The Scarlet Pimpernel
Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between the moment when Lord
Hastings slipped the mysterious “something” into Sir Andrew’s hand, and
the one when she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir Andrew
was standing with his back to her and close to a table upon which stood
a massive silver candelabra. A slip of paper was in his hand, and he
was in the very act of perusing its contents.
Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the slightest sound upon
the heavy carpet, not daring to breathe until she had accomplished her
purpose, Marguerite slipped close behind him. . . . At that moment he
looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan, passed her hand across
her forehead, and murmured faintly,—
“The heat in the room was terrible . . . I felt so faint. . . . Ah! . .
.”
She tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir Andrew, quickly
recovering himself, and crumpling in his hand the tiny note he had been
reading, was only, apparently, just in time to support her.
“You are ill, Lady Blakeney?” he asked with much concern. “Let me . .
.”
“No, no, nothing—” she interrupted quickly. “A chair—quick.”
She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing back her head,
closed her eyes.
“There!” she murmured, still faintly; “the giddiness is passing off. .
. . Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I assure you I already feel better.”
At moments like these there is no doubt—and psychologists actually
assert it—that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing to
do with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not that we hear
or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there
with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was immediately behind her,
and on her right was the table with the five-armed candelabra upon it.
Before her mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand’s
face. Armand, whose life was in the most imminent danger, and who
seemed to be looking at her from a background upon which were dimly
painted the seething crowd of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of
Public Safety, with Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor,
demanding Armand’s life in the name of the people of France, and the
lurid guillotine with its stained knife waiting for another victim . .
. Armand! . . .
For one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir. Beyond,
from the brilliant ball-room, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the
frou-frou of rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry
crowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the drama which was
being enacted here.
Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that that extra
sense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not see, for her
eyes were closed; she could not hear, for the noise from the ball-room
drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of paper; nevertheless
she knew—as if she had both seen and heard—that Sir Andrew was even
now holding the paper to the flame of one of the candles.
At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened her eyes,
raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the burning
scrap of paper from the young man’s hand. Then she blew out the flame,
and held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.
“How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew,” she said gaily, “surely ’twas your
grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a
sovereign remedy against giddiness.”
She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly between her
jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save her brother
Armand’s life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed for the moment
to realise what had actually happened; he had been taken so completely
by surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp the fact that the
slip of paper, which she held in her dainty hand, was one perhaps on
which the life of his comrade might depend.
Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.
“Why do you stare at me like that?” she said playfully. “I assure you I
feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual. This room is
most delightfully cool,” she added, with the same perfect composure,
“and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is fascinating and
soothing.”
She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way, whilst
Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the
quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that
beautiful woman’s hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts
rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her nationality, and
worst of all, recollected that horrible tale anent the Marquis de St.
Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the sake of Sir Percy,
as well as for her own.
“What? Still dreaming and staring?” she said, with a merry laugh, “you
are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of it, you
seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do
believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet a
remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny
scrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love’s last
cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!” she added,
playfully holding up the scrap of paper, “does this contain her final
_congé_, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?”
“Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, who was gradually
recovering his self-possession, “this little note is undoubtedly mine,
and . . .”
Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled ill-bred
towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the note; but
Marguerite’s thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions, under
pressure of this intense excitement, were swifter and more sure. She
was tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked over
the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which fell
down with a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.
She gave a quick cry of alarm:
“The candles, Sir Andrew—quick!”
There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had blown out
as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease upon the
valuable carpet; one had ignited the paper shade over it. Sir Andrew
quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the candelabra
upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do, and those
seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at
the paper, and to note its contents—a dozen words in the same distorted
handwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same device—a
star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.
When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw on her face alarm
at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue; whilst the tiny
and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly the
young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved, as his
fingers closed tightly over it.
“For shame, Sir Andrew,” she said, shaking her head with a playful
sigh, “making havoc in the heart of some impressionable duchess, whilst
conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well! I do
believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened the
entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make
me drop love’s message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet
eyes. To think that, a moment longer, and I might have known the
secrets of an erring duchess.”
“You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney,” said Sir Andrew, now as calm as
she was herself, “if I resume the interesting occupation which you had
interrupted?”
“By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the love-god
again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement against my
presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!”
Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill, and was
once again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had remained
alight. He did not notice the strange smile on the face of his fair
_vis-à-vis_, so intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps, had
he done so, the look of relief would have faded from his face. He
watched the fateful note, as it curled under the flame. Soon the last
fragment fell on the floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes.
“And now, Sir Andrew,” said Marguerite Blakeney, with the pretty
nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of smiles,
“will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking me
to dance the minuet?”
CHAPTER XIII.
EITHER—OR?
The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the
half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate.
“Start myself to-morrow. . . .” This she had read quite distinctly;
then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated
the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another
sentence, which was now standing clearly and distinctly, like letters
of fire, before her mental vision. “If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be in the supper-room at one o’clock precisely.” The whole was
signed with the hastily-scrawled little device—a tiny star-shaped
flower, which had become so familiar to her.
One o’clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last minuet
was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney
leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate figures.
Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock upon its
ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours
more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In two hours she
must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly
gained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she
will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his
fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It
seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too,
was noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved
her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when
she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her
brother’s kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be
looking reproachfully at her. “You might have saved me, Margot!” he
seemed to say to her, “and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you
do not know, whom you have never seen, and preferred that he should be
safe, whilst you sent me to the guillotine!”
All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite’s brain, while,
with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mazes of
the minuet. She noted—with that acute sense of hers—that she had
succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew’s fears. Her self-control
had been absolutely perfect—she was a finer actress at this moment, and
throughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the
boards of the Comédie Française; but then, a beloved brother’s life had
not depended upon her histrionic powers.
She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further allusions to
the supposed _billet doux_, which had caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such
an agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under
her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever doubt may have
crossed his mind at the moment, she had, by the time the last bars of
the minuet had been played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he
never realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what effort it
cost her to keep up a constant ripple of _banal_ conversation.
When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her into the
next room.
“I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal Highness,” she