The Scarlet Pimpernel
from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of his
more intimate friends.
In Lord Grenville’s box, too, a curious, interesting personality
attracted everyone’s attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd,
sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenly
critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair
free from any powder. Lord Grenville—Foreign Secretary of State—paid
him marked, though frigid deference.
Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty,
one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the haughty
aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist _émigrés_
who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their
country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrow
and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed,
either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their
thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in
peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.
Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived
from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy
black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of
mourning about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was
vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a
smile to the Comtesse’s sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and
the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers.
Suzanne’s eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded
house, she had looked eagerly all around, scanned every face,
scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was not
there, for she settled herself down quietly behind her mother, listened
apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the
audience itself.
“Ah, Lord Grenville,” said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet
knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared
in the doorway of the box, “you could not arrive more _à propos_. Here
is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest
news from France.”
The distinguished diplomatist had come forward and was shaking hands
with the ladies.
“Alas!” he said sadly, “it is of the very worst. The massacres
continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a
hundred victims a day.”
Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening
horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her
own misguided country.
“Ah, Monsieur!” she said in broken English, “it is dreadful to hear all
that—and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is terrible
for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst
he is in such peril.”
“Lud, Madame!” said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, “your sitting in a
convent won’t make your husband safe, and you have your children to
consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature
mourning.”
The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend.
Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a
jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and most
gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some
ladies at that time.
“Besides which, Madame,” added Lord Grenville, “did you not tell me
yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their
honour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?”
“Ah, yes!” replied the Comtesse, “and that is my only hope. I saw Lord
Hastings yesterday . . . he reassured me again.”
“Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, that
they surely will accomplish. Ah!” added the old diplomatist with a
sigh, “if I were but a few years younger . . .”
“La, man!” interrupted honest Lady Portarles, “you are still young
enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits enthroned
in your box to-night.”
“I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remember that in serving
our country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the
accredited agent of his Government . . .”
“Odd’s fish, man!” she retorted, “you don’t call those bloodthirsty
ruffians over there a government, do you?”
“It has not been thought advisable as yet,” said the Minister,
guardedly, “for England to break off diplomatic relations with France,
and we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she
wishes to send to us.”
“Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox over
there is nothing but a spy, I’ll warrant, and you’ll find—an I’m much
mistaken, that he’ll concern himself little with diplomacy, beyond
trying to do mischief to royalist refugees—to our heroic Scarlet
Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little league.”
“I am sure,” said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips, “that if this
Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in
Lady Blakeney.”
“Bless the woman!” ejaculated Lady Portarles, “did ever anyone see such
perversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of the gab, will you
please explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In
your position here in England, Madame,” she added, turning a wrathful
and resolute face towards the Comtesse, “you cannot afford to put on
the hoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady
Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those ruffians in France;
she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and
condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man’s name is, but she is the
leader of fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money
than any half-dozen other men put together, he is hand and glove with
royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but
will make you look a fool. Isn’t that so, my lord?”
But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflections
this homely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de Tournay,
remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the third act of
_Orpheus_, and admonishments to silence came from every part of the
house.
Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back
into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat all through this _entr’acte_,
with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes
intently fixed upon a box opposite to him, where, with much frou-frou
of silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity amongst
the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered, accompanied by her
husband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden,
reddish curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at the
nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed in
the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladies
that night had discarded the cross-over fichu and broad-lapelled
over-dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or three years.
She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown, which so soon was to
become the approved mode in every country in Europe. It suited her
graceful, regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering
stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.
As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking stock of
all those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she did so, and
from the royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute.
Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the
third act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little
hand toying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms
and neck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, the gift of
the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely by her side.
Marguerite was passionately fond of music. _Orpheus_ charmed her
to-night. The very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet young
face, it sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that
lurked around the lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the
heyday of youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, _fêted_,
petted, cherished. Two days ago the _Day Dream_ had returned from
Calais, bringing her news that her idolised brother had safely landed,
that he thought of her, and would be prudent for her sake.
What wonder for the moment, and listening to Glück’s impassioned
strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished
love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had made
up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly
advantages upon her.
He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention
demanded, making way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of
admirers who in a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen
of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial
friends probably. Marguerite did not even wonder whither he had
gone—she cared so little; she had had a little court round her,
composed of the _jeunesse dorée_ of London, and had just dismissed them
all, wishing to be alone with Glück for a brief while.
A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.
“Come in,” she said with some impatience, without turning to look at
the intruder.
Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, and
now, without pausing for that impatient “Come in,” he quietly slipped
into the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite’s
chair.
“A word with you, citoyenne,” he said quietly.
Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether feigned.
“Lud, man! you frightened me,” she said with a forced little laugh,
“your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Glück, and
have no mind for talking.”
“But this is my only opportunity,” he said, as quietly, and without
waiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her—so close that
he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the audience, and
without being seen, in the dark background of the box. “This is my only
opportunity,” he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no reply, “Lady
Blakeney is always so surrounded, so _fêted_ by her court, that a mere
old friend has but very little chance.”
“Faith, man!” she said impatiently, “you must seek for another
opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville’s ball to-night after
the opera. So are you, probably. I’ll give you five minutes then. . .
.”
“Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me,”
he rejoined placidly, “and I think that you would be wise to listen to
me, Citoyenne St. Just.”
Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice
above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there
was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes,
which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of
some deadly hitherto unguessed peril.
“Is that a threat, citoyen?” she asked at last.
“Nay, fair lady,” he said gallantly, “only an arrow shot into the air.”
He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly
by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of
mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly—
“Your brother, St. Just, is in peril.”
Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see
it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently,
but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of
the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed
tension of the beautiful, graceful figure.
“Lud, then,” she said, with affected merriment, “since ’tis one of your