The Scarlet Pimpernel
in her chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless
enemy ever present before her aching eyes.
When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It had
that woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much
of a ball-dress, the morning after.
Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the
chairs—turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes—seemed
like the seats of ghosts, in close conversation with one another. There
were sets of two chairs—very close to one another—in the far corners of
the room, which spoke of recent whispered flirtations, over cold
game-pie and champagne; there were sets of three and four chairs, that
recalled pleasant, animated discussions over the latest scandals; there
were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical,
acid, like antiquated dowagers; there were a few isolated, single
chairs, close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most
_recherché_ dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that spoke
volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville’s cellars.
It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable gathering
upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers
are given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and
colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered
coats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the
candles flickered sleepily in their sockets.
Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands together,
he looked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the last flunkey
had retired in order to join his friends in the hall below. All was
silence in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, the
hum of distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of an occasional coach
outside, only seemed to reach this palace of the Sleeping Beauty as the
murmur of some flitting spooks far away.
It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that the keenest
observer—a veritable prophet—could never have guessed that, at this
present moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laid
for the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those
stirring times had ever seen.
Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the immediate future. What
would this man be like, whom he and the leaders of a whole revolution
had sworn to bring to his death? Everything about him was weird and
mysterious; his personality, which he had so cunningly concealed, the
power he wielded over nineteen English gentlemen who seemed to obey his
every command blindly and enthusiastically, the passionate love and
submission he had roused in his little trained band, and, above all,
his marvellous audacity, the boundless impudence which had caused him
to beard his most implacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris.
No wonder that in France the _sobriquet_ of the mysterious Englishman
roused in the people a superstitious shudder. Chauvelin himself as he
gazed round the deserted room, where presently the weird hero would
appear, felt a strange feeling of awe creeping all down his spine.
But his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the Scarlet Pimpernel
had not been warned, and felt equally sure that Marguerite Blakeney had
not played him false. If she had . . . a cruel look, that would have
made her shudder, gleamed in Chauvelin’s keen, pale eyes. If she had
played him a trick, Armand St. Just would suffer the extreme penalty.
But no, no! of course she had not played him false!
Fortunately the supper-room was deserted: this would make Chauvelin’s
task all the easier, when presently that unsuspecting enigma would
enter it alone. No one was here now save Chauvelin himself.
Stay! as he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude of the room,
the cunning agent of the French Government became aware of the
peaceful, monotonous breathing of some one of my Lord Grenville’s
guests, who, no doubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was
enjoying a quiet sleep, away from the din of the dancing above.
Chauvelin looked round once more, and there in the corner of a sofa, in
the dark angle of the room, his mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweet
sounds of peaceful slumbers proceeding from his nostrils, reclined the
gorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman in
Europe.
Chauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid, unconscious, at peace
with all the world and himself, after the best of suppers, and a smile,
that was almost one of pity, softened for a moment the hard lines of
the Frenchman’s face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes.
Evidently the slumberer, deep in dreamless sleep, would not interfere
with Chauvelin’s trap for catching that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel.
Again he rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir
Percy Blakeney, he, too, stretched himself out in the corner of another
sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth sounds of peaceful
breathing, and . . . waited!
CHAPTER XV.
DOUBT
Marguerite Blakeney had watched the slight sable-clad figure of
Chauvelin, as he worked his way through the ball-room. Then perforce
she had had to wait, while her nerves tingled with excitement.
Listlessly she sat in the small, still deserted boudoir, looking out
through the curtained doorway on the dancing couples beyond: looking at
them, yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of naught
save a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting.
Her mind conjured up before her the vision of what was, perhaps at this
very moment, passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining-room, the
fateful hour—Chauvelin on the watch!—then, precise to the moment, the
entrance of a man, he, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious leader,
who to Marguerite had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird was
this hidden identity.
She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watching
him as he entered; she knew that her woman’s penetration would at once
recognise in the stranger’s face—whoever he might be—that strong
individuality which belongs to a leader of men—to a hero: to the
mighty, high-soaring eagle, whose daring wings were becoming entangled
in the ferret’s trap.
Woman-like, she thought of him with unmixed sadness; the irony of that
fate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to the
gnawing of a rat! Ah! had Armand’s life not been at stake! . . .
“Faith! your ladyship must have thought me very remiss,” said a voice
suddenly, close to her elbow. “I had a deal of difficulty in delivering
your message, for I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first . . .”
Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message to him;
his very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange and
unfamiliar to her, so completely had she in the last five minutes lived
her old life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always near her
to love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigues
which were forever raging in Paris in those days.
“I did find him at last,” continued Lord Fancourt, “and gave him your
message. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to be
put to.”
“Ah!” she said, still very absently, “you found my husband, and gave
him my message?”
“Yes; he was in the dining-room fast asleep. I could not manage to wake
him up at first.”
“Thank you very much,” she said mechanically, trying to collect her
thoughts.
“Will your ladyship honour me with the _contredanse_ until your coach
is ready?” asked Lord Fancourt.
“No, I thank you, my lord, but—and you will forgive me—I really am too
tired, and the heat in the ball-room has become oppressive.”
“The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take you there, and then
get you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blakeney.”
“I am only very tired,” she repeated wearily, as she allowed Lord
Fancourt to lead her, where subdued lights and green plants lent
coolness to the air. He got her a chair, into which she sank. This long
interval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and
tell her the result of his watch?
Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and
suddenly startled him by asking abruptly,—
“Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now
besides Sir Percy Blakeney?”
“Only the agent of the French Government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast
asleep in another corner,” he said. “Why does your ladyship ask?”
“I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?”
“It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. . . . I wonder
what your ladyship is thinking about,” he added, for evidently the fair
lady’s thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to
his intellectual conversation.
But indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only one storey below,
in this same house, in the dining-room where sat Chauvelin still on the
watch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before her
as a hope—the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir
Andrew, and that Chauvelin’s trap had failed to catch his bird; but
that hope soon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then—Armand!
Lord Fancourt had given up talking since he found that he had no
listener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away: for sitting
opposite to a lady, however fair, who is evidently not heeding the most
vigorous efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, even
to a Cabinet Minister.
“Shall I find out if your ladyship’s coach is ready,” he said at last,
tentatively.
“Oh, thank you . . . thank you . . . if you would be so kind . . . I
fear I am but sorry company . . . but I am really tired . . . and,
perhaps, would be best alone.”
She had been longing to be rid of him, for she hoped that, like the
fox he so resembled, Chauvelin would be prowling round, thinking to
find her alone.
But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not come. Oh! what had
happened? She felt Armand’s fate trembling in the balance . . . she
feared—now with a deadly fear—that Chauvelin _had_ failed, and that the
mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once more; then she
knew that she need hope for no pity, no mercy, from him.
He had pronounced his “Either—or—” and nothing less would content him:
he was very spiteful, and would affect the belief that she had wilfully
misled him, and having failed to trap the eagle once again, his
revengeful mind would be content with the humble prey—Armand!
Yet she had done her best; had strained every nerve for Armand’s sake.
She could not bear to think that all had failed. She could not sit
still; she wanted to go and hear the worst at once; she wondered even
that Chauvelin had not come yet, to vent his wrath and satire upon her.
Lord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that her coach was
ready, and that Sir Percy was already waiting for her—ribbons in hand.
Marguerite said “Farewell” to her distinguished host; many of her
friends stopped her, as she crossed the rooms, to talk to her, and
exchange pleasant _au revoirs_.
The Minister only took final leave of beautiful Lady Blakeney on the
top of the stairs; below, on the landing, a veritable army of gallant
gentlemen were waiting to bid “Good-bye” to the queen of beauty and
fashion, whilst outside, under the massive portico, Sir Percy’s
magnificent bays were impatiently pawing the ground.
At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final leave of her
host, she suddenly saw Chauvelin; he was coming up the stairs slowly,
and rubbing his thin hands very softly together.
There was a curious look on his mobile face, partly amused and wholly