The Scarlet Pimpernel
“I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just’s life is forfeit to
his country . . . it rests with you to redeem it.”
“I may be powerless to help you,” she pleaded, “were I ever so
willing.”
“That would be terrible indeed,” he said quietly, “for you . . . and
for St. Just.”
Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no
mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved life in the hollow of his
hand. She knew him too well not to know that, if he failed in gaining
his own ends, he would be pitiless.
She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of the opera-house. The
heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from a
distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders,
and sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream.
For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who was in
danger, to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and
her affection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand’s sake; she
longed to seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to
help and console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once; he was her
husband; why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He
had very little brains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle:
surely, if she provided the thought, and he the manly energy and pluck,
together they could outwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage
from his vengeful hands, without imperilling the life of the noble
leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just
well—he seemed attached to him—she was sure that he could help.
Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his cruel
“Either—or—” and left her to decide. He, in his turn now, appeared to
be absorbed in the soul-stirring melodies of _Orpheus_, and was beating
time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.
A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It was
Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing that
half-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her every
nerve.
“Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m’dear,” he said, with his most
exasperating drawl, “I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball.
. . . Excuse me—er—Monsieur Chauvelin—I had not observed you. . . .”
He extended two slender, white fingers towards Chauvelin, who had risen
when Sir Percy entered the box.
“Are you coming, m’dear?”
“Hush! Sh! Sh!” came in angry remonstrance from different parts of the
house.
“Demmed impudence,” commented Sir Percy with a good-natured smile.
Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to have
vanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without looking at
her husband:
“I am ready to go,” she said, taking his arm. At the door of the box
she turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his
_chapeau-bras_ under his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips,
was preparing to follow the strangely ill-assorted couple.
“It is only _au revoir_, Chauvelin,” she said pleasantly, “we shall
meet at my Lord Grenville’s ball, anon.”
And in her eyes the astute Frenchman read, no doubt, something which
caused him profound satisfaction, for, with a sarcastic smile, he took
a delicate pinch of snuff, then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot,
he rubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together.
CHAPTER XI.
LORD GRENVILLE’S BALL
The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs—Lord Grenville—was the most brilliant function of the year.
Though the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who was anybody
had contrived to be in London in time to be present there, and to shine
at this ball, to the best of his or her respective ability.
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present. He
was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville himself had
listened to the two first acts of _Orpheus_, before preparing to
receive his guests. At ten o’clock—an unusually late hour in those
days—the grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely decorated with
exotic palms and flowers, were filled to overflowing. One room had been
set apart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft
accompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the numerous
and brilliant company.
In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, the
distinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished
men, beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had
already filed past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies
with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then,
laughing and talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card
rooms beyond.
Not far from Lord Grenville’s elbow, leaning against one of the console
tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking a
quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady
Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes glanced quickly
towards the door every time a newcomer appeared.
He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary Government
of France was not likely to be very popular in England, at a time when
the news of the awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror
and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the Channel.
In his official capacity he had been received courteously by his
English colleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord Grenville
had entertained him more than once; but the more intimate circles of
London society ignored him altogether; the women openly turned their
backs upon him; the men who held no official position refused to shake
his hand.
But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these social
amenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. He
was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised all
social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country:
these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs he
received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England.
But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believed
that the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France; he
would have wished to see every one of them annihilated: he was one of
those who, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to
utter the historic and ferocious desire “that aristocrats might have
but one head between them, so that it might be cut off with a single
stroke of the guillotine.” And thus he looked upon every French
aristocrat, who had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey
of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no
doubt that those royalist _émigrés_, once they had managed to cross the
frontier, did their very best to stir up foreign indignation against
France. Plots without end were hatched in England, in Belgium, in
Holland, to try and induce some great power to send troops into
revolutionary Paris, to free King Louis, and to summarily hang the
bloodthirsty leaders of that monster republic.
Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality
of the Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He
and the few young jackanapes under his command, well furnished with
money, armed with boundless daring, and acute cunning, had succeeded in
rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the
_émigrés_, who were _fêted_ at the English court, owed their safety to
that man and to his league.
Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would discover
the identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over to France,
and then . . . Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the very
thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the knife of the
guillotine, as easily as that of any other man.
Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, all
conversation stopped for a moment as the major-domo’s voice outside
announced,—
“His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney,
Lady Blakeney.”
Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest.
The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of
salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with
Marguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous
shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant “Incroyable” style, his
fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and
the flat _chapeau-bras_ under his arm.
After the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord
Grenville said to his royal guest,—
“Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the accredited
agent of the French Government?”
Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped forward,
expecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the Prince
returned his salute with a curt nod of the head.
“Monsieur,” said His Royal Highness coldly, “we will try to forget the
government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest—a
private gentleman from France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur.”
“Monseigneur,” rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. “Madame,” he
added, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite.
“Ah! my little Chauvelin!” she said with unconcerned gaiety, and
extending her tiny hand to him. “Monsieur and I are old friends, your
Royal Highness.”
“Ah, then,” said the Prince, this time very graciously, “you are doubly
welcome, Monsieur.”
“There is someone else I would crave permission to present to your
Royal Highness,” here interposed Lord Grenville.
“Ah! who is it?” asked the Prince.
“Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family, who have
but recently come from France.”
“By all means!—They are among the lucky ones then!”
Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at the further
end of the room.
“Lud love me!” whispered His Royal Highness to Marguerite, as soon as
he had caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; “Lud love me!
she looks very virtuous and very melancholy.”
“Faith, your Royal Highness,” she rejoined with a smile, “virtue is
like precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed.”
“Virtue, alas!” sighed the Prince, “is mostly unbecoming to your
charming sex, Madame.”
“Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Grenville,
introducing the lady.
“This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is ever glad
to welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from her
shores.”
“Your Royal Highness is ever gracious,” replied the Comtesse with
becoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by
her side: “My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur,” she said.
“Ah! charming!—charming!” said the Prince, “and now allow me, Comtesse,
to introduce to you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship.
You and she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every
compatriot of Lady Blakeney’s is doubly welcome for her sake . . . her
friends are our friends . . . her enemies, the enemies of England.”
Marguerite’s blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at this gracious
speech from her exalted friend. The Comtesse de Tournay, who lately had
so flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson, at
which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Comtesse, for whom
respect of royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well-schooled
in courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, as
the two ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another.
“His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame,” said Marguerite,
demurely, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling blue eyes,