The Scarlet Pimpernel
“now you are here, Ffoulkes, we must lose no more time: that brute
Chauvelin may send some one to look after us.”
Marguerite was so happy, she could have stayed here for ever, hearing
his voice, asking a hundred questions. But at mention of Chauvelin’s
name she started in quick alarm, afraid for the dear life she would
have died to save.
“But how can we get back?” she gasped; “the roads are full of soldiers
between here and Calais, and . . .”
“We are not going back to Calais, sweetheart,” he said, “but just the
other side of Gris Nez, not half a league from here. The boat of the
_Day Dream_ will meet us there.”
“The boat of the _Day Dream_?”
“Yes!” he said, with a merry laugh; “another little trick of mine. I
should have told you before that when I slipped that note into the hut,
I also added another for Armand, which I directed him to leave behind,
and which has sent Chauvelin and his men running full tilt back to the
‘Chat Gris’ after me; but the first little note contained my real
instructions, including those to old Briggs. He had my orders to go out
further to sea, and then towards the west. When well out of sight of
Calais, he will send the galley to a little creek he and I know of,
just beyond Gris Nez. The men will look out for me—we have a
preconcerted signal, and we will all be safely aboard, whilst Chauvelin
and his men solemnly sit and watch the creek which is ‘just opposite
the “Chat Gris.”’”
“The other side of Gris Nez? But I . . . I cannot walk, Percy,” she
moaned helplessly as, trying to struggle to her tired feet, she found
herself unable even to stand.
“I will carry you, dear,” he said simply; “the blind leading the lame,
you know.”
Sir Andrew was ready, too, to help with the precious burden, but Sir
Percy would not entrust his beloved to any arms but his own.
“When you and she are both safely on board the _Day Dream_,” he said to
his young comrade, “and I feel that Mlle. Suzanne’s eyes will not greet
me in England with reproachful looks, then it will be my turn to rest.”
And his arms, still vigorous in spite of fatigue and suffering, closed
round Marguerite’s poor, weary body, and lifted her as gently as if she
had been a feather.
Then, as Sir Andrew discreetly kept out of earshot, there were many
things said—or rather whispered—which even the autumn breeze did not
catch, for it had gone to rest.
All his fatigue was forgotten; his shoulders must have been very sore,
for the soldiers had hit hard, but the man’s muscles seemed made of
steel, and his energy was almost supernatural. It was a weary tramp,
half a league along the stony side of the cliffs, but never for a
moment did his courage give way or his muscles yield to fatigue. On he
tramped, with firm footstep, his vigorous arms encircling the precious
burden, and . . . no doubt, as she lay, quiet and happy, at times
lulled to momentary drowsiness, at others watching, through the slowly
gathering morning light, the pleasant face with the lazy, drooping blue
eyes, ever cheerful, ever illumined with a good-humoured smile, she
whispered many things, which helped to shorten the weary road, and
acted as a soothing balsam to his aching sinews.
The many-hued light of dawn was breaking in the east, when at last they
reached the creek beyond Gris Nez. The galley lay in wait: in answer to
a signal from Sir Percy, she drew near, and two sturdy British sailors
had the honour of carrying my lady into the boat.
Half an hour later, they were on board the _Day Dream_. The crew, who
of necessity were in their master’s secrets, and who were devoted to
him heart and soul, were not surprised to see him arriving in so
extraordinary a disguise.
Armand St. Just and the other fugitives were eagerly awaiting the
advent of their brave rescuer; he would not stay to hear the
expressions of their gratitude, but found his way to his private cabin
as quickly as he could, leaving Marguerite quite happy in the arms of
her brother.
Everything on board the _Day Dream_ was fitted with that exquisite
luxury, so dear to Sir Percy Blakeney’s heart, and by the time they all
landed at Dover he had found time to get into some of the sumptuous
clothes which he loved, and of which he always kept a supply on board
his yacht.
The difficulty was to provide Marguerite with a pair of shoes, and
great was the little middy’s joy when my lady found that she could put
foot on English shore in his best pair.
The rest is silence!—silence and joy for those who had endured so much
suffering, yet found at last a great and lasting happiness.
But it is on record that at the brilliant wedding of Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes, Bart., with Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay de Basserive, a function
at which H.R.H. the Prince of Wales and all the _élite_ of fashionable
society were present, the most beautiful woman there was unquestionably
Lady Blakeney, whilst the clothes Sir Percy Blakeney wore were the talk
of the _jeunesse dorée_ of London for many days.
It is also a fact that M. Chauvelin, the accredited agent of the French
Republican Government, was not present at that or any other social
function in London, after that memorable evening at Lord Grenville’s
ball.