The Scarlet Pimpernel
imaginary plots, you’d best go back to your own seat and leave me to
enjoy the music.”
And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion
of the box. Selina Storace was singing the “Che farò” to an audience
that hung spellbound upon the prima donna’s lips. Chauvelin did not
move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only
indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.
“Well?” she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned
unconcern.
“Well, citoyenne?” he rejoined placidly.
“About my brother?”
“I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but
first let me explain. . . . May I?”
The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her
head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to
hear what he had to say.
“The other day, citoyenne,” he said, “I asked for your help. . . .
France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me
your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and your
own social duties have kept us apart . . . although many things have
happened. . . .”
“To the point, I pray you, citoyen,” she said lightly; “the music is
entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk.”
“One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meeting
you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I
obtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of those
subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats—that
traitor de Tournay amongst others—all organised by that arch-meddler,
the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious
organisation have fallen into my hands, but not all, and I want
you—nay! you _must_ help me to gather them together.”
Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she
now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily—
“Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your
schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my
brother . . .”
“A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,” he continued imperturbably.
“Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at
‘The Fisherman’s Rest’ at Dover that same night.”
“I know. I saw them there.”
“They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed
league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay
and her children across the Channel. When the two young men were alone,
my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and
pinioned the two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to
me.”
In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand been
imprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless terror.
Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily
and lightly.
“Faith! and your impudence passes belief,” she said merrily. “Robbery
and violence!—in England!—in a crowded inn! Your men might have been
caught in the act!”
“What if they had? They are children of France, and have been trained
by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to
jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or
indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is
safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have
experience.”
“Well? And those papers?” she asked carelessly.
“Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of certain names .
. . certain movements . . . enough, I think, to thwart their projected
_coup_ for the moment, it would only be for the moment, and still
leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“La! my friend,” she said, with the same assumed flippancy of manner,
“then you are where you were before, aren’t you? and you can let me
enjoy the last strophe of the _aria_. Faith!” she added, ostentatiously
smothering an imaginary yawn, “had you not spoken about my brother . .
.”
“I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter
to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just.”
“Well? And?”
“That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of
France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.”
The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been
expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem
unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be
prepared for it, to have all her wits about her—those wits which had
been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She
knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too
blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of
his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low,
purposeless falsehoods.
That letter of Armand’s—foolish, imprudent Armand—was in Chauvelin’s
hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own
eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own,
until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand.
All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more
loudly than she had done before.
“La, man!” she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full
and squarely in the face, “did I not say it was some imaginary plot. .
. . Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel! . . .
Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises! . . .
Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination!”
“Let me make my point clear, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, with the same
unruffled calm, “I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyond
the slightest hope of pardon.”
Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite
sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face
the situation, to realise what had best be done.
In the house Storace had finished the _aria_, and was even now bowing
in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the
enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.
“Chauvelin,” said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without
that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all along,
“Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another. It seems
that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Now,
tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity of the Scarlet
Pimpernel, isn’t that so?”
“France’s most bitter enemy, citoyenne . . . all the more dangerous, as
he works in the dark.”
“All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!—and you would now force me
to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand’s
safety?—Is that it?”
“Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady,” protested Chauvelin, urbanely.
“There can be no question of force, and the service which I would ask
of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking
name of spying.”
“At any rate, that is what it is called over here,” she said drily.
“That is your intention, is it not?”
“My intention is, that you yourself win a free pardon for Armand St.
Just by doing me a small service.”
“What is it?”
“Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just,” he said eagerly.
“Listen: among the papers which were found about the person of Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!” he added, taking a tiny
scrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.
It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two young men
had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they were
attacked by Chauvelin’s minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and
stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a distorted,
evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud—
“‘Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly necessary. You
have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be at G.’s ball.’”
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand.”
“There is a device here in the corner, a small red flower . . .”
“Yes.”
“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said eagerly, “and G.’s ball means
Grenville’s ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville’s ball
to-night.”
“That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,” concluded Chauvelin,
blandly. “Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were
pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a
lonely house on the Dover Road, which I had rented for the purpose:
there they remained close prisoners until this morning. But having
found this tiny scrap of paper, my intention was that they should be in
London, in time to attend my Lord Grenville’s ball. You see, do you
not? that they must have a great deal to say to their chief . . . and
thus they will have an opportunity of speaking to him to-night, just as
he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning, those two young
gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the
Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good horses standing
ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not seen them yet, but I
think we may safely conclude that they did not draw rein until they
reached London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne!”
“It does seem simple, doesn’t it?” she said, with a final bitter
attempt at flippancy, “when you want to kill a chicken . . . you take
hold of it . . . then you wring its neck . . . it’s only the chicken
who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my
throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find it simple. . . .
I don’t.”
“Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love
from the consequences of his own folly.”
Marguerite’s face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as she
murmured, half to herself:
“The only being in the world who has loved me truly and constantly. . .
. But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin?” she said, with a world of
despair in her tear-choked voice. “In my present position, it is
well-nigh impossible!”
“Nay, citoyenne,” he said drily and relentlessly, not heeding that
despairing, childlike appeal, which might have melted a heart of stone,
“as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your help to-night I
may—who knows?—succeed in finally establishing the identity of the
Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to the ball anon. . . . Watch
for me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you
hear a chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutely
beyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville’s
ball to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word of France
that your brother shall be safe.”
Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite felt herself
entangled in one of those webs, from which she could hope for no
escape. A precious hostage was being held for her obedience: for she
knew that this man would never make an empty threat. No doubt Armand
was already signalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the
“suspect”; he would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be
ruthlessly struck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a
moment—woman-like—she still hoped to temporise. She held out her hand
to this man, whom she now feared and hated.
“If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin,” she said
pleasantly, “will you give me that letter of St. Just’s?”
“If you render me useful assistance to-night, citoyenne,” he replied
with a sarcastic smile, “I will give you that letter . . . to-morrow.”
“You do not trust me?”