The Scarlet Pimpernel
“I pray you, Madame,” he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as
hers, “in what way can I serve you?”
“Percy!—Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his . . . rash,
impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly
compromised . . . to-morrow, perhaps he will be arrested . . . after
that the guillotine . . . unless . . . unless . . . oh! it is
horrible!” . . . she said, with a sudden wail of anguish, as all the
events of the past night came rushing back to her mind, “horrible! . .
. and you do not understand . . . you cannot . . . and I have no one to
whom I can turn . . . for help . . . or even for sympathy. . . .”
Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the
awful uncertainty of Armand’s fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready
to fall, and leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her face
in her hands and sobbed bitterly.
At first mention of Armand St. Just’s name and of the peril in which he
stood, Sir Percy’s face had become a shade more pale; and the look of
determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his
eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her
delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously
his face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten
in his eyes.
“And so,” he said with bitter sarcasm, “the murderous dog of the
revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad,
Madame,” he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob
hysterically, “will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see
a pretty woman cry, and I . . .”
Instinctively, with sudden, overmastering passion, at sight of her
helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next,
would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil
with his very life, his very heart’s blood. . . . But pride had the
better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a
tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,—
“Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have
the honour to serve you?”
She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her
tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he
kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite’s fingers,
this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was
absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand
trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold
as marble.
“Can you do aught for Armand?” she said sweetly and simply. “You have
so much influence at court . . . so many friends . . .”
“Nay, Madame, should you not rather seek the influence of your French
friend, M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the
Republican Government of France.”
“I cannot ask him, Percy. . . . Oh! I wish I dared to tell you . . .
but . . . but . . . he has put a price on my brother’s head, which . .
.”
She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell
him everything . . . all she had done that night—how she had suffered
and how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that
impulse . . . not now, when she was just beginning to feel that he
still loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared
not make another confession to him. After all, he might not understand;
he might not sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love
still dormant might sleep the sleep of death.
Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was
one of intense longing—a veritable prayer for that confidence, which
her foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he
sighed, and said with marked coldness—
“Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of it. . . .
As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he
shall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting
late, and . . .”
“You will at least accept my gratitude?” she said, as she drew quite
close to him, and speaking with real tenderness.
With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then in
his arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kiss
away; but she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside
like an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a caprice,
and he was too proud to lend himself to it once again.
“It is too soon, Madame!” he said quietly; “I have done nothing as yet.
The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waiting
for you upstairs.”
He stood aside to allow her to pass. She sighed, a quick sigh of
disappointment. His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict,
and his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps, after all, she had
been deceived just now; what she took to be the light of love in his
eyes might only have been the passion of pride or, who knows, of hatred
instead of love. She stood looking at him for a moment or two longer.
He was again as rigid, as impassive, as before. Pride had conquered,
and he cared naught for her. The grey of dawn was gradually yielding to
the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds began to twitter; Nature
awakened, smiling in happy response to the warmth of this glorious
October morning. Only between these two hearts there lay a strong,
impassable barrier, built up of pride on both sides, which neither of
them cared to be the first to demolish.
He had bent his tall figure in a low ceremonious bow, as she finally,
with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold-embroidered gown swept the dead leaves off
the steps, making a faint harmonious sh—sh—sh as she glided up, with
one hand resting on the balustrade, the rosy light of dawn making an
aureole of gold round her hair, and causing the rubies on her head and
arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors which led into the
house. Before entering, she paused once again to look at him, hoping
against hope to see his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his
voice calling her back. But he had not moved; his massive figure looked
the very personification of unbending pride, of fierce obstinacy.
Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she would not let him see
them, she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her
own rooms.
Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the
rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own
sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed
with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last,
obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly,
blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had
died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and
in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where
her small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her
tiny hand had rested last.
CHAPTER XVII.
FAREWELL
When Marguerite reached her room, she found her maid terribly anxious
about her.
“Your ladyship will be so tired,” said the poor woman, whose own eyes
were half closed with sleep. “It is past five o’clock.”
“Ah, yes, Louise, I daresay I shall be tired presently,” said
Marguerite, kindly; “but you are very tired now, so go to bed at once.
I’ll get into bed alone.”
“But, my lady . . .”
“Now, don’t argue, Louise, but go to bed. Give me a wrap, and leave me
alone.”
Louise was only too glad to obey. She took off her mistress’s gorgeous
ball-dress, and wrapped her up in a soft billowy gown.
“Does your ladyship wish for anything else?” she asked, when that was
done.
“No, nothing more. Put out the lights as you go out.”
“Yes, my lady. Good-night, my lady.”
“Good-night, Louise.”
When the maid was gone, Marguerite drew aside the curtains and threw
open the windows. The garden and the river beyond were flooded with
rosy light. Far away to the east, the rays of the rising sun had
changed the rose into vivid gold. The lawn was deserted now, and
Marguerite looked down upon the terrace where she had stood a few
moments ago trying vainly to win back a man’s love, which once had been
so wholly hers.
It was strange that through all her troubles, all her anxiety for
Armand, she was mostly conscious at the present moment of a keen and
bitter heartache.
Her very limbs seemed to ache with longing for the love of a man who
had spurned her, who had resisted her tenderness, remained cold to her
appeals, and had not responded to the glow of passion, which had caused
her to feel and hope that those happy olden days in Paris were not all
dead and forgotten.
How strange it all was! She loved him still. And now that she looked
back upon the last few months of misunderstandings and of loneliness,
she realised that she had never ceased to love him; that deep down in
her heart she had always vaguely felt that his foolish inanities, his
empty laugh, his lazy nonchalance were nothing but a mask; that the
real man, strong, passionate, wilful, was there still—the man she had
loved, whose intensity had fascinated her, whose personality attracted
her, since she always felt that behind his apparently slow wits there
was a certain something, which he kept hidden from all the world, and
most especially from her.
A woman’s heart is such a complex problem—the owner thereof is often
most incompetent to find the solution of this puzzle.
Did Marguerite Blakeney, “the cleverest woman in Europe,” really love a
fool? Was it love that she had felt for him a year ago when she married
him? Was it love she felt for him now that she realised that he still
loved her, but that he would not become her slave, her passionate,
ardent lover once again? Nay! Marguerite herself could not have told
that. Not at this moment at any rate; perhaps her pride had sealed her
mind against a better understanding of her own heart. But this she did
know—that she meant to capture that obstinate heart back again. That
she would conquer once more . . . and then, that she would never lose
him . . . . She would keep him, keep his love, deserve it, and cherish
it; for this much was certain, that there was no longer any happiness
possible for her without that one man’s love.
Thus the most contradictory thoughts and emotions rushed madly through
her mind. Absorbed in them, she had allowed time to slip by; perhaps,
tired out with long excitement, she had actually closed her eyes and
sunk into a troubled sleep, wherein quickly fleeting dreams seemed but
the continuation of her anxious thoughts—when suddenly she was roused,
from dream or meditation, by the noise of footsteps outside her door.
Nervously she jumped up and listened; the house itself was as still as
ever; the footsteps had retreated. Through her wide-open windows the
brilliant rays of the morning sun were flooding her room with light.
She looked up at the clock; it was half-past six—too early for any of
the household to be already astir.
She certainly must have dropped asleep, quite unconsciously. The noise
of the footsteps, also of hushed, subdued voices had awakened her—what
could they be?
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the room and opened the door to listen;
not a sound—that peculiar stillness of the early morning when sleep
with all mankind is at its heaviest. But the noise had made her
nervous, and when, suddenly, at her feet, on the very doorstep, she saw
something white lying there—a letter evidently—she hardly dared touch
it. It seemed so ghostlike. It certainly was not there when she came