The Scarlet Pimpernel
valet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to go
inside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants had,
of course, not dared to break this hard-and-fast rule.
Marguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she had
recently adopted towards her husband, chaffed him about this secrecy
which surrounded his private study. Laughingly she had always declared
that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear
they should detect how very little “study” went on within its four
walls: a comfortable arm-chair for Sir Percy’s sweet slumbers was, no
doubt, its most conspicuous piece of furniture.
Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as she
glanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master’s
rooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst the
others.
A sudden, burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at Sir
Percy’s sanctum. The restriction, of course, did not apply to her, and
Frank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that
the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might have
that one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.
Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue Beard’s
wife, trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on
the threshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.
The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed it
open tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently not there,
and she walked boldly in.
At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything around
her: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one or
two maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about
town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, that
was the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.
There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everything
was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a
cupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and
through the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.
Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood a
ponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much
service. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from
floor to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman,
magnificently framed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of
Boucher. It was Percy’s mother.
Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad,
ailing in body as well as in mind, when Percy was still a lad. She must
have been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and as
Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by the
extraordinary resemblance which must have existed between mother and
son. There was the same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fair
hair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set, somewhat lazy blue eyes
beneath firmly marked, straight brows; and in those eyes there was the
same intensity behind that apparent laziness, the same latent passion
which used to light up Percy’s face in the olden days before his
marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted, last night at dawn,
when she had come quite close to him, and had allowed a note of
tenderness to creep into her voice.
Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her: after that she
turned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a
mass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like
accounts and receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before
struck Marguerite—nor had she, alas! found it worth while to inquire—as
to how Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of
brains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him.
Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she had been taken so
much by surprise, that this obvious proof of her husband’s strong
business capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought of
wonder. But it also strengthened her in the now certain knowledge that,
with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and foolish talk, he was
not only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and studied part.
Marguerite wondered again. Why should he take all this trouble? Why
should he—who was obviously a serious, earnest man—wish to appear
before his fellow-men as an empty-headed nincompoop?
He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt
. . . but surely such an object could have been gained at less
sacrifice, and with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of
an unnatural part.
She looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was horribly puzzled, and
a nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, had
begun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly in
this severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, save the
fine Boucher portrait, only a couple of maps, both of parts of France,
one of the North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. What did
Sir Percy want with those, she wondered.
Her head began to ache, she turned away from this strange Blue Beard’s
chamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. She
did not wish Frank to find her here, and with a last look round, she
once more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot knocked against a
small object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk, on the
carpet, and which now went rolling, right across the room.
She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat
shield, on which was engraved a small device.
Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the
engraving on the shield. It represented a small star-shaped flower, of
a shape she had seen so distinctly twice before: once at the opera, and
once at Lord Grenville’s ball.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL
At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept into
Marguerite’s mind, she could not herself afterwards have said. With the
ring tightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down
the stairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion,
alone with the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could look
again at the ring, and study that device more closely.
Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging
sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield, with the
star-shaped little flower engraved upon it.
Bah! It was ridiculous! she was dreaming! her nerves were overwrought,
and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had
not everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device
of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpernel?
Did she not herself wear it embroidered on her gowns? set in gems and
enamel in her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy
should have chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily
have done that . . . yes . . . quite easily . . . and . . . besides . .
. what connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a
husband, with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring
plotter who rescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the
leaders of a bloodthirsty revolution?
Her thoughts were in a whirl—her mind a blank . . . She did not see
anything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when a
fresh young voice called to her across the garden.
“_Chérie!—chérie!_ where are you?” and little Suzanne, fresh as a
rosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and brown curls fluttering in the
soft morning breeze, came running across the lawn.
“They told me you were in the garden,” she went on prattling merrily,
and throwing herself with pretty, girlish impulse into Marguerite’s
arms, “so I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite
so soon, did you, my darling little Margot _chérie_?”
Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the folds of her
kerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl’s
impulsiveness.
“Indeed, sweet one,” she said with a smile, “it is delightful to have
you all to myself, and for a nice whole long day. . . . You won’t be
bored?”
“Oh! bored! Margot, how _can_ you say such a wicked thing. Why! when we
were in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we
were allowed to be alone together.”
“And to talk secrets.”
The two young girls had linked their arms in one another’s and began
wandering round the garden.
“Oh! how lovely your home is, Margot, darling,” said little Suzanne,
enthusiastically, “and how happy you must be!”
“Aye, indeed! I ought to be happy—oughtn’t I, sweet one?” said
Marguerite, with a wistful little sigh.
“How sadly you say it, _chérie_. . . . Ah, well, I suppose now that you
are a married woman you won’t care to talk secrets with me any longer.
Oh! what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school! Do you
remember?—some we did not even confide to Sister Theresa of the Holy
Angels—though she was such a dear.”
“And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one?” said
Marguerite, merrily, “which you are forthwith going to confide to me.
Nay, you need not blush, _chérie_,” she added, as she saw Suzanne’s
pretty little face crimson with blushes. “Faith, there’s naught to be
ashamed of! He is a noble and true man, and one to be proud of as a
lover, and . . . as a husband.”
“Indeed, _chérie_, I am not ashamed,” rejoined Suzanne, softly; “and it
makes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I think
maman will consent,” she added thoughtfully, “and I shall be—oh! so
happy—but, of course, nothing is to be thought of until papa is safe. .
. .”
Marguerite started. Suzanne’s father! the Comte de Tournay!—one of
those whose life would be jeopardised if Chauvelin succeeded in
establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
She had understood all along from the Comtesse, and also from one or
two of the members of the league, that their mysterious leader had
pledged his honour to bring the fugitive Comte de Tournay safely out of
France. Whilst little Suzanne—unconscious of all—save her own
all-important little secret, went prattling on, Marguerite’s thoughts
went back to the events of the past night.
Armand’s peril, Chauvelin’s threat, his cruel “Either—or—” which she
had accepted.
And then her own work in the matter, which should have culminated at
one o’clock in Lord Grenville’s dining-room, when the relentless agent
of the French Government would finally learn who was this mysterious
Scarlet Pimpernel, who so openly defied an army of spies and placed
himself so boldly, and for mere sport, on the side of the enemies of
France.
Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had concluded that
he had failed, and yet, she had not felt anxious about Armand, because
her husband had promised her that Armand would be safe.
But now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, an awful horror
came upon her for what she had done. Chauvelin had told her nothing, it
was true; but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when she
took final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered something
then? Had he already laid his plans for catching the daring plotter,
red-handed, in France, and sending him to the guillotine without
compunction or delay?
Marguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand convulsively clutched
the ring in her dress.
“You are not listening, _chérie_,” said Suzanne, reproachfully, as she
paused in her long, highly interesting narrative.
“Yes, yes, darling—indeed I am,” said Marguerite with an effort,