The Scarlet Pimpernel
It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband had
understood that they had been placed on the list of “suspected
persons,” which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of
days—of hours, perhaps.
Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed with
the enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; the
parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife’s heart
in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the
covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible
evil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!
The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the
peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her
eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the
mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.
Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself
and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under
the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their
lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other
innocent people.
And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne’s eyes as she sought those
of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that _he_ at any rate
rescued his fellow-men from terrible and unmerited death, through a
higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.
“How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?” she asked timidly.
“Twenty all told, Mademoiselle,” he replied, “one to command, and
nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same
cause—to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent.”
“May God protect you all, Messieurs,” said the Comtesse, fervently.
“He has done that so far, Madame.”
“It is wonderful to me, wonderful!—That you should all be so brave, so
devoted to your fellow-men—yet you are English!—and in France treachery
is rife—all in the name of liberty and fraternity.”
“The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us
aristocrats than the men,” said the Vicomte, with a sigh.
“Ah, yes,” added the Comtesse, whilst a look of haughty disdain and
intense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes. “There was that
woman, Marguerite St. Just, for instance. She denounced the Marquis de
St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror.”
“Marguerite St. Just?” said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and
apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew. “Marguerite St. Just?—Surely
. . .”
“Yes!” replied the Comtesse, “surely you know her. She was a leading
actress of the Comédie Française, and she married an Englishman lately.
You must know her—”
“Know her?” said Lord Antony. “Know Lady Blakeney—the most fashionable
woman in London—the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we
all know Lady Blakeney.”
“She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,” interposed
Suzanne, “and we came over to England together to learn your language.
I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did
anything so wicked.”
“It certainly seems incredible,” said Sir Andrew. “You say that she
actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done
such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake—”
“No mistake is possible, Monsieur,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly.
“Marguerite St. Just’s brother is a noted republican. There was some
talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St.
Cyr. The St. Justs’ are quite plebeian, and the republican government
employs many spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not
heard this story?”
“Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no
one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very
wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince
of Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in
London.”
“That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet life
in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful
country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just.”
The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little
company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir
Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased in
the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid and
unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked
extremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively
towards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.
“At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?” he contrived
to whisper unobserved, to mine host.
“Any moment, my lord,” whispered Jellyband in reply.
Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach;
louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable,
then the rattle of horses’ hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the
next moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and
rushed in excitedly.
“Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady,” he shouted at the top of his voice,
“they’re just arriving.”
And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs upon the
stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had halted
outside the porch of “The Fisherman’s Rest.”
CHAPTER V.
MARGUERITE
In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn became the
scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement
made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had
jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions
to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits’ end what to do.
“For goodness’ sake, man,” admonished his lordship, “try to keep Lady
Blakeney talking outside for a moment, while the ladies withdraw.
Zounds!” he added, with another more emphatic oath, “this is most
unfortunate.”
“Quick, Sally! the candles!” shouted Jellyband, as hopping about from
one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general
discomfort of everybody.
The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying to
hide her excitement beneath more becoming _sang-froid_, she repeated
mechanically,—
“I will not see her!—I will not see her!”
Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very important
guests grew apace.
“Good-day, Sir Percy!—Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir
Percy!”—was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate more
feeble tones of—“Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady and
gentleman!”
Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.
“Let the poor man be—and give him some supper at my expense.”
The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, and a
faint _soupçon_ of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the
consonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused, instinctively
listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding the candles by the
opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs, and the Comtesse was
in the act of beating a hasty retreat before that enemy who owned such
a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly was preparing to follow her
mother, whilst casting regretful glances towards the door, where she
hoped still to see her dearly-beloved, erstwhile school-fellow.
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly hoping
to avert the catastrophe which he felt was in the air, and the same
low, musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock consternation,—
“B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! _Dieu!_ has anyone ever seen such
a contemptible climate?”
“Suzanne, come with me at once—I wish it,” said the Comtesse,
peremptorily.
“Oh! Mama!” pleaded Suzanne.
“My lady . . . er . . . h’m! . . . my lady! . . .” came in feeble
accents from Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to bar the way.
“_Pardieu_, my good man,” said Lady Blakeney, with some impatience,
“what are you standing in my way for, dancing about like a turkey with
a sore foot? Let me get to the fire, I am perished with the cold.”
And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing mine host on one
side, had swept into the coffee-room.
There are many portraits and miniatures extant of Marguerite St.
Just—Lady Blakeney as she was then—but it is doubtful if any of these
really do her singular beauty justice. Tall, above the average, with
magnificent presence and regal figure, it is small wonder that even the
Comtesse paused for a moment in involuntary admiration before turning
her back on so fascinating an apparition.
Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty, and her beauty
was at its most dazzling stage. The large hat, with its undulating and
waving plumes, threw a soft shadow across the classic brow with the
aureole of auburn hair—free at the moment from any powder; the sweet,
almost childlike mouth, the straight chiselled nose, round chin, and
delicate throat, all seemed set off by the picturesque costume of the
period. The rich blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the
graceful contour of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a
dignity all its own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of
ribbons which fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying
recently.
With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite Blakeney had taken
stock of everyone there. She nodded pleasantly to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.
“Hello! my Lord Tony, why—what are _you_ doing here in Dover?” she said
merrily.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned and faced the Comtesse
and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up with additional brightness, as
she stretched out both arms towards the young girl.
“Why! if that isn’t my little Suzanne over there. _Pardieu_, little
citizeness, how came you to be in England? And Madame too!”
She went up effusively to them both, with not a single touch of
embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew
watched the little scene with eager apprehension. English though they
were, they had often been in France, and had mixed sufficiently with
the French to realise the unbending hauteur, the bitter hatred with
which the old _noblesse_ of France viewed all those who had helped to
contribute to their downfall. Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful
Lady Blakeney—though known to hold moderate and conciliatory views—was
an ardent republican; his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr—the
rights and wrongs of which no outsider ever knew—had culminated in the
downfall, the almost total extinction, of the latter. In France, St.
Just and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face
with these three refugees driven from their country, flying for their
lives, bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given them, there
stood a fair scion of those same republican families which had hurled
down a throne, and uprooted an aristocracy whose origin was lost in the
dim and distant vista of bygone centuries.
She stood there before them, in all the unconscious insolence of
beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand to them, as if she would, by
that one act, bridge over the conflict and bloodshed of the past
decade.
“Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,” said the Comtesse,
sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon her daughter’s arm.
She had spoken in English, so that all might hear and understand; the
two young English gentlemen as well as the common innkeeper and his
daughter. The latter literally gasped with horror at this foreign
insolence, this impudence before her ladyship—who was English, now that