaculated Lady Portarles, \"did ever anyone see such\nperversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab, will you please\nexplain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In your\nposition here in England, Madame,\" she added, turning a wrathful and\nresolute face towards the Comtesse, \"you cannot afford to put on the\nhoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady Blakeney\nmay or may not be in sympathy with those Ruffians in France; she may or\nmay not have had anything to do with the arrest and condemnation of St.\nCyr, or whatever the man's name is, but she is the leader of fashion\nin this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money than any half-dozen\nother men put together, he is hand and glove with royalty, and your\ntrying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you look a\nfool. Isn't that so, my Lord?\"\n\nBut what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflections\nthis comely tirade of Lady Portarles' led the Comtesse de Tournay,\nremained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the third act of\nORPHEUS, and admonishments to silence came from every part of the house.\n\nLord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back into\nhis box, where M. Chauvelin had sat through this ENTR'ACTE, with his\neternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently\nfixed upon a box opposite him, where, with much frou-frou of silken\nskirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity amongst the\naudience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered, accompanied by her\nhusband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden,\nreddish curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at the\nnape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed in\nthe very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladies\nthat night had discarded the crossover fichu and broad-lapelled\nover-dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or three years.\nShe wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown, which so soon was\nto become the approved mode in every country in Europe. It suited her\ngraceful, regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering\nstuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.\n\nAs she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking stock of\nall those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she did so, and\nfrom the royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute.\n\nChauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the third\nact, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little hand\ntoying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms and\nneck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, the gift of the\nadoring husband who sprawled leisurely by her side.\n\nMarguerite was passionately fond of music. ORPHEUS charmed her to-night.\nThe very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet young face, it\nsparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurked\naround the lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the hey day\nof youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, FETED, petted,\ncherished. Two days ago the DAY DREAM had returned from Calais, bringing\nher news that her idolised brother had safely landed, that he thought of\nher, and would be prudent for her sake.\n\nWhat wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck's impassioned\nstrains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished\nlove-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had made\nup for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly advantages\nupon her.\n\nHe had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention demanded,\nmaking way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of admirers who in\na continued procession came to pay homage to the queen of fashion. Sir\nPercy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial friends probably.\nMarguerite did not even wonder whither he had gone--she cared so little;\nshe had had a little court round her, composed of the JEUNESSE DOREE of\nLondon, and had just dismissed them all, wishing to be alone with Gluck\nfor a brief while.\n\nA discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.\n\n\"Come in,\" she said with some impatience, without turning to look at the\nintruder.\n\nChauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, and\nnow, without pausing for that impatient \"Come in,\" he quietly slipped\ninto the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's\nchair.\n\n\"A word with you, citoyenne,\" he said quietly.\n\nMarguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether feigned.\n\n\"Lud, man! you frightened me,\" she said with a forced little laugh,\n\"your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Gluck, and\nhave no mind for talking.\"\n\n\"But this is my only opportunity,\" he said, as quietly, and without\nwaiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her--so close\nthat he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the audience, and\nwithout being seen, in the dark background of the box. \"This is my only\nopportunity,\" he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no reply, \"Lady Blakeney\nis always so surrounded, so FETED by her court, that a mere old friend\nhas but very little chance.\"\n\n\"Faith, man!\" she said impatiently, \"you must seek for another\nopportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville's ball to-night after the\nopera. So are you, probably. I'll give you five minutes then. . . .\"\n\n\"Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me,\"\nhe rejoined placidly, \"and I think that you will be wise to listen to\nme, Citoyenne St. Just.\"\n\nMarguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice\nabove a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there\nwas something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which\nseemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some\ndeadly hitherto unguessed peril. \"Is that a threat, citoyen?\" she asked\nat last.\n\n\"Nay, fair lady,\" he said gallantly, \"only an arrow shot into the air.\"\n\nHe paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly\nby, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of\nmischief about to be done. Then he said quietly--\n\n\"Your brother, St. Just, is in peril.\"\n\nNot a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see\nit in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently,\nbut Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the\neyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension of\nthe beautiful, graceful figure.\n\n\"Lud, then,\" she said with affected merriment, \"since 'tis one of your\nimaginary plots, you'd best go back to your own seat and leave me enjoy\nthe music.\"\n\nAnd with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion\nof the box. Selina Storace was singing the \"Che faro\" to an audience\nthat hung spellbound upon the prima donna's lips. Chauvelin did not\nmove from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only\nindication that his shaft had indeed struck home.\n\n\"Well?\" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned\nunconcern.\n\n\"Well, citoyenne?\" he rejoined placidly.\n\n\"About my brother?\"\n\n\"I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but first\nlet me explain. . . . May I?\"\n\nThe question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her\nhead steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to\nhear what he had to say.\n\n\"The other day, citoyenne,\" he said, \"I asked for your help. . . .\nFrance needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me\nyour answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and\nyour own social duties have kept us apart . . . although many things have\nhappened. . . .\"\n\n\"To the point, I pray you, citoyen,\" she said lightly; \"the music is\nentrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk.\"\n\n\"One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meeting\nyou at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I\nobtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of those\nsubtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats--that\ntraitor de Tournay amongst others--all organized by that arch-meddler,\nthe Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious\norganization have come into my hands, but not all, and I want you--nay!\nyou MUST help me to gather them together.\"\n\nMarguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she\nnow shrugged her shoulders and said gaily--\n\n\"Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your\nschemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my\nbrother . . .\"\n\n\"A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,\" he continued imperturbably.\n\"Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at\n'The Fisherman's Rest' at Dover that same night.\"\n\n\"I know. I saw them there.\"\n\n\"They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed league.\nIt was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay and her\nchildren across the Channel. When the two young men were alone, my spies\nforced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinioned\nthe two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to me.\"\n\nIn a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand been\nimprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Still\nshe would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily and\nlightly.\n\n\"Faith! and your impudence passes belief,\" she said merrily. \"Robbery\nand violence!--in England!--in a crowded inn! Your men might have been\ncaught in the act!\"\n\n\"What if they had? They are children of France, and have been trained by\nyour humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to jail,\nor even to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion; at\nany rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is safer for these\nlittle operations than you think, and my men have experience.\"\n\n\"Well? And those papers?\" she asked carelessly.\n\n\"Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of certain names\n. . . certain movements . . . enough, I think, to thwart their projected\nCOUP for the moment, it would only be for the moment, and still leaves\nme in ignorance of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.\n\n\"La! my friend,\" she said, with the same assumed flippancy of manner,\n\"then you are where you were before, aren't you? and you can let me\nenjoy the last strophe of the ARIA. Faith!\" she added, ostentatiously\nsmothering an imaginary yawn, \"had you not spoken about my\nbrother . . .\"\n\n\"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter\nto Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just.\"\n\n\"Well? And?\"\n\n\"That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of\nFrance, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of the\nScarlet Pimpernel.\"\n\nThe blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been\nexpecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem\nunconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be\nprepared for it, to have all her wits about her--those wits which had\nbeen nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She\nknew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too\nblindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his\ncountrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless\nfalsehoods.\n\nThat letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in Chauvelin's\nhands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own\neyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own,\nuntil it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand.\nAll that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more\nloudly than she had done before.\n\n\"La, man!\" she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full and\nsquarely in the face, \"did I not say it was some imaginary plot. . . .\nArmand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel! . . . Armand busy\nhelping those French aristocrats whom he despises! . . . Faith, the tale\ndoes infinite credit to your imagination!\"\n\n\"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne,\" said Chauvelin, with the same\nunruffled calm, \"I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyond\nthe slightest hope of pardon.\"\n\nInside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite\nsat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face\nthe situation, to realise what had best be done.\n\nIn the house Storace had finished the ARIA, and was even now bowing in\nher classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the\nenthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.\n\n\"Chauvelin,\" said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without\nthat touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all along,\n\"Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another. It seems\nthat my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Now,\ntell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity of the Scarlet\nPimpernel, isn't that so?\"\n\n\"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne . . . all the more dangerous, as\nhe works in the dark.\"\n\n\"All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!--and you would now force\nme to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand's\nsafety?--Is that it?\"\n\n\"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady,\" protested Chauvelin, urbanely.\n\"There can be no question of force, and the service which I would ask of\nyou, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking name\nof spying.\"\n\n\"At any rate, that is what it is called over here,\" she said drily.\n\"That is your intention, is it not?\"\n\n\"My intention is, that you yourself win the free pardon for Armand St.\nJust by doing me a small service.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just,\" he said eagerly.\n\"Listen: among the papers which were found about the person of Sir\nAndrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!\" he added, taking a tiny\nscrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.\n\nIt was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two young\nmen had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they were\nattacked by Chauvelin's minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and\nstooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a distorted,\nevidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud--\n\n\"'Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly necessary. You\nhave all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I\nshall be at G.'s ball.'\"\n\n\"What does it mean?\" she asked.\n\n\"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand.\"\n\n\"There is a device here in the corner, a small red flower . . .\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"The Scarlet Pimpernel,\" she said eagerly, \"and G.'s ball means\nGrenville's ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville's ball\nto-night.\"\n\n\"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,\" concluded Chauvelin,\nblandly. \"Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were\npinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a lonely\nhouse in the Dover Road, which I had rented for the purpose: there they\nremained close prisoners until this morning. But having found this tiny\nscrap of paper, my intention was that they should be in London, in time\nto attend my Lord Grenville's ball. You see, do you not? that they must\nhave a great deal to say to their chief . . . and thus they will have an\nopportunity of speaking to him to-night, just as he directed them to do.\nTherefore, this morning, those two young gallants found every bar\nand bolt open in that lonely house on the Dover Road, their jailers\ndisappeared, and two good horses standing ready saddled and tethered in\nthe yard. I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely conclude\nthat they did not draw rein until they reached London. Now you see how\nsimple it all is, citoyenne!\"\n\n\"It does seem simple, doesn't it?\" she said, with a final bitter attempt\nat flippancy, \"when you want to kill a chicken . . . you take hold of\nit . . . then you wring its neck . . . it's only the chicken who does\nnot find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a\nhostage for my obedience. . . . You find it simple. . . . I don't.\"\n\n\"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love\nfrom the consequences of his own folly.\"\n\nMarguerite's face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as she\nmurmured, half to herself:\n\n\"The only being in the world who has loved me truly and constantly\n. . . But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin?\" she said, with a world\nof despair in her tear-choked voice. \"In my present position, it is\nwell-nigh impossible!\"\n\n\"Nay, citoyenne,\" he said drily and relentlessly, not heeding that\ndespairing, childlike appeal, which might have melted a heart of stone,\n\"as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your help to-night I\nmay--who knows?--succeed in finally establishing the identity of the\nScarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to the ball anon. . . . Watch\nfor me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you\nhear a chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom Sir\nAndrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutely\nbeyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville's\nball to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word of France\nthat your brother shall be safe.\"\n\nChauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite felt herself\nentangled in one of those webs, from which she could hope for no escape.\nA precious hostage was being held for her obedience: for she knew that\nthis man would never make an empty threat. No doubt Armand was already\nsignalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the \"suspect\";\nhe would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be ruthlessly\nstruck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment--woman-like--she\nstill hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this man, whom she\nnow feared and hated.\n\n\"If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin,\" she said\npleasantly, \"will you give me that letter of St. Just's?\"\n\n\"If you render me useful service to-night, citoyenne,\" he replied with a\nsarcastic smile, \"I will give you that letter . . . to-morrow.\"\n\n\"You do not trust me?\"\n\n\"I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just's life is forfeit to\nhis country . . . it rests with you to redeem it.\"\n\n\"I may be powerless to help you,\" she pleaded, \"were I ever so willing.\"\n\n\"That would be terrible indeed,\" he said quietly, \"for you . . . and for\nSt. Just.\"\n\nMarguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no\nmercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved life in the hollow of his hand.\nShe knew him too well not to know that, if he failed in gaining his own\nends, he would be pitiless.\n\nShe felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of opera-house. The\nheart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from a\ndistant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders,\nand sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream.\n\nFor a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who was in\ndanger, to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and her\naffection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand's sake; she longed\nto seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to help and\nconsole. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once; he was her husband; why\nshould she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He had very little\nbrains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle: surely, if she provided\nthe thought, and he the manly energy and pluck, together they could\noutwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from his vengeful\nhands, without imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallant\nlittle band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well--he seemed attached\nto him--she was sure that he could help.\n\nChauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his cruel\n\"Either--or--\" and left her to decide. He, in his turn now, appeared to\nbe absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS, and was beating\ntime to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.\n\nA discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It\nwas Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing that\nhalf-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her every\nnerve.\n\n\"Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m'dear,\" he said, with his most\nexasperating drawl, \"I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball.\n. . . Excuse me--er--Monsieur Chauvelin--I had not observed you. . . .\"\n\nHe extended two slender, white fingers toward Chauvelin, who had risen\nwhen Sir Percy entered the box.\n\n\"Are you coming, m'dear?\"\n\n\"Hush! Sh! Sh!\" came in angry remonstrance from different parts of\nthe house. \"Demmed impudence,\" commented Sir Percy with a good-natured\nsmile.\n\nMarguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to have\nvanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without looking at\nher husband:\n\n\"I am ready to go,\" she said, taking his arm. At the door of the box\nshe turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his CHAPEAU-BRAS\nunder his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips, was preparing to\nfollow the strangely ill-assorted couple.\n\n\"It is only AU REVOIR, Chauvelin,\" she said pleasantly, \"we shall meet\nat my Lord Grenville's ball, anon.\"\n\nAnd in her eyes the astute Frenchman, read, no doubt, something which\ncaused him profound satisfaction, for, with a sarcastic smile, he took\na delicate pinch of snuff, then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot, he\nrubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL\n\n\n\nThe historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for Foreign\nAffairs--Lord Grenville--was the most brilliant function of the year.\nThough the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who was anybody\nhad contrived to be in London in time to be present there, and to shine\nat this ball, to the best of his or her respective ability.\n\nHis Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present.\nHe was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville himself had\nlistened to the two first acts of ORPHEUS, before preparing to receive\nhis guests. At ten o'clock--an unusually late hour in those days--the\ngrand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely decorated with exotic\npalms and flowers, were filled to overflowing. One room had been set\napart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft\naccompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the numerous and\nbrilliant company.\n\nIn a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, the\ndistinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished men,\nbeautiful women, notabilities from every European country had already\nfiled past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies with him,\nwhich the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then, laughing\nand talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card rooms\nbeyond.\n\nNot far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against one of the console\ntables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking a\nquiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady\nBlakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes glanced quickly\ntowards the door every time a new-comer appeared.\n\nHe stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary Government of\nFrance was not likely to be very popular in England, at a time when the\nnews of the awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror and\nAnarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the Channel.\n\nIn his official capacity he had been received courteously by his English\ncolleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord Grenville had\nentertained him more than once; but the more intimate circles of London\nsociety ignored him altogether; the women openly turned their backs upon\nhim; the men who held no official position refused to shake his hand.\n\nBut Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these social\namenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. He\nwas blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised all\nsocial inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country:\nthese three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs he\nreceived in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England.\n\nBut, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believed\nthat the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France; he would\nhave wished to see every one of them annihilated: he was one of those\nwho, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to utter the\nhistoric and ferocious desire \"that aristocrats might have but one head\nbetween them, so that it might be cut off with a single stroke of the\nguillotine.\" And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat, who\nhad succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey of which the\nguillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no doubt that those\nroyalist EMIGRES, once they had managed to cross the frontier, did their\nvery best to stir up foreign indignation against France. Plots without\nend were hatched in England, in Belgium, in Holland, to try and induce\nsome great power to send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King\nLouis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders of that monster\nrepublic.\n\nSmall wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality of\nthe Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He and\nthe few young jackanapes under his command, well furnished with money,\narmed with boundless daring, and acute cunning, had succeeded in\nrescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the\nEMIGRES, who were FETED at the English court, owed their safety to that\nman and to his league.\n\nChauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would discover\nthe identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over to France,\nand then . . . Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the very\nthought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the knife of the\nguillotine, as easily as that of any other man.\n\nSuddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, all\nconversation stopped for a moment as the majordomo's voice outside\nannounced,--\n\n\"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney,\nLady Blakeney.\"\n\nLord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest.\n\nThe Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of\nsalmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with\nMarguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous\nshimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant \"Incroyable\" style, his\nfair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and\nthe flat CHAPEAU-BRAS under his arm.\n\nAfter the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord Grenville\nsaid to his royal guest,--\n\n\"Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the accredited\nagent of the French Government?\"\n\nChauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped forward,\nexpecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the Prince\nreturned his salute with a curt nod of the head.\n\n\"Monsieur,\" said His Royal Highness coldly, \"we will try to forget\nthe government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest--a\nprivate gentleman from France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"Monseigneur,\" rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. \"Madame,\" he\nadded, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite.\n\n\"Ah! my little Chauvelin!\" she said with unconcerned gaiety, and\nextending her tiny hand to him. \"Monsieur and I are old friends, your\nRoyal Highness.\"\n\n\"Ah, then,\" said the Prince, this time very graciously, \"you are doubly\nwelcome, Monsieur.\"\n\n\"There is someone else I would crave permission to present to your Royal\nHighness,\" here interposed Lord Grenville.\n\n\"Ah! who is it?\" asked the Prince.\n\n\"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family, who have but\nrecently come from France.\"\n\n\"By all means!--They are among the lucky ones then!\"\n\nLord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at the further\nend of the room.\n\n\"Lud love me!\" whispered his Royal Highness to Marguerite, as soon as he\nhad caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; \"Lud love me! she\nlooks very virtuous and very melancholy.\"\n\n\"Faith, your Royal Highness,\" she rejoined with a smile, \"virtue is like\nprecious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed.\"\n\n\"Virtue, alas!\" sighed the Prince, \"is mostly unbecoming to your\ncharming sex, Madame.\"\n\n\"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,\" said Lord Grenville,\nintroducing the lady.\n\n\"This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is ever glad\nto welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from her\nshores.\"\n\n\"Your Royal Highness is ever gracious,\" replied the Comtesse with\nbecoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by\nher side: \"My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur,\" she said.\n\n\"Ah! charming!--charming!\" said the Prince, \"and now allow me, Comtesse,\nto introduce you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You\nand she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every compatriot of\nLady Blakeney's is doubly welcome for her sake . . . her friends are our\nfriends . . . her enemies, the enemies of England.\"\n\nMarguerite's blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at this gracious\nspeech from her exalted friend. The Comtesse de Tournay, who lately had\nso flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson, at\nwhich Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Comtesse, for whom\nrespect of royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well-schooled\nin courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, as the\ntwo ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another.\n\n\"His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame,\" said Marguerite,\ndemurely, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling blue eyes,\n\"but there is no need for his kind of mediation. . . . Your amiable\nreception of me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly in my\nmemory.\"\n\n\"We poor exiles, Madame,\" rejoined the Comtesse, frigidly, \"show our\ngratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Monseigneur.\"\n\n\"Madame!\" said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsey.\n\n\"Madame,\" responded the Comtesse with equal dignity.\n\nThe Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious words to the young\nVicomte.\n\n\"I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte,\" he said. \"I knew your\nfather well when he was ambassador in London.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monseigneur!\" replied the Vicomte, \"I was a leetle boy then . . .\nand now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector, the Scarlet\nPimpernel.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he indicated\nChauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the whole of\nthis little scene, watching Marguerite and the Comtesse with an amused,\nsarcastic little smile around his thin lips.\n\n\"Nay, Monseigneur,\" he said now, as if in direct response to the\nPrince's challenge, \"pray do not check this gentleman's display of\ngratitude; the name of that interesting red flower is well known to\nme--and to France.\"\n\nThe Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.\n\n\"Faith, then, Monsieur,\" he said, \"perhaps you know more about our\nnational hero than we do ourselves . . . perchance you know who he is.\n. . . See!\" he added, turning to the groups round the room, \"the ladies\nhang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself popular among the\nfair sex if you were to gratify their curiosity.\"\n\n\"Ah, Monseigneur,\" said Chauvelin, significantly, \"rumour has it in\nFrance that your Highness could--an you would--give the truest account\nof that enigmatical wayside flower.\"\n\nHe looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke; but she betrayed\nno emotion, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly.\n\n\"Nay, man,\" replied the Prince, \"my lips are sealed! and the members of\nthe league jealously guard the secret of their chief . . . so his fair\nadorers have to be content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England,\nMonsieur,\" he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, \"we but name\nthe Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair cheek is suffused with a blush of\nenthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know\nnot if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-formed; but we\nknow that he is the bravest gentleman in all the world, and we all feel\na little proud, Monsieur, when we remember that he is an Englishman.\n\n\"Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin,\" added Marguerite, looking almost with defiance\nacross at the placid, sphinx-like face of the Frenchman, \"His Royal\nHighness should add that we ladies think of him as of a hero of old . . .\nwe worship him . . . we wear his badge . . . we tremble for him when he\nis in danger, and exult with him in the hour of his victory.\"\n\nChauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the Prince and to\nMarguerite; he felt that both speeches were intended--each in their\nway--to convey contempt or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince he\ndespised: the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair wore a spray of\nsmall red flowers composed of rubies and diamonds--her he held in the\nhollow of his hand: he could afford to remain silent and to wait events.\n\nA long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence which had fallen\nover everyone. \"And we poor husbands,\" came in slow, affected accents\nfrom gorgeous Sir Percy, \"we have to stand by . . . while they worship a\ndemmed shadow.\"\n\nEveryone laughed--the Prince more loudly than anyone. The tension\nof subdued excitement was relieved, and the next moment everyone was\nlaughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed in\nthe adjoining rooms.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII THE SCRAP OF PAPER\n\n\n\nMarguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed and chatted, though\nshe was more admired, more surrounded, more FETED than any woman there,\nshe felt like one condemned to death, living her last day upon this\nearth.\n\nHer nerves were in a state of painful tension, which had increased a\nhundredfold during that brief hour which she had spent in her husband's\ncompany, between the opera and the ball. The short ray of hope--that she\nmight find in this good-natured, lazy individual a valuable friend and\nadviser--had vanished as quickly as it had come, the moment she found\nherself alone with him. The same feeling of good-humoured contempt which\none feels for an animal or a faithful servant, made her turn away with\na smile from the man who should have been her moral support in this\nheart-rending crisis through which she was passing: who should have been\nher cool-headed adviser, when feminine sympathy and sentiment tossed her\nhither and thither, between her love for her brother, who was far away\nand in mortal peril, and horror of the awful service which Chauvelin had\nexacted from her, in exchange for Armand's safety.\n\nThere he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed adviser, surrounded\nby a crowd of brainless, empty-headed young fops, who were even now\nrepeating from mouth to mouth, and with every sign of the keenest\nenjoyment, a doggerel quatrain which he had just given forth. Everywhere\nthe absurd, silly words met her: people seemed to have little else to\nspeak about, even the Prince had asked her, with a little laugh, whether\nshe appreciated her husband's latest poetic efforts.\n\n\"All done in the tying of a cravat,\" Sir Percy had declared to his\nclique of admirers.\n\n     \"We seek him here, we seek him there,\n     Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.\n     Is he in heaven?--Is he in hell?\n     That demmed, elusive Pimpernel\"\n\nSir Percy's BON MOT had gone the round of the brilliant reception-rooms.\nThe Prince was enchanted. He vowed that life without Blakeney would be\nbut a dreary desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had led him to the\ncard-room, and engaged him in a long game of hazard.\n\nSir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gatherings seemed to\ncentre round the card-table, usually allowed his wife to flirt, dance,\nto amuse or bore herself as much as she liked. And to-night, having\ndelivered himself of his BON MOT, he had left Marguerite surrounded by\na crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious and willing to help her to\nforget that somewhere in the spacious reception rooms, there was a long,\nlazy being who had been fool enough to suppose that the cleverest woman\nin Europe would settle down to the prosaic bonds of English matrimony.\n\nHer still overwrought nerves, her excitement and agitation, lent\nbeautiful Marguerite Blakeney much additional charm: escorted by a\nveritable bevy of men of all ages and of most nationalities, she called\nforth many exclamations of admiration from everyone as she passed.\n\nShe would not allow herself any more time to think. Her early, somewhat\nBohemian training had made her something of a fatalist. She felt that\nevents would shape themselves, that the directing of them was not in her\nhands. From Chauvelin she knew that she could expect no mercy. He had\nset a price on Armand's head, and left it to her to pay or not, as she\nchose.\n\nLater on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord\nAntony Dewhurst, who seemingly had just arrived. She noticed at once\nthat Sir Andrew immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournay, and that\nthe two young people soon managed to isolate themselves in one of the\ndeep embrasures of the mullioned windows, there to carry on a long\nconversation, which seemed very earnest and very pleasant on both sides.\n\nBoth the young men looked a little haggard and anxious, but otherwise\nthey were irreproachably dressed, and there was not the slightest sign,\nabout their courtly demeanour, of the terrible catastrophe, which they\nmust have felt hovering round them and round their chief.\n\nThat the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no intention of abandoning\nits cause, she had gathered through little Suzanne herself, who spoke\nopenly of the assurance she and her mother had had that the Comte de\nTournay would be rescued from France by the league, within the next few\ndays. Vaguely she began to wonder, as she looked at the brilliant and\nfashionable in the gaily-lighted ball-room, which of these worldly men\nround her was the mysterious \"Scarlet Pimpernel,\" who held the threads\nof such daring plots, and the fate of valuable lives in his hands.\n\nA burning curiosity seized her to know him: although for months she had\nheard of him and had accepted his anonymity, as everyone else in society\nhad done; but now she longed to know--quite impersonally, quite apart\nfrom Armand, and oh! quite apart from Chauvelin--only for her own sake,\nfor the sake of the enthusiastic admiration she had always bestowed on\nhis bravery and cunning.\n\nHe was at the ball, of course, somewhere, since Sir Andrew Ffoulkes\nand Lord Antony Dewhurst were here, evidently expecting to meet their\nchief--and perhaps to get a fresh MOT D'ORDRE from him.\n\nMarguerite looked round at everyone, at the aristocratic high-typed\nNorman faces, the squarely-built, fair-haired Saxon, the more gentle,\nhumorous caste of the Celt, wondering which of these betrayed the power,\nthe energy, the cunning which had imposed its will and its leadership\nupon a number of high-born English gentlemen, among whom rumour asserted\nwas His Royal Highness himself.\n\nSir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle blue eyes, which were\nlooking so tenderly and longingly after little Suzanne, who was being\nled away from the pleasant TETE-A-TETE by her stern mother. Marguerite\nwatched him across the room, as he finally turned away with a sigh, and\nseemed to stand, aimless and lonely, now that Suzanne's dainty little\nfigure had disappeared in the crowd.\n\nShe watched him as he strolled towards the doorway, which led to a small\nboudoir beyond, then paused and leaned against the framework of it,\nlooking still anxiously all round him.\n\nMarguerite contrived for the moment to evade her present attentive\ncavalier, and she skirted the fashionable crowd, drawing nearer to the\ndoorway, against which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get\ncloser to him, she could not have said: perhaps she was impelled by an\nall-powerful fatality, which so often seems to rule the destinies of\nmen.\n\nSuddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to stand still, her eyes,\nlarge and excited, flashed for a moment towards that doorway, then as\nquickly were turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was still in the\nsame listless position by the door, but Marguerite had distinctly seen\nthat Lord Hastings--a young buck, a friend of her husband's and one of\nthe Prince's set--had, as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something\ninto his hand.\n\nFor one moment longer--oh! it was the merest flash--Marguerite paused:\nthe next she had, with admirably played unconcern, resumed her walk\nacross the room--but this time more quickly towards that doorway whence\nSir Andrew had now disappeared.\n\nAll this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught sight of Sir Andrew\nleaning against the doorway, until she followed him into the little\nboudoir beyond, had occurred in less than a minute. Fate is usually\nswift when she deals a blow.\n\nNow Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It was Marguerite\nSt. Just who was there only: Marguerite St. Just who had passed her\nchildhood, her early youth, in the protecting arms of her brother\nArmand. She had forgotten everything else--her rank, her dignity, her\nsecret enthusiasms--everything save that Armand stood in peril of\nhis life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her, in the small\nboudoir which was quite deserted, in the very hands of Sir Andrew\nFfoulkes, might be the talisman which would save her brother's life.\n\nBarely another thirty seconds had elapsed between the moment when Lord\nHastings slipped the mysterious \"something\" into Sir Andrew's hand, and\nthe one when she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir Andrew\nwas standing with his back to her and close to a table upon which stood\na massive silver candelabra. A slip of paper was in his hand, and he was\nin the very act of perusing its contents.\n\nUnperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the slightest sound upon\nthe heavy carpet, not daring to breathe until she had accomplished her\npurpose, Marguerite slipped close behind him. . . . At that moment he\nlooked round and saw her; she uttered a groan, passed her hand across\nher forehead, and murmured faintly:\n\n\"The heat in the room was terrible . . . I felt so faint . . . Ah! . . .\"\n\nShe tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir Andrew, quickly\nrecovering himself, and crumpling in his hand the tiny note he had been\nreading, was only apparently, just in time to support her.\n\n\"You are ill, Lady Blakeney?\" he asked with much concern, \"Let me . . .\"\n\n\"No, no, nothing--\" she interrupted quickly. \"A chair--quick.\"\n\nShe sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing back her head,\nclosing her eyes.\n\n\"There!\" she murmured, still faintly; \"the giddiness is passing off.\n. . . Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I assure you I already feel better.\"\n\nAt moments like these there is no doubt--and psychologists actually\nassert it--that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing to\ndo with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not that we hear\nor touch, yet we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there with\nher eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was immediately behind her,\nand on her right was the table with the five-armed candelabra upon it.\nBefore her mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand's face.\nArmand, whose life was in the most imminent danger, and who seemed to\nbe looking at her from a background upon which were dimly painted\nthe seething crowd of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of Public\nSafety, with Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, demanding\nArmand's life in the name of the people of France, and the lurid\nguillotine with its stained knife waiting for another victim . . .\nArmand! . . .\n\nFor one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir. Beyond,\nfrom the brilliant ball-room, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the\nfrou-frou of rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry\ncrowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the drama which was\nbeing enacted here. Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was\nthat that extra sense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could\nnot see, for her two eyes were closed, she could not hear, for the noise\nfrom the ball-room drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of\npaper; nevertheless she knew--as if she had both seen and heard--that\nSir Andrew was even now holding the paper to the flame of one of the\ncandles.\n\nAt the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened her eyes,\nraised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the burning\nscrap of paper from the young man's hand. Then she blew out the flame,\nand held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.\n\n\"How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew,\" she said gaily, \"surely 'twas your\ngrandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign\nremedy against giddiness.\"\n\nShe sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly between her\njewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save her brother\nArmand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed for the moment\nto realize what had actually happened; he had been taken so completely\nby surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp the fact that the slip\nof paper, which she held in her dainty hand, was one perhaps on which\nthe life of his comrade might depend.\n\nMarguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.\n\n\"Why do you stare at me like that?\" she said playfully. \"I assure you\nI feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual. This room is\nmost delightedly cool,\" she added, with the same perfect composure,\n\"and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is fascinating and\nsoothing.\"\n\nShe was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way, whilst\nSir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the\nquickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that\nbeautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts\nrushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her nationality, and\nworst of all, recollected that horrible tale anent the Marquis de St.\nCyr, which in England no one had credited, for the sake of Sir Percy, as\nwell as for her own.\n\n\"What? Still dreaming and staring?\" she said, with a merry laugh, \"you\nare most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of it, you\nseemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do\nbelieve, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet a\nremedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny\nscrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love's last\ncruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!\" she added,\nplayfully holding up the scrap of paper, \"does this contain her final\nCONGE, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?\"\n\n\"Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney,\" said Sir Andrew, who was gradually\nrecovering his self-possession, \"this little note is undoubtedly mine,\nand . . .\" Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled\nill-bred towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the\nnote; but Marguerite's thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions\nunder pressure of this intense excitement, were swifter and more sure.\nShe was tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked\nover the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which\nfell down with a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.\n\nShe gave a quick cry of alarm:\n\n\"The candles, Sir Andrew--quick!\"\n\nThere was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had blown\nout as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease upon the\nvaluable carpet; one had ignited the paper shade over it. Sir Andrew\nquickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the candelabra\nupon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do, and those\nseconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at\nthe paper, and to note its contents--a dozen words in the same distorted\nhandwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same device--a\nstar-shaped flower drawn in red ink.\n\nWhen Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw upon her face alarm\nat the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue; whilst the tiny\nand momentous note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly\nthe young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved, as his\nfingers closed tightly over it.\n\n\"For shame, Sir Andrew,\" she said, shaking her head with a playful\nsigh, \"making havoc in the heart of some impressionable duchess, whilst\nconquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well! I do\nbelieve it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened the entire\nForeign Office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make me drop\nlove's message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. To\nthink that, a moment longer, and I might have known the secrets of an\nerring duchess.\"\n\n\"You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney,\" said Sir Andrew, now as calm as\nshe was herself, \"if I resume the interesting occupation which you have\ninterrupted?\"\n\n\"By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the love-god\nagain? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement against my\npresumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!\"\n\nSir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill, and was once\nagain holding it to the flame of the candle, which had remained alight.\nHe did not notice the strange smile on the face of his fair VIS-A-VIS,\nso intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps, had he done\nso, the look of relief would have faded from his face. He watched the\nfateful note, as it curled under the flame. Soon the last fragment fell\non the floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes.\n\n\"And now, Sir Andrew,\" said Marguerite Blakeney, with the pretty\nnonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of smiles,\n\"will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking me\nto dance the minuet?\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII EITHER--OR?\n\n\n\nThe few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the\nhalf-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate.\n\"Start myself tomorrow. . . .\" This she had read quite distinctly; then\ncame a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated the\nnext few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another sentence,\nlike letters of fire, before her mental vision, \"If you wish to speak\nto me again I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely.\"\nThe whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled little device--a tiny\nstar-shaped flower, which had become so familiar to her.\n\nOne o'clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last minuet\nwas being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney\nleading the couples, through its delicate and intricate figures.\n\nClose upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock upon its\normolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours\nmore, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In two hours she\nmust make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly\ngained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether\nshe will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his\nfellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It\nseemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too,\nwas noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved\nher, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when\nshe could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous;\nher brother's kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to\nbe looking reproachfully at her. \"You might have saved me, Margot!\" he\nseemed to say to her, \"and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you\ndo not know, whom you have never seen, and preferred that he should be\nsafe, whilst you sent me to the guillotine!\"\n\nAll these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's brain, while,\nwith a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mazes of the\nminuet. She noted--with that acute sense of hers--that she had succeeded\nin completely allaying Sir Andrew's fears. Her self-control had\nbeen absolutely perfect--she was a finer actress at this moment, and\nthroughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the\nboards of the Comedie Francaise; but then, a beloved brother's life had\nnot depended upon her histrionic powers.\n\nShe was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further allusions to\nthe supposed BILLET DOUX, which had caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such an\nagonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under her\nsunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever doubt may have crossed\nhis mind at the moment, she had, by the time the last bars of the\nminuet had been played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he never\nrealised in what a fever of excitement she was, what effort it cost her\nto keep up a constant ripple of BANAL conversation.\n\nWhen the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her into the next\nroom.\n\n\"I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal Highness,\" she\nsaid, \"but before we part, tell me . . . am I forgiven?\"\n\n\"Forgiven?\"\n\n\"Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . But remember, I am\nnot an English woman, and I do not look upon the exchanging of BILLET\nDOUX as a crime, and I vow I'll not tell my little Suzanne. But now,\ntell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on Wednesday?\"\n\n\"I am not sure, Lady Blakeney,\" he replied evasively. \"I may have to\nleave London to-morrow.\"\n\n\"I would not do that, if I were you,\" she said earnestly; then seeing\nthe anxious look reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily; \"No one can\nthrow a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, we should so miss you on\nthe bowling-green.\"\n\nHe had led her across the room, to one beyond, where already His Royal\nHighness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney.\n\n\"Madame, supper awaits us,\" said the Prince, offering his arm to\nMarguerite, \"and I am full of hope. The goddess Fortune has frowned so\npersistently on me at hazard, that I look with confidence for the smiles\nof the goddess of Beauty.\"\n\n\"Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card tables?\" asked\nMarguerite, as she took the Prince's arm.\n\n\"Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the richest\namong my father's subjects, has also the most outrageous luck. By the\nway, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life would be\nbut a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY!\n\n\n\nSupper had been extremely gay. All those present declared that never had\nLady Blakeney been more adorable, nor that \"demmed idiot\" Sir Percy more\namusing.\n\nHis Royal Highness had laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeks\nat Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel verse, \"We seek\nhim here, we seek him there,\" etc., was sung to the tune of \"Ho! Merry\nBritons!\" and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly against\nthe table. Lord Grenville, moreover, had a most perfect cook--some wags\nasserted that he was a scion of the old French NOBLESSE, who having lost\nhis fortune, had come to seek it in the CUISINE of the Foreign Office.\n\nMarguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely not a\nsoul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terrible\nstruggle which was raging within her heart.\n\nThe clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past midnight,\nand even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table.\nWithin the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted\nagainst one another--the dearly-beloved brother and he, the unknown\nhero.\n\nMarguerite had not tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour; she\nknew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once, and incline\nthe balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him,\nthere still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, undefined hope that\n\"something\" would occur, something big, enormous, epoch-making, which\nwould shift from her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden of\nresponsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives.\n\nBut the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariably\nseem to assume when our very nerves ache with their incessant ticking.\n\nAfter supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had left, and\nthere was general talk of departing among the older guests; the young\nwere indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte, which would fill\nthe next quarter of an hour.\n\nMarguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a limit to the\nmost enduring of self-control. Escorted by a Cabinet Minister, she had\nonce more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still the most deserted\namong all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must be lying in wait\nfor her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible opportunity for a\nTETE-A-TETE. His eyes had met hers for a moment after the 'fore-supper\nminuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat, with those searching pale\neyes of his, had divined that her work was accomplished.\n\nFate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible conflict\nheart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees.\nBut Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for he was her\nbrother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a tiny\nbabe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying a traitor's\ndeath on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell upon--impossible\nin fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for the stranger, the\nhero . . . well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite would redeem her\nbrother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy, then let that\ncunning Scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that.\n\nPerhaps--vaguely--Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter, who for so\nmany months had baffled an army of spies, would still manage to evade\nChauvelin and remain immune to the end.\n\nShe thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty discourse\nof the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had found in Lady\nBlakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the keen, fox-like\nface of Chauvelin peeping through the curtained doorway.\n\n\"Lord Fancourt,\" she said to the Minister, \"will you do me a service?\"\n\n\"I am entirely at your ladyship's service,\" he replied gallantly.\n\n\"Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if he is,\nwill you tell him that I am very tired, and would be glad to go home\nsoon.\"\n\nThe commands of a beautiful woman are binding on all mankind, even on\nCabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly.\n\n\"I do not like to leave your ladyship alone,\" he said.\n\n\"Never fear. I shall be quite safe here--and, I think, undisturbed . . .\nbut I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive back to Richmond.\nIt is a long way, and we shall not--an we do not hurry--get home before\ndaybreak.\"\n\nLord Fancourt had perforce to go.\n\nThe moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped into the room, and the\nnext instant stood calm and impassive by her side.\n\n\"You have news for me?\" he said.\n\nAn icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round Marguerite's\nshoulders; though her cheeks glowed with fire, she felt chilled and\nnumbed. Oh, Armand! will you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride,\nof dignity, of womanliness a devoted sister is making for your sake?\n\n\"Nothing of importance,\" she said, staring mechanically before her, \"but\nit might prove a clue. I contrived--no matter how--to detect Sir Andrew\nFfoulkes in the very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, in\nthis very room. That paper I succeeded in holding between my fingers\nfor the space of two minutes, and to cast my eyes on it for that of ten\nseconds.\"\n\n\"Time enough to learn its contents?\" asked Chauvelin, quietly.\n\nShe nodded. Then continued in the same even, mechanical tone of voice--\n\n\"In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough device of a small\nstar-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines, everything else was\nscorched and blackened by the flame.\"\n\n\"And what were the two lines?\"\n\nHer throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant she felt\nthat she could not speak the words, which might send a brave man to his\ndeath.\n\n\"It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned,\" added Chauvelin, with\ndry sarcasm, \"for it might have fared ill with Armand St. Just. What\nwere the two lines citoyenne?\"\n\n\"One was, 'I start myself to-morrow,'\" she said quietly, \"the other--'If\nyou wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock\nprecisely.'\"\n\nChauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece.\n\n\"Then I have plenty of time,\" he said placidly.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" she asked.\n\nShe was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head and heart\nthrobbed with the awful strain upon her nerves. Oh, this was cruel!\ncruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her choice was made:\nhad she done a vile action or one that was sublime? The recording angel,\nwho writes in the book of gold, alone could give an answer.\n\n\"What are you going to do?\" she repeated mechanically.\n\n\"Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend.\"\n\n\"On what?\"\n\n\"On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely.\"\n\n\"You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But you do not know\nhim.\"\n\n\"No. But I shall presently.\"\n\n\"Sir Andrew will have warned him.\"\n\n\"I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he stood\nand watched you, for a moment or two, with a look which gave me to\nunderstand that something had happened between you. It was only natural,\nwas it not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature of that\n'something.' I thereupon engaged the young man in a long and\nanimated conversation--we discussed Herr Gluck's singular success in\nLondon--until a lady claimed his arm for supper.\"\n\n\"Since then?\"\n\n\"I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came upstairs\nagain, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the subject of\npretty Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay. I knew he would not move until Lady\nPortarles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be for another\nquarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one now.\"\n\nHe was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where, drawing\naside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to Marguerite the\ndistant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with Lady\nPortarles.\n\n\"I think,\" he said, with a triumphant smile, \"that I may safely expect\nto find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair lady.\"\n\n\"There may be more than one.\"\n\n\"Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed by one\nof my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will leave for\nFrance to-morrow. ONE of these will be the 'Scarlet Pimpernel.'\"\n\n\"Yes?--And?\"\n\n\"I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The papers found at\nDover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of the neighborhood\nof Calais, of an inn which I know well, called 'Le Chat Gris,' of a\nlonely place somewhere on the coast--the Pere Blanchard's hut--which\nI must endeavor to find. All these places are given as the point where\nthis meddlesome Englishman has bidden the traitor de Tournay and others\nto meet his emissaries. But it seems that he has decided not to send his\nemissaries, that 'he will start himself to-morrow.' Now, one of these\npersons whom I shall see anon in the supper-room, will be journeying\nto Calais, and I shall follow that person, until I have tracked him to\nwhere those fugitive aristocrats await him; for that person, fair lady,\nwill be the man whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man whose\nenergies has outdone me, whose ingenuity has baffled me, whose audacity\nhas set me wondering--yes! me!--who have seen a trick or two in my\ntime--the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.\"\n\n\"And Armand?\" she pleaded.\n\n\"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the Scarlet\nPimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that imprudent letter\nof his by special courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of\nFrance, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome Englishman, St. Just\nwill be here in England, safe in the arms of his charming sister.\"\n\nAnd with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the clock,\nChauvelin glided out of the room.\n\nIt seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the din of\nmusic, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like tread, gliding\nthrough the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear him go down the\nmassive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door. Fate HAD\ndecided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile and abominable\nthing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay back in her\nchair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever\npresent before her aching eyes.\n\nWhen Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It had\nthat woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much\nof a ball-dress, the morning after.\n\nHalf-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the\nchairs--turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes--very\nclose to one another--in the far corners of the room, which spoke of\nrecent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne; there\nwere sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animated\ndiscussions over the latest scandal; there were chairs straight up in a\nrow that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowagers;\nthere were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke\nof gourmands intent on the most RECHERCHE dishes, and others overturned\non the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's\ncellars.\n\nIt was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable gathering\nupstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers\nare given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and\ncolourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered\ncoats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the\ncandles flickered sleepily in their sockets.\n\nChauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands together, he\nlooked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the last flunkey had\nretired in order to join his friends in the hall below. All was silence\nin the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, the hum\nof distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of an occasional coach\noutside, only seemed to reach this palace of the Sleeping Beauty as the\nmurmur of some flitting spooks far away.\n\nIt all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that the keenest\nobserver--a veritable prophet--could never have guessed that, at this\npresent moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laid\nfor the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those stirring\ntimes had ever seen.\n\nChauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the immediate future. What\nwould this man be like, whom he and the leaders of the whole revolution\nhad sworn to bring to his death? Everything about him was weird and\nmysterious; his personality, which he so cunningly concealed, the power\nhe wielded over nineteen English gentlemen who seemed to obey his every\ncommand blindly and enthusiastically, the passionate love and submission\nhe had roused in his little trained band, and, above all, his marvellous\naudacity, the boundless impudence which had caused him to beard his most\nimplacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris.\n\nNo wonder that in France the SOBRIQUET of the mysterious Englishman\nroused in the people a superstitious shudder. Chauvelin himself as he\ngazed round the deserted room, where presently the weird hero would\nappear, felt a strange feeling of awe creeping all down his spine.\n\nBut his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the Scarlet Pimpernel\nhad not been warned, and felt equally sure that Marguerite Blakeney had\nnot played him false. If she had . . . a cruel look, that would have\nmade her shudder, gleamed in Chauvelin's keen, pale eyes. If she had\nplayed him a trick, Armand St. Just would suffer the extreme penalty.\n\nBut no, no! of course she had not played him false!\n\nFortunately the supper-room was deserted: this would make Chauvelin's\ntask all the easier, when presently that unsuspecting enigma would enter\nit alone. No one was here now save Chauvelin himself.\n\nStay! as he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude of the room,\nthe cunning agent of the French Government became aware of the peaceful,\nmonotonous breathing of some one of my Lord Grenville's guests, who, no\ndoubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was enjoying a quiet sleep,\naway from the din of the dancing above.\n\nChauvelin looked round once more, and there in the corner of a sofa,\nin the dark angle of the room, his mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweet\nsounds of peaceful slumbers proceedings from his nostrils, reclined the\ngorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman in\nEurope.\n\nChauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid, unconscious, at peace\nwith all the world and himself, after the best of suppers, and a smile,\nthat was almost one of pity, softened for a moment the hard lines of the\nFrenchman's face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes.\n\nEvidently the slumberer, deep in dreamless sleep, would not interfere\nwith Chauvelin's trap for catching that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. Again\nhe rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir Percy\nBlakeney, he too, stretched himself out in the corner of another\nsofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth sounds of peaceful\nbreathing, and . . . waited!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV DOUBT\n\n\n\nMarguerite Blakeney had watched the slight sable-clad figure of\nChauvelin, as he worked his way through the ball-room. Then perforce she\nhad had to wait, while her nerves tingled with excitement.\n\nListlessly she sat in the small, still deserted boudoir, looking out\nthrough the curtained doorway on the dancing couples beyond: looking\nat them, yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of naught\nsave a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting.\n\nHer mind conjured up before her the vision of what was, perhaps at this\nvery moment, passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining-room, the\nfateful hour--Chauvelin on the watch!--then, precise to the moment, the\nentrance of a man, he, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious leader, who\nto Marguerite had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird was this\nhidden identity.\n\nShe wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watching\nhim as he entered; she knew that her woman's penetration would at once\nrecognise in the stranger's face--whoever he might be--that strong\nindividuality which belongs to a leader of men--to a hero: to the\nmighty, high-soaring eagle, whose daring wings were becoming entangled\nin the ferret's trap.\n\nWoman-like, she thought of him with unmixed sadness; the irony of that\nfate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to the\ngnawing of a rat! Ah! had Armand's life not been at stake! . . .\n\n\"Faith! your ladyship must have thought me very remiss,\" said a voice\nsuddenly, close to her elbow. \"I had a deal of difficulty in delivering\nyour message, for I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first . . .\"\n\nMarguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message to\nhim; his very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange and\nunfamiliar to her, so completely had she in the last five minutes lived\nher old life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always near her\nto love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigues\nwhich were forever raging in Paris in those days.\n\n\"I did find him at last,\" continued Lord Fancourt, \"and gave him your\nmessage. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to be\nput to.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" she said, still very absently, \"you found my husband, and gave him\nmy message?\"\n\n\"Yes; he was in the dining-room fast asleep. I could not manage to wake\nhim up at first.\"\n\n\"Thank you very much,\" she said mechanically, trying to collect her\nthoughts.\n\n\"Will your ladyship honour me with the CONTREDANSE until your coach is\nready?\" asked Lord Fancourt.\n\n\"No, I thank you, my lord, but--and you will forgive me--I really am too\ntired, and the heat in the ball-room has become oppressive.\"\n\n\"The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take you there, and then\nget you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blakeney.\"\n\n\"I am only very tired,\" she repeated wearily, as she allowed Lord\nFancourt to lead her, where subdued lights and green plants lent\ncoolness to the air. He got her a chair, into which she sank. This long\ninterval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tell\nher the result of his watch?\n\nLord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and\nsuddenly startled him by asking abruptly,--\n\n\"Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now\nbesides Sir Percy Blakeney?\"\n\n\"Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast\nasleep in another corner,\" he said. \"Why does your ladyship ask?\"\n\n\"I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?\"\n\n\"It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. . . . I wonder\nwhat your ladyship is thinking about,\" he added, for evidently the fair\nlady's thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to\nhis intellectual conversation.\n\nBut indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only one storey below,\nin this same house, in the dining-room where sat Chauvelin still on the\nwatch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before as a\nhope--the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir Andrew,\nand that Chauvelin's trap had failed to catch his bird; but that hope\nsoon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then--Armand!\n\nLord Fancourt had given up talking since he found that he had no\nlistener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away; for sitting\nopposite to a lady, however fair, who is evidently not heeding the most\nvigorous efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, even\nto a Cabinet Minister.\n\n\"Shall I find out if your ladyship's coach is ready,\" he said at last,\ntentatively.\n\n\"Oh, thank you . . . thank you . . . if you would be so kind . . . I\nfear I am but sorry company . . . but I am really tired . . . and,\nperhaps, would be best alone.\"\n\nBut Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not come. Oh! what\nhad happened? She felt Armand's fate trembling in the balance . . . she\nfeared--now with a deadly fear that Chauvelin HAD failed, and that the\nmysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once more; then she knew\nthat she need hope for no pity, no mercy, from him.\n\nHe had pronounced his \"Either--or--\" and nothing less would content him:\nhe was very spiteful, and would affect the belief that she had wilfully\nmisled him, and having failed to trap the eagle once again, his\nrevengeful mind would be content with the humble prey--Armand!\n\nYet she had done her best; had strained every nerve for Armand's sake.\nShe could not bear to think that all had failed. She could not sit\nstill; she wanted to go and hear the worst at once; she wondered even\nthat Chauvelin had not come yet, to vent his wrath and satire upon her.\n\nLord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that her coach was\nready, and that Sir Percy was already waiting for her--ribbons in\nhand. Marguerite said \"Farewell\" to her distinguished host; many of\nher friends stopped her, as she crossed the rooms, to talk to her, and\nexchange pleasant AU REVOIRS.\n\nThe Minister only took final leave of beautiful Lady Blakeney on the\ntop of the stairs; below, on the landing, a veritable army of gallant\ngentlemen were waiting to bid \"Good-bye\" to the queen of beauty\nand fashion, whilst outside, under the massive portico, Sir Percy's\nmagnificent bays were impatient pawing the ground.\n\nAt the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final leave of her\nhost, she suddenly saw Chauvelin; he was coming up the stairs slowly,\nand rubbing his thin hands very softly together.\n\nThere was a curious look on his mobile face, partly amused and wholly\npuzzled, as his keen eyes met Marguerite's they became strangely\nsarcastic.\n\n\"M. Chauvelin,\" she said, as he stopped on the top of the stairs, bowing\nelaborately before her, \"my coach is outside; may I claim your arm?\"\n\nAs gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and led her downstairs. The\ncrowd was very great, some of the Minister's guests were departing,\nothers were leaning against the banisters watching the throng as it\nfiled up and down the wide staircase.\n\n\"Chauvelin,\" she said at last desperately, \"I must know what has\nhappened.\"\n\n\"What has happened, dear lady?\" he said, with affected surprise. \"Where?\nWhen?\"\n\n\"You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped you to-night . . . surely\nI have the right to know. What happened in the dining-room at one\no'clock just now?\"\n\nShe spoke in a whisper, trusting that in the general hubbub of the crowd\nher words would remain unheeded by all, save the man at her side.\n\n\"Quiet and peace reigned supreme, fair lady; at that hour I was asleep\nin one corner of one sofa and Sir Percy Blakeney in another.\"\n\n\"Nobody came into the room at all?\"\n\n\"Nobody.\"\n\n\"Then we have failed, you and I?\"\n\n\"Yes! we have failed--perhaps . . .\"\n\n\"But Armand?\" she pleaded.\n\n\"Ah! Armand St. Just's chances hang on a thread . . . pray heaven, dear\nlady, that that thread may not snap.\"\n\n\"Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly . . . remember . . .\"\n\n\"I remember my promise,\" he said quietly. \"The day that the Scarlet\nPimpernel and I meet on French soil, St. Just will be in the arms of his\ncharming sister.\"\n\n\"Which means that a brave man's blood will be on my hands,\" she said,\nwith a shudder.\n\n\"His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the present moment you\nmust hope, as I do, that the enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel will start\nfor Calais to-day--\"\n\n\"I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen.\"\n\n\"And that is?\"\n\n\"That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere, before the\nsun rises to-day.\"\n\n\"You flatter me, citoyenne.\"\n\nShe had detained him for a while, mid-way down the stairs, trying to get\nat the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelin\nremained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a line betrayed to the poor,\nanxious woman whether she need fear or whether she dared to hope.\n\nDownstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney never\nstepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of fluttering\nhuman moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before she\nfinally turned away from Chauvelin, she held out a tiny hand to him,\nwith that pretty gesture of childish appeal which was essentially her\nown. \"Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin,\" she pleaded.\n\nWith perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which looked so\ndainty and white through the delicately transparent black lace mitten,\nand kissing the tips of the rosy fingers:--\n\n\"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap,\" he repeated, with his\nenigmatic smile.\n\nAnd stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more closely round\nthe candle, and the brilliant throng of the JEUNESSE DOREE, eagerly\nattentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement, hid the keen, fox-like face\nfrom her view.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI RICHMOND\n\n\n\nA few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cosy furs, near Sir\nPercy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and the four\nsplendid bays had thundered down the quiet street.\n\nThe night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fanned\nMarguerite's burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, and\nrattling over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays\nrapidly towards Richmond.\n\nThe river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves, looking like\na silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon. Long shadows\nfrom overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls right across the\nroad. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightly\nback by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.\n\nThese nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a source\nof perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her husband's\neccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of taking\nher home every night, to their beautiful home by the river, instead of\nliving in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his spirited horses\nalong the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit on the box-seat,\nwith the soft air of an English late summer's night fanning her face\nafter the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party. The drive was not a\nlong one--less than an hour, sometimes, when the bays were very fresh,\nand Sir Percy gave them full rein.\n\nTo-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and the coach\nseemed to fly along the road, beside the river. As usual, he did not\nspeak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the ribbons seeming\nto lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands. Marguerite looked at\nhim tentatively once or twice; she could see his handsome profile, and\none lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and drooping heavy lid.\n\nThe face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and recalled to\nMarguerite's aching heart those happy days of courtship, before he had\nbecome the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life seemed spent in\ncard and supper rooms.\n\nBut now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression of the\nlazy blue eyes; she could only see the outline of the firm chin, the\ncorner of the strong mouth, the well-cut massive shape of the forehead;\ntruly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults must all be laid\nat the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of the distracted\nheart-broken father, neither of whom had cared for the young life\nwhich was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps, their very\ncarelessness was already beginning to wreck.\n\nMarguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her husband. The moral\ncrisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent towards the\nfaults, the delinquencies, of others.\n\nHow thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered by Fate,\nhad been borne in upon her with appalling force. Had anyone told her a\nweek ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that she would\nbetray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a relentless\nenemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.\n\nYet she had done these things; anon, perhaps the death of that brave man\nwould be at her door, just as two years ago the Marquis de St. Cyr had\nperished through a thoughtless words of hers; but in that case she was\nmorally innocent--she had meant no serious harm--fate merely had stepped\nin. But this time she had done a thing that obviously was base, had done\nit deliberately, for a motive which, perhaps, high moralists would not\neven appreciate.\n\nAs she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt how much\nmore he would dislike and despise her, if he knew of this night's work.\nThus human beings judge of one another, with but little reason, and\nno charity. She despised her husband for his inanities and vulgar,\nunintellectual occupations; and he, she felt, would despise her still\nworse, because she had not been strong enough to do right for right's\nsake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates of her conscience.\n\nBuried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in the\nbreezy summer night all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keen\ndisappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned into\nthe massive gates of her beautiful English home.\n\nSir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic one:\npalatial in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitely\nlaid-out gardens, with a picturesque terrace and frontage to the river.\nBuilt in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks eminently\npicturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful lawn, with\nits old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its foregrounds,\nand now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to\nrussets and gold, the old garden looked singularly poetic and peaceful\nin the moonlight.\n\nWith unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays to a\nstandstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance hall;\nin spite of the late hour, an army of grooms seemed to have emerged\nfrom the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were standing\nrespectfully round.\n\nSir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to alight. She\nlingered outside a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to one of his\nmen. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn, looking out\ndreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace,\nin comparison with the tumultuous emotions she had gone through: she\ncould faintly hear the ripple of the river and the occasional soft and\nghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.\n\nAll else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses prancing as they\nwere being led away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servant's\nfeet as they had all gone within to rest: the house also was quite\nstill. In two separate suites of apartments, just above the magnificent\nreception-rooms, lights were still burning, they were her rooms, and\nhis, well divided from each other by the whole width of the house, as\nfar apart as their own lives had become. Involuntarily she sighed--at\nthat moment she could really not have told why.\n\nShe was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achingly\nshe was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably lonely, so\nbitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another sigh she\nturned away from the river towards the house, vaguely wondering if,\nafter such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.\n\nSuddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm step upon the\ncrisp gravel, and the next moment her husband's figure emerged out of\nthe shadow. He too, had skirted the house, and was wandering along the\nlawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy driving coat with the\nnumerous lapels and collars he himself had set in fashion, but he had\nthrown it well back, burying his hands as was his wont, in the deep\npockets of his satin breeches: the gorgeous white costume he had worn\nat Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of priceless lace, looked\nstrangely ghostly against the dark background of the house.\n\nHe apparently did not notice her, for, after a few moments pause, he\npresently turned back towards the house, and walked straight up to the\nterrace.\n\n\"Sir Percy!\"\n\nHe already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps, but at her\nvoice he started, and paused, then looked searchingly into the shadows\nwhence she had called to him.\n\nShe came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as soon as he saw\nher, he said, with that air of consummate gallantry he always wore when\nspeaking to her,--\n\n\"At your service, Madame!\" But his foot was still on the step, and in\nhis whole attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible to\nher, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a midnight interview.\n\n\"The air is deliciously cool,\" she said, \"the moonlight peaceful and\npoetic, and the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it awhile; the\nhour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you, that you\nare in a hurry to rid yourself of it?\"\n\n\"Nay, Madame,\" he rejoined placidly, \"but 'tis on the other foot the\nshoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air more\npoetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction\nthe better your ladyship will like it.\"\n\nHe turned once more to go.\n\n\"I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy,\" she said hurriedly, and drawing a\nlittle closer to him; \"the estrangement, which alas! has arisen between\nus, was none of my making, remember.\"\n\n\"Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame!\" he protested coldly, \"my\nmemory was always of the shortest.\"\n\nHe looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy nonchalance which\nhad become second nature to him. She returned his gaze for a moment,\nthen her eyes softened, as she came up quite close to him, to the foot\nof the terrace steps.\n\n\"Of the shortest, Sir Percy! Faith! how it must have altered! Was it\nthree years ago or four that you saw me for one hour in Paris, on\nyour way to the East? When you came back two years later you had not\nforgotten me.\"\n\nShe looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the moonlight, with the\nfur-cloak sliding off her beautiful shoulders, the gold embroidery on\nher dress shimmering around her, her childlike blue eyes turned up fully\nat him.\n\nHe stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the clenching of his\nhand against the stone balustrade of the terrace.\n\n\"You desired my presence, Madame,\" he said frigidly. \"I take it that it\nwas not with the view to indulging in tender reminiscences.\"\n\nHis voice certainly was cold and uncompromising: his attitude before\nher, stiff and unbending. Womanly decorum would have suggested\nMarguerite should return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past\nhim without another word, only with a curt nod of her head: but womanly\ninstinct suggested that she should remain--that keen instinct, which\nmakes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to her\nknees the one man who pays her no homage. She stretched out her hand to\nhim.\n\n\"Nay, Sir Percy, why not? the present is not so glorious but that I\nshould not wish to dwell a little in the past.\"\n\nHe bent his tall figure, and taking hold of the extreme tip of the\nfingers which she still held out to him, he kissed them ceremoniously.\n\n\"I' faith, Madame,\" he said, \"then you will pardon me, if my dull wits\ncannot accompany you there.\"\n\nOnce again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet, childlike,\nalmost tender, called him back.\n\n\"Sir Percy.\"\n\n\"Your servant, Madame.\"\n\n\"Is it possible that love can die?\" she said with sudden, unreasoning\nvehemence. \"Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would\noutlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that\nlove, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sad\nestrangement?\"\n\nHis massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to him, to stiffen still\nmore, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless obstinacy crept\ninto the habitually lazy blue eyes.\n\n\"With what object, I pray you, Madame?\" he asked coldly.\n\n\"I do not understand you.\"\n\n\"Yet 'tis simple enough,\" he said with sudden bitterness, which seemed\nliterally to surge through his words, though he was making visible\nefforts to suppress it, \"I humbly put the question to you, for my slow\nwits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's sudden new\nmood. Is it that you have the taste to renew the devilish sport which\nyou played so successfully last year? Do you wish to see me once more\na love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that you might again have the\npleasure of kicking me aside, like a troublesome lap-dog?\"\n\nShe had succeeded in rousing him for the moment: and again she looked\nstraight at him, for it was thus she remembered him a year ago.\n\n\"Percy! I entreat you!\" she whispered, \"can we not bury the past?\"\n\n\"Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was to\ndwell in it.\"\n\n\"Nay! I spoke not of THAT past, Percy!\" she said, while a tone of\ntenderness crept into her voice. \"Rather did I speak of a time when you\nloved me still! and I . . . oh! I was vain and frivolous; your wealth and\nposition allured me: I married you, hoping in my heart that your great\nlove for me would beget in me a love for you . . . but, alas! . . .\"\n\nThe moon had sunk low down behind a bank of clouds. In the east a soft\ngrey light was beginning to chase away the heavy mantle of the night.\nHe could only see her graceful outline now, the small queenly head, with\nits wealth of reddish golden curls, and the glittering gems forming the\nsmall, star-shaped, red flower which she wore as a diadem in her hair.\n\n\"Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis de St. Cyr\nand all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumour\nreached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send\nthem there.\"\n\n\"Nay! I myself told you the truth of that odious tale.\"\n\n\"Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers, with all its\nhorrible details.\"\n\n\"And you believed them then and there,\" she said with great vehemence,\n\"without a proof or question--you believed that I, whom you vowed you\nloved more than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that _I_ could\ndo a thing so base as these STRANGERS chose to recount. You thought I\nmeant to deceive you about it all--that I ought to have spoken before I\nmarried you: yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to the\nvery morning on which St. Cyr went to the guillotine, I was straining\nevery nerve, using every influence I possessed, to save him and his\nfamily. But my pride sealed my lips, when your love seemed to perish,\nas if under the knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told you\nhow I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same popular rumour had endowed with\nthe sharpest wits in France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men\nwho knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for\nrevenge. Was it unnatural?\"\n\nHer voice became choked with tears. She paused for a moment or two,\ntrying to regain some sort of composure. She looked appealingly at him,\nalmost as if he were her judge. He had allowed her to speak on in her\nown vehement, impassioned way, offering no comment, no word of sympathy:\nand now, while she paused, trying to swallow down the hot tears that\ngushed to her eyes, he waited, impassive and still. The dim, grey light\nof early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller and more rigid.\nThe lazy, good-natured face looked strangely altered. Marguerite,\nexcited, as she was, could see that the eyes were no longer languid,\nthe mouth no longer good-humoured and inane. A curious look of intense\npassion seemed to glow from beneath his drooping lids, the mouth was\ntightly closed, the lips compressed, as if the will alone held that\nsurging passion in check.\n\nMarguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a woman's\nfascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She knew in a\nmoment that for the past few months she had been mistaken: that this\nman who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her musical voice\nstruck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a year ago: that his\npassion might have been dormant, but that it was there, as strong, as\nintense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long,\nmaddening kiss. Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she meant\nto win back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemed\nto her that the only happiness life could ever hold for her again would\nbe in feeling that man's kiss once more upon her lips.\n\n\"Listen to the tale, Sir Percy,\" she said, and her voice was low, sweet,\ninfinitely tender. \"Armand was all in all to me! We had no parents, and\nbrought one another up. He was my little father, and I, his tiny mother;\nwe loved one another so. Then one day--do you mind me, Sir Percy? the\nMarquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand thrashed--thrashed by his\nlacqueys--that brother whom I loved better than all the world! And his\noffence? That he, a plebeian, had dared to love the daughter of the\naristocrat; for that he was waylaid and thrashed . . . thrashed like a\ndog within an inch of his life! Oh, how I suffered! his humiliation had\neaten into my very soul! When the opportunity occurred, and I was able\nto take my revenge, I took it. But I only thought to bring that proud\nmarquis to trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his\nown country. Chance gave me knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I did\nnot know--how could I guess?--they trapped and duped me. When I realised\nwhat I had done, it was too late.\"\n\n\"It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame,\" said Sir Percy, after\na moment of silence between them, \"to go back over the past. I have\nconfessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought certainly\nlingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis' death, I entreated\nyou for an explanation of those same noisome popular rumours. If that\nsame memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I fancy that you\nrefused me ALL explanation then, and demanded of my love a humiliating\nallegiance it was not prepared to give.\"\n\n\"I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the test. You\nused to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but for me, and\nfor love of me.\"\n\n\"And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit mine\nhonour,\" he said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leave\nhim, his rigidity to relax; \"that I should accept without murmur or\nquestion, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my\nmistress. My heart overflowing with love and passion, I ASKED for no\nexplanation--I WAITED for one, not doubting--only hoping. Had you\nspoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and\nbelieved it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession of\nthe actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother's house,\nand left me alone . . . for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in whom\nto believe, since the shrine, which contained my one illusion, lay\nshattered to earth at my feet.\"\n\nShe need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his very\nvoice shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making superhuman\nefforts to keep in check.\n\n\"Aye! the madness of my pride!\" she said sadly. \"Hardly had I gone,\nalready I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so\naltered! wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which you\nhave never laid aside until . . . until now.\"\n\nShe was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted against\nhis cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in her\nvoice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magic\ncharm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands\nhis pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the\ndainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful\nfigure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to\nhover playfully.\n\n\"Nay, Madame, it is no mask,\" he said icily; \"I swore to you . . . once,\nthat my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything . . .\nit has served its purpose.\"\n\nBut now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the\nsorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back into her\nmind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man\nwho loved her, would help her bear the burden.\n\n\"Sir Percy,\" she said impulsively, \"Heaven knows you have been at pains\nto make the task, which I had set to myself, difficult to accomplish.\nYou spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it that, if you will.\nI wished to speak to you . . . because . . . because I was in trouble\n. . . and had need . . . of your sympathy.\"\n\n\"It is yours to command, Madame.\"\n\n\"How cold you are!\" she sighed. \"Faith! I can scarce believe that but\na few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I\ncome to you . . . with a half-broken heart . . . and . . . and . . .\"\n\n\"I pray you, Madame,\" he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as\nhers, \"in what way can I serve you?\"\n\n\"Percy!--Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his . . . rash,\nimpetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,\nhas fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised\n. . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested . . . after that the\nguillotine . . . unless . . . oh! it is horrible!\" . . . she said, with a\nsudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushing\nback to her mind, \"horrible! . . . and you do not understand . . . you\ncannot . . . and I have no one to whom I can turn . . . for help . . . or\neven for sympathy . . .\"\n\nTears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the\nawful uncertainty of Armand's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready\nto fall, and leaning against the tone balustrade, she buried her face in\nher hands and sobbed bitterly.\n\nAt first mention of Armand St. Just's name and of the peril in which he\nstood, Sir Percy's face had become a shade more pale; and the look of\ndetermination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his\neyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her\ndelicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously his\nface softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in\nhis eyes.\n\n\"And so,\" he said with bitter sarcasm, \"the murderous dog of the\nrevolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad,\nMadame,\" he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob\nhysterically, \"will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see a\npretty woman cry, and I . . .\"\n\nInstinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight of her\nhelplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next,\nwould have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil\nwith his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had the\nbetter of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a\ntremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,--\n\n\"Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the\nhonour to serve you?\"\n\nShe made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her\ntear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he\nkissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite's fingers,\nthis time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was\nabsolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand\ntrembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold\nas marble.\n\n\"Can you do aught for Armand?\" she said sweetly and simply. \"You have so\nmuch influence at court . . . so many friends . . .\"\n\n\"Nay, Madame, should you not seek the influence of your French friend,\nM. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the\nRepublican Government of France.\"\n\n\"I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared to tell you . . . but\n. . . but . . . he has put a price on my brother's head, which . . .\"\n\nShe would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell him\neverything . . . all she had done that night--how she had suffered and\nhow her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that impulse\n. . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel that he still loved\nher, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not make\nanother confession to him. After all, he might not understand; he might\nnot sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormant\nmight sleep the sleep of death.\n\nPerhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was\none of intense longing--a veritable prayer for that confidence, which\nher foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed,\nand said with marked coldness--\n\n\"Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of it. . . .\nAs for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he\nshall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting\nlate, and . . .\"\n\n\"You will at least accept my gratitude?\" she said, as she drew quite\nclose to him, and speaking with real tenderness.\n\nWith a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then in\nhis arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kiss\naway; but she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside\nlike an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a caprice,\nand he was too proud to lend himself to it once again.\n\n\"It is too soon, Madame!\" he said quietly; \"I have done nothing as yet.\nThe hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waiting\nfor you upstairs.\"\n\nHe stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh of\ndisappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict,\nand his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she had\nbeen deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in his\neyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatred\ninstead of love. She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer. He\nwas again as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered, and he\ncared naught for her. The grey light of dawn was gradually yielding\nto the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter; Nature\nawakened, smiling in happy response to the warmth of this glorious\nOctober morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong,\nimpassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither of\nthem cared to be the first to demolish.\n\nHe had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, as she finally,\nwith another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.\n\nThe long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off\nthe steps, making a faint harmonious sh--sh--sh as she glided up, with\none hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an\naureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head and\narms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the\nhouse. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping\nagainst hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his voice\ncalling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked the\nvery personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.\n\nHot tears again surged to her eyes, as she would not let him see them,\nshe turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own\nrooms.\n\nHad she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the\nrose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own\nsufferings seem but light and easy to bear--a strong man, overwhelmed\nwith his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last,\nobstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly,\nblindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had\ndied away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in\nthe very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her\nsmall foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny\nhand had rested last.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII FAREWELL\n\n\n\nWhen Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly anxious\nabout her.\n\n\"Your ladyship will be so tired,\" said the poor woman, whose own eyes\nwere half closed with sleep. \"It is past five o'clock.\"\n\n\"Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently,\" said\nMarguerite, kindly; \"but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.\nI'll get into bed alone.\"\n\n\"But, my lady . . .\"\n\n\"Now, don't argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me\nalone.\"\n\nLouise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress's gorgeous\nball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.\n\n\"Does your ladyship wish for anything else?\" she asked, when that was\ndone.\n\n\"No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out.\"\n\n\"Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Louise.\"\n\nWhen the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw\nopen the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with rosy\nlight. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had changed the\nrose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and Marguerite looked\ndown upon the terrace where she had stood a few moments ago trying in\nvain to win back a man's love, which once had been so wholly hers.\n\nIt was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for\nArmand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and\nbitter heartache.\n\nHer very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a man who\nhad spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained cold to her\nappeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused\nher to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris were not all\ndead and forgotten.\n\nHow strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that she looked\nback upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness,\nshe realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in\nher heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his\nempty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the real\nman, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still--the man she had loved,\nwhose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted her,\nsince she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there was\na certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world, and most\nespecially from her.\n\nA woman's heart is such a complex problem--the owner thereof is often\nmost incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.\n\nDid Marguerite Blakeney, \"the cleverest woman in Europe,\" really love a\nfool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago when she married\nhim? Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still\nloved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate,\nardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite herself could not have told\nthat. Not at this moment at any rate; perhaps her pride had sealed her\nmind against a better understanding of her own heart. But this she did\nknow--that she meant to capture that obstinate heart back again. That\nshe would conquer once more . . . and then, that she would never lose him\n. . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish\nit; for this much was certain, that there was no longer any happiness\npossible for her without that one man's love.\n\nThus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly through\nher mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps,\ntired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes and\nsunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams seemed but\nthe continuation of her anxious thoughts--when suddenly she was roused,\nfrom dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside her door.\n\nNervously she jumped up and listened; the house itself was as still\nas ever; the footsteps had retreated. Through her wide-open window the\nbrilliant rays of the morning sun were flooding her room with light. She\nlooked up at the clock; it was half-past six--too early for any of the\nhousehold to be already astir.\n\nShe certainly must have dropped asleep, quite unconsciously. The noise\nof the footsteps, also of hushed subdued voices had awakened her--what\ncould they be?\n\nGently, on tip-toe, she crossed the room and opened the door to listen;\nnot a sound--that peculiar stillness of the early morning when sleep\nwith all mankind is at its heaviest. But the noise had made her nervous,\nand when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she saw something\nwhite lying there--a letter evidently--she hardly dared touch it. It\nseemed so ghostlike. It certainly was not there when she came upstairs;\nhad Louise dropped it? or was some tantalising spook at play, showing\nher fairy letters where none existed?\n\nAt last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled beyond measure,\nshe saw that the letter was addressed to herself in her husband's large,\nbusinesslike-looking hand. What could he have to say to her, in the\nmiddle of the night, which could not be put off until the morning?\n\nShe tore open the envelope and read:--\n\n\"A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave for the North\nimmediately, so I beg your ladyship's pardon if I do not avail myself of\nthe honour of bidding you good-bye. My business may keep me employed for\nabout a week, so I shall not have the privilege of being present at\nyour ladyship's water-party on Wednesday. I remain your ladyship's most\nhumble and most obedient servant, PERCY BLAKENEY.\"\n\nMarguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her husband's slowness\nof intellect, for she had perforce to read the few simple lines over and\nover again, before she could fully grasp their meaning.\n\nShe stood on the landing, turning over and over in her hand this curt\nand mysterious epistle, her mind a blank, her nerves strained with\nagitation and a presentiment she could not very well have explained.\n\nSir Percy owned considerable property in the North, certainly, and he\nhad often before gone there alone and stayed away a week at a time; but\nit seemed so very strange that circumstances should have arisen between\nfive and six o'clock in the morning that compelled him to start in this\nextreme hurry.\n\nVainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling of nervousness:\nshe was trembling from head to foot. A wild, unconquerable desire\nseized her to see her husband again, at once, if only he had not already\nstarted.\n\nForgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad in a morning\nwrap, and that her hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she flew down\nthe stairs, right through the hall towards the front door.\n\nIt was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor servants were not yet\nup; but her keen ears had detected the sound of voices and the pawing of\na horse's hoof against the flag-stones.\n\nWith nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the bolts one by one,\nbruising her hands, hurting her nails, for the locks were heavy and\nstiff. But she did not care; her whole frame shook with anxiety at the\nvery thought that she might be too late; that he might have gone without\nher seeing him and bidding him \"God-speed!\"\n\nAt last, she had turned the key and thrown open the door. Her ears had\nnot deceived her. A groom was standing close by holding a couple of\nhorses; one of these was Sultan, Sir Percy's favourite and swiftest\nhorse, saddled ready for a journey.\n\nThe next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round the further corner\nof the house and came quickly towards the horses. He had changed his\ngorgeous ball costume, but was as usual irreproachably and richly\napparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and ruffles, high\ntop-boots, and riding breeches.\n\nMarguerite went forward a few steps. He looked up and saw her. A slight\nfrown appeared between his eyes.\n\n\"You are going?\" she said quickly and feverishly. \"Whither?\"\n\n\"As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship, urgent, most\nunexpected business calls me to the North this morning,\" he said, in his\nusual cold, drawly manner.\n\n\"But . . . your guests to-morrow . . .\"\n\n\"I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble excuses to His Royal\nHighness. You are such a perfect hostess, I do not think I shall be\nmissed.\"\n\n\"But surely you might have waited for your journey . . . until after\nour water-party . . .\" she said, still speaking quickly and nervously.\n\"Surely this business is not so urgent . . . and you said nothing about\nit--just now.\"\n\n\"My business, as I had the honour to tell you, Madame, is as unexpected\nas it is urgent. . . . May I therefore crave your permission to go.\n. . . Can I do aught for you in town? . . . on my way back?\"\n\n\"No . . . no . . . thanks . . . nothing . . . But you will be back soon?\"\n\n\"Very soon.\"\n\n\"Before the end of the week?\"\n\n\"I cannot say.\"\n\nHe was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was straining every\nnerve to keep him back for a moment or two.\n\n\"Percy,\" she said, \"will you not tell me why you go to-day? Surely I, as\nyour wife, have the right to know. You have NOT been called away to the\nNorth. I know it. There were no letters, no couriers from there before\nwe left for the opera last night, and nothing was waiting for you when\nwe returned from the ball. . . . You are NOT going to the North, I feel\nconvinced. . . . There is some mystery . . . and . . .\"\n\n\"Nay, there is no mystery, Madame,\" he replied, with a slight tone of\nimpatience. \"My business has to do with Armand . . . there! Now, have I\nyour leave to depart?\"\n\n\"With Armand? . . . But you will run no danger?\"\n\n\"Danger? I? . . . Nay, Madame, your solicitude does me honour. As you\nsay, I have some influence; my intention is to exert it before it be too\nlate.\"\n\n\"Will you allow me to thank you at least?\"\n\n\"Nay, Madame,\" he said coldly, \"there is no need for that. My life is at\nyour service, and I am already more than repaid.\"\n\n\"And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will but accept it, in\nexchange for what you do for Armand,\" she said, as, impulsively, she\nstretched out both her hands to him. \"There! I will not detain you\n. . . my thoughts go with you . . . Farewell! . . .\"\n\nHow lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with her ardent hair\nstreaming around her shoulders. He bowed very low and kissed her hand;\nshe felt the burning kiss and her heart thrilled with joy and hope.\n\n\"You will come back?\" she said tenderly.\n\n\"Very soon!\" he replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes.\n\n\"And . . . you will remember? . . .\" she asked as her eyes, in response\nto his look, gave him an infinity of promise.\n\n\"I will always remember, Madame, that you have honoured me by commanding\nmy services.\"\n\nThe words were cold and formal, but they did not chill her this time.\nHer woman's heart had read his, beneath the impassive mask his pride\nstill forced him to wear.\n\nHe bowed to her again, then begged her leave to depart. She stood on one\nside whilst he jumped on to Sultan's back, then, as he galloped out of\nthe gates, she waved him a final \"Adieu.\"\n\nA bend in the road soon hid him from view; his confidential groom had\nsome difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sultan flew along in\nresponse to his master's excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was\nalmost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to her room,\nfor suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.\n\nHer heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and, though it\nstill ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious hope soothed\nit as with a balm.\n\nShe felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just ridden\naway, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete confidence\nin his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself for having\never looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, THAT was a mask worn\nto hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and to his love. His\npassion would have overmastered him, and he would not let her see how\nmuch he still cared and how deeply he suffered.\n\nBut now all would be well: she would crush her own pride, humble it\nbefore him, tell him everything, trust him in everything; and those\nhappy days would come back, when they used to wander off together in the\nforests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little--for he was always a\nsilent man--but when she felt that against that strong heart she would\nalways find rest and happiness.\n\nThe more she thought of the events of the past night, the less fear had\nshe of Chauvelin and his schemes. He had failed to discover the identity\nof the Scarlet Pimpernel, of that she felt sure. Both Lord Fancourt\nand Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had been in\nthe dining-room at one o'clock except the Frenchman himself and\nPercy--Yes!--Percy! she might have asked him, had she thought of it!\nAnyway, she had no fears that the unknown and brave hero would fall in\nChauvelin's trap; his death at any rate would not be at her door.\n\nArmand certainly was still in danger, but Percy had pledged his word\nthat Armand would be safe, and somehow, as Marguerite had seen him\nriding away, the possibility that he could fail in whatever he undertook\nnever even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand was safely over in\nEngland she would not allow him to go back to France.\n\nShe felt almost happy now, and, drawing the curtains closely together\nagain to shut out the piercing sun, she went to bed at last, laid\nher head upon the pillow, and, like a wearied child, soon fell into a\npeaceful and dreamless sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE\n\n\n\nThe day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, refreshed by her long\nsleep. Louise had brought her some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, and\nshe partook of this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite.\n\nThoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she munched her grapes;\nmost of them went galloping away after the tall, erect figure of her\nhusband, whom she had watched riding out of sight more than five hours\nago.\n\nIn answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back the news that the\ngroom had come home with Sultan, having left Sir Percy in London. The\ngroom thought that his master was about to get on board his schooner,\nwhich was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir Percy had ridden thus\nfar, had then met Briggs, the skipper of the DAY DREAM, and had sent the\ngroom back to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle.\n\nThis news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where could Sir Percy be\ngoing just now in the DAY DREAM? On Armand's behalf, he had said. Well!\nSir Percy had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was going to\nGreenwich, or . . . but Marguerite ceased to conjecture; all would be\nexplained anon: he said that he would come back, and that he would\nremember. A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was expecting a\nvisit of her old school-fellow, little Suzanne de Tournay. With all\nthe merry mischief at her command, she had tendered her request for\nSuzanne's company to the Comtesse in the Presence of the Prince of Wales\nlast night. His Royal Highness had loudly applauded the notion, and\ndeclared that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the two\nladies in the course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared to\nrefuse, and then and there was entrapped into a promise to send little\nSuzanne to spend a long and happy day at Richmond with her friend.\n\nMarguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a chat about old\nschool-days with the child; she felt that she would prefer Suzanne's\ncompany to that of anyone else, and together they would roam through the\nfine old garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the river.\n\nBut Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being dressed, prepared to\ngo downstairs. She looked quite a girl this morning in her simple muslin\nfrock, with a broad blue sash round her slim waist, and the dainty\ncross-over fichu into which, at her bosom, she had fastened a few late\ncrimson roses.\n\nShe crossed the landing outside her own suite of apartments, and stood\nstill for a moment at the head of the fine oak staircase, which led to\nthe lower floor. On her left were her husband's apartments, a suite of\nrooms which she practically never entered.\n\nThey consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception room, and at the\nextreme end of the landing, of a small study, which, when Sir Percy did\nnot use it, was always kept locked. His own special and confidential\nvalet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to go\ninside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants, had,\nof course, not dared to break this hard-and-fast rule.\n\nMarguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she had\nrecently adopted towards her husband, chaffed him about this secrecy\nwhich surrounded his private study. Laughingly she had always declared\nthat he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear they\nshould detect how very little \"study\" went on within its four walls: a\ncomfortable arm-chair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt, its\nmost conspicuous piece of furniture.\n\nMarguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as she\nglanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master's\nrooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst the\nothers.\n\nA sudden burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at Sir\nPercy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to her, and\nFrank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that\nthe valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might have\nthat one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.\n\nGently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue Beard's wife,\ntrembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on the\nthreshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.\n\nThe door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed it\nopen tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently not there, and\nshe walked boldly in.\n\nAt once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything around\nher: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one or\ntwo maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about\ntown, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, that\nwas the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.\n\nThere was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everything\nwas in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a\ncupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and\nthrough the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.\n\nFacing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood a\nponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much\nservice. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor\nto ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman, magnificently\nframed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of Boucher. It was\nPercy's mother.\n\nMarguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad,\nailing in body as well as in mind, while Percy was still a lad. She must\nhave been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and as\nMarguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by the\nextraordinary resemblance which must have existed between mother and\nson. There was the same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fair\nhair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set, somewhat lazy blue eyes\nbeneath firmly marked, straight brows; and in those eyes there was the\nsame intensity behind that apparent laziness, the same latent passion\nwhich used to light up Percy's face in the olden days before his\nmarriage, and which Marguerite had again noted, last night at dawn, when\nshe had come quite close to him, and had allowed a note of tenderness to\ncreep into her voice.\n\nMarguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her: after that she\nturned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a\nmass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accounts\nand receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struck\nMarguerite--nor had she, alas! found it worth while to inquire--as to\nhow Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of\nbrains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him.\n\nSince she had entered this neat, orderly room, she had been taken\nso much by surprise, that this obvious proof of her husband's strong\nbusiness capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought of\nwonder. But it also strengthened her in the now certain knowledge that,\nwith his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and foolish talk, he was\nnot only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and studied part.\n\nMarguerite wondered again. Why should he take all this trouble? Why\nshould he--who was obviously a serious, earnest man--wish to appear\nbefore his fellow-men as an empty-headed nincompoop?\n\nHe may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt\n. . . but surely such an object could have been gained at less sacrifice,\nand with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of an unnatural\npart.\n\nShe looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was horribly puzzled, and\na nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, had\nbegun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly in\nthis severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, save the\nfine Boucher portrait, only a couple of maps, both of parts of France,\none of the North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. What did\nSir Percy want with those, she wondered.\n\nHer head began to ache, she turned away from this strange Blue Beard's\nchamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. She\ndid not wish Frank to find her here, and with a fast look round, she\nonce more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot knocked against a\nsmall object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk, on the\ncarpet, and which now went rolling, right across the room.\n\nShe stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat shield,\non which was engraved a small device.\n\nMarguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the engraving\non the shield. It represented a small star-shaped flower, of a shape she\nhad seen so distinctly twice before: once at the opera, and once at Lord\nGrenville's ball.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL\n\n\n\nAt what particular moment the strange doubt first crept into\nMarguerite's mind, she could not herself have said. With the ring\ntightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down the\nstairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone\nwith the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could look again at\nthe ring, and study that device more closely.\n\nStupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging\nsycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield, with the star-shaped\nlittle flower engraved upon it.\n\nBah! It was ridiculous! she was dreaming! her nerves were overwrought,\nand she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had\nnot everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device\nof that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpernel?\n\nDid she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns? set in gems and enamel\nin her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should\nhave chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily have\ndone that . . . yes . . . quite easily . . . and . . . besides . . . what\nconnection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband,\nwith his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter who\nrescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of a\nbloodthirsty revolution?\n\nHer thoughts were in a whirl--her mind a blank . . . She did not see\nanything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when a\nfresh young voice called to her across the garden.\n\n\"CHERIE!--CHERIE! where are you?\" and little Suzanne, fresh as a\nrosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and brown curls fluttering in the\nsoft morning breeze, came running across the lawn.\n\n\"They told me you were in the garden,\" she went on prattling merrily,\nand throwing herself with a pretty, girlish impulse into Marguerite's\narms, \"so I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite\nso soon, did you, my darling little Margot CHERIE?\"\n\nMarguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the folds of her\nkerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl's\nimpulsiveness.\n\n\"Indeed, sweet one,\" she said with a smile, \"it is delightful to have\nyou all to myself, and for a nice whole long day. . . . You won't be\nbored?\"\n\n\"Oh! bored! Margot, how CAN you say such a wicked thing. Why! when we\nwere in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we were\nallowed to be alone together.\"\n\n\"And to talk secrets.\"\n\nThe two young girls had linked their arms in one another's and began\nwandering round the garden.\n\n\"Oh! how lovely your home is, Margot, darling,\" said little Suzanne,\nenthusiastically, \"and how happy you must be!\"\n\n\"Aye, indeed! I ought to be happy--oughtn't I, sweet one?\" said\nMarguerite, with a wistful little sigh.\n\n\"How sadly you say it, CHERIE. . . . Ah, well, I suppose now that you\nare a married woman you won't care to talk secrets with me any longer.\nOh! what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school! Do you\nremember?--some we did not even confide to Sister Theresa of the Holy\nAngels--though she was such a dear.\"\n\n\"And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one?\" said\nMarguerite, merrily, \"which you are forthwith going to confide in me.\nNay, you need not blush, CHERIE.\" she added, as she saw Suzanne's pretty\nlittle face crimson with blushes. \"Faith, there's naught to be ashamed\nof! He is a noble and true man, and one to be proud of as a lover, and\n. . . as a husband.\"\n\n\"Indeed, CHERIE, I am not ashamed,\" rejoined Suzanne, softly; \"and it\nmakes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I think\nmaman will consent,\" she added thoughtfully, \"and I shall be--oh! so\nhappy--but, of course, nothing is to be thought of until\npapa is safe. . . .\"\n\nMarguerite started. Suzanne's father! the Comte de Tournay!--one\nof those whose life would be jeopardised if Chauvelin succeeded in\nestablishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.\n\nShe had understood all along from the Comtesse, and also from one or two\nof the members of the league, that their mysterious leader had pledged\nhis honour to bring the fugitive Comte de Tournay safely out of France.\nWhilst little Suzanne--unconscious of all--save her own all-important\nlittle secret, went prattling on, Marguerite's thoughts went back to the\nevents of the past night.\n\nArmand's peril, Chauvelin's threat, his cruel \"Either--or--\" which she\nhad accepted.\n\nAnd then her own work in the matter, which should have culminated at one\no'clock in Lord Grenville's dining-room, when the relentless agent\nof the French Government would finally learn who was this mysterious\nScarlet Pimpernel, who so openly defied an army of spies and placed\nhimself so boldly, and for mere sport, on the side of the enemies of\nFrance.\n\nSince then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had concluded that\nhe had failed, and yet, she had not felt anxious about Armand, because\nher husband had promised her that Armand would be safe.\n\nBut now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, an awful horror\ncame upon her for what she had done. Chauvelin had told her nothing, it\nwas true; but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when she\ntook final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered something\nthen? Had he already laid his plans for catching the daring plotter,\nred-handed, in France, and sending him to the guillotine without\ncompunction or delay?\n\nMarguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand convulsively clutched\nthe ring in her dress.\n\n\"You are not listening, CHERIE,\" said Suzanne, reproachfully, as she\npaused in her long, highly interesting narrative.\n\n\"Yes, yes, darling--indeed I am,\" said Marguerite with an effort,\nforcing herself to smile. \"I love to hear you talking . . . and your\nhappiness makes me so very glad. . . . Have no fear, we will manage to\npropitiate maman. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a noble English gentleman; he\nhas money and position, the Comtesse will not refuse her consent. . . .\nBut . . . now, little one . . . tell me . . . what is the latest news\nabout your father?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Suzanne with mad glee, \"the best we could possibly hear. My\nLord Hastings came to see maman early this morning. He said that all is\nnow well with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here in England in\nless than four days.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on Suzanne's\nlips, as she continued merrily:\n\n\"Oh, we have no fear now! You don't know, CHERIE, that that great and\nnoble Scarlet Pimpernel himself has gone to save papa. He has gone,\nCHERIE . . . actually gone . . .\" added Suzanne excitedly, \"he was in\nLondon this morning; he will be in Calais, perhaps, to-morrow . . . where\nhe will meet papa . . . and then . . . and then . . .\"\n\nThe blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, though she had tried\nfor the last half-hour to delude herself and to cheat her fears. He had\ngone to Calais, had been in London this morning . . . he . . . the\nScarlet Pimpernel . . . Percy Blakeney . . . her husband . . . whom she had\nbetrayed last night to Chauvelin.\n\nPercy . . . Percy . . . her husband . . . the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . Oh!\nhow could she have been so blind? She understood it all now--all at once\n. . . that part he played--the mask he wore . . . in order to throw dust\nin everybody's eyes.\n\nAnd all for the sheer sport and devilry of course!--saving men, women\nand children from death, as other men destroy and kill animals for the\nexcitement, the love of the thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aim\nin life--he, and the few young bucks he enrolled under his banner, had\namused themselves for months in risking their lives for the sake of an\ninnocent few.\n\nPerhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first married; and then\nthe story of the Marquis de St. Cyr had come to his ears, and he had\nsuddenly turned from her, thinking, no doubt, that she might someday\nbetray him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him; and so he had\ntricked her, as he tricked all others, whilst hundreds now owed their\nlives to him, and many families owed him both life and happiness.\n\nThe mask of an inane fop had been a good one, and the part consummately\nwell played. No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect, in\nthe apparently brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless daring and\nresourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French spies, both in\nFrance and in England. Even last night when Chauvelin went to Lord\nGrenville's dining-room to seek that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, he only\nsaw that inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast asleep in a corner of the sofa.\n\nHad his astute mind guessed the secret, then? Here lay the whole awful,\nhorrible, amazing puzzle. In betraying a nameless stranger to his fate\nin order to save her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husband\nto his death?\n\nNo! no! no! a thousand times no! Surely Fate could not deal a blow like\nthat: Nature itself would rise in revolt: her hand, when it held that\ntiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have been struck numb\nere it committed a deed so appalling and so terrible.\n\n\"But what is it, CHERIE?\" said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed,\nfor Marguerite's colour had become dull and ashen. \"Are you ill,\nMarguerite? What is it?\"\n\n\"Nothing, nothing, child,\" she murmured, as in a dream. \"Wait a moment\n. . . let me think . . . think! . . . You said . . . the Scarlet\nPimpernel had gone today . . . ?\"\n\n\"Marguerite, CHERIE, what is it? You frighten me. . . .\"\n\n\"It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing . . . I must be alone\na minute--and--dear one . . . I may have to curtail our time together\nto-day. . . . I may have to go away--you'll understand?\"\n\n\"I understand that something has happened, CHERIE, and that you want\nto be alone. I won't be a hindrance to you. Don't think of me. My maid,\nLucile, has not yet gone . . . we will go back together . . . don't think\nof me.\"\n\nShe threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she was, she\nfelt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the infinite tact of\nher girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into it, but was ready to\nefface herself.\n\nShe kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back across\nthe lawn. Marguerite did not move, she remained there, thinking . . .\nwondering what was to be done.\n\nJust as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a groom\ncame running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a sealed\nletter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back; her heart told\nher that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend, and she felt\nthat poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.\n\nThe groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he handed her the\nsealed letter.\n\n\"What is that?\" asked Marguerite.\n\n\"Just come by runner, my lady.\"\n\nMarguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in her\ntrembling fingers.\n\n\"Who sent it?\" she said.\n\n\"The runner said, my lady,\" replied the groom, \"that his orders were\nto deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom it\ncame.\"\n\nMarguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her what it\ncontained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.\n\nIt was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes--the letter\nwhich Chauvelin's spies had stolen at \"The Fisherman's Rest,\" and which\nChauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her obedience.\n\nNow he had kept his word--he had sent her back St. Just's compromising\nletter . . . for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.\n\nMarguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving her body;\nshe tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm round her\nwaist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself--there\nwas yet much to be done.\n\n\"Bring that runner here to me,\" she said to the servant, with much calm.\n\"He has not gone?\"\n\n\"No, my lady.\"\n\nThe groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.\n\n\"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I fear that I\nmust send you home, child. And--stay, tell one of the maids to prepare a\ntravelling dress and cloak for me.\"\n\nSuzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and obeyed without\na word; the child was overawed by the terrible, nameless misery in her\nfriend's face.\n\nA minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who had\nbrought the letter.\n\n\"Who gave you this packet?\" asked Marguerite.\n\n\"A gentleman, my lady,\" replied the man, \"at 'The Rose and Thistle' inn\nopposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand.\"\n\n\"At 'The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?\"\n\n\"He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered.\"\n\n\"The coach?\"\n\n\"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his man\nthat he was posting straight to Dover.\"\n\n\"That's enough. You may go.\" Then she turned to the groom: \"My coach and\nthe four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at once.\"\n\nThe groom and runner both went quickly off to obey. Marguerite remained\nstanding for a moment on the lawn quite alone. Her graceful figure\nwas as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightly\nclasped across her breast; her lips moved as they murmured with pathetic\nheart-breaking persistence,--\n\n\"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find him?--Oh, God!\ngrant me light.\"\n\nBut this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had\ndone--unwittingly--an awful and terrible thing--the very worst crime, in\nher eyes, that woman ever committed--she saw it in all its horror. Her\nvery blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed now\nto her another deadly sin. She ought to have known! she ought to have\nknown!\n\nHow could she imagine that a man who could love with so much intensity\nas Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first--how could such a man\nbe the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least, ought to have\nknown that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she should\nhave torn it from his face, whenever they were alone together.\n\nHer love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by her own\npride; and she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt for him,\nwhilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood him.\n\nBut there was no time now to go over the past. By her own blindness she\nhad sinned; now she must repay, not by empty remorse, but by prompt and\nuseful action.\n\nPercy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact that\nhis most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail early that\nmorning from London Bridge. Provided he had a favourable wind, he would\nno doubt be in France within twenty-four hours; no doubt he had reckoned\non the wind and chosen this route.\n\nChauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, charter a vessel\nthere, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time. Once in\nCalais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerly waiting for the\nnoble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue them from\nhorrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed upon his\nevery movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his own life,\nbut that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and of those\nother fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him. There was\nalso Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the knowledge\nthat the Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety.\n\nAll these lives and that of her husband, lay in Marguerite's hands;\nthese she must save, if human pluck and ingenuity were equal to the\ntask.\n\nUnfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in Calais she\nwould not know where to find her husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealing\nthe papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above every\nthing, she wished to warn Percy.\n\nShe knew enough about him by now to understand that he would never\nabandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his back from\ndanger, and leave the Comte de Tournay to fall into the bloodthirsty\nhands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he might form new\nplans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously, he might fall into a\ncunning trap, but--once warned--he might yet succeed.\n\nAnd if he failed--if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with all the resources\nat his command, proved too strong for the daring plotter after all--then\nat least she would be there by his side, to comfort, love and cherish,\nto cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem sweet, if they died\nboth together, locked in each other's arms, with the supreme happiness\nof knowing that passion had responded to passion, and that all\nmisunderstandings were at an end.\n\nHer whole body stiffened as with a great and firm resolution. This she\nmeant to do, if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes lost their\nfixed look; they glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting him\nagain so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils; they sparkled\nwith the joy of sharing these dangers with him--of helping him\nperhaps--of being with him at the last--if she failed.\n\nThe childlike sweet face had become hard and set, the curved mouth was\nclosed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or die, with\nhim and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will and unbending\nresolution, appeared between the two straight brows; already her plans\nwere formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew Ffoulkes first; he was\nPercy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered, with a thrill, with what\nblind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of his mysterious leader.\n\nHe would help her where she needed help; her coach was ready. A change\nof raiment, and a farewell to little Suzanne, and she could be on her\nway.\n\nWithout haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly into the\nhouse.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX THE FRIEND\n\n\n\nLess than half an hour later, Marguerite, buried in thoughts, sat inside\nher coach, which was bearing her swiftly to London.\n\nShe had taken an affectionate farewell of little Suzanne, and seen the\nchild safely started with her maid, and in her own coach, back to town.\nShe had sent one courier with a respectful letter of excuse to His Royal\nHighness, begging for a postponement of the august visit on account of\npressing and urgent business, and another on ahead to bespeak a fresh\nrelay of horses at Faversham.\n\nThen she had changed her muslin frock for a dark travelling costume and\nmantle, had provided herself with money--which her husband's lavishness\nalways placed fully at her disposal--and had started on her way.\n\nShe did not attempt to delude herself with any vain and futile hopes;\nthe safety of her brother Armand was to have been conditional on the\nimminent capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. As Chauvelin had sent her\nback Armand's compromising letter, there was no doubt that he was quite\nsatisfied in his own mind that Percy Blakeney was the man whose death he\nhad sworn to bring about.\n\nNo! there was no room for any fond delusions! Percy, the husband whom\nshe loved with all the ardour which her admiration for his bravery\nhad kindled, was in immediate, deadly peril, through her hand. She had\nbetrayed him to his enemy--unwittingly 'tis true--but she HAD betrayed\nhim, and if Chauvelin succeeded in trapping him, who so far was unaware\nof his danger, then his death would be at her door. His death! when with\nher very heart's blood, she would have defended him and given willingly\nher life for his.\n\nShe had ordered her coach to drive her to the \"Crown\" inn; once there,\nshe told her coachman to give the horses food and rest. Then she ordered\na chair, and had herself carried to the house in Pall Mall where Sir\nAndrew Ffoulkes lived.\n\nAmong all Percy's friends who were enrolled under his daring banner,\nshe felt that she would prefer to confide in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He had\nalways been her friend, and now his love for little Suzanne had brought\nhim closer to her still. Had he been away from home, gone on the mad\nerrand with Percy, perhaps, then she would have called on Lord Hastings\nor Lord Tony--for she wanted the help of one of these young men, or she\nwould indeed be powerless to save her husband.\n\nSir Andrew Ffoulkes, however, was at home, and his servant introduced\nher ladyship immediately. She went upstairs to the young man's\ncomfortable bachelor's chambers, and was shown into a small, though\nluxuriously furnished, dining-room. A moment or two later Sir Andrew\nhimself appeared.\n\nHe had evidently been much startled when he heard who his lady visitor\nwas, for he looked anxiously--even suspiciously--at Marguerite, whilst\nperforming the elaborate bows before her, which the rigid etiquette of\nthe time demanded.\n\nMarguerite had laid aside every vestige of nervousness; she was\nperfectly calm, and having returned the young man's elaborate salute,\nshe began very calmly,--\n\n\"Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time in much talk. You\nmust take certain things I am going to tell you for granted. These will\nbe of no importance. What is important is that your leader and comrade,\nthe Scarlet Pimpernel . . . my husband . . . Percy Blakeney . . . is in\ndeadly peril.\"\n\nHad she the remotest doubt of the correctness of her deductions, she\nwould have had them confirmed now, for Sir Andrew, completely taken by\nsurprise, had grown very pale, and was quite incapable of making the\nslightest attempt at clever parrying.\n\n\"No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew,\" she continued quietly,\n\"thank God that I do, and that perhaps it is not too late to save him.\nUnfortunately, I cannot do this quite alone, and therefore have come to\nyou for help.\"\n\n\"Lady Blakeney,\" said the young man, trying to recover himself,\n\"I . . .\"\n\n\"Will you hear me first?\" she interrupted. \"This is how the matter\nstands. When the agent of the French Government stole your papers that\nnight in Dover, he found amongst them certain plans, which you or your\nleader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte de Tournay and\nothers. The Scarlet Pimpernel--Percy, my husband--has gone on this\nerrand himself to-day. Chauvelin knows that the Scarlet Pimpernel\nand Percy Blakeney are one and the same person. He will follow him to\nCalais, and there will lay hands on him. You know as well as I do the\nfate that awaits him at the hands of the Revolutionary Government of\nFrance. No interference from England--from King George himself--would\nsave him. Robespierre and his gang would see to it that the interference\ncame too late. But not only that, the much-trusted leader will also have\nbeen unconsciously the means of revealing the hiding-place of the Comte\nde Tournay and of all those who, even now, are placing their hopes in\nhim.\"\n\nShe had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with firm, unbending\nresolution. Her purpose was to make that young man trust and help her,\nfor she could do nothing without him.\n\n\"I do not understand,\" he repeated, trying to gain time, to think what\nwas best to be done.\n\n\"Aye! but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must know that I am speaking\nthe truth. Look these facts straight in the face. Percy has sailed for\nCalais, I presume for some lonely part of the coast, and Chauvelin is on\nhis track. HE has posted for Dover, and will cross the Channel probably\nto-night. What do you think will happen?\"\n\nThe young man was silent.\n\n\"Percy will arrive at his destination: unconscious of being followed he\nwill seek out de Tournay and the others--among these is Armand St. Just\nmy brother--he will seek them out, one after another, probably, not\nknowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching his every\nmovement. When he has thus unconsciously betrayed those who blindly\ntrust in him, when nothing can be gained from him, and he is ready to\ncome back to England, with those whom he has gone so bravely to save,\nthe doors of the trap will close upon him, and he will be sent to end\nhis noble life upon the guillotine.\"\n\nStill Sir Andrew was silent.\n\n\"You do not trust me,\" she said passionately. \"Oh God! cannot you see\nthat I am in deadly earnest? Man, man,\" she added, while, with her tiny\nhands she seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing him\nto look straight at her, \"tell me, do I look like that vilest thing on\nearth--a woman who would betray her own husband?\"\n\n\"God forbid, Lady Blakeney,\" said the young man at last, \"that I should\nattribute such evil motives to you, but . . .\"\n\n\"But what? . . . tell me. . . . Quick, man! . . . the very seconds are\nprecious!\"\n\n\"Will you tell me,\" he asked resolutely, and looking searchingly into\nher blue eyes, \"whose hand helped to guide M. Chauvelin to the knowledge\nwhich you say he possesses?\"\n\n\"Mine,\" she said quietly, \"I own it--I will not lie to you, for I wish\nyou to trust me absolutely. But I had no idea--how COULD I have?--of the\nidentity of the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . and my brother's safety was to be\nmy prize if I succeeded.\"\n\n\"In helping Chauvelin to track the Scarlet Pimpernel?\"\n\nShe nodded.\n\n\"It is no use telling you how he forced my hand. Armand is more than a\nbrother to me, and . . . and . . . how COULD I guess? . . . But we waste\ntime, Sir Andrew . . . every second is precious . . . in the name of God!\n. . . my husband is in peril . . . your friend!--your comrade!--Help me to\nsave him.\"\n\nSir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward one. The oath he had\ntaken before his leader and comrade was one of obedience and secrecy;\nand yet the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust her, was\nundoubtedly in earnest; his friend and leader was equally undoubtedly in\nimminent danger and . . .\n\n\"Lady Blakeney,\" he said at last, \"God knows you have perplexed me, so\nthat I do not know which way my duty lies. Tell me what you wish me to\ndo. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for the Scarlet\nPimpernel if he is in danger.\"\n\n\"There is no need for lives just now, my friend,\" she said drily; \"my\nwits and four swift horses will serve the necessary purpose. But I must\nknow where to find him. See,\" she added, while her eyes filled with\ntears, \"I have humbled myself before you, I have owned my fault to you;\nshall I also confess my weakness?--My husband and I have been estranged,\nbecause he did not trust me, and because I was too blind to understand.\nYou must confess that the bandage which he put over my eyes was a very\nthick one. Is it small wonder that I did not see through it? But last\nnight, after I led him unwittingly into such deadly peril, it suddenly\nfell from my eyes. If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I would still\nstrive to save my husband. I would still exert every faculty I possess\nfor his sake; but I might be powerless, for I might arrive too late,\nand nothing would be left for you but lifelong remorse, and . . . and\n. . . for me, a broken heart.\"\n\n\"But, Lady Blakeney,\" said the young man, touched by the gentle\nearnestness of this exquisitely beautiful woman, \"do you know that what\nyou propose doing is man's work?--you cannot possibly journey to Calais\nalone. You would be running the greatest possible risks to yourself, and\nyour chances of finding your husband now--were I to direct you ever so\ncarefully--are infinitely remote.\n\n\"Oh, I hope there are risks!\" she murmured softly, \"I hope there are\ndangers, too!--I have so much to atone for. But I fear you are mistaken.\nChauvelin's eyes are fixed upon you all, he will scarce notice me.\nQuick, Sir Andrew!--the coach is ready, and there is not a moment to be\nlost. . . . I MUST get to him! I MUST!\" she repeated with almost savage\nenergy, \"to warn him that that man is on his track. . . . Can't you\nsee--can't you see, that I MUST get to him . . . even . . . even if it be\ntoo late to save him . . . at least . . . to be by his side . . . at the\nleast.\"\n\n\"Faith, Madame, you must command me. Gladly would I or any of my\ncomrades lay down our lives for your husband. If you WILL go\nyourself. . . .\"\n\n\"Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if I let you go without\nme?\" She stretched out her hand to him. \"You WILL trust me?\"\n\n\"I await your orders,\" he said simply.\n\n\"Listen, then. My coach is ready to take me to Dover. Do you follow\nme, as swiftly as horses will take you. We meet at nightfall at 'The\nFisherman's Rest.' Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known there, and I\nthink it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your escort to Calais\n. . . as you say, I might miss Sir Percy were you to direct me ever so\ncarefully. We'll charter a schooner at Dover and cross over during the\nnight. Disguised, if you will agree to it, as my lacquey, you will, I\nthink, escape detection.\"\n\n\"I am entirely at your service, Madame,\" rejoined the young man\nearnestly. \"I trust to God that you will sight the DAY DREAM before\nwe reach Calais. With Chauvelin at his heels, every step the Scarlet\nPimpernel takes on French soil is fraught with danger.\"\n\n\"God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We meet to-night at\nDover! It will be a race between Chauvelin and me across the Channel\nto-night--and the prize--the life of the Scarlet Pimpernel.\"\n\nHe kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her chair. A quarter of an\nhour later she was back at the \"Crown\" inn, where her coach and horses\nwere ready and waiting for her. The next moment they thundered along\nthe London streets, and then straight on to the Dover road at maddening\nspeed.\n\nShe had no time for despair now. She was up and doing and had no leisure\nto think. With Sir Andrew Ffoulkes as her companion and ally, hope had\nonce again revived in her heart.\n\nGod would be merciful. He would not allow so appalling a crime to be\ncommitted, as the death of a brave man, through the hand of a woman who\nloved him, and worshipped him, and who would gladly have died for his\nsake.\n\nMarguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious hero, whom she\nhad always unconsciously loved, when his identity was still unknown to\nher. Laughingly, in the olden days, she used to call him the shadowy\nking of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that this enigmatic\npersonality whom she had worshipped, and the man who loved her so\npassionately, were one and the same: what wonder that one or two happier\nvisions began to force their way before her mind. She vaguely wondered\nwhat she would say to him when first they would stand face to face.\n\nShe had had so many anxieties, so much excitement during the past few\nhours, that she allowed herself the luxury of nursing these few more\nhopeful, brighter thoughts. Gradually the rumble of the coach wheels,\nwith its incessant monotony, acted soothingly on her nerves: her\neyes, aching with fatigue and many shed and unshed tears, closed\ninvoluntarily, and she fell into a troubled sleep.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI SUSPENSE\n\n\n\nIt was late into the night when she at last reached \"The Fisherman's\nRest.\" She had done the whole journey in less than eight hours, thanks\nto innumerable changes of horses at the various coaching stations,\nfor which she always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very best and\nswiftest that could be had.\n\nHer coachman, too, had been indefatigable; the promise of special and\nrich reward had no doubt helped to keep him up, and he had literally\nburned the ground beneath his mistress' coach wheels.\n\nThe arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the night caused a\nconsiderable flutter at \"The Fisherman's Rest.\" Sally jumped hastily out\nof bed, and Mr. Jellyband was at great pains how to make his important\nguest comfortable.\n\nBoth of these good folk were far too well drilled in the manners\nappertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest surprise at Lady\nBlakeney's arrival, alone, at this extraordinary hour. No doubt they\nthought all the more, but Marguerite was far too absorbed in the\nimportance--the deadly earnestness--of her journey, to stop and ponder\nover trifles of that sort.\n\nThe coffee-room--the scene lately of the dastardly outrage on two\nEnglish gentlemen--was quite deserted. Mr. Jellyband hastily relit the\nlamp, rekindled a cheerful bit of fire in the great hearth, and then\nwheeled a comfortable chair by it, into which Marguerite gratefully\nsank.\n\n\"Will your ladyship stay the night?\" asked pretty Miss Sally, who was\nalready busy laying a snow-white cloth on the table, preparatory to\nproviding a simple supper for her ladyship.\n\n\"No! not the whole night,\" replied Marguerite. \"At any rate, I shall not\nwant any room but this, if I can have it to myself for an hour or two.\"\n\n\"It is at your ladyship's service,\" said honest Jellyband, whose\nrubicund face was set in its tightest folds, lest it should betray\nbefore \"the quality\" that boundless astonishment which the very worthy\nfellow had begun to feel.\n\n\"I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide,\" said\nMarguerite, \"and in the first schooner I can get. But my coachman and\nmen will stay the night, and probably several days longer, so I hope you\nwill make them comfortable.\"\n\n\"Yes, my lady; I'll look after them. Shall Sally bring your ladyship\nsome supper?\"\n\n\"Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and as soon as Sir Andrew\nFfoulkes comes, show him in here.\"\n\n\"Yes, my lady.\"\n\nHonest Jellyband's face now expressed distress in spite of himself. He\nhad great regard for Sir Percy Blakeney, and did not like to see his\nlady running away with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was no business\nof his, and Mr. Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his heart,\nhe recollected that her ladyship was after all only one of them\n\"furriners\"; what wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them?\n\n\"Don't sit up, honest Jellyband,\" continued Marguerite kindly, \"nor you\neither, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew may be late.\"\n\nJellyband was only too willing that Sally should go to bed. He was\nbeginning not to like these goings-on at all. Still, Lady Blakeney would\npay handsomely for the accommodation, and it certainly was no business\nof his.\n\nSally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and fruit on the\ntable, then with a respectful curtsey, she retired, wondering in her\nlittle mind why her ladyship looked so serious, when she was about to\nelope with her gallant.\n\nThen commenced a period of weary waiting for Marguerite. She knew that\nSir Andrew--who would have to provide himself with clothes befitting a\nlacquey--could not possibly reach Dover for at least a couple of hours.\nHe was a splendid horseman of course, and would make light in such an\nemergency of the seventy odd miles between London and Dover. He would,\ntoo, literally burn the ground beneath his horse's hoofs, but he might\nnot always get very good remounts, and in any case, he could not have\nstarted from London until at least an hour after she did.\n\nShe had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her coachman, whom she\nquestioned, had not seen anyone answering the description his mistress\ngave him of the wizened figure of the little Frenchman.\n\nEvidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the time. She had not\ndared to question the people at the various inns, where they had stopped\nto change horses. She feared that Chauvelin had spies all along the\nroute, who might overhear her questions, then outdistance her and warn\nher enemy of her approach.\n\nNow she wondered at what inn he might be stopping, or whether he had had\nthe good luck of chartering a vessel already, and was now himself on\nthe way to France. That thought gripped her at the heart as with an iron\nvice. If indeed she should not be too late already!\n\nThe loneliness of the room overwhelmed her; everything within was so\nhorribly still; the ticking of the grandfather's clock--dreadfully slow\nand measured--was the only sound which broke this awful loneliness.\n\nMarguerite had need of all her energy, all her steadfastness of purpose,\nto keep up her courage through this weary midnight waiting.\n\nEveryone else in the house but herself must have been asleep. She had\nheard Sally go upstairs. Mr. Jellyband had gone to see to her coachman\nand men, and then had returned and taken up a position under the porch\noutside, just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about a week\nago. He evidently meant to wait up for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, but was\nsoon overcome by sweet slumbers, for presently--in addition to the slow\nticking of the clock--Marguerite could hear the monotonous and dulcet\ntones of the worthy fellow's breathing.\n\nFor some time now, she had realised that the beautiful warm October's\nday, so happily begun, had turned into a rough and cold night. She had\nfelt very chilly, and was glad of the cheerful blaze in the hearth: but\ngradually, as time wore on, the weather became more rough, and the sound\nof the great breakers against the Admiralty Pier, though some distance\nfrom the inn, came to her as the noise of muffled thunder.\n\nThe wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded windows and the\nmassive doors of the old-fashioned house: it shook the trees outside and\nroared down the vast chimney. Marguerite wondered if the wind would be\nfavourable for her journey. She had no fear of the storm, and would have\nbraved worse risks sooner than delay the crossing by an hour.\n\nA sudden commotion outside roused her from her meditations. Evidently\nit was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, just arrived in mad haste, for she heard\nhis horse's hoofs thundering on the flag-stones outside, then Mr.\nJellyband's sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him welcome.\n\nFor a moment, then, the awkwardness of her position struck Marguerite;\nalone at this hour, in a place where she was well known, and having made\nan assignation with a young cavalier equally well known, and who arrived\nin disguise! What food for gossip to those mischievously inclined.\n\nThe idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous side: there was\nsuch quaint contrast between the seriousness of her errand, and the\nconstruction which would naturally be put on her actions by honest Mr.\nJellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a little smile\nbegan playing round the corners of her childlike mouth, and when,\npresently, Sir Andrew, almost unrecognisable in his lacquey-like garb,\nentered the coffee-room, she was able to greet him with quite a merry\nlaugh.\n\n\"Faith! Monsieur, my lacquey,\" she said, \"I am satisfied with your\nappearance!\"\n\nMr. Jellyband had followed Sir Andrew, looking strangely perplexed. The\nyoung gallant's disguise had confirmed his worst suspicions. Without a\nsmile upon his jovial face, he drew the cork from the bottle of wine,\nset the chairs ready, and prepared to wait.\n\n\"Thanks, honest friend,\" said Marguerite, who was still smiling at the\nthought of what the worthy fellow must be thinking at that very moment,\n\"we shall require nothing more; and here's for all the trouble you have\nbeen put to on our account.\"\n\nShe handed two or three gold pieces to Jellyband, who took them\nrespectfully, and with becoming gratitude.\n\n\"Stay, Lady Blakeney,\" interposed Sir Andrew, as Jellyband was about\nto retire, \"I am afraid we shall require something more of my friend\nJelly's hospitality. I am sorry to say we cannot cross over to-night.\"\n\n\"Not cross over to-night?\" she repeated in amazement. \"But we must, Sir\nAndrew, we must! There can be no question of cannot, and whatever it may\ncost, we must get a vessel to-night.\"\n\nBut the young man shook his head sadly.\n\n\"I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady Blakeney. There is a\nnasty storm blowing from France, the wind is dead against us, we cannot\npossibly sail until it has changed.\"\n\nMarguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen this. Nature herself\nwas playing her a horrible, cruel trick. Percy was in danger, and she\ncould not go to him, because the wind happened to blow from the coast of\nFrance.\n\n\"But we must go!--we must!\" she repeated with strange, persistent\nenergy, \"you know, we must go!--can't you find a way?\"\n\n\"I have been down to the shore already,\" he said, \"and had a talk to one\nor two skippers. It is quite impossible to set sail to-night, so\nevery sailor assured me. No one,\" he added, looking significantly at\nMarguerite, \"NO ONE could possibly put out of Dover to-night.\"\n\nMarguerite at once understood what he meant. NO ONE included Chauvelin\nas well as herself. She nodded pleasantly to Jellyband.\n\n\"Well, then, I must resign myself,\" she said to him. \"Have you a room\nfor me?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes, your ladyship. A nice, bright, airy room. I'll see to it at\nonce. . . . And there is another one for Sir Andrew--both quite ready.\"\n\n\"That's brave now, mine honest Jelly,\" said Sir Andrew, gaily, and\nclapping his worth host vigorously on the back. \"You unlock both those\nrooms, and leave our candles here on the dresser. I vow you are dead\nwith sleep, and her ladyship must have some supper before she retires.\nThere, have no fear, friend of the rueful countenance, her ladyship's\nvisit, though at this unusual hour, is a great honour to thy house, and\nSir Percy Blakeney will reward thee doubly, if thou seest well to her\nprivacy and comfort.\"\n\nSir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting doubts and fears\nwhich raged in honest Jellyband's head; and, as he was a gallant\ngentleman, he tried by this brave hint to allay some of the worthy\ninnkeeper's suspicions. He had the satisfaction of seeing that he\nhad partially succeeded. Jellyband's rubicund countenance brightened\nsomewhat, at the mention of Sir Percy's name.\n\n\"I'll go and see to it at once, sir,\" he said with alacrity, and with\nless frigidity in his manner. \"Has her ladyship everything she wants for\nsupper?\"\n\n\"Everything, thanks, honest friend, and as I am famished and dead with\nfatigue, I pray you see to the rooms.\"\n\n\"Now tell me,\" she said eagerly, as soon as Jellyband had gone from the\nroom, \"tell me all your news.\"\n\n\"There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady Blakeney,\" replied the\nyoung man. \"The storm makes it quite impossible for any vessel to put\nout of Dover this tide. But, what seems to you at first a terrible\ncalamity is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot cross over to\nFrance to-night, Chauvelin is in the same quandary.\n\n\"He may have left before the storm broke out.\"\n\n\"God grant he may,\" said Sir Andrew, merrily, \"for very likely then\nhe'll have been driven out of his course! Who knows? He may now even be\nlying at the bottom of the sea, for there is a furious storm raging, and\nit will fare ill with all small craft which happen to be out. But I fear\nme we cannot build our hopes upon the shipwreck of that cunning devil,\nand of all his murderous plans. The sailors I spoke to, all assured me\nthat no schooner had put out of Dover for several hours: on the other\nhand, I ascertained that a stranger had arrived by coach this afternoon,\nand had, like myself, made some inquiries about crossing over to France.\n\n\"Then Chauvelin is still in Dover?\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my sword through him? That\nwere indeed the quickest way out of the difficulty.\"\n\n\"Nay! Sir Andrew, do not jest! Alas! I have often since last night\ncaught myself wishing for that fiend's death. But what you suggest is\nimpossible! The laws of this country do not permit of murder! It is only\nin our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter is done lawfully, in\nthe name of Liberty and of brotherly love.\"\n\nSir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of\nsome supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least\ntwelve hours, until the next tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to\nbear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in\nthese small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink.\n\nSir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who are in\nlove, made her almost happy by talking to her about her husband. He\nrecounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave Scarlet Pimpernel\nhad contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a relentless and\nbloody revolution was driving out of their country. He made her eyes\nglow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his ingenuity, his\nresourcefulness, when it meant snatching the lives of men, women, and\neven children from beneath the very edge of that murderous, ever-ready\nguillotine.\n\nHe even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the Scarlet\nPimpernel's quaint and many disguises, through which he had baffled the\nstrictest watch set against him at the barricades of Paris. This last\ntime, the escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her children had been a\nveritable masterpiece--Blakeney disguised as a hideous old market-woman,\nin filthy cap and straggling grey locks, was a sight fit to make the\ngods laugh.\n\nMarguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe Blakeney's\nappearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in his great\nheight, which in France made disguise doubly difficult.\n\nThus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in enforced\ninactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an impatient\nsigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed upstairs,\nwith terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the howling of\nthe storm to help chase sleep away.\n\nShe wondered where Percy was now. The DAY DREAM was a strong, well-built\nsea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion that no doubt\nshe had got in the lee of the wind before the storm broke out, or else\nperhaps had not ventured into the open at all, but was lying quietly at\nGravesend.\n\nBriggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a schooner as well\nas any master mariner. There was no danger for them from the storm.\n\nIt was long past midnight when at last Marguerite retired to rest. As\nshe had feared, sleep sedulously avoided her eyes. Her thoughts were of\nthe blackest during these long, weary hours, whilst that incessant storm\nraged which was keeping her away from Percy. The sound of the distant\nbreakers made her heart ache with melancholy. She was in the mood when\nthe sea has a saddening effect upon the nerves. It is only when we are\nvery happy, that we can bear to gaze merrily upon the vast and limitless\nexpanse of water, rolling on and on with such persistent, irritating\nmonotony, to the accompaniment of our thoughts, whether grave or gay.\nWhen they are gay, the waves echo their gaiety; but when they are sad,\nthen every breaker, as it rolls, seems to bring additional sadness, and\nto speak to us of hopelessness and of the pettiness of all our joys.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII CALAIS\n\n\n\nThe weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce\ncome to an end.\n\nMarguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental torture as\nwell-nigh drove her crazy. After a sleepless night, she rose early, wild\nwith excitement, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest further\nobstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else in the house\nwas astir, so frightened was she, lest she should miss the one golden\nopportunity of making a start.\n\nWhen she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew Ffoulkes sitting in the\ncoffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and had gone to the\nAdmiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French packet nor any\nprivately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet. The storm was\nthen at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If the wind did not\nabate or change, they would perforce have to wait another ten or twelve\nhours until the next tide, before a start could be made. And the storm\nhad not abated, the wind had not changed, and the tide was rapidly\ndrawing out.\n\nMarguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this melancholy\nnews. Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally breaking down,\nand thus adding to the young man's anxiety, which evidently had become\nvery keen.\n\nThough he tried to hide it, Marguerite could see that Sir Andrew\nwas just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend. This\nenforced inactivity was terrible to them both.\n\nHow they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Marguerite could never\nafterwards say. She was in terror of showing herself, lest Chauvelin's\nspies happened to be about, so she had a private sitting-room, and\nshe and Sir Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying to take, at long\nintervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally would bring them,\nwith nothing to do but to think, to conjecture, and only occasionally to\nhope.\n\nThe storm had abated just too late; the tide was by then too far out to\nallow a vessel to put off to sea. The wind had changed, and was settling\ndown to a comfortable north-westerly breeze--a veritable godsend for a\nspeedy passage across to France.\n\nAnd there those two waited, wondering if the hour would ever come when\nthey could finally make a start. There had been one happy interval in\nthis long weary day, and that was when Sir Andrew went down once again\nto the pier, and presently came back to tell Marguerite that he had\nchartered a quick schooner, whose skipper was ready to put to sea the\nmoment the tide was favourable.\n\nFrom that moment the hours seemed less wearisome; there was less\nhopelessness in the waiting; and at last, at five o'clock in the\nafternoon, Marguerite, closely veiled and followed by Sir Andrew\nFfoulkes, who, in the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number of\nimpedimenta, found her way down to the pier.\n\nOnce on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her, the breeze was just\nstrong enough to nicely swell the sails of the FOAM CREST, as she cut\nher way merrily towards the open.\n\nThe sunset was glorious after the storm, and Marguerite, as she watched\nthe white cliffs of Dover gradually disappearing from view, felt more at\npeace and once more almost hopeful.\n\nSir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt how lucky she had\nbeen to have him by her side in this, her great trouble.\n\nGradually the grey coast of France began to emerge from the\nfast-gathering evening mists. One or two lights could be seen\nflickering, and the spires of several churches to rise out of the\nsurrounding haze.\n\nHalf an hour later Marguerite had landed upon French shore. She was\nback in that country where at this very moment men slaughtered their\nfellow-creatures by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and children\nin thousands to the block.\n\nThe very aspect of the country and its people, even in this remote\nsea-coast town, spoke of that seething revolution, three hundred miles\naway, in beautiful Paris, now rendered hideous by the constant flow of\nthe blood of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the widows, and the\ncries of fatherless children.\n\nThe men all wore red caps--in various stages of cleanliness--but all\nwith the tricolor cockade pinned on the left-side. Marguerite noticed\nwith a shudder that, instead of the laughing, merry countenance habitual\nto her own countrymen, their faces now invariably wore a look of sly\ndistrust.\n\nEvery man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows: the most innocent\nword uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a proof of\naristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people. Even the\nwomen went about with a curious look of fear and of hate lurking in\ntheir brown eyes; and all watched Marguerite as she stepped on shore,\nfollowed by Sir Andrew, and murmured as she passed along: \"SACRES\nARISTOS!\" or else \"SACRES ANGLAIS!\"\n\nOtherwise their presence excited no further comment. Calais, even in\nthose days, was in constant business communication with England, and\nEnglish merchants were often seen on this coast. It was well known that\nin view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal of French wines\nand brandies were smuggled across. This pleased the French BOURGEOIS\nimmensely; he liked to see the English Government and the English king,\nboth of whom he hated, cheated out of their revenues; and an English\nsmuggler was always a welcome guest at the tumble-down taverns of Calais\nand Boulogne.\n\nSo, perhaps, as Sir Andrew gradually directed Marguerite through the\ntortuous streets of Calais, many of the population, who turned with an\noath to look at the strangers clad in English fashion, thought that\nthey were bent on purchasing dutiable articles for their own fog-ridden\ncountry, and gave them no more than a passing thought.\n\nMarguerite, however, wondered how her husband's tall, massive figure\ncould have passed through Calais unobserved: she marvelled what disguise\nhe assumed to do his noble work, without exciting too much attention.\n\nWithout exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew was leading her\nright across the town, to the other side from that where they had\nlanded, and the way towards Cap Gris Nez. The streets were narrow,\ntortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale fish and\ndamp cellar odours. There had been heavy rain here during the storm\nlast night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the mud, for the\nroads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer from a lamp inside\na house.\n\nBut she did not heed any of these petty discomforts: \"We may meet\nBlakeney at the 'Chat Gris,'\" Sir Andrew had said, when they landed, and\nshe was walking as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, for she was going to\nmeet him almost at once.\n\nAt last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew evidently knew the\nroad, for he had walked unerringly in the dark, and had not asked his\nway from anyone. It was too dark then for Marguerite to notice the\noutside aspect of this house. The \"Chat Gris,\" as Sir Andrew had called\nit, was evidently a small wayside inn on the outskirts of Calais, and on\nthe way to Gris Nez. It lay some little distance from the coast, for the\nsound of the sea seemed to come from afar.\n\nSir Andrew knocked at the door with the knob of his cane, and from\nwithin Marguerite heard a sort of grunt and the muttering of a number of\noaths. Sir Andrew knocked again, this time more peremptorily: more\noaths were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed to draw near the door.\nPresently this was thrown open, and Marguerite found herself on the\nthreshold of the most dilapidated, most squalid room she had ever seen\nin all her life.\n\nThe paper, such as it was, was hanging from the walls in strips; there\ndid not seem to be a single piece of furniture in the room that could,\nby the wildest stretch of imagination, be called \"whole.\" Most of the\nchairs had broken backs, others had no seats to them, one corner of the\ntable was propped up with a bundle of faggots, there where the fourth\nleg had been broken.\n\nIn one corner of the room there was a huge hearth, over which hung a\nstock-pot, with a not altogether unpalatable odour of hot soup emanating\ntherefrom. On one side of the room, high up in the wall, there was a\nspecies of loft, before which hung a tattered blue-and-white checked\ncurtain. A rickety set of steps led up to this loft.\n\nOn the great bare walls, with their colourless paper, all stained\nwith varied filth, there were chalked up at intervals in great bold\ncharacters, the words: \"Liberte--Egalite--Fraternite.\"\n\nThe whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by an evil-smelling\noil-lamp, which hung from the rickety rafters of the ceiling. It all\nlooked so horribly squalid, so dirty and uninviting, that Marguerite\nhardly dared to cross the threshold.\n\nSir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly forward.\n\n\"English travellers, citoyen!\" he said boldly, and speaking in French.\n\nThe individual who had come to the door in response to Sir Andrew's\nknock, and who, presumably, was the owner of this squalid abode, was an\nelderly, heavily built peasant, dressed in a dirty blue blouse, heavy\nsabots, from which wisps of straw protruded all round, shabby blue\ntrousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tricolour cockade, that\nproclaimed his momentary political views. He carried a short wooden\npipe, from which the odour of rank tobacco emanated. He looked with some\nsuspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two travellers, muttering\n\"SACRRRES ANGLAIS!\" and spat upon the ground to further show his\nindependence of spirit, but, nevertheless, he stood aside to let them\nenter, no doubt well aware that these same SACCRES ANGLAIS always had\nwell-filled purses.\n\n\"Oh, lud!\" said Marguerite, as she advanced into the room, holding her\nhandkerchief to her dainty nose, \"what a dreadful hole! Are you sure\nthis is the place?\"\n\n\"Aye! 'tis the place, sure enough,\" replied the young man as, with his\nlace-edged, fashionable handkerchief, he dusted a chair for Marguerite\nto sit on; \"but I vow I never saw a more villainous hole.\"\n\n\"Faith!\" she said, looking round with some curiosity and a great deal of\nhorror at the dilapidated walls, the broken chairs, the rickety table,\n\"it certainly does not look inviting.\"\n\nThe landlord of the \"Chat Gris\"--by name, Brogard--had taken no further\nnotice of his guests; he concluded that presently they would order\nsupper, and in the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen to show\ndeference, or even courtesy, to anyone, however smartly they might be\ndressed.\n\nBy the hearth sat a huddled-up figure clad, seemingly, mostly in rags:\nthat figure was apparently a woman, although even that would have been\nhard to distinguish, except for the cap, which had once been white,\nand for what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was sitting\nmumbling to herself, and from time to time stirring the brew in her\nstock-pot.\n\n\"Hey, my friend!\" said Sir Andrew at last, \"we should like some supper.\n. . . The citoyenne there,\" he added, \"is concocting some delicious\nsoup, I'll warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food for several\nhours.\"\n\nIt took Brogard some few minutes to consider the question. A free\ncitizen does not respond too readily to the wishes of those who happen\nto require something of him.\n\n\"SACRRRES ARISTOS!\" he murmured, and once more spat upon the ground.\n\nThen he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a corner of\nthe room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and slowly,\nand without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in the same\nsilence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her stock-pot.\n\nMarguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute horror; were\nit not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would incontinently have\nfled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.\n\n\"Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people,\" said Sir Andrew,\nseeing the look of horror on Marguerite's face. \"I would I could offer\nyou a more hearty and more appetising meal . . . but I think you will\nfind the soup eatable and the wine good; these people wallow in dirt,\nbut live well as a rule.\"\n\n\"Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew,\" she said gently, \"be not anxious about\nme. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper.\"\n\nBrogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had placed\na couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of which Sir\nAndrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.\n\nBrogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and\nMarguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make\nsome pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his ROLE of lacquey,\nstood behind her chair.\n\n\"Nay, Madame, I pray you,\" he said, seeing that Marguerite seemed quite\nunable to eat, \"I beg of you to try and swallow some food--remember you\nhave need of all your strength.\"\n\nThe soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted good. Marguerite\nmight have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings. She broke the\nbread, however, and drank some of the wine.\n\n\"Nay, Sir Andrew,\" she said, \"I do not like to see you standing. You\nhave need of food just as much as I have. This creature will only think\nthat I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping with her lacquey, if you'll\nsit down and partake of this semblance of supper beside me.\"\n\nIndeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon the\ntable, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests. The\nMere Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man stood\nand lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes under\nMarguerite's very nose, as any free-born citizen who was anybody's equal\nshould do.\n\n\"Confound the brute!\" said Sir Andrew, with native British wrath,\nas Brogard leant up against the table, smoking and looking down\nsuperciliously at these two SACRRRES ANGLAIS.\n\n\"In Heaven's name, man,\" admonished Marguerite, hurriedly, seeing that\nSir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously clenching his\nfist, \"remember that you are in France, and that in this year of grace\nthis is the temper of the people.\"\n\n\"I'd like to scrag the brute!\" muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.\n\nHe had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table, and they\nwere both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by pretending to\neat and drink.\n\n\"I pray you,\" said Marguerite, \"keep the creature in a good temper, so\nthat he may answer the questions we must put to him.\"\n\n\"I'll do my best, but, begad! I'd sooner scrag him than question him.\nHey! my friend,\" he said pleasantly in French, and tapping Brogard\nlightly on the shoulder, \"do you see many of our quality along these\nparts? Many English travellers, I mean?\"\n\nBrogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed away at his\npipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then muttered,--\n\n\"Heu!--sometimes!\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Sir Andrew, carelessly, \"English travellers always know\nwhere they can get good wine, eh! my friend?--Now, tell me, my lady was\ndesiring to know if by any chance you happen to have seen a great friend\nof hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to Calais on business; he\nis tall, and recently was on his way to Paris--my lady hoped to have met\nhim in Calais.\"\n\nMarguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she should betray before\nhim the burning anxiety with which she waited for his reply. But a\nfree-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer questions:\nBrogard took his time, then he said very slowly,--\n\n\"Tall Englishman?--To-day!--Yes.\"\n\n\"Yes, to-day,\" muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he quietly took Sir\nAndrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head, tugged at\nhis dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in pantomime that\nthe individual in question wore very fine clothes. \"SACRRE ARISTO!\" he\nmuttered, \"that tall Englishman!\"\n\nMarguerite could scarce repress a scream.\n\n\"It's Sir Percy right enough,\" she murmured, \"and not even in disguise!\"\n\nShe smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her gathering\ntears, at the thought of \"the ruling passion strong in death\"; of Percy\nrunning into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the latest-cut coat upon\nhis back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.\n\n\"Oh! the foolhardiness of it!\" she sighed. \"Quick, Sir Andrew! ask the\nman when he went.\"\n\n\"Ah yes, my friend,\" said Sir Andrew, addressing Brogard, with the same\nassumption of carelessness, \"my lord always wears beautiful clothes;\nthe tall Englishman you saw, was certainly my lady's friend. And he has\ngone, you say?\"\n\n\"He went . . . yes . . . but he's coming back . . . here--he ordered supper\n. . .\"\n\nSir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of warning upon\nMarguerite's arm; it came none too sooe, for the next moment her wild,\nmad joy would have betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming back\nhere presently, she would see him in a few moments perhaps. . . . Oh!\nthe wildness of her joy seemed almost more than she could bear.\n\n\"Here!\" she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly to have been\ntransformed in her eyes into some heaven-born messenger of bliss.\n\"Here!--did you say the English gentleman was coming back here?\"\n\nThe heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the floor, to express his\ncontempt for all and sundry ARISTOS, who chose to haunt the \"Chat Gris.\"\n\n\"Heu!\" he muttered, \"he ordered supper--he will come back . . . SACRRE\nANGLAIS!\" he added, by way of protest against all this fuss for a mere\nEnglishman.\n\n\"But where is he now?--Do you know?\" she asked eagerly, placing her\ndainty white hand upon the dirty sleeve of his blue blouse.\n\n\"He went to get a horse and cart,\" said Brogard, laconically, as with a\nsurly gesture, he shook off from his arm that pretty hand which princes\nhad been proud to kiss.\n\n\"At what time did he go?\"\n\nBut Brogard had evidently had enough of these questionings. He did\nnot think that it was fitting for a citizen--who was the equal of\nanybody--to be thus catechised by these SACRRES ARISTOS, even though\nthey were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting to his\nnewborn dignity to be as rude as possible; it was a sure sign of\nservility to meekly reply to civil questions.\n\n\"I don't know,\" he said surlily. \"I have said enough, VOYONS, LES\nARISTOS! . . . He came to-day. He ordered supper. He went out.--He'll\ncome back. VOILA!\"\n\nAnd with this parting assertion of his rights as a citizen and a free\nman, to be as rude as he well pleased, Brogard shuffled out of the room,\nbanging the door after him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII HOPE\n\n\n\n\"Faith, Madame!\" said Sir Andrew, seeing that Marguerite seemed desirous\nto call her surly host back again, \"I think we'd better leave him alone.\nWe shall not get anything more out of him, and we might arouse his\nsuspicions. One never knows what spies may be lurking around these\nGod-forsaken places.\"\n\n\"What care I?\" she replied lightly, \"now I know that my husband is safe,\nand that I shall see him almost directly!\"\n\n\"Hush!\" he said in genuine alarm, for she had talked quite loudly, in\nthe fulness of her glee, \"the very walls have ears in France, these\ndays.\"\n\nHe rose quickly from the table, and walked round the bare, squalid\nroom, listening attentively at the door, through which Brogard has just\ndisappeared, and whence only muttered oaths and shuffling footsteps\ncould be heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led to the attic,\nto assure himself that there were no spies of Chauvelin's about the\nplace.\n\n\"Are we alone, Monsieur, my lacquey?\" said Marguerite, gaily, as the\nyoung man once more sat down beside her. \"May we talk?\"\n\n\"As cautiously as possible!\" he entreated.\n\n\"Faith, man! but you wear a glum face! As for me, I could dance with\njoy! Surely there is no longer any cause for fear. Our boat is on the\nbeach, the FOAM CREST not two miles out at sea, and my husband will be\nhere, under this very roof, within the next half hour perhaps. Sure!\nthere is naught to hinder us. Chauvelin and his gang have not yet\narrived.\"\n\n\"Nay, madam! that I fear we do not know.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"He was at Dover at the same time that we were.\"\n\n\"Held up by the same storm, which kept us from starting.\"\n\n\"Exactly. But--I did not speak of it before, for I feared to alarm\nyou--I saw him on the beach not five minutes before we embarked.\nAt least, I swore to myself at the time that it was himself; he was\ndisguised as a CURE, so that Satan, his own guardian, would scarce have\nknown him. But I heard him then, bargaining for a vessel to take him\nswiftly to Calais; and he must have set sail less than an hour after we\ndid.\"\n\nMarguerite's face had quickly lost its look of joy. The terrible danger\nin which Percy stood, now that he was actually on French soil, became\nsuddenly and horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was close upon his heels;\nhere in Calais, the astute diplomatist was all-powerful; a word from him\nand Percy could be tracked and arrested and . . .\n\nEvery drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins; not even during the\nmoments of her wildest anguish in England had she so completely realised\nthe imminence of the peril in which her husband stood. Chauvelin had\nsworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine, and now the\ndaring plotter, whose anonymity hitherto had been his safeguard, stood\nrevealed through her own hand, to his most bitter, most relentless\nenemy.\n\nChauvelin--when he waylaid Lord Tony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the\ncoffee-room of \"The Fisherman's Rest\"--had obtained possession of all\nthe plans of this latest expedition. Armand St. Just, the Comte de\nTournay and other fugitive royalists were to have met the Scarlet\nPimpernel--or rather, as it had been originally arranged, two of his\nemissaries--on this day, the 2nd of October, at a place evidently known\nto the league, and vaguely alluded to as the \"Pere Blanchard's hut.\"\n\nArmand, whose connection with the Scarlet Pimpernel and disavowal of\nthe brutal policy of the Reign of Terror was still unknown to his\ncountryman, had left England a little more than a week ago, carrying\nwith him the necessary instructions, which would enable him to meet the\nother fugitives and to convey them to this place of safety.\n\nThis much Marguerite had fully understood from the first, and Sir Andrew\nFfoulkes had confirmed her surmises. She knew, too, that when Sir Percy\nrealized that his own plans and his directions to his lieutenants had\nbeen stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communicate with Armand, or\nto send fresh instructions to the fugitives.\n\nThey would, of necessity, be at the appointed time and place, not\nknowing how grave was the danger which now awaited their brave rescuer.\n\nBlakeney, who as usual had planned and organized the whole expedition,\nwould not allow any of his younger comrades to run the risk of almost\ncertain capture. Hence his hurried note to them at Lord Grenville's\nball--\"Start myself to-morrow--alone.\"\n\nAnd now with his identity known to his most bitter enemy, his every step\nwould be dogged, the moment he set foot in France. He would be tracked\nby Chauvelin's emissaries, followed until he reached that mysterious hut\nwhere the fugitives were waiting for him, and there the trap would be\nclosed on him and on them.\n\nThere was but one hour--the hour's start which Marguerite and Sir Andrew\nhad of their enemy--in which to warn Percy of the imminence of his\ndanger, and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy expedition, which\ncould only end in his own death.\n\nBut there WAS that one hour.\n\n\"Chauvelin knows of this inn, from the papers he stole,\" said Sir\nAndrew, earnestly, \"and on landing will make straight for it.\"\n\n\"He has not landed yet,\" she said, \"we have an hour's start on him, and\nPercy will be here directly. We shall be mid-Channel ere Chauvelin has\nrealised that we have slipped through his fingers.\"\n\nShe spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse into her young friend\nsome of that buoyant hope which still clung to her heart. But he shook\nhis head sadly.\n\n\"Silent again, Sir Andrew?\" she said with some impatience. \"Why do you\nshake your head and look so glum?\"\n\n\"Faith, Madame,\" he replied, \"'tis only because in making your\nrose-coloured plans, you are forgetting the most important factor.\"\n\n\"What in the world do you mean?--I am forgetting nothing. . . . What\nfactor do you mean?\" she added with more impatience.\n\n\"It stands six foot odd high,\" replied Sir Andrew, quietly, \"and hath\nname Percy Blakeney.\"\n\n\"I don't understand,\" she murmured.\n\n\"Do you think that Blakeney would leave Calais without having\naccomplished what he set out to do?\"\n\n\"You mean . . . ?\"\n\n\"There's the old Comte de Tournay . . .\"\n\n\"The Comte . . . ?\" she murmured.\n\n\"And St. Just . . . and others . . .\"\n\n\"My brother!\" she said with a heart-broken sob of anguish. \"Heaven help\nme, but I fear I had forgotten.\"\n\n\"Fugitives as they are, these men at this moment await with perfect\nconfidence and unshaken faith the arrival of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who\nhas pledged his honour to take them safely across the Channel.\"\n\nIndeed, she had forgotten! With the sublime selfishness of a woman who\nloves with her whole heart, she had in the last twenty-four hours had\nno thought save for him. His precious, noble life, his danger--he, the\nloved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind.\n\n\"My brother!\" she murmured, as one by one the heavy tears gathered\nin her eyes, as memory came back to her of Armand, the companion and\ndarling of her childhood, the man for whom she had committed the deadly\nsin, which had so hopelessly imperilled her brave husband's life.\n\n\"Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, honoured leader of a score\nof English gentlemen,\" said Sir Andrew, proudly, \"if he abandoned\nthose who placed their trust in him. As for breaking his word, the very\nthought is preposterous!\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite had buried her face\nin her hands, and was letting the tears slowly trickle through her\ntrembling fingers. The young man said nothing; his heart ached for this\nbeautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had felt the terrible\nIMPASSE in which her own rash act had plunged them all. He knew his\nfriend and leader so well, with his reckless daring, his mad bravery,\nhis worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew knew that Blakeney\nwould brave any danger, run the wildest risks sooner than break it, and\nwith Chauvelin at his very heels, would make a final attempt, however\ndesperate, to rescue those who trusted in him.\n\n\"Faith, Sir Andrew,\" said Marguerite at last, making brave efforts\nto dry her tears, \"you are right, and I would not now shame myself by\ntrying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say, I should plead\nin vain. God grant him strength and ability,\" she added fervently and\nresolutely, \"to outwit his pursuers. He will not refuse to take you with\nhim, perhaps, when he starts on his noble work; between you, you will\nhave cunning as well as valour! God guard you both! In the meanwhile I\nthink we should lose no time. I still believe that his safety depends\nupon his knowing that Chauvelin is on his track.\"\n\n\"Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his command. As soon as he\nis aware of his danger he will exercise more caution: his ingenuity is a\nveritable miracle.\"\n\n\"Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in the village whilst\nI wait here against his coming!--You might come across Percy's track\nand thus save valuable time. If you find him, tell him to beware!--his\nbitterest enemy is on his heels!\"\n\n\"But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait in.\"\n\n\"Nay, that I do not mind!--But you might ask our surly host if he could\nlet me wait in another room, where I could be safer from the prying eyes\nof any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money, so that he should\nnot fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman returns.\"\n\nShe spoke quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking out her plans,\nready for the worst if need be; she would show no more weakness, she\nwould prove herself worthy of him, who was about to give his life for\nthe sake of his fellow-men.\n\nSir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively he felt\nthat hers now was the stronger mind; he was willing to give himself over\nto her guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the directing hand.\n\nHe went to the door of the inner room, through which Brogard and his\nwife had disappeared before, and knocked; as usual, he was answered by a\nsalvo of muttered oaths.\n\n\"Hey! friend Brogard!\" said the man peremptorily, \"my lady friend would\nwish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of another room?\nShe would wish to be alone.\"\n\nHe took some money out of his pocket, and allowed it to jingle\nsignificantly in his hand. Brogard had opened the door, and listened,\nwith his usual surly apathy, to the young man's request. At the sight of\nthe gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly; he took his pipe\nfrom his mouth and shuffled into the room.\n\nHe then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall.\n\n\"She can wait up there!\" he said with a grunt. \"It's comfortable, and I\nhave no other room.\"\n\n\"Nothing could be better,\" said Marguerite in English; she at once\nrealised the advantages such a position hidden from view would give her.\n\"Give him the money, Sir Andrew; I shall be quite happy up there, and\ncan see everything without being seen.\"\n\nShe nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up to the attic, and to\nshake up the straw that lay on the floor.\n\n\"May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash,\" said Sir Andrew, as\nMarguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety flight of steps.\n\"Remember this place is infested with spies. Do not, I beg of you,\nreveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are absolutely certain that you\nare alone with him.\"\n\nEven as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this caution: Marguerite\nwas as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear of her doing\nanything that was rash.\n\n\"Nay,\" she said with a slight attempt at cheerfulness, \"that I can\nfaithfully promise you. I would not jeopardise my husband's life, nor\nyet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear, I will\nwatch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he needs it\nmost.\"\n\nBrogard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was ready to go up\nto her safe retreat.\n\n\"I dare not kiss your hand, madam,\" said Sir Andrew, as she began to\nmount the steps, \"since I am your lacquey, but I pray you be of good\ncheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I shall return,\nexpecting to find him here.\"\n\n\"Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an hour.\nChauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that either you\nor I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you, friend! Have no fear\nfor me.\"\n\nLightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the attic.\nBrogard was taking no further heed of her. She could make herself\ncomfortable there or not as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her until she\nhad reached the curtains across, and the young man noted that she was\nsingularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing, whilst remaining\nunobserved.\n\nHe had paid Brogard well; the surly old innkeeper would have no object\nin betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he turned\nonce again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged curtains\nMarguerite's sweet face was peeping down at him, and the young man\nrejoiced to see that it looked serene, and even gently smiling. With a\nfinal nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH-TRAP\n\n\n\nThe next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly. In the room\ndownstairs, Brogard had for a while busied himself with clearing the\ntable, and re-arranging it for another guest.\n\nIt was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite found the\ntime slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that this semblance\nof supper was being got ready. Evidently Brogard had a certain amount\nof respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to take some trouble in\nmaking the place look a trifle less uninviting than it had done before.\n\nHe even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser, what\nactually looked like a table-cloth; and when he spread it out, and saw\nit was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while, then\nwas at much pains so to spread it over the table as to hide most of its\nblemishes.\n\nThen he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but possessing some\nmeasure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully wiped the glasses,\nspoons and plates, which he put on the table.\n\nMarguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched all these\npreparations, which Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment of muttered\noaths. Clearly the great height and bulk of the Englishman, or perhaps\nthe weight of his fist, had overawed this free-born citizen of France,\nor he would never have been at such trouble for any SACRRE ARISTO.\n\nWhen the table was set--such as it was--Brogard surveyed it with evident\nsatisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the corner of his\nblouse, gave a stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh bundle of faggots on\nto the fire, and slouched out of the room.\n\nMarguerite was left alone with her reflections. She had spread her\ntravelling cloak over the straw, and was sitting fairly comfortably, as\nthe straw was fresh, and the evil odours from below came up to her only\nin a modified form.\n\nBut, momentarily, she was almost happy; happy because, when she peeped\nthrough the tattered curtains, she could see a rickety chair, a torn\ntable-cloth, a glass, a plate and a spoon; that was all. But those mute\nand ugly things seemed to say to her that they were waiting for Percy;\nthat soon, very soon, he would be here, that the squalid room being\nstill empty, they would be alone together.\n\nThat thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed her eyes in order\nto shut out everything but that. In a few minutes she would be alone\nwith him; she would run down the ladder, and let him see her; then he\nwould take her in his arms, and she would let him see that, after that,\nshe would gladly die for him, and with him, for earth could hold no\ngreater happiness than that.\n\nAnd then what would happen? She could not even remotely conjecture.\nShe knew, of course, that Sir Andrew was right, that Percy would\ndo everything he had set out to accomplish; that she--now she was\nhere--could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious, since\nChauvelin himself was on his track. After having cautioned him, she\nwould perforce have to see him go off upon the terrible and daring\nmission; she could not even with a word or look, attempt to keep him\nback. She would have to obey, whatever he told her to do, even perhaps\nhave to efface herself, and wait, in indescribable agony, whilst he,\nperhaps, went to his death.\n\nBut even that seemed less terrible to bear than the thought that he\nshould never know how much she loved him--that at any rate would be\nspared her; the squalid room itself, which seemed to be waiting for him,\ntold her that he would be here soon.\n\nSuddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of distant footsteps\ndrawing near; her heart gave a wild leap of joy! Was it Percy at last?\nNo! the step did not seem quite as long, nor quite as firm as his; she\nalso thought that she could hear two distinct sets of footsteps. Yes!\nthat was it! two men were coming this way. Two strangers perhaps, to get\na drink, or . . .\n\nBut she had not time to conjecture, for presently there was a peremptory\ncall at the door, and the next moment it was violently open from the\noutside, whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted,--\n\n\"Hey! Citoyen Brogard! Hola!\"\n\nMarguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through a hole in one of\nthe curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below.\n\nShe heard Brogard's shuffling footsteps, as he came out of the inner\nroom, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the strangers,\nhowever, he paused in the middle of the room, well within range of\nMarguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering contempt\nthan he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered, \"SACRRREE\nSOUTANE!\"\n\nMarguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating; her eyes, large\nand dilated, had fastened on one of the newcomers, who, at this point,\nhad taken a quick step forward towards Brogard. He was dressed in the\nsoutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual to the French\nCURE, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw open his soutane\nfor a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of officialism, which\nsight immediately had the effect of transforming Brogard's attitude of\ncontempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.\n\nIt was the sight of this French CURE, which seemed to freeze the very\nblood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was\nshaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony\nhands, the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man! It was Chauvelin!\n\nThe horror of the situation struck her as with a physical blow; the\nawful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made her very\nsenses reel, and she needed almost superhuman effort, not to fall\nsenseless beneath it all.\n\n\"A plate of soup and a bottle of wine,\" said Chauvelin imperiously to\nBrogard, \"then clear out of here--understand? I want to be alone.\"\n\nSilently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed. Chauvelin\nsat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall Englishman,\nand the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him, dishing up the\nsoup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered with Chauvelin\nand whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close by the door.\n\nAt a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogard had hurried back to the inner\nroom, and the former now beckoned to the man who had accompanied him.\n\nIn him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, Chauvelin's secretary and\nconfidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris, in days gone\nby. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two listened attentively at\nthe Brogards' door. \"Not listening?\" asked Chauvelin, curtly.\n\n\"No, citoyen.\"\n\nFor a moment Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order Desgas to\nsearch the place; what would happen if she were to be discovered, she\nhardly dared to imagine. Fortunately, however, Chauvelin seemed more\nimpatient to talk to his secretary than afraid of spies, for he called\nDesgas quickly back to his side.\n\n\"The English schooner?\" he asked.\n\n\"She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen,\" replied Desgas, \"but was\nthen making west, towards Cap Gris Nez.\"\n\n\"Ah!--good!--\" muttered Chauvelin, \"and now, about Captain Jutley?--what\ndid he say?\"\n\n\"He assured me that all the orders you sent him last week have been\nimplicitly obeyed. All the roads which converge to this place have been\npatrolled night and day ever since: and the beach and cliffs have been\nmost rigorously searched and guarded.\"\n\n\"Does he know where this 'Pere Blanchard's' hut is?\"\n\n\"No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that name. There are any\namount of fisherman's huts all along the course . . . but . . .\"\n\n\"That'll do. Now about tonight?\" interrupted Chauvelin, impatiently.\n\n\"The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual, citoyen, and Captain\nJutley awaits further orders.\"\n\n\"Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send reinforcements to\nthe various patrols; and especially to those along the beach--you\nunderstand?\"\n\nChauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every word he uttered\nstruck at Marguerite's heart like the death-knell of her fondest hopes.\n\n\"The men,\" he continued, \"are to keep the sharpest possible look-out for\nany stranger who may be walking, riding, or driving, along the road or\nthe beach, more especially for a tall stranger, whom I need not describe\nfurther, as probably he will be disguised; but he cannot very well\nconceal his height, except by stooping. You understand?\"\n\n\"Perfectly, citoyen,\" replied Desgas.\n\n\"As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, two of them are to\nkeep him in view. The man who loses sight of the tall stranger, after he\nis once seen, will pay for his negligence with his life; but one man is\nto ride straight back here and report to me. Is that clear?\"\n\n\"Absolutely clear, citoyen.\"\n\n\"Very well, then. Go and see Jutley at once. See the reinforcements\nstart off for the patrol duty, then ask the captain to let you have a\nhalf-a-dozen more men and bring them here with you. You can be back in\nten minutes. Go--\"\n\nDesgas saluted and went to the door.\n\nAs Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin's directions\nto his underling, the whole of the plan for the capture of the Scarlet\nPimpernel became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin wished that the\nfugitives should be left in false security waiting in their hidden\nretreat until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter was to be\nsurrounded and caught red-handed, in the very act of aiding and abetting\nroyalists, who were traitors to the republic. Thus, if his capture were\nnoised abroad, even the British Government could not legally protest in\nhis favour; having plotted with the enemies of the French Government,\nFrance had the right to put him to death.\n\nEscape for him and them would be impossible. All the roads patrolled\nand watched, the trap well set, the net, wide at present, but drawing\ntogether tighter and tighter, until it closed upon the daring plotter,\nwhose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him from its meshes now.\n\nDesgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him back.\nMarguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he could have\nformed, in order to entrap one brave man, alone, against two-score of\nothers. She looked at him as he turned to speak to Desgas; she could\njust see his face beneath the broad-brimmed, CURES'S hat. There was at\nthat moment so much deadly hatred, such fiendish malice in the thin face\nand pale, small eyes, that Marguerite's last hope died in her heart, for\nshe felt that from this man she could expect no mercy.\n\n\"I had forgotten,\" repeated Chauvelin, with a weird chuckle, as he\nrubbed his bony, talon-like hands one against the other, with a gesture\nof fiendish satisfaction. \"The tall stranger may show fight. In any\ncase no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want that tall\nstranger alive . . . if possible.\"\n\nHe laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at the sight of\nthe torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by now she had\nlived through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that human heart\ncould bear; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she remained alone\nin this lonely, squalid room, with that fiend for company, she felt\nas if all that she had suffered was nothing compared with this. He\ncontinued to laugh and chuckle to himself for awhile, rubbing his hands\ntogether in anticipation of his triumph.\n\nHis plans were well laid, and he might well triumph! Not a loophole\nwas left, through which the bravest, the most cunning man might escape.\nEvery road guarded, every corner watched, and in that lonely hut\nsomewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting for their\nrescuer, and leading him to his death--nay! to worse than death. That\nfiend there, in a holy man's garb, was too much of a devil to allow a\nbrave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of\nduty.\n\nHe, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who had so long baffled\nhim, helpless in his power; he wished to gloat over him, to enjoy his\ndownfall, to inflict upon him what moral and mental torture a deadly\nhatred alone can devise. The brave eagle, captured, and with noble wings\nclipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of the rat. And she, his wife,\nwho loved him, and who had brought him to this, could do nothing to help\nhim.\n\nNothing, save to hope for death by his side, and for one brief moment\nin which to tell him that her love--whole, true and passionate--was\nentirely his.\n\nChauvelin was now sitting close to the table; he had taken off his\nhat, and Marguerite could just see the outline of his thin profile and\npointed chin, as he bent over his meagre supper. He was evidently quite\ncontented, and awaited events with perfect calm; he even seemed to enjoy\nBrogard's unsavoury fare. Marguerite wondered how so much hatred could\nlurk in one human being against another.\n\nSuddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught her ear, which\nturned her very heart to stone. And yet that sound was not calculated\nto inspire anyone with horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound of a\ngay, fresh voice singing lustily, \"God save the King!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV THE EAGLE AND THE FOX\n\n\n\nMarguerite's breath stopped short; she seemed to feel her very life\nstanding still momentarily whilst she listened to that voice and to that\nsong. In the singer she had recognised her husband. Chauvelin, too, had\nheard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the door, then hurriedly\ntook up his broad-brimmed hat and clapped it over his head.\n\nThe voice drew nearer; for one brief second the wild desire seized\nMarguerite to rush down the steps and fly across the room, to stop that\nsong at any cost, to beg the cheerful singer to fly--fly for his life,\nbefore it be too late. She checked the impulse just in time. Chauvelin\nwould stop her before she reached the door, and, moreover, she had no\nidea if he had any soldiers posted within his call. Her impetuous act\nmight prove the death-signal of the man she would have died to save.\n\n\"Long to reign over us, God save the King!\"\n\nsang the voice more lustily than ever. The next moment the door was\nthrown open and there was dead silence for a second or so.\n\nMarguerite could not see the door; she held her breath, trying to\nimagine what was happening.\n\nPercy Blakeney on entering had, of course, at once caught sight of the\nCURE at the table; his hesitation lasted less than five seconds, the\nnext moment, Marguerite saw his tall figure crossing the room, whilst he\ncalled in a loud, cheerful voice,--\n\n\"Hello, there! no one about? Where's that fool Brogard?\"\n\nHe wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which he had on when\nMarguerite last saw him at Richmond, so many hours ago. As usual, his\nget-up was absolutely irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace at his\nneck and wrists were immaculate and white, his fair hair was carefully\nbrushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual affected gesture. In\nfact, at this moment, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., might have been on his\nway to a garden-party at the Prince of Wales', instead of deliberately,\ncold-bloodedly running his head in a trap, set for him by his deadliest\nenemy.\n\nHe stood for a moment in the middle of the room, whilst Marguerite,\nabsolutely paralysed with horror, seemed unable even to breathe.\n\nEvery moment she expected that Chauvelin would give a signal, that the\nplace would fill with soldiers, that she would rush down and help Percy\nto sell his life dearly. As he stood there, suavely unconscious, she\nvery nearly screamed out to him,--\n\n\"Fly, Percy!--'tis your deadly enemy!--fly before it be too late!\"\n\nBut she had not time even to do that, for the next moment Blakeney\nquietly walked to the table, and, jovially clapped the CURE on the back,\nsaid in his own drawly, affected way,--\n\n\"Odds's fish! . . . er . . . M. Chauvelin. . . . I vow I never thought of\nmeeting you here.\"\n\nChauvelin, who had been in the very act of conveying soup to his mouth,\nfairly choked. His thin face became absolutely purple, and a violent fit\nof coughing saved this cunning representative of France from betraying\nthe most boundless surprise he had ever experienced. There was no doubt\nthat this bold move on the part of the enemy had been wholly unexpected,\nas far as he was concerned: and the daring impudence of it completely\nnonplussed him for the moment.\n\nObviously he had not taken the precaution of having the inn surrounded\nwith soldiers. Blakeney had evidently guessed that much, and no doubt\nhis resourceful brain had already formed some plan by which he could\nturn this unexpected interview to account.\n\nMarguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had made a solemn promise\nto Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before strangers, and she\nhad sufficient self-control not to throw herself unreasoningly and\nimpulsively across his plans. To sit still and watch these two men\ntogether was a terrible trial of fortitude. Marguerite had heard\nChauvelin give the orders for the patrolling of all the roads. She\nknew that if Percy now left the \"Chat Gris\"--in whatever direction he\nhappened to go--he could not go far without being sighted by some of\nCaptain Jutley's men on patrol. On the other hand, if he stayed, then\nDesgas would have time to come back with the dozen men Chauvelin had\nspecially ordered.\n\nThe trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but watch and\nwonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of the two it\nwas Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear. Marguerite knew him\nwell enough to guess what was passing in his mind. He had no fear for\nhis own person, although he certainly was alone in a lonely inn with a\nman who was powerfully built, and who was daring and reckless beyond\nthe bounds of probability. She knew that Chauvelin would willingly have\nbraved perilous encounters for the sake of the cause he had at heart,\nbut what he did fear was that this impudent Englishman would, by\nknocking him down, double his own chances of escape; his underlings\nmight not succeed so well in capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, when not\ndirected by the cunning hand and the shrewd brain, which had deadly hate\nfor an incentive.\n\nEvidently, however, the representative of the French Government had\nnothing to fear for the moment, at the hands of his powerful adversary.\nBlakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant good-nature, was\nsolemnly patting him on the back.\n\n\"I am so demmed sorry . . .\" he was saying cheerfully, \"so very sorry\n. . . I seem to have upset you . . . eating soup, too . . . nasty, awkward\nthing, soup . . . er . . . Begad!--a friend of mine died once . . .\ner . . . choked . . . just like you . . . with a spoonful of soup.\"\n\nAnd he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at Chauvelin.\n\n\"Odd's life!\" he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat recovered\nhimself, \"beastly hole this . . . ain't it now? La! you don't mind?\" he\nadded, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close to the table and\ndrew the soup tureen towards him. \"That fool Brogard seems to be asleep\nor something.\"\n\nThere was a second plate on the table, and he calmly helped himself to\nsoup, then poured himself out a glass of wine.\n\nFor a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His disguise\nwas so good that perhaps he meant, on recovering himself, to deny his\nidentity: but Chauvelin was too astute to make such an obviously false\nand childish move, and already he too had stretched out his hand and\nsaid pleasantly,--\n\n\"I am indeed charmed to see you Sir Percy. You must excuse me--h'm--I\nthought you the other side of the Channel. Sudden surprise almost took\nmy breath away.\"\n\n\"La!\" said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin, \"it did that quite,\ndidn't it--er--M.--er--Chaubertin?\"\n\n\"Pardon me--Chauvelin.\"\n\n\"I beg pardon--a thousand times. Yes--Chauvelin of course. . . .\nEr . . . I never could cotton to foreign names. . . .\"\n\nHe was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good-humour, as\nif he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of enjoying\nsupper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy.\n\nFor the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the little\nFrenchman down then and there--and no doubt something of the sort must\nhave darted through his mind, for every now and then his lazy eyes\nseemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight figure of\nChauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself and was also calmly\neating his soup.\n\nBut the keen brain, which had planned and carried through so many daring\nplots, was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This place, after\nall, might be infested with spies; the innkeeper might be in Chauvelin's\npay. One call on Chauvelin's part might bring twenty men about\nBlakeney's ears for aught he knew, and he might be caught and trapped\nbefore he could help, or, at least, warn the fugitives. This he would\nnot risk; he meant to help the others, to get THEM safely away; for he\nhad pledged his word to them, and his word he WOULD keep. And whilst\nhe ate and chatted, he thought and planned, whilst, up in the loft,\nthe poor, anxious woman racked her brain as to what she should do, and\nendured agonies of longing to rush down to him, yet not daring to move\nfor fear of upsetting his plans.\n\n\"I didn't know,\" Blakeney was saying jovially, \"that you . . .\ner . . . were in holy orders.\"\n\n\"I . . . er . . . hem . . .\" stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence of\nhis antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance.\n\n\"But, la! I should have known you anywhere,\" continued Sir Percy,\nplacidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine, \"although the\nwig and hat have changed you a bit.\"\n\n\"Do you think so?\"\n\n\"Lud! they alter a man so . . . but . . . begad! I hope you don't mind my\nhaving made the remark? . . . Demmed bad form making remarks. . . . I\nhope you don't mind?\"\n\n\"No, no, not at all--hem! I hope Lady Blakeney is well,\" said Chauvelin,\nhurriedly changing the topic of conversation.\n\nBlakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of soup, drank\nhis glass of wine, and, momentarily, it seemed to Marguerite as if he\nglanced all round the room. \"Quite well, thank you,\" he said at last,\ndrily. There was a pause, during which Marguerite could watch these two\nantagonists who, evidently in their minds, were measuring themselves\nagainst one another. She could see Percy almost full face where he\nsat at the table not ten yards from where she herself was crouching,\npuzzled, not knowing what to do, or what she should think. She had quite\ncontrolled her impulse now of rushing down and disclosing herself to\nher husband. A man capable of acting a part, in the way he was doing\nat the present moment, did not need a woman's word to warn him to be\ncautious.\n\nMarguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every tender woman's heart,\nof looking at the man she loved. She looked through the tattered\ncurtain, across at the handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue\neyes, and behind whose inane smile, she could now so plainly see the\nstrength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused the Scarlet\nPimpernel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers. \"There are\nnineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady\nBlakeney,\" Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she looked at the\nforehead, low, but square and broad, the eyes, blue, yet deep-set and\nintense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable energy, hiding,\nbehind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of\nwill and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the fascination which he\nexercised over his followers, for had he not also cast his spells over\nher heart and her imagination?\n\nChauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath his usual\nurbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Desgas should not be\nlong: another two or three minutes, and this impudent Englishman would\nbe secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley's most\ntrusted men.\n\n\"You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?\" he asked carelessly.\n\n\"Odd's life, no,\" replied Blakeney, with a laugh. \"Only as far as\nLille--not Paris for me . . . beastly uncomfortable place Paris, just now\n. . . eh, Monsieur Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin!\"\n\n\"Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy,\" rejoined\nChauvelin, sarcastically, \"who takes no interest in the conflict that is\nraging there.\"\n\n\"La! you see it's no business of mine, and our demmed government is all\non your side of the business. Old Pitt daren't say 'Bo' to a goose. You\nare in a hurry, sir,\" he added, as Chauvelin once again took out his\nwatch; \"an appointment, perhaps. . . . I pray you take no heed of me.\n. . . My time's my own.\"\n\nHe rose from the table and dragged a chair to the hearth. Once more\nMarguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was getting on;\nDesgas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know that\nand . . . oh! how horrible it all was--and how helpless she felt.\n\n\"I am in no hurry,\" continued Percy, pleasantly, \"but, la! I don't want\nto spend any more time than I can help in this God-forsaken hole! But,\nbegad! sir,\" he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his\nwatch for the third time, \"that watch of yours won't go any faster for\nall the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe?\"\n\n\"Aye--a friend!\"\n\n\"Not a lady--I trust, Monsieur l'Abbe,\" laughed Blakeney; \"surely the\nholy church does not allow? . . . eh? . . . what! But, I say, come by the\nfire . . . it's getting demmed cold.\"\n\nHe kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in\nthe old hearth. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently was quite\nunconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the\nfire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite beyond control,\nsat down beside the hearth, in such a way as to command a view of the\ndoor. Desgas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite\nplain to Marguerite's aching senses that as soon as he arrived,\nChauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the\nfugitives, and capture this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel at once.\n\n\"Hey, M. Chauvelin,\" the latter was saying airily, \"tell me, I pray\nyou, is your friend pretty? Demmed smart these little French women\nsometimes--what? But I protest I need not ask,\" he added, as he\ncarelessly strode back towards the supper-table. \"In matters of taste\nthe Church has never been backward. . . . Eh?\"\n\nBut Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty was now concentrated\non that door through which presently Desgas would enter. Marguerite's\nthoughts, too, were centred there, for her ears had suddenly caught,\nthrough the stillness of the night, the sound of numerous and measured\ntreads some distance away.\n\nIt was Desgas and his men. Another three minutes and they would be here!\nAnother three minutes and the awful thing would have occurred: the brave\neagle would have fallen in the ferret's trap! She would have moved\nnow and screamed, but she dared not; for whilst she heard the soldiers\napproaching, she was looking at Percy and watching his every movement.\nHe was standing by the table whereon the remnants of the supper, plates,\nglasses, spoons, salt and pepper-pots were scattered pell-mell. His\nback was turned to Chauvelin and he was still prattling along in his own\naffected and inane way, but from his pocket he had taken his snuff-box,\nand quickly and suddenly he emptied the contents of the pepper-pot into\nit.\n\nThen he again turned with an inane laugh to Chauvelin,--\n\n\"Eh? Did you speak, sir?\"\n\nChauvelin had been too intent on listening to the sound of those\napproaching footsteps, to notice what his cunning adversary had been\ndoing. He now pulled himself together, trying to look unconcerned in the\nvery midst of his anticipated triumph. \"No,\" he said presently, \"that\nis--as you were saying, Sir Percy--?\"\n\n\"I was saying,\" said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin, by the fire, \"that\nthe Jew in Piccadilly has sold me better snuff this time than I have\never tasted. Will you honour me, Monsieur l'Abbe?\"\n\nHe stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, DEBONNAIRE way, holding\nout his snuff-box to his arch-enemy.\n\nChauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen a trick or two\nin his day, had never dreamed of this one. With one ear fixed on those\nfast-approaching footsteps, one eye turned to that door where Desgas\nand his men would presently appear, lulled into false security by the\nimpudent Englishman's airy manner, he never even remotely guessed the\ntrick which was being played upon him.\n\nHe took a pinch of snuff.\n\nOnly he, who has ever by accident sniffed vigorously a dose of pepper,\ncan have the faintest conception of the hopeless condition in which such\na sniff would reduce any human being.\n\nChauvelin felt as if his head would burst--sneeze after sneeze seemed\nnearly to choke him; he was blind, deaf, and dumb for the moment, and\nduring that moment Blakeney quietly, without the slightest haste, took\nup his hat, took some money out of his pocket, which he left on the\ntable, then calmly stalked out of the room!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI THE JEW\n\n\n\nIt took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses; the whole\nof this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and\nDesgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from the\n\"Chat Gris.\"\n\nWhen she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and wonder\nfilled her heart. It all was so neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin was still\nabsolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been under a\nblow from the fist, for now he could neither see, nor hear, nor speak,\nwhilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his fingers.\n\nBlakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at the Pere\nBlanchard's hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless; for the\nmoment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by Desgas and\nhis men. But all the roads and the beach were patrolled. Every place was\nwatched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go, thus\narrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and followed? Now\nshe blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and\ngiven him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all,\nhe needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for\nhis capture, and even now, perhaps . . .\n\nBut before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her\nbrain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and\nDesgas' voice shouting \"Halt!\" to his men.\n\nChauvelin had partially recovered; his sneezing had become less violent,\nand he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door just as\nDesgas' knock was heard on the outside.\n\nChauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a\nword, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes--\n\n\"The tall stranger--quick!--did any of you see him?\"\n\n\"Where, citoyen?\" asked Desgas, in surprise.\n\n\"Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago.\"\n\n\"We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and . . .\"\n\n\"And you are just five minutes too late, my friend,\" said Chauvelin,\nwith concentrated fury.\n\n\"Citoyen . . . I . . .\"\n\n\"You did what I ordered you to do,\" said Chauvelin, with impatience.\n\"I know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately,\nthere's not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyen\nDesgas.\"\n\nDesgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his\nsuperior's whole attitude.\n\n\"The tall stranger, citoyen--\" he stammered.\n\n\"Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at that table.\nDamn his impudence! For obvious reasons, I dared not tackle him alone.\nBrogard is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have\nthe strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away under your very nose.\"\n\n\"He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen.\"\n\n\"Ah?\"\n\n\"Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty:\ntwenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch had\nbeen constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the\nbeach, or reach a boat, without being sighted.\"\n\n\"That's good.--Do the men know their work?\" \"They have had very clear\norders, citoyen: and I myself spoke to those who were about to start.\nThey are to shadow--as secretly as possible--any stranger they may see,\nespecially if he be tall, or stoop as if he would disguise his height.\"\n\n\"In no case to detain such a person, of course,\" said Chauvelin,\neagerly. \"That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel would slip through clumsy\nfingers. We must let him get to the Pere Blanchard's hut now; there\nsurround and capture him.\"\n\n\"The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as soon as a tall\nstranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to\nturn straight back and report to you.\"\n\n\"That is right,\" said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well pleased.\n\n\"I have further news for you, citoyen.\"\n\n\"What is it?\"\n\n\"A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an\nhour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives not ten paces from here.\"\n\n\"Yes--and?\" queried Chauvelin, impatiently.\n\n\"The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the tall\nEnglishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by\neleven o'clock.\"\n\n\"It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live?\"\n\n\"A few minutes' walk from this door.\"\n\n\"Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven off in\nReuben's cart.\"\n\n\"Yes, citoyen.\"\n\nDesgas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men. Not a word\nof this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped Marguerite,\nand every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her heart, with\nterrible hopelessness and dark foreboding.\n\nShe had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm\ndetermination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do\nnothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes of\nthe deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.\n\nHe could not now advance many steps, without spying eyes to track and\ndenounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the terrible sense of\nutter disappointment. The possibility of being the slightest use to her\nhusband had become almost NIL, and her only hope rested in being allowed\nto share his fate, whatever it might ultimately be.\n\nFor the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she loved again,\nhad become a remote one. Still, she was determined to keep a close watch\nover his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart, that whilst she kept\nChauvelin in sight, Percy's fate might still be hanging in the balance.\n\nDesgas left Chauvelin moodily pacing up and down the room, whilst he\nhimself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had sent in\nsearch of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin was evidently\ndevoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one: this last trick\nplayed upon him by the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had made him suddenly\ndoubtful of success, unless he himself was there to watch, direct and\nsuperintend the capture of this impudent Englishman.\n\nAbout five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by an elderly Jew,\nin a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn greasy across the shoulders. His\nred hair, which he wore after the fashion of the Polish Jews, with the\ncorkscrew curls each side of his face, was plentifully sprinkled with\ngrey--a general coating of grime, about his cheeks and his chin, gave\nhim a peculiarly dirty and loathsome appearance. He had the habitual\nstoop, those of his race affected in mock humility in past centuries,\nbefore the dawn of equality and freedom in matters of faith, and he\nwalked behind Desgas with the peculiar shuffling gait which has remained\nthe characteristic of the Jew trader in continental Europe to this day.\n\nChauvelin, who had all the Frenchman's prejudice against the despised\nrace, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful distance. The group\nof the three men were standing just underneath the hanging oil-lamp, and\nMarguerite had a clear view of them all.\n\n\"Is this the man?\" asked Chauvelin.\n\n\"No, citoyen,\" replied Desgas, \"Reuben could not be found, so presumably\nhis cart has gone with the stranger; but this man here seems to know\nsomething, which he is willing to sell for a consideration.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the loathsome\nspecimen of humanity before him.\n\nThe Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one side, leaning\non the knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat casting a deep\nshadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble Excellency to deign to\nput some questions to him.\n\n\"The citoyen tells me,\" said Chauvelin peremptorily to him, \"that you\nknow something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I desire to meet\n. . . MORBLEU! keep your distance, man,\" he added hurriedly, as the Jew\ntook a quick and eager step forward.\n\n\"Yes, your Excellency,\" replied the Jew, who spoke the language with\nthat peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin, \"I and Reuben Goldstein\nmet a tall Englishman, on the road, close by here this evening.\"\n\n\"Did you speak to him?\"\n\n\"He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he could hire\na horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin road, to a place he\nwanted to reach to-night.\"\n\n\"What did you say?\"\n\n\"I did not say anything,\" said the Jew in an injured tone, \"Reuben\nGoldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial . . .\"\n\n\"Cut that short, man,\" interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, \"and go on with\nyour story.\"\n\n\"He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency: when I was about to\noffer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart, to take him wheresoever\nhe chose, Reuben had already spoken, and offered his half-starved nag,\nand his broken-down cart.\"\n\n\"And what did the Englishman do?\"\n\n\"He listened to Reuben Goldstein, your Excellency, and put his hand\nin his pocket then and there, and took out a handful of gold, which he\nshowed to that descendant of Beelzebub, telling him that all that would\nbe his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by eleven o'clock.\"\n\n\"And, of course, the horse and cart were ready?\"\n\n\"Well! they were ready for him in a manner, so to speak, your\nExcellency. Reuben's nag was lame as usual; she refused to budge at\nfirst. It was only after a time and with plenty of kicks, that she at\nlast could be made to move,\" said the Jew with a malicious chuckle.\n\n\"Then they started?\"\n\n\"Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I was disgusted with that\nstranger's folly. An Englishman too!--He ought to have known Reuben's\nnag was not fit to drive.\"\n\n\"But if he had no choice?\"\n\n\"No choice, your Excellency?\" protested the Jew, in a rasping voice,\n\"did I not repeat to him a dozen times, that my horse and cart would\ntake him quicker, and more comfortably than Reuben's bag of bones. He\nwould not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such insinuating ways.\nThe stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry, he would have had\nbetter value for his money by taking my cart.\"\n\n\"You have a horse and cart too, then?\" asked Chauvelin, peremptorily.\n\n\"Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your Excellency wants to\ndrive . . .\"\n\n\"Do you happen to know which way my friend went in Reuben Goldstein's\ncart?\"\n\nThoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Marguerite's heart was\nbeating well-nigh to bursting. She had heard the peremptory question;\nshe looked anxiously at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath the\nshadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt somehow as if he held\nPercy's fate in his long dirty hands.\n\nThere was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned impatiently at the\nstooping figure before him: at last the Jew slowly put his hand in his\nbreast pocket, and drew out from its capacious depths a number of silver\ncoins. He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a quiet tone of\nvoice,--\n\n\"This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove away with Reuben,\nfor holding my tongue about him, and his doings.\"\n\nChauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently.\n\n\"How much is there there?\" he asked.\n\n\"Twenty francs, your Excellency,\" replied the Jew, \"and I have been an\nhonest man all my life.\"\n\nChauvelin without further comment took a few pieces of gold out of his\nown pocket, and leaving them in the palm of his hand, he allowed them to\njingle as he held them out towards the Jew.\n\n\"How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand?\" he asked\nquietly.\n\nEvidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but to conciliate him,\nfor his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt\nhe feared that threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive\nmethods of that type, might addle the old man's brains, and that he\nwould be more likely to be useful through greed of gain, than through\nterror of death.\n\nThe eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in his\ninterlocutor's hand.\n\n\"At least five, I should say, your Excellency,\" he replied obsequiously.\n\n\"Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue of yours?\"\n\n\"What does your Excellency wish to know?\"\n\n\"Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend\nthe tall stranger, who has driven off in Reuben Goldstein's cart?\"\n\n\"My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where you please.\"\n\n\"To a place called the Pere Blanchard's hut?\"\n\n\"Your Honour has guessed?\" said the Jew in astonishment.\n\n\"You know the place? Which road leads to it?\"\n\n\"The St. Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath from there to the\ncliffs.\"\n\n\"You know the road?\" repeated Chauvelin, roughly.\n\n\"Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour,\" replied the Jew\nquietly.\n\nChauvelin without another word threw the five pieces of gold one by one\nbefore the Jew, who knelt down, and on his hands and knees struggled to\ncollect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble to get it, for\nit had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin quietly waited while the\nold man scrambled on the floor, to find the piece of gold.\n\nWhen the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said,--\n\n\"How soon can your horse and cart be ready?\"\n\n\"They are ready now, your Honour.\"\n\n\"Where?\"\n\n\"Not ten metres from this door. Will your Excellency deign to look.\"\n\n\"I don't want to see it. How far can you drive me in it?\"\n\n\"As far as the Pere Blanchard's hut, your Honour, and further than\nReuben's nag took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues from\nhere, we shall come across that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart and the\ntall stranger all in a heap in the middle of the road.\"\n\n\"How far is the nearest village from here?\"\n\n\"On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon is the nearest village,\nnot two leagues from here.\"\n\n\"There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted to go further?\"\n\n\"He could--if he ever got so far.\"\n\n\"Can you?\"\n\n\"Will your Excellency try?\" said the Jew simply.\n\n\"That is my intention,\" said Chauvelin very quietly, \"but remember, if\nyou have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most stalwart soldiers\nto give you such a beating, that your breath will perhaps leave your\nugly body for ever. But if we find my friend the tall Englishman, either\non the road or at the Pere Blanchard's hut, there will be ten more gold\npieces for you. Do you accept the bargain?\"\n\nThe Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money in\nhis hand, then at this stern interlocutor, and at Desgas, who had stood\nsilently behind him all this while. After a moment's pause, he said\ndeliberately,--\n\n\"I accept.\"\n\n\"Go and wait outside then,\" said Chauvelin, \"and remember to stick to\nyour bargain, or by Heaven, I will keep to mine.\"\n\nWith a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew shuffled out of\nthe room. Chauvelin seemed pleased with his interview, for he rubbed\nhis hands together, with that usual gesture of his, of malignant\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"My coat and boots,\" he said to Desgas at last.\n\nDesgas went to the door, and apparently gave the necessary orders, for\npresently a soldier entered, carrying Chauvelin's coat, boots, and hat.\n\nHe took off his soutane, beneath which he was wearing close-fitting\nbreeches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire.\n\n\"You, citoyen, in the meanwhile,\" he said to Desgas, \"go back to Captain\nJutley as fast as you can, and tell him to let you have another dozen\nmen, and bring them with you along the St. Martin Road, where I daresay\nyou will soon overtake the Jew's cart with myself in it. There will be\nhot work presently, if I mistake not, in the Pere Blanchard's hut. We\nshall corner our game there, I'll warrant, for this impudent Scarlet\nPimpernel has had the audacity--or the stupidity, I hardly know\nwhich--to adhere to his original plans. He has gone to meet de Tournay,\nSt. Just and the other traitors, which for the moment, I thought,\nperhaps, he did not intend to do. When we find them, there will be a\nband of desperate men at bay. Some of our men will, I presume, be put\nHORS DE COMBAT. These royalists are good swordsmen, and the Englishman\nis devilish cunning, and looks very powerful. Still, we shall be five\nagainst one at least. You can follow the cart closely with your men, all\nalong the St. Martin Road, through Miquelon. The Englishman is ahead of\nus, and not likely to look behind him.\"\n\nWhilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed his\nchange of attire. The priest's costume had been laid aside, and he was\nonce more dressed in his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At last he\ntook up his hat.\n\n\"I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your hands,\" he\nsaid with a chuckle, as with unwonted familiarity he took Desgas' arm,\nand led him towards the door. \"We won't kill him outright, eh, friend\nDesgas? The Pere Blanchard's hut is--an I mistake not--a lonely spot\nupon the beach, and our men will enjoy a bit of rough sport there with\nthe wounded fox. Choose your men well, friend Desgas . . . of the\nsort who would enjoy that type of sport--eh? We must see that Scarlet\nPimpernel wither a bit--what?--shrink and tremble, eh? . . . before we\nfinally . . .\" He made an expressive gesture, whilst he laughed a low,\nevil laugh, which filled Marguerite's soul with sickening horror.\n\n\"Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas,\" he said once more, as he led his\nsecretary finally out of the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK\n\n\n\nNever for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last sounds\noutside the \"Chat Gris\" had died away in the night. She had heard Desgas\ngiving orders to his men, and then starting off towards the fort, to get\na reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not thought sufficient to\ncapture the cunning Englishman, whose resourceful brain was even more\ndangerous than his valour and his strength.\n\nThen a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky voice again,\nevidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and noise of a\nrickety cart bumping over the rough road.\n\nInside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife, terrified of\nChauvelin, had given no sign of life; they hoped to be forgotten, and\nat any rate to remain unperceived: Marguerite could not even hear their\nusual volleys of muttered oaths.\n\nShe waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped down the\nbroken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her and slipped out\nof the inn.\n\nThe night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide her dark\nfigure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the sound of the\ncart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within the shadow of the\nditches which lined the road, that she would not be seen by Desgas' men,\nwhen they approached, or by the patrols, which she concluded were still\non duty.\n\nThus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary journey, alone,\nat night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to Miquelon, and then on to\nthe Pere Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal spot might be, probably\nover rough roads: she cared not.\n\nThe Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was weary with\nmental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could easily keep\nup with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who was sure to be\nhalf-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent rests. The road\nlay some distance from the sea, bordered on either side by shrubs and\nstunted trees, sparsely covered with meagre foliage, all turning away\nfrom the North, with their branches looking in the semi-darkness, like\nstiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind.\n\nFortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep between the clouds, and\nMarguerite hugging the edge of the road, and keeping close to the low\nline of shrubs, was fairly safe from view. Everything around her was so\nstill: only from far, very far away, there came like a long soft moan,\nthe sound of the distant sea.\n\nThe air was keen and full of brine; after that enforced period of\ninactivity, inside the evil-smelling, squalid inn, Marguerite would\nhave enjoyed the sweet scent of this autumnal night, and the distant\nmelancholy rumble of the autumnal night, and the distant melancholy\nrumble of the waves; she would have revelled in the calm and stillness\nof this lonely spot, a calm, broken only at intervals by the strident\nand mournful cry of some distant gull, and by the creaking of\nthe wheels, some way down the road: she would have loved the cool\natmosphere, the peaceful immensity of Nature, in this lonely part of the\ncoast: but her heart was too full of cruel foreboding, of a great ache\nand longing for a being who had become infinitely dear to her.\n\nHer feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it safest not to\nwalk near the centre of the road, and she found it difficult to keep up\na sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it best not to\nkeep too near to the cart; everything was so still, that the rumble of\nthe wheels could not fail to be a safe guide.\n\nThe loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of Calais lay\nfar behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human habitation,\nnot even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter anywhere near; far\naway on her right was the edge of the cliff, below it the rough beach,\nagainst which the incoming tide was dashing itself with its constant,\ndistant murmur. And ahead the rumble of the wheels, bearing an\nimplacable enemy to his triumph.\n\nMarguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this lonely coast, Percy\ncould be at this moment. Not very far surely, for he had had less than a\nquarter of an hour's start of Chauvelin. She wondered if he knew that\nin this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there lurked many spies, all\neager to sight his tall figure, to track him to where his unsuspecting\nfriends waited for him, and then, to close the net over him and them.\n\nChauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's vehicle, was\nnursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together, with\ncontent, as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through which\nthat ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape. As the\ntime went on, and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely along the\ndark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale of this\nexciting chase after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel. The capture of\nthe audacious plotter would be the finest leaf in Citoyen Chauvelin's\nwreath of glory. Caught, red-handed, on the spot, in the very act of\naiding and abetting the traitors against the Republic of France, the\nEnglishman could claim no protection from his own country. Chauvelin\nhad, in any case, fully made up his mind that all intervention should\ncome too late.\n\nNever for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart, as to the\nterrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate wife, who had\nunconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of fact, Chauvelin had\nceased even to think of her: she had been a useful tool, that was all.\n\nThe Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She was going along at a\nslow jog trot, and her driver had to give her long and frequent halts.\n\n\"Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?\" asked Chauvelin from time to\ntime.\n\n\"Not very far, your Honour,\" was the uniform placid reply.\n\n\"We have not yet come across your friend and mine, lying in a heap in\nthe roadway,\" was Chauvelin's sarcastic comment.\n\n\"Patience, noble Excellency,\" rejoined the son of Moses, \"they are ahead\nof us. I can see the imprint of the cart wheels, driven by that traitor,\nthat son of the Amalekite.\"\n\n\"You are sure of the road?\"\n\n\"As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold pieces in the noble\nExcellency's pockets, which I trust will presently be mine.\"\n\n\"As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the tall stranger, they\nwill certainly be yours.\"\n\n\"Hark, what was that?\" said the Jew suddenly.\n\nThrough the stillness, which had been absolute, there could now be heard\ndistinctly the sound of horses' hoofs on the muddy road.\n\n\"They are soldiers,\" he added in an awed whisper.\n\n\"Stop a moment, I want to hear,\" said Chauvelin.\n\nMarguerite had also heard the sound of galloping hoofs, coming towards\nthe cart and towards herself. For some time she had been on the alert\nthinking that Desgas and his squad would soon overtake them, but these\ncame from the opposite direction, presumably from Miquelon. The darkness\nlent her sufficient cover. She had perceived that the cart had stopped,\nand with utmost caution, treading noiselessly on the soft road, she\ncrept a little nearer.\n\nHer heart was beating fast, she was trembling in every limb; already she\nhad guessed what news these mounted men would bring. \"Every stranger on\nthese roads or on the beach must be shadowed, especially if he be tall\nor stoops as if he would disguise his height; when sighted a mounted\nmessenger must at once ride back and report.\" Those had been Chauvelin's\norders. Had then the tall stranger been sighted, and was this the\nmounted messenger, come to bring the great news, that the hunted hare\nhad run its head into the noose at last?\n\nMarguerite, realizing that the cart had come to a standstill, managed\nto slip nearer to it in the darkness; she crept close up, hoping to get\nwithin earshot, to hear what the messenger had to say.\n\nShe heard the quick words of challenge--\n\n\"Liberte, Fraternite, Egalite!\" then Chauvelin's quick query:--\n\n\"What news?\"\n\nTwo men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle.\n\nMarguerite could see them silhouetted against the midnight sky. She\ncould hear their voices, and the snorting of their horses, and now,\nbehind her, some little distance off, the regular and measured tread of\na body of advancing men: Desgas and his soldiers.\n\nThere had been a long pause, during which, no doubt, Chauvelin satisfied\nthe men as to his identity, for presently, questions and answers\nfollowed each other in quick succession.\n\n\"You have seen the stranger?\" asked Chauvelin, eagerly.\n\n\"No, citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger; we came by the edge of the\ncliff.\"\n\n\"Then?\"\n\n\"Less than a quarter of a league beyond Miquelon, we came across a rough\nconstruction of wood, which looked like the hut of a fisherman, where he\nmight keep his tools and nets. When we first sighted it, it seemed to be\nempty, and, at first we thought that there was nothing suspicious about,\nuntil we saw some smoke issuing through an aperture at the side. I\ndismounted and crept close to it. It was then empty, but in one corner\nof the hut, there was a charcoal fire, and a couple of stools were\nalso in the hut. I consulted with my comrades, and we decided that they\nshould take cover with the horses, well out of sight, and that I should\nremain on the watch, which I did.\"\n\n\"Well! and did you see anything?\"\n\n\"About half an hour later, I heard voices, citoyen, and presently, two\nmen came along towards the edge of the cliff; they seemed to me to have\ncome from the Lille Road. One was young, the other quite old. They were\ntalking in a whisper, to one another, and I could not hear what they\nsaid.\" One was young, and the other quite old. Marguerite's aching heart\nalmost stopped beating as she listened: was the young one Armand?--her\nbrother?--and the old one de Tournay--were they the two fugitives who,\nunconsciously, were used as a decoy, to entrap their fearless and noble\nrescuer.\n\n\"The two men presently went into the hut,\" continued the soldier, whilst\nMarguerite's aching nerves seemed to catch the sound of Chauvelin's\ntriumphant chuckle, \"and I crept nearer to it then. The hut is very\nroughly built, and I caught snatches of their conversation.\"\n\n\"Yes?--Quick!--What did you hear?\"\n\n\"The old man asked the young one if he were sure that was right place.\n'Oh, yes,' he replied, ''tis the place sure enough,' and by the light of\nthe charcoal fire he showed to his companion a paper, which he carried.\n'Here is the plan,' he said, 'which he gave me before I left London. We\nwere to adhere strictly to that plan, unless I had contrary orders, and\nI have had none. Here is the road we followed, see . . . here the fork\n. . . here we cut across the St. Martin Road . . . and here is the footpath\nwhich brought us to the edge of the cliff.' I must have made a slight\nnoise then, for the young man came to the door of the hut, and peered\nanxiously all round him. When he again joined his companion, they\nwhispered so low, that I could no longer hear them.\"\n\n\"Well?--and?\" asked Chauvelin, impatiently.\n\n\"There were six of us altogether, patrolling that part of the beach,\nso we consulted together, and thought it best that four should remain\nbehind and keep the hut in sight, and I and my comrade rode back at once\nto make report of what we had seen.\"\n\n\"You saw nothing of the tall stranger?\"\n\n\"Nothing, citoyen.\"\n\n\"If your comrades see him, what would they do?\"\n\n\"Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of\nescape, or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and,\nif necessary, they would shoot: the firing would bring the rest of the\npatrol to the spot. In any case they would not let the stranger go.\"\n\n\"Aye! but I did not want the stranger hurt--not just yet,\" murmured\nChauvelin, savagely, \"but there, you've done your best. The Fates grant\nthat I may not be too late. . . .\"\n\n\"We met half a dozen men just now, who have been patrolling this road\nfor several hours.\"\n\n\"Well?\"\n\n\"They have seen no stranger either.\"\n\n\"Yet he is on ahead somewhere, in a cart or else . . . Here! there is\nnot a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here?\"\n\n\"About a couple of leagues, citoyen.\"\n\n\"You can find it again?--at once?--without hesitation?\"\n\n\"I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen.\"\n\n\"The footpath, to the edge of the cliff?--Even in the dark?\"\n\n\"It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find my way,\"\nrepeated the soldier firmly.\n\n\"Fall in behind then. Let your comrade take both your horses back to\nCalais. You won't want them. Keep beside the cart, and direct the Jew to\ndrive straight ahead; then stop him, within a quarter of a league of the\nfootpath; see that he takes the most direct road.\"\n\nWhilst Chauvelin spoke, Desgas and his men were fast approaching, and\nMarguerite could hear their footsteps within a hundred yards behind her\nnow. She thought it unsafe to stay where she was, and unnecessary too,\nas she had heard enough. She seemed suddenly to have lost all faculty\neven for suffering: her heart, her nerves, her brain seemed to have\nbecome numb after all these hours of ceaseless anguish, culminating in\nthis awful despair.\n\nFor now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within two short\nleagues of this spot, the fugitives were waiting for their brave\ndeliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road, and\npresently he would join them; then the well-laid trap would close, two\ndozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning was\nmalicious, would close round the small band of fugitives, and their\ndaring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according to\nChauvelin's pledged word would be restored to her, but her husband,\nPercy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to love and worship\nmore and more, he would fall into the hands of a remorseless enemy, who\nhad no pity for a brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a noble\nsoul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning antagonist, who\nhad baffled him so long.\n\nShe heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to the Jew, then\nshe retired quickly to the edge of the road, and cowered behind some low\nshrubs, whilst Desgas and his men came up.\n\nAll fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they all started\ndown the dark road. Marguerite waited until she reckoned that they were\nwell outside the range of earshot, then, she too in the darkness, which\nsuddenly seemed to have become more intense, crept noiselessly along.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT\n\n\n\nAs in a dream, Marguerite followed on; the web was drawing more and more\ntightly every moment round the beloved life, which had become dearer\nthan all. To see her husband once again, to tell him how she had\nsuffered, how much she had wronged, and how little understood him, had\nbecome now her only aim. She had abandoned all hope of saving him: she\nsaw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and, in despair, she gazed\nround her into the darkness, and wondered whence he would presently\ncome, to fall into the death-trap which his relentless enemy had\nprepared for him.\n\nThe distant roar of the waves now made her shudder; the occasional\ndismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled her with unspeakable horror.\nShe thought of the ravenous beasts--in human shape--who lay in wait for\ntheir prey, and destroyed them, as mercilessly as any hungry wolf,\nfor the satisfaction of their own appetite of hate. Marguerite was not\nafraid of the darkness, she only feared that man, on ahead, who was\nsitting at the bottom of a rough wooden cart, nursing thoughts of\nvengeance, which would have made the very demons in hell chuckle with\ndelight.\n\nHer feet were sore. Her knees shook under her, from sheer bodily\nfatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of excitement;\nshe had not had a quiet rest for three nights; now, she had walked on\na slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her determination never\nswerved for a moment. She would see her husband, tell him all, and, if\nhe was ready to forgive the crime, which she had committed in her blind\nignorance, she would yet have the happiness of dying by his side.\n\nShe must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct alone keeping her\nup, and guiding her in the wake of the enemy, when suddenly her ears,\nattuned to the slightest sound, by that same blind instinct, told her\nthat the cart had stopped, and that the soldiers had halted. They had\ncome to their destination. No doubt on the right, somewhere close ahead,\nwas the footpath that led to the edge of the cliff and to the hut.\n\nHeedless of any risks, she crept up quite close up to where Chauvelin\nstood, surrounded by his little troop: he had descended from the cart,\nand was giving some orders to the men. These she wanted to hear: what\nlittle chance she yet had, of being useful to Percy, consisted in\nhearing absolutely every word of his enemy's plans.\n\nThe spot where all the party had halted must have lain some eight\nhundred metres from the coast; the sound of the sea came only very\nfaintly, as from a distance. Chauvelin and Desgas, followed by the\nsoldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road, apparently\non to the footpath, which led to the cliffs. The Jew had remained on the\nroad, with his cart and nag.\n\nMarguerite, with infinite caution, and literally crawling on her hands\nand knees, had also turned off to the right: to accomplish this she had\nto creep through the rough, low shrubs, trying to make as little noise\nas possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands against\nthe dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or heard.\nFortunately--as is usual in this part of France--the footpath was\nbordered by a low rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch, filled with\ncoarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter; she was quite\nhidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three yards of where\nChauvelin stood, giving orders to his men.\n\n\"Now,\" he was saying in a low and peremptory whisper, \"where is the Pere\nBlanchard's hut?\"\n\n\"About eight hundred metres from here, along the footpath,\" said the\nsoldier who had lately been directing the party, \"and half-way down the\ncliff.\"\n\n\"Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff, you\nshall creep down to the hut, as noiselessly as possible, and ascertain\nif the traitor royalists are there? Do you understand?\"\n\n\"I understand, citoyen.\"\n\n\"Now listen very attentively, all of you,\" continued Chauvelin,\nimpressively, and addressing the soldiers collectively, \"for after this\nwe may not be able to exchange another word, so remember every syllable\nI utter, as if your very lives depended on your memory. Perhaps they\ndo,\" he added drily.\n\n\"We listen, citoyen,\" said Desgas, \"and a soldier of the Republic never\nforgets an order.\"\n\n\"You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep inside. If an\nEnglishman is there with those traitors, a man who is tall above the\naverage, or who stoops as if he would disguise his height, then give\na sharp, quick whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of you,\" he\nadded, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively, \"then quickly\nsurround and rush into the hut, and each seize one of the men there,\nbefore they have time to draw their firearms; if any of them struggle,\nshoot at their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall man. Do you\nunderstand?\"\n\n\"We understand, citoyen.\"\n\n\"The man who is tall above the average is probably also strong above the\naverage; it will take four or five of you at least to overpower him.\"\n\nThere was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued,--\n\n\"If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more than likely to\nbe the case, then warn your comrades who are lying in wait there, and\nall of you creep and take cover behind the rocks and boulders round the\nhut, and wait there, in dead silence, until the tall Englishman arrives;\nthen only rush the hut, when he is safely within its doors. But remember\nthat you must be as silent as the wolf is at night, when he prowls\naround the pens. I do not wish those royalists to be on the alert--the\nfiring of a pistol, a shriek or call on their part would be sufficient,\nperhaps, to warn the tall personage to keep clear of the cliffs, and of\nthe hut, and,\" he added emphatically, \"it is the tall Englishman whom it\nis your duty to capture tonight.\"\n\n\"You shall be implicitly obeyed, citoyen.\"\n\n\"Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I will follow you.\"\n\n\"What about the Jew, citoyen?\" asked Desgas, as silently like noiseless\nshadows, one by one the soldiers began to creep along the rough and\nnarrow footpath.\n\n\"Ah, yes; I had forgotten about the Jew,\" said Chauvelin, and, turning\ntowards the Jew, he called him peremptorily.\n\n\"Here, you . . . Aaron, Moses, Abraham, or whatever your confounded name\nmay be,\" he said to the old man, who had quietly stood beside his lean\nnag, as far away from the soldiers as possible.\n\n\"Benjamin Rosenbaum, so it please your Honour,\" he replied humbly.\n\n\"It does not please me to hear your voice, but it does please me to give\nyou certain orders, which you will find it wise to obey.\"\n\n\"So it please your Honour . . .\"\n\n\"Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay here, do you hear? with\nyour horse and cart until our return. You are on no account to utter\nthe faintest sound, or to even breathe louder than you can help; nor are\nyou, on any consideration whatever, to leave your post, until I give you\norders to do so. Do you understand?\"\n\n\"But your Honour--\" protested the Jew pitiably.\n\n\"There is no question of 'but' or of any argument,\" said Chauvelin, in a\ntone that made the timid old man tremble from head to foot. \"If, when\nI return, I do not find you here, I most solemnly assure you that,\nwherever you may try to hide yourself, I can find you, and that\npunishment swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or later overtake you.\nDo you hear me?\"\n\n\"But your Excellency . . .\"\n\n\"I said, do you hear me?\"\n\nThe soldiers had all crept away; the three men stood alone together\nin the dark and lonely road, with Marguerite there, behind the hedge,\nlistening to Chauvelin's orders, as she would to her own death sentence.\n\n\"I heard your Honour,\" protested the Jew again, while he tried to draw\nnearer to Chauvelin, \"and I swear by Abraham, Isaac and Jacob that I\nwould obey your Honour most absolutely, and that I would not move from\nthis place until your Honour once more deigned to shed the light of your\ncountenance upon your humble servant; but remember, your Honour, I am\na poor man; my nerves are not as strong as those of a young soldier. If\nmidnight marauders should come prowling round this lonely road, I\nmight scream or run in my fright! And is my life to be forfeit, is some\nterrible punishment to come on my poor old head for that which I cannot\nhelp?\"\n\nThe Jew seemed in real distress; he was shaking from head to foot.\nClearly he was not the man to be left by himself on this lonely road.\nThe man spoke truly; he might unwittingly, in sheer terror, utter the\nshriek that might prove a warning to the wily Scarlet Pimpernel.\n\nChauvelin reflected for a moment.\n\n\"Will your horse and cart be safe alone, here, do you think?\" he asked\nroughly.\n\n\"I fancy, citoyen,\" here interposed Desgas, \"that they will be safer\nwithout that dirty, cowardly Jew than with him. There seems no doubt\nthat, if he gets scared, he will either make a bolt of it, or shriek his\nhead off.\"\n\n\"But what am I to do with the brute?\"\n\n\"Will you send him back to Calais, citoyen?\"\n\n\"No, for we shall want him to drive back the wounded presently,\" said\nChauvelin, with grim significance.\n\nThere was a pause again--Desgas waiting for the decision of his chief,\nand the old Jew whining beside his nag.\n\n\"Well, you lazy, lumbering old coward,\" said Chauvelin at last, \"you\nhad better shuffle along behind us. Here, Citoyen Desgas, tie this\nhandkerchief tightly round the fellow's mouth.\"\n\nChauvelin handed a scarf to Desgas, who solemnly began winding it round\nthe Jew's mouth. Meekly Benjamin Rosenbaum allowed himself to be gagged;\nhe, evidently, preferred this uncomfortable state to that of being left\nalone, on the dark St. Martin Road. Then the three men fell in line.\n\n\"Quick!\" said Chauvelin, impatiently, \"we have already wasted much\nvaluable time.\"\n\nAnd the firm footsteps of Chauvelin and Desgas, the shuffling gait of\nthe old Jew, soon died away along the footpath.\n\nMarguerite had not lost a single one of Chauvelin's words of command.\nHer every nerve was strained to completely grasp the situation first,\nthen to make a final appeal to those wits which had so often been called\nthe sharpest in Europe, and which alone might be of service now.\n\nCertainly the situation was desperate enough; a tiny band of\nunsuspecting men, quietly awaiting the arrival of their rescuer, who\nwas equally unconscious of the trap laid for them all. It seemed so\nhorrible, this net, as it were drawn in a circle, at dead of night, on a\nlonely beach, round a few defenceless men, defenceless because they were\ntricked and unsuspecting; of these one was the husband she idolised,\nanother the brother she loved. She vaguely wondered who the others were,\nwho were also calmly waiting for the Scarlet Pimpernel, while death\nlurked behind every boulder of the cliffs.\n\nFor the moment she could do nothing but follow the soldiers and\nChauvelin. She feared to lose her way, or she would have rushed\nforward and found that wooden hut, and perhaps been in time to warn the\nfugitives and their brave deliverer yet.\n\nFor a second, the thought flashed through her mind of uttering the\npiercing shrieks, which Chauvelin seemed to dread, as a possible warning\nto the Scarlet Pimpernel and his friends--in the wild hope that they\nwould hear, and have yet time to escape before it was too late. But she\ndid not know if her shrieks would reach the ears of the doomed men.\nHer effort might be premature, and she would never be allowed to make\nanother. Her mouth would be securely gagged, like that of the Jew, and\nshe, a helpless prisoner in the hands of Chauvelin's men.\n\nLike a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge: she had taken\nher shoes off, and her stockings were by now torn off her feet. She felt\nneither soreness nor weariness; indomitable will to reach her husband\nin spite of adverse Fate, and of a cunning enemy, killed all sense of\nbodily pain within her, and rendered her instincts doubly acute.\n\nShe heard nothing save the soft and measured footsteps of Percy's\nenemies on in front; she saw nothing but--in her mind's eye--that wooden\nhut, and he, her husband, walking blindly to his doom.\n\nSuddenly, those same keen instincts within her made her pause in her mad\nhaste, and cower still further within the shadow of the hedge. The moon,\nwhich had proved a friend to her by remaining hidden behind a bank of\nclouds, now emerged in all the glory of an early autumn night, and in a\nmoment flooded the weird and lonely landscape with a rush of brilliant\nlight.\n\nThere, not two hundred metres ahead, was the edge of the cliff, and\nbelow, stretching far away to free and happy England, the sea rolled on\nsmoothly and peaceably. Marguerite's gaze rested for an instant on the\nbrilliant, silvery waters; and as she gazed, her heart, which had been\nnumb with pain for all these hours, seemed to soften and distend, and\nher eyes filled with hot tears: not three miles away, with white sails\nset, a graceful schooner lay in wait.\n\nMarguerite had guessed rather than recognized her. It was the DAY DREAM,\nPercy's favourite yacht, and all her crew of British sailors: her\nwhite sails, glistening in the moonlight, seemed to convey a message\nto Marguerite of joy and hope, which yet she feared could never be. She\nwaited there, out at sea, waited for her master, like a beautiful white\nbird all ready to take flight, and he would never reach her, never\nsee her smooth deck again, never gaze any more on the white cliffs of\nEngland, the land of liberty and of hope.\n\nThe sight of the schooner seemed to infuse into the poor, wearied woman\nthe superhuman strength of despair. There was the edge of the cliff, and\nsome way below was the hut, where presently, her husband would meet his\ndeath. But the moon was out: she could see her way now: she would see\nthe hut from a distance, run to it, rouse them all, warn them at any\nrate to be prepared and to sell their lives dearly, rather than be\ncaught like so many rats in a hole.\n\nShe stumbled on behind the hedge in the low, thick grass of the ditch.\nShe must have run on very fast, and had outdistanced Chauvelin and\nDesgas, for presently she reached the edge of the cliff, and heard their\nfootsteps distinctly behind her. But only a very few yards away, and now\nthe moonlight was full upon her, her figure must have been distinctly\nsilhouetted against the silvery background of the sea.\n\nOnly for a moment, though; the next she had cowered, like some animal\ndoubled up within itself. She peeped down the great rugged cliffs--the\ndescent would be easy enough, as they were not precipitous, and the\ngreat boulders afforded plenty of foothold. Suddenly, as she gazed,\nshe saw at some little distance on her left, and about midway down the\ncliffs, a rough wooden construction, through the wall of which a tiny\nred light glimmered like a beacon. Her very heart seemed to stand still,\nthe eagerness of joy was so great that it felt like an awful pain.\n\nShe could not gauge how distant the hut was, but without hesitation\nshe began the steep descent, creeping from boulder to boulder, caring\nnothing for the enemy behind, or for the soldiers, who evidently had all\ntaken cover since the tall Englishman had not yet appeared.\n\nOn she pressed, forgetting the deadly foe on her track, running,\nstumbling, foot-sore, half-dazed, but still on . . . When, suddenly, a\ncrevice, or stone, or slippery bit of rock, threw her violently to the\nground. She struggled again to her feet, and started running forward\nonce more to give them that timely warning, to beg them to flee before\nhe came, and to tell him to keep away--away from this death-trap--away\nfrom this awful doom. But now she realised that other steps, quicker\nthan her own, were already close at her heels. The next instant a\nhand dragged at her skirt, and she was down on her knees again, whilst\nsomething was wound round her mouth to prevent her uttering a scream.\n\nBewildered, half frantic with the bitterness of disappointment, she\nlooked round her helplessly, and, bending down quite close to her, she\nsaw through the mist, which seemed to gather round her, a pair of keen,\nmalicious eyes, which appeared to her excited brain to have a weird,\nsupernatural green light in them. She lay in the shadow of a great\nboulder; Chauvelin could not see her features, but he passed his thin,\nwhite fingers over her face.\n\n\"A woman!\" he whispered, \"by all the saints in the calendar.\"\n\n\"We cannot let her loose, that's certain,\" he muttered to himself. \"I\nwonder now . . .\"\n\nSuddenly he paused, after a few moments of deadly silence, he gave forth\na long, low, curious chuckle, while once again Marguerite felt, with a\nhorrible shudder, his thin fingers wandering over her face.\n\n\"Dear me! dear me!\" he whispered, with affected gallantry, \"this is\nindeed a charming surprise,\" and Marguerite felt her resistless hand\nraised to Chauvelin's thin, mocking lips.\n\nThe situation was indeed grotesque, had it not been at the same time\nso fearfully tragic: the poor, weary woman, broken in spirit, and half\nfrantic with the bitterness of her disappointment, receiving on her\nknees the BANAL gallantries of her deadly enemy.\n\nHer senses were leaving her; half choked with the tight grip round her\nmouth, she had no strength to move or to utter the faintest sound. The\nexcitement which all along had kept up her delicate body seemed at once\nto have subsided, and the feeling of blank despair to have completely\nparalyzed her brain and nerves.\n\nChauvelin must have given some directions, which she was too dazed to\nhear, for she felt herself lifted from off her feet: the bandage round\nher mouth was made more secure, and a pair of strong arms carried her\ntowards that tiny, red light, on ahead, which she had looked upon as a\nbeacon and the last faint glimmer of hope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX TRAPPED\n\n\n\nShe did not know how long she was thus carried along, she had lost\nall notion of time and space, and for a few seconds tired nature,\nmercifully, deprived her of consciousness.\n\nWhen she once more realised her state, she felt that she was placed with\nsome degree of comfort upon a man's coat, with her back resting against\na fragment of rock. The moon was hidden again behind some clouds, and\nthe darkness seemed in comparison more intense. The sea was roaring some\ntwo hundred feet below her, and on looking all round she could no longer\nsee any vestige of the tiny glimmer of red light.\n\nThat the end of the journey had been reached, she gathered from the fact\nthat she heard rapid questions and answers spoken in a whisper quite\nclose to her.\n\n\"There are four men in there, citoyen; they are sitting by the fire, and\nseem to be waiting quietly.\"\n\n\"The hour?\"\n\n\"Nearly two o'clock.\"\n\n\"The tide?\"\n\n\"Coming in quickly.\"\n\n\"The schooner?\"\n\n\"Obviously an English one, lying some three kilometres out. But we\ncannot see her boat.\"\n\n\"Have the men taken cover?\"\n\n\"Yes, citoyen.\"\n\n\"They will not blunder?\"\n\n\"They will not stir until the tall Englishman comes, then they will\nsurround and overpower the five men.\"\n\n\"Right. And the lady?\"\n\n\"Still dazed, I fancy. She's close beside you, citoyen.\"\n\n\"And the Jew?\"\n\n\"He's gagged, and his legs strapped together. He cannot move or scream.\"\n\n\"Good. Then have your gun ready, in case you want it. Get close to the\nhut and leave me to look after the lady.\"\n\nDesgas evidently obeyed, for Marguerite heard him creeping away along\nthe stony cliff, then she felt that a pair of warm, thin, talon-like\nhands took hold of both her own, and held them in a grip of steel.\n\n\"Before that handkerchief is removed from your pretty mouth, fair lady,\"\nwhispered Chauvelin close to her ear, \"I think it right to give you one\nsmall word of warning. What has procured me the honour of being followed\nacross the Channel by so charming a companion, I cannot, of course,\nconceive, but, if I mistake it not, the purpose of this flattering\nattention is not one that would commend itself to my vanity and I think\nthat I am right in surmising, moreover, that the first sound which your\npretty lips would utter, as soon as the cruel gag is removed, would be\none that would prove a warning to the cunning fox, which I have been at\nsuch pains to track to his lair.\"\n\nHe paused a moment, while the steel-like grasp seemed to tighten round\nher wrist; then he resumed in the same hurried whisper:--\n\n\"Inside that hut, if again I am not mistaken, your brother, Armand St.\nJust, waits with that traitor de Tournay, and two other men unknown to\nyou, for the arrival of the mysterious rescuer, whose identity has for\nso long puzzled our Committee of Public Safety--the audacious Scarlet\nPimpernel. No doubt if you scream, if there is a scuffle here, if shots\nare fired, it is more than likely that the same long legs that brought\nthis scarlet enigma here, will as quickly take him to some place of\nsafety. The purpose then, for which I have travelled all these miles,\nwill remain unaccomplished. On the other hand it only rests with\nyourself that your brother--Armand--shall be free to go off with you\nto-night if you like, to England, or any other place of safety.\"\n\nMarguerite could not utter a sound, as the handkerchief was would very\ntightly round her mouth, but Chauvelin was peering through the darkness\nvery closely into her face; no doubt too her hand gave a responsive\nappeal to his last suggestion, for presently he continued:--\n\n\"What I want you to do to ensure Armand's safety is a very simple thing,\ndear lady.\"\n\n\"What is it?\" Marguerite's hand seemed to convey to his, in response.\n\n\"To remain--on this spot, without uttering a sound, until I give you\nleave to speak. Ah! but I think you will obey,\" he added, with that\nfunny dry chuckle of his as Marguerite's whole figure seemed to stiffen,\nin defiance of this order, \"for let me tell you that if you scream, nay!\nif you utter one sound, or attempt to move from here, my men--there are\nthirty of them about--will seize St. Just, de Tournay, and their two\nfriends, and shoot them here--by my orders--before your eyes.\"\n\nMarguerite had listened to her implacable enemy's speech with\never-increasing terror. Numbed with physical pain, she yet had\nsufficient mental vitality in her to realize the full horror of this\nterrible \"either--or\" he was once more putting before her; \"either--or\"\nten thousand times more appalling and horrible than the one he had\nsuggested to her that fatal night at the ball.\n\nThis time it meant that she should keep still, and allow the husband she\nworshipped to walk unconsciously to his death, or that she should,\nby trying to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might even be\nunavailing, actually give the signal for her own brother's death, and\nthat of three other unsuspecting men.\n\nShe could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost feel those keen, pale\neyes of his fixed maliciously upon her helpless form, and his hurried,\nwhispered words reached her ear, as the death-knell of her last faint,\nlingering hope.\n\n\"Nay, fair lady,\" he added urbanely, \"you can have no interest in anyone\nsave in St. Just, and all you need do for his safety is to remain where\nyou are, and to keep silent. My men have strict orders to spare him in\nevery way. As for that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel, what is he to you?\nBelieve me, no warning from you could possibly save him. And now dear\nlady, let me remove this unpleasant coercion, which has been placed\nbefore your pretty mouth. You see I wish you to be perfectly free, in\nthe choice which you are about to make.\"\n\nHer thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her nerves paralyzed,\nher body numb with pain, Marguerite sat there, in the darkness which\nsurrounded her as with a pall. From where she sat she could not see the\nsea, but she heard the incessant mournful murmur of the incoming tide,\nwhich spoke of her dead hopes, her lost love, the husband she had with\nher own hand betrayed, and sent to his death.\n\nChauvelin removed the handkerchief from her mouth. She certainly did not\nscream: at that moment, she had no strength to do anything but barely to\nhold herself upright, and to force herself to think.\n\nOh! think! think! think! of what she should do. The minutes flew on;\nin this awful stillness she could not tell how fast or how slowly; she\nheard nothing, she saw nothing: she did not feel the sweet-smelling\nautumn air, scented with the briny odour of the sea, she no longer heard\nthe murmur of the waves, the occasional rattling of a pebble, as it\nrolled down some steep incline. More and more unreal did the whole\nsituation seem. It was impossible that she, Marguerite Blakeney, the\nqueen of London society, should actually be sitting here on this bit\nof lonely coast, in the middle of the night, side by side with a most\nbitter enemy; and oh! it was not possible that somewhere, not many\nhundred feet away perhaps, from where she stood, the being she had once\ndespised, but who now, in every moment of this weird, dreamlike\nlife, became more and more dear--it was not possible that HE was\nunconsciously, even now walking to his doom, whilst she did nothing to\nsave him.\n\nWhy did she not with unearthly screams, that would re-echo from one end\nof the lonely beach to the other, send out a warning to him to desist,\nto retrace his steps, for death lurked here whilst he advanced? Once or\ntwice the screams rose to her throat--as if by instinct: then, before\nher eyes there stood the awful alternative: her brother and those three\nmen shot before her eyes, practically by her orders: she their murderer.\n\nOh! that fiend in human shape, next to her, knew human--female--nature\nwell. He had played upon her feelings as a skilful musician plays upon\nan instrument. He had gauged her very thoughts to a nicety.\n\nShe could not give that signal--for she was weak, and she was a woman.\nHow could she deliberately order Armand to be shot before her eyes, to\nhave his dear blood upon her head, he dying perhaps with a curse on her,\nupon his lips. And little Suzanne's father, too! he, an old man; and\nthe others!--oh! it was all too, too horrible.\n\nWait! wait! wait! how long? The early morning hours sped on, and yet\nit was not dawn: the sea continued its incessant mournful murmur, the\nautumnal breeze sighed gently in the night: the lonely beach was silent,\neven as the grave.\n\nSuddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a cheerful, strong voice was\nheard singing \"God save the King!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX THE SCHOONER\n\n\n\nMarguerite's aching heart stood still. She felt, more than she heard,\nthe men on the watch preparing for the fight. Her senses told her that\neach, with sword in hand, was crouching, ready for the spring.\n\nThe voice came nearer and nearer; in the vast immensity of these lonely\ncliffs, with the loud murmur of the sea below, it was impossible to say\nhow near, or how far, nor yet from which direction came that cheerful\nsinger, who sang to God to save his King, whilst he himself was in such\ndeadly danger. Faint at first, the voice grew louder and louder; from\ntime to time a small pebble detached itself apparently from beneath the\nfirm tread of the singer, and went rolling down the rocky cliffs to the\nbeach below.\n\nMarguerite as she heard, felt that her very life was slipping away, as\nif when that voice drew nearer, when that singer became entrapped . . .\n\nShe distinctly heard the click of Desgas' gun close to her. . . .\n\nNo! no! no! no! Oh, God in heaven! this cannot be! let Armand's blood\nthen be on her own head! let her be branded as his murderer! let even\nhe, whom she loved, despise and loathe her for this, but God! oh God!\nsave him at any cost!\n\nWith a wild shriek, she sprang to her feet, and darted round the rock,\nagainst which she had been cowering; she saw the little red gleam\nthrough the chinks of the hut; she ran up to it and fell against its\nwooden walls, which she began to hammer with clenched fists in an almost\nmaniacal frenzy, while she shouted,--\n\n\"Armand! Armand! for God's sake fire! your leader is near! he is coming!\nhe is betrayed! Armand! Armand! fire in Heaven's name!\"\n\nShe was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay there moaning, bruised,\nnot caring, but still half-sobbing, half-shrieking,--\n\n\"Percy, my husband, for God's sake fly! Armand! Armand! why don't you\nfire?\"\n\n\"One of you stop that woman screaming,\" hissed Chauvelin, who hardly\ncould refrain from striking her.\n\nSomething was thrown over her face; she could not breathe, and perforce\nshe was silent.\n\nThe bold singer, too, had become silent, warned, no doubt, of his\nimpending danger by Marguerite's frantic shrieks. The men had sprung\nto their feet, there was no need for further silence on their part; the\nvery cliffs echoed the poor, heart-broken woman's screams.\n\nChauvelin, with a muttered oath, which boded no good to her, who had\ndared to upset his most cherished plans, had hastily shouted the word of\ncommand,--\n\n\"Into it, my men, and let no one escape from that hut alive!\"\n\nThe moon had once more emerged from between the clouds: the darkness on\nthe cliffs had gone, giving place once more to brilliant, silvery light.\nSome of the soldiers had rushed to the rough, wooden door of the hut,\nwhilst one of them kept guard over Marguerite.\n\nThe door was partially open; one of the soldiers pushed it further, but\nwithin all was darkness, the charcoal fire only lighting with a dim, red\nlight the furthest corner of the hut. The soldiers paused automatically\nat the door, like machines waiting for further orders.\n\nChauvelin, who was prepared for a violent onslaught from within, and\nfor a vigorous resistance from the four fugitives, under cover of the\ndarkness, was for the moment paralyzed with astonishment when he saw the\nsoldiers standing there at attention, like sentries on guard, whilst not\na sound proceeded from the hut.\n\nFilled with strange, anxious foreboding, he, too, went to the door of\nthe hut, and peering into the gloom, he asked quickly,--\n\n\"What is the meaning of this?\"\n\n\"I think, citoyen, that there is no one there now,\" replied one of the\nsoldiers imperturbably.\n\n\"You have not let those four men go?\" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.\n\"I ordered you to let no man escape alive!--Quick, after them all of\nyou! Quick, in every direction!\"\n\nThe men, obedient as machines, rushed down the rocky incline towards\nthe beach, some going off to right and left, as fast as their feet could\ncarry them.\n\n\"You and your men will pay with your lives for this blunder, citoyen\nsergeant,\" said Chauvelin viciously to the sergeant who had been in\ncharge of the men; \"and you, too, citoyen,\" he added turning with a\nsnarl to Desgas, \"for disobeying my orders.\"\n\n\"You ordered us to wait, citoyen, until the tall Englishman arrived\nand joined the four men in the hut. No one came,\" said the sergeant\nsullenly.\n\n\"But I ordered you just now, when the woman screamed, to rush in and let\nno one escape.\"\n\n\"But, citoyen, the four men who were there before had been gone some\ntime, I think . . .\"\n\n\"You think?--You? . . .\" said Chauvelin, almost choking with fury, \"and\nyou let them go . . .\"\n\n\"You ordered us to wait, citoyen,\" protested the sergeant, \"and to\nimplicitly obey your commands on pain of death. We waited.\"\n\n\"I heard the men creep out of the hut, not many minutes after we took\ncover, and long before the woman screamed,\" he added, as Chauvelin\nseemed still quite speechless with rage.\n\n\"Hark!\" said Desgas suddenly.\n\nIn the distance the sound of repeated firing was heard. Chauvelin tried\nto peer along the beach below, but as luck would have it, the fitful\nmoon once more hid her light behind a bank of clouds, and he could see\nnothing.\n\n\"One of you go into the hut and strike a light,\" he stammered at last.\n\nStolidly the sergeant obeyed: he went up to the charcoal fire and lit\nthe small lantern he carried in his belt; it was evident that the hut\nwas quite empty.\n\n\"Which way did they go?\" asked Chauvelin.\n\n\"I could not tell, citoyen,\" said the sergeant; \"they went straight down\nthe cliff first, then disappeared behind some boulders.\"\n\n\"Hush! what was that?\"\n\nAll three men listened attentively. In the far, very far distance, could\nbe heard faintly echoing and already dying away, the quick, sharp splash\nof half a dozen oars. Chauvelin took out his handkerchief and wiped the\nperspiration from his forehead.\n\n\"The schooner's boat!\" was all he gasped.\n\nEvidently Armand St. Just and his three companions had managed to creep\nalong the side of the cliffs, whilst the men, like true soldiers of the\nwell-drilled Republican army, had with blind obedience, and in fear of\ntheir own lives, implicitly obeyed Chauvelin's orders--to wait for the\ntall Englishman, who was the important capture.\n\nThey had no doubt reached one of the creeks which jut far out to sea\non this coast at intervals; behind this, the boat of the DAY DREAM must\nhave been on the lookout for them, and they were by now safely on board\nthe British schooner.\n\nAs if to confirm this last supposition, the dull boom of a gun was heard\nfrom out at sea.\n\n\"The schooner, citoyen,\" said Desgas, quietly; \"she's off.\"\n\nIt needed all Chauvelin's nerve and presence of mind not to give way to\na useless and undignified access of rage. There was no doubt now, that\nonce again, that accursed British head had completely outwitted him.\nHow he had contrived to reach the hut, without being seen by one of\nthe thirty soldiers who guarded the spot, was more than Chauvelin could\nconceive. That he had done so before the thirty men had arrived on the\ncliff was, of course, fairly clear, but how he had come over in Reuben\nGoldstein's cart, all the way from Calais, without being sighted by the\nvarious patrols on duty was impossible of explanation. It really seemed\nas if some potent Fate watched over that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, and\nhis astute enemy almost felt a superstitious shudder pass through him,\nas he looked round at the towering cliffs, and the loneliness of this\noutlying coast.\n\nBut surely this was reality! and the year of grace 1792: there were no\nfairies and hobgoblins about. Chauvelin and his thirty men had all heard\nwith their own ears that accursed voice singing \"God save the King,\"\nfully twenty minutes AFTER they had all taken cover around the hut; by\nthat time the four fugitives must have reached the creek, and got into\nthe boat, and the nearest creek was more than a mile from the hut.\n\nWhere had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had lent him\nwings, he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff in the space\nof two minutes; and only two minutes had elapsed between his song and\nthe sound of the boat's oars away at sea. He must have remained behind,\nand was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs; the patrols were\nstill about, he would still be sighted, no doubt. Chauvelin felt hopeful\nonce again.\n\nOne or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives, were now slowly\nworking their way up the cliff: one of them reached Chauvelin's side, at\nthe very moment that this hope arose in the astute diplomatist's heart.\n\n\"We were too late, citoyen,\" the soldier said, \"we reached the beach\njust before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The boat had\nundoubtedly been on the look-out behind that first creek, a mile off,\nbut she had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the beach, and was\nalready some way out to sea. We fired after her, but of course, it was\nno good. She was making straight and quickly for the schooner. We saw\nher very clearly in the moonlight.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, \"she had shoved off some\ntime ago, you said, and the nearest creek is a mile further on.\"\n\n\"Yes, citoyen! I ran all the way, straight to the beach, though I\nguessed the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek, as the tide\nwould reach there earliest. The boat must have shoved off some minutes\nbefore the woman began to scream.\"\n\n\"Bring the light in here!\" he commanded eagerly, as he once more entered\nthe hut.\n\nThe sergeant brought his lantern, and together the two men explored\nthe little place: with a rapid glance Chauvelin noted its contents: the\ncauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall, and containing the\nlast few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of stools, overturned\nas if in the haste of sudden departure, then the fisherman's tools\nand his nets lying in one corner, and beside them, something small and\nwhite.\n\n\"Pick that up,\" said Chauvelin to the sergeant, pointing to this white\nscrap, \"and bring it to me.\"\n\nIt was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten there by the\nfugitives, in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much awed by the\ncitoyen's obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and handed it\nrespectfully to Chauvelin.\n\n\"Read it, sergeant,\" said the latter curtly.\n\n\"It is almost illegible, citoyen . . . a fearful scrawl . . .\"\n\n\"I ordered you to read it,\" repeated Chauvelin, viciously.\n\nThe sergeant, by the light of his lantern, began deciphering the few\nhastily scrawled words.\n\n\"I cannot quite reach you, without risking your lives and endangering\nthe success of your rescue. When you receive this, wait two minutes,\nthen creep out of the hut one by one, turn to your left sharply, and\ncreep cautiously down the cliff; keep to the left all the time, till you\nreach the first rock, which you see jutting far out to sea--behind it\nin the creek the boat is on the look-out for you--give a long, sharp\nwhistle--she will come up--get into her--my men will row you to the\nschooner, and thence to England and safety--once on board the DAY DREAM\nsend the boat back for me, tell my men that I shall be at the creek,\nwhich is in a direct line opposite the 'Chat Gris' near Calais. They\nknow it. I shall be there as soon as possible--they must wait for me\nat a safe distance out at sea, till they hear the usual signal. Do not\ndelay--and obey these instructions implicitly.\"\n\n\"Then there is the signature, citoyen,\" added the sergeant, as he handed\nthe paper back to Chauvelin.\n\nBut the latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the momentous\nscrawl had caught his ear. \"I shall be at the creek which is in a direct\nline opposite the 'Chat Gris' near Calais\": that phrase might yet mean\nvictory for him. \"Which of you knows this coast well?\" he shouted to his\nmen who now one by one all returned from their fruitless run, and were\nall assembled once more round the hut.\n\n\"I do, citoyen,\" said one of them, \"I was born in Calais, and know every\nstone of these cliffs.\"\n\n\"There is a creek in a direct line from the 'Chat Gris'?\"\n\n\"There is, citoyen. I know it well.\"\n\n\"The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does NOT know every\nstone of these cliffs, he may go there by the longest way round, and\nin any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the patrols. At any\nrate, there is a chance to get him yet. A thousand francs to each man\nwho gets to that creek before that long-legged Englishman.\"\n\n\"I know of a short cut across the cliffs,\" said the soldier, and with an\nenthusiastic shout, he rushed forward, followed closely by his comrades.\n\nWithin a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in the\ndistance. Chauvelin listened to them for a moment; the promise of the\nreward was lending spurs to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of\nhate and anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his face.\n\nClose to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive, waiting for further\norders, whilst two soldiers were kneeling beside the prostrate form of\nMarguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious look. His well-laid\nplan had failed, its sequel was problematical; there was still a great\nchance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel might yet escape, and Chauvelin,\nwith that unreasoning fury, which sometimes assails a strong nature, was\nlonging to vent his rage on somebody.\n\nThe soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the ground, though,\nshe, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle. Overwrought nature\nhad at last peremptorily asserted herself, and she lay there in a\ndead swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that told of long,\nsleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead, her lips\nparted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain.\n\nThe cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable Lady\nBlakeney, who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit and\nher extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out,\nsuffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the hard,\nvengeful heart of her baffled enemy.\n\n\"It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half dead,\" he said\nspitefully to the soldiers, \"when you have allowed five men who were\nvery much alive to escape.\"\n\nObediently the soldiers rose to their feet.\n\n\"You'd better try and find that footpath again for me, and that\nbroken-down cart we left on the road.\"\n\nThen suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him.\n\n\"Ah! by-the-bye! where is the Jew?\"\n\n\"Close by here, citoyen,\" said Desgas; \"I gagged him and tied his legs\ntogether as you commanded.\"\n\nFrom the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached Chauvelin's ears.\nHe followed his secretary, who led the way to the other side of the hut,\nwhere, fallen into an absolute heap of dejection, with his legs tightly\npinioned together and his mouth gagged, lay the unfortunate descendant\nof Israel.\n\nHis face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively ghastly with\nterror: his eyes were wide open and almost glassy, and his whole\nbody was trembling, as if with ague, while a piteous wail escaped his\nbloodless lips. The rope which had originally been wound round his\nshoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a tangle about\nhis body, but he seemed quite unconscious of this, for he had not made\nthe slightest attempt to move from the place where Desgas had originally\nput him: like a terrified chicken which looks upon a line of white\nchalk, drawn on a table, as on a string which paralyzes its movements.\n\n\"Bring the cowardly brute here,\" commanded Chauvelin.\n\nHe certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he had no reasonable\ngrounds for venting his ill-humour on the soldiers who had but too\npunctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the despised race\nwould prove an excellent butt. With true French contempt of the Jew,\nwhich has survived the lapse of centuries even to this day, he would not\ngo too near him, but said with biting sarcasm, as the wretched old man\nwas brought in full light of the moon by the two soldiers,--\n\n\"I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good memory for bargains?\"\n\n\"Answer!\" he again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips seemed too\nfrightened to speak.\n\n\"Yes, your Honour,\" stammered the poor wretch.\n\n\"You remember, then, the one you and I made together in Calais, when you\nundertook to overtake Reuben Goldstein, his nag and my friend the tall\nstranger? Eh?\"\n\n\"B . . . b . . . but . . . your Honour . . .\"\n\n\"There is no 'but.' I said, do you remember?\"\n\n\"Y . . . y . . . y . . . yes . . . your Honour!\"\n\n\"What was the bargain?\"\n\nThere was dead silence. The unfortunate man looked round at the great\ncliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers, and even at\nthe poor, prostate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing.\n\n\"Will you speak?\" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.\n\nHe did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not. There was no\ndoubt, however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man before\nhim.\n\n\"Your Honour . . .\" he ventured imploringly.\n\n\"Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your tongue,\" said Chauvelin\nsarcastically, \"I must needs refresh your memory. It was agreed between\nus, that if we overtook my friend the tall stranger, before he reached\nthis place, you were to have ten pieces of gold.\"\n\nA low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips.\n\n\"But,\" added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, \"if you deceived me in your\npromise, you were to have a sound beating, one that would teach you not\nto tell lies.\"\n\n\"I did not, your Honour; I swear it by Abraham . . .\"\n\n\"And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfortunately, they are still\nin Hades, I believe, according to your creed, and cannot help you much\nin your present trouble. Now, you did not fulfil your share of the\nbargain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here,\" he added, turning to the\nsoldiers, \"the buckle-end of your two belts to this confounded Jew.\"\n\nAs the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather belts, the\nJew set up a howl that surely would have been enough to bring all the\npatriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere, to defend their descendant from\nthe brutality of this French official.\n\n\"I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers,\" laughed Chauvelin,\nmaliciously, \"to give this old liar the best and soundest beating he has\never experienced. But don't kill him,\" he added drily.\n\n\"We will obey, citoyen,\" replied the soldiers as imperturbably as ever.\n\nHe did not wait to see his orders carried out: he knew that he could\ntrust these soldiers--who were still smarting under his rebuke--not to\nmince matters, when given a free hand to belabour a third party.\n\n\"When that lumbering coward has had his punishment,\" he said to Desgas,\n\"the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them can drive us\nin it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look after each other,\"\nhe added roughly, \"until we can send somebody for them in the morning.\nThey can't run away very far, in their present condition, and we cannot\nbe troubled with them just now.\"\n\nChauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were spurred\non by the hope of the reward. That enigmatic and audacious Scarlet\nPimpernel, alone and with thirty men at his heels, could not reasonably\nbe expected to escape a second time.\n\nBut he felt less sure now: the Englishman's audacity had baffled him\nonce, whilst the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers, and the\ninterference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all the trumps,\ninto a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his time, if the\nsoldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if . . . it was a long \"if,\"\nand Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still, and enrolled thirty odd\npeople in one long, overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic, silent,\nbalmy, the bright moon, the calm, silvery sea spoke of beauty and of\nrest, and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, and above all,\nhe cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with one gigantic\ncurse.\n\nThe howls of the Jew behind him, undergoing his punishment sent a balm\nthrough his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful malice. He\nsmiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being at least was,\nlike himself, not altogether at peace with mankind.\n\nHe turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast, where stood\nthe wooden hut, now bathed in moonlight, the scene of the greatest\ndiscomfiture ever experienced by a leading member of the Committee of\nPublic Safety.\n\nAgainst a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the unconscious figure of\nMarguerite Blakeney, while some few paces further on, the unfortunate\nJew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout leather\nbelts, wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of the\nRepublic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the dead rise\nfrom their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls from sleep, and\nmade them look down with great interest at the doings of the lords of\nthe creation.\n\n\"That will do,\" commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became more\nfeeble, and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away, \"we don't want\nto kill him.\"\n\nObediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them viciously\nkicking the Jew to one side.\n\n\"Leave him there,\" said Chauvelin, \"and lead the way now quickly to the\ncart. I'll follow.\"\n\nHe walked up to where Marguerite lay, and looked down into her face. She\nhad evidently recovered consciousness, and was making feeble efforts to\nraise herself. Her large, blue eyes were looking at the moonlit scene\nround her with a scared and terrified look; they rested with a mixture\nof horror and pity on the Jew, whose luckless fate and wild howls had\nbeen the first signs that struck her, with her returning senses; then\nshe caught sight of Chauvelin, in his neat, dark clothes, which seemed\nhardly crumpled after the stirring events of the last few hours. He was\nsmiling sarcastically, and his pale eyes peered down at her with a look\nof intense malice.\n\nWith mock gallantry, he stooped and raised her icy-cold hand to his\nlips, which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through Marguerite's\nweary frame.\n\n\"I much regret, fair lady,\" he said in his most suave tones, \"that\ncircumstances, over which I have no control, compel me to leave you here\nfor the moment. But I go away, secure in the knowledge that I do not\nleave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, though a trifle the\nworse for wear at the present moment, will prove a gallant defender of\nyour fair person, I have no doubt. At dawn I will send an escort for\nyou; until then, I feel sure that you will find him devoted, though\nperhaps a trifle slow.\"\n\nMarguerite only had the strength to turn her head away. Her heart was\nbroken with cruel anguish. One awful thought had returned to her mind,\ntogether with gathering consciousness: \"What had become of Percy?--What\nof Armand?\"\n\nShe knew nothing of what had happened after she heard the cheerful song,\n\"God save the King,\" which she believed to be the signal of death.\n\n\"I, myself,\" concluded Chauvelin, \"must now very reluctantly leave you.\nAU REVOIR, fair lady. We meet, I hope, soon in London. Shall I see\nyou at the Prince of Wales' garden party?--No?--Ah, well, AU\nREVOIR!--Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Blakeney.\"\n\nAnd, with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more kissed her hand,\nand disappeared down the footpath in the wake of the soldiers, and\nfollowed by the imperturbable Desgas.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI THE ESCAPE\n\n\n\nMarguerite listened--half-dazed as she was--to the fast-retreating, firm\nfootsteps of the four men.\n\nAll nature was so still that she, lying with her ear close to the\nground, could distinctly trace the sound of their tread, as they\nultimately turned into the road, and presently the faint echo of the old\ncart-wheels, the halting gait of the lean nag, told her that her enemy\nwas a quarter of a league away. How long she lay there she knew not. She\nhad lost count of time; dreamily she looked up at the moonlit sky, and\nlistened to the monotonous roll of the waves.\n\nThe invigorating scent of the sea was nectar to her wearied body, the\nimmensity of the lonely cliffs was silent and dreamlike. Her brain\nonly remained conscious of its ceaseless, its intolerable torture of\nuncertainty.\n\nShe did not know!--\n\nShe did not know whether Percy was even now, at this moment, in the\nhands of the soldiers of the Republic, enduring--as she had done\nherself--the gibes and jeers of his malicious enemy. She did not know,\non the other hand, whether Armand's lifeless body did not lie there, in\nthe hut, whilst Percy had escaped, only to hear that his wife's hands\nhad guided the human bloodhounds to the murder of Armand and his\nfriends.\n\nThe physical pain of utter weariness was so great, that she hoped\nconfidently her tired body could rest here for ever, after all the\nturmoil, the passion, and the intrigues of the last few days--here,\nbeneath that clear sky, within sound of the sea, and with this balmy\nautumn breeze whispering to her a last lullaby. All was so solitary,\nso silent, like unto dreamland. Even the last faint echo of the distant\ncart had long ago died away, afar.\n\nSuddenly . . . a sound . . . the strangest, undoubtedly, that these lonely\ncliffs of France had ever heard, broke the silent solemnity of the\nshore.\n\nSo strange a sound was it that the gentle breeze ceased to murmur,\nthe tiny pebbles to roll down the steep incline! So strange, that\nMarguerite, wearied, overwrought as she was, thought that the beneficial\nunconsciousness of the approach of death was playing her half-sleeping\nsenses a weird and elusive trick.\n\nIt was the sound of a good, solid, absolutely British \"Damn!\"\n\nThe sea gulls in their nests awoke and looked round in astonishment; a\ndistant and solitary owl set up a midnight hoot, the tall cliffs frowned\ndown majestically at the strange, unheard-of sacrilege.\n\nMarguerite did not trust her ears. Half-raising herself on her hands,\nshe strained every sense to see or hear, to know the meaning of this\nvery earthly sound.\n\nAll was still again for the space of a few seconds; the same silence\nonce more fell upon the great and lonely vastness.\n\nThen Marguerite, who had listened as in a trance, who felt she must be\ndreaming with that cool, magnetic moonlight overhead, heard again; and\nthis time her heart stood still, her eyes large and dilated, looked\nround her, not daring to trust her other sense.\n\n\"Odd's life! but I wish those demmed fellows had not hit quite so hard!\"\n\nThis time it was quite unmistakable, only one particular pair of\nessentially British lips could have uttered those words, in sleepy,\ndrawly, affected tones.\n\n\"Damn!\" repeated those same British lips, emphatically. \"Zounds! but I'm\nas weak as a rat!\"\n\nIn a moment Marguerite was on her feet.\n\nWas she dreaming? Were those great, stony cliffs the gates of paradise?\nWas the fragrant breath of the breeze suddenly caused by the flutter of\nangels' wings, bringing tidings of unearthly joys to her, after all her\nsuffering, or--faint and ill--was she the prey of delirium?\n\nShe listened again, and once again she heard the same very earthly\nsounds of good, honest British language, not the least akin to\nwhisperings from paradise or flutter of angels' wings.\n\nShe looked round her eagerly at the tall cliffs, the lonely hut, the\ngreat stretch of rocky beach. Somewhere there, above or below her,\nbehind a boulder or inside a crevice, but still hidden from her longing,\nfeverish eyes, must be the owner of that voice, which once used to\nirritate her, but now would make her the happiest woman in Europe, if\nonly she could locate it.\n\n\"Percy! Percy!\" she shrieked hysterically, tortured between doubt and\nhope, \"I am here! Come to me! Where are you? Percy! Percy! . . .\"\n\n\"It's all very well calling me, m'dear!\" said the same sleepy, drawly\nvoice, \"but odd's life, I cannot come to you: those demmed frog-eaters\nhave trussed me like a goose on a spit, and I am weak as a mouse . . . I\ncannot get away.\"\n\nAnd still Marguerite did not understand. She did not realise for at\nleast another ten seconds whence came that voice, so drawly, so dear,\nbut alas! with a strange accent of weakness and of suffering. There was\nno one within sight . . . except by that rock . . . Great God! . . . the\nJew! . . . Was she mad or dreaming? . . .\n\nHis back was against the pale moonlight, he was half crouching, trying\nvainly to raise himself with his arms tightly pinioned. Marguerite ran\nup to him, took his head in both her hands . . . and look straight into\na pair of blue eyes, good-natured, even a trifle amused--shining out of\nthe weird and distorted mask of the Jew.\n\n\"Percy! . . . Percy! . . . my husband!\" she gasped, faint with the fulness\nof her joy. \"Thank God! Thank God!\"\n\n\"La! m'dear,\" he rejoined good-humouredly, \"we will both do that anon,\nan you think you can loosen these demmed ropes, and release me from my\ninelegant attitude.\"\n\nShe had no knife, her fingers were numb and weak, but she worked away\nwith her teeth, while great welcome tears poured from her eyes, onto\nthose poor, pinioned hands.\n\n\"Odd's life!\" he said, when at last, after frantic efforts on her part,\nthe ropes seemed at last to be giving way, \"but I marvel whether it has\never happened before, that an English gentleman allowed himself to be\nlicked by a demmed foreigner, and made no attempt to give as good as he\ngot.\"\n\nIt was very obvious that he was exhausted from sheer physical pain, and\nwhen at last the rope gave way, he fell in a heap against the rock.\n\nMarguerite looked helplessly round her.\n\n\"Oh! for a drop of water on this awful beach!\" she cried in agony,\nseeing that he was ready to faint again.\n\n\"Nay, m'dear,\" he murmured with his good-humoured smile, \"personally I\nshould prefer a drop of good French brandy! an you'll dive in the pocket\nof this dirty old garment, you'll find my flask. . . . I am demmed if I\ncan move.\"\n\nWhen he had drunk some brandy, he forced Marguerite to do likewise.\n\n\"La! that's better now! Eh! little woman?\" he said, with a sigh of\nsatisfaction. \"Heigh-ho! but this is a queer rig-up for Sir Percy\nBlakeney, Bart., to be found in by his lady, and no mistake. Begad!\" he\nadded, passing his hand over his chin, \"I haven't been shaved for nearly\ntwenty hours: I must look a disgusting object. As for these curls . . .\"\n\nAnd laughingly he took off the disfiguring wig and curls, and stretched\nout his long limbs, which were cramped from many hours' stooping. Then\nhe bent forward and looked long and searchingly into his wife's blue\neyes.\n\n\"Percy,\" she whispered, while a deep blush suffused her delicate cheeks\nand neck, \"if you only knew . . .\"\n\n\"I do know, dear . . . everything,\" he said with infinite gentleness.\n\n\"And can you ever forgive?\"\n\n\"I have naught to forgive, sweetheart; your heroism, your devotion,\nwhich I, alas! so little deserved, have more than atoned for that\nunfortunate episode at the ball.\"\n\n\"Then you knew? . . .\" she whispered, \"all the time . . .\"\n\n\"Yes!\" he replied tenderly, \"I knew . . . all the time. . . . But,\nbegad! had I but known what a noble heart yours was, my Margot, I should\nhave trusted you, as you deserved to be trusted, and you would not have\nhad to undergo the terrible sufferings of the past few hours, in order\nto run after a husband, who has done so much that needs forgiveness.\"\n\nThey were sitting side by side, leaning up against a rock, and he had\nrested his aching head on her shoulder. She certainly now deserved the\nname of \"the happiest woman in Europe.\"\n\n\"It is a case of the blind leading the lame, sweetheart, is it not?\" he\nsaid with his good-natured smile of old. \"Odd's life! but I do not know\nwhich are the more sore, my shoulders or your little feet.\"\n\nHe bent forward to kiss them, for they peeped out through her torn\nstockings, and bore pathetic witness to her endurance and devotion.\n\n\"But Armand . . .\" she said with sudden terror and remorse, as in the\nmidst of her happiness the image of the beloved brother, for whose sake\nshe had so deeply sinned, rose now before her mind.\n\n\"Oh! have no fear for Armand, sweetheart,\" he said tenderly, \"did I not\npledge you my word that he should be safe? He with de Tournay and the\nothers are even now on board the DAY DREAM.\"\n\n\"But how?\" she gasped, \"I do not understand.\"\n\n\"Yet, 'tis simple enough, m'dear,\" he said with that funny, half-shy,\nhalf-inane laugh of his, \"you see! when I found that that brute\nChauvelin meant to stick to me like a leech, I thought the best thing I\ncould do, as I could not shake him off, was to take him along with me.\nI had to get to Armand and the others somehow, and all the roads were\npatrolled, and every one on the look-out for your humble servant. I knew\nthat when I slipped through Chauvelin's fingers at the 'Chat Gris,' that\nhe would lie in wait for me here, whichever way I took. I wanted to keep\nan eye on him and his doings, and a British head is as good as a French\none any day.\"\n\nIndeed it had proved to be infinitely better, and Marguerite's heart was\nfilled with joy and marvel, as he continued to recount to her the daring\nmanner in which he had snatched the fugitives away, right from under\nChauvelin's very nose.\n\n\"Dressed as the dirty old Jew,\" he said gaily, \"I knew I should not be\nrecognized. I had met Reuben Goldstein in Calais earlier in the evening.\nFor a few gold pieces he supplied me with this rig-out, and undertook to\nbury himself out of sight of everybody, whilst he lent me his cart and\nnag.\"\n\n\"But if Chauvelin had discovered you,\" she gasped excitedly, \"your\ndisguise was good . . . but he is so sharp.\"\n\n\"Odd's fish!\" he rejoined quietly, \"then certainly the game would have\nbeen up. I could but take the risk. I know human nature pretty well by\nnow,\" he added, with a note of sadness in his cheery, young voice, \"and\nI know these Frenchmen out and out. They so loathe a Jew, that they\nnever come nearer than a couple of yards of him, and begad! I fancy that\nI contrived to make myself look about as loathsome an object as it is\npossible to conceive.\"\n\n\"Yes!--and then?\" she asked eagerly.\n\n\"Zooks!--then I carried out my little plan: that is to say, at first\nI only determined to leave everything to chance, but when I heard\nChauvelin giving his orders to the soldiers, I thought that Fate and I\nwere going to work together after all. I reckoned on the blind obedience\nof the soldiers. Chauvelin had ordered them on pain of death not to\nstir until the tall Englishman came. Desgas had thrown me down in a heap\nquite close to the hut; the soldiers took no notice of the Jew, who had\ndriven Citoyen Chauvelin to this spot. I managed to free my hands from\nthe ropes, with which the brute had trussed me; I always carry pencil\nand paper with me wherever I go, and I hastily scrawled a few important\ninstructions on a scrap of paper; then I looked about me. I crawled up\nto the hut, under the very noses of the soldiers, who lay under cover\nwithout stirring, just as Chauvelin had ordered them to do, then I\ndropped my little note into the hut through a chink in the wall, and\nwaited. In this note I told the fugitives to walk noiselessly out of\nthe hut, creep down the cliffs, keep to the left until they came to the\nfirst creek, to give a certain signal, when the boat of the DAY DREAM,\nwhich lay in wait not far out to sea, would pick them up. They obeyed\nimplicitly, fortunately for them and for me. The soldiers who saw them\nwere equally obedient to Chauvelin's orders. They did not stir! I waited\nfor nearly half an hour; when I knew that the fugitives were safe I gave\nthe signal, which caused so much stir.\"\n\nAnd that was the whole story. It seemed so simple! and Marguerite could\nbut marvel at the wonderful ingenuity, the boundless pluck and audacity\nwhich had evolved and helped to carry out this daring plan.\n\n\"But those brutes struck you!\" she gasped in horror, at the bare\nrecollection of the fearful indignity.\n\n\"Well! that could not be helped,\" he said gently, \"whilst my little\nwife's fate was so uncertain, I had to remain here by her side. Odd's\nlife!\" he added merrily, \"never fear! Chauvelin will lose nothing by\nwaiting, I warrant! Wait till I get him back to England!--La! he shall\npay for the thrashing he gave me with compound interest, I promise you.\"\n\nMarguerite laughed. It was so good to be beside him, to hear his cheery\nvoice, to watch that good-humoured twinkle in his blue eyes, as he\nstretched out his strong arms, in longing for that foe, and anticipation\nof his well-deserved punishment.\n\nSuddenly, however, she started: the happy blush left her cheek, the\nlight of joy died out of her eyes: she had heard a stealthy footfall\noverhead, and a stone had rolled down from the top of the cliffs right\ndown to the beach below.\n\n\"What's that?\" she whispered in horror and alarm.\n\n\"Oh! nothing, m'dear,\" he muttered with a pleasant laugh, \"only a trifle\nyou happened to have forgotten . . . my friend, Ffoulkes . . .\"\n\n\"Sir Andrew!\" she gasped.\n\nIndeed, she had wholly forgotten the devoted friend and companion,\nwho had trusted and stood by her during all these hours of anxiety and\nsuffering. She remembered him now, tardily and with a pang of remorse.\n\n\"Aye! you had forgotten him, hadn't you, m'dear?\" said Sir Percy\nmerrily. \"Fortunately, I met him, not far from the 'Chat Gris.' before\nI had that interesting supper party, with my friend Chauvelin. . . .\nOdd's life! but I have a score to settle with that young reprobate!--but\nin the meanwhile, I told him of a very long, very circuitous road which\nChauvelin's men would never suspect, just about the time when we are\nready for him, eh, little woman?\"\n\n\"And he obeyed?\" asked Marguerite, in utter astonishment.\n\n\"Without word or question. See, here he comes. He was not in the way\nwhen I did not want him, and now he arrives in the nick of time. Ah!\nhe will make pretty little Suzanne a most admirable and methodical\nhusband.\"\n\nIn the meanwhile Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had cautiously worked his way down\nthe cliffs: he stopped once or twice, pausing to listen for whispered\nwords, which would guide him to Blakeney's hiding-place.\n\n\"Blakeney!\" he ventured to say at last cautiously, \"Blakeney! are you\nthere?\"\n\nThe next moment he rounded the rock against which Sir Percy and\nMarguerite were leaning, and seeing the weird figure still clad in the\nJew's long gaberdine, he paused in sudden, complete bewilderment.\n\nBut already Blakeney had struggled to his feet.\n\n\"Here I am, friend,\" he said with his funny, inane laugh, \"all alive!\nthough I do look a begad scarecrow in these demmed things.\"\n\n\"Zooks!\" ejaculated Sir Andrew in boundless astonishment as he\nrecognized his leader, \"of all the . . .\"\n\nThe young man had seen Marguerite, and happily checked the forcible\nlanguage that rose to his lips, at sight of the exquisite Sir Percy in\nthis weird and dirty garb.\n\n\"Yes!\" said Blakeney, calmly, \"of all the . . . hem! . . . My friend!--I\nhave not yet had time to ask you what you were doing in France, when\nI ordered you to remain in London? Insubordination? What? Wait till my\nshoulders are less sore, and, by God, see the punishment you'll get.\"\n\n\"Odd's fish! I'll bear it,\" said Sir Andrew with a merry laugh, \"seeing\nthat you are alive to give it. . . . Would you have had me allow Lady\nBlakeney to do the journey alone? But, in the name of heaven, man, where\ndid you get these extraordinary clothes?\"\n\n\"Lud! they are a bit quaint, ain't they?\" laughed Sir Percy, jovially,\n\"But, odd's fish!\" he added, with sudden earnestness and authority,\n\"now you are here, Ffoulkes, we must lose no more time: that brute\nChauvelin may send some one to look after us.\"\n\nMarguerite was so happy, she could have stayed here for ever, hearing\nhis voice, asking a hundred questions. But at mention of Chauvelin's\nname she started in quick alarm, afraid for the dear life she would have\ndied to save.\n\n\"But how can we get back?\" she gasped; \"the roads are full of soldiers\nbetween here and Calais, and . . .\"\n\n\"We are not going back to Calais, sweetheart,\" he said, \"but just the\nother side of Gris Nez, not half a league from here. The boat of the DAY\nDREAM will meet us there.\"\n\n\"The boat of the DAY DREAM?\"\n\n\"Yes!\" he said, with a merry laugh; \"another little trick of mine. I\nshould have told you before that when I slipped that note into the hut,\nI also added another for Armand, which I directed him to leave behind,\nand which has sent Chauvelin and his men running full tilt back to\nthe 'Chat Gris' after me; but the first little note contained my real\ninstructions, including those to old Briggs. He had my orders to go out\nfurther to sea, and then towards the west. When well out of sight of\nCalais, he will send the galley to a little creek he and I know of, just\nbeyond Gris Nez. The men will look out for me--we have a preconcerted\nsignal, and we will all be safely aboard, whilst Chauvelin and his\nmen solemnly sit and watch the creek which is 'just opposite the \"Chat\nGris.\"'\"\n\n\"The other side of Gris Nez? But I . . . I cannot walk, Percy,\" she\nmoaned helplessly as, trying to struggle to her tired feet, she found\nherself unable even to stand.\n\n\"I will carry you, dear,\" he said simply; \"the blind leading the lame,\nyou know.\"\n\nSir Andrew was ready, too, to help with the precious burden, but Sir\nPercy would not entrust his beloved to any arms but his own.\n\n\"When you and she are both safely on board the DAY DREAM,\" he said to\nhis young comrade, \"and I feel that Mlle. Suzanne's eyes will not greet\nme in England with reproachful looks, then it will be my turn to rest.\"\n\nAnd his arms, still vigorous in spite of fatigue and suffering, closed\nround Marguerite's poor, weary body, and lifted her as gently as if she\nhad been a feather.\n\nThen, as Sir Andrew discreetly kept out of earshot, there were many\nthings said, or rather whispered, which even the autumn breeze did not\ncatch, for it had gone to rest.\n\nAll his fatigue was forgotten; his shoulders must have been very sore,\nfor the soldiers had hit hard, but the man's muscles seemed made of\nsteel, and his energy was almost supernatural. It was a weary tramp,\nhalf a league along the stony side of the cliffs, but never for a moment\ndid his courage give way or his muscles yield to fatigue. On he tramped,\nwith firm footstep, his vigorous arms encircling the precious burden,\nand . . . no doubt, as she lay, quiet and happy, at times lulled to\nmomentary drowsiness, at others watching, through the slowly gathering\nmorning light, the pleasant face with the lazy, drooping blue eyes, ever\ncheerful, ever illumined with a good-humoured smile, she whispered many\nthings, which helped to shorten the weary road, and acted as a soothing\nbalsam to his aching sinews.\n\nThe many-hued light of dawn was breaking in the east, when at last they\nreached the creek beyond Gris Nez. The galley lay in wait: in answer to\na signal from Sir Percy, she drew near, and two sturdy British sailors\nhad the honour of carrying my lady into the boat.\n\nHalf an hour later, they were on board the DAY DREAM. The crew, who of\nnecessity were in their master's secrets, and who were devoted to\nhim heart and soul, were not surprised to see him arriving in so\nextraordinary a disguise.\n\nArmand St. Just and the other fugitives were eagerly awaiting the advent\nof their brave rescuer; he would not stay to hear the expressions of\ntheir gratitude, but found the way to his private cabin as quickly as he\ncould, leaving Marguerite quite happy in the arms of her brother.\n\nEverything on board the DAY DREAM was fitted with that exquisite luxury,\nso dear to Sir Percy Blakeney's heart, and by the time they all landed\nat Dover he had found time to get into some of the sumptuous clothes\nwhich he loved, and of which he always kept a supply on board his yacht.\n\nThe difficulty was to provide Marguerite with a pair of shoes, and great\nwas the little middy's joy when my lady found that she could put foot on\nEnglish shore in his best pair.\n\nThe rest is silence!--silence and joy for those who had endured so much\nsuffering, yet found at last a great and lasting happiness.\n\nBut it is on record that at the brilliant wedding of Sir Andrew\nFfoulkes, Bart., with Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay de Basserive, a function\nat which H. R. H. the Prince of Wales and all the ELITE of fashionable\nsociety were present, the most beautiful woman there was unquestionably\nLady Blakeney, whilst the clothes of Sir Percy Blakeney were the\ntalk of the JEUNESSE DOREE of London for many days.\n\nIt is also a fact that M. Chauvelin, the accredited agent of the French\nRepublican Government, was not present at that or any other social\nfunction in London, after that memorable evening at Lord Grenville's\nball."