[pg/etext93/scarp10.txt]

This Etext was originally transcribed by Conway Yee.

Contents

I. PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792

II. DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST"

III. THE REFUGEES

IV. THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

V. MARGUERITE

VI. AN EXQUISITE OF '92

VII. THE SECRET ORCHARD

VIII. THE ACCREDITED AGENT

IX. THE OUTRAGE

X. IN THE OPERA BOX

XI. LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL

XII. THE SCRAP OF PAPER

XIII. EITHER XIV. ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY!

XV. DOUBT

XVI. RICHMOND

XVII. FAREWELL

XVIII. THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE

XIX. THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

XX. THE FRIEND

XXI. SUSPENSE

XXII. CALAIS

XXIII. HOPE

XXIV. THE DEATH XXV. THE EAGLE AND THE FOX

XXVI. THE JEW

XXVII. ON THE TRACK

XXVIII. THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT

XXIX. TRAPPED

XXX. THE SCHOONER

XXXI. THE ESCAPE

THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

CHAPTER I PARIS: SEPTEMBER, 1792

A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human

only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but savage

creatures, animated by vile passions and by the lust of vengeance and

of hate. The hour, some little time before sunset, and the place, the

West Barricade, at the very spot where, a decade later, a proud tyrant

raised an undying monument to the nation's glory and his own vanity.

During the greater part of the day the guillotine had been

kept busy at its ghastly work: all that France had boasted of in the

past centuries, of ancient names, and blue blood, had paid toll to her

desire for liberty and for fraternity. The carnage had only ceased at

this late hour of the day because there were other more interesting

sights for the people to witness, a little while before the final

closing of the barricades for the night.

And so the crowd rushed away from the Place de la Greve and

made for the various barricades in order to watch this interesting and

amusing sight.

It was to be seen every day, for those aristos were such

fools! They were traitors to the people of course, all of them, men,

women, and children, who happened to be descendants of the great men

who since the Crusades had made the glory of France: her old

NOBLESSE. Their ancestors had oppressed the people, had crushed

them under the scarlet heels of their dainty buckled shoes, and now

the people had become the rulers of France and crushed their former

masters--not beneath their heel, for they went shoeless mostly in

these days--but a more effectual weight, the knife of the guillotine.

And daily, hourly, the hideous instrument of torture claimed

its many victims--old men, young women, tiny children until the day

when it would finally demand the head of a King and of a beautiful

young Queen.

But this was as it should be: were not the people now the

rulers of France? Every aristocrat was a traitor, as his ancestors

had been before him: for two hundred years now the people had sweated,

and toiled, and starved, to keep a lustful court in lavish

extravagance; now the descendants of those who had helped to make

those courts brilliant had to hide for their lives--to fly, if they

wished to avoid the tardy vengeance of the people.

And they did try to hide, and tried to fly: that was just the

fun of the whole thing. Every afternoon before the gates closed and

the market carts went out in procession by the various barricades,

some fool of an aristo endeavoured to evade the clutches of the

Committee of Public Safety. In various disguises, under various

pretexts, they tried to slip through the barriers, which were so well

guarded by citizen soldiers of the Republic. Men in women's clothes,

women in male attire, children disguised in beggars' rags: there were

some of all sorts: CI-DEVANT counts, marquises, even dukes, who

wanted to fly from France, reach England or some other equally

accursed country, and there try to rouse foreign feelings against the

glorious Revolution, or to raise an army in order to liberate the

wretched prisoners in the Temple, who had once called themselves

sovereigns of France.

But they were nearly always caught at the barricades, Sergeant

Bibot especially at the West Gate had a wonderful nose for scenting an

aristo in the most perfect disguise. Then, of course, the fun began.

Bibot would look at his prey as a cat looks upon the mouse, play with

him, sometimes for quite a quarter of an hour, pretend to be

hoodwinked by the disguise, by the wigs and other bits of theatrical

make-up which hid the identity of a CI-DEVANT noble marquise or count.

Oh! Bibot had a keen sense of humour, and it was well worth

hanging round that West Barricade, in order to see him catch an aristo

in the very act of trying to flee from the vengeance of the people.

Sometimes Bibot would let his prey actually out by the gates,

allowing him to think for the space of two minutes at least that he

really had escaped out of Paris, and might even manage to reach the

coast of England in safety, but Bibot would let the unfortunate wretch

walk about ten metres towards the open country, then he would send two

men after him and bring him back, stripped of his disguise.

Oh! that was extremely funny, for as often as not the

fugitive would prove to be a woman, some proud marchioness, who looked

terribly comical when she found herself in Bibot's clutches after all,

and knew that a summary trial would await her the next day and after

that, the fond embrace of Madame la Guillotine.

No wonder that on this fine afternoon in September the crowd

round Bibot's gate was eager and excited. The lust of blood grows

with its satisfaction, there is no satiety: the crowd had seen a

hundred noble heads fall beneath the guillotine to-day, it wanted to

make sure that it would see another hundred fall on the morrow.

Bibot was sitting on an overturned and empty cask close by the

gate of the barricade; a small detachment of citoyen soldiers was

under his command. The work had been very hot lately. Those cursed

aristos were becoming terrified and tried their hardest to slip out of

Paris: men, women and children, whose ancestors, even in remote ages,

had served those traitorous Bourbons, were all traitors themselves and

right food for the guillotine. Every day Bibot had had the

satisfaction of unmasking some fugitive royalists and sending them

back to be tried by the Committee of Public Safety, presided over by

that good patriot, Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville.

Robespierre and Danton both had commended Bibot for his zeal

and Bibot was proud of the fact that he on his own initiative had sent

at least fifty aristos to the guillotine.

But to-day all the sergeants in command at the various

barricades had had special orders. Recently a very great number of

aristos had succeeded in escaping out of France and in reaching

England safely. There were curious rumours about these escapes; they

had become very frequent and singularly daring; the people's minds

were becoming strangely excited about it all. Sergeant Grospierre had

been sent to the guillotine for allowing a whole family of aristos to

slip out of the North Gate under his very nose.

It was asserted that these escapes were organised by a band of

Englishmen, whose daring seemed to be unparalleled, and who, from

sheer desire to meddle in what did not concern them, spent their spare

time in snatching away lawful victims destined for Madame la

Guillotine. These rumours soon grew in extravagance; there was no

doubt that this band of meddlesome Englishmen did exist; moreover,

they seemed to be under the leadership of a man whose pluck and

audacity were almost fabulous. Strange stories were afloat of how he

and those aristos whom he rescued became suddenly invisible as they

reached the barricades and escaped out of the gates by sheer

supernatural agency.

No one had seen these mysterious Englishmen; as for their

leader, he was never spoken of, save with a superstitious shudder.

Citoyen Foucquier-Tinville would in the course of the day receive a

scrap of paper from some mysterious source; sometimes he would find it

in the pocket of his coat, at others it would be handed to him by

someone in the crowd, whilst he was on his way to the sitting of the

Committee of Public Safety. The paper always contained a brief notice

that the band of meddlesome Englishmen were at work, and it was always

signed with a device drawn in red--a little star-shaped flower, which

we in England call the Scarlet Pimpernel. Within a few hours of the

receipt of this impudent notice, the citoyens of the Committee of Public

Safety would hear that so many royalists and aristocrats had succeeded

in reaching the coast, and were on their way to England and safety.

The guards at the gates had been doubled, the sergeants in

command had been threatened with death, whilst liberal rewards were

offered for the capture of these daring and impudent Englishmen.

There was a sum of five thousand francs promised to the man who laid

hands on the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel.

Everyone felt that Bibot would be that man, and Bibot allowed

that belief to take firm root in everybody's mind; and so, day after

day, people came to watch him at the West Gate, so as to be present

when he laid hands on any fugitive aristo who perhaps might be

accompanied by that mysterious Englishman.

"Bah!" he said to his trusted corporal, "Citoyen Grospierre

was a fool! Had it been me now, at that North Gate last week. . ."

Citoyen Bibot spat on the ground to express his contempt for

his comrade's stupidity.

"How did it happen, citoyen?" asked the corporal.

"Grospierre was at the gate, keeping good watch," began Bibot,

pompously, as the crowd closed in round him, listening eagerly to his

narrative. "We've all heard of this meddlesome Englishman, this

accursed Scarlet Pimpernel. He won't get through MY gate,

MORBLEU! unless he be the devil himself. But Grospierre was a fool.

The market carts were going through the gates; there was one laden

with casks, and driven by an old man, with a boy beside him.

Grospierre was a bit drunk, but he thought himself very clever; he

looked into the casks--most of them, at least--and saw they were

empty, and let the cart go through."

A murmur of wrath and contempt went round the group of

ill-clad wretches, who crowded round Citoyen Bibot.

"Half an hour later," continued the sergeant, "up comes a

captain of the guard with a squad of some dozen soldiers with him.

`Has a car gone through?' he asks of Grospierre, breathlessly. `Yes,'

says Grospierre, `not half an hour ago.' `And you have let them

escape,' shouts the captain furiously. `You'll go to the guillotine

for this, citoyen sergeant! that cart held concealed the CI-DEVANT

Duc de Chalis and all his family!' `What!' thunders Grospierre,

aghast. `Aye! and the driver was none other than that cursed

Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

A howl of execration greeted this tale. Citoyen Grospierre

had paid for his blunder on the guillotine, but what a fool! oh!

what a fool!

Bibot was laughing so much at his own tale that it was some

time before he could continue.

"`After them, my men,' shouts the captain," he said after a while,

"`remember the reward; after them, they cannot have gone far!'

And with that he rushes through the gate followed by his dozen soldiers."

"But it was too late!" shouted the crowd, excitedly.

"They never got them!"

"Curse that Grospierre for his folly!"

"He deserved his fate!"

"Fancy not examining those casks properly!"

But these sallies seemed to amuse Citoyen Bibot exceedingly;

he laughed until his sides ached, and the tears streamed down his

cheeks.

"Nay, nay!" he said at last, "those aristos weren't in the

cart; the driver was not the Scarlet Pimpernel!"

"What?"

"No! The captain of the guard was that damned Englishman

in disguise, and everyone of his soldiers aristos!"

The crowd this time said nothing: the story certainly savoured

of the supernatural, and though the Republic had abolished God, it had

not quite succeeded in killing the fear of the supernatural in the

hearts of the people. Truly that Englishman must be the devil himself.

The sun was sinking low down in the west. Bibot prepared himself

to close the gates.

"EN AVANT The carts," he said.

Some dozen covered carts were drawn up in a row, ready to

leave town, in order to fetch the produce from the country close by,

for market the next morning. They were mostly well known to Bibot,

as they went through his gate twice every day on their way to and from

the town. He spoke to one or two of their drivers--mostly women--and

was at great pains to examine the inside of the carts.

"You never know," he would say, "and I'm not going to be

caught like that fool Grospierre."

The women who drove the carts usually spent their day on the

Place de la Greve, beneath the platform of the guillotine, knitting

and gossiping, whilst they watched the rows of tumbrils arriving with

the victims the Reign of Terror claimed every day. It was great fun

to see the aristos arriving for the reception of Madame la Guillotine,

and the places close by the platform were very much sought after.

Bibot, during the day, had been on duty on the Place. He recognized

most of the old hats, "tricotteuses," as they were called, who sat there

and knitted, whilst head after head fell beneath the knife, and they

themselves got quite bespattered with the blood of those cursed aristos.

"He! la mere!" said Bibot to one of these horrible hags,

"what have you got there?"

He had seen her earlier in the day, with her knitting and the

whip of her cart close beside her. Now she had fastened a row of

curly locks to the whip handle, all colours, from gold to silver, fair

to dark, and she stroked them with her huge, bony fingers as she

laughed at Bibot.

"I made friends with Madame Guillotine's lover," she said with

a coarse laugh, "he cut these off for me from the heads as they rolled

down. He has promised me some more to-morrow, but I don't know if I

shall be at my usual place."

"Ah! how is that, la mere?" asked Bibot, who, hardened soldier that

he was, could not help shuddering at the awful loathsomeness of this

semblance of a woman, with her ghastly trophy on the handle of her whip.

"My grandson has got the small-pox," she said with a jerk of

her thumb towards the inside of her cart, "some say it's the plague!

If it is, I sha'n't be allowed to come into Paris to-morrow."

At the first mention of the word small-pox, Bibot had stepped

hastily backwards, and when the old hag spoke of the plague,

he retreated from her as fast as he could.

"Curse you!" he muttered, whilst the whole crowd hastily

avoided the cart, leaving it standing all alone in the midst of the

place.

The old hag laughed.

"Curse you, citoyen, for being a coward," she said. "Bah!

what a man to be afraid of sickness."

"MORBLEU! the plague!"

Everyone was awe-struck and silent, filled with horror for the

loathsome malady, the one thing which still had the power to arouse

terror and disgust in these savage, brutalised creatures.

"Get out with you and with your plague-stricken brood!"

shouted Bibot, hoarsely.

And with another rough laugh and coarse jest, the old hag

whipped up her lean nag and drove her cart out of the gate.

This incident had spoilt the afternoon. The people were

terrified of these two horrible curses, the two maladies which nothing

could cure, and which were the precursors of an awful and lonely

death. They hung about the barricades, silent and sullen for a while,

eyeing one another suspiciously, avoiding each other as if by

instinct, lest the plague lurked already in their midst. Presently,

as in the case of Grospierre, a captain of the guard appeared

suddenly. But he was known to Bibot, and there was no fear of his

turning out to be a sly Englishman in disguise.

"A cart,. . ." he shouted breathlessly, even before he had

reached the gates.

"What cart?" asked Bibot, roughly.

"Driven by an old hag. . . . A covered cart. . ."

"There were a dozen. . ."

"An old hag who said her son had the plague?"

"Yes. . ."

"You have not let them go?"

"MORBLEU!" said Bibot, whose purple cheeks had suddenly

become white with fear.

"The cart contained the CI-DEVANT Comtesse de Tourney and

her two children, all of them traitors and condemned to death."

"And their driver?" muttered Bibot, as a superstitious shudder

ran down his spine.

"SACRE TONNERRE," said the captain, "but it is feared that

it was that accursed Englishman himself--the Scarlet Pimpernel."

CHAPTER II DOVER: "THE FISHERMAN'S REST"

In the kitchen Sally was extremely busy--saucepans and

frying-pans were standing in rows on the gigantic hearth, the huge

stock-pot stood in a corner, and the jack turned with slow

deliberation, and presented alternately to the glow every side of a

noble sirloin of beef. The two little kitchen-maids bustled around,

eager to help, hot and panting, with cotton sleeves well tucked up

above the dimpled elbows, and giggling over some private jokes of

their own, whenever Miss Sally's back was turned for a moment. And

old Jemima, stolid in temper and solid in bulk, kept up a long and

subdued grumble, while she stirred the stock-pot methodically over the

fire.

"What ho! Sally!" came in cheerful if none too melodious

accents from the coffee-room close by.

"Lud bless my soul!" exclaimed Sally, with a good-humoured

laugh, "what be they all wanting now, I wonder!"

"Beer, of course," grumbled Jemima, "you don't `xpect Jimmy

Pitkin to `ave done with one tankard, do ye?"

"Mr. `Arry, `e looked uncommon thirsty too," simpered Martha,

one of the little kitchen-maids; and her beady black eyes twinkled as

they met those of her companion, whereupon both started on a round of

short and suppressed giggles.

Sally looked cross for a moment, and thoughtfully rubbed her

hands against her shapely hips; her palms were itching, evidently, to

come in contact with Martha's rosy cheeks--but inherent good-humour

prevailed, and with a pout and a shrug of the shoulders, she turned

her attention to the fried potatoes.

"What ho, Sally! hey, Sally!"

And a chorus of pewter mugs, tapped with impatient hands

against the oak tables of the coffee-room, accompanied the shouts for

mine host's buxom daughter.

"Sally!" shouted a more persistent voice, "are ye goin' to be

all night with that there beer?"

"I do think father might get the beer for them," muttered

Sally, as Jemima, stolidly and without further comment, took a couple

of foam-crowned jugs from the shelf, and began filling a number of

pewter tankards with some of that home-brewed ale for which "The

Fisherman's Rest" had been famous since that days of King Charles.

"`E knows `ow busy we are in `ere."

"Your father is too busy discussing politics with Mr. `Empseed to worry

'isself about you and the kitchen," grumbled Jemima under her breath.

Sally had gone to the small mirror which hung in a corner of

the kitchen, and was hastily smoothing her hair and setting her

frilled cap at its most becoming angle over her dark curls; then she

took up the tankards by their handles, three in each strong, brown

hand, and laughing, grumbling, blushing, carried them through into the

coffee room.

There, there was certainly no sign of that bustle and activity

which kept four women busy and hot in the glowing kitchen beyond.

The coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" is a show place now

at the beginning of the twentieth century. At the end of the

eighteenth, in the year of grace 1792, it had not yet gained the

notoriety and importance which a hundred additional years and the

craze of the age have since bestowed upon it. Yet it was an old

place, even then, for the oak rafters and beams were already black

with age--as were the panelled seats, with their tall backs, and the

long polished tables between, on which innumerable pewter tankards had

left fantastic patterns of many-sized rings. In the leaded window,

high up, a row of pots of scarlet geraniums and blue larkspur gave the

bright note of colour against the dull background of the oak.

That Mr. Jellyband, landlord of "The Fisherman's Reef" at

Dover, was a prosperous man, was of course clear to the most casual

observer. The pewter on the fine old dressers, the brass above the

gigantic hearth, shone like silver and gold--the red-tiled floor was

as brilliant as the scarlet geranium on the window sill--this meant

that his servants were good and plentiful, that the custom was

constant, and of that order which necessitated the keeping up of the

coffee-room to a high standard of elegance and order.

As Sally came in, laughing through her frowns, and displaying

a row of dazzling white teeth, she was greeted with shouts and chorus

of applause.

"Why, here's Sally! What ho, Sally! Hurrah for pretty Sally!"

"I thought you'd grown deaf in that kitchen of yours," muttered Jimmy

Pitkin, as he passed the back of his hand across his very dry lips.

"All ri'! all ri'!" laughed Sally, as she deposited the

freshly-filled tankards upon the tables, "why, what a `urry to be

sure! And is your gran'mother a-dyin' an' you wantin' to see the pore

soul afore she'm gone! I never see'd such a mighty rushin'"

A chorus of good-humoured laughter greeted this witticism,

which gave the company there present food for many jokes, for some

considerable time. Sally now seemed in less of a hurry to get back to

her pots and pans. A young man with fair curly hair, and eager,

bright blue eyes, was engaging most of her attention and the whole of

her time, whilst broad witticisms anent Jimmy Pitkin's fictitious

grandmother flew from mouth to mouth, mixed with heavy puffs of

pungent tobacco smoke.

Facing the hearth, his legs wide apart, a long clay pipe in

his mouth, stood mine host himself, worthy Mr. Jellyband, landlord of

"The Fisherman's Rest," as his father had before him, aye, and his

grandfather and greatgrandfather too, for that matter. Portly in

build, jovial in countenance and somewhat bald of pate, Mr. Jellyband

was indeed a typical rural John Bull of those days--the days when our

prejudiced insularity was at its height, when to an Englishman, be he

lord, yeoman, or peasant, the whole of the continent of Europe was a

den of immorality and the rest of the world an unexploited land of

savages and cannibals.

There he stood, mine worthy host, firm and well set up on his

limbs, smoking his long churchwarden and caring nothing for nobody at

home, and despising everybody abroad. He wore the typical scarlet

waistcoat, with shiny brass buttons, the corduroy breeches, and grey

worsted stockings and smart buckled shoes, that characterised every

self-respecting innkeeper in Great Britain in these days--and while

pretty, motherless Sally had need of four pairs of brown hands to do

all the work that fell on her shapely shoulders, worthy Jellyband

discussed the affairs of nations with his most privileged guests.

The coffee-room indeed, lighted by two well-polished lamps,

which hung from the raftered ceiling, looked cheerful and cosy in the

extreme. Through the dense clouds of tobacco smoke that hung about in

every corner, the faces of Mr. Jellyband's customers appeared red and

pleasant to look at, and on good terms with themselves, their host and

all the world; from every side of the room loud guffaws accompanied

pleasant, if not highly intellectual, conversation--while Sally's

repeated giggles testified to the good use Mr. Harry Waite was making

of the short time she seemed inclined to spare him.

They were mostly fisher-folk who patronised Mr. Jellyband's

coffee-room, but fishermen are known to be very thirsty people; the

salt which they breathe in, when they are on the sea, accounts for

their parched throats when on shore. but "The Fisherman's Rest" was

something more than a rendezvous for these humble folk. The London

and Dover coach started from the hostel daily, and passengers who had

come across the Channel, and those who started for the "grand tour,"

all became acquainted with Mr. Jellyband, his French wines and his

home-brewed ales.

It was towards the close of September, 1792, and the weather

which had been brilliant and hot throughout the month had suddenly

broken up; for two days torrents of rain had deluged the south of

England, doing its level best to ruin what chances the apples and

pears and late plums had of becoming really fine, self-respecting

fruit. Even now it was beating against the leaded windows, and

tumbling down the chimney, making the cheerful wood fire sizzle in the

hearth.

"Lud! did you ever see such a wet September, Mr. Jellyband?"

asked Mr. Hempseed.

He sat in one of the seats inside the hearth, did Mr.

Hempseed, for he was an authority and important personage not only at

"The Fisherman's Rest," where Mr. Jellyband always made a special

selection of him as a foil for political arguments, but throughout the

neighborhood, where his learning and notably his knowledge of the

Scriptures was held in the most profound awe and respect. With one

hand buried in the capacious pockets of his corduroys underneath his

elaborately-worked, well-worn smock, the other holding his long clay

pipe, Mr. Hempseed sat there looking dejectedly across the room at the

rivulets of moisture which trickled down the window panes.

"No," replied Mr. Jellyband, sententiously, "I dunno, Mr.

'Empseed, as I ever did. An' I've been in these parts nigh on sixty

years."

"Aye! you wouldn't rec'llect the first three years of them sixty,

Mr. Jellyband," quietly interposed Mr. Hempseed. "I dunno as I ever

see'd an infant take much note of the weather, leastways not in these

parts, an' _I_'ve lived `ere nigh on seventy-five years, Mr. Jellyband."

The superiority of this wisdom was so incontestable that for the moment

Mr. Jellyband was not ready with his usual flow of argument.

"It do seem more like April than September, don't it?"

continued Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, as a shower of raindrops fell with

a sizzle upon the fire.

"Aye! that it do," assented the worth host, "but then what can you `xpect,

Mr. `Empseed, I says, with sich a government as we've got?"

Mr. Hempseed shook his head with an infinity of wisdom,

tempered by deeply-rooted mistrust of the British climate

and the British Government.

"I don't `xpect nothing, Mr. Jellyband," he said. "Pore folks

like us is of no account up there in Lunnon, I knows that, and it's

not often as I do complain. But when it comes to sich wet weather in

September, and all me fruit a-rottin' and a-dying' like the `Guptian

mother's first born, and doin' no more good than they did, pore dears,

save a lot more Jews, pedlars and sich, with their oranges and sich

like foreign ungodly fruit, which nobody'd buy if English apples and

pears was nicely swelled. As the Scriptures say--"

"That's quite right, Mr. `Empseed," retorted Jellyband, "and

as I says, what can you `xpect? There's all them Frenchy devils over

the Channel yonder a-murderin' their king and nobility, and Mr. Pitt

and Mr. Fox and Mr. Burke a-fightin' and a-wranglin' between them, if

we Englishmen should `low them to go on in their ungodly way. `Let

'em murder!' says Mr. Pitt. `Stop `em!' says Mr. Burke."

"And let `em murder, says I, and be demmed to `em." said Mr.

Hempseed, emphatically, for he had but little liking for his friend

Jellyband's political arguments, wherein he always got out of his

depth, and had but little chance for displaying those pearls of wisdom

which had earned for him so high a reputation in the neighbourhood and

so many free tankards of ale at "The Fisherman's Rest."

"Let `em murder," he repeated again, "but don't lets `ave sich rain in

September, for that is agin the law and the Scriptures which says--"

"Lud! Mr. `Arry, `ow you made me jump!"

It was unfortunate for Sally and her flirtation that this

remark of hers should have occurred at the precise moment when Mr.

Hempseed was collecting his breath, in order to deliver himself one of

those Scriptural utterances which made him famous, for it brought down

upon her pretty head the full flood of her father's wrath.

"Now then, Sally, me girl, now then!" he said, trying to force

a frown upon his good-humoured face, "stop that fooling with them

young jackanapes and get on with the work."

"The work's gettin' on all ri', father."

But Mr. Jellyband was peremptory. He had other views for his buxom

daughter, his only child, who would in God's good time become the owner

of "The Fisherman's Rest," than to see her married to one of these

young fellows who earned but a precarious livelihood with their net.

"Did ye hear me speak, me girl?" he said in that quiet tone,

which no one inside the inn dared to disobey. "Get on with my Lord

Tony's supper, for, if it ain't the best we can do, and `e not

satisfied, see what you'll get, that's all."

Reluctantly Sally obeyed.

"Is you `xpecting special guests then to-night, Mr.

Jellyband?" asked Jimmy Pitkin, in a loyal attempt to divert his

host's attention from the circumstances connected with Sally's exit

from the room.

"Aye! that I be," replied Jellyband, "friends of my Lord Tony

hisself. Dukes and duchesses from over the water yonder, whom the

young lord and his friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, and other young

noblemen have helped out of the clutches of them murderin' devils."

But this was too much for Mr. Hempseed's querulous philosophy.

"Lud!" he said, "what do they do that for, I wonder? I don't

'old not with interferin' in other folks' ways. As the Scriptures

say--"

"Maybe, Mr. `Empseed," interrupted Jellyband, with biting

sarcasm, "as you're a personal friend of Mr. Pitt, and as you says

along with Mr. Fox: `Let `em murder!' says you."

"Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband," febbly protested Mr. Hempseed, "I

dunno as I ever did."

But Mr. Jellyband had at last succeeded in getting upon his

favourite hobby-horse, and had no intention of dismounting in any

hurry.

"Or maybe you've made friends with some of them French chaps

'oo they do say have come over here o' purpose to make us Englishmen

agree with their murderin' ways."

"I dunno what you mean, Mr. Jellyband," suggested Mr.

Hempseed, "all I know is--"

"All _I_ know is," loudly asserted mine host, "that there was

my friend Peppercorn, `oo owns the `Blue-Faced Boar,' an' as true and

loyal an Englishman as you'd see in the land. And now look at

'im!--'E made friends with some o' them frog-eaters, `obnobbed with

them just as if they was Englishmen, and not just a lot of immoral,

Godforsaking furrin' spies. Well! and what happened? Peppercorn `e

now ups and talks of revolutions, and liberty, and down with the

aristocrats, just like Mr. `Empseed over `ere!"

"Pardon me, Mr. Jellyband," again interposed Mr. Hempseed feebly,

"I dunno as I ever did--"

Mr. Jellyband had appealed to the company in general, who were

listening awe-struck and open-mouthed at the recital of Mr.

Peppercorn's defalcations. At one table two customers--gentlemen

apparently by their clothes--had pushed aside their half-finished game

of dominoes, and had been listening for some time, and evidently with

much amusement at Mr. Jellyband's international opinions. One of them

now, with a quiet, sarcastic smile still lurking round the corners of

his mobile mouth, turned towards the centre of the room where Mr.

Jellyband was standing.

"You seem to think, mine honest friend," he said quietly,

"that these Frenchmen,--spies I think you called them--are mighty

clever fellows to have made mincemeat so to speak of your friend Mr.

Peppercorn's opinions. How did they accomplish that now, think you?"

"Lud! sir, I suppose they talked `im over. Those Frenchies,

I've `eard it said, `ave got the gift of gab--and Mr. `Empseed `ere

will tell you `ow it is that they just twist some people round their

little finger like."

"Indeed, and is that so, Mr. Hempseed?" inquired the stranger

politely.

"Nay, sir!" replied Mr. Hempseed, much irritated, "I dunno as

I can give you the information you require."

"Faith, then," said the stranger, "let us hope, my worthy

host, that these clever spies will not succeed in upsetting your

extremely loyal opinions."

But this was too much for Mr. Jellyband's pleasant equanimity.

He burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, which was soon echoed by

those who happened to be in his debt.

"Hahaha! hohoho! hehehe!" He laughed in every key, did my

worthy host, and laughed until his sided ached, and his eyes streamed.

"At me! hark at that! Did ye `ear `im say that they'd be upsettin'

my opinions?--Eh?--Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer

things."

"Well, Mr. Jellyband," said Mr. Hempseed, sententiously, "you know

what the Scriptures say: `Let `im `oo stands take `eed lest `e fall.'"

"But then hark'ee Mr. `Empseed," retorted Jellyband, still

holding his sides with laughter, "the Scriptures didn't know me. Why,

I wouldn't so much as drink a glass of ale with one o' them murderin'

Frenchmen, and nothin' `d make me change my opinions. Why! I've `eard

it said that them frog-eaters can't even speak the King's English, so,

of course, if any of `em tried to speak their God-forsaken lingo to

me, why, I should spot them directly, see!--and forewarned is

forearmed, as the saying goes."

"Aye! my honest friend," assented the stranger cheerfully, "I

see that you are much too sharp, and a match for any twenty Frenchmen,

and here's to your very good health, my worthy host, if you'll do me

the honour to finish this bottle of mine with me."

"I am sure you're very polite, sir," said Mr. Jellyband,

wiping his eyes which were still streaming with the abundance of his

laughter, "and I don't mind if I do."

The stranger poured out a couple of tankards full of wine, and

having offered one to mine host, he took the other himself.

"Loyal Englishmen as we all are," he said, whilst the same humorous

smile played round the corners of his thin lips--"loyal as we are,

we must admit that this at least is one good thing which comes to

us from France."

"Aye! we'll none of us deny that, sir," assented mine host.

"And here's to the best landlord in England, our worthy host,

Mr. Jellyband," said the stranger in a loud tone of voice.

"Hi, hip, hurrah!" retorted the whole company present. Then

there was a loud clapping of hands, and mugs and tankards made a

rattling music upon the tables to the accompaniment of loud laughter

at nothing in particular, and of Mr. Jellyband's muttered

exclamations:

"Just fancy ME bein' talked over by any God-forsaken

furriner!--What?--Lud love you, sir, but you do say some queer things."

To which obvious fact the stranger heartily assented. It was

certainly a preposterous suggestion that anyone could ever upset Mr.

Jellyband's firmly-rooted opinions anent the utter worthlessness of

the inhabitants of the whole continent of Europe.

CHAPTER III THE REFUGEES

Feeling in every part of England certainly ran very high at

this time against the French and their doings. Smugglers and

legitimate traders between the French and the English coasts brought

snatches of news from over the water, which made every honest

Englishman's blood boil, and made him long to have "a good go" at

those murderers, who had imprisoned their king and all his family,

subjected the queen and the royal children to every species of

indignity, and were even now loudly demanding the blood of the whole

Bourbon family and of every one of its adherents.

The execution of the Princesse de Lamballe, Marie Antoinette's

young and charming friend, had filled every one in England with

unspeakable horror, the daily execution of scores of royalists of good

family, whose only sin was their aristocratic name, seemed to cry for

vengeance to the whole of civilised Europe.

Yet, with all that, no one dared to interfere. Burke had

exhausted all his eloquence in trying to induce the British Government

to fight the revolutionary government of France, but Mr. Pitt, with

characteristic prudence, did not feel that this country was fit yet to

embark on another arduous and costly war. It was for Austria to take

the initiative; Austria, whose fairest daughter was even now a

dethroned queen, imprisoned and insulted by a howling mob; surely

'twas not--so argued Mr. Fox--for the whole of England to take up

arms, because one set of Frenchmen chose to murder another.

As for Mr. Jellyband and his fellow John Bulls, though they

looked upon all foreigners with withering contempt, they were royalist

and anti-revolutionists to a man, and at this present moment were

furious with Pitt for his caution and moderation, although they

naturally understood nothing of the diplomatic reasons which guided

that great man's policy.

By now Sally came running back, very excited and very eager.

The joyous company in the coffee-room had heard nothing of the noise

outside, but she had spied a dripping horse and rider who had stopped

at the door of "The Fisherman's Rest," and while the stable boy ran

forward to take charge of the horse, pretty Miss Sally went to the

front door to greet the welcome visitor.

"I think I see'd my Lord Antony's horse out in the yard,

father," she said, as she ran across the coffee-room.

But already the door had been thrown open from outside, and the

next moment an arm, covered in drab cloth and dripping with the heavy

rain, was round pretty Sally's waist, while a hearty voice echoed

along the polished rafters of the coffee-room.

"Aye, and bless your brown eyes for being so sharp, my pretty

Sally," said the man who had just entered, whilst worthy Mr. Jellyband

came bustling forward, eager, alert and fussy, as became the advent of

one of the most favoured guests of his hostel.

"Lud, I protest, Sally," added Lord Antony, as he deposited a

kiss on Miss Sally's blooming cheeks, "but you are growing prettier

and prettier every time I see you--and my honest friend, Jellyband

here, have hard work to keep the fellows off that slim waist of yours.

What say you, Mr. Waite?"

Mr. Waite--torn between his respect for my lord and his dislike of

that particular type of joke--only replied with a doubtful grunt.

Lord Antony Dewhurst, one of the sons of the Duke of Exeter,

was in those days a very perfect type of a young English

gentlemen--tall, well set-up, broad of shoulders and merry of face,

his laughter rang loudly whereever he went. A good sportsman, a

lively companion, a courteous, well-bred man of the world, with not

too much brains to spoil his temper, he was a universal favourite in

London drawing-rooms or in the coffee-rooms of village inns. At "The

Fisherman's Rest" everyone knew him--for he was fond of a trip across

to France, and always spent a night under worthy Mr. Jellyband's roof

on his way there or back.

He nodded to Waite, Pitkin and the others as he at last

released Sally's waist, and crossed over to the hearth to warm and dry

himself: as he did so, he cast a quick, somewhat suspicious glance at

the two strangers, who had quietly resumed their game of dominoes, and

for a moment a look of deep earnestness, even of anxiety, clouded his

jovial young face.

But only for a moment; the next he turned to Mr. Hempseed, who

was respectfully touching his forelock.

"Well, Mr. Hempseed, and how is the fruit?"

"Badly, my lord, badly," replied Mr. Hempseed, dolefully, "but

what can you `xpect with this `ere government favourin' them rascals

over in France, who would murder their king and all their nobility."

"Odd's life!" retorted Lord Antony; "so they would, honest

Hempseed,--at least those they can get hold of, worse luck! But we

have got some friends coming here to-night, who at any rate have

evaded their clutches."

It almost seemed, when the young man said these words, as if

he threw a defiant look towards the quiet strangers in the corner.

"Thanks to you, my lord, and to your friends, so I've heard it said,"

said Mr. Jellyband.

But in a moment Lord Antony's hand fell warningly on mine host's arm.

"Hush!" he said peremptorily, and instinctively once again

looked towards the strangers.

"Oh! Lud love you, they are all right, my lord," retorted

Jellyband; "don't you be afraid. I wouldn't have spoken, only I knew

we were among friends. That gentleman over there is as true and loyal

a subject of King George as you are yourself, my lord saving your

presence. He is but lately arrived in Dover, and is setting down in

business in these parts."

"In business? Faith, then, it must be as an undertaker, for I

vow I never beheld a more rueful countenance."

"Nay, my lord, I believe that the gentleman is a widower,

which no doubt would account for the melancholy of his bearing--but he

is a friend, nevertheless, I'll vouch for that-and you will own, my

lord, that who should judge of a face better than the landlord of a

popular inn--"

"Oh, that's all right, then, if we are among friends," said

Lord Antony, who evidently did not care to discuss the subject with

his host. "But, tell me, you have no one else staying here, have you?"

"No one, my lord, and no one coming, either, leastways--"

"Leastways?"

"No one your lordship would object to, I know."

"Who is it?"

"Well, my lord, Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady will be here

presently, but they ain't a-goin' to stay--"

"Lady Blakeney?" queried Lord Antony, in some astonishment.

"Aye, my lord. Sir Percy's skipper was here just now. He

says that my lady's brother is crossing over to France to-day in the

DAY DREAM, which is Sir Percy's yacht, and Sir Percy and my lady

will come with him as far as here to see the last of him. It don't

put you out, do it, my lord?"

"No, no, it doesn't put me out, friend; nothing will put me

out, unless that supper is not the very best which Miss Sally can

cook, and which has ever been served in `The Fisherman's Rest.'"

"You need have no fear of that, my lord," said Sally, who all this

while had been busy setting the table for supper. And very gay and

inviting it looked, with a large bunch of brilliantly coloured dahlias

in the centre, and the bright pewter goblets and blue china about.

"How many shall I lay for, my lord?"

"Five places, pretty Sally, but let the supper be enough for

ten at least--our friends will be tired, and, I hope, hungry.

As for me, I vow I could demolish a baron of beef to-night."

"Here they are, I do believe," said Sally excitedly, as a

distant clatter of horses and wheels could now be distinctly heard,

drawing rapidly nearer.

There was a general commotion in the coffee-room. Everyone

was curious to see my Lord Antony's swell friends from over the water.

Miss Sally cast one or two quick glances at the little bit of mirror

which hung on the wall, and worthy Mr. Jellyband bustled out in order

to give the first welcome himself to his distinguished guests. Only

the two strangers in the corner did not participate in the general

excitement. They were calmly finishing their game of dominoes, and

did not even look once towards the door.

"Straight ahead, Comtesse, the door on your right," said a

pleasant voice outside.

"Aye! there they are, all right enough." said Lord Antony,

joyfully; "off with you, my pretty Sally, and see how quick you can

dish up the soup."

The door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by Mr. Jellyband,

who was profuse in his bows and welcomes, a party of four--two ladies

and two gentlemen--entered the coffee-room.

"Welcome! Welcome to old England!" said Lord Antony,

effusively, as he came eagerly forward with both hands outstretched

towards the newcomers.

"Ah, you are Lord Antony Dewhurst, I think," said one of the

ladies, speaking with a strong foreign accent.

"At your service, Madame," he replied, as he ceremoniously

kissed the hands of both the ladies, then turned to the men and shook

them both warmly by the hand.

Sally was already helping the ladies to take off their

traveling cloaks, and both turned, with a shiver, towards the

brightly-blazing hearth.

There was a general movement among the company in the

coffee-room. Sally had bustled off to her kitchen whilst Jellyband,

still profuse with his respectful salutations, arranged one or two

chairs around the fire. Mr. Hempseed, touching his forelock, was

quietly vacating the seat in the hearth. Everyone was staring

curiously, yet deferentially, at the foreigners.

"Ah, Messieurs! what can I say?" said the elder of the two

ladies, as she stretched a pair of fine, aristocratic hands to the

warmth of the blaze, and looked with unspeakable gratitude first at

Lord Antony, then at one of the young men who had accompanied her

party, and who was busy divesting himself of his heavy, caped coat.

"Only that you are glad to be in England, Comtesse," replied

Lord Antony, "and that you have not suffered too much from your trying

voyage."

"Indeed, indeed, we are glad to be in England," she said,

while her eyes filled with tears, "and we have already forgotten all

that we have suffered."

Her voice was musical and low, and there was a great deal of

calm dignity and of many sufferings nobly endured marked in the

handsome, aristocratic face, with its wealth of snowy-white hair

dressed high above the forehead, after the fashion of the times.

"I hope my friend, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, proved an entertaining

travelling companion, madame?"

"Ah, indeed, Sir Andrew was kindness itself. How could my

children and I ever show enough gratitude to you all, Messieurs?"

Her companion, a dainty, girlish figure, childlike and

pathetic in its look of fatigue and of sorrow, had said nothing as

yet, but her eyes, large, brown, and full of tears, looked up from the

fire and sought those of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, who had drawn near to

the hearth and to her; then, as they met his, which were fixed with

unconcealed admiration upon the sweet face before him, a thought of

warmer colour rushed up to her pale cheeks.

"So this is England," she said, as she looked round with

childlike curiosity at the great hearth, the oak rafters, and the

yokels with their elaborate smocks and jovial, rubicund, British

countenances.

"A bit of it, Mademoiselle," replied Sir Andrew, smiling, "but

all of it, at your service."

The young girl blushed again, but this time a bright smile,

fleet and sweet, illumined her dainty face. She said nothing, and Sir

Andrew too was silent, yet those two young people understood one

another, as young people have a way of doing all the world over, and

have done since the world began.

"But, I say, supper!" here broke in Lord Antony's jovial

voice, "supper, honest Jellyband. Where is that pretty wench of yours

and the dish of soup? Zooks, man, while you stand there gaping at the

ladies, they will faint with hunger."

"One moment! one moment, my lord," said Jellyband, as he

threw open the door that led to the kitchen and shouted lustily:

"Sally! Hey, Sally there, are ye ready, my girl?"

Sally was ready, and the next moment she appeared in the

doorway carrying a gigantic tureen, from which rose a cloud of steam

and an abundance of savoury odour.

"Odd's life, supper at last!" ejaculated Lord Antony, merrily,

as he gallantly offered his arm to the Comtesse.

"May I have the honour?" he added ceremoniously, as he led her

towards the supper table.

There was a general bustle in the coffee-room: Mr. Hempseed

and most of the yokels and fisher-folk had gone to make way for "the

quality," and to finish smoking their pipes elsewhere. Only the two

strangers stayed on, quietly and unconcernedly playing their game of

dominoes and sipping their wine; whilst at another table Harry Waite,

who was fast losing his temper, watched pretty Sally bustling round

the table.

She looked a very dainty picture of English rural life, and no

wonder that the susceptible young Frenchman could scarce take his eyes

off her pretty face. The Vicomte de Tournay was scarce nineteen, a

beardless boy, on whom terrible tragedies which were being enacted in

his own country had made but little impression. He was elegantly and

even foppishly dressed, and once safely landed in England he was

evidently ready to forget the horrors of the Revolution in the

delights of English life.

"Pardi, if zis is England," he said as he continued to ogle

Sally with marked satisfaction, "I am of it satisfied."

It would be impossible at this point to record the exact

exclamation which escaped through Mr. Harry Waite's clenched teeth.

Only respect for "the quality," and notably for my Lord Antony, kept

his marked disapproval of the young foreigner in check.

"Nay, but this IS England, you abandoned young reprobate,"

interposed Lord Antony with a laugh, "and do not, I pray, bring your

loose foreign ways into this most moral country."

Lord Antony had already sat down at the head of the table with

the Comtesse on his right. Jellyband was bustling round, filling

glasses and putting chairs straight. Sally waited, ready to hand

round the soup. Mr. Harry Waite's friends had at last succeeded in

taking him out of the room, for his temper was growing more and more

violent under the Vicomte's obvious admiration for Sally.

"Suzanne," came in stern, commanding accents from the rigid

Comtesse.

Suzanne blushed again; she had lost count of time and of place

whilst she had stood beside the fire, allowing the handsome young

Englishman's eyes to dwell upon her sweet face, and his hand, as if

unconsciously, to rest upon hers. Her mother's voice brought her back

to reality once more, and with a submissive "Yes, Mama," she took her

place at the supper table.

CHAPTER IV THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round

the table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical

good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace

1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who

had just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at

last on the shores of protecting England.

In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their

game; one of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry

company at the table, he adjusted with much with much deliberation his

large triple caped coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all

around him. Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured

the words "All safe!": his companion then, with the alertness borne of

long practice, slipped on to his knees in a moment, and the next had

crept noiselessly under the oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud

"Good-night," quietly walked out of the coffee-room.

Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent

! Mammanoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the coffee-room

behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.

"Alone, at last!" said Lord Antony, jovially.

Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and

with the graceful affection peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft,

and said in broken English,--

"To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for

his hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France."

"His Majesty the King!" echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as

they drank loyally to the toast.

"To His Majesty King Louis of France," added Sir Andrew, with

solemnity. "May God protect him, and give him victory over his

enemies."

Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of

the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people,

seemed to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance.

"And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Antony, merrily.

"May we welcome him in England before many days are over."

"Ah, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand

she conveyed her glass to her lips, "I scarcely dare to hope."

But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the

next few moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally

handed round the plates and everyone began to eat.

"Faith, Madame!" said Lord Antony, after a while, "mine was no

idle toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the

Vicomte safely in England now, surely you must feel reasurred as to

the fate of Monsieur le Comte."

"Ah, Monsieur," replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, "I

trust in God--I can but pray--and hope. . ."

"Aye, Madame!" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, "trust in

God by all means, but believe also a little in your English friends,

who have sworn to bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as

they have brought you to-day."

"Indeed, indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "I have the fullest

confidence in you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has

spread throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends

have escaped from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal

was nothing short of a miracle--and all done by you and your friends--"

"We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse. . ."

"But my husband, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, whilst unshed

tears seemed to veil her voice, "he is in such deadly peril--I would

never have left him, only. . .there were my children. . .I was torn

between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without

me. . .and you and your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband

would be safe. But, oh! now that I am here--amongst you all--in this

beautiful, free England--I think of him, flying for his life, hunted

like a poor beast. . .in such peril. . .Ah! I should not have left

him. . .I should not have left him!. . ."

The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and

emotion had overmastered her rigid, aristocratic bearing. She was

crying gently to herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to

kiss away her tears.

Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the

Comtesse whilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt

deeply for her; their very silence testified to that--but in every

century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has

always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own

sympathy. And so the two young men said nothing, and busied

themselves in trying to hide their feelings, only succeeding in

looking immeasurably sheepish.

"As for me, Monsieur," said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked

through a wealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, "I trust you

absolutely, and I KNOW that you will bring my dear father safely to

England, just as you brought us to-day."

This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and

belief, that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes, and to

bring a smile upon everybody's lips.

"Nay! You shame me, Mademoiselle," replied Sir Andrew;

"though my life is at your service, I have been but a humble tool in

the hands of our great leader, who organised and effected your escape."

He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne's

eyes fastened upon him in undisguised wonder.

"Your leader, Monsieur?" said the Comtesse, eagerly. "Ah! of

course, you must have a leader. And I did not think of that before!

But tell me where is he? I must go to him at once, and I and my

children must throw ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that

he has done for us."

"Alas, Madame!" said Lord Antony, "that is impossible."

"Impossible?--Why?"

"Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark, and his

identity is only known under the solemn oath of secrecy to his

immediate followers."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel?" said Suzanne, with a merry laugh.

"Why! what a droll name! What is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?"

She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young

man's face had become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with

enthusiasm; hero-worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed

literally to glow upon his face. "The Scarlet Pimpernel,

Mademoiselle," he said at last "is the name of a humble English

wayside flower; but it is also the name chosen to hide the identity of

the best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may better

succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set himself to do."

"Ah, yes," here interposed the young Vicomte, "I have heard

speak of this Scarlet Pimpernel. A little flower--red?--yes! They

say in Paris that every time a royalist escapes to England that devil,

Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with that

little flower dessinated in red upon it. . . . Yes?"

"Yes, that is so," assented Lord Antony.

"Then he will have received one such paper to-day?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Oh! I wonder what he will say!" said Suzanne, merrily. "I

have heard that the picture of that little red flower is the only

thing that frightens him."

"Faith, then," said Sir Andrew, "he will have many more

opportunities of studying the shape of that small scarlet flower."

"Ah, monsieur," sighed the Comtesse, "it all sounds like a

romance, and I cannot understand it all."

"Why should you try, Madame?"

"But, tell me, why should your leader--why should you

all--spend your money and risk your lives--for it is your lives you

risk, Messieurs, when you set foot in France--and all for us French

men and women, who are nothing to you?"

"Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport," asserted Lord Antony, with

his jovial, loud and pleasant voice; "we are a nation of sportsmen,

you know, and just now it is the fashion to pull the hare from between

the teeth of the hound."

"Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur. . .you have a more

noble motive, I am sure for the good work you do."

"Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then. . .as for

me, I vow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet

encountered.--Hair-breath escapes. . .the devil's own risks!--Tally

ho!--and away we go!"

But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. To her

it seemed preposterous that these young men and their great leader,

all of them rich, probably wellborn, and young, should for no other

motive than sport, run the terrible risks, which she knew they were

constantly doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in

France, would be no safeguard to them. Anyone found harbouring or

assisting suspected royalists would be ruthlessly condemned and

summarily executed, whatever his nationality might be. And this band

of young Englishmen had, to her own knowledge, bearded the implacable

and bloodthirsty tribunal of the Revolution, within the very walls of

Paris itself, and had snatched away condemned victims, almost from the

very foot of the guillotine. With a shudder, she recalled the events

of the last few days, her escape from Paris with her two children, all

three of them hidden beneath the hood of a rickety cart, and lying

amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst

the mob howled, "A la lanterne les aristos!" at the awful West

Barricade.

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 fellowmen 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 had done that so far, Madame."

"It is wonderful to me, wonderful!--That you should all be so

brave, so devoted to your fellowmen--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, while 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 Comedie Francaise, 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 SOUPCON 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, while 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 auerole 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 every one 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 effusive 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 was 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 she was Sir Percy's wife, and a friend of the

Princess of Wales to boot.

As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their very hearts

seemed to stand still with horror at this gratuitous insult. One of

them uttered an exclamation of appeal, the other one of warning, and

instinctively both glanced hurriedly towards the door, whence a slow,

drawly, not unpleasant voice had already been heard.

Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney and these Comtesse

de Tournay had remained seemingly unmoved. The latter, rigid, erect

and defiant, with one hand still upon her daughter's arm, seemed

the very personification of unbending pride. For the moment Marguerite's

sweet face had become as white as the soft fichu which swathed her throat,

and a very keen observer might have noted that the hand which held the tall,

beribboned stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.

But this was only momentary; the next instant the delicate

eyebrows were raised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically upwards,

the clear blue eyes looked straight at the rigid Comtesse, and with a

slight shrug of the shoulders--

"Hoity-toity, citizeness," she said gaily, "what fly stings you, pray?"

"We are in England now, Madame," rejoined the Comtesse, coldly,

"and I am at liberty to forbid my daughter to touch your hand

in friendship. Come, Suzanne."

She beckoned to her daughter, and without another look at

Marguerite Blakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey to the two

young men, she sailed majestically out of the room.

There was silence in the old inn parlour for a moment, as the

rustle of the Comtesse's skirts died away down the passage.

Marguerite, rigid as a statue followed with hard, set eyes the upright

figure, as it disappeared through the doorway--but as little Suzanne,

humble and obedient, was about to follow her mother, the hard, set

expression suddenly vanished, and a wistful, almost pathetic and

childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney's eyes.

Little Suzanne caught that look; the child's sweet nature went

out to the beautiful woman, scarcely older than herself; filial

obedience vanished before girlish sympathy; at the door she turned,

ran back to Marguerite, and putting her arms round her, kissed her

effusively; then only did she follow her mother, Sally bringing up the

rear, with a final curtsey to my lady.

Suzanne's sweet and dainty impulse had relieved the unpleasant tension.

Sir Andrew's eyes followed the pretty little figure, until it had quite

disappeared, then they met Lady Blakeney's with unassumed merriment.

Marguerite, with dainty affection, had kissed her hand to the

ladies, as they disappeared through the door, then a humorous smile

began hovering round the corners of her mouth.

"So that's it, is it?" she said gaily. "La! Sir Andrew, did

you ever see such an unpleasant person? I hope when I grow old I

sha'n't look like that."

She gathered up her skirts and assuming a majestic gait,

stalked towards the fireplace.

"Suzanne," she said, mimicking the Comtesse's voice, "I forbid

you to speak to that woman!"

The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded perhaps a

trifled forced and hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor Lord Tony were

very keen observers. The mimicry was so perfect, the tone of the

voice so accurately reproduced, that both the young men joined in a

hearty cheerful "Bravo!"

"Ah! Lady Blakeney!" added Lord Tony, "how they must miss you

at the Comedie Francaise, and how the Parisians must hate Sir Percy

for having taken you away."

"Lud, man," rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug of her graceful

shoulders, "`tis impossible to hate Sir Percy for anything; his witty

sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse herself."

The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow his mother in

her dignified exit, now made a step forward, ready to champion the

Comtesse should Lady Blakeney aim any further shafts at her. But

before he could utter a preliminary word of protest, a pleasant though

distinctly inane laugh, was heard from outside, and the next moment an

unusually tall and very richly dressed figure appeared in the doorway.

CHAPTER VI AN EXQUISITE OF '92

Sir Percy Blakeney, as the chronicles of the time inform us,

was in this year of grace 1792, still a year or two on the right side

of thirty. Tall, above the average, even for an Englishman,

broad-shouldered and massively built, he would have been called

unusually good-looking, but for a certain lazy expression in his

deep-set blue eyes, and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to

disfigure his strong, clearly-cut mouth.

It was nearly a year ago now that Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.,

one of the richest men in England, leader of all the fashions, and

intimate friend of the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable

society in London and Bath by bringing home, from one of his journeys

abroad, a beautiful, fascinating, clever, French wife. He, the

sleepiest, dullest, most British Britisher that had ever set a pretty

woman yawning, had secured a brilliant matrimonial prize for which, as

all chroniclers aver, there had been many competitors.

Marguerite St. Just had first made her DEBUT in artistic

Parisian circles, at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval

the world has ever known was taking place within its very walls.

Scarcely eighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent, chaperoned

only by a young and devoted brother, she had soon gathered round her,

in her charming apartment in the Rue Richelieu, a coterie which was as

brilliant as it was exclusive--exclusive, that is to say, only from

one point of view. Marguerite St. Just was from principle and by

conviction a republican--equality of birth was her motto--inequality

of fortune was in her eyes a mere untoward accident, but the only

inequality she admitted was that of talent. "Money and titles may be

hereditary," she would say, "but brains are not," and thus her

charming salon was reserved for originality and intellect, for

brilliance and wit, for clever men and talented women, and the

entrance into it was soon looked upon in the world of intellect--which

even in those days and in those troublous times found its pivot in

Paris--as the seal to an artistic career.

Clever men, distinguished men, and even men of exalted station

formed a perpetual and brilliant court round the fascinating young

actress of the Comedie Francaise, and she glided through republican,

revolutionary, bloodthirsty Paris like a shining comet with a trail

behind her of all that was most distinguished, most interesting, in

intellectual Europe.

Then the climax came. Some smiled indulgently and called it

an artistic eccentricity, others looked upon it as a wise provision,

in view of the many events which were crowding thick and fast in Paris

just then, but to all, the real motive of that climax remained a

puzzle and a mystery. Anyway, Marguerite St. Just married Sir Percy

Blakeney one fine day, just like that, without any warning to her

friends, without a SOIREE DE CONTRAT or DINER DE FIANCAILLES or

other appurtenances of a fashionable French wedding.

How that stupid, dull Englishman ever came to be admitted

within the intellectual circle which revolved round "the cleverest

woman in Europe," as her friends unanimously called her, no one

ventured to guess--golden key is said to open every door, asserted the

more malignantly inclined.

Enough, she married him, and "the cleverest woman in Europe"

had linked her fate to that "demmed idiot" Blakeney, and not even her

most intimate friends could assign to this strange step any other

motive than that of supreme eccentricity. Those friends who knew,

laughed to scorn the idea that Marguerite St. Just had married a fool

for the sake of the worldly advantages with which he might endow her.

They knew, as a matter of fact, that Marguerite St. Just cared nothing

about money, and still less about a title; moreover, there were at

least half a dozen other men in the cosmopolitan world equally

well-born, if not so wealthy as Blakeney, who would have been only too

happy to give Marguerite St. Just any position she might choose to covet.

As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to be

totally unqualified for the onerous post he had taken upon himself.

His chief qualifications for it seemed to consist in his blind

adoration for her, his great wealth and the high favour in which he

stood at the English court; but London society thought that, taking

into consideration his own intellectual limitations, it would have

been wiser on his part had he bestowed those worldly advantages upon a

less brilliant and witty wife.

Although lately he had been so prominent a figure in

fashionable English society, he had spent most of his early life

abroad. His father, the late Sir Algernon Blakeney, had had the

terrible misfortune of seeing an idolized young wife become hopelessly

insane after two years of happy married life. Percy had just been

born when the late Lady Blakeney fell prey to the terrible malady

which in those days was looked upon as hopelessly incurable and

nothing short of a curse of God upon the entire family. Sir Algernon

took his afflicted young wife abroad, and there presumably Percy was

educated, and grew up between an imbecile mother and a distracted

father, until he attained his majority. The death of his parents

following close upon one another left him a free man, and as Sir

Algernon had led a forcibly simple and retired life, the large

Blakeney fortune had increased tenfold.

Sir Percy Blakeney had travelled a great deal abroad, before

he brought home his beautiful, young, French wife. The fashionable

circles of the time were ready to receive them both with open arms;

Sir Percy was rich, his wife was accomplished, the Prince of Wales

took a very great liking to them both. Within six months they were

the acknowledged leaders of fashion and of style. Sir Percy's coats

were the talk of the town, his inanities were quoted, his foolish

laugh copied by the gilded youth at Almack's or the Mall. Everyone

knew that he was hopelessly stupid, but then that was scarcely to be

wondered at, seeing that all the Blakeneys for generations had been

notoriously dull, and that his mother died an imbecile.

Thus society accepted him, petted him, made much of him, since

his horses were the finest in the country, his FETES and wines the

most sought after. As for his marriage with "the cleverest woman in

Europe," well! the inevitable came with sure and rapid footsteps. No

one pitied him, since his fate was of his own making. There were

plenty of young ladies in England, of high birth and good looks, who

would have been quite willing to help him to spend the Blakeney

fortune, whilst smiling indulgently at his inanities and his

good-humoured foolishness. Moreover, Sir Percy got no pity, because

he seemed to require none--he seemed very proud of his clever wife,

and to care little that she took no pains to disguise that

good-natured contempt which she evidently felt for him, and that she

even amused herself by sharpening her ready wits at his expense.

But then Blakeney was really too stupid to notice the ridicule

with which his wife covered him, and if his matrimonial relations with

the fascinating Parisienne had not turned out all that his hopes and

his dog-like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do

more than vaguely guess at it.

In his beautiful house at Richmond he played second fiddle to

his clever wife with imperturbable BONHOMIE; he lavished jewels and

luxuries of all kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace,

dispensing the hospitality of his superb mansion with the same

graciousness with which she had welcomed the intellectual coterie of

Paris.

Physically, Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome--always

excepting the lazy, bored look which was habitual to him. He was

always irreproachable dressed, and wore the exaggerated "Incroyable"

fashions, which had just crept across from Paris to England, with the

perfect good taste innate in an English gentleman. On this special

afternoon in September, in spite of the long journey by coach, in

spite of rain and mud, his coat set irreproachably across his fine

shoulders, his hands looked almost femininely white, as they emerged

through billowy frills of finest Mechline lace: the extravagantly

short-waisted satin coat, wide-lapelled waistcoat, and tight-fitting

striped breeches, set off his massive figure to perfection, and in

repose one might have admired so fine a specimen of English manhood,

until the foppish ways, the affected movements, the perpetual inane

laugh, brought one's admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an abrupt close.

He had lolled into the old-fashioned inn parlour, shaking the

wet off his fine overcoat; then putting up a gold-rimmed eye-glass to

his lazy blue eye, he surveyed the company, upon whom an embarrassed

silence had suddenly fallen.

"How do, Tony? How do, Ffoulkes?" he said, recognizing the

two young men and shaking them by the hand. "Zounds, my dear fellow,"

he added, smothering a slight yawn, "did you ever see such a beastly day?

Demmed climate this."

With a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half of sarcasm,

Marguerite had turned towards her husband, and was surveying him from

head to foot, with an amused little twinkle in her merry blue eyes.

"La!" said Sir Percy, after a moment or two's silence, as no

one offered any comment, "how sheepish you all look. . .What's up?"

"Oh, nothing, Sir Percy," replied Marguerite, with a certain

amount of gaiety, which, however, sounded somewhat forced,

"nothing to disturb your equanimity--only an insult to your wife."

The laugh which accompanied this remark was evidently intended to

reassure Sir Percy as to the gravity of the incident. It apparently

succeeded in that, for echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly--

"La, m'dear! you don't say so. Begad! who was the bold man

who dared to tackle you--eh?"

Lord Tony tried to interpose, but had no time to do so, for

the young Vicomte had already quickly stepped forward.

"Monsieur," he said, prefixing his little speech with an

elaborate bow, and speaking in broken English, "my mother, the

Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, has offenced Madame, who, I see, is

your wife. I cannot ask your pardon for my mother; what she does is

right in my eyes. But I am ready to offer you the usual reparation

between men of honour."

The young man drew up his slim stature to its full height and

looked very enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot as he gazed at six

foot odd of gorgeousness, as represented by Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart.

"Lud, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite, with one of her merry

infectious laughs, "look on that pretty picture--the English turkey

and the French bantam."

The simile was quite perfect, and the English turkey looked

down with complete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam,

which hovered quite threateningly around him.

"La! sir," said Sir Percy at last, putting up his eye glass

and surveying the young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, "where,

in the cuckoo's name, did you learn to speak English?"

"Monsieur!" protested the Vicomte, somewhat abashed at the way

his warlike attitude had been taken by the ponderous-looking Englishman.

"I protest `tis marvellous!" continued Sir Percy,

imperturbably, "demmed marvellous! Don't you think so, Tony--eh?

I vow I can't speak the French lingo like that. What?"

"Nay, I'll vouch for that!" rejoined Marguerite, "Sir Percy

has a British accent you could cut with a knife."

"Monsieur," interposed the Vicomte earnestly, and in still

more broken English, "I fear you have not understand. I offer you the

only posseeble reparation among gentlemen."

"What the devil is that?" asked Sir Percy, blandly.

"My sword, Monsieur," replied the Vicomte, who, though still

bewildered, was beginning to lose his temper.

"You are a sportsman, Lord Tony," said Marguerite, merrily;

"ten to one on the little bantam."

But Sir Percy was staring sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment

or two, through his partly closed heavy lids, then he smothered

another yawn, stretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away.

"Lud love you, sir," he muttered good-humouredly. "demmit,

young man, what's the good of your sword to me?"

What the Vicomte thought and felt at that moment, when that

long-limbed Englishman treated him with such marked insolence, might

fill volumes of sound reflections. . . . What he said resolved itself

into a single articulate word, for all the others were choked in his

throat by his surging wrath--

"A duel, Monsieur," he stammered.

Once more Blakeney turned, and from his high altitude looked

down on the choleric little man before him; but not even for a second

did he seem to lose his own imperturbable good-humour. He laughed his

own pleasant and inane laugh, and burying his slender, long hands into

the capacious pockets of his overcoat, he said leisurely--a

bloodthirsty young ruffian, Do you want to make a hole in a

law-abiding man?. . .As for me, sir, I never fight duels," he added,

as he placidly sat down and stretched his long, lazy legs out before him.

"Demmed uncomfortable things, duels, ain't they, Tony?"

Now the Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in England the

fashion of duelling amongst gentlemen had been surpressed by the law

with a very stern hand; still to him, a Frenchman, whose notions of

bravery and honour were based upon a code that had centuries of

tradition to back it, the spectacle of a gentleman actually refusing

to fight a duel was a little short of an enormity. In his mind he

vaguely pondered whether he should strike that long-legged Englishman

in the face and call him a coward, or whether such conduct in a lady's

presence might be deemed ungentlemanly, when Marguerite happily interposed.

"I pray you, Lord Tony," she said in that gentle, sweet,

musical voice of hers, "I pray you play the peacemaker. The child is

bursting with rage, and," she added with a SOUPCON of dry sarcasm,

"might do Sir Percy an injury." She laughed a mocking little laugh,

which, however, did not in the least disturb her husband's placid

equanimity. "The British turkey has had the day," she said.

"Sir Percy would provoke all the saints in the calendar and keep

his temper the while."

But already Blakeney, good-humoured as ever, had joined in the

laugh against himself.

"Demmed smart that now, wasn't it?" he said, turning

pleasantly to the Vicomte. "Clever woman my wife, sir. . . . You

will find THAT out if you live long enough in England."

"Sir Percy is right, Vicomte," here interposed Lord Antony,

laying a friendly hand on the young Frenchman's shoulder. "It would

hardly be fitting that you should commence your career in England by

provoking him to a duel."

For a moment longer the Vicomte hesitated, then with a slight shrug of

the shoulders directed against the extraordinary code of honour prevailing

in this fog-ridden island, he said with becoming dignity,--

"Ah, well! if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs. You

mi'lor', are our protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself."

"Aye, do!" rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of

satisfaction, "withdraw yourself over there. Demmed excitable little

puppy," he added under his breath, "Faith, Ffoulkes, if that's a

specimen of the goods you and your friends bring over from France, my

advice to you is, drop `em `mid Channel, my friend, or I shall have to

see old Pitt about it, get him to clap on a prohibitive tariff, and

put you in the stocks an you smuggle."

"La, Sir Percy, your chivalry misguides you," said Marguerite,

coquettishly, "you forget that you yourself have imported one bundle

of goods from France."

Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and, making a deep and

elaborate bow before his wife, he said with consummate gallantry,--

"I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my taste is unerring."

"More so than your chivalry, I fear," she retorted sarcastically.

"Odd's life, m'dear! be reasonable! Do you think I am going

to allow my body to be made a pincushion of, by every little

frog-eater who don't like the shape of your nose?"

"Lud, Sir Percy!" laughed Lady Blakeney as she bobbed him a

quaint and pretty curtsey, "you need not be afraid! `Tis not the

MEN who dislike the shape of my nose."

"Afraid be demmed! Do you impugn my bravery, Madame? I don't

patronise the ring for nothing, do I, Tony? I've put up the fists with

Red Sam before now, and--and he didn't get it all his own way either--"

"S'faith, Sir Percy," said Marguerite, with a long and merry

laugh, that went enchoing along the old oak rafters of the parlour, "I

would I had seen you then. . .ha! ha! ha! ha!--you must have looked

a pretty picture. . . .and. . .and to be afraid of a little French

boy. . .ha! ha!. . .ha! ha!"

"Ha! ha! ha! he! he! he!" echoed Sir Percy, good-humouredly.

"La, Madame, you honour me! Zooks! Ffoulkes, mark ye that!

I have made my wife laugh!--The cleverest woman in Europe!. . .Odd's

fish, we must have a bowl on that!" and he tapped vigorously on the

table near him. "Hey! Jelly! Quick, man! Here, Jelly!"

Harmony was once more restored. Mr. Jellyband, with a mighty

effort, recovered himself from the many emotions he had experienced

within the last half hour. "A bowl of punch, Jelly, hot and strong,

eh?" said Sir Percy. "The wits that have just made a clever woman

laugh must be whetted! Ha! ha! ha! Hasten, my good Jelly!"

"Nay, there is no time, Sir Percy," interposed Marguerite.

"The skipper will be here directly and my brother must get on board,

or the DAY DREAM will miss the tide."

"Time, m'dear? There is plenty of time for any gentleman to

get drunk and get on board before the turn of the tide."

"I think, your ladyship," said Jellyband, respectfully, "that

the young gentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy's skipper."

"That's right," said Blakeney, "then Armand can join us in the

merry bowl. Think you, Tony," he added, turning towards the Vicomte,

"that the jackanapes of yours will join us in a glass? Tell him that

we drink in token of reconciliation."

"In fact you are all such merry company," said Marguerite,

"that I trust you will forgive me if I bid my brother good-bye in

another room."

It would have been bad form to protest. Both Lord Antony and

Sir Andrew felt that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune

with them at the moment. Her love for her brother, Armand St. Just,

was deep and touching in the extreme. He had just spent a few weeks with

her in her English home, and was going back to serve his country, at the

moment when death was the usual reward for the most enduring devotion.

Sir Percy also made no attempt to detain his wife. With that

perfect, somewhat affected gallantry which characterised his every

movement, he opened the coffee-room door for her, and made her the

most approved and elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time

dictated, as she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him more

than a passing, slightly contemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes, whose every thought since he had met Suzanne de Tournay

seemed keener, more gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the

curious look of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion, with

which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the retreating figure

of his brilliant wife.

CHAPTER VII THE SECRET ORCHARD

Once outside the noisy coffee-room, along in the dimly-lighted

passage, Marguerite Blakeney seemed to breathe more freely. She

heaved a deep sigh, like one who had long been oppressed with the

heavy weight of constant self-control, and she allowed a few tears to

fall unheeded down her cheeks.

Outside the rain had ceased, and through the swiftly passing

clouds, the pale rays of an after-storm sun shone upon the beautiful

white coast of Kent and the quaint, irregular houses that clustered

round the Admiralty Pier. Marguerite Blakeney stepped on to the porch

and looked out to sea. Silhouetted against the ever-changing sky, a

graceful schooner, with white sails set, was gently dancing in the

breeze. The DAY DREAM it was, Sir Percy Blakeney's yacht, which was

ready to take Armand St. Just back to France into the very midst of

that seething, bloody Revolution which was overthrowing a monarchy,

attacking a religion, destroying a society, in order to try and

rebuild upon the ashes of tradition a new Utopia, of which a few men

dreamed, but which none had the power to establish.

In the distance two figures were approaching "The Fisherman's

Rest": one, an oldish man, with a curious fringe of grey hairs round a

rotund and massive chin, and who walked with that peculiar rolling

gait which invariably betrays the seafaring man: the other, a young,

slight figure, neatly and becomingly dressed in a dark, many caped

overcoat; he was clean-shaved, and his dark hair was taken well back

over a clear and noble forehead.

"Armand!" said Marguerite Blakeney, as soon as she saw him

approaching from the distance, and a happy smile shone on her sweet

face, even through the tears.

A minute or two later brother and sister were locked in each

other's arms, while the old skipper stood respectfully on one side.

"How much time have we got, Briggs?" asked Lady Blakeney,

"before M. St. Just need go on board?"

"We ought to weigh anchor before half an hour, your ladyship,"

replied the old man, pulling at his grey forelock.

Linking her arm in his, Marguerite led her brother towards the cliffs.

"Half an hour," she said, looking wistfully out to sea, "half

an hour more and you'll be far from me, Armand! Oh! I can't believe

that you are going, dear! These last few days--whilst Percy has been

away, and I've had you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream."

"I am not going far, sweet one," said the young man gently, "a

narrow channel to cross-a few miles of road--I can soon come back."

"Nay, `tis not the distance, Armand--but that awful Paris. . .

just now. . ."

They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle sea-breeze

blew Marguerite's hair about her face, and sent the ends of her soft

lace fichu waving round her, like a white and supple snake. She tried

to pierce the distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of

France: that relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound

of flesh, the blood-tax from the noblest of her sons.

"Our own beautiful country, Marguerite," said Armand, who

seemed to have divined her thoughts.

"They are going too far, Armand," she said vehemently. "You

are a republican, so am I. . .we have the same thoughts, the same

enthusiasm for liberty and equality. . .but even YOU must think that

they are going too far. . ."

"Hush!--" said Armand, instinctively, as he threw a quick,

apprehensive glance around him.

"Ah! you see: you don't think yourself that it is safe even to

speak of these things--here in England!" She clung to him suddenly

with strong, almost motherly, passion: "Don't go, Armand!" she begged;

"don't go back! What should I do if. . .if. . .if. . ."

Her voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue and

loving, gazed appealingly at the young man, who in his turn looked

steadfastly into hers.

"You would in any case be my own brave sister," he said

gently, "who would remember that, when France is in peril, it is not

for her sons to turn their backs on her."

Even as he spoke, that sweet childlike smile crept back into

her face, pathetic in the extreme, for it seemed drowned in tears.

"Oh! Armand!" she said quaintly, "I sometimes wish you had

not so many lofty virtues. . . . I assure you little sins are far

less dangerous and uncomfortable. But you WILL be prudent?" she

added earnestly.

"As far as possible. . .I promise you."

"Remember, dear, I have only you. . .to. . .to care for me. . . ."

"Nay, sweet one, you have other interests now. Percy cares

for you. . . ."

A look of strange wistfulness crept into her eyes as she murmured,--

"He did. . .once. . ."

"But surely. . ."

"There, there, dear, don't distress yourself on my account.

Percy is very good. . ."

"Nay!" he interrupted energetically, "I will distress myself

on your account, my Margot. Listen, dear, I have not spoken of these

things to you before; something always seemed to stop me when I wished

to question you. But, somehow, I feel as if I could not go away and

leave you now without asking you one question. . . . You need not

answer it if you do not wish," he added, as he noted a sudden hard

look, almost of apprehension, darting through her eyes.

"What is it?" she asked simply.

"Does Sir Percy Blakeney know that. . .I mean, does he know

the part you played in the arrest of the Marquis de St. Cyr?"

She laughed--a mirthless, bitter, contemptuous laugh, which

was like a jarring chord in the music of her voice.

"That I denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr, you mean, to the

tribunal that ultimately sent him and all his family to the

guillotine? Yes, he does know. . . . . I told him after I married

him. . . ."

"You told him all the circumstances--which so completely

exonerated you from any blame?"

"It was too late to talk of `circumstances'; he heard the

story from other sources; my confession came too tardily, it seems. I

could no longer plead extenuating circumstances: I could not demean

myself by trying to explain--"

"And?"

"And now I have the satisfaction, Armand, of knowing that the

biggest fool in England has the most complete contempt for his wife."

She spoke with vehement bitterness this time, and Armand St.

Just, who loved her so dearly, felt that he had placed a somewhat

clumsy finger upon an aching wound.

"But Sir Percy loved you, Margot," he repeated gently.

"Loved me?--Well, Armand, I thought at one time that he did,

or I should not have married him. I daresay," she added, speaking

very rapidly, as if she were about to lay down a heavy burden, which

had oppressed her for months, "I daresay that even you thought-as

everybody else did--that I married Sir Percy because of his

wealth--but I assure you, dear, that it was not so. He seemed to

worship me with a curious intensity of concentrated passion, which

went straight to my heart. I had never loved any one before, as you

know, and I was four-and-twenty then--so I naturally thought that it

was not in my nature to love. But it has always seemed to me that it

MUST be HEAVENLY to be loved blindly, passionately, wholly. . .

worshipped, in fact--and the very fact that Percy was slow and stupid

was an attraction for me, as I thought he would love me all the more.

A clever man would naturally have other interests, an ambitious man

other hopes. . . . I thought that a fool would worship, and think of

nothing else. And I was ready to respond, Armand; I would have

allowed myself to be worshipped, and given infinite tenderness in

return. . . ."

She sighed--and there was a world of disillusionment in that

sigh. Armand St. Just had allowed her to speak on without

interruption: he listened to her, whilst allowing his own thoughts to

run riot. It was terrible to see a young and beautiful woman--a girl

in all but name--still standing almost at the threshold of her life,

yet bereft of hope, bereft of illusions, bereft of all those golden

and fantastic dreams, which should have made her youth one long,

perpetual holiday.

Yet perhaps--though he loved his sister dearly--perhaps he

understood: he had studied men in many countries, men of all ages, men

of every grade of social and intellectual status, and inwardly he

understood what Marguerite had left unsaid. Granted that Percy

Blakeney was dull-witted, but in his slow-going mind, there would

still be room for that ineradicable pride of a descendant of a long

line of English gentlemen. A Blakeney had died on Bosworth field,

another had sacrified life and fortune for the sake of a treacherous

Stuart: and that same pride--foolish and prejudiced as the republican

Armand would call it--must have been stung to the quick on hearing of

the sin which lay at Lady Blakeney's door. She had been young,

misguided, ill-advised perhaps. Armand knew that: her impulses and

imprudence, knew it still better; but Blakeney was slow-witted, he

would not listen to "circumstances," he only clung to facts, and these

had shown him Lady Blakeney denouncing a fellow man to a tribunal that

knew no pardon: and the contempt he would feel for the deed she had

done, however unwittingly, would kill that same love in him, in which

sympathy and intellectuality could never had a part.

Yet even now, his own sister puzzled him. Life and love have

such strange vagaries. Could it be that with the waning of her

husband's love, Marguerite's heart had awakened with love for him?

Strange extremes meet in love's pathway: this woman, who had had half

intellectual Europe at her feet, might perhaps have set her affections

on a fool. Marguerite was gazing out towards the sunset. Armand

could not see her face, but presently it seemed to him that something

which glittered for a moment in the golden evening light, fell from

her eyes onto her dainty fichu of lace.

But he could not broach that subject with her. He knew her

strange, passionate nature so well, and knew that reserve which lurked

behind her frank, open ways.

The had always been together, these two, for their parents had

died when Armand was still a youth, and Marguerite but a child. He,

some eight years her senior, had watched over her until her marriage;

had chaperoned her during those brilliant years spent in the flat of

the Rue de Richelieu, and had seen her enter upon this new life of

hers, here in England, with much sorrow and some foreboding.

This was his first visit to England since her marriage, and

the few months of separation had already seemed to have built up a

slight, thin partition between brother and sister; the same deep,

intense love was still there, on both sides, but each now seemed to

have a secret orchard, into which the other dared not penetrate.

There was much Armand St. Just could not tell his sister; the

political aspect of the revolution in France was changing almost every

day; she might not understand how his own views and sympathies might

become modified, even as the excesses, committed by those who had been

his friends, grew in horror and in intensity. And Marguerite could

not speak to her brother about the secrets of her heart; she hardly

understood them herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury,

she felt lonely and unhappy.

And now Armand was going away; she feared for his safety, she

longed for his presence. She would not spoil these last few

sadly-sweet moments by speaking about herself. She led him gently

along the cliffs, then down to the beach; their arms linked in one

another's, they had still so much to say that lay just outside that

secret orchard of theirs.

CHAPTER VIII THE ACCREDITED AGENT

The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long,

chilly English summer's evening was throwing a misty pall over the

green Kentish landscape.

The DAY DREAM had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood

alone on the edge of the cliff over an hour, watching those white

sails, which bore so swiftly away from her the only being who really

cared for her, whom she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.

Some little distance away to her left the lights from the

coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" glittered yellow in the

gathering mist; from time to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if

she could catch from thence the sound of merry-making and of jovial

talk, or even that perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband's, which

grated continually upon her sensitive ears.

Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely alone.

She supposed that, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have

understood that she would wish to remain alone, while those white

sails disappeared into the vague horizon, so many miles away. He,

whose notions of propriety and decorum were supersensitive, had not

suggested even that an attendant should remain within call.

Marguerite was grateful to her husband for all this; she always tried

to be grateful to him for his thoughtfulness, which was constant, and

for his generosity, which really was boundless. She tried even at

times to curb the sarcastic, bitter thoughts of him, which made

her--in spite of herself--say cruel, insulting things, which she

vaguely hoped would wound him.

Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him feel that she

too held him in contempt, that she too had forgotten that she had

almost loved him. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts seemed unable

to soar beyond the tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. Bah!

And yet!. . .vague memories, that were sweet and ardent and attuned to

this calm summer's evening, came wafted back to her memory, on the

invisible wings of the light sea-breeze: the tie when first he

worshipped her; he seemed so devoted--a very slave--and there was a

certain latent intensity in that love which had fascinated her.

Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which throughout his

courtship she had looked upon as the slavish fidelity of a dog, seemed

to vanish completely. Twenty-four hours after the simple little

ceremony at old St. Roch, she had told him the story of how,

inadvertently, she had spoken of certain matters connected with the

Marquis de St. Cyr before some men--her friends--who had used this

information against the unfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his

family to the guillotine.

She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear brother,

loved Angele de St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian, and the Marquis

full of the pride and arrogant prejudices of his caste. One day

Armand, the respectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small

poem--enthusiastic, ardent, passionate--to the idol of his dreams.

The next night he was waylaid just outside Paris by the valets of

Marquis de St. Cyr, and ignominiously thrashed--thrashed like a dog

within an inch of his life--because he had dared to raise his eyes to

the daughter of the aristocrat. The incident was one which, in those

days, some two years before the great Revolution, was of almost daily

occurrence in France; incidents of that type, in fact, led to bloody

reprisals, which a few years later sent most of those haughty heads to

the guillotine.

Marguerite remembered it all: what her brother must have

suffered in his manhood and his pride must have been appalling; what

she suffered through him and with him she never attempted even to

analyse.

Then the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and his kin had

found their masters, in those same plebeians whom they had despised.

Armand and Marguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted

with the enthusiasm of their years the Utopian doctrines of the

Revolution, while the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family fought inch by

inch for the retention of those privileges which had placed them

socially above their fellow-men. Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless,

not calculating the purport of her words, still smarting under the

terrible insult her brother had suffered at the Marquis' hands,

happened to hear--amongst her own coterie--that the St. Cyrs were in

treasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to obtain the

Emperor's support to quell the growing revolution in their own

country.

In those days one denunciation was sufficient: Marguerite's

few thoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr bore fruit within

twenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched:

letters from the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against

the Paris populace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned for

treason against the nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his

family, his wife and his sons, shared in this awful fate.

Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her own

thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: his own coterie,

the leaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a

heroine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps

altogether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she

had so inadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her

soul. She made full confession of it to her husband, trusting his

blind love for her, her boundless power over him, to soon make him

forget what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear.

Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly;

hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she

said; but what was more certain still, was that never after that could

she detect the slightest sign of that love, which she once believed

had been wholly hers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy

seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting

glove. She tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his

dull intellect; endeavouring to excite his jealousy, if she could not

rouse his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain.

He remained the same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always

courteous, invariably a gentleman: she had all that the world and a

wealthy husband can give to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful

summer's evening, with the white sails of the DAY DREAM finally

hidden by the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor

tramp who plodded his way wearily along the rugged cliffs.

With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back

upon the sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back towards "The

Fisherman's Rest." As she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay,

jovial laughter, grew louder and more distinct. She could distinguish

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws,

her husband's occasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the

loneliness of the road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she

quickened her steps. . .the next moment she perceived a stranger

coming rapidly towards her. Marguerite did not look up: she was not

the least nervous, and "The Fisherman's Rest" was now well within call.

The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly

towards him, and just as she was about to slip past him, he said very

quietly:

"Citoyenne St. Just."

Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment, at thus

hearing her own familiar maiden name uttered so close to her. She

looked up at the stranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned

pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively towards him.

"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed.

"Himself, citoyenne, at your service," said the stranger,

gallantly kissing the tips of her fingers.

Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed

with obvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before

her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty--a clever,

shrewd-looking personality, with a curious fox-like expression in the

deep, sunken eyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two

previously had joined Mr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.

"Chauvelin. . .my friend. . ." said Marguerite, with a pretty

little sigh of satisfaction. "I am mightily pleased to see you."

No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in the midst of her

grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy to see a face that

brought back memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned--a

queen--over the intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did

not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the

thin lips of Chauvelin.

"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world, or whom

in the world, are you doing here in England?"

"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady," he said.

"What of yourself?"

"Oh, I?" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "Je m'ennuie,

mon ami, that is all."

They had reached the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest," but

Marguerite seemed loth to go within. The evening air was lovely after

the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath of Paris,

who knew Armand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant

friends whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty

porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the

coffee-room sounds of laughter, of calls for "Sally" and for beer, of

tapping of mugs, and clinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy

Blakeney's inane and mirthless laugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his

shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face, which looked so

sweet and childlike in this soft English summer twilight.

"You surprise me, citoyenne," he said quietly, as he took a

pinch of snuff.

"Do I now?" she retorted gaily. "Faith, my little Chauvelin,

I should have thought that, with your penetration, you would have

guessed that an atmosphere composed of fogs and virtues would never

suit Marguerite St. Just."

"Dear me! is it as bad as that?" he asked, in mock consternation.

"Quite," she retorted, "and worse."

"Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman would have found

English country life peculiarly attractive."

"Yes! so did I," she said with a sigh, "Pretty women," she

added meditatively, "ought to have a good time in England, since all

the pleasant things are forbidden them--the very things they do every

day."

"Quite so!"

"You'll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin," she said

earnestly, "but I often pass a whole day--a whole day--without

encountering a single temptation."

"No wonder," retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, "that the

cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ENNUI."

She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike laughs.

"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?" she asked archly, "or I

should not have been so pleased to see you."

"And this within a year of a romantic love match. . .that's

just the difficulty. . ."

"Ah!. . .that idyllic folly," said Chauvelin, with quiet

sarcasm, "did not then survive the lapse of. . .weeks?"

"Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin. . .They come

upon us like the measles. . .and are as easily cured."

Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much

addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days;

perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for

disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove to read the

very souls of those with whom he came in contact.

"No wonder," he repeated, with the same gallantry, "that the

most active brain in Europe is troubled with ENNUI."

"I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the

malady, my little Chauvelin."

"How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney

has failed to accomplish?"

"Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present,

my dear friend? she said drily.

"Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot

very well do," said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as

those of a fox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. "I

have a most perfect prescription against the worst form of ENNUI,

which I would have been happy to submit to you, but--"

"But what?"

"There IS Sir Percy."

"What has he to do with it?"

"Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription I would

offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!"

"Work?"

Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It

seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of

her thoughts. They were alone together; the evening air was quite

still, and their soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came

from the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took as step or two from under

the porch, looked quickly and keenly all round him, then seeing that

indeed no one was within earshot, he once more came back close to

Marguerite.

"Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?" he asked,

with a sudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face a

singular earnestness.

"La, man!" she replied flippantly, "how serious you look all

of a sudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I WOULD render France a

small service--at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service

she--or you--want."

"Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St.

Just?" asked Chauvelin, abruptly.

"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?" she retorted with a long and

merry laugh, "Faith man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats

'a la Scarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called `Scarlet Pimpernel';

at the Prince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a `souffle

a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'. . .Lud!" she added gaily, "the other day I

ordered at my milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me,

if she did not call that `a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he

did not even attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her

childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air. But he

remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear,

incisive, and hard, was not raised above his breath as he said,--

"Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage,

citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and know, that the man who

hides his identity under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter

enemy of our republic, of France. . .of men like Armand St. Just."

"La!.." she said, with a quaint little sigh, "I dare swear he

is. . . . France has many bitter enemies these days."

"But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be

ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril."

"My brother Armand devotes his life to France," she retorted

proudly; "as for me, I can do nothing. . .here in England. . . ."

"Yes, you. . ." he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin

fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of

dignity, "here, in England, citoyenne. . .you alone can help us. . . .

Listen!--I have been sent over here by the Republican Government as

its representative: I present my credentials to Mr. Pitt in London

to-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League

of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to

France, since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats--traitors

to their country, and enemies of the people--to escape from the just

punishment which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne,

that once they are over here, those French EMIGRES try to rouse

public feeling against the Republic. . .They are ready to join issue

with any enemy bold enough to attack France. . .Now, within the last

month scores of these EMIGRES, some only suspected of treason,

others actually condemned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have

succeeded in crossing the Channel. Their escape in each instance was

planned, organized and effected by this society of young English

jackanapes, headed by a man whose brain seems as resourceful as his

identity is mysterious. All the most strenuous efforts on the part of

my spies have failed to discover who he is; whilst the others are the

hands, he is the head, who beneath this strange anonymity calmly works

at the destruction of France. I mean to strike at that head, and for

this I want your help--through him afterwards I can reach the rest of

the gang: he is a young buck in English society, of that I feel sure.

Find that man for me, citoyenne!" he urged, "find him for France."

Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned speech

without uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to

breathe. She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance

was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged; already, before

this, her heart and her imagination had stirred by the thought of the

brave man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a

terrible, often an unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy

with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of

caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an

example; but republican and liberal-minded though she was from

principle, she hated and loathed the methods which the young Republic

had chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in Paris for

some months; the horrors and bloodshed of the Reign of Terror,

culminating in the September massacres, had only come across the

Channel to her as a faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had

not known in their new guise of bloody judiciaries, merciless wielders

of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled in horror from these

excesses, to which she feared her brother Armand--moderate republican

as he was--might become one day the holocaust.

Then, when first she heard of this band of young English

enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellowmen, dragged women and

children, old and young men, from a horrible death, her heart had

glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul

went out to the gallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little

band, who risked his life daily, who gave it freely and without

ostentation, for the sake of humanity.

Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished speaking, the

lace at her bosom rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing; she

no longer heard the noise of drinking from the inn, she did not heed

her husband's voice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone

wandering in search of the mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she

might have loved, had he come her way: everything in him appealed to

her romantic imagination; his personality, his strength, his bravery,

the loyalty of those who served under him in that same noble cause,

and, above all, that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo of

romantic glory.

"Find him for France, citoyenne!"

Chauvelin's voice close to her ear roused her from her dreams.

The mysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her,

a man was drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and

loyalty.

"La! man," she said with a return of her assumed flippancy,

"you are astonishing. Where in the world am I to look for him?"

"You go everywhere, citoyenne," whispered Chauvelin,

insinuatingly, "Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am

told. . .you see everything, you HEAR everything."

"Easy, my friend," retorted Marguerite, drawing, herself up to

her full height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on

the small, thin figure before her. "Easy! you seem to forget that

there are six feet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors

to stand between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose."

"For the sake of France, citoyenne!" reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly.

"Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway; for even if you did know who this

Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him--an Englishman!"

"I'd take my chance of that," said Chauvelin, with a dry,

rasping little laugh. "At any rate we could send him to the

guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic

fuss about it, we can apologise--humbly--to the British Government,

and, if necessary, pay compensation to the bereaved family."

"What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin," she said, drawing

away from him as from some noisome insect. "Whoever the man may be,

he is brave and noble, and never--do you hear me?--never would I lend

a hand to such villiany."

"You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who

comes to this country?"

Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft.

Marguerite's fresh young cheeks became a thought more pale and she bit

her under lip, for she would not let him see that the shaft had struck

home.

"That is beside the question," she said at last with

indifference. "I can defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work

for you--or for France. You have other means at your disposal; you

must use them, my friend."

And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney

turned her back on him and walked straight into the inn.

"That is not your last word, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, as a

flood of light from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad

figure, "we meet in London, I hope!"

"We meet in London," she said, speaking over her shoulder at

him, "but that is my last word."

She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared from his

view, but he remained under the porch for a moment or two, taking a

pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd,

fox-like face looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the

contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played

around the corners of his thin lips.

CHAPTER IX THE OUTRAGE

A beautiful starlit night had followed on the day of incessant

rain: a cool, balmy, late summer's night, essentially English in its

suggestion of moisture and scent of wet earth and dripping leaves.

The magnificent coach, drawn by four of the finest

thoroughbreds in England, had driven off along the London road, with

Sir Percy Blakeney on the box, holding the reins in his slender

feminine hands, and beside him Lady Blakeney wrapped in costly furs.

A fifty-mile drive on a starlit summer's night! Marguerite had hailed

the notion of it with delight. . . . Sir Percy was an enthusiastic

whip; his four thoroughbreds, which had been sent down to Dover a

couple of days before, were just sufficiently fresh and restive to add

zest to the expedition and Marguerite revelled in anticipation of the

few hours of solitude, with the soft night breeze fanning her cheeks,

her thoughts wandering, whither away? She knew from old experience

that Sir Percy would speak little, if at all: he had often driven her

on his beautiful coach for hours at night, from point to point,

without making more than one or two casual remarks upon the weather or

the state of the roads. He was very fond of driving by night, and she

had very quickly adopted his fancy: as she sat next to him hour after

hour, admiring the dexterous, certain way in which he handled the

reins, she often wondered what went on in that slow-going head of his.

He never told her, and she had never cared to ask.

At "The Fisherman's Rest" Mr. Jellyband was going the round,

putting out the lights. His bar customers had all gone, but upstairs

in the snug little bedrooms, Mr. Jellyband had quite a few important

guests: the Comtesse de Tournay, with Suzannne, and the Vicomte, and

there were two more bedrooms ready for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord

Antony Dewhurst, if the two young men should elect to honour the

ancient hostelry and stay the night.

For the moment these two young gallants were comfortably installed in

the coffee-room, before the huge log-fire, which, in spite of the

mildness of the evening, had been allowed to burn merrily.

"I say, Jelly, has everyone gone?" asked Lord Tony, as the

worthy landlord still busied himself clearing away glasses and mugs.

"Everyone, as you see, my lord."

"And all your servants gone to bed?"

"All except the boy on duty in the bar, and," added Mr. Jellyband

with a laugh, "I expect he'll be asleep afore long, the rascal."

"Then we can talk here undisturbed for half an hour?"

"At your service, my lord. . . . I'll leave your candles on

the dresser. . .and your rooms are quite ready. . .I sleep at the top

of the house myself, but if your lordship'll only call loudly enough,

I daresay I shall hear."

"All right, Jelly. . .and. . .I say, put the lamp out--the fire'll give

us all the light we need--and we don't want to attract the passer-by."

"Al ri', my lord."

Mr. Jellyband did as he was bid--he turned out the quaint old

lamp that hung from the raftered ceiling and blew out all the candles.

"Let's have a bottle of wine, Jelly," suggested Sir Andrew.

"Al ri', sir!"

Jellyband went off to fetch the wine. The room now was quite

dark, save for the circle of ruddy and fitful light formed by the

brightly blazing logs in the hearth.

"Is that all, gentlemen?" asked Jellyband, as he returned with a

bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, which he placed on the table.

"That'll do nicely, thanks, Jelly!" said Lord Tony.

"Good-night, my lord! Good-night, sir!"

"Good-night, Jelly!"

The two young men listened, whilst the heavy tread of Mr.

Jellyband was heard echoing along the passage and staircase.

Presently even that sound died out, and the whole of "The Fisherman's

Rest" seemed wrapt in sleep, save the two young men drinking in

silence beside the hearth.

For a while no sound was heard, even in the coffee-room, save

the ticking of the old grandfather's clock and the crackling of the

burning wood.

"All right again this time, Ffoulkes?" asked Lord Antony at last.

Sir Andrew had been dreaming evidently, gazing into the fire,

and seeing therein, no doubt, a pretty, piquant face, with large brown

eyes and a wealth of dark curls round a childish forehead.

"Yes!" he said, still musing, "all right!"

"No hitch?"

"None."

Lord Antony laughed pleasantly as he poured himself out

another glass of wine.

"I need not ask, I suppose, whether you found the journey

pleasant this time?"

"No, friend, you need not ask," replied Sir Andrew, gaily.

"It was all right."

"Then here's to her very good health," said jovial Lord Tony.

"She's a bonnie lass, though she IS a French one. And here's to

your courtship--may it flourish and prosper exceedingly."

He drained his glass to the last drop, then joined his friend

beside the hearth.

"Well! you'll be doing the journey next, Tony, I expect,"

said Sir Andrew, rousing himself from his meditations, "you and

Hastings, certainly; and I hope you may have as pleasant a task as I

had, and as charming a travelling companion. You have no idea,

Tony. . . ."

"No! I haven't," interrupted his friend pleasantly, "but I'll

take your word for it. And now," he added, whilst a sudden

earnestness crept over his jovial young face, "how about business?"

The two young men drew their chairs closer together, and

instinctively, though they were alone, their voices sank to a whisper.

"I saw the Scarlet Pimpernel alone, for a few moments in

Calais," said Sir Andrew, "a day or two ago. He crossed over to

England two days before we did. He had escorted the party all the way

from Paris, dressed--you'll never credit it!--as an old market woman,

and driving--until they were safely out of the city--the covered cart,

under which the Comtesse de Tournay, Mlle. Suzanne, and the Vicomte

lay concealed among the turnips and cabbages. They, themselves, of

course, never suspected who their driver was. He drove them right

through a line of soldiery and a yelling mob, who were screaming, `A

bas les aristos!' But the market cart got through along with some

others, and the Scarlet Pimpernel, in shawl, petticoat and hood,

yelled `A bas les aristos!' louder than anybody. Faith!" added the

young man, as his eyes glowed with enthusiasm for the beloved leader,

"that man's a marvel! His cheek is preposterous, I vow!--and that's

what carries him through."

Lord Antony, whose vocabulary was more limited than that of

his friend, could only find an oath or two with which to show his

admiration for his leader.

"He wants you and Hastings to meet him at Calais," said Sir

Andrew, more quietly, "on the 2nd of next month. Let me see! that

will be next Wednesday."

"Yes."

"It is, of course, the case of the Comte de Tournay, this

time; a dangerous task, for the Comte, whose escape from his chateau,

after he had been declared a `suspect' by the Committee of Public

Safety, was a masterpiece of the Scarlet Pimpernel's ingenuity, is now

under sentence of death. It will be rare sport to get HIM out of

France, and you will have a narrow escape, if you get through at all.

St. Just has actually gone to meet him--of course, no one suspects St.

Just as yet; but after that. . .to get them both out of the country!

I'faith, `twill be a tough job, and tax even the ingenuity of our

chief. I hope I may yet have orders to be of the party."

"Have you any special instructions for me?"

"Yes! rather more precise ones than usual. It appears that

the Republican Government have sent an accredited agent over to

England, a man named Chauvelin, who is said to be terribly bitter

against our league, and determined to discover the identity of our

leader, so that he may have him kidnapped, the next time he attempts

to set foot in France. This Chauvelin has brought a whole army of

spies with him, and until the chief has sampled the lot, he thinks we

should meet as seldom as possible on the business of the league, and

on no account should talk to each other in public places for a time.

When he wants to speak to us, he will contrive to let us know."

The two young men were both bending over the fire for the

blaze had died down, and only a red glow from the dying embers cast a

lurid light on a narrow semicircle in front of the hearth. The rest

of the room lay buried in complete gloom; Sir Andrew had taken a

pocket-book from his pocket, and drawn therefrom a paper, which he

unfolded, and together they tried to read it by the dim red firelight.

So intent were they upon this, so wrapt up in the cause, the business

they had so much at heart, so precious was this document which came

from the very hand of their adored leader, that they had eyes and ears

only for that. They lost count of the sounds around them, of the

dropping of the crisp ash from the grate, of the monotonous ticking of

the clock, of the soft, almost imperceptible rustle of something on

the floor close beside them. A figure had emerged from under one of

the benches; with snake-like, noiseless movements it crept closer and

closer to the two young men, not breathing, only gliding along the

floor, in the inky blackness of the room.

"You are to read these instructions and commit them to

memory," said Sir Andrew, "then destroy them."

He was about to replace the letter-case into his pocket, when

a tiny slip of paper fluttered from it and fell on to the floor. Lord

Antony stooped and picked it up.

"What's that?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Sir Andrew.

"It dropped out of your pocket just now. It certainly does

not seem to be with the other paper."

"Strange!--I wonder when it got there? It is from the chief,"

he added, glancing at the paper.

Both stooped to try and decipher this last tiny scrap of paper

on which a few words had been hastily scrawled, when suddenly a slight

noise atrracted their attention, which seemed to come from the passage

beyond.

"What's that?" said both instinctively. Lord Antony crossed

the room towards the door, which he threw open quickly and suddenly;

at that very moment he received a stunning blow between the eyes,

which threw him back violently into the room. Simultaneously the

crouching, snake-like figure in the gloom had jumped up and hurled

itself from behind upon the unsuspecting Sir Andrew, felling him to

the ground.

All this occurred within the short space of two or three

seconds, and before either Lord Antony or Sir Andrew had time or

chance to utter a cry or to make the faintest struggle. They were

each seized by two men, a muffler was quickly tied round the mouth of

each, and they were pinioned to one another back to back, their arms,

hands, and legs securely fastened.

One man had in the meanwhile quietly shut the door; he wore a

mask and now stood motionless while the others completed their work.

"All safe, citoyen!" said one of the men, as he took a final

survey of the bonds which secured the two young men.

"Good!" replied the man at the door; "now search their pockets

and give me all the papers you find."

This was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having

taken possession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if

there were any sound within "The Fisherman's Rest." Evidently

satisfied that this dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once

more opened the door and pointed peremptorily down the passage. The

four men lifted Sir Andrew and Lord Antony from the ground, and as

quietly, as noiselessly as they had come, they bore the two pinioned

young gallants out of the inn and along the Dover Road into the gloom

beyond.

In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt

was quickly glancing through the stolen papers.

"Not a bad day's work on the whole," he muttered, as he

quietly took off his mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in

the red glow of the fire. "Not a bad day's work."

He opened one or two letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'

pocket-book, noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had

only just had time to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand

St. Just, seemed to give him strange satisfaction.

"Armand St. Just a traitor after all," he murmured. "Now,

fair Marguerite Blakeney," he added viciously between his clenched

teeth, "I think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."

CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX

It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the

first of the autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.

The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and in

the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries

above. Gluck's ORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more

intellectual portions of the house, whilst the fashionable women, the

gaily-dressed and brilliant throng, spoke to the eye of those who

cared but little for this "latest importation from Germany."

Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA

by her numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged

favourite of the ladies, had received special gracious recognition

from the royal box; and now the curtain came down after the glorious

finale to the second act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound

on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to

breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, previous to letting loose its

hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues.

In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces were to be

seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding brief

relaxation in to-night's musical treat; the Prince of Wales, jovial,

rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about

from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of his

more intimate friends.

In Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting

personality attracted everyone's attention; a thin, small figure with

shrewd, sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music,

keenly critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with

dark hair free from any powder. Lord Grenville--Foreign Secretary of

State--paid him marked, though frigid deference.

Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of

beauty, one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the

haughty aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist

EMIGRES who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of

their country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces

sorrow and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little

heed, either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their

thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in

peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.

Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately

arrived from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep,

heavy black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the

aspect of mourning about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles,

who was vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to

bring a smile to the Comtesse's sad mouth. Behind her sat little

Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many

strangers. Suzanne's eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered the

crowded house, she had looked eagerly all around, scanning every face,

scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was

not there, for she settled herself quietly behind her mother, listened

apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the

audience itself.

"Ah, Lord Grenville," said Lady Portarles, as following a

discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State

appeared in the doorway of the box, "you could not arrive more _A_

PROPOS. Here is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to

hear the latest news from France."

The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking

hands with the ladies.

"Alas!" he said sadly, "it is of the very worst. The

massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the

guillotine claims a hundred victims a day."

Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair,

listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went

on in her own misguided country.

"Ah, monsieur!" she said in broken English, "it is dreadful to

hear all that--and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is

terrible for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in

peace, whilst he is in such peril."

"Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, "your

sitting in a convent won't make your husband safe, and you have your

children to consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and

premature mourning."

The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her

friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have

misfitted a jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine

sympathy and most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse

manners affected by some ladies at that time.

"Besides which, Madame," added Lord Grenville, "did you not

tell me yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged

their honour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?"

"Ah, yes!" replied the Comtesse, "and that is my only hope. I

saw Lord Hastings yesterday. . .he reassured me again."

"Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have

sworn, that they surely will accomplish. Ah!" added the old diplomat

with a sigh, "if I were but a few years younger. . ."

"La, man!" interrupted honest Lady Portarles, "you are still

young enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits

enthroned in your box to-night."

"I wish I could. . .but your ladyship must remember that in

serving our country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the

accredited agent of his Government. . ."

"Odd's fish, man!" she retorted, "you don't call those

bloodthirsty ruffians over there a government, do you?"

"It has not been thought advisable as yet," said the Minister,

guardedly, "for England to break off diplomatic relations with France,

and we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she

wishes to send to us."

"Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox

over there is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find--an I'm

much mistaken, that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy,

beyond trying to do mischief to royalist refugees--to our heroic

Scarlet Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little league."

"I am sure," said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips,

"that if this Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a

faithful ally in Lady Blakeney."

"Bless the woman!" ejaculated Lady Portarles, "did ever anyone

see such perversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab,

will you please explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like

a fool. In your position here in England, Madame," she added, turning

a wrathful and resolute face towards the Comtesse, "you cannot afford

to put on the hoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of.

Lady Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those Ruffians in

France; she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and

condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man's name is, but she is the

leader of fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money

than any half-dozen other men put together, he is hand and glove with

royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but

will make you look a fool. Isn't that so, my Lord?

But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what

reflections this comely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de

Tournay, remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the

third act of ORPHEUS, and admonishments to silence came from every

part of the house.

Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped

back into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat through this

ENTR'ACTE, with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen

pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite him, where, with much

frou-frou of silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of

curiosity amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered,

accompanied by her husband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the

wealth of her golden, reddish curls, slightly besprinkled with powder,

and tied back at the nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black

bow. Always dressed in the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite

alone among the ladies that night had discarded the crossover fichu

and broad-lapelled over-dress, which had been in fashion for the last

two or three years. She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown,

which so soon was to become the approved mode in every country in

Europe. It suited her graceful, regal figure to perfection, composed

as it was of shimmering stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.

As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking

stock of all those present whom she knew. Many bowed to her as she

did so, and from the royal box there came also a quick and gracious

salute.

Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of

the third act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite

little hand toying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her

throat, arms and neck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems,

the gift of the adoring husband who sprawled leisurely by her side.

Marguerite was passionately fond of music. ORPHEUS charmed

her to-night. The very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet

young face, it sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the

smile that lurked around the lips. She was after all but

five-and-twenty, in the hey day of youth, the darling of a brilliant

throng, adored, FETED, petted, cherished. Two days ago the DAY

DREAM had returned from Calais, bringing her news that her idolised

brother had safely landed, that he thought of her, and would be

prudent for her sake.

What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck's

impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her

vanished love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity

who had made up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing

worldly advantages upon her.

He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention

demanded, making way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of

admirers who in a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen

of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial

friends probably. Marguerite did not even wonder whither he had

gone--she cared so little; she had had a little court round her,

composed of the JEUNESSE DOREE of London, and had just dismissed

them all, wishing to be alone with Gluck for a brief while.

A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.

"Come in," she said with some impatience, without turning to

look at the intruder.

Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was

alone, and now, without pausing for that impatient "Come in," he

quietly slipped into the box, and the next moment was standing behind

Marguerite's chair.

"A word with you, citoyenne," he said quietly.

Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether

feigned.

"Lud, man! you frightened me," she said with a forced little

laugh, "your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to

Gluck, and have no mind for talking."

"But this is my only opportunity," he said, as quietly, and

without waiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her--so

close that he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the

audience, and without being seen, in the dark background of the box.

"This is my only opportunity," he repeated, as he vouchsafed him no

reply, "Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so FETED by her

court, that a mere old friend has but very little chance."

"Faith, man!" she said impatiently, "you must seek for another

opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville's ball to-night after

the opera. So are you, probably. I'll give you five minutes

then. . . ."

"Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient

for me," he rejoined placidly, "and I think that you will be wise to

listen to me, Citoyenne St. Just."

Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised

his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff,

yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy

eyes, which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the

sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril.

"Is that a threat, citoyen?" she asked at last.

"Nay, fair lady," he said gallantly, "only an arrow shot into

the air."

He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running

heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of

enjoyment of mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly--

"Your brother, St. Just, is in peril."

Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could

only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage

intently, but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden

rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost

paralysed tension of the beautiful, graceful figure.

"Lud, then," she said with affected merriment, "since `tis one

of your imaginary plots, you'd best go back to your own seat and leave

me enjoy the music."

And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the

cushion of the box. Selina Storace was singing the "Che faro" to an

audience that hung spellbound upon the prima donna's lips. Chauvelin

did not move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand,

the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.

"Well?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same

feigned unconcern.

"Well, citoyenne?" he rejoined placidly.

"About my brother?"

"I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you,

but first let me explain. . . . May I?"

The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite

still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve

was strained to hear what he had to say.

"The other day, citoyenne," he said, "I asked for your

help. . . . France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but

you gave me your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own

affairs and your own social duties have kept up apart. . .although

many things have happened. . . ."

"To the point, I pray you, citoyen," she said lightly; "the

music is entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your

talk."

"One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of

meeting you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final

answer, I obtained possession of some papers, which revealed another

of those subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French

aristocrats--that traitor de Tournay amongst others--all organized by

that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too,

of this mysterious organization have come into my hands, but not all,

and I want you--nay! you MUST help me to gather them together."

Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked

impatience; she now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily--

"Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought

about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not

spoken about my brother. . ."

"A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne," he continued

imperturbably. "Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes were at `The Fisherman's Rest' at Dover that same night."

"I know. I saw them there."

"They were already known to my spies as members of that

accursed league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse

de Tournay and her children across the Channel. When the two young

men were alone, my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of the

inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants, seized their papers, and

brought them to me."

In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers?. . .Had

Armand been imprudent?. . .The very thought struck her with nameless

terror. Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she

laughed gaily and lightly.

"Faith! and your impudence pases belief," she said merrily.

"Robbery and violence!--in England!--in a crowded inn! Your men might

have been caught in the act!"

"What if they had? They are children of France, and have been

trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have

gone to jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or

indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn

is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have

experience."

"Well? And those papers?" she asked carelessly.

"Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of

certain names. . .certain movements. . .enough, I think, to thwart

their projected COUP for the moment, it would only be for the

moment, and still leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the

Scarlet Pimpernel.

"La! my friend," she said, with the same assumed flippancy of

manner, "then you are where you were before, aren't you? and you can

let me enjoy the last strophe of the ARIA. Faith!" she added,

ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yawn, "had you not spoken about

my brother. . ."

"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there

was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St.

Just."

"Well? And?"

"That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the

enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the

League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."

The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had

been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem

unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be

prepared for it, to have all her wits about her--those wits which had

been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch.

She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest,

too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud

of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low,

purposeless falsehoods.

That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in

Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter

with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes

of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it

against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh

more gaily, more loudly than she had done before.

"La, man!" she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking

him full and squarely in the face, "did I not say it was some

imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet

Pimpernel!. . .Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he

despises!. . .Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your

imagination!"

"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, with

the same unruffled calm, "I must assure you that St. Just is

compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon."

Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two.

Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think,

trying to face the situation, to realise what had best be done.

In the house Storace had finished the ARIA, and was even now

bowing in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century

fashion, to the enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.

"Chauvelin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and

without that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all

along, "Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another.

It seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp

climate. Now, tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity

of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn't that so?"

"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne. . .all the more

dangerous, as he works in the dark."

"All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!--and you would now

force me to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother

Armand's safety?--Is that it?"

"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady," protested Chauvelin,

urbanely. "There can be no question of force, and the service which I

would ask of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the

shocking name of spying."

"At any rate, that is what it is called over here," she said

drily. "That is your intention, is it not?"

"My intention is, that you yourself win the free pardon for

Armand St. Just by doing me a small service."

"What is it?"

"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just," he said

eagerly. "Listen: among the papers which were found about the person

of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!" he added, taking

a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.

It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two

young men had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they

were attacked by Chauvelin's minions. Marguerite took it mechanically

and stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a

distorted, evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half

aloud--

"`Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly

necessary. You have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to

speak to me again, I shall be at G.'s ball.'"

"What does it mean?" she asked.

"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand."

"There is a device here in the corner, a small red

flower. . ."

"Yes."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel," she said eagerly, "and G.'s ball

means Grenville's ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville's ball

to-night."

"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne," concluded

Chauvelin, blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,

after they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my

orders to a lonely house in the Dover Road, which I had rented for the

purpose: there they remained close prisoners until this morning. But

having found this tiny scrap of paper, my intention was that they

should be in London, in time to attend my Lord Grenville's ball. You

see, do you not? that they must have a great deal to say to their

chief. . .and thus they will have an opportunity of speaking to him

to-night, just as he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning,

those two young gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely

house on the Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good

horses standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not

seen them yet, but I think we may safely conclude that they did not

draw rein until they reached London. Now you see how simple it all

is, citoyenne!"

"It does seem simple, doesn't it?" she said, with a final

bitter attempt at flippancy, "when you want to kill a chicken. . .you

take hold of it. . .then you wring its neck. . .it's only the chicken

who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my

throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find it

simple. . . . I don't."

"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother

you love from the consequences of his own folly."

Marguerite's face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as

she murmured, half to herself:

"The only being in the world who has loved me truly and

constantly. . . . But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin?" she

said, with a world of despair in her tear-choked voice. "In my

present position, it is well-nigh impossible!"

"Nay, citoyenne," he said drily and relentlessly, not heeding

that despairing, childlike appeal, which might have melted a heart of

stone, "as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your help

to-night I may--who knows?--succeed in finally establishing the

identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to the ball

anon. . . . Watch for me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. . . .

You can tell me if you hear a chance word or whisper. . . . You can

note everyone to whom Sir Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will

speak. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now. The Scarlet

Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville's ball to-night. Find out who he

is, and I will pledge the word of France that your brother shall be

safe."

Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite

felt herself entangled in one of those webs, from which she could hope

for no escape. A precious hostage was being held for her obedience:

for she knew that this man would never make an empty threat. No doubt

Armand was already signalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one

of the "suspect"; he would not be allowed to leave France again, and

would be ruthlessly struck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a

moment--woman-like--she still hoped to temporise. She held out her

hand to this man, whom she now feared and hated.

"If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin," she said

pleasantly, "will you give me that letter of St. Just's?"

"If you render me useful service to-night, citoyenne," he

replied with a sarcastic smile, "I will give you that letter. . .

to-morrow."

"You do not trust me?"

"I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just's life is

forfeit to his country. . .it rests with you to redeem it."

"I may be powerless to help you," she pleaded, "were I ever so

willing."

"That would be terrible indeed," he said quietly, "for

you. . .and for St. Just."

Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could

expect no mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved life in the hollow

of his hand. She knew him too well not to know that, if he failed in

gaining his own ends, he would be pitiless.

She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of opera-house.

The heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from

a distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her

shoulders, and sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a

dream.

For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who

was in danger, to that other man who also had a claim on her

confidence and her affection. She felt lonely, frightened for

Armand's sake; she longed to seek comfort and advice from someone who

would know how to help and console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her

once; he was her husband; why should she stand alone through this

terrible ordeal? He had very little brains, it is true, but he had

plenty of muscle: surely, if she provided the thought, and he the

manly energy and pluck, together they could outwit the astute

diplomatist, and save the hostage from his vengeful hands, without

imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallant little band

of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well--he seemed attached to

him--she was sure that he could help.

Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his

cruel "Either--or--" and left her to decide. He, in his turn now,

appeared to be absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS,

and was beating time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.

A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her

thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and

wearing that half-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to

irritate her every nerve.

"Er. . .your chair is outside. . .m'dear," he said, with his

most exasperating drawl, "I suppose you will want to go to that demmed

ball. . . . Excuse me--er--Monsieur Chauvelin--I had not observed

you. . . ."

He extended two slender, white fingers toward Chauvelin, who

had risen when Sir Percy entered the box.

"Are you coming, m'dear?"

"Hush! Sh! Sh!" came in angry remonstrance from different

parts of the house.

"Demmed impudence," commented Sir Percy with a good-natured

smile.

Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly

to have vanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without

looking at her husband:

"I am ready to go," she said, taking his arm. At the door of

the box she turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his

CHAPEAU-BRAS under his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips,

was preparing to follow the strangely ill-assorted couple.

"It is only AU REVOIR, Chauvelin," she said pleasantly, "we

shall meet at my Lord Grenville's ball, anon."

And in her eyes the astute Frenchman, read, no doubt,

something which caused him profound satisfaction, for, with a

sarcastic smile, he took a delicate pinch of snuff, then, having

dusted his dainty lace jabot, he rubbed his thin, bony hands

contentedly together.

CHAPTER XI LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL

The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for

Foreign Affairs--Lord Grenville--was the most brilliant function of

the year. Though the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who

was anybody had contrived to be in London in time to be present there,

and to shine at this ball, to the best of his or her respective

ability.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be

present. He was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville

himself had listened to the two first acts of ORPHEUS, before

preparing to receive his guests. At ten o'clock--an unusually late

hour in those days--the grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely

decorated with exotic palms and flowers, were filled to overflowing.

One room had been set apart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the

minuet made a soft accompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry

laughter of the numerous and brilliant company.

In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, the

distinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished

men, beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had

already filed past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies

with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and

then, laughing and talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and

card rooms beyond.

Not far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against one of

the console tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume,

was taking a quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir

Percy and Lady Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes

glanced quickly towards the door every time a new-comer appeared.

He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary

Government of France was not likely to be very popular in England, at

a time when the news of the awful September massacres, and of the

Reign of Terror and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the

Channel.

In his official capacity he had been received courteously by

his English colleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord

Grenville had entertained him more than once; but the more intimate

circles of London society ignored him altogether; the women openly

turned their backs upon him; the men who held no official position

refused to shake his hand.

But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these

social amenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic

career. He was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he

despised all social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his

own country: these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to

the snubs he received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned

England.

But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly

believed that the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of

France; he would have wished to see every one of them annihilated: he

was one of those who, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the

first to utter the historic and ferocious desire "that aristocrats

might have but one head between them, so that it might be cut off with

a single stroke of the guillotine." And thus he looked upon every

French aristocrat, who had succeeded in escaping from France, as so

much prey of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably cheated.

There is no doubt that those royalist EMIGRES, once they had managed

to cross the frontier, did their very best to stir up foreign

indignation against France. Plots without end were hatched in

England, in Belgium, in Holland, to try and induce some great power to

send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King Louis, and to

summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders of that monster republic.

Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious

personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to

Chauvelin. He and the few young jackanapes under his command, well

furnished with money, armed with boundless daring, and acute cunning,

had succeeded in rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France.

Nine-tenths of the EMIGRES, who were FETED at the English court,

owed their safety to that man and to his league.

Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would

discover the identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over

to France, and then. . .Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction

at the very thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the

knife of the guillotine, as easily as that of any other man.

Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, all

conversation stopped for a moment as the majordomo's voice outside

announced,--

"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy

Blakeney, Lady Blakeney."

Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted

guest.

The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of

salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with

Marguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous

shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant "Incroyable" style, his

fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and

the flat CHAPEAU-BRAS under his arm.

After the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord

Grenville said to his royal guest,--

"Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the

accredited agent of the French Government?"

Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped

forward, expecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the

Prince returned his salute with a curt nod of the head.

"Monsieur," said His Royal Highness coldly, "we will try to

forget the government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our

guest--a private gentleman from France. As such you are welcome,

Monsieur."

"Monseigneur," rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again.

"Madame," he added, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite.

"Ah! my little Chauvelin!" she said with unconcerned gaiety,

and extending her tiny hand to him. "Monsieur and I are old friends,

your Royal Highness."

"Ah, then," said the Prince, this time very graciously, "you

are doubly welcome, Monsieur."

"There is someone else I would crave permission to present to

your Royal Highness," here interposed Lord Grenville.

"Ah! who is it?" asked the Prince.

"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family,

who have but recently come from France."

"By all means!--They are among the lucky ones then!"

Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at

the further end of the room.

"Lud love me!" whispered his Royal Highness to Marguerite, as

soon as he had caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; "Lud

love me! she looks very virtuous and very melancholy."

"Faith, your Royal Highness," she rejoined with a smile,

"virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed."

"Virtue, alas!" sighed the Prince, "is mostly unbecoming to

your charming sex, Madame."

"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord

Grenville, introducing the lady.

"This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is

ever glad to welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven

from her shores."

"Your Royal Highness is ever gracious," replied the Comtesse

with becoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood

timidly by her side: "My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur," she said.

"Ah! charming!--charming!" said the Prince, "and now allow

me, Comtesse, to introduce you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her

friendship. You and she will have much to say to one another, I vow.

Every compatriot of Lady Blakeney's is doubly welcome for her

sake. . .her friends are our friends. . .her enemies, the enemies of

England."

Marguerite's blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at this

gracious speech from her exalted friend. The Comtesse de Tournay, who

lately had so flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public

lesson, at which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the

Comtesse, for whom respect of royalty amounted almost to a religion,

was too well-schooled in courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign

of embarrassment, as the two ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one

another.

"His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame," said

Marguerite, demurely, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling

blue eyes, "but there is no need for his kind of meditation. . . .

Your amiable reception of me at our last meeting still dwells

pleasantly in my memory."

"We poor exiles, Madame," rejoined the Comtesse, frigidly,

"show our gratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of

Monseigneur."

"Madame!" said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsey.

"Madame," responded the Comtesse with equal dignity.

The Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious words to

the young Vicomte.

"I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said. "I

knew your father well when he was ambassador in London."

"Ah, Monseigneur!" replied the Vicomte, "I was a leetle boy

then. . .and now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector,

the Scarlet Pimpernel."

"Hush!" said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he

indicated Chauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the

whole of this little scene, watching Marguerite and the Comtesse with

an amused, sarcastic little smile around his thin lips.

"Nay, Monseigneur," he said now, as if in direct response to

the Prince's challenge, "pray do not check this gentleman's display of

gratitude; the name of that interesting red flower is well known to

me--and to France."

The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.

"Faith, then, Monsieur," he said, "perhaps you know more about

our national hero than we do ourselves. . .perchance you know who he

is. . . . See!" he added, turning to the groups round the room, "the

ladies hang upon your lips. . .you would render yourself popular among

the fair sex if you were to gratify their curiosity."

"Ah, Monseigneur," said Chauvelin, significantly, "rumour has

it in France that your Highness could--an you would--give the truest

account of that enigmatical wayside flower."

He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke; but

she betrayed no emotion, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly.

"Nay, man," replied the Prince, "my lips are sealed! and the

members of the league jealously guard the secret of their chief. . .so

his fair adorers have to be content with worshipping a shadow. Here

in England, Monsieur," he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, "we

but name the Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair cheek is suffused with

a blush of enthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful

lieutenants. We know not if he be tall or short, fair or dark,

handsome or ill-formed; but we know that he is the bravest gentleman

in all the world, and we all feel a little proud, Monsieur, when we

remember that he is an Englishman.

"Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin," added Marguerite, looking almost

with defiance across at the placid, sphinx-like face of the Frenchman,

"His Royal Highness should add that we ladies think of him as of a

hero of old. . .we worship him. . .we wear his badge. . .we tremble

for him when he is in danger, and exult with him in the hour of his

victory."

Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the Prince and

to Marguerite; he felt that both speeches were intended--each in their

way--to convey contempt or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince

he despised: the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair wore a spray

of small red flowers composed of rubies and diamonds--her he held in

the hollow of hand: he could afford to remain silent and to wait

events.

A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence which had

fallen over everyone.

"And we poor husbands," came in slow, affected accents from

gorgeous Sir Percy, "we have to stand by. . .while they worship a

demmed shadow."

Everyone laughed--the Prince more loudly than anyone. The

tension of subdued excitement was relieved, and the next moment

everyone was laughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up

and dispersed in the adjoining rooms.

CHAPTER XII THE SCRAP OF PAPER

Marguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed and

chatted, though she was more admired, more surrounded, more FETED

than any woman there, she felt like one condemned to death, living her

last day upon this earth.

Her nerves were in a state of painful tension, which had

increased a hundredfold during that brief hour which she had spent in

her husband's company, between the opera and the ball. The short ray

of hope--that she might find in this good-natured, lazy individual a

valuable friend and adviser--had vanished as quickly as it had come,

the moment she found herself alone with him. The same feeling of

good-humoured contempt which one feels for an animal or a faithful

servant, made her turn away with a smile from the man who should have

been her moral support in this heart-rending crisis through which she

was passing: who should have been her cool-headed adviser, when

feminine sympathy and sentiment tossed her hither and thither, between

her love for her brother, who was far away and in mortal peril, and

horror of the awful service which Chauvelin had exacted from her, in

exchange for Armand's safety.

There he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed adviser,

surrounded by a crowd of brainless, empty-headed young fops, who were

even now repeating from mouth to mouth, and with every sign of the

keenest enjoyment, a doggerel quatrain which he had just given forth.

Everywhere the absurd, silly words met her: people seemed to have

little else to speak about, even the Prince had asked her, with a

little laugh, whether she appreciated her husband's latest poetic

efforts.

"All done in the tying of a cravat," Sir Percy had declared to

his clique of admirers.

"We seek him here, we seek him there,

Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in heaven?--Is he in hell?

That demmed, elusive Pimpernel"

Sir Percy's BON MOT had gone the round of the brilliant

reception-rooms. The Prince was enchanted. He vowed that life

without Blakeney would be but a dreary desert. Then, taking him by

the arm, had led him to the card-room, and engaged him in a long game

of hazard.

Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gatherings

seemed to centre round the card-table, usually allowed his wife to

flirt, dance, to amuse or bore herself as much as she liked. And

to-night, having delivered himself of his BON MOT, he had left

Marguerite surrounded by a crowd of admirers of all ages, all anxious

and willing to help her to forget that somewhere in the spacious

reception rooms, there was a long, lazy being who had been fool enough

to suppose that the cleverest woman in Europe would settle down to the

prosaic bonds of English matrimony.

Her still overwrought nerves, her excitement and agitation,

lent beautiful Marguerite Blakeney much additional charm: escorted by

a veritable bevy of men of all ages and of most nationalities, she

called forth many exclamations of admiration from everyone as she

passed.

She would not allow herself any more time to think. Her

early, somewhat Bohemian training had made her something of a

fatalist. She felt that events would shape themselves, that the

directing of them was not in her hands. From Chauvelin she knew that

she could expect no mercy. He had set a price on Armand's head, and

left it to her to pay or not, as she chose.

Later on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, who seemingly had just arrived.

She noticed at once that Sir Andrew immediately made for little

Suzanne de Tournay, and that the two young people soon managed to

isolate themselves in one of the deep embrasures of the mullioned

windows, there to carry on a long conversation, which seemed very

earnest and very pleasant on both sides.

Both the young men looked a little haggard and anxious, but

otherwise they were irreproachably dressed, and there was not the

slightest sign, about their courtly demeanour, of the terrible

catastrophe, which they must have felt hovering round them and round

their chief.

That the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no intention of

abandoning its cause, she had gathered through little Suzanne herself,

who spoke openly of the assurance she and her mother had had that the

Comte de Tournay would be rescued from France by the league, within

the next few days. Vaguely she began to wonder, as she looked at the

brilliant and fashionable in the gaily-lighted ball-room, which of

these worldly men round her was the mysterious "Scarlet Pimpernel,"

who held the threads of such daring plots, and the fate of valuable

lives in his hands.

A burning curiosity seized her to know him: although for

months she had heard of him and had accepted his anonymity, as

everyone else in society had done; but now she longed to know--quite

impersonally, quite apart from Armand, and oh! quite apart from

Chauvelin--only for her own sake, for the sake of the enthusiastic

admiration she had always bestowed on his bravery and cunning.

He was at the ball, of course, somewhere, since Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst were here, evidently expecting to

meet their chief--and perhaps to get a fresh MOT D'ORDRE from him.

Marguerite looked round at everyone, at the aristocratic

high-typed Norman faces, the squarely-built, fair-haired Saxon, the

more gentle, humorous caste of the Celt, wondering which of these

betrayed the power, the energy, the cunning which had imposed its will

and its leadership upon a number of high-born English gentlemen, among

whom rumour asserted was His Royal Highness himself.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle blue eyes,

which were looking so tenderly and longingly after little Suzanne, who

was being led away from the pleasant TETE-A-TETE by her stern

mother. Marguerite watched him across the room, as he finally turned

away with a sigh, and seemed to stand, aimless and lonely, now that

Suzanne's dainty little figure had disappeared in the crowd.

She watched him as he strolled towards the doorway, which led

to a small boudoir beyond, then paused and leaned against the

framework of it, looking still anxiously all round him.

Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her present

attentive cavalier, and she skirted the fashionable crowd, drawing

nearer to the doorway, against which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she

wished to get closer to him, she could not have said: perhaps she was

impelled by an all-powerful fatality, which so often seems to rule the

destinies of men.

Suddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to stand still,

her eyes, large and excited, flashed for a moment towards that

doorway, then as quickly were turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes

was still in the same listless position by the door, but Marguerite

had distinctly seen that Lord Hastings--a young buck, a friend of her

husband's and one of the Prince's set--had, as he quickly brushed past

him, slipped something into his hand.

For one moment longer--oh! it was the merest flash--Marguerite paused:

the next she had, with admirably played unconcern, resumed her walk

across the room--but this time more quickly towards that doorway whence

Sir Andrew had now disappeared.

All this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught sight of

Sir Andrew leaning against the doorway, until she followed him into

the little boudoir beyond, had occurred in less than a minute. Fate

is usually swift when she deals a blow.

Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It was

Marguerite St. Just who was there only: Marguerite St. Just who had

passed her childhood, her early youth, in the protecting arms of her

brother Armand. She had forgotten everything else--her rank, her

dignity, her secret enthusiasms--everything save that Armand stood in

peril of his life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her, in

the small boudoir which was quite deserted, in the very hands of Sir

Andrew Ffoulkes, might be the talisman which would save her brother's

life.

Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between the moment

when Lord Hastings slipped the mysterious "something" into Sir

Andrew's hand, and the one when she, in her turn, reached the deserted

boudoir. Sir Andrew was standing with his back to her and close to a

table upon which stood a massive silver candelabra. A slip of paper

was in his hand, and he was in the very act of perusing its contents.

Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the slightest

sound upon the heavy carpet, not daring to breathe until she had

accomplished her purpose, Marguerite slipped close behind him. . . .

At that moment he looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan,

passed her hand across her forehead, and murmured faintly:

"The heat in the room was terrible. . .I felt so faint. . .

Ah!. . ."

She tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir Andrew,

quickly recovering himself, and crumpling in his hand the tiny note he

had been reading, was only apparently, just in time to support her.

"You are ill, Lady Blakeney?" he asked with much concern, "Let

me. . ."

"No, no, nothing--" she interrupted quickly. "A

chair--quick."

She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing back

her head, closing her eyes.

"There!" she murmured, still faintly; "the giddiness is

passing off. . . . Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I assure you I already

feel better."

At moments like these there is no doubt--and psychologists

actually assert it--that there is in us a sense which has absolutely

nothing to do with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not

that we hear or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once.

Marguerite sat there with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was

immediately behind her, and on her right was the table with the

five-armed candelabra upon it. Before her mental vision there was

absolutely nothing but Armand's face. Armand, whose life was in the

most imminent danger, and who seemed to be looking at her from a

background upon which were dimly painted the seething crowd of Paris,

the bare walls of the Tribunal of Public Safety, with

Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, demanding Armand's life in

the name of the people of France, and the lurid guillotine with its

stained knife waiting for another victim. . .Armand!. . .

For one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir.

Beyond, from the brilliant ball-room, the sweet notes of the gavotte,

the frou-frou of rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and

merry crowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the drama which

was being enacted here.

Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that

that extra sense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not

see, for her two eyes were closed, she could not hear, for the noise

from the ball-room drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of

paper; nevertheless she knew-as if she had both seen and heard--that

Sir Andrew was even now holding the paper to the flame of one of the

candles.

At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened

her eyes, raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the

burning scrap of paper from the young man's hand. Then she blew out

the flame, and held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.

"How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew," she said gaily, "surely

'twas your grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper

was a sovereign remedy against giddiness."

She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly

between her jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save

her brother Armand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed

for the moment to realize what had actually happened; he had been

taken so completely by surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp

the fact that the slip of paper, which she held in her dainty hand,

was one perhaps on which the life of his comrade might depend.

Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.

"Why do you stare at me like that?" she said playfully. "I

assure you I feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual.

This room is most delightedly cool," she added, with the same perfect

composure, "and the sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is

fascinating and soothing."

She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way,

whilst Sir Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to

the quickest method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of

that beautiful woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous

thoughts rushed through his mind: he suddenly remembered her

nationality, and worst of all, recollected that horrible take anent

the Marquis de St. Cyr, which in England no one had credited, for the

sake of Sir Percy, as well as for her own.

"What? Still dreaming and staring?" she said, with a merry

laugh, "you are most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of

it, you seemed more startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I

do believe, after all, that it was not concern for my health, nor yet

a remedy taught you by your grandmother that caused you to burn this

tiny scrap of paper. . . . I vow it must have been your lady love's

last cruel epistle you were trying to destroy. Now confess!" she

added, playfully holding up the scrap of paper, "does this contain her

final CONGE, or a last appeal to kiss and make friends?"

"Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, who was

gradually recovering his self-possession, "this little note is

undoubtedly mine, and. . ."

Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled

ill-bred towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the

note; but Marguerite's thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions

under pressure of this intense excitement, were swifter and more sure.

She was tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked

over the small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which

fell down with a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.

She gave a quick cry of alarm:

"The candles, Sir Andrew--quick!"

There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had

blown out as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease

upon the valuable carpet; one had ignited the paper shade aver it.

Sir Andrew quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the

candelabra upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do,

and those seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick

glance at the paper, and to note its contents--a dozen words in the

same distorted handwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same

device--a star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.

When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw upon her

face alarm at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue;

whilst the tiny and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the

ground. Eagerly the young man picked it up, and his face looked much

relieved, as his fingers closed tightly over it.

"For shame, Sir Andrew," she said, shaking her head with a

playful sigh, "making havoc in the heart of some impressionable

duchess, whilst conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne.

Well, well! I do believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and

threatened the entire Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on

purpose to make me drop love's message, before it had been polluted by

my indiscreet eyes. To think that, a moment longer, and I might have

known the secrets of an erring duchess."

"You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, now as

calm as she was herself, "if I resume the interesting occupation which

you have interrupted?"

"By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the

love-god again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement

against my presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!"

Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill,

and was once again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had

remained alight. He did not notice the strange smile on the face of

his fair VIS-A-VIS, so intent was he on the work of destruction;

perhaps, had he done so, the look of relief would have faded from his

face. He watched the fateful note, as it curled under the flame.

Soon the last fragment fell on the floor, and he placed his heel upon

the ashes.

"And now, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite Blakeney, with the

pretty nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of

smiles, "will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by

asking me to dance the minuet?"

CHAPTER XIII EITHER--OR?

The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on

the half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of

Fate. "Start myself tomorrow. . . ." This she had read quite

distinctly; then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which

obliterated the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was

another sentence, like letters of fire, before her mental vision, "If

you wish to speak to me again I shall be in the supper-room at one

o'clock precisely." The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled

little device--a tiny star-shaped flower, which had become so familiar

to her.

One o'clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last

minuet was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady

Blakeney leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate

figures.

Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock

upon its ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity.

Two hours more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In

two hours she must make up her mind whether she will keep the

knowledge so cunningly gained to herself, and leave her brother to his

fate, or whether she will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was

devoted to his fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all,

unsuspecting. It seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was

Armand! Armand, too, was noble and brave, Armand, too, was

unsuspecting. And Armand loved her, would have willingly trusted his

life in her hands, and now, when she could save him from death, she

hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her brother's kind, gentle face, so

full of love for her, seemed to be looking reproachfully at her. "You

might have saved me, Margot!" he seemed to say to her, "and you chose

the life of a stranger, a man you do not know, whom you have never

seen, and preferred that he should be safe, whilst you sent me to the

guillotine!"

All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's

brain, while, with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the

graceful mazes of the minuet. She noted--with that acute sense of

hers--that she had succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew's

fears. Her self-control had been absolutely perfect--she was a finer

actress at this moment, and throughout the whole of this minuet, than

she had ever been upon the boards of the Comedie Francaise; but then,

a beloved brother's life had not depended upon her histrionic powers.

She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further

allusions to the supposed BILLET DOUX, which had caused Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes such an agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety

melting away under her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever

doubt may have crossed his mind at the moment, she had, by the time

the last bars of the minuet had been played, succeeded in completely

dispelling it; he never realised in what a fever of excitement she

was, what effort it cost her to keep up a constant ripple of BANAL

conversation.

When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her

into the next room.

"I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal

Highness," she said, "but before we part, tell me. . .am I forgiven?"

"Forgiven?"

"Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . But

remember, I am not an English woman, and I do not look upon the

exchanging of BILLET DOUX as a crime, and I vow I'll not tell my

little Suzanne. But now, tell me, shall I welcome you at my

water-party on Wednesday?"

"I am not sure, Lady Blakeney," he replied evasively. "I may

have to leave London to-morrow."

"I would not do that, if I were you," she said earnestly; then

seeing the anxious look reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily; "No

one can throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, we should so

miss you on the bowling-green."

He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where already

His Royal Highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney.

"Madame, supper awaits us," said the Prince, offering his arm

to Marguerite, "and I am full of hope. The goddess Fortune has

frowned so persistently on me at hazard, that I look with confidence

for the smiles of the goddess of Beauty."

"Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card tables?" asked

Marguerite, as she took the Prince's arm.

"Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the

richest among my father's subjects, has also the most outrageous luck.

By the way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this

life would be but a dreary desert without your smiles and his

sallies."

CHAPTER XIV ONE O'CLOCK PRECISELY!

Supper had been extremely gay. All those present declared

that never had Lady Blakeney been more adorable, nor that "demmed

idiot" Sir Percy more amusing.

His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears streamed down

his cheeks at Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel

verse, "We seek him here, we seek him there," etc., was sung to the

tune of "Ho! Merry Britons!" and to the accompaniment of glasses

knocked loudly against the table. Lord Grenville, moreover, had a

most perfect cook--some wags asserted that he was a scion of the old

French NOBLESSE, who having lost his fortune, had come to seek it in

the CUISINE of the Foreign Office.

Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely

not a soul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the

terrible struggle which was raging within her heart.

The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past

midnight, and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the

supper-table. Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave

men would be pitted against one another--the dearly-beloved brother

and he, the unknown hero.

Marguerite had not tried to see Chauvelin during this last

hour; she knew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once,

and incline the balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she

did not see him, there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague,

undefined hope that "something" would occur, something big, enormous,

epoch-making, which would shift from her young, weak shoulders this

terrible burden of responsibility, of having to choose between two

such cruel alternatives.

But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they

invariably seem to assume when our very nerves ache with their

incessant ticking.

After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had

left, and there was general talk of departing among the older guests;

the young were indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte, which

would fill the next quarter of an hour.

Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a

limit to the most enduring of self-control. Escorted by a Cabinet

Minister, she had once more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still

the most deserted among all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must

be lying in wait for her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible

opportunity for a TETE-A-TETE. His eyes had met hers for a moment

after the `fore-supper minuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat,

with those searching pale eyes of his, had divined that her work was

accomplished.

Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible

conflict heart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its

decrees. But Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for

he was her brother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since

she, a tiny babe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying

a traitor's death on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell

upon--impossible in fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for

the stranger, the hero. . .well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite

would redeem her brother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy,

then let that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that.

Perhaps--vaguely--Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter,

who for so many months had baffled an army of spies, would still

manage to evade Chauvelin and remain immune to the end.

She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty

discourse of the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had

found in Lady Blakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the

keen, fox-like face of Chauvelin peeping through the curtained

doorway.

"Lord Fancourt," she said to the Minister, "will you do me a

service?"

"I am entirely at your ladyship's service," he replied

gallantly.

"Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if

he is, will you tell him that I am very tired, and would be glad to go

home soon."

The commands of a beautiful woman are binding on all mankind,

even on Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly.

"I do not like to leave your ladyship alone," he said.

"Never fear. I shall be quite safe here--and, I think,

undisturbed. . .but I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive

back to Richmond. It is a long way, and we shall not--an we do not

hurry--get home before daybreak."

Lord Fancourt had perforce to go.

The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped into the

room, and the next instant stood calm and impassive by her side.

"You have news for me?" he said.

An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round

Marguerite's shoulders; though her cheeks glowed with fire, she felt

chilled and numbed. Oh, Armand! will you ever know the terrible

sacrifice of pride, of dignity, of womanliness a devoted sister is

making for your sake?

"Nothing of importance," she said, staring mechanically before

her, "but it might prove a clue. I contrived--no matter how--to

detect Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the very act of burning a paper at one

of these candles, in this very room. That paper I succeeded in

holding between my fingers for the space of two minutes, and to cast

my eyes on it for that of ten seconds."

"Time enough to learn its contents?" asked Chauvelin, quietly.

She nodded. Then continued in the same even, mechanical tone

of voice--

"In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough device

of a small star-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines, everything

else was scorched and blackened by the flame."

"And what were the two lines?"

Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant

she felt that she could not speak the words, which might send a brave

man to his death.

"It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned," added

Chauvelin, with dry sarcasm, "for it might have fared ill with Armand

St. Just. What were the two lines citoyenne?"

"One was, `I start myself to-morrow,'" she said quietly, "the

other--'If you wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at

one o'clock precisely.'"

Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece.

"Then I have plenty of time," he said placidly.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head

and heart throbbed with the awful strain upon her nerves. Oh, this

was cruel! cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her

choice was made: had she done a vile action or one that was sublime?

The recording angel, who writes in the book of gold, alone could give

an answer.

"What are you going to do?" she repeated mechanically.

"Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend."

"On what?"

"On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one o'clock

precisely."

"You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But you do

not know him."

"No. But I shall presently."

"Sir Andrew will have warned him."

"I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he

stood and watched you, for a moment or two, with a look which gave me

to understand that something had happened between you. It was only

natural, was it not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the

nature of that `something.' I thereupon engaged the young man in a

long and animated conversation--we discussed Herr Gluck's singular

success in London--until a lady claimed his arm for supper."

"Since then?"

"I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came

upstairs again, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the

subject of pretty Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay. I knew he would not move

until Lady Portarles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be

for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one

now."

He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where,

drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to

Marguerite the distant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close

conversation with Lady Portarles.

"I think," he said, with a triumphant smile, "that I may

safely expect to find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair

lady."

"There may be more than one."

"Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed

by one of my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will

leave for France to-morrow. ONE of these will be the `Scarlet

Pimpernel.'"

"Yes?--And?"

"I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The

papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of

the neighborhood of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called `Le

Chat Gris,' of a lonely place somewhere on the coast--the Pere

Blanchard's hut--which I must endeavor to find. All these places are

given as the point where this meddlesome Englishman has bidden the

traitor de Tournay and others to meet his emissaries. But it seems

that he has decided not to send his emissaries, that `he will start

himself to-morrow.' Now, one of these persons whom I shall see anon

in the supper-room, will be journeying to Calais, and I shall follow

that person, until I have tracked him to where those fugitive

aristocrats await him; for that person, fair lady, will be the man

whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man whose energies has

outdone me, whose ingenuity has baffled me, whose audacity has set me

wondering--yes! me!--who have seen a trick or two in my time--the

mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel."

"And Armand?" she pleaded.

"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the

Scarlet Pimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that

imprudent letter of his by special courier. More than that, I will

pledge you the word of France, that the day I lay hands on that

meddlesome Englishman, St. Just will be here in England, safe in the

arms of his charming sister."

And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the

clock, Chauvelin glided out of the room.

It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the

din of music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like

tread, gliding through the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear

him go down the massive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the

door. Fate HAD decided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile

and abominable thing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay

back 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--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 scandal; there were

chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid,

like antiquated dowager; there were a few isolated, single chairs,

close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most

RECHERCHE 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 the

whole revolution had sworn to bring to his death? Everything about

him was weird and mysterious; his personality, which he 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 proceedings 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 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.

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 impatient pawing the ground.

At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final leave

of her host, she suddenly say 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 puzzled, as his keen eyes met Marguerite's they became

strangely sarcastic.

"M. Chauvelin," she said, as he stopped on the top of the

stairs, bowing elaborately before her, "my coach is outside; may I

claim your arm?"

As gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and led her

downstairs. The crowd was very great, some of the Minister's guests

were departing, others were leaning against the banisters watching the

throng as it filed up and down the wide staircase.

"Chauvelin," she said at last desperately, "I must know what

has happened."

"What has happened, dear lady?" he said, with affected

surprise. "Where? When?"

"You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped you

to-night. . .surely I have the right to know. What happened in the

dining-room at one o'clock just now?"

She spoke in a whisper, trusting that in the general hubbub of

the crowd her words would remain unheeded by all, save the man at her

side.

"Quiet and peace reigned supreme, fair lady; at that hour I

was asleep in one corner of one sofa and Sir Percy Blakeney in

another."

"Nobody came into the room at all?"

"Nobody."

"Then we have failed, you and I?"

"Yes! we have failed--perhaps. . ."

"But Armand?" she pleaded.

"Ah! Armand St. Just's chances hang on a thread. . .pray heaven,

dear lady, that that thread may not snap."

"Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly. . . remember. . . ."

"I remember my promise," he said quietly. "The day that the

Scarlet Pimpernel and I meet on French soil, St. Just will be in the

arms of his charming sister."

"Which means that a brave man's blood will be on my hands,"

she said, with a shudder.

"His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the present

moment you must hope, as I do, that the enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel

will start for Calais to-day--"

"I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen."

"And that is?"

"That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere,

before the sun rises to-day."

"You flatter me, citoyenne."

She had detained him for a while, mid-way down the stairs,

trying to get at the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like

mask. But Chauvelin remained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a

line betrayed to the poor, anxious woman whether she need fear or

whether she dared to hope.

Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady

Blakeney never stepped from any house into her coach, without an

escort of fluttering human moths around the dazzling light of her

beauty. But before she finally turned away from Chauvelin, she held

out a tiny hand to him, with that pretty gesture of childish appeal

which was essentially her own.

"Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin," she pleaded.

With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which

looked so dainty and white through the delicately transparent black

lace mitten, and kissing the tips of the rosy fingers:--

"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap," he repeated, with

his enigmatic smile.

And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more

closely round the candle, and the brilliant throng of the JEUNESSE

DOREE, eagerly attentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement, hid the

keen, fox-like face from her view.

CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND

A few minutes later she was sitting, wrapped in cozy furs,

near Sir Percy Blakeney on the box-seat of his magnificent coach, and

the four splendid bays had thundered down the quiet street.

The night was warm in spite of the gentle breeze which fanned

Marguerite's burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind, and

rattling over old Hammersmith Bridge, Sir Percy was driving his bays

rapidly towards Richmond.

The river wound in and out in its pretty delicate curves,

looking like a silver serpent beneath the glittering rays of the moon.

Long shadows from overhanging trees spread occasional deep palls right

across the road. The bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held

but slightly back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands.

These nightly drives after balls and suppers in London were a

source of perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her

husband's eccentricity keenly, which caused him to adopt this mode of

taking her home every night, to their beautiful home by the river,

instead of living in a stuffy London house. He loved driving his

spirited horses along the lonely, moonlit roads, and she loved to sit

on the box-seat, with the soft air of an English late summer's night

fanning her face after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper-party.

The drive was not a long one--less than an hour, sometimes, when the

bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy gave them full rein.

To-night he seemed to have a very devil in his fingers, and

the coach seemed to fly along the road, beside the river. As usual,

he did not speak to her, but stared straight in front of him, the

ribbons seeming to lie quite loosely in his slender, white hands.

Marguerite looked at him tentatively once or twice; she could see his

handsome profile, and one lazy eye, with its straight fine brow and

drooping heavy lid.

The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest, and

recalled to Marguerite's aching heart those happy days of courtship,

before he had become the lazy nincompoop, the effete fop, whose life

seemed spent in card and supper rooms.

But now, in the moonlight, she could not catch the expression

of the lazy blue eyes; she could only see the outline of the firm

chin, the corner of the strong mouth, the well-cut massive shape of

the forehead; truly, nature had meant well by Sir Percy; his faults

must all be laid at the door of that poor, half-crazy mother, and of

the distracted heart-broken father, neither of whom had cared for the

young life which was sprouting up between them, and which, perhaps,

their very carelessness was already beginning to wreck.

Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for her husband.

The moral crisis she had just gone through made her feel indulgent

towards the faults, the delinquencies, of others.

How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered

by Fate, had been borne in upon her with appalling force. Had anyone

told her a week ago that she would stoop to spy upon her friends, that

she would betray a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a

relentless enemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.

Yet she had done these things; anon, perhaps the death of that

brave man would be at her door, just as two years ago the Marquis de

St. Cyr had perished through a thoughtless words of hers; but in that

case she was morally innocent--she had meant no serious harm--fate

merely had stepped in. But this time she had done a thing that

obviously was base, had done it deliberately, for a motive which,

perhaps, high moralists would not even appreciate.

As she felt her husband's strong arm beside her, she also felt

how much more he would dislike and despise her, if he knew of this

night's work. Thus human beings judge of one another, with but little

reason, and no charity. She despised her husband for his inanities

and vulgar, unintellectual occupations; and he, she felt, would

despise her still worse, because she had not been strong enough to do

right for right's sake, and to sacrifice her brother to the dictates

of her conscience.

Buried in her thoughts, Marguerite had found this hour in the

breezy summer night all too brief; and it was with a feeling of keen

disappointment, that she suddenly realised that the bays had turned

into the massive gates of her beautiful English home.

Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the river has become a historic

one: palatial in its dimensions, it stands in the midst of exquisitely

laid-out gardens, with a picturesque terrace and frontage to the

river. Built in Tudor days, the old red brick of the walls looks

eminently picturesque in the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful

lawn, with its old sun-dial, adding the true note of harmony to its

foregrounds, and now, on this warm early autumn night, the leaves

slightly turned to russets and gold, the old garden looked singularly

poetic and peaceful in the moonlight.

With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays

to a standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan entrance

hall; in spite of the late hour, an army of grooms seemed to have

emerged from the very ground, as the coach had thundered up, and were

standing respectfully round.

Sir Percy jumped down quickly, then helped Marguerite to

alight. She lingered outside a moment, whilst he gave a few orders to

one of his men. She skirted the house, and stepped on to the lawn,

looking out dreamily into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed

exquisitely at peace, in comparison with the tumultuous emotions she

had gone through: she could faintly hear the ripple of the river and

the occasional soft and ghostlike fall of a dead leaf from a tree.

All else was quiet round her. She had heard the horses

prancing as they were being led away to their distant stables, the

hurrying of servant's feet as they had all gone within to rest: the

house also was quite still. In two separate suites of apartments,

just above the magnificent reception-rooms, lights were still burning,

they were her rooms, and his, well divided from each other by the

whole width of the house, as far apart as their own lives had become.

Involuntarily she sighed--at that moment she could really not have

told why.

She was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and

achingly she was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably

lonely, so bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With another

sigh she turned away from the river towards the house, vaguely

wondering if, after such a night, she could ever find rest and sleep.

Suddenly, before she reached the terrace, she heard a firm

step upon the crisp gravel, and the next moment her husband's figure

emerged out of the shadow. He too, had skirted the house, and was

wandering along the lawn, towards the river. He still wore his heavy

driving coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself had set

in fashion, but he had thrown it well back, burying his hands as was

his wont, in the deep pockets of his satin breeches: the gorgeous

white costume he had worn at Lord Grenville's ball, with its jabot of

priceless lace, looked strangely ghostly against the dark background

of the house.

He apparently did not notice her, for, after a few moments

pause, he presently turned back towards the house, and walked straight

up to the terrace.

"Sir Percy!"

He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps,

but at her voice he started, and paused, then looked searchingly into

the shadows whence she had called to him.

She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as soon as

he saw her, he said, with that air of consummate gallantry he always

wore when speaking to her,--

"At your service, Madame!"

But his foot was still on the step, and in his whole attitude

there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible to her, that he

wished to go, and had no desire for a midnight interview.

"The air is deliciously cool," she said, "the moonlight

peaceful and poetic, and the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it

awhile; the hour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to

you, that you are in a hurry to rid yourself of it?"

"Nay, Madame," he rejoined placidly, "but `tis on the other

foot the shoe happens to be, and I'll warrant you'll find the midnight

air more poetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the

obstruction the better your ladyship will like it."

He turned once more to go.

"I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy," she said hurriedly, and

drawing a little closer to him; "the estrangement, which alas! has

arisen between us, was none of my making, remember."

"Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame!" he protested

coldly, "my memory was always of the shortest."

He looked her straight in the eyes, with that lazy

non-chalance which had become second nature to him. She returned his

gaze for a moment, then her eyes softened, as she came up quite close

to him, to the foot of the terrace steps.

"Of the shortest, Sir Percy! Faith! how it must have

altered! Was it three years ago or four that you saw me for one hour

in Paris, on your way to the East? When you came back two years later

you had not forgotten me."

She looked divinely pretty as she stood there in the

moonlight, with the fur-cloak sliding off her beautiful shoulders, the

gold embroidery on her dress shimmering around her, her childlike blue

eyes turned up fully at him.

He stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the clenching

of his hand against the stone balustrade of the terrace.

"You desired my presence, Madame," he said frigidly. "I take

it that it was not with the view to indulging in tender

reminiscences."

His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising: his attitude

before her, stiff and unbending. Womanly decorum would have suggested

Marguerite should return coldness for coldness, and should sweep past

him without another word, only with a curt nod of her head: but

womanly instinct suggested that she should remain--that keen instinct,

which makes a beautiful woman conscious of her powers long to bring to

her knees the one man who pays her no homage. She stretched out her

hand to him.

"Nay, Sir Percy, why not? the present is not so glorious but

that I should not wish to dwell a little in the past."

He bent his tall figure, and taking hold of the extreme tip of

the fingers which she still held out to him, he kissed them

ceremoniously.

"I' faith, Madame," he said, "then you will pardon me, if my

dull wits cannot accompany you there."

Once again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet,

childlike, almost tender, called him back.

"Sir Percy."

"Your servant, Madame."

"Is it possible that love can die?" she said with sudden,

unreasoning vehemence. "Methought that the passion which you once

felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing

left of that love, Percy. . .which might help you. . .to bridge over

that sad estrangement?"

His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to him, to

stiffen still more, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless

obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy blue eyes.

"With what object, I pray you, Madame?" he asked coldly.

"I do not understand you."

"Yet `tis simple enough," he said with sudden bitterness,

which seemed literally to surge through his words, though he was

making visible efforts to suppress it, "I humbly put the question to

you, for my slow wits are unable to grasp the cause of this, your

ladyship's sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste to renew

the devilish sport which you played so successfully last year? Do you

wish to see me once more a love-sick suppliant at your feet, so that

you might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside, like a

troublesome lap-dog?"

She had succeeded in rousing him for the moment: and again she

looked straight at him, for it was thus she remembered him a year ago.

"Percy! I entreat you!" she whispered, "can we not bury the past?"

"Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your

desire was to dwell in it."

"Nay! I spoke not of THAT past, Percy!" she said, while a tone

of tenderness crept into her voice. "Rather did I speak of a

time when you loved me still! and I. . .oh! I was vain and frivolous;

your wealth and position allured me: I married you, hoping in my heart that

your great love for me would beget in me a love for you. . .but, alas!. . ."

The moon had sunk low down behind a bank of clouds. In the

east a soft grey light was beginning to chase away the heavy mantle of

the night. He could only see her graceful outline now, the small

queenly head, with its wealth of reddish golden curls, and the

glittering gems forming the small, star-shaped, red flower which she

wore as a diadem in her hair.

"Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis de

St. Cyr and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular

rumour reached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who

helped to send them there."

"Nay! I myself told you the truth of that odious tale."

"Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers, with

all its horrible details."

"And you believed them then and there," she said with great

vehemence, "without a proof or question--you believed that I, whom you

vowed you loved more than life, whom you professed you worshipped,

that _I_ could do a thing so base as these STRANGERS chose to

recount. You thought I meant to deceive you about it all--that I

ought to have spoken before I married you: yet, had you listened, I

would have told you that up to the very morning on which St. Cyr went

to the guillotine, I was straining every nerve, using every influence

I possessed, to save him and his family. But my pride sealed my lips,

when your love seemed to perish, as if under the knife of that same

guillotine. Yet I would have told you how I was duped! Aye! I, whom

that same popular rumour had endowed with the sharpest wits in France!

I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon

my love for an only brother, and my desire for revenge. Was it

unnatural?"

Her voice became choked with tears. She paused for a moment

or two, trying to regain some sort of composure. She looked

appealingly at him, almost as if he were her judge. He had allowed

her to speak on in her own vehement, impassioned way, offering no

comment, no word of sympathy: and now, while she paused, trying to

swallow down the hot tears that gushed to her eyes, he waited,

impassive and still. The dim, grey light of early dawn seemed to make

his tall form look taller and more rigid. The lazy, good-natured face

looked strangely altered. Marguerite, excited, as she was, could see

that the eyes were no longer languid, the mouth no longer

good-humoured and inane. A curious look of intense passion seemed to

glow from beneath his drooping lids, the mouth was tightly closed, the

lips compressed, as if the will alone held that surging passion in

check.

Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a

woman's fascinating foibles, all a woman's most lovable sins. She

knew in a moment that for the past few months she had been mistaken:

that this man who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her

musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a

year ago: that his passion might have been dormant, but that it was

there, as strong, as intense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips

met his in one long, maddening kiss.

Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she meant to win

back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemed to

her that the only happiness life could every hold for her again would

be in feeling that man's kiss once more upon her lips.

"Listen to the tale, Sir Percy," she said, and her voice was

low, sweet, infinitely tender. "Armand was all in all to me! We had

no parents, and brought one another up. He was my little father, and

I, his tiny mother; we loved one another so. Then one day--do you

mind me, Sir Percy? the Marquis de St. Cyr had my brother Armand

thrashed--thrashed by his lacqueys--that brother whom I loved better

than all the world! And his offence? That he, a plebeian, had dared

to love the daughter of the aristocrat; for that he was waylaid and

thrashed. . .thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life! Oh, how

I suffered! his humiliation had eaten into my very soul! When the

opportunity occurred, and I was able to take my revenge, I took it.

But I only thought to bring that proud marquis to trouble and

humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his own country. Chance

gave me knowledge of this; I spoke of it, but I did not know--how

could I guess?--they trapped and duped me. When I realised what I had

done, it was too late."

"It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame," said Sir Percy,

after a moment of silence between them, "to go back over the past. I

have confessed to you that my memory is short, but the thought

certainly lingered in my mind that, at the time of the Marquis' death,

I entreated you for an explanation of those same noisome popular

rumours. If that same memory does not, even now, play me a trick, I

fancy that you refused me ALL explanation then, and demanded of my

love a humiliating allegiance it was not prepared to give."

"I wished to test your love for me, and it did not bear the

test. You used to tell me that you drew the very breath of life but

for me, and for love of me."

"And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit

mine honour," he said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to

leave him, his rigidity to relax; "that I should accept without murmur

or question, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my

mistress. My heart overflowing with love and passion, I ASKED for

no explanation--I WAITED for one, not doubting--only hoping. Had

you spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any

explanation and believed it. But you left me without a word, beyond a

bald confession of the actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to

your brother's house, and left me alone. . .for weeks. . .not knowing,

now, in whom to believe, since the shrine, which contained my one

illusion, lay shattered to earth at my feet."

She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his

very voice shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making

superhuman efforts to keep in check.

"Aye! the madness of my pride!" she said sadly. "Hardly had

I gone, already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh,

so altered! wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which

you have never laid aside until. . .until now."

She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted

against his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the

music in her voice sent fire through his veins. But he would not

yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved,

and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his

eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that

snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light

of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully.

"Nay, Madame, it is no mask," he said icily; "I swore to

you. . .once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been your

plaything. . .it has served its purpose."

But now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The

trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came

back into her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a

feeling that this man who loved her, would help her bear the burden.

"Sir Percy," she said impulsively, "Heaven knows you have been

at pains to make the task, which I had set to myself, difficult to

accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it

that, if you will. I wished to speak to you. . .because. . .because I

was in trouble. . .and had need. . .of your sympathy."

"It is yours to command, Madame."

"How cold you are!" she sighed. "Faith! I can scarce believe

that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh

crazy. Now I come to you. . .with a half-broken heart. . .and. . .

and. . ."

"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. . .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 tone 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 the 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 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 light 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, 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 in vain 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

window 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 upstairs; had Louise dropped it? or was some

tantalising spook at play, showing her fairy letters where none

existed?

At last she stooped to pick it up, and, amazed, puzzled beyond

measure, she saw that the letter was addressed to herself in her

husband's large, businesslike-looking hand. What could he have to say

to her, in the middle of the night, which could not be put off until

the morning?

She tore open the envelope and read:--

"A most unforeseen circumstance forces me to leave for

the North immediately, so I beg your ladyship's pardon if I do

not avail myself of the honour of bidding you good-bye. My

business may keep me employed for about a week, so I shall not

have the privilege of being present at your ladyship's

water-party on Wednesday. I remain your ladyship's most

humble and most obedient servant,

PERCY BLAKENEY."

Marguerite must suddenly have been imbued with her husband's

slowness of intellect, for she had perforce to read the few simple

lines over and over again, before she could fully grasp their meaning.

She stood on the landing, turning over and over in her hand

this curt and mysterious epistle, her mind a blank, her nerves

strained with agitation and a presentiment she could not very well

have explained.

Sir Percy owned considerable property in the North, certainly,

and he had often before gone there alone and stayed away a week at a

time; but it seemed so very strange that circumstances should have

arisen between five and six o'clock in the morning that compelled him

to start in this extreme hurry.

Vainly she tried to shake off an unaccustomed feeling of

nervousness: she was trembling from head to foot. A wild,

unconquerable desire seized her to see her husband again, at once, if

only he had not already started.

Forgetting the fact that she was only very lightly clad in a

morning wrap, and that her hair lay loosely about her shoulders, she

flew down the stairs, right through the hall towards the front door.

It was as usual barred and bolted, for the indoor servants

were not yet up; but her keen ears had detected the sound of voices

and the pawing of a horse's hoof against the flag-stones.

With nervous, trembling fingers Marguerite undid the bolts one

by one, bruising her hands, hurting her nails, for the locks were

heavy and stiff. But she did not care; her whole frame shook with

anxiety at the very thought that she might be too late; that he might

have gone without her seeing him and bidding him "God-speed!"

At last, she had turned the key and thrown open the door.

Her ears had not deceived her. A groom was standing close by holding

a couple of horses; one of these was Sultan, Sir Percy's favourite and

swiftest horse, saddled ready for a journey.

The next moment Sir Percy himself appeared round the further

corner of the house and came quickly towards the horses. He had

changed his gorgeous ball costume, but was as usual irreproachably and

richly apparelled in a suit of fine cloth, with lace jabot and

ruffles, high top-boots, and riding breeches.

Marguerite went forward a few steps. He looked up and saw her.

A slight frown appeared between his eyes.

"You are going?" she said quickly and feverishly. "Whither?"

"As I have had the honour of informing your ladyship, urgent,

most unexpected business calls me to the North this morning," he said,

in his usual cold, drawly manner.

"But. . .your guests to-morrow. . ."

"I have prayed your ladyship to offer my humble excuses to His

Royal Highness. You are such a perfect hostess, I do not think I

shall be missed."

"But surely you might have waited for your journey. . .until

after our water-party. . ." she said, still speaking quickly and

nervously. "Surely this business is not so urgent. . .and you said

nothing about it--just now."

"My business, as I had the honour to tell you, Madame, is as

unexpected as it is urgent. . . . May I therefore crave your

permission to go. . . . Can I do aught for you in town?. . .on my way

back?"

"No. . .no. . .thanks. . .nothing. . .But you will be back soon?"

"Very soon."

"Before the end of the week?"

"I cannot say."

He was evidently trying to get away, whilst she was straining

every nerve to keep him back for a moment or two.

"Percy," she said, "will you not tell me why you go to-day?

Surely I, as your wife, have the right to know. You have NOT been

called away to the North. I know it. There were no letters, no

couriers from there before we left for the opera last night, and

nothing was waiting for you when we returned from the ball. . . . You

are NOT going to the North, I feel convinced. . . . There is some

mystery. . .and. . ."

"Nay, there is no mystery, Madame," he replied, with a slight

tone of impatience. "My business has to do with Armand. . .there!

Now, have I your leave to depart?"

"With Armand?. . .But you will run no danger?"

"Danger? I?. . .Nay, Madame, your solicitude does me honour.

As you say, I have some influence; my intention is to exert it before

it be too late."

"Will you allow me to thank you at least?"

"Nay, Madame," he said coldly, "there is no need for that. My

life is at your service, and I am already more than repaid."

"And mine will be at yours, Sir Percy, if you will but accept

it, in exchange for what you do for Armand," she said, as,

impulsively, she stretched out both her hands to him. "There! I will

not detain you. . .my thoughts go with you. . .Farewell!. . ."

How lovely she looked in this morning sunlight, with her

ardent hair streaming around her shoulders. He bowed very low and

kissed her hand; she felt the burning kiss and her heart thrilled with

joy and hope.

"You will come back?" she said tenderly.

"Very soon!" he replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes.

"Any. . .you will remember?. . ." she asked as her eyes, in

response to his look, gave him an infinity of promise.

"I will always remember, Madame, that you have honoured me by

commanding my services."

The words were cold and formal, but they did not chill her

this time. Her woman's heart had read his, beneath the impassive mask

his pride still forced him to wear.

He bowed to her again, then begged her leave to depart. She

stood on one side whilst he jumped on to Sultan's back, then, as he

galloped out of the gates, she waved him a final "Adieu."

A bend in the road soon hid him from view; his confidential

groom had some difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sultan flew

along in response to his master's excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh

that was almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to

her room, for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.

Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and,

though it still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious

hope soothed it as with a balm.

She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just

ridden away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete

confidence in his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself

for having ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, THAT was

a mask worn to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and

to his love. His passion would have overmastered him, and he would

not let her see how much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.

But now all would be well: she would crush her own pride,

humble it before him, tell him everything, trust him in everything;

and those happy days would come back, when they used to wander off

together in the forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little--for

he was always a silent man--but when she felt that against that strong

heart she would always find rest and happiness.

The more she thought of the events of the past night, the less

fear had she of Chauvelin and his schemes. He had failed to discover

the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, of that she felt sure. Both

Lord Fancourt and Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had

been in the dining-room at one o'clock except the Frenchman himself

and Percy--Yes!--Percy! she might have asked him, had she thought of it!

Anyway, she had no fears that the unknown and brave hero would fall

in Chauvelin's trap; his death at any rate would not be at her door.

Armand certainly was still in danger, but Percy had pledged

his word that Armand would be safe, and somehow, as Marguerite had

seen him riding away, the possibility that he could fail in whatever

he undertook never even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand was

safely over in England she would not allow him to go back to France.

She felt almost happy now, and, drawing the curtains closely

together again to shut out the piercing sun, she went to bed at last,

laid her head upon the pillow, and, like a wearied child, soon fell

into a peaceful and dreamless sleep.

CHAPTER XVIII THE MYSTERIOUS DEVICE

The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, refreshed by

her long sleep. Louise had brought her some fresh milk and a dish of

fruit, and she partook of this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite.

Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she munched her

grapes; most of them went galloping away after the tall, erect figure

of her husband, whom she had watched riding out of site more than five

hours ago.

In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back the news

that the groom had come home with Sultan, having left Sir Percy in

London. The groom thought that his master was about to get on board

his schooner, which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir Percy

had ridden thus far, had then met Briggs, the skipper of the DAY

DREAM, and had sent the groom back to Richmond with Sultan and the

empty saddle.

This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where could Sir

Percy be going just now in the DAY DREAM? On Armand's behalf, he

had said. Well! Sir Percy had influential friends everywhere.

Perhaps he was going to Greenwich, or. . .but Marguerite ceased to

conjecture; all would be explained anon: he said that he would come

back, and that he would remember.

A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was expecting a

visit of her old school-fellow, little Suzanne de Tournay. With all

the merry mischief at her command, she had tendered her request for

Suzanne's company to the Comtesse in the Presence of the Prince of

Wales last night. His Royal Highness had loudly applauded the notion,

and declared that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the

two ladies in the course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared

to refuse, and then and there was entrapped into a promise to send

little Suzanne to spend a long and happy day at Richmond with her

friend.

Marguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a chat about

old schooldays with the child; she felt that she would prefer

Suzanne's company to that of anyone else, and together they would roam

through the fine old garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the

river.

But Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being dressed,

prepared to go downstairs. She looked quite a girl this morning in

her simple muslin frock, with a broad blue sash round her slim waist,

and the dainty cross-over fichu into which, at her bosom, she had

fastened a few late crimson roses.

She crossed the landing outside her own suite of apartments,

and stood still for a moment at the head of the fine oak staircase,

which led to the lower floor. On her left were her husband's

apartments, a suite of rooms which she practically never entered.

They consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception room, and at

the extreme end of the landing, of a small study, which, when Sir

Percy did not use it, was always kept locked. His own special and

confidential 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. This 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, which 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 fast 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 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 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.

"CHERIE!--CHERIE! 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 a 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 CHERIE?"

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, CHERIE. . . . 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 in

me. nay, you need not blush, CHERIE." 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, CHERIE, 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, CHERIE," said Suzanne,

reproachfully, as she paused in her long, highly interesting

narrative.

"Yes, yes, darling--indeed I am," said Marguerite with an

effort, forcing herself to smile." "I love to hear you talking. . .

and your happiness makes me so very glad. . . . Have no fear, we will

manage to propitiate maman. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a noble English

gentleman; he has money and position, the Comtesse will not refuse her

consent. . . . But. . .now, little one. . .tell me. . . what is the

latest news about your father?"

"Oh!" said Suzanne with mad glee, "the best we could possibly

hear. My Lord Hastings came to see maman early this morning. He said

that all is now well with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here

in England in less than four days."

"Yes," said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on

Suzanne's lips, as she continued merrily:

"Oh, we have no fear now! You don't know, CHERIE, that that

great and noble Scarlet Pimpernel himself has gone to save papa. He

has gone, CHERIE. . .actually gone. . ." added Suzanne excitedly,

"He was in London this morning; he will be in Calais, perhaps,

to-morrow. . .where he will meet papa. . .and then. . .and then. . ."

The blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, though

she had tried for the last half-hour to delude herself and to cheat

her fears. He had gone to Calais, had been in London this

morning. . .he. . .the Scarlet Pimpernel. . .Percy Blakeney. . .her

husband. . .whom she had betrayed last night to Chauvelin.

Percy. . .Percy. . .her husband. . .the Scarlet Pimpernel. . .

Oh! how could she have been so blind? She understood it all now--all

at once. . .that part he played--the mask he wore. . .in order to

throw dust in everybody's eyes.

And all for the sheer sport and devilry of course!--saving

men, women and children from death, as other men destroy and kill

animals for the excitement, the love of the thing. The idle, rich man

wanted some aim in life--he, and the few young bucks he enrolled under

his banner, had amused themselves for months in risking their lives

for the sake of an innocent few.

Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first married;

and then the story of the Marquis de St. Cyr had come to his ears, and

he had suddenly turned from her, thinking, no doubt, that she might

someday betray him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him; and

so he had tricked her, as he tricked all others, whilst hundreds now

owed their lives to him, and many families owed him both life and

happiness.

The mask of an inane fop had been a good one, and the part

consummately well played. No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed

to detect, in the apparently brainless nincompoop, the man whose

reckless daring and resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest

French spies, both in France and in England. Even last night when

Chauvelin went to Lord Grenville's dining-room to seek that daring

Scarlet Pimpernel, he only saw that inane Sir Percy Blakeney fast

asleep in a corner of the sofa.

Had his astute mind guessed the secret, then? Here lay the

whole awful, horrible, amazing puzzle. In betraying a nameless

stranger to his fate in order to save her brother, had Marguerite

Blakeney sent her husband to his death?

No! no! no! a thousand times no! Surely Fate could not

deal a blow like that: Nature itself would rise in revolt: her hand,

when it held that tiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have

been struck numb ere it committed a deed so appalling and so terrible.

"But what is it, CHERIE?" said little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed,

for Marguerite's colour had become dull and ashen. "Are you ill, Marguerite?

What is it?"

"Nothing, nothing, child," she murmured, as in a dream. "Wait

a moment. . .let me think. . .think!. . .You said. . .the Scarlet

Pimpernel had gone today. . . . ?"

"Marguerite, CHERIE, what is it? You frighten me. . . ."

"It is nothing, child, I tell you. . .nothing. . .I must be

alone a minute--and--dear one. . .I may have to curtail our time

together to-day. . . . I may have to go away--you'll understand?"

"I understand that something has happened, CHERIE, and that

you want to be alone. I won't be a hindrance to you. Don't think of

me. My maid, Lucile, has not yet gone. . .we will go back

together. . .don't think of me."

She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she

was, she felt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the

infinite tact of her girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into

it, but was ready to efface herself.

She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back

across the lawn. Marguerite did not move, she remained there,

thinking. . .wondering what was to be done.

Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps, a

groom came running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a

sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back; her

heart told her that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend,

and she felt that poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.

The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he

handed her the sealed letter.

"What is that?" asked Marguerite.

"Just come by runner, my lady."

Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in

her trembling fingers.

"Who sent it?" she said.

"The runner said, my lady," replied the groom, "that his

orders were to deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand

from whom it came."

Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told

her what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.

It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes--the

letter which Chauvelin's spies had stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest,"

and which Chauvelin had held as a rod over her to enforce her

obedience.

Now he had kept his word--he had sent her back St. Just's

compromising letter. . .for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

Marguerite's senses reeled, her very soul seemed to be leaving

her body; she tottered, and would have fallen but for Suzanne's arm

round her waist. With superhuman effort she regained control over

herself--there was yet much to be done.

"Bring that runner here to me," she said to the servant, with

much calm. "He has not gone?"

"No, my lady."

The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne.

"And you, child, run within. Tell Lucile to get ready. I

fear that I must send you home, child. And--stay, tell one of the

maids to prepare a travelling dress and cloak for me."

Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and

obeyed without a word; the child was overawed by the terrible,

nameless misery in her friend's face.

A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who

had brought the letter.

"Who gave you this packet?" asked Marguerite.

"A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at `The Rose and

Thistle' inn opposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand."

"At `The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"

"He was waiting for the coach, you ladyship, which he had ordered."

"The coach?"

"Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood

from his man that he was posting straight to Dover."

"That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom:

"My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at

once."

The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey.

Marguerite remained standing for a moment on the lawn quite alone.

Her graceful figure was as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her

hands were tightly clasped across her breast; her lips moved as they

murmured with pathetic heart-breaking persistence,--

"What's to be done? What's to be done? Where to find

him?--Oh, God! grant me light."

But this was not the moment for remorse and despair. She had

done--unwittingly--an awful and terrible thing--the very worst crime,

in her eyes, that woman ever committed--she saw it in all its horror.

Her very blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed

now to her another deadly sin. She ought to have known! she ought

to have known!

How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much

intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first--how could

such a man be the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least,

ought to have known that he was wearing a mask, and having found that

out, she should have torn it from his face, whenever they were alone

together.

Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by

her own pride; and she, too, had worn a mask in assuming a contempt

for him, whilst, as a matter of fact, she completely misunderstood

him.

But there was no time now to go over the past. By her own

blindness she had sinned; now she must repay, not by empty remorse,

but by prompt and useful action.

Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact

that his most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail

early that morning from London Bridge. Provided he had a favourable

wind, he would no doubt be in France within twenty-four hours; no

doubt he had reckoned on the wind and chosen this route.

Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, charter a

vessel there, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time.

Once in Calais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerly waiting

for the noble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue them

from horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed

upon his every movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his

own life, but that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and

of those other fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him.

There was also Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the

knowledge that the Scarlet Pimpernel was watching over his safety.

All these lives and that of her husband, lay in Marguerite's hands;

these she must save, if human pluck and ingenuity were equal to the task.

Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in

Calais she would not know where to find her husband, whilst Chauvelin,

in stealing the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary.

Above every thing, she wished to warn Percy.

She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would

never abandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his

back from danger, and leave the Comte de Tournay to fall into the

bloodthirsty hands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he

might form new plans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously, he

might fall into a cunning trap, but--once warned--he might yet succeed.

And if he failed--if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with all the

resources at his command, proved too strong for the daring plotter

after all--then at least she would be there by his side, to comfort,

love and cherish, to cheat death perhaps at the last by making it seem

sweet, if they died both together, locked in each other's arms, with

the supreme happiness of knowing that passion had responded to

passion, and that all misunderstandings were at an end.

Her whole body stiffened as with a great and firm resolution.

This she meant to do, if God gave her wits and strength. Her eyes

lost their fixed look; they glowed with inward fire at the thought of

meeting him again so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils;

they sparkled with the joy of sharing these dangers with him--of

helping him perhaps--of being with him at the last--if she failed.

The childlike sweet face had become hard and set, the curved

mouth was closed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or

die, with him and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will

and unbending resolution, appeared between the two straight brows;

already her plans were formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes first; he was Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered,

with a thrill, with what blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke

of his mysterious leader.

He would help her where she needed help; her coach was ready.

A change of raiment, and a farewell to little Suzanne, and she could

be on her way.

Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly

into the house.

CHAPTER XX THE FRIEND

Less than half an hour later, Marguerite, buried in thoughts,

sat inside her coach, which was bearing her swiftly to London.

She had taken an affectionate farewell of little Suzanne, and

seen the child safely started with her maid, and in her own coach,

back to town. She had sent one courier with a respectful letter of

excuse to His Royal Highness, begging for a postponement of the august

visit on account of pressing and urgent business, and another on ahead

to bespeak a fresh relay of horses at Faversham.

Then she had changed her muslin frock for a dark traveling

costume and mantle, had provided herself with money--which her

husband's lavishness always placed fully at her disposal--and had

started on her way.

She did not attempt to delude herself with any vain and futile

hopes; the safety of her brother Armand was to have been conditional

on the imminent capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. As Chauvelin had

sent her back Armand's compromising letter, there was no doubt that he

was quite satisfied in his own mind that Percy Blakeney was the man

whose death he had sworn to bring about.

No! there was no room for any fond delusions! Percy, the

husband whom she loved with all the ardour which her admiration for

his bravery had kindled, was in immediate, deadly peril, through her

hand. She had betrayed him to his enemy--unwittingly `tis true--but

she HAD betrayed him, and if Chauvelin succeeded in trapping him,

who so far was unaware of his danger, then his death would be at her

door. His death! when with her very heart's blood, she would have

defended him and given willingly her life for his.

She had ordered her coach to drive her to the "Crown" inn;

once there, she told her coachman to give the horses food and rest.

Then she ordered a chair, and had herself carried to the house in Pall

Mall where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lived.

Among all Percy's friends who were enrolled under his daring

banner, she felt that she would prefer to confide in Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes. He had always been her friend, and now his love for little

Suzanne had brought him closer to her still. Had he been away from

home, gone on the mad errand with Percy, perhaps, then she would have

called on Lord Hastings or Lord Tony--for she wanted the help of one

of these young men, or she would indeed be powerless to save her

husband.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, however, was at home, and his servant

introduced her ladyship immediately. She went upstairs to the young

man's comfortable bachelor's chambers, and was shown into a small,

though luxuriously furnished, dining-room. A moment or two later Sir

Andrew himself appeared.

He had evidently been much startled when he heard who his lady

visitor was, for he looked anxiously--even suspiciously--at

Marguerite, whilst performing the elaborate bows before her, which the

rigid etiquette of the time demanded.

Marguerite had laid aside every vestige of nervousness; she

was perfectly calm, and having returned the young man's elaborate

salute, she began very calmly,--

"Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time in much

talk. You must take certain things I am going to tell you for

granted. These will be of no importance. What is important is that

your leader and comrade, the Scarlet Pimpernel. . .my husband. . .

Percy Blakeney. . .is in deadly peril."

Had she the remotest doubt of the correctness of her

deductions, she would have had them confirmed now, for Sir Andrew,

completely taken by surprise, had grown very pale, and was quite

incapable of making the slightest attempt at clever parrying.

"No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew," she continued

quietly, "thank God that I do, and that perhaps it is not too late to

save him. Unfortunately, I cannot do this quite alone, and therefore

have come to you for help."

"Lady Blakeney," said the young man, trying to recover himself, "I. . ."

"Will you hear me first?" she interrupted. "This is how the

matter stands. When the agent of the French Government stole your

papers that night in Dover, he found amongst them certain plans, which

you or your leader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte de

Tournay and others. The Scarlet Pimpernel--Percy, my husband--has

gone on this errand himself to-day. Chauvelin knows that the Scarlet

Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney are one and the same person. He will

follow him to Calais, and there will lay hands on him. You know as

well as I do the fate that awaits him at the hands of the

Revolutionary Government of France. No interference from

England--from King George himself--would save him. Robespierre and

his gang would see to it that the interference came too late. But not

only that, the much-trusted leader will also have been unconsciously

the means of revealing the hiding-place of the Comte de Tournay and of

all those who, even now, are placing their hopes in him."

She had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with firm,

unbending resolution. Her purpose was to make that young man trust

and help her, for she could do nothing without him.

"I do not understand," he repeated, trying to gain time, to

think what was best to be done.

"Aye! but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must know that I

am speaking the truth. Look these facts straight in the face. Percy

has sailed for Calais, I presume for some lonely part of the coast,

and Chauvelin is on his track. HE has posted for Dover, and will

cross the Channel probably to-night. What do you think will happen?"

The young man was silent.

"Percy will arrive at his destination: unconscious of being

followed he will seek out de Tournay and the others--among these is

Armand St. Just my brother--he will seek them out, one after another,

probably, not knowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching

his every movement. When he has thus unconsciously betrayed those who

blindly trust in him, when nothing can be gained from him, and he is

ready to come back to England, with those whom he has gone so bravely

to save, the doors of the trap will close upon him, and he will be

sent to end his noble life upon the guillotine."

Still Sir Andrew was silent.

"You do not trust me," she said passionately. "Oh God!

cannot you see that I am in deadly earnest? Man, man," she added,

while, with her tiny hands she seized the young man suddenly by the

shoulders, forcing him to look straight at her, "tell me, do I look

like that vilest thing on earth--a woman who would betray her own

husband?"

"God forbid, Lady Blakeney," said the young man at last,

"that I should attribute such evil motives to you, but. . ."

"But what?. . .tell me. . .Quick, man!. . .the very seconds are precious!"

"Will you tell me," he asked resolutely, and looking

searchingly into her blue eyes, "whose hand helped to guide M.

Chauvelin to the knowledge which you say he possesses?"

"Mine," she said quietly, "I own it--I will not lie to you,

for I wish you to trust me absolutely. But I had no idea--how COULD

I have?--of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. . .and my brother's

safety was to be my prize if I succeeded."

"In helping Chauvelin to track the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

She nodded.

"It is no use telling you how he forced my hand. Armand is

more than a brother to me, and. . .and. . .how COULD I guess?. . .

But we waste time, Sir Andrew. . .every second is precious. . .in the

name of God!. . .my husband is in peril. . .your friend!--your

comrade!--Help me to save him."

Sir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward one. The

oath he had taken before his leader and comrade was one of obedience

and secrecy; and yet the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust

her, was undoubtedly in earnest; his friend and leader was equally

undoubtedly in imminent danger and. . .

"Lady Blakeney," he said at last, "God knows you have

perplexed me, so that I do not know which way my duty lies. Tell me

what you wish me to do. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down

our lives for the Scarlet Pimpernel if he is in danger."

"There is no need for lives just now, my friend," she said

drily; "my wits and four swift horses will serve the necessary

purpose. But I must know where to find him. See," she added, while

her eyes filled with tears, "I have humbled myself before you, I have

owned my fault to you; shall I also confess my weakness?--My husband

and I have been estranged, because he did not trust me, and because I

was too blind to understand. You must confess that the bandage which

he put over my eyes was a very thick one. Is it small wonder that I

did not see through it? But last night, after I led him unwittingly

into such deadly peril, it suddenly fell from my eyes. If you will

not help me, Sir Andrew, I would still strive to save my husband. I

would still exert every faculty I possess for his sake; but I might be

powerless, for I might arrive too late, and nothing would be left for

you but lifelong remorse, and. . .and. . .for me, a broken heart."

"But, Lady Blakeney," said the young man, touched by the

gentle earnestness of this exquisitely beautiful woman, "do you know

that what you propose doing is man's work?--you cannot possibly

journey to Calais alone. You would be running the greatest possible

risks to yourself, and your chances of finding your husband now--where

I to direct you ever so carefully--are infinitely remote.

"Oh, I hope there are risks!" she murmured softly, "I hope

there are dangers, too!--I have so much to atone for. But I fear you

are mistaken. Chauvelin's eyes are fixed upon you all, he will scarce

notice me. Quick, Sir Andrew!--the coach is ready, and there is not a

moment to be lost. . . . I MUST get to him! I MUST!" she

repeated with almost savage energy, "to warn him that that man is on

his track. . . . Can't you see--can't you see, that I MUST get to

him. . .even. . .even if it be too late to save him. . .at least. . .

to be by his side. . .at the least."

"Faith, Madame, you must command me. Gladly would I or any of

my comrades lay down our lives for our husband. If you WILL go

yourself. . ."

"Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if I let you go

without me." She stretched out her hand to him. "You WILL trust me?"

"I await your orders," he said simply.

"Listen, then. My coach is ready to take me to Dover. Do you

follow me, as swiftly as horses will take you. We meet at nightfall

at `The Fisherman's Rest.' Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known

there, and I think it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your

escort to Calais. . .as you say, I might miss Sir Percy were you to

direct me ever so carefully. We'll charter a schooner at Dover and

cross over during the night. Disguised, if you will agree to it, as

my lacquey, you will, I think, escape detection."

"I am entirely at your service, Madame," rejoined the young

man earnestly. "I trust to God that you will sight the DAY DREAM

before we reach Calais. With Chauvelin at his heels, every step the

Scarlet Pimpernel takes on French soil is fraught with danger."

"God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We meet

to-night at Dover! It will be a race between Chauvelin and me across

the Channel to-night--and the prize--the life of the Scarlet

Pimpernel."

He kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her chair. A

quarter of an hour later she was back at the "Crown" inn, where her

coach and horses were ready and waiting for her. The next moment they

thundered along the London streets, and then straight on to the Dover

road at maddening speed.

She had no time for despair now. She was up and doing and had

no leisure to think. With Sir Andrew Ffoulkes as her companion and

ally, hope had once again revived in her heart.

God would be merciful. He would not allow so appalling a

crime to be committed, as the death of a brave man, through the hand

of a woman who loved him, and worshipped him, and who would gladly

have died for his sake.

Marguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious hero,

whom she had always unconsciously loved, when his identity was still

unknown to her. Laughingly, in the olden days, she used to call him

the shadowy king of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that

this enigmatic personality whom she had worshipped, and the man who

loved her so passionately, were one and the same: what wonder that one

or two happier Visions began to force their way before her mind? She

vaguely wondered what she would say to him when first they would stand

face to face.

She had had so many anxieties, so much excitement during the

past few hours, that she allowed herself the luxury of nursing these

few more hopeful, brighter thoughts. Gradually the rumble of the

coach wheels, with its incessant monotony, acted soothingly on her

nerves: her eyes, aching with fatigue and many shed and unshed tears,

closed involuntarily, and she fell into a troubled sleep.

CHAPTER XXI SUSPENSE

It was late into the night when she at last reached "The

Fisherman's Rest." She had done the whole journey in less than eight

hours, thanks to innumerable changes of horses at the various coaching

stations, for which she always paid lavishly, thus obtaining the very

best and swiftest that could be had.

Her coachman, too, had been indefatigible; the promise of

special and rich reward had no doubt helped to keep him up, and he had

literally burned the ground beneath his mistress' coach wheels.

The arrival of Lady Blakeney in the middle of the night caused

a considerable flutter at "The Fisherman's Rest." Sally jumped

hastily out of bed, and Mr. Jellyband was at great pains how to make

his important guest comfortable.

Both of these good folk were far too well drilled in the

manners appertaining to innkeepers, to exhibit the slightest surprise

at Lady Blakeney's arrival, alone, at this extraordinary hour. No

doubt they thought all the more, but Marguerite was far too absorbed

in the importance--the deadly earnestness--of her journey, to stop and

ponder over trifles of that sort.

The coffee-room--the scene lately of the dastardly outrage on

two English gentlemen--was quite deserted. Mr. Jellyband hastily

relit the lamp, rekindled a cheerful bit of fire in the great hearth,

and then wheeled a comfortable chair by it, into which Marguerite

gratefully sank.

"Will your ladyship stay the night?" asked pretty Miss Sally,

who was already busy laying a snow-white cloth on the table,

preparatory to providing a simple supper for her ladyship.

"No! not the whole night," replied Marguerite. "At any rate,

I shall not want any room but this, if I can have it to myself for an

hour or two."

"It is at your ladyship's service," said honest Jellyband,

whose rubicund face was set in its tightest folds, lest it should

betray before "the quality" that boundless astonishment which the very

worthy fellow had begun to feel.

"I shall be crossing over at the first turn of the tide," said

Marguerite, "and in the first schooner I can get. But my coachman and

men will stay the night, and probably several days longer, so I hope

you will make them comfortable."

"Yes, my lady; I'll look after them. Shall Sally bring your

ladyship some supper?"

"Yes, please. Put something cold on the table, and as soon as

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes comes, show him in here."

"Yes, my lady."

Honest Jellyband's face now expressed distress in spite of

himself. He had great regard for Sir Percy Blakeney, and did not like

to see his lady running away with young Sir Andrew. Of course, it was

no business of his, and Mr. Jellyband was no gossip. Still, in his

heart, he recollected that her ladyship was after all only one of them

"furriners"; what wonder that she was immoral like the rest of them?

"Don't sit up, honest Jellyband," continued Marguerite kindly,

"nor you either, Mistress Sally. Sir Andrew may be late."

Jellyband was only too willing that Sally should go to bed.

He was beginning not to like these goings-on at all. Still, Lady

Blakeney would pay handsomely for the accommodation, and it certainly

was no business of his.

Sally arranged a simple supper of cold meat, wine, and fruit

on the table, then with a respectful curtsey, she retired, wondering

in her little mind why her ladyship looked so serious, when she was

about to elope with her gallant.

Then commenced a period of weary waiting for Marguerite. She

knew that Sir Andrew--who would have to provide himself with clothes

befitting a lacquey--could not possibly reach Dover for at least a

couple of hours. He was a splendid horseman of course, and would make

light in such an emergency of the seventy odd miles between London and

Dover. He would, too, literally burn the ground beneath his horse's

hoofs, but he might not always get very good remounts, and in any

case, he could not have started from London until at least an hour

after she did.

She had seen nothing of Chauvelin on the road. Her coachman,

whom she questioned, had not seen anyone answering the description his

mistress gave him of the wizened figure of the little Frenchman.

Evidently, therefore, he had been ahead of her all the time.

She had not dared to question the people at the various inns, where

they had stopped to change horses. She feared that Chauvelin had

spies all along the route, who might overhear her questions, then

outdistance her and warn her enemy of her approach.

Now she wondered at what inn he might be stopping, or whether

he had had the good luck of chartering a vessel already, and was now

himself on the way to France. That thought gripped her at the heart

as with an iron vice. If indeed she should not be too late already!

The loneliness of the room overwhelmed her; everything within

was so horribly still; the ticking of the grandfather's

clock--dreadfully slow and measured--was the only sound which broke

this awful loneliness.

Marguerite had need of all her energy, all her steadfastness of

purpose, to keep up her courage through this weary midnight waiting.

Everyone else in the house but herself must have been asleep.

She had heard Sally go upstairs. Mr. Jellyband had gone to see to her

coachman and men, and then had returned and taken up a position under

the porch outside, just where Marguerite had first met Chauvelin about

a week ago. He evidently meant to wait up for Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,

but was soon overcome by sweet slumbers, for presently--in addition to

the slow ticking of the clock--Marguerite could hear the monotonous

and dulcet tones of the worthy fellow's breathing.

For some time now, she had realised that the beautiful warm

October's day, so happily begun, had turned into a rough and cold

night. She had felt very chilly, and was glad of the cheerful blaze

in the hearth: but gradually, as time wore on, the weather became more

rough, and the sound of the great breakers against the Admiralty Pier,

though some distance from the inn, came to her as the noise of muffled

thunder.

The wind was becoming boisterous, rattling the leaded windows

and the massive doors of the old-fashioned house: it shook the trees

outside and roared down the vast chimney. Marguerite wondered if the

wind would be favourable for her journey. She had no fear of the

storm, and would have braved worse risks sooner than delay the

crossing by an hour.

A sudden commotion outside roused her from her meditations.

Evidently it was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, just arrived in mad haste, for

she heard his horse's hoofs thundering on the flag-stones outside,

then Mr. Jellyband's sleepy, yet cheerful tones bidding him welcome.

For a moment, then, the awkwardness of her position struck

Marguerite; alone at this hour, in a place where she was well known,

and having made an assignation with a young cavalier equally well

known, and who arrived in disguise! What food for gossip to those

mischievously inclined.

The idea struck Marguerite chiefly from its humorous side:

there was such quaint contrast between the seriousness of her errand,

and the construction which would naturally be put on her actions by

honest Mr. Jellyband, that, for the first time since many hours, a

little smile began playing round the corners of her childlike mouth,

and when, presently, Sir Andrew, almost unrecognisable in his

lacquey-like garb, entered the coffee-room, she was able to greet him

with quite a merry laugh.

"Faith! Monsieur, my lacquey," she said, "I am satisfied with

your appearance!"

Mr. Jellyband had followed Sir Andrew, looking strangely

perplexed. The young gallant's disguise had confirmed his worst

suspicions. Without a smile upon his jovial face, he drew the cork

from the bottle of wine, set the chairs ready, and prepared to wait.

"Thanks, honest friend," said Marguerite, who was still

smiling at the thought of what the worthy fellow must be thinking at

that very moment, "we shall require nothing more; and here's for all

the trouble you have been put to on our account."

She handed two or three gold pieces to Jellyband, who took

them respectfully, and with becoming gratitude.

"Stay, Lady Blakeney," interposed Sir Andrew, as Jellyband was

about to retire, "I am afraid we shall require something more of my

friend Jelly's hospitality. I am sorry to say we cannot cross over

to-night."

"Not cross over to-night?" she repeated in amazement. "But we

must, Sir Andrew, we must! There can be no question of cannot, and

whatever it may cost, we must get a vessel to-night."

But the young man shook his head sadly.

"I am afraid it is not a question of cost, Lady Blakeney.

There is a nasty storm blowing from France, the wind is dead against

us, we cannot possibly sail until it has changed."

Marguerite became deadly pale. She had not foreseen this.

Nature herself was playing her a horrible, cruel trick. Percy was in

danger, and she could not go to him, because the wind happened to blow

from the coast of France.

"But we must go!--we must!" she repeated with strange,

persistent energy, "you know, we must go!--can't you find a way?"

"I have been down to the shore already," he said, "and had a

talk to one or two skippers. It is quite impossible to set sail

to-night, so every sailor assured me. No one," he added, looking

significantly at Marguerite, "NO ONE could possibly put out of Dover

to-night."

Marguerite at once understood what he meant. NO ONE

included Chauvelin as well as herself. She nodded pleasantly to

Jellyband.

"Well, then, I must resign myself," she said to him. "Have

you a room for me?"

"Oh, yes, your ladyship. A nice, bright, airy room. I'll see

to it at once. . . . And there is another one for Sir Andrew--both

quite ready."

"That's brave now, mine honest Jelly," said Sir Andrew, gaily,

and clapping his worth host vigorously on the back. "You unlock both

those rooms, and leave our candles here on the dresser. I vow you are

dead with sleep, and her ladyship must have some supper before she

retires. There, have no fear, friend of the rueful countenance, her

ladyship's visit, though at this unusual hour, is a great honour to

thy house, and Sir Percy Blakeney will reward thee doubly, if thou

seest well to her privacy and comfort."

Sir Andrew had no doubt guessed the many conflicting doubts

and fears which raged in honest Jellyband's head; and, as he was a

gallant gentleman, he tried by this brave hint to allay some of the

worthy innkeeper's suspicions. He had the satisfaction of seeing that

he had partially succeeded. Jellyband's rubicund countenance

brightened somewhat, at the mention of Sir Percy's name.

"I'll go and see to it at once, sir," he said with alacrity,

and with less frigidity in his manner. "Has her ladyship everything

she wants for supper?"

"Everything, thanks, honest friend, and as I am famished and

dead with fatigue, I pray you see to the rooms."

"Now tell me," she said eagerly, as soon as Jellyband had gone

from the room, "tell me all your news."

"There is nothing else much to tell you, Lady Blakeney,"

replied the young man. "The storm makes it quite impossible for any

vessel to put out of Dover this tide. But, what seems to you at first

a terrible calamity is really a blessing in disguise. If we cannot

cross over to France to-night, Chauvelin is in the same quandary.

"He may have left before the storm broke out."

"God grant he may," said Sir Andrew, merrily, "for very likely

then he'll have been driven out of his course! Who knows? He may now

even be lying at the bottom of the sea, for there is a furious storm

raging, and it will fare ill with all small craft which happen to be

out. But I fear me we cannot build our hopes upon the shipwreck of

that cunning devil, and of all his murderous plans. The sailors I

spoke to, all assured me that no schooner had put out of Dover for

several hours: on the other hand, I ascertained that a stranger had

arrived by coach this afternoon, and had, like myself, made some

inquiries about crossing over to France.

"Then Chauvelin is still in Dover?"

"Undoubtedly. Shall I go waylay him and run my sword through him?

That were indeed the quickest way out of the difficulty."

"Nay! Sir Andrew, do not jest! Alas! I have often since last

night caught myself wishing for that fiend's death. But what you

suggest is impossible! The laws of this country do not permit of

murder! It is only in our beautiful France that wholesale slaughter

is done lawfully, in the name of Liberty and of brotherly love."

Sir Andrew had persuaded her to sit down to the table, to partake of

some supper and to drink a little wine. This enforced rest of at least

twelve hours, until the next tide, was sure to be terribly difficult to

bear in the state of intense excitement in which she was. Obedient in

these small matters like a child, Marguerite tried to eat and drink.

Sir Andrew, with that profound sympathy born in all those who

are in love, made her almost happy by talking to her about her

husband. He recounted to her some of the daring escapes the brave

Scarlet Pimpernel had contrived for the poor French fugitives, whom a

relentless and bloody revolution was driving out of their country. He

made her eyes glow with enthusiasm by telling her of his bravery, his

ingenuity, his resourcefulness, when it meant snatching the lives of

men, women, and even children from beneath the very edge of that

murderous, ever-ready guillotine.

He even made her smile quite merrily by telling her of the

Scarlet Pimpernel's quaint and many disguises, through which he had

baffled the strictest watch set against him at the barricades of

Paris. This last time, the escape of the Comtesse de Tournay and her

children had been a veritable masterpiece--Blakeney disguised as a

hideous old market-woman, in filthy cap and straggling grey locks, was

a sight fit to make the gods laugh.

Marguerite laughed heartily as Sir Andrew tried to describe

Blakeney's appearance, whose gravest difficulty always consisted in

his great height, which in France made disguise doubly difficult.

Thus an hour wore on. There were many more to spend in

enforced inactivity in Dover. Marguerite rose from the table with an

impatient sigh. She looked forward with dread to the night in the bed

upstairs, with terribly anxious thoughts to keep her company, and the

howling of the storm to help chase sleep away.

She wondered where Percy was now. The DAY DREAM was a strong,

well-built sea-going yacht. Sir Andrew had expressed the opinion

that no doubt she had got in the lee of the wind before the storm

broke out, or else perhaps had not ventured into the open at all,

but was lying quietly at Gravesend.

Briggs was an expert skipper, and Sir Percy handled a schooner as well

as any master mariner. There was no danger for them from the storm.

It was long past midnight when at last Marguerite retired to

rest. As she had feared, sleep sedulously avoided her eyes. Her

thoughts were of the blackest during these long, weary hours, whilst

that incessant storm raged which was keeping her away from Percy. The

sound of the distant breakers made her heart ache with melancholy.

She was in the mood when the sea has a saddening effect upon the

nerves. It is only when we are very happy, that we can bear to gaze

merrily upon the vast and limitless expanse of water, rolling on and

on with such persistent, irritating monotony, to the accompaniment of

our thoughts, whether grave or gay. When they are gay, the waves echo

their gaiety; but when they are sad, then every breaker, as it rolls,

seems to bring additional sadness, and to speak to us of hopelessness

and of the pettiness of all our joys.

CHAPTER XXII CALAIS

The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must

perforce come to an end.

Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental

torture as well-nigh drove her crazy. After a sleepless night, she

rose early, wild with excitement, dying to start on her journey,

terrified lest further obstacles lay in her way. She rose before

anyone else in the house was astir, so frightened was she, lest she

should miss the one golden opportunity of making a start.

When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew Ffoulkes

sitting in the coffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and

had gone to the Admiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French

packet nor any privately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet.

The storm was then at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If

the wind did not abate or change, they would perforce have to wait

another ten or twelve hours until the next tide, before a start could

be made. And the storm had not abated, the wind had not changed, and

the tide was rapidly drawing out.

Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this

melancholy news. Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally

breaking down, and thus adding to the young man's anxiety, which

evidently had become very keen.

Though he tried to hide it, Marguerite could see that Sir

Andrew was just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend.

This enforced inactivity was terrible to them both.

How they spend that wearisome day at Dover, Marguerite could

never afterwards say. She was in terror of showing herself, lest

Chauvelin's spies happened to be about, so she had a private

sitting-room, and she and Sir Andrew sat there hour after hour, trying

to take, at long intervals, some perfunctory meals, which little Sally

would bring them, with nothing to do but to think, to conjecture, and

only occasionally to hope.

The storm had abated just too late; the tide was by then too

far out to allow a vessel to put off to sea. The wind had changed,

and was settling down to a comfortable north-westerly breeze--a

veritable godsend for a speedy passage across to France.

And there those two waited, wondering if the hour would ever

come when they could finally make a start. There had been one happy

interval in this long weary day, and that was when Sir Andrew went

down once again to the pier, and presently came back to tell

Marguerite that he had chartered a quick schooner, whose skipper was

ready to put to sea the moment the tide was favourable.

From that moment the hours seemed less wearisome; there was

less hopelessness in the waiting; and at last, at five o'clock in the

afternoon, Marguerite, closely veiled and followed by Sir Andrew

Ffoulkes, who, in the guise of her lacquey, was carrying a number of

impedimenta, found her way down to the pier.

Once on board, the keen, fresh sea-air revived her, the breeze

was just strong enough to nicely swell the sails of the FOAM CREST,

as she cut her way merrily towards the open.

The sunset was glorious after the storm, and Marguerite, as

she watched the white cliffs of Dover gradually disappearing from

view, felt more at peace and once more almost hopeful.

Sir Andrew was full of kind attentions, and she felt how lucky

she had been to have him by her side in this, her great trouble.

Gradually the grey coast of France began to emerge from the

fast-gathering evening mists. One or two lights could be seen

flickering, and the spires of several churches to rise out of the

surrounding haze.

Half an hour later Marguerite had landed upon French shore.

She was back in that country where at this very moment men slaughtered

their fellow-creatures by the hundreds, and sent innocent women and

children in thousands to the block.

The very aspect of the country and its people, even in this

remote sea-coast town, spoke of that seething revolution, three

hundred miles away, in beautiful Paris, now rendered hideous by the

constant flow of the blood of her noblest sons, by the wailing of the

widows, and the cries of fatherless children.

The men all wore red caps--in various stages of

cleanliness--but all with the tricolor cockade pinned on the

left-side. Marguerite noticed with a shudder that, instead of the

laughing, merry countenance habitual to her own countrymen, their

faces now invariably wore a look of sly distrust.

Every man nowadays was a spy upon his fellows: the most

innocent word uttered in jest might at any time be brought up as a

proof of aristocratic tendencies, or of treachery against the people.

Even the women went about with a curious look of fear and of hate

lurking in their brown eyes; and all watched Marguerite as she stepped

on shore, followed by Sir Andrew, and murmured as she passed along:

"SACRES ARISTOS!" or else "SACRES ANGLAIS!"

Otherwise their presence excited no further comment. Calais,

even in those days, was in constant business communication with

England, and English merchants were often seen on this coast. It was

well known that in view of the heavy duties in England, a vast deal of

French wines and brandies were smuggled across. This pleased the

French BOURGEOIS immensely; he liked to see the English Government

and the English king, both of whom he hated, cheated out of their

revenues; and an English smuggler was always a welcome guest at the

tumble-down taverns of Calais and Boulogne.

So, perhaps, as Sir Andrew gradually directed Marguerite

through the tortuous streets of Calais, many of the population, who

turned with an oath to look at the strangers clad in English fashion,

thought that they were bent on purchasing dutiable articles for their

own fog-ridden country, and gave them no more than a passing thought.

Marguerite, however, wondered how her husband's tall, massive

figure could have passed through Calais unobserved: she marvelled what

disguise he assumed to do his noble work, without exciting too much

attention.

Without exchanging more than a few words, Sir Andrew was

leading her right across the town, to the other side from that where

they had landed, and the way towards Cap Gris Nez. The streets were

narrow, tortuous, and mostly evil-smelling, with a mixture of stale

fish and damp cellar odours. There had been heavy rain here during

the storm last night, and sometimes Marguerite sank ankle-deep in the

mud, for the roads were not lighted save by the occasional glimmer

from a lamp inside a house.

But she did not heed any of these petty discomforts: "We may

meet Blakeney at the `Chat Gris,'" Sir Andrew had said, when they

landed, and she was walking as if on a carpet of rose-leaves, for she

was going to meet him almost at once.

At last they reached their destination. Sir Andrew evidently

knew the road, for he had walked unerringly in the dark, and had not

asked his way from anyone. It was too dark then for Marguerite to

notice the outside aspect of this house. The "Chat Gris," as Sir

Andrew had called it, was evidently a small wayside inn on the outskirts

of Calais, and on the way to Gris Nez. It lay some little distance

from the coast, for the sound of the sea seemed to come from afar.

Sir Andrew knocked at the door with the knob of his cane, and

from within Marguerite heard a sort of grunt and the muttering of a

number of oaths. Sir Andrew knocked again, this time more

peremptorily: more oaths were heard, and then shuffling steps seemed

to draw near the door. Presently this was thrown open, and Marguerite

found herself on the threshold of the most dilapidated, most squalid

room she had ever seen in all her life.

The paper, such as it was, was hanging from the walls in

strips; there did not seem to be a single piece of furniture in the

room that could, by the wildest stretch of imagination, be called

"whole." Most of the chairs had broken backs, others had no seats to

them, one corner of the table was propped up with a bundle of faggots,

there where the fourth leg had been broken.

In one corner of the room there was a huge hearth, over which

hung a stock-pot, with a not altogether unpalatable odour of hot soup

emanating therefrom. On one side of the room, high up in the wall,

there was a species of loft, before which hung a tattered blue-and-white

checked curtain. A rickety set of steps led up to this loft.

On the great bare walls, with their colourless paper, all

stained with varied filth, there were chalked up at intervals in great

bold characters, the words: "Liberte--Egalite--Fraternite."

The whole of this sordid abode was dimly lighted by an

evil-smelling oil-lamp, which hung from the rickety rafters of the

ceiling. It all looked so horribly squalid, so dirty and uninviting,

that Marguerite hardly dared to cross the threshold.

Sir Andrew, however, had stepped unhesitatingly forward.

"English travellers, citoyen!" he said boldly, and speaking in French.

The individual who had come to the door in response to Sir

Andrew's knock, and who, presumably, was the owner of this squalid

abode, was an elderly, heavily built peasant, dressed in a dirty blue

blouse, heavy sabots, from which wisps of straw protruded all round,

shabby blue trousers, and the inevitable red cap with the tricolour

cockade, that proclaimed his momentary political views. He carried a

short wooden pipe, from which the odour of rank tobacco emanated. He

looked with some suspicion and a great deal of contempt at the two

travellers, muttering "SACRRRES ANGLAIS!" and spat upon the ground

to further show his independence of spirit, but, nevertheless, he

stood aside to let them enter, no doubt well aware that these same

SACCRES ANGLAIS always had well-filled purses.

"Oh, lud!" said Marguerite, as she advanced into the room,

holding her handkerchief to her dainty nose, "what a dreadful hole!

Are you sure this is the place?"

"Aye! `this the place, sure enough," replied the young man

as, with his lace-edged, fashionable handkerchief, he dusted a chair

for Marguerite to sit on; "but I vow I never saw a more villainous

hole."

"Faith!" she said, looking round with some curiosity and a

great deal of horror at the dilapidated walls, the broken chairs, the

rickety table, "it certainly does not look inviting."

The landlord of the "Chat Gris"--by name, Brogard--had taken

no further notice of his guests; he concluded that presently they

would order supper, and in the meanwhile it was not for a free citizen

to show deference, or even courtesy, to anyone, however smartly they

might be dressed.

By the hearth sat a huddled-up figure clad, seemingly, mostly

in rags: that figure was apparently a woman, although even that would

have been hard to distinguish, except for the cap, which had once been

white, and for what looked like the semblance of a petticoat. She was

sitting mumbling to herself, and from time to time stirring the brew

in her stock-pot.

"Hey, my friend!" said Sir Andrew at last, "we should like

some supper. . . . The citoyenne there," he added, "is concocting

some delicious soup, I'll warrant, and my mistress has not tasted food

for several hours.

It took Brogard some few minutes to consider the question. A

free citizen does not respond too readily to the wishes of those who

happen to require something of him.

"SACRRRES ARISTOS!" he murmured, and once more spat upon the

ground.

Then he went very slowly up to a dresser which stood in a

corner of the room; from this he took an old pewter soup-tureen and

slowly, and without a word, he handed it to his better-half, who, in

the same silence, began filling the tureen with the soup out of her

stock-pot.

Marguerite had watched all these preparations with absolute

horror; were it not for the earnestness of her purpose, she would

incontinently have fled from this abode of dirt and evil smells.

"Faith! our host and hostess are not cheerful people," said

Sir Andrew, seeing the look of horror on Marguerite's face. "I would

I could offer you a more hearty and more appetising meal. . .but I

think you will find the soup eatable and the wine good; these people

wallow in dirt, but live well as a rule."

"Nay! I pray you, Sir Andrew," she said gently, "be not anxious

about me. My mind is scarce inclined to dwell on thoughts of supper."

Brogard was slowly pursuing his gruesome preparations; he had

placed a couple of spoons, also two glasses on the table, both of

which Sir Andrew took the precaution of wiping carefully.

Brogard had also produced a bottle of wine and some bread, and

Marguerite made an effort to draw her chair to the table and to make

some pretence at eating. Sir Andrew, as befitting his ROLE of

lacquey, stood behind her chair.

"Nay, Madame, I pray you," he said, seeing that Marguerite

seemed quite unable to eat, "I beg of you to try and swallow some

food--remember you have need of all your strength."

The soup certainly was not bad; it smelt and tasted good.

Marguerite might have enjoyed it, but for the horrible surroundings.

She broke the bread, however, and drank some of the wine.

"Nay, Sir Andrew," she said, "I do not like to see you

standing. You have need of food just as much as I have. This

creature will only think that I am an eccentric Englishwoman eloping

with her lacquey, if you'll sit down and partake of this semblance of

supper beside me."

Indeed, Brogard having placed what was strictly necessary upon

the table, seemed not to trouble himself any further about his guests.

The Mere Brogard had quietly shuffled out of the room, and the man

stood and lounged about, smoking his evil-smelling pipe, sometimes

under Marguerite's very nose, as any free-born citizen who was

anybody's equal should do.

"Confound the brute!" said Sir Andrew, with native British

wrath, as Brogard leant up against the table, smoking and looking down

superciliously at these two SACRRRES ANGLAIS.

"In Heaven's name, man," admonished Marguerite, hurriedly,

seeing that Sir Andrew, with British-born instinct, was ominously

clenching his fist, "remember that you are in France, and that in this

year of grace this is the temper of the people."

"I'd like to scrag the brute!" muttered Sir Andrew, savagely.

He had taken Marguerite's advice and sat next to her at table,

and they were both making noble efforts to deceive one another, by

pretending to eat and drink.

"I pray you," said Marguerite, "keep the creature in a good

temper, so that he may answer the questions we must put to him."

"I'll do my best, but, begad! I'd sooner scrag him than

question him. Hey! my friend," he said pleasantly in French, and

tapping Brogard lightly on the shoulder, "do you see many of our

quality along these parts? Many English travellers, I mean?"

Brogard looked round at him, over his near shoulder, puffed

away at his pipe for a moment or two as he was in no hurry, then

muttered,--

"Heu!--sometimes!"

"Ah!" said Sir Andrew, carelessly, "English travellers always

know where they can get good wine, eh! my friend?--Now, tell me, my

lady was desiring to know if by any chance you happen to have seen a

great friend of hers, an English gentleman, who often comes to Calais

on business; he is tall, and recently was on his way to Paris--my lady

hoped to have met him in Calais."

Marguerite tried not to look at Brogard, lest she should

betray before him the burning anxiety with which she waited for his

reply. But a free-born French citizen is never in any hurry to answer

questions: Brogard took his time, then he said very slowly,--

"Tall Englishman?--To-day!--Yes."

"Yes, to-day," muttered Brogard, sullenly. Then he quietly

took Sir Andrew's hat from a chair close by, put it on his own head,

tugged at his dirty blouse, and generally tried to express in

pantomime that the individual in question wore very fine clothes.

"SACRRE ARISTO!" he muttered, "that tall Englishman!"

Marguerite could scarce repress a scream.

"It's Sir Percy right enough," she murmured, "and not even in disguise!"

She smiled, in the midst of all her anxiety and through her

gathering tears, at the thought of "the ruling passion strong in

death"; of Percy running into the wildest, maddest dangers, with the

latest-cut coat upon his back, and the laces of his jabot unruffled.

"Oh! the foolhardiness of it!" she sighed. "Quick, Sir Andrew!

ask the man when he went."

"Ah yes, my friend," said Sir Andrew, addressing Brogard, with

the same assumption of carelessness, "my lord always wears beautiful

clothes; the tall Englishman you saw, was certainly my lady's friend.

And he has gone, you say?"

"He went. . .yes. . .but he's coming back. . .here--he ordered supper. . ."

Sir Andrew put his hand with a quick gesture of warning upon

Marguerite's arm; it came none too sone, for the next moment her wild,

mad joy would have betrayed her. He was safe and well, was coming

back here presently, she would see him in a few moments perhaps. . . .

Oh! the wildness of her joy seemed almost more than she could bear.

"Here!" she said to Brogard, who seemed suddenly to have been

transformed in her eyes into some heavenborn messenger of bliss.

"Here!--did you say the English gentleman was coming back here?"

The heaven-born messenger of bliss spat upon the floor, to

express his contempt for all and sundry ARISTOS, who chose to haunt

the "Chat Gris."

"Heu!" he muttered, "he ordered supper--he will come back. . .

SACRRE ANGLAIS!" he added, by way of protest against all this fuss

for a mere Englishman.

"But where is he now?--Do you know?" she asked eagerly,

placing her dainty white hand upon the dirty sleeve of his blue

blouse.

"He went to get a horse and cart," said Brogard, laconically,

as with a surly gesture, he shook off from his arm that pretty hand

which princes had been proud to kiss.

"At what time did he go?"

But Brogard had evidently had enough of these questionings.

He did not think that it was fitting for a citizen--who was the equal

of anybody--to be thus catechised by these SACRRES ARISTOS, even

though they were rich English ones. It was distinctly more fitting to

his newborn dignity to be as rude as possible; it was a sure sign of

servility to meekly reply to civil questions.

"I don't know," he said surlily. "I have said enough,

VOYONS, LES ARISTOS!. . .He came to-day. He ordered supper. He

went out.--He'll come back. VOILA!"

And with this parting assertion of his rights as a citizen and

a free man, to be as rude as he well pleased, Brogard shuffled out of

the room, banging the door after him.

CHAPTER XXIII HOPE

"Faith, Madame!" said Sir Andrew, seeing that Marguerite

seemed desirous to call her surly host back again, "I think we'd

better leave him alone. We shall not get anything more out of him,

and we might arouse his suspicions. One never knows what spies may be

lurking around these God-forsaken places."

"What care I?" she replied lightly, "now I know that my

husband is safe, and that I shall see him almost directly!"

"Hush!" he said in genuine alarm, for she had talked quite

loudly, in the fulness of her glee, "the very walls have ears in

France, these days."

He rose quickly from the table, and walked round the bare,

squalid room, listening attentively at the door, through which Brogard

has just disappeared, and whence only muttered oaths and shuffling

footsteps could be heard. He also ran up the rickety steps that led

to the attic, to assure himself that there were no spies of

Chauvelin's about the place.

"Are we alone, Monsieur, my lacquey?" said Marguerite, gaily,

as the young man once more sat down beside her. "May we talk?"

"As cautiously as possible!" he entreated.

"Faith, man! but you wear a glum face! As for me, I could

dance with joy! Surely there is no longer any cause for fear. Our

boat is on the beach, the FOAM CREST not two miles out at sea, and

my husband will be here, under this very roof, within the next half

hour perhaps. Sure! there is naught to hinder us. Chauvelin and his

gang have not yet arrived."

"Nay, madam! that I fear we do not know."

"What do you mean?"

"He was at Dover at the same time that we were."

"Held up by the same storm, which kept us from starting."

"Exactly. But--I did not speak of it before, for I feared to

alarm you--I saw him on the beach not five minutes before we embarked.

At least, I swore to myself at the time that it was himself; he was

disguised as a CURE, so that Satan, his own guardian, would scarce

have known him. But I heard him then, bargaining for a vessel to take

him swiftly to Calais; and he must have set sail less than an hour

after we did."

Marguerite's face had quickly lost its look of joy. The

terrible danger in which Percy stood, now that he was actually on

French soil, became suddenly and horribly clear to her. Chauvelin was

close upon his heels; here in Calais, the astute diplomatist was

all-powerful; a word from him and Percy could be tracked and arrested

and. . .

Every drop of blood seemed to freeze in her veins; not even

during the moments of her wildest anguish in England had she so

completely realised the imminence of the peril in which her husband

stood. Chauvelin had sworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to the

guillotine, and now the daring plotter, whose anonymity hitherto had

been his safeguard, stood revealed through her own hand, to his most

bitter, most relentless enemy.

Chauvelin--when he waylaid Lord Tony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes

in the coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest"--had obtained possession

of all the plans of this latest expedition. Armand St. Just, the

Comte de Tournay and other fugitive royalists were to have met the

Scarlet Pimpernel--or rather, as it had been originally arranged, two

of his emissaries--on this day, the 2nd of October, at a place

evidently known to the league, and vaguely alluded to as the "Pere

Blanchard's hut."

Armand, whose connection with the Scarlet Pimpernel and disavowal

of the brutal policy of the Reign of Terror was still unknown to

his countryman, had left England a little more than a week ago,

carrying with him the necessary instructions, which would enable him

to meet the other fugitives and to convey them to this place of safety.

This much Marguerite had fully understood from the first, and

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had confirmed her surmises. She knew, too, that

when Sir Percy realized that his own plans and his directions to his

lieutenants had been stolen by Chauvelin, it was too late to communicate

with Armand, or to send fresh instructions to the fugitives.

They would, of necessity, be at the appointed time and place, not knowing

how grave was the danger which now awaited their brave rescuer.

Blakeney, who as usual had planned and organized the whole

expedition, would not allow any of his younger comrades to run the

risk of almost certain capture. Hence his hurried note to them at

Lord Grenville's ball--"Start myself to-morrow--alone."

And now with his identity known to his most bitter enemy, his

every step would be dogged, the moment he set foot in France. He

would be tracked by Chauvelin's emissaries, followed until he reached

that mysterious hut where the fugitives were waiting for him, and

there the trap would be closed on him and on them.

There was but one hour--the hour's start which Marguerite and

Sir Andrew had of their enemy--in which to warn Percy of the imminence

of his danger, and to persuade him to give up the foolhardy

expedition, which could only end in his own death.

But there WAS that one hour.

"Chauvelin knows of this inn, from the papers he stole," said

Sir Andrew, earnestly, "and on landing will make straight for it."

"He has not landed yet," she said, "we have an hour's start on

him, and Percy will be here directly. We shall be mid-Channel ere

Chauvelin has realised that we have slipped through his fingers.

She spoke excitedly and eagerly, wishing to infuse into her

young friend some of that buoyant hope which still clung to her heart.

But he shook his head sadly.

"Silent again, Sir Andrew?" she said with some impatience.

"Why do you shake your head and look so glum?"

"Faith, Madame," he replied, "`tis only because in making your

rose-coloured plans, you are forgetting the most important factor."

"What in the world do you mean?--I am forgetting nothing. . . .

What factor do you mean?" she added with more impatience.

"It stands six foot odd high," replied Sir Andrew, quietly,

"and hath name Percy Blakeney."

"I don't understand," she murmured.

"Do you think that Blakeney would leave Calais without having

accomplished what he set out to do?"

"You mean. . .?"

"There's the old Comte de Tournay. . ."

"The Comte. . .?" she murmured.

"And St. Just. . .and others. . ."

"My brother!" she said with a heart-broken sob of anguish.

"Heaven help me, but I fear I had forgotten."

"Fugitives as they are, these men at this moment await with

perfect confidence and unshaken faith the arrival of the Scarlet

Pimpernel, who has pledged his honour to take them safely across the

Channel.

Indeed, she had forgotten! With the sublime selfishness of a

woman who loves with her whole heart, she had in the last twenty-four

hours had no thought save for him. His precious, noble life, his

danger--he, the loved one, the brave hero, he alone dwelt in her mind.

"My brother!" she murmured, as one by one the heavy tears

gathered in her eyes, as memory came back to her of Armand, the

companion and darling of her childhood, the man for whom she had

committed the deadly sin, which had so hopelessly imperilled her brave

husband's life.

"Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, honoured leader

of a score of English gentlemen," said Sir Andrew, proudly, "if he

abandoned those who placed their trust in him. As for breaking his

word, the very thought is preposterous!"

There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite had buried

her face in her hands, and was letting the tears slowly trickle

through her trembling fingers. The young man said nothing; his heart

ached for this beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had

felt the terrible IMPASSE in which her own rash act had plunged them

all. He knew his friend and leader so well, with his reckless daring,

his mad bravery, his worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew

knew that Blakeney would brave any danger, run the wildest risks

sooner than break it, and with Chauvelin at his very heels, would make

a final attempt, however desperate, to rescue those who trusted in him.

"Faith, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite at last, making brave

efforts to dry her tears, "you are right, and I would not now shame

myself by trying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say, I

should plead in vain. God grant him strength and ability," she added

fervently and resolutely, "to outwit his pursuers. He will not refuse

to take you with him, perhaps, when he starts on his noble work;

between you, you will have cunning as well as valour! God guard you

both! In the meanwhile I think we should lose no time. I still believe

that his safety depends upon his knowing that Chauvelin is on his track."

"Undoubtedly. He has wonderful resources at his command. As

soon as he is aware of his danger he will exercise more caution: his

ingenuity is a veritable miracle."

"Then, what say you to a voyage of reconnaissance in the

village whilst I wait here against his coming!--You might come across

Percy's track and thus save valuable time. If you find him, tell him

to beware!--his bitterest enemy is on his heels!"

"But this is such a villainous hole for you to wait in."

"Nay, that I do not mind!--But you might ask our surly host if

he could let me wait in another room, where I could be safer from the

prying eyes of any chance traveller. Offer him some ready money, so

that he should not fail to give me word the moment the tall Englishman

returns."

She spike quite calmly, even cheerfully now, thinking out her

plans, ready for the worst if need be; she would show no more

weakness, she would prove herself worthy of him, who was about to give

his life for the sake of his fellow-men.

Sir Andrew obeyed her without further comment. Instinctively

he felt that hers now was the stronger mind; he was willing to give

himself over to her guidance, to become the hand, whilst she was the

directing hand.

He went to the door of the inner room, through which Brogard

and his wife had disappeared before, and knocked; as usual, he was

answered by a salvo of muttered oaths.

"Hey! friend Brogard!" said the man peremptorily, "my lady friend

would wish to rest here awhile. Could you give her the use of

another room? She would wish to be alone."

He took some money out of his pocket, and allowed it to jingle

significantly in his hand. Brogard had opened the door, and listened,

with his usual surly apathy, to the young man's request. At the sight

of the gold, however, his lazy attitude relaxed slightly; he took his

pipe from his mouth and shuffled into the room.

He then pointed over his shoulder at the attic up in the wall.

"She can wait up there!" he said with a grunt. "It's comfortable,

and I have no other room."

"Nothing could be better," said Marguerite in English; she at

once realised the advantages such a position hidden from view would

give her. "Give him the money, Sir Andrew; I shall be quite happy up

there, and can see everything without being seen."

She nodded to Brogard, who condescended to go up to the attic,

and to shake up the straw that lay on the floor.

"May I entreat you, madam, to do nothing rash," said Sir

Andrew, as Marguerite prepared in her turn to ascend the rickety

flight of steps. "Remember this place is infested with spies. Do

not, I beg of you, reveal yourself to Sir Percy, unless you are

absolutely certain that you are alone with him."

Even as he spoke, he felt how unnecessary was this caution:

Marguerite was as calm, as clear-headed as any man. There was no fear

of her doing anything that was rash.

"Nay," she said with a slight attempt at cheerfulness, "that I

can faithfully promise you. I would not jeopardise my husband's life,

nor yet his plans, by speaking to him before strangers. Have no fear,

I will watch my opportunity, and serve him in the manner I think he

needs it most."

Brogard had come down the steps again, and Marguerite was

ready to go up to her safe retreat.

"I dare not kiss your hand, madam," said Sir Andrew, as she

began to mount the steps, "since I am your lacquey, but I pray you be

of good cheer. If I do not come across Blakeney in half an hour, I

shall return, expecting to find him here."

"Yes, that will be best. We can afford to wait for half an

hour. Chauvelin cannot possibly be here before that. God grant that

either you or I may have seen Percy by then. Good luck to you,

friend! Have no fear for me."

Lightly she mounted the rickety wooden steps that led to the

attic. Brogard was taking no further heed of her. She could make

herself comfortable there or not as she chose. Sir Andrew watched her

until she had reached the curtains across, and the young man noted

that she was singularly well placed there, for seeing and hearing,

whilst remaining unobserved.

He had paid Brogard well; the surly old innkeeper would have no object

in betraying her. Then Sir Andrew prepared to go. At the door he

turned once again and looked up at the loft. Through the ragged

curtains Marguerite's sweet face was peeping down at him, and the

young man rejoiced to see that it looked serene, and even gently smiling.

With a final nod of farewell to her, he walked out into the night.

CHAPTER XXIV THE DEATH-TRAP

The next quarter of an hour went by swiftly and noiselessly.

In the room downstairs, Brogard had for a while busied himself with

clearing the table, and re-arranging it for another guest.

It was because she watched these preparations that Marguerite

found the time slipping by more pleasantly. It was for Percy that

this semblance of supper was being got ready. Evidently Brogard had a

certain amount of respect for the tall Englishman, as he seemed to

take some trouble in making the place look a trifle less uninviting

than it had done before.

He even produced, from some hidden recess in the old dresser,

what actually looked like a table-cloth; and when he spread it out,

and saw it was full of holes, he shook his head dubiously for a while,

then was at much pains so to spread it over the table as to hide most

of its blemishes.

Then he got out a serviette, also old and ragged, but

possessing some measure of cleanliness, and with this he carefully

wiped the glasses, spoons and plates, which he put on the table.

Marguerite could not help smiling to herself as she watched

all these preparations, which Brogard accomplished to an accompaniment

of muttered oaths. Clearly the great height and bulk of the

Englishman, or perhaps the weight of his fist, had overawed this

free-born citizen of France, or he would never have been at such

trouble for any SACRRE ARISTO.

When the table was set--such as it was--Brogard surveyed it

with evident satisfaction. He then dusted one of the chairs with the

corner of his blouse, gave a stir to the stock-pot, threw a fresh

bundle of faggots on to the fire, and slouched out of the room.

Marguerite was left alone with her reflections. She had

spread her travelling cloak over the straw, and was sitting fairly

comfortably, as the straw was fresh, and the evil odours from below

came up to her only in a modified form.

But, momentarily, she was almost happy; happy because, when

she peeped through the tattered curtains, she could see a rickety

chair, a torn table-cloth, a glass, a plate and a spoon; that was all.

But those mute and ugly things seemed to say to her that they were

waiting for Percy; that soon, very soon, he would be here, that the

squalid room being still empty, they would be alone together.

That thought was so heavenly, that Marguerite closed her eyes

in order to shut out everything but that. In a few minutes she would

be alone with him; she would run down the ladder, and let him see her;

then he would take her in his arms, and she would let him see that,

after that, she would gladly die for him, and with him, for earth

could hold no greater happiness than that.

And then what would happen? She could not even remotely

conjecture. She knew, of course, that Sir Andrew was right, that

Percy would do everything he had set out to accomplish; that she--now

she was here--could do nothing, beyond warning him to be cautious,

since Chauvelin himself was on his track. After having cautioned him,

she would perforce have to see him go off upon the terrible and daring

mission; she could not even with a word or look, attempt to keep him

back. She would have to obey, whatever he told her to do, even

perhaps have to efface herself, and wait, in indescribable agony,

whilst he, perhaps, went to his death.

But even that seemed less terrible to bear than the thought

that he should never know how much she loved him--that at any rate

would be spared her; the squalid room itself, which seemed to be

waiting for him, told her that he would be here soon.

Suddenly her over-sensitive ears caught the sound of distant

footsteps drawing near; her heart gave a wild leap of joy! Was it

Percy at last? No! the step did not seem quite as long, nor quite as

firm as his; she also thought that she could hear two distinct sets of

footsteps. Yes! that was it! two men were coming this way.

Two strangers perhaps, to get a drink, or. . .

But she had not time to conjecture, for presently there was a

peremptory call at the door, and the next moment it was violently open

from the outside, whilst a rough, commanding voice shouted,--

"Hey! Citoyen Brogard! Hola!"

Marguerite could not see the newcomers, but, through a hole in

one of the curtains, she could observe one portion of the room below.

She heard Brogard's shuffling footsteps, as he came out of the

inner room, muttering his usual string of oaths. On seeing the

strangers, however, he paused in the middle of the room, well within

range of Marguerite's vision, looked at them, with even more withering

contempt than he had bestowed upon his former guests, and muttered,

"SACRRREE SOUTANE!"

Marguerite's heart seemed all at once to stop beating; her

eyes, large and dilated, had fastened on one of the newcomers, who, at

this point, had taken a quick step forward towards Brogard. He was

dressed in the soutane, broad-brimmed hat and buckled shoes habitual

to the French CURE, but as he stood opposite the innkeeper, he threw

open his soutane for a moment, displaying the tri-colour scarf of

officialism, which sight immediately had the effect of transforming

Brogard's attitude of contempt, into one of cringing obsequiousness.

It was the sight of this French CURE, which seemed to freeze the very

blood in Marguerite's veins. She could not see his face, which was

shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, but she recognized the thin, bony hands,

the slight stoop, the whole gait of the man! It was Chauvelin!

The horror of the situation struck her as with a physical

blow; the awful disappointment, the dread of what was to come, made

her very senses reel, and she needed almost superhuman effort, not to

fall senseless beneath it all.

"A plate of soup and a bottle of wine," said Chauvelin imperiously

to Brogard, "then clear out of here--understand? I want to be alone."

Silently, and without any muttering this time, Brogard obeyed.

Chauvelin sat down at the table, which had been prepared for the tall

Englishman, and the innkeeper busied himself obsequiously round him,

dishing up the soup and pouring out the wine. The man who had entered

with Chauvelin and whom Marguerite could not see, stood waiting close

by the door.

At a brusque sign from Chauvelin, Brogard had hurried back to

the inner room, and the former now beckoned to the man who had

accompanied him.

In him Marguerite at once recognised Desgas, Chauvelin's

secretary and confidential factotum, whom she had often seen in Paris,

in days gone by. He crossed the room, and for a moment or two

listened attentively at the Brogards' door.

"Not listening?" asked Chauvelin, curtly.

"No, citoyen."

For a moment Marguerite dreaded lest Chauvelin should order

Desgas to search the place; what would happen if she were to be

discovered, she hardly dared to imagine. Fortunately, however,

Chauvelin seemed more impatient to talk to his secretary than afraid

of spies, for he called Desgas quickly back to his side.

"The English schooner?" he asked.

"She was lost sight of at sundown, citoyen," replied Desgas,

"but was then making west, towards Cap Gris Nez."

"Ah!--good!--" muttered Chauvelin, "and now, about Captain

Jutley?--what did he say?"

"He assured me that all the orders you sent him last week have

been implicitly obeyed. All the roads which converge to this place

have been patrolled night and day ever since: and the beach and cliffs

have been most rigorously searched and guarded."

"Does he know where this `Pere Blanchard's' hut is?"

"No, citoyen, nobody seems to know of it by that name. There

are any amount of fisherman's huts all along the course. . .but. . ."

"That'll do. Now about tonight?" interrupted Chauvelin,

impatiently.

"The roads and the beach are patrolled as usual, citoyen, and

Captain Jutley awaits further orders."

"Go back to him at once, then. Tell him to send

reinforcements to the various patrols; and especially to those along

the beach--you understand?"

Chauvelin spoke curtly and to the point, and every word he

uttered struck at Marguerite's heart like the death-knell of her

fondest hopes.

"The men," he continued, "are to keep the sharpest possible

look-out for any stranger who may be walking, riding, or driving,

along the road or the beach, more especially for a tall stranger, whom

I need not describe further, as probably he will be disguised; but he

cannot very well conceal his height, except by stooping. You understand?"

"Perfectly, citoyen," replied Desgas.

"As soon as any of the men have sighted a stranger, two of

them are to keep him in view. The man who loses sight of the tall

stranger, after he is once seen, will pay for his negligence with his

life; but one man is to ride straight back here and report to me. Is

that clear?"

"Absolutely clear, citoyen."

"Very well, then. Go and see Jutley at once. See the

reinforcements start off for the patrol duty, then ask the captain to

let you have a half-a-dozen more men and bring them here with you.

You can be back in ten minutes. Go--"

Desgas saluted and went to the door.

As Marguerite, sick with horror, listened to Chauvelin's

directions to his underling, the whole of the plan for the capture of

the Scarlet Pimpernel became appallingly clear to her. Chauvelin

wished that the fugitives should be left in false security waiting in

their hidden retreat until Percy joined them. Then the daring plotter

was to be surrounded and caught red-handed, in the very act of aiding

and abetting royalists, who were traitors to the republic. Thus, if

his capture were noised abroad, even the British Government could not

legally protest in his favour; having plotted with the enemies of the

French Government, France had the right to put him to death.

Escape for him and them would be impossible. All the roads

patrolled and watched, the trap well set, the net, wide at present,

but drawing together tighter and tighter, until it closed upon the

daring plotter, whose superhuman cunning even could not rescue him

from its meshes now.

Desgas was about to go, but Chauvelin once more called him

back. Marguerite vaguely wondered what further devilish plans he

could have formed, in order to entrap one brave man, alone, against

two-score of others. She looked at him as he turned to speak to

Desgas; she could just see his face beneath the broad-brimmed,

CURES'S hat. There was at that moment so much deadly hatred, such

fiendish malice in the thin face and pale, small eyes, that

Marguerite's last hope died in her heart, for she felt that from this

man she could expect no mercy.

"I had forgotten," repeated Chauvelin, with a weird chuckle,

as he rubbed his bony, talon-like hands one against the other, with a

gesture of fiendish satisfaction. "The tall stranger may show fight.

In any case no shooting, remember, except as a last resort. I want

that tall stranger alive. . .if possible."

He laughed, as Dante has told us that the devils laugh at the

sight of the torture of the damned. Marguerite had thought that by

now she had lived through the whole gamut of horror and anguish that

human heart could bear; yet now, when Desgas left the house, and she

remained alone in this lonely, squalid room, with that fiend for

company, she felt as if all that she had suffered was nothing compared

with this. He continued to laugh and chuckle to himself for awhile,

rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his triumph.

His plans were well laid, and he might well triumph! Not a

loophole was left, through which the bravest, the most cunning man

might escape. Every road guarded, every corner watched, and in that

lonely hut somewhere on the coast, a small band of fugitives waiting

for their rescuer, and leading him to his death--nay! to worse than death.

That fiend there, in a holy man's garb, was too much of a devil to allow

a brave man to die the quick, sudden death of a soldier at the post of duty.

He, above all, longed to have the cunning enemy, who had so

long baffled him, helpless in his power; he wished to gloat over him,

to enjoy his downfall, to inflict upon him what moral and mental

torture a deadly hatred alone can devise. The brave eagle, captured,

and with noble wings clipped, was doomed to endure the gnawing of the

rat. And she, his wife, who loved him, and who had brought him to

this, could do nothing to help him.

Nothing, save to hope for death by his side, and for one brief

moment in which to tell him that her love--whole, true and

passionate--was entirely his.

Chauvelin was now sitting close to the table; he had taken off

his hat, and Marguerite could just see the outline of his thin profile

and pointed chin, as he bent over his meagre supper. He was evidently

quite contented, and awaited evens with perfect calm; he even seemed

to enjoy Brogard's unsavoury fare. Marguerite wondered how so much

hatred could lurk in one human being against another.

Suddenly, as she watched Chauvelin, a sound caught her ear, which

turned her very heart to stone. And yet that sound was not calculated

to inspire anyone with horror, for it was merely the cheerful sound

of a gay, fresh voice singing lustily, "God save the King!"

CHAPTER XXV THE EAGLE AND THE FOX

Marguerite's breath stopped short; she seemed to feel her very

life standing still momentarily whilst she listened to that voice and

to that song. In the singer she had recognised her husband.

Chauvelin, too, had heard it, for he darted a quick glance towards the

door, then hurriedly took up his broad-brimmed hat and clapped it over

his head.

The voice drew nearer; for one brief second the wild desire

seized Marguerite to rush down the steps and fly across the room, to

stop that song at any cost, to beg the cheerful singer to fly--fly for

his life, before it be too late. She checked the impulse just in

time. Chauvelin would stop her before she reached the door, and,

moreover, she had no idea if he had any soldiers posted within his

call. Her impetuous act might prove the death-signal of the man she

would have died to save.

"Long reign over us, God save the King!"

sang the voice more lustily than ever. The next moment the door was

thrown open and there was dead silence for a second or so.

Marguerite could not see the door; she held her breath, trying

to imagine what was happening.

Percy Blakeney on entering had, of course, at once caught

sight of the CURE at the table; his hesitation lasted less than five

seconds, the next moment, Marguerite saw his tall figure crossing the

room, whilst he called in a loud, cheerful voice,--

"Hello, there! no one about? Where's that fool Brogard?"

He wore the magnificent coat and riding-suit which he had on

when Marguerite last saw him at Richmond, so many hours ago. As

usual, his get-up was absolutely irreproachable, the fine Mechlin lace

at his neck and wrists were immaculate and white, his fair hair was

carefully brushed, and he carried his eyeglass with his usual affected

gesture. In fact, at this moment, Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., might

have been on his way to a garden-party at the Prince of Wales',

instead of deliberately, cold-bloodedly running his head in a trap,

set for him by his deadliest enemy.

He stood for a moment in the middle of the room, whilst

Marguerite, absolutely paralysed with horror, seemed unable even to

breathe.

Every moment she expected that Chauvelin would give a signal,

that the place would fill with soldiers, that she would rush down and

help Percy to sell his life dearly. As he stood there, suavely

unconscious, she very nearly screamed out to him,--

"Fly, Percy!--'tis your deadly enemy!--fly before it be too late!"

But she had not time even to do that, for the next moment

Blakeney quietly walked to the table, and, jovially clapped the CURE

on the back, said in his own drawly, affected way,--

"Odds's fish!. . .er. . .M. Chauvelin. . . . I vow I never

thought of meeting you here."

Chauvelin, who had been in the very act of conveying soup to

his mouth, fairly choked. His thin face became absolutely purple, and

a violent fit of coughing saved this cunning representative of France

from betraying the most boundless surprise he had ever experienced.

There was no doubt that this bold move on the part of the enemy had

been wholly unexpected, as far as he was concerned: and the daring

impudence of it completely nonplussed him for the moment.

Obviously he had not taken the precaution of having the inn

surrounded with soldiers. Blakeney had evidently guessed that much,

and no doubt his resourceful brain had already formed some plan by

which he could turn this unexpected interview to account.

Marguerite up in the loft had not moved. She had made a

solemn promise to Sir Andrew not to speak to her husband before

strangers, and she had sufficient self-concontrol not to throw herself

unreasoningly and impulsively across his plans. To sit still and

watch these two men together was a terrible trial of fortitude.

Marguerite had heard Chauvelin give the orders for the patrolling of

all the roads. She knew that if Percy now left the "Chat Gris"--in

whatever direction he happened to go--he could not go far without

being sighted by some of Captain Jutley's men on patrol. On the other

hand, if he stayed, then Desgas would have time to come back with the

dozen men Chauvelin had specially ordered.

The trap was closing in, and Marguerite could do nothing but

watch and wonder. The two men looked such a strange contrast, and of

the two it was Chauvelin who exhibited a slight touch of fear.

Marguerite knew him well enough to guess what was passing in his mind.

He had no fear for his own person, although he certainly was alone in

a lonely inn with a man who was powerfully built, and who was daring

and reckless beyond the bounds of probability. She knew that

Chauvelin would willingly have braved perilous encounters for the sake

of the cause he had at heart, but what he did fear was that this

impudent Englishman would, by knocking him down, double his own

chances of escape; his underlings might not succeed so sell in

capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, when not directed by the cunning hand

and the shrewd brain, which had deadly hate for an incentive.

Evidently, however, the representative of the French

Government had nothing to fear for the moment, at the hands of his

powerful adversary. Blakeney, with his most inane laugh and pleasant

good-nature, was solemnly patting him on the back.

"I am so demmed sorry. . ." he was saying cheerfully, "so very

sorry. . .I seem to have upset you. . .eating soup, too. . .nasty,

awkward thing, soup. . .er. . .Begad!--a friend of mine died once. . .

er. . .choked. . .just like you. . .with a spoonful of soup.

And he smiled shyly, good-humouredly, down at Chauvelin.

"Odd's life!" he continued, as soon as the latter had somewhat

recovered himself, "beastly hole this. . .ain't it now? La! you

don't mind?" he added, apologetically, as he sat down on a chair close

to the table and drew the soup tureen towards him. "That fool Brogard

seems to be asleep or something."

There was a second plate on the table, and he calmly helped

himself to soup, then poured himself out a glass of wine.

For a moment Marguerite wondered what Chauvelin would do. His

disguise was so good that perhaps he meant, on recovering himself, to

deny his identity: but Chauvelin was too astute to make such an

obviously false and childish move, and already he too had stretched

out his hand and said pleasantly,--

"I am indeed charmed to see you Sir Percy. You must excuse

me--h'm--I thought you the other side of the Channel. Sudden surprise

almost took my breath away."

"La!" said Sir Percy, with a good-humoured grin, "it did that

quite, didn't it--er--M.--er--Chaubertin?"

"Pardon me--Chauvelin."

"I beg pardon--a thousand times. Yes--Chauvelin of course. . . .

Er. . .I never could cotton to foreign names. . . ."

He was calmly eating his soup, laughing with pleasant good-humour,

as if he had come all the way to Calais for the express purpose of

enjoying supper at this filthy inn, in the company of his arch-enemy.

For the moment Marguerite wondered why Percy did not knock the

little Frenchman down then and there--and no doubt something of the

sort must have darted through his mind, for every now and then his

lazy eyes seemed to flash ominously, as they rested on the slight

figure of Chauvelin, who had now quite recovered himself and was also

calmly eating his soup.

But the keen brain, which had planned and carried through so

many daring plots, was too far-seeing to take unnecessary risks. This

place, after all, might be infested with spies; the innkeeper might be

in Chauvelin's pay. One call on Chauvelin's part might bring twenty

men about Blakeney's ears for aught he knew, and he might be caught

and trapped before he could help, or, at least, warn the fugitives.

This he would not risk; he meant to help the others, to get THEM

safely away; for he had pledged his word to them, and his word he

WOULD keep. And whilst he ate and chatted, he thought and planned,

whilst, up in the loft, the poor, anxious woman racked her brain as to

what she should do, and endured agonies of longing to rush down to

him, yet not daring to move for fear of upsetting his plans.

"I didn't know," Blakeney was saying jovially, "that you. . .

er. . .were in holy orders."

"I. . .er. . .hem. . ." stammered Chauvelin. The calm impudence

of his antagonist had evidently thrown him off his usual balance.

"But, la! I should have known you anywhere," continued Sir

Percy, placidly, as he poured himself out another glass of wine,

"although the wig and hat have changed you a bit."

"Do you think so?"

"Lud! they alter a man so. . .but. . .begad! I hope you

don't mind my having made the remark?. . .Demmed bad form making

remarks. . . . I hope you don't mind?"

"No, no, not at all--hem! I hope Lady Blakeney is well," said

Chauvelin, hurriedly changing the topic of conversation.

Blakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of soup,

drank his glass of wine, and, momentarily, it seemed to Marguerite as

if he glanced all round the room.

"Quite well, thank you," he said at last, drily. There was a

pause, during which Marguerite could watch these two antagonists who,

evidently in their minds, were measuring themselves against one

another. She could see Percy almost full face where he sat at the

table not ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, not

knowing what to do, or what she should think. She had quite

controlled her impulse now of rushing down hand disclosing herself to

her husband. A man capable of acting a part, in the way he was doing

at the present moment, did not need a woman's word to warn him to be

cautious.

Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every tender

woman's heart, of looking at the man she loved. She looked through

the tattered curtain, across at the handsome face of her husband, in

whose lazy blue eyes, and behind whose inane smile, she could now so

plainly see the strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused

the Scarlet Pimpernel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers.

"There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your

husband, Lady Blakeney," Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she looked

at the forehead, low, but square and broad, the eyes, blue, yet

deep-set and intense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable

energy, hiding, behind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman

strength of will and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the

fascination which he exercised over his followers, for had he not also

cast his spells over her heart and her imagination?

Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath

his usual urbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Desgas

should not be long: another two or three minutes, and this impudent

Englishman would be secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain

Jutley's most trusted men.

"You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?" he asked carelessly.

"Odd's life, no," replied Blakeney, with a laugh. "Only as

far as Lille--not Paris for me. . .beastly uncomfortable place Paris,

just now. . .eh, Monsieur Chaubertin. . .beg pardon. . .Chauvelin!"

"Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy,"

rejoined Chauvelin, sarcastically, "who takes no interest in the

conflict that is raging there."

"La! you see it's no business of mine, and our demmed

government is all on your side of the business. Old Pitt daren't say

'Bo' to a goose. You are in a hurry, sir," he added, as Chauvelin

once again took out his watch; "an appointment, perhaps. . . . I pray

you take no heed of me. . . . My time's my own."

He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the hearth.

Once more Marguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was

getting on; Desgas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy

did not know that and. . .oh! how horrible it all was--and how

helpless she felt.

"I am in no hurry," continued Percy, pleasantly, "but, la! I don't want

to spend any more time than I can help in this God-forsaken hole! But,

begad! sir," he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his

watch for the third time, "that watch of yours won't go any faster for

all the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe?"

"Aye--a friend!"

"Not a lady--I trust, Monsieur l'Abbe," laughed Blakeney;

"surely the holy church does not allow?. . .eh?. . .what!

But, I say, come by the fire. . .it's getting demmed cold."

He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs

blaze in the old hearth. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently

was quite unconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another

chair to the fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite

beyond control, sat down beside the hearth, in such a way as to command

a view of the door. Desgas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour.

It was quite plane to Marguerite's aching senses that as soon as he arrived,

Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the fugitives,

and capture this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel at once.

"Hey, M. Chauvelin," the latter was saying arily, "tell me, I

pray you, is your friend pretty? Demmed smart these little French

women sometimes--what? But I protest I need not ask," he added, as he

carelessly strode back towards the supper-table. "In matters of taste

the Church has never been backward. . . . Eh?"

But Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty was now

concentrated on that door through which presently Desgas would enter.

Marguerite's thoughts, too, were centered there, for her ears had

suddenly caught, through the stillness of the night, the sound of

numerous and measured treads some distance away.

It was Desgas and his men. Another three minutes and they

would be here! Another three minutes and the awful thing would have

occurred: the brave eagle would have fallen in the ferret's trap!

She would have moved now and screamed, but she dared not; for whilst she

heard the soldiers approaching, she was looking at Percy and watching

his every movement. He was standing by the table whereon the remnants

of the supper, plates, glasses, spoons, salt and pepper-pots were

scattered pell-mell. His back was turned to Chauvelin and he was

still prattling along in his own affected and inane way, but from his

pocket he had taken his snuff-box, and quickly and suddenly he emptied

the contents of the pepper-pot into it.

Then he again turned with an inane laugh to Chauvelin,--

"Eh? Did you speak, sir?"

Chauvelin had been too intent on listening to the sound of

those approaching footsteps, to notice what his cunning adversary had

been doing. He now pulled himself together, trying to look

unconcerned in the very midst of his anticipated triumph.

"No," he said presently, "that is--as you were saying, Sir Percy--?"

"I was saying," said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin, by the

fire, "that the Jew in Piccadilly has sold me better snuff this time

than I have ever tasted. Will you honour me, Monsieur l'Abbe?"

He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, DEBONNAIRE

way, holding out his snuff-box to his arch-enemy.

Chauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen a trick

or two in his day, had never dreamed of this one. With one ear fixed

on those fast-approaching footsteps, one eye turned to that door where

Desgas and his men would presently appear, lulled into false security

by the impudent Englishman's airy manner, he never even remotely

guessed the trick which was being played upon him.

He took a pinch of snuff.

Only he, who has ever by accident sniffed vigorously a dose of

pepper, can have the faintest conception of the hopeless condition in

which such a sniff would reduce any human being.

Chauvelin felt as if his head would burst--sneeze after sneeze

seemed nearly to choke him; he was blind, deaf, and dumb for the

moment, and during that moment Blakeney quietly, without the slightest

haste, took up his hat, took some money out of his pocket, which he

left on the table, then calmly stalked out of the room!

CHAPTER XXVI THE JEW

It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses;

the whole of this last short episode had taken place in less than a

minute, and Desgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards

away from the "Chat Gris."

When she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy

and wonder filled her heart. It all was so neat, so ingenious.

Chauvelin was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could

even have been under a blow from the fist, for now he could neither

see, nor hear, nor speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly

slipped through his fingers.

Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at

the Pere Blanchard's hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was

helpless; for the moment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been

caught by Desgas and his men. But all the roads and the beach were

patrolled. Every place was watched, and every stranger kept in sight.

How far could Percy go, thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without

being sighted and followed?

Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to

him sooner, and given him that word of warning and of love which,

perhaps, after all, he needed. He could not know of the orders which

Chauvelin had given for his capture, and even now, perhaps. . .

But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form

in her brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the

door, and Desgas' voice shouting "Halt!" to his men.

Chauvelin had partially recovered; his sneezing had become

less violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach

the door just as Desgas' knock was heard on the outside.

Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could

say a word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes--

"The tall stranger--quick!--did any of you see him?"

"Where, citoyen?" asked Desgas, in surprise.

"Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago."

"We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and. . ."

"And you are just five minutes too late, my friend," said

Chauvelin, with concentrated fury.

"Citoyen. . .I. . ."

"You did what I ordered you to do," said Chauvelin, with

impatience. "I know that, but you were a precious long time about it.

Fortunately, there's not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you,

Citoyen Desgas."

Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and

hatred in his superior's whole attitude.

"The tall stranger, citoyen--" he stammered.

"Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at

that table. Damn his impudence! For obvious reasons, I dared not

tackle him alone. Brogard is too big a fool, and that cursed

Englishman appears to have the strength of a bullock, and so he

slipped away under your very nose."

"He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen."

"Ah?"

"Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the

patrol duty: twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that

the watch had been constant all day, and that no stranger could

possibly get to the beach, or reach a boat, without being sighted."

"That's good.--Do the men know their work?"

"They have had very clear orders, citoyen: and I myself spoke

to those who were about to start. They are to shadow--as secretly as

possible--any stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or

stoop as if her would disguise his height."

"In no case to detain such a person, of course," said

Chauvelin, eagerly. "That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel would slip

through clumsy fingers. We must let him get to the Pere Blanchard's

hut now; there surround and capture him."

"The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as soon as a

tall stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is

to turn straight back and report to you."

"That is right," said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well

pleased.

"I have further news for you, citoyen."

"What is it?"

"A tall Englishman had a long conversation about

three-quarters of an hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives

not ten paces from here."

"Yes--and?" queried Chauvelin, impatiently.

"The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the

tall Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for

him by eleven o'clock."

"It is past that now. Where does that Reuben live?"

"A few minutes' walk from this door."

"Send one of the men to find out if the stranger has driven

off in Reuben's cart."

"Yes, citoyen."

Desgas went to give the necessary orders to one of the men.

Not a word of this conversation between him and Chauvelin had escaped

Marguerite, and every word they had spoken seemed to strike at her

heart, with terrible hopelessness and dark foreboding.

She had come all this way, and with such high hopes and firm

determination to help her husband, and so far she had been able to do

nothing, but to watch, with a heart breaking with anguish, the meshes

of the deadly net closing round the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.

He could not now advance many steps, without spying eyes to

track and denounce him. Her own helplessness struck her with the

terrible sense of utter disappointment. The possibility of being the

slightest use to her husband had become almost NIL, and her only

hope rested in being allowed to share his fate, whatever it might

ultimately be.

For the moment, even her chance of ever seeing the man she

loved again, had become a remote one. Still, she was determined to

keep a close watch over his enemy, and a vague hope filled her heart,

that whilst she kept Chauvelin in sight, Percy's fate might still be

hanging in the balance.

Desgas left Chauvelin moodily pacing up and down the room,

whilst he himself waited outside for the return of the man whom he had

sent in search of Reuben. Thus several minutes went by. Chauvelin

was evidently devoured with impatience. Apparently he trusted no one:

this last trick played upon him by the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had

made him suddenly doubtful of success, unless he himself was there to

watch, direct and superintend the capture of this impudent Englishman.

About five minutes later, Desgas returned, followed by an

elderly Jew, in a dirty, threadbare gaberdine, worn greasy across the

shoulders. His red hair, which he wore after the fashion of the

Polish Jews, with the corkscrew curls each side of his face, was

plentifully sprinkled with grey--a general coating of grime, about his

cheeks and his chin, gave him a peculiarly dirty and loathsome

appearance. He had the habitual stoop, those of his race affected in

mock humility in past centuries, before the dawn of equality and

freedom in matters of faith, and he walked behind Desgas with the

peculiar shuffling gait which has remained the characteristic of the

Jew trader in continental Europe to this day.

Chauvelin, who had all the Frenchman's prejudice against the

despised race, motioned to the fellow to keep at a respectful

distance. The group of the three men were standing just underneath

the hanging oil-lamp, and Marguerite had a clear view of them all.

"Is this the man?" asked Chauvelin.

"No, citoyen," replied Desgas, "Reuben could not be found, so

presumably his cart has gone with the stranger; but this man here

seems to know something, which he is willing to sell for a

consideration."

"Ah!" said Chauvelin, turning away with disgust from the

loathsome specimen of humanity before him.

The Jew, with characteristic patience, stood humbly on one

side, leaning on the knotted staff, his greasy, broad-brimmed hat

casting a deep shadow over his grimy face, waiting for the noble

Excellency to deign to put some questions to him.

"The citoyen tells me," said Chauvelin peremptorily to him,

"that you know something of my friend, the tall Englishman, whom I

desire to meet. . .MORBLEU! keep your distance, man," he added

hurriedly, as the Jew took a quick and eager step forward.

"Yes, your Excellency," replied the Jew, who spoke the

language with that peculiar lisp which denotes Eastern origin, "I and

Reuben Goldstein met a tall Englishman, on the road, close by here

this evening."

"Did you speak to him?"

"He spoke to us, your Excellency. He wanted to know if he

could hire a horse and cart to go down along the St. Martin road, to a

place he wanted to reach to-night."

"What did you say?"

"I did not say anything," said the Jew in an injured tone,

"Reuben Goldstein, that accursed traitor, that son of Belial. . ."

"Cut that short, man," interrupted Chauvelin, roughly, "and go

on with your story."

"He took the words out of my mouth, your Excellency: when I

was about to offer the wealthy Englishman my horse and cart, to take

him wheresoever he chose, Reuben had already spoken, and offered his

half-starved nag, and his broken-down cart."

"And what did the Englishman do?"

"He listened to Reuben Goldstein, your Excellency, and put his

hand in his pocket then and there, and took out a handful of gold,

which he showed to that descendant of Beelzebub, telling him that all

that would be his, if the horse and cart were ready for him by eleven

o'clock."

"And, of course, the horse and cart were ready?"

"Well! they were ready for him in a manner, so to speak, your

Excellency. Reuben's nag was lame as usual; she refused to budge at

first. It was only after a time and with plenty of kicks, that she at

last could be made to move," said the Jew with a malicious chuckle.

"Then they started?"

"Yes, they started about five minutes ago. I was disgusted

with that stranger's folly. An Englishman too!--He ought to have

known Reuben's nag was not fit to drive."

"But if he had no choice?"

"No choice, your Excellency?" protested the Jew, in a rasping

voice, "did I not repeat to him a dozen times, that my horse and cart

would take him quicker, and more comfortably than Reuben's bag of

bones. He would not listen. Reuben is such a liar, and has such

insinuating ways. The stranger was deceived. If he was in a hurry,

he would have had better value for his money by taking my cart."

"You have a horse and cart too, then?" asked Chauvelin, peremptorily.

"Aye! that I have, your Excellency, and if your Excellency wants

to drive. . ."

"Do you happen to know which way my friend went in Reuben Goldstein's cart?"

Thoughtfully the Jew rubbed his dirty chin. Marguerite's heart was

beating well-nigh to bursting. She had heard the peremptory question;

she looked anxiously at the Jew, but could not read his face beneath

the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. Vaguely she felt somehow as if

he held Percy's fate in his long dirty hands.

There was a long pause, whilst Chauvelin frowned impatiently

at the stooping figure before him: at last the Jew slowly put his hand

in his breast pocket, and drew out from its capacious depths a number

of silver coins. He gazed at them thoughtfully, then remarked, in a

quiet tone of voice,--

"This is what the tall stranger gave me, when he drove away

with Reuben, for holding my tongue about him, and his doings."

Chauvelin shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

"How much is there there?" he asked.

"Twenty francs, your Excellency," replied the Jew, "and I have

been an honest man all my life."

Chauvelin without further comment took a few pieces of gold

out of his own pocket, and leaving them in the palm of his hand, he

allowed them to jingle as he held them out towards the Jew.

"How many gold pieces are there in the palm of my hand?" he asked quietly.

Evidently he had no desire to terrorize the man, but to conciliate him,

for his own purposes, for his manner was pleasant and suave. No doubt

he feared that threats of the guillotine, and various other persuasive

methods of that type, might addle the old man's brains, and that he would

be more likely to be useful through greed of gain, than through terror

of death.

The eyes of the Jew shot a quick, keen glance at the gold in

his interlocutor's hand.

"At least five, I should say, your Excellency," he replied obsequiously.

"Enough, do you think, to loosen that honest tongue of yours?"

"What does your Excellency wish to know?"

"Whether your horse and cart can take me to where I can find my friend

the tall stranger, who has driven off in Reuben Goldstein's cart?"

"My horse and cart can take your Honour there, where you please."

"To a place called the Pere Blanchard's hut?"

"Your Honour has guessed?" said the Jew in astonishment.

"You know the place?"

"Which road leads to it?"

"The St. Martin Road, your Honour, then a footpath from there to the cliffs."

"You know the road?" repeated Chauvelin, roughly.

"Every stone, every blade of grass, your Honour," replied the Jew quietly.

Chauvelin without another word threw the five pieces of gold

one by one before the Jew, who knelt down, and on his hands and knees

struggled to collect them. One rolled away, and he had some trouble

to get it, for it had lodged underneath the dresser. Chauvelin

quietly waited while the old man scrambled on the floor, to find the

piece of gold.

When the Jew was again on his feet, Chauvelin said,--

"How soon can your horse and cart be ready?"

"They are ready now, your Honour."

"Where?"

"Not ten meters from this door. Will your Excellency deign to look."

"I don't want to see it. How far can you drive me in it?"

"As far as the Pere Blanchard's hut, your Honour, and further

than Reuben's nag took your friend. I am sure that, not two leagues

from here, we shall come across that wily Reuben, his nag, his cart

and the tall stranger all in a heap in the middle of the road."

"How far is the nearest village from here?"

"On the road which the Englishman took, Miquelon is the

nearest village, not two leagues from here."

"There he could get fresh conveyance, if he wanted to go further?"

"He could--if he ever got so far."

"Can you?"

"Will your Excellency try?" said the Jew simply.

"That is my intention," said Chauvelin very quietly, "but

remember, if you have deceived me, I shall tell off two of my most

stalwart soldiers to give you such a beating, that your breath will

perhaps leave your ugly body for ever. But if we find my friend the

tall Englishman, either on the road or at the Pere Blanchard's hut,

there will be ten more gold pieces for you. Do you accept the bargain?"

The Jew again thoughtfully rubbed his chin. He looked at the money

in his hand, then at this stern interlocutor, and at Desgas, who

had stood silently behind him all this while. After a moment's pause,

he said deliberately,--

"I accept."

"Go and wait outside then," said Chauvelin, "and remember to

stick to your bargain, or by Heaven, I will keep to mine."

With a final, most abject and cringing bow, the old Jew

shuffled out of the room. Chauvelin seemed pleased with his

interview, for he rubbed his hands together, with that usual gesture

of his, of malignant satisfaction.

"My coat and boots," he said to Desgas at last.

Desgas went to the door, and apparently gave the necessary orders, for

presently a soldier entered, carrying Chauvelin's coat, boots, and hat.

He took off his soutane, beneath which he was wearing close-fitting

breeches and a cloth waistcoat, and began changing his attire.

"You, citoyen, in the meanwhile," he said to Desgas, "go back

to Captain Jutley as fast as you can, and tell him to let you have

another dozen men, and bring them with you along the St. Martin Road,

where I daresay you will soon overtake the Jew's cart with myself in

it. There will be hot work presently, if I mistake not, in the Pere

Blanchard's hut. We shall corner our game there, I'll warrant, for

this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel has had the audacity--or the

stupidity, I hardly know which--to adhere to his original plans. He

has gone to meet de Tournay, St. Just and the other traitors, which

for the moment, I thought, perhaps, he did not intend to do. When we

find them, there will be a band of desperate men at bay. Some of our

men will, I presume, be put HORS DE COMBAT. These royalists are

good swordsmen, and the Englishman is devilish cunning, and looks very

powerful. Still, we shall be five against one at least. You can

follow the cart closely with your men, all along the St. Martin Road,

through Miquelon. The Englishman is ahead of us, and not likely to

look behind him."

Whilst he gave these curt and concise orders, he had completed

his change of attire. The priest's costume had been laid aside, and

he was once more dressed in his usual dark, tight-fitting clothes. At

last he took up his hat.

"I shall have an interesting prisoner to deliver into your

hands," he said with a chuckle, as with unwonted familiarity he took

Desgas' arm, and led him towards the door. "We won't kill him

outright, eh, friend Desgas? The Pere Blanchard's hut is--an I

mistake not--a lonely spot upon the beach, and our men will enjoy a

bit of rough sport there with the wounded fox. Choose your men well,

friend Desgas. . .of the sort who would enjoy that type of sport--eh?

We must see that Scarlet Pimpernel wither a bit--what?--shrink and

tremble, eh?. . .before we finally. . ." He made an expressive

gesture, whilst he laughed a low, evil laugh, which filled

Marguerite's soul with sickening horror.

"Choose your men well, Citoyen Desgas," he said once more, as

he led his secretary finally out of the room.

CHAPTER XXVII ON THE TRACK

Never for a moment did Marguerite Blakeney hesitate. The last

sounds outside the "Chat Gris" had died away in the night. She had

heard Desgas giving orders to his men, and then starting off towards

the fort, to get a reinforcement of a dozen more men: six were not

thought sufficient to capture the cunning Englishman, whose

resourceful brain was even more dangerous than his valour and his

strength.

Then a few minutes later, she heard the Jew's husky voice

again, evidently shouting to his nag, then the rumble of wheels, and

noise of a rickety cart bumping over the rough road.

Inside the inn, everything was still. Brogard and his wife,

terrified of Chauvelin, had given no sign of life; they hoped to be

forgotten, and at any rate to remain unperceived: Marguerite could not

even hear their usual volleys of muttered oaths.

She waited a moment or two longer, then she quietly slipped

down the broken stairs, wrapped her dark cloak closely round her and

slipped out of the inn.

The night was fairly dark, sufficiently so at any rate to hide

her dark figure from view, whilst her keen ears kept count of the

sound of the cart going on ahead. She hoped by keeping well within

the shadow of the ditches which lined the road, that she would not be

seen by Desgas' men, when they approached, or by the patrols, which

she concluded were still on duty.

Thus she started to do this, the last stage of her weary

journey, alone, at night, and on foot. Nearly three leagues to

Miquelon, and then on to the Pere Blanchard's hut, wherever that fatal

spot might be, probably over rough roads: she cared not.

The Jew's nag could not get on very fast, and though she was

wary with mental fatigue and nerve strain, she knew that she could

easily keep up with it, on a hilly road, where the poor beast, who was

sure to be half-starved, would have to be allowed long and frequent

rests. The road lay some distance from the sea, bordered on either

side by shrubs and stunted trees, sparsely covered with meagre foliage,

all turning away from the North, with their branches looking in the

semi-darkness, like stiff, ghostly hair, blown by a perpetual wind.

Fortunately, the moon showed no desire to peep between the

clouds, and Marguerite hugging the edge of the road, and keeping close

to the low line of shrubs, was fairly safe from view. Everything

around her was so still: only from far, very far away, there came like

a long soft moan, the sound of the distant sea.

The air was keen and full of brine; after that enforced period

of inactivity, inside the evil-smelling, squalid inn, Marguerite would

have enjoyed the sweet scent of this autumnal night, and the distant

melancholy rumble of the autumnal night, and the distant melancholy

rumble of the waves; she would have revelled in the calm and stillness

of this lonely spot, a calm, broken only at intervals by the strident

and mournful cry of some distant gull, and by the creaking of the

wheels, some way down the road: she would have loved the cool

atmosphere, the peaceful immensity of Nature, in this lonely part of

the coast: but her heart was too full of cruel foreboding, of a great

ache and longing for a being who had become infinitely dear to her.

Her feet slipped on the grassy bank, for she thought it safest

not to walk near the centre of the road, and she found it difficult to

keep up a sharp pace along the muddy incline. She even thought it

best not to keep too near to the cart; everything was so still, that

the rumble of the wheels could not fail to be a safe guide.

The loneliness was absolute. Already the few dim lights of

Calais lay far behind, and on this road there was not a sign of human

habitation, not even the hut of a fisherman or of a woodcutter

anywhere near; far away on her right was the edge of the cliff, below

it the rough beach, against which the incoming tide was dashing itself

with its constant, distant murmur. And ahead the rumble of the

wheels, bearing an implacable enemy to his triumph.

Marguerite wondered at what particular spot, on this lonely

coast, Percy could be at this moment. Not very far surely, for he had

had less than a quarter of an hour's start of Chauvelin. She wondered

if he knew that in this cool, ocean-scented bit of France, there

lurked many spies, all eager to sight his tall figure, to track him to

where his unsuspecting friends waited for him, and then, to close the

net over him and them.

Chauvelin, on ahead, jolted and jostled in the Jew's vehicle,

was nursing comfortable thoughts. He rubbed his hands together, with

content, as he thought of the web which he had woven, and through

which that ubiquitous and daring Englishman could not hope to escape.

As the time went on, and the old Jew drove him leisurely but surely

along the dark road, he felt more and more eager for the grand finale

of this exciting chase after the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel.

The capture of the audacious plotter would be the finest leaf

in Citoyen Chauvelin's wreath of glory. Caught, red-handed, on the

spot, in the very act of aiding and abetting the traitors against the

Republic of France, the Englishman could claim no protection from his

own country. Chauvelin had, in any case, fully made up his mind that

all intervention should come too late.

Never for a moment did the slightest remorse enter his heart,

as to the terrible position in which he had placed the unfortunate

wife, who had unconsciously betrayed her husband. As a matter of

fact, Chauvelin had ceased even to think of her: she had been a useful

tool, that was all.

The Jew's lean nag did little more than walk. She was going

along at a slow jog trot, and her driver had to give her long and

frequent halts.

"Are we a long way yet from Miquelon?" asked Chauvelin from

time to time.

"Not very far, your Honour," was the uniform placid reply.

"We have not yet come across your friend and mine, lying in a

heap in the roadway," was Chauvelin's sarcastic comment.

"Patience, noble Excellency," rejoined the son of Moses, "they

are ahead of us. I can see the imprint of the cart wheels, driven by

that traitor, that son of the Amalekite."

"You are sure of the road?"

"As sure as I am of the presence of those ten gold pieces in

the noble Excellency's pockets, which I trust will presently be mine."

"As soon as I have shaken hands with my friend the tall

stranger, they will certainly be yours."

"Hark, what was that?" said the Jew suddenly.

Through the stillness, which had been absolute, there could

now be heard distinctly the sound of horses' hoofs on the muddy road.

"They are soldiers," he added in an awed whisper.

"Stop a moment, I want to hear," said Chauvelin.

Marguerite had also heard the sound of galloping hoofs, coming

towards the cart and towards herself. For some time she had been on

the alert thinking that Desgas and his squad would soon overtake them,

but these came from the opposite direction, presumably from Miquelon.

The darkness lent her sufficient cover. She had perceived that the

cart had stopped, and with utmost caution, treading noiselessly on the

soft road, she crept a little nearer.

Her heart was beating fast, she was trembling in every limb;

already she had guessed what news these mounted men would bring.

"Every stranger on these roads or on the beach must be shadowed,

especially if he be tall or stoops as if he would disguise his height;

when sighted a mounted messenger must at once ride back and report."

Those had been Chauvelin's orders. Had then the tall stranger been

sighted, and was this the mounted messenger, come to bring the great

news, that the hunted hare had run its head into the noose at last?"

Marguerite, realizing that the cart had come to a standstill,

managed to slip nearer to it in the darkness; she crept close up,

hoping to get within earshot, to hear what the messenger had to say.

She heard the quick words of challenge--

"Liberte, Fraternite, Egalite!" then Chauvelin's quick query:--

"What news?"

Two men on horseback had halted beside the vehicle.

Marguerite could see them silhouetted against the midnight

sky. She could hear their voices, and the snorting of their horses,

and now, behind her, some little distance off, the regular and

measured tread of a body of advancing men: Desgas and his soldiers.

There had been a long pause, during which, no doubt, Chauvelin

satisfied the men as to his identity, for presently, questions and

answers followed each other in quick succession.

"You have seen the stranger?" asked Chauvelin, eagerly.

"No, citoyen, we have seen no tall stranger; we came by the

edge of the cliff."

"Then?"

"Less than a quarter of a league beyond Miquelon, we came

across a rough construction of wood, which looked like the hut of a

fisherman, where he might keep his tools and nets. When we first

sighted it, it seemed to be empty, and, at first we thought that there

was nothing suspicious about, until we saw some smoke issuing through

an aperture at the side. I dismounted and crept close to it. It was

then empty, but in one corner of the hut, there was a charcoal fire,

and a couple of stools were also in the hut. I consulted with my

comrades, and we decided that they should take cover with the horses,

well out of sight, and that I should remain on the watch, which I did."

"Well! and did you see anything?"

"About half an hour later, I heard voices, citoyen, and

presently, two men came along towards the edge of the cliff; they

seemed to me to have come from the Lille Road. One was young, the

other quite old. They were talking in a whisper, to one another, and

I could not hear what they said."

One was young, and the other quite old. Marguerite's aching

heart almost stopped beating as she listened: was the young one

Armand?--her brother?--and the old one de Tournay--were they the two

fugitives who, unconsciously, were used as a decoy, to entrap their

fearless and noble rescuer.

"The two men presently went into the hut," continued the

soldier, whilst Marguerite's aching nerves seemed to catch the sound

of Chauvelin's triumphant chuckle, "and I crept nearer to it then.

The hut is very roughly built, and I caught snatches of their

conversation."

"Yes?--Quick!--What did you hear?"

"The old man asked the young one if he were sure that was

right place. `Oh, yes,' he replied, `'tis the place sure enough,' and

by the light of the charcoal fire he showed to his companion a paper,

which he carried. `Here is the plan,' he said, `which he gave me

before I left London. We were to adhere strictly to that plan, unless

I had contrary orders, and I have had none. Here is the road we

followed, see. . .here the fork. . .here we cut across the St. Martin

Road. . .and here is the footpath which brought us to the edge of the

cliff.' I must have made a slight noise then, for the young man came

to the door of the hut, and peered anxiously all round him. When he

again joined his companion, they whispered so low, that I could no

longer hear them."

"Well?--and?" asked Chauvelin, impatiently.

"There were six of us altogether, patrolling that part of the

beach, so we consulted together, and thought it best that four should

remain behind and keep the hut in sight, and I and my comrade rode

back at once to make report of what we had seen."

"You saw nothing of the tall stranger?"

"Nothing, citoyen."

"If your comrades see him, what would they do?"

"Not lose sight of him for a moment, and if he showed signs of

escape, or any boat came in sight, they would close in on him, and, if

necessary, they would shoot: the firing would bring the rest of the

patrol to the spot. In any case they would not let the stranger go."

"Aye! but I did not want the stranger hurt--not just yet,"

murmured Chauvelin, savagely, "but there, you've done your best. The

Fates grant that I may not be too late. . . ."

"We met half a dozen men just now, who have been patrolling

this road for several hours."

"Well?"

"They have seen no stranger either."

"Yet he is on ahead somewhere, in a cart or else. . .Here!

there is not a moment to lose. How far is that hut from here?"

"About a couple of leagues, citoyen."

"You can find it again?--at once?--without hesitation?"

"I have absolutely no doubt, citoyen."

"The footpath, to the edge of the cliff?--Even in the dark?"

"It is not a dark night, citoyen, and I know I can find my

way," repeated the soldier firmly.

"Fall in behind then. Let your comrade take both your horses back

to Calais. You won't want them. Keep beside the cart, and direct

the Jew to drive straight ahead; then stop him, within a quarter of

a league of the footpath; see that he takes the most direct road."

Whilst Chauvelin spoke, Desgas and his men were fast

approaching, and Marguerite could hear their footsteps within a

hundred yards behind her now. She thought it unsafe to stay where she

was, and unnecessary too, as she had heard enough. She seemed

suddenly to have lost all faculty even for suffering: her heart, her

nerves, her brain seemed to have become numb after all these hours of

ceaseless anguish, culminating in this awful despair.

For now there was absolutely not the faintest hope. Within

two short leagues of this spot, the fugitives were waiting for their

brave deliverer. He was on his way, somewhere on this lonely road,

and presently he would join them; then the well-laid trap would close,

two dozen men, led by one whose hatred was as deadly as his cunning

was malicious, would close round the small band of fugitives, and

their daring leader. They would all be captured. Armand, according

to Chauvelin's pledged word would be restored to her, but her husband,

Percy, whom with every breath she drew she seemed to love and worship

more and more, he would fall into the hands of a remorseless enemy,

who had no pity for a brave heart, no admiration for the courage of a

noble soul, who would show nothing but hatred for the cunning

antagonist, who had baffled him so long.

She heard the soldier giving a few brief directions to the

Jew, then she retired quickly to the edge of the road, and cowered

behind some low shrubs, whilst Desgas and his men came up.

All fell in noiselessly behind the cart, and slowly they all

started down the dark road. Marguerite waited until she reckoned that

they were well outside the range of earshot, then, she too in the

darkness, which suddenly seemed to have become more intense, crept

noiselessly along.

CHAPTER XXVIII THE PERE BLANCHARD'S HUT

As in a dream, Marguerite followed on; the web was drawing

more and more tightly every moment round the beloved life, which had

become dearer than all. To see her husband once again, to tell him

how she had suffered, how much she had wronged, and how little

understood him, had become now her only aim. She had abandoned all

hope of saving him: she saw him gradually hemmed in on all sides, and,

in despair, she gazed round her into the darkness, and wondered whence

he would presently come, to fall into the death-trap which his

relentless enemy had prepared for him.

The distant roar of the waves now made her shudder; the

occasional dismal cry of an owl, or a sea-gull, filled her with

unspeakable horror. She thought of the ravenous beasts--in human

shape--who lay in wait for their prey, and destroyed them, as

mercilessly as any hungry wolf, for the satisfaction of their own

appetite of hate. Marguerite was not afraid of the darkness, she only

feared that man, on ahead, who was sitting at the bottom of a rough

wooden cart, nursing thoughts of vengeance, which would have made the

very demons in hell chuckle with delight.

Her feet were sore. Her knees shook under her, from sheer

bodily fatigue. For days now she had lived in a wild turmoil of

excitement; she had not had a quiet rest for three nights; now, she

had walked on a slippery road for nearly two hours, and yet her

determination never swerved for a moment. She would see her husband,

tell him all, and, if he was ready to forgive the crime, which she had

committed in her blind ignorance, she would yet have the happiness of

dying by his side.

She must have walked on almost in a trance, instinct alone

keeping her up, and guiding her in the wake of the enemy, when

suddenly her ears, attuned to the slightest sound, by that same blind

instinct, told her that the cart had stopped, and that the soldiers

had halted. They had come to their destination. No doubt on the

right, somewhere close ahead, was the footpath that led to the edge of

the cliff and to the hut.

Heedless of any risks, she crept up quite close up to where

Chauvelin stood, surrounded by his little troop: he had descended from

the cart, and was giving some orders to the men. These she wanted to

hear: what little chance she yet had, of being useful to Percy,

consisted in hearing absolutely every word of his enemy's plans.

The spot where all the party had halted must have lain some

eight hundred meters from the coast; the sound of the sea came only

very faintly, as from a distance. Chauvelin and Desgas, followed by

the soldiers, had turned off sharply to the right of the road,

apparently on to the footpath, which led to the cliffs. The Jew had

remained on the road, with his cart and nag.

Marguerite, with infinite caution, and literally crawling on

her hands and knees, had also turned off to the right: to accomplish

this she had to creep through the rough, low shrubs, trying to make as

little noise as possible as she went along, tearing her face and hands

against the dry twigs, intent only upon hearing without being seen or

heard. Fortunately--as is usual in this part of France--the footpath

was bordered by a low rough hedge, beyond which was a dry ditch,

filled with coarse grass. In this Marguerite managed to find shelter;

she was quite hidden from view, yet could contrive to get within three

yards of where Chauvelin stood, giving orders to his men.

"Now," he was saying in a low and peremptory whisper, "where

is the Pere Blanchard's hut?"

"About eight hundred meters from here, along the footpath,"

said the soldier who had lately been directing the party, "and

half-way down the cliff."

"Very good. You shall lead us. Before we begin to descend the cliff,

you shall creep down to the hut, as noiselessly as possible, and

ascertain if the traitor royalists are there? Do you understand?"

"I understand, citoyen."

"Now listen very attentively, all of you," continued

Chauvelin, impressively, and addressing the soldiers collectively,

"for after this we may not be able to exchange another word, so

remember every syllable I utter, as if your very lives depended on

your memory. Perhaps they do," he added drily.

"We listen, citoyen," said Desgas, "and a soldier of the Republic

never forgets an order."

"You, who have crept up to the hut, will try to peep inside.

If an Englishman is there with those traitors, a man who is tall above

the average, or who stoops as if he would disguise his height, then

give a sharp, quick whistle as a signal to your comrades. All of

you," he added, once more speaking to the soldiers collectively, "then

quickly surround and rush into the hut, and each seize one of the men

there, before they have time to draw their firearms; if any of them

struggle, shoot at their legs or arms, but on no account kill the tall

man. Do you understand?"

"We understand, citoyen."

"The man who is tall above the average is probably also strong

above the average; it will take four or five of you at least to

overpower him."

There was a little pause, then Chauvelin continued,--

"If the royalist traitors are still alone, which is more than

likely to be the case, then warn your comrades who are lying in wait

there, and all of you creep and take cover behind the rocks and

boulders round the hut, and wait there, in dead silence, until the

tall Englishman arrives; then only rush the hut, when he is safely

within its doors. But remember that you must be as silent as the wolf

is at night, when he prowls around the pens. I do not wish those

royalists to be on the alert--the firing of a pistol, a shriek or call

on their part would be sufficient, perhaps, to warn the tall personage

to keep clear of the cliffs, and of the hut, and," he added

emphatically, "it is the tall Englishman whom it is your duty to

capture tonight."

"You shall be implicitly obeyed, citoyen."

"Then get along as noiselessly as possible, and I will follow you."

"What about the Jew, citoyen?" asked Desgas, as silently like

noiseless shadows, one by one the soldiers began to creep along the

rough and narrow footpath.

"Ah, yes; I had forgotten about the Jew," said Chauvelin, and,

turning towards the Jew, he called him peremptorily.

"Here, you. . .Aaron, Moses, Abraham, or whatever your

confounded name may be," he said to the old man, who had quietly stood

beside his lean nag, as far away from the soldiers as possible.

"Benjamin Rosenbaum, so it please your Honour," he replied humbly.

"It does not please me to hear your voice, but it does please

me to give you certain orders, which you will find it wise to obey."

"So it please your Honour. . ."

"Hold your confounded tongue. You shall stay here, do you

hear? with your horse and cart until our return. You are on no

account to utter the faintest sound, or to even breathe louder than

you can help; nor are you, on any consideration whatever, to leave

your post, until I give you orders to do so. Do you understand?"

"But your Honour--" protested the Jew pitiably.

"There is no question of `but' or of any argument," said

Chauvelin, in a tone that made the timid old man tremble from heat to

foot. "If, when I return, I do not find you here, I most solemnly

assure you that, wherever you may try to hide yourself, I can find

you, and that punishment swift, sure and terrible, will sooner or

later overtake you. Do you hear me?"

"But your Excellency. . ."

"I said, do you hear me?"

The soldiers had all crept away; the three men stood alone together

in the dark and lonely road, with Marguerite there, behind the hedge,

listening to Chauvelin's orders, as she would to her own death sentence.

"I heard your Honour," protested the Jew again, while he tried

to draw nearer to Chauvelin, "and I swear by Abraham, Isaac and Jacob

that I would obey your Honour most absolutely, and that I would not

move from this place until your Honour once more deigned to shed the

light of your countenance upon your humble servant; but remember, your

Honour, I am a poor man; my nerves are not as strong as those of a

young soldier. If midnight marauders should come prowling round this

lonely road, I might scream or run in my fright! And is my life to be

forfeit, is some terrible punishment to come on my poor old head for

that which I cannot help?

The Jew seemed in real distress; he was shaking from head to foot.

Clearly he was not the man to be left by himself on this lonely road.

The man spoke truly; he might unwittingly, in sheer terror, utter the

shriek that might prove a warning to the wily Scarlet Pimpernel.

Chauvelin reflected for a moment.

"Will your horse and cart be safe alone, here, do you think?"

he asked roughly.

"I fancy, citoyen," here interposed Desgas, "that they will be

safer without that dirty, cowardly Jew than with him. There seems no

doubt that, if he gets scared, he will either make a bolt of it, or

shriek his head off."

"But what am I to do with the brute?"

"Will you send him back to Calais, citoyen?"

"No, for we shall want him to drive back the wounded presently,"

said Chauvelin, with grim significance.

There was a pause again--Desgas waiting for the decision of

his chief, and the old Jew whining beside his nag.

"Well, you lazy, lumbering old coward," said Chauvelin at

last, "you had better shuffle along behind us. Here, Citoyen Desgas,

tie this handkerchief tightly round the fellow's mouth."

Chauvelin handed a scarf to Desgas, who solemnly began winding

it round the Jew's mouth. Meekly Benjamin Rosenbaum allowed himself

to be gagged; he, evidently, preferred this uncomfortable state to

that of being left alone, on the dark St. Martin Road. Then the three

men fell in line.

"Quick!" said Chauvelin, impatiently, "we have already wasted

much valuable time."

And the firm footsteps of Chauvelin and Desgas, the shuffling

gait of the old Jew, soon died away along the footpath.

Marguerite had not lost a single one of Chauvelin's words of

command. Her every nerve was strained to completely grasp the

situation first, then to make a final appeal to those wits which had

so often been called the sharpest in Europe, and which alone might be

of service now.

Certainly the situation was desperate enough; a tiny band of

unsuspecting men, quietly awaiting the arrival of their rescuer, who

was equally unconscious of the trap laid for them all. It seemed so

horrible, this net, as it were drawn in a circle, at dead of night, on

a lonely beach, round a few defenceless men, defenceless because they

were tricked and unsuspecting; of these one was the husband she

idolised, another the brother she loved. She vaguely wondered who the

others were, who were also calmly waiting for the Scarlet Pimpernel,

while death lurked behind every boulder of the cliffs.

For the moment she could do nothing but follow the soldiers

and Chauvelin. She feared to lose her way, or she would have rushed

forward and found that wooden hut, and perhaps been in time to warn

the fugitives and their brave deliverer yet.

For a second, the thought flashed through her mind of uttering

the piercing shrieks, which Chauvelin seemed to dread, as a possible

warning to the Scarlet Pimpernel and his friends--in the wild hope

that they would hear, and have yet time to escape before it was too

late. But she did not know if her shrieks would reach the ears of the

doomed men. Her effort might be premature, and she would never be

allowed to make another. Her mouth would be securely gagged, like

that of the Jew, and she, a helpless prisoner in the hands of

Chauvelin's men.

Like a ghost she flitted noiselessly behind that hedge: she

had taken her shoes off, and her stockings were by now torn off her

feet. She felt neither soreness nor weariness; indomitable will to

reach her husband in spite of adverse Fate, and of a cunning enemy,

killed all sense of bodily pain within her, and rendered her instincts

doubly acute.

She heard nothing save the soft and measured footsteps of Percy's

enemies on in front; she saw nothing but--in her mind's eye--that

wooden hut, and he, her husband, walking blindly to his doom.

Suddenly, those same keen instincts within her made her pause

in her mad haste, and cower still further within the shadow of the

hedge. The moon, which had proved a friend to her by remaining hidden

behind a bank of clouds, now emerged in all the glory of an early

autumn night, and in a moment flooded the weird and lonely landscape

with a rush of brilliant light.

There, not two hundred metres ahead, was the edge of the

cliff, and below, stretching far away to free and happy England, the

sea rolled on smoothly and peaceably. Marguerite's gaze rested for an

instant on the brilliant, silvery waters; and as she gazed, her heart,

which had been numb with pain for all these hours, seemed to soften

and distend, and her eyes filled with hot tears: not three miles away,

with white sails set, a graceful schooner lay in wait.

Marguerite had guessed rather than recognized her. It was the

DAY DREAM, Percy's favourite yacht, and all her crew of British

sailors: her white sails, glistening in the moonlight, seemed to

convey a message to Marguerite of joy and hope, which yet she feared

could never be. She waited there, out at sea, waited for her master,

like a beautiful white bird all ready to take flight, and he would

never reach her, never see her smooth deck again, never gaze any more

on the white cliffs of England, the land of liberty and of hope.

The sight of the schooner seemed to infuse into the poor,

wearied woman the superhuman strength of despair. There was the edge

of the cliff, and some way below was the hut, where presently, her

husband would meet his death. But the moon was out: she could see her

way now: she would see the hut from a distance, run to it, rouse them

all, warn them at any rate to be prepared and to sell their lives

dearly, rather than be caught like so many rats in a hole.

She stumbled on behind the hedge in the low, thick grass of

the ditch. She must have run on very fast, and had outdistanced

Chauvelin and Desgas, for presently she reached the edge of the cliff,

and heard their footsteps distinctly behind her. But only a very few

yards away, and now the moonlight was full upon her, her figure must have

been distinctly silhouetted against the silvery background of the sea.

Only for a moment, though; the next she had cowered, like some

animal doubled up within itself. She peeped down the great rugged

cliffs--the descent would be easy enough, as they were not

precipitous, and the great boulders afforded plenty of foothold.

Suddenly, as she grazed, she saw at some little distance on her left,

and about midway down the cliffs, a rough wooden construction, through

the wall of which a tiny red light glimmered like a beacon. Her very

heart seemed to stand still, the eagerness of joy was so great that it

felt like an awful pain.

She could not gauge how distant the hut was, but without hesitation

she began the steep descent, creeping from boulder to boulder, caring

nothing for the enemy behind, or for the soldiers, who evidently had

all taken cover since the tall Englishman had not yet appeared.

On she pressed, forgetting the deadly foe on her track,

running, stumbling, foot-sore, half-dazed, but still on. . .When,

suddenly, a crevice, or stone, or slippery bit of rock, threw her

violently to the ground. She struggled again to her feet, and started

running forward once more to give them that timely warning, to beg

them to flee before he came, and to tell him to keep away--away from

this death-trap--away from this awful doom. But now she realised that

other steps, quicker than her own, were already close at her heels.

The next instant a hand dragged at her skirt, and she was down on her

knees again, whilst something was wound round her mouth to prevent her

uttering a scream.

Bewildered, half frantic with the bitterness of disappointment,

she looked round her helplessly, and, bending down quite close to her,

she saw through the mist, which seemed to gather round her, a pair of keen,

malicious eyes, which appeared to her excited brain to have a weird,

supernatural green light in them. She lay in the shadow of a great boulder;

Chauvelin could not see her features, but he passed his thin, white fingers

over her face.

"A woman!" he whispered, "by all the Saints in the calendar."

"We cannot let her loose, that's certain," he muttered to himself.

"I wonder now. . ."

Suddenly he paused, after a few moment of deadly silence, he gave forth

a long, low, curious chuckle, while once again Marguerite felt, with a

horrible shudder, his thin fingers wandering over her face.

"Dear me! dear me!" he whispered, with affected gallantry,

"this is indeed a charming surprise," and Marguerite felt her

resistless hand raised to Chauvelin's thin, mocking lips.

The situation was indeed grotesque, had it not been at the

same time so fearfully tragic: the poor, weary woman, broken in

spirit, and half frantic with the bitterness of her disappointment,

receiving on her knees the BANAL gallantries of her deadly enemy.

Her senses were leaving her; half choked with the tight grip

round her mouth, she had no strength to move or to utter the faintest

sound. The excitement which all along had kept up her delicate body

seemed at once to have subsided, and the feeling of blank despair to

have completely paralyzed her brain and nerves.

Chauvelin must have given some directions, which she was too

dazed to hear, for she felt herself lifted from off her feet: the

bandage round her mouth was made more secure, and a pair of strong

arms carried her towards that tiny, red light, on ahead, which she had

looked upon as a beacon and the last faint glimmer of hope.

CHAPTER XXIX TRAPPED

She did not know how long she was thus carried along, she had

lost all notion of time and space, and for a few seconds tired nature,

mercifully, deprived her of consciousness.

When she once more realised her state, she felt that she was placed with

some degree of comfort upon a man's coat, with her back resting against

a fragment of rock. The moon was hidden again behind some clouds,

and the darkness seemed in comparison more intense. The sea was

roaring some two hundred feet below her, and on looking all round

she could no longer see any vestige of the tiny glimmer of red light.

That the end of the journey had been reached, she gathered

from the fact that she heard rapid questions and answers spoken in a

whisper quite close to her.

"There are four men in there, citoyen; they are sitting by the

fire, and seem to be waiting quietly."

"The hour?"

"Nearly two o'clock."

"The tide?"

"Coming in quickly."

"The schooner?"

"Obviously an English one, lying some three kilometers out.

But we cannot see her boat."

"Have the men taken cover?"

"Yes, citoyen."

"They will not blunder?"

"They will not stir until the tall Englishman comes, then they

will surround and overpower the five men."

"Right. And the lady?"

"Still dazed, I fancy. She's close beside you, citoyen."

"And the Jew?"

"He's gagged, and his legs strapped together. He cannot move or scream."

"Good. Then have your gun ready, in case you want it.

Get close to the hut and leave me to look after the lady."

Desgas evidently obeyed, for Marguerite heard him creeping away along

the stony cliff, then she felt that a pair of warm, thin, talon-like

hands took hold of both her own, and held them in a grip of steel.

"Before that handkerchief is removed from your pretty mouth,

fair lady," whispered Chauvelin close to her ear, "I think it right to

give you one small word of warning. What has procured me the honour

of being followed across the Channel by so charming a companion, I

cannot, of course, conceive, but, if I mistake it not, the purpose of

this flattering attention is not one that would commend itself to my

vanity and I think that I am right in surmising, moreover, that the

first sound which your pretty lips would utter, as soon as the cruel

gag is removed, would be one that would prove a warning to the cunning

fox, which I have been at such pains to track to his lair."

He paused a moment, while the steel-like grasp seemed to tighten round

her waist; then he resumed in the same hurried whisper:--

"Inside that hut, if again I am not mistaken, your brother,

Armand St. Just, waits with that traitor de Tournay, and two other men

unknown to you, for the arrival of the mysterious rescuer, whose

identity has for so long puzzled our Committee of Public Safety--the

audacious Scarlet Pimpernel. No doubt if you scream, if there is a

scuffle here, if shots are fired, it is more than likely that the same

long legs that brought this scarlet enigma here, will as quickly take

him to some place of safety. The purpose then, for which I have

travelled all these miles, will remain unaccomplished. On the other

hand it only rests with yourself that your brother--Armand--shall be

free to go off with you to-night if you like, to England, or any other

place of safety."

Marguerite could not utter a sound, as the handkerchief was

would very tightly round her mouth, but Chauvelin was peering through

the darkness very closely into her face; no doubt too her hand gave a

responsive appeal to his last suggestion, for presently he continued:--

"What I want you to do to ensure Armand's safety is a very simple thing,

dear lady."

"What is it?" Marguerite's hand seemed to convey to his, in response.

"To remain--on this spot, without uttering a sound, until I

give you leave to speak. Ah! but I think you will obey," he added,

with that funny dry chuckle of his as Marguerite's whole figure seemed

to stiffen, in defiance of this order, "for let me tell you that if

you scream, nay! if you utter one sound, or attempt to move from

here, my men--there are thirty of them about--will seize St. Just, de

Tournay, and their two friends, and shoot them here--by my

orders--before your eyes."

Marguerite had listened to her implacable enemy's speech with

ever-increasing terror. Numbed with physical pain, she yet had

sufficient mental vitality in her to realize the full horror of this

terrible "either--or" he was once more putting before her;

"either--or" ten thousand times more appalling and horrible, that the

one he had suggested to her that fatal night at the ball.

This time it meant that she should keep still, and allow the

husband she worshipped to walk unconsciously to his death, or that she

should, by trying to give him a word of warning, which perhaps might

even be unavailing, actually give the signal for her own brother's

death, and that of three other unsuspecting men.

She could not see Chauvelin, but she could almost feel those

keen, pale eyes of his fixed maliciously upon her helpless form, and

his hurried, whispered words reached her ear, as the death-knell of

her last faint, lingering hope.

"Nay, fair lady," he added urbanely, "you can have no interest

in anyone save in St. Just, and all you need do for his safety is to

remain where you are, and to keep silent. My men have strict orders

to spare him in every way. As for that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel,

what is he to you? Believe me, no warning from you could possibly

save him. And now dear lady, let me remove this unpleasant coercion,

which has been placed before your pretty mouth. You see I wish you to

be perfectly free, in the choice which you are about to make."

Her thoughts in a whirl, her temples aching, her nerves

paralyzed, her body numb with pain, Marguerite sat there, in the

darkness which surrounded her as with a pall. From where she sat she

could not see the sea, but she heard the incessant mournful murmur of

the incoming tide, which spoke of her dead hopes, her lost love, the

husband she had with her own hand betrayed, and sent to his death.

Chauvelin removed he handkerchief from her mouth. She certainly

did not scream: at that moment, she had no strength to do anything

but barely to hold herself upright, and to force herself to think.

Oh! think! think! think! of what she should do. The

minutes flew on; in this awful stillness she could not tell how fast

or how slowly; she heard nothing, she saw nothing: she did not feel

the sweet-smelling autumn air, scented with the briny odour of the

sea, she no longer heard the murmur of the waves, the occasional

rattling of a pebble, as it rolled down some steep incline. More and

more unreal did the whole situation seem. It was impossible that she,

Marguerite Blakeney, the queen of London society, should actually be

sitting here on this bit of lonely coast, in the middle of the night,

side by side with a most bitter enemy; and oh! it was not possible

that somewhere, not many hundred feet away perhaps, from where she

stood, the being she had once despised, but who now, in every moment

of this weird, dreamlike life, became more and more dear--it was not

possible that HE was unconsciously, even now walking to his doom,

whilst she did nothing to save him.

Why did she not with unearthly screams, that would re-echo

from one end of the lonely beach to the other, send out a warning to

him to desist, to retrace his steps, for death lurked here whilst he

advanced? Once or twice the screams rose to her throat--as if my

instinct: then, before her eyes there stood the awful alternative: her

brother and those three men shot before her eyes, practically by her

orders: she their murderer.

Oh! that fiend in human shape, next to her, knew human--female--nature well.

He had played upon her feelings as a skilful musician plays upon an instrument.

He had gauged her very thoughts to a nicety.

She could not give that signal--for she was weak, and she was

a woman. How could she deliberately order Armand to be shot before

her eyes, to have his dear blood upon her head, he dying perhaps with

a curse on her, upon his lips. And little Suzanne's father, too! he,

and old man; and the others!--oh! it was all too, too horrible.

Wait! wait! wait! how long? The early morning hours sped

on, and yet it was not dawn: the sea continued its incessant mournful

murmur, the autumnal breeze sighed gently in the night: the lonely

beach was silent, even as the grave.

Suddenly from somewhere, not very far away, a cheerful, strong

voice was heard singing "God save the King!"

CHAPTER XXX THE SCHOONER

Marguerite's aching heart stood still. She felt, more than

she heard, the men on the watch preparing for the fight. Her senses

told her that each, with sword in hand, was crouching, ready for the

spring.

The voice came nearer and nearer; in the vast immensity of

these lonely cliffs, with the loud murmur of the sea below, it was

impossible to say how near, or how far, nor yet from which direction

came that cheerful singer, who sang to God to save his King, whilst he

himself was in such deadly danger. Faint at first, the voice grew

louder and louder; from time to time a small pebble detached itself

apparently from beneath the firm tread of the singer, and went rolling

down the rocky cliffs to the beach below.

Marguerite as she heard, felt that her very life was slipping

away, as if when that voice drew nearer, when that singer became

entrapped. . .

She distinctly heard the click of Desgas' gun close to her. . . .

No! no! no! no! Oh, God in heaven! this cannot be! let Armand's

blood then be on her own head! let her be branded as his murderer!

let even he, whom she loved, despise and loathe her for this, but God!

oh God! save him at any cost!

With a wild shriek, she sprang to her feet, and darted round

the rock, against which she had been cowering; she saw the little red

gleam through the chinks of the hut; she ran up to it and fell against

its wooden walls, which she began to hammer with clenched fists in an

almost maniacal frenzy, while she shouted,--

"Armand! Armand! for God's sake fire! your leader is near!

he is coming! he is betrayed! Armand! Armand! fire in Heaven's name!"

She was seized and thrown to the ground. She lay there moaning, bruised,

not caring, but still half-sobbing, half-shrieking,--

"Percy, my husband, for God's sake fly! Armand!

Armand! why don't you fire?"

"One of you stop that woman screaming," hissed Chauvelin, who hardly

could refrain from striking her.

Something was thrown over her face; she could not breathe, and

perforce she was silent.

The bold singer, too, had become silent, warned, no doubt, of

his impending danger by Marguerite's frantic shrieks. The men had

sprung to their feet, there was no need for further silence on their

part; the very cliffs echoed the poor, heart-broken woman's screams.

Chauvelin, with a muttered oath, which boded no good to her,

who had dared to upset his most cherished plans, had hastily shouted

the word of command,--

"Into it, my men, and let no one escape from that hut alive!"

The moon had once more emerged from between the clouds: the

darkness on the cliffs had gone, giving place once more to brilliant,

silvery light. Some of the soldiers had rushed to the rough, wooden

door of the hut, whilst one of them kept guard over Marguerite.

The door was partially open; on of the soldiers pushed it further,

but within all was darkness, the charcoal fire only lighting with a dim,

red light the furthest corner of the hut. The soldiers paused

automatically at the door, like machines waiting for further orders.

Chauvelin, who was prepared for a violent onslaught from

within, and for a vigorous resistance from the four fugitives, under

cover of the darkness, was for the moment paralyzed with astonishment

when he saw the soldiers standing there at attention, like sentries on

guard, whilst not a sound proceeded from the hut.

Filled with strange, anxious foreboding, he, too, went to the

door of the hut, and peering into the gloom, he asked quickly,--

"What is the meaning of this?"

"I think, citoyen, that there is no one there now," replied

one of the soldiers imperturbably.

"You have not let those four men go?" thundered Chauvelin,

menacingly. "I ordered you to let no man escape alive!--Quick, after

them all of you! Quick, in every direction!"

The men, obedient as machines, rushed down the rocky incline

towards the beach, some going off to right and left, as fast as their

feet could carry them.

"You and your men will pay with your lives for this blunder,

citoyen sergeant," said Chauvelin viciously to the sergeant who had

been in charge of the men; "and you, too, citoyen," he added turning

with a snarl to Desgas, "for disobeying my orders."

"You ordered us to wait, citoyen, until the tall Englishman

arrived and joined the four men in the hut. No one came," said the

sergeant sullenly.

"But I ordered you just now, when the woman screamed, to rush

in and let no one escape."

"But, citoyen, the four men who were there before had been

gone some time, I think. . ."

"You think?--You?. . ." said Chauvelin, almost choking with

fury, "and you let them go. . ."

"You ordered us to wait, citoyen," protested the sergeant,

"and to implicitly obey your commands on pain of death. We waited."

"I heard the men creep out of the hut, not many minutes after

we took cover, and long before the woman screamed," he added, as

Chauvelin seemed still quite speechless with rage.

"Hark!" said Desgas suddenly.

In the distance the sound of repeated firing was heard.

Chauvelin tried to peer along the beach below, but as luck would have

it, the fitful moon once more hid her light behind a bank of clouds,

and he could see nothing.

"One of you go into the hut and strike a light," he stammered at last.

Stolidly the sergeant obeyed: he went up to the charcoal fire

and lit the small lantern he carried in his belt; it was evident that

the hut was quite empty.

"Which way did they go?" asked Chauvelin.

"I could not tell, citoyen," said the sergeant; "they went

straight down the cliff first, then disappeared behind some boulders."

"Hush! what was that?"

All three men listened attentively. In the far, very far

distance, could be heard faintly echoing and already dying away, the

quick, sharp splash of half a dozen oars. Chauvelin took out his

handkerchief and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"The schooner's boat!" was all he gasped.

Evidently Armand St. Just and his three companions had managed

to creep along the side of the cliffs, whilst the men, like true

soldiers of the well-drilled Republican army, had with blind

obedience, and in fear of their own lives, implicitly obeyed

Chauvelin's orders--to wait for the tall Englishman, who was the

important capture.

They had no doubt reached one of the creeks which jut far out

to see on this coast at intervals; behind this, the boat of the DAY

DREAM must have been on the lookout for them, and they were by now

safely on board the British schooner.

As if to confirm this last supposition, the dull boom of a gun

was heard from out at sea.

"The schooner, citoyen," said Desgas, quietly; "she's off."

It needed all Chauvelin's nerve and presence of mind not to

give way to a useless and undignified access of rage. There was no

doubt now, that once again, that accursed British head had completely

outwitted him. How he had contrived to reach the hut, without being

seen by one of the thirty soldiers who guarded the spot, was more than

Chauvelin could conceive. That he had done so before the thirty men

had arrived on the cliff was, of course, fairly clear, but how he had

come over in Reuben Goldstein's cart, all the way from Calais, without

being sighted by the various patrols on duty was impossible of

explanation. It really seemed as if some potent Fate watched over

that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, and his astute enemy almost felt a

superstitious shudder pass through him, as he looked round at the

towering cliffs, and the loneliness of this outlying coast.

But surely this was reality! and the year of grace 1792:

there were no fairies and hobgoblins about. Chauvelin and his thirty

men had all heard with their own ears that accursed voice singing "God

save the King," fully twenty minutes AFTER they had all taken cover

around the hut; by that time the four fugitives must have reached the

creek, and got into the boat, and the nearest creek was more than a

mile from the hut.

Where had that daring singer got to? Unless Satan himself had

lent him wings, he could not have covered that mile on a rocky cliff

in the space of two minutes; and only two minutes had elapsed between

his song and the sound of the boat's oars away at sea. He must have

remained behind, and was even now hiding somewhere about the cliffs;

the patrols were still about, he would still be sighted, no doubt.

Chauvelin felt hopeful once again.

One or two of the men, who had run after the fugitives, were

now slowly working their way up the cliff: one of them reached

Chauvelin's side, at the very moment that this hope arose in the

astute diplomatist's heart.

"We were too late, citoyen," the soldier said, "we reached the

beach just before the moon was hidden by that bank of clouds. The

boat had undoubtedly been on the look-out behind that first creek, a

mile off, but she had shoved off some time ago, when we got to the

beach, and was already some way out to sea. We fired after her, but

of course, it was no good. She was making straight and quickly for

the schooner. We saw her very clearly in the moonlight."

"Yes," said Chauvelin, with eager impatience, "she had shoved off

some time ago, you said, and the nearest creek is a mile further on."

"Yes, citoyen! I ran all the way, straight to the beach,

though I guessed the boat would have waited somewhere near the creek,

as the tide would reach there earliest. The boat must have shoved off

some minutes before the woman began to scream."

"Bring the light in here!" he commanded eagerly, as he once

more entered the hut.

The sergeant brought his lantern, and together the two men

explored the little place: with a rapid glance Chauvelin noted its

contents: the cauldron placed close under an aperture in the wall, and

containing the last few dying embers of burned charcoal, a couple of

stools, overturned as if in the haste of sudden departure, then the

fisherman's tools and his nets lying in one corner, and beside them,

something small and white.

"Pick that up," said Chauvelin to the sergeant, pointing to

this white scrap, "and bring it to me."

It was a crumpled piece of paper, evidently forgotten there by

the fugitives, in their hurry to get away. The sergeant, much awed by

the citoyen's obvious rage and impatience, picked the paper up and

handed it respectfully to Chauvelin.

"Read it, sergeant," said the latter curtly.

"It is almost illegible, citoyen. . .a fearful scrawl. . ."

"I ordered you to read it," repeated Chauvelin, viciously.

The sergeant, by the light of his lantern, began deciphering

the few hastily scrawled words.

"I cannot quite reach you, without risking your lives

and endangering the success of your rescue. When you receive

this, wait two minutes, then creep out of the hut one by one,

turn to your left sharply, and creep cautiously down the

cliff; keep to the left all the time, till you reach the first

rock, which you see jutting far out to sea--behind it in the

creek the boat is on the look-out for you--give a long, sharp

whistle--she will come up--get into her--my men will row you

to the schooner, and thence to England and safety--once on

board the DAY DREAM send the boat back for me, tell my men

that I shall be at the creek, which is in a direct line

opposite the `Chat Gris' near Calais. They know it. I shall

be there as soon as possible--they must wait for me at a safe

distance out at sea, till they hear the usual signal. Do not

delay--and obey these instructions implicitly."

"Then there is the signature, citoyen," added the sergeant, as

he handed the paper back to Chauvelin.

But the latter had not waited an instant. One phrase of the

momentous scrawl had caught his ear. "I shall be at the creek which

is in a direct line opposite the `Chat Gris' near Calais": that phrase

might yet mean victory for him.

"Which of you knows this coast well?" he shouted to his men

who now one by one all returned from their fruitless run, and were all

assembled once more round the hut.

"I do, citoyen," said one of them, "I was born in Calais, and

know every stone of these cliffs."

"There is a creek in a direct line from the `Chat Gris'?"

"There is, citoyen. I know it well."

"The Englishman is hoping to reach that creek. He does NOT

know every stone of these cliffs, he may go there by the longest way

round, and in any case he will proceed cautiously for fear of the

patrols. At any rate, there is a chance to get him yet. A thousand

francs to each man who gets to that creek before that long-legged

Englishman."

"I know of a short cut across the cliffs," said the soldier,

and with an enthusiastic shout, he rushed forward, followed closely by

his comrades.

Within a few minutes their running footsteps had died away in the distance.

Chauvelin listened to them for a moment; the promise of the reward was

lending spurs to the soldiers of the Republic. The gleam of hate and

anticipated triumph was once more apparent on his face.

Close to him Desgas still stood mute and impassive, waiting

for further orders, whilst two soldiers were kneeling beside the

prostrate form of Marguerite. Chauvelin gave his secretary a vicious

look. His well-laid plan had failed, its sequel was problematical;

there was still a great chance now that the Scarlet Pimpernel might

yet escape, and Chauvelin, with that unreasoning fury, which sometimes

assails a strong nature, was longing to vent his rage on somebody.

The soldiers were holding Marguerite pinioned to the ground,

though, she, poor soul, was not making the faintest struggle.

Overwrought nature had at last peremptorily asserted herself, and she

lay there in a dead swoon: her eyes circled by deep purple lines, that

told of long, sleepless nights, her hair matted and damp round her forehead,

her lips parted in a sharp curve that spoke of physical pain.

The cleverest woman in Europe, the elegant and fashionable

Lady Blakeney, who had dazzled London society with her beauty, her wit

and her extravagances, presented a very pathetic picture of tired-out,

suffering womanhood, which would have appealed to any, but the hard,

vengeful heart of her baffled enemy.

"It is no use mounting guard over a woman who is half dead,"

he said spitefully to the soldiers, "when you have allowed five men

who were very much alive to escape."

Obediently the soldiers rose to their feet.

"You'd better try and find that footpath again for me, and

that broken-down cart we left on the road."

Then suddenly a bright idea seemed to strike him.

"Ah! by-the-bye! where is the Jew?"

"Close by here, citoyen," said Desgas; "I gagged him and tied

his legs together as you commanded."

From the immediate vicinity, a plaintive moan reached

Chauvelin's ears. He followed his secretary, who led the way to the

other side of the hut, where, fallen into an absolute heap of

dejection, with his legs tightly pinioned together and his mouth

gagged, lay the unfortunate descendant of Israel.

His face in the silvery light of the moon looked positively

ghastly with terror: his eyes were wide open and almost glassy, and

his whole body was trembling, as if with ague, while a piteous wail

escaped his bloodless lips. The rope which had originally been wound

round his shoulders and arms had evidently given way, for it lay in a

tangle about his body, but he seemed quite unconscious of this, for he

had not made the slightest attempt to move from the place where Desgas

had originally put him: like a terrified chicken which looks upon a

line of white chalk, drawn on a table, as on a string which paralyzes

its movements.

"Bring the cowardly brute here," commanded Chauvelin.

He certainly felt exceedingly vicious, and since he had no

reasonable grounds for venting his ill-humour on the soldiers who had

but too punctually obeyed his orders, he felt that the son of the

despised race would prove an excellent butt. With true French

contempt of the Jew, which has survived the lapse of centuries even to

this day, he would not go too near him, but said with biting sarcasm,

as the wretched old man was brought in full light of the moon by the

two soldiers,--

"I suppose now, that being a Jew, you have a good memory for

bargains?"

"Answer!" he again commanded, as the Jew with trembling lips

seemed too frightened to speak.

"Yes, your Honour," stammered the poor wretch.

"You remember, then, the one you and I made together in Calais,

when you undertook to overtake Reuben Goldstein, his nag and

my friend the tall stranger? Eh?"

"B. . .b. . .but. . .your Honour. . ."

"There is no `but.' I said, do you remember?"

"Y. . .y. . .y. . .yes. . .your Honour!"

"What was the bargain?"

There was dead silence. The unfortunate man looked round at

the great cliffs, the moon above, the stolid faces of the soldiers,

and even at the poor, prostate, inanimate woman close by, but said nothing.

"Will you speak?" thundered Chauvelin, menacingly.

He did try, poor wretch, but, obviously, he could not. There was no doubt,

however, that he knew what to expect from the stern man before him.

"Your Honour. . ." he ventured imploringly.

"Since your terror seems to have paralyzed your tongue," said

Chauvelin sarcastically, "I must needs refresh your memory. It was

agreed between us, that if we overtook my friend the tall stranger,

before he reached this place, you were to have ten pieces of gold."

A low moan escaped from the Jew's trembling lips.

"But," added Chauvelin, with slow emphasis, "if you deceived

me in your promise, you were to have a sound beating, one that would

teach you not to tell lies."

"I did not, your Honour; I swear it by Abraham. . ."

"And by all the other patriarchs, I know. Unfortunately, they

are still in Hades, I believe, according to your creed, and cannot

help you much in your present trouble. Now, you did not fulful your

share of the bargain, but I am ready to fulfil mine. Here," he added,

turning to the soldiers, "the buckle-end of your two belts to this

confounded Jew."

As the soldiers obediently unbuckled their heavy leather

belts, the Jew set up a howl that surely would have been enough to

bring all the patriarchs out of Hades and elsewhere, to defend their

descendant from the brutality of this French official.

"I think I can rely on you, citoyen soldiers," laughed

Chauvelin, maliciously, "to give this old liar the best and soundest

beating he has ever experienced. But don't kill him," he added drily.

"We will obey, citoyen," replied the soldiers as imperturbably

as ever.

He did not wait to see his orders carried out: he knew that he

could trust these soldiers--who were still smarting under his

rebuke--not to mince matters, when given a free hand to belabour a

third party.

"When that lumbering coward has had his punishment," he said

to Desgas, "the men can guide us as far as the cart, and one of them

can drive us in it back to Calais. The Jew and the woman can look

after each other," he added roughly, "until we can send somebody for

them in the morning. They can't run away very far, in their present

condition, and we cannot be troubled with them just now."

Chauvelin had not given up all hope. His men, he knew, were

spurred on by the hope of the reward. That enigmatic and audacious

Scarlet Pimpernel, alone and with thirty men at his heels, could not

reasonably be expected to escape a second time.

But he felt less sure now: the Englishman's audacity had

baffled him once, whilst the wooden-headed stupidity of the soldiers,

and the interference of a woman had turned his hand, which held all

the trumps, into a losing one. If Marguerite had not taken up his

time, if the soldiers had had a grain of intelligence, if. . .it was a

long "if," and Chauvelin stood for a moment quite still, and enrolled

thirty odd people in one long, overwhelming anathema. Nature, poetic,

silent, balmy, the bright moon, the calm, silvery sea spoke of beauty

and of rest, and Chauvelin cursed nature, cursed man and woman, and

above all, he cursed all long-legged, meddlesome British enigmas with

one gigantic curse.

The howls of the Jew behind him, undergoing his punishment

sent a balm through his heart, overburdened as it was with revengeful

malice. He smiled. It eased his mind to think that some human being

at least was, like himself, not altogether at peace with mankind.

He turned and took a last look at the lonely bit of coast,

where stood the wooden hut, now bathed in moonlight, the scene of the

greatest discomfiture ever experienced by a leading member of the

Committee of Public Safety.

Against a rock, on a hard bed of stone, lay the unconscious

figure of Marguerite Blakeney, while some few paces further on, the

unfortunate Jew was receiving on his broad back the blows of two stout

leather belts, wielded by the stolid arms of two sturdy soldiers of

the Republic. The howls of Benjamin Rosenbaum were fit to make the

dead rise from their graves. They must have wakened all the gulls

from sleep, and made them look down with great interest at the doings

of the lords of the creation.

"That will do," commanded Chauvelin, as the Jew's moans became

more feeble, and the poor wretch seemed to have fainted away,

"we don't want to kill him."

Obediently the soldiers buckled on their belts, one of them

viciously kicking the Jew to one side.

"Leave him there," said Chauvelin, "and lead the way now

quickly to the cart. I'll follow."

He walked up to where Marguerite lay, and looked down into her

face. She had evidently recovered consciousness, and was making

feeble efforts to raise herself. Her large, blue eyes were looking at

the moonlit scene round her with a scared and terrified look; they

rested with a mixture of horror and pity on the Jew, whose luckless

fate and wild howls had been the first signs that struck her, with her

returning senses; then she caught sight of Chauvelin, in his neat,

dark clothes, which seemed hardly crumpled after the stirring events

of the last few hours. He was smiling sarcastically, and his pale

eyes peered down at her with a look of intense malice.

With mock gallantry, he stooped and raised her icy-cold hand

to his lips, which sent a thrill of indescribable loathing through

Marguerite's weary frame.

"I much regret, fair lady," he said in his most suave tones,

"that circumstances, over which I have no control, compel me to leave

you here for the moment. But I go away, secure in the knowledge that

I do not leave you unprotected. Our friend Benjamin here, though a

trifle the worse for wear at the present moment, will prove a gallant

defender of your fair person, I have no doubt. At dawn I will send an

escort for you; until then, I feel sure that you will find him

devoted, though perhaps a trifle slow."

Marguerite only had the strength to turn her head away. Her

heart was broken with cruel anguish. One awful thought had returned

to her mind, together with gathering consciousness: "What had become

of Percy?--What of Armand?"

She knew nothing of what had happened after she heard the

cheerful song, "God save the King," which she believed to be the

signal of death.

"I, myself," concluded Chauvelin, "must now very reluctantly

leave you. AU REVOIR, fair lady. We meet, I hope, soon in London.

Shall I see you at the Prince of Wales garden party?--No?--Ah, well,

AU REVOIR!--Remember me, I pray, to Sir Percy Blakeney.

And, with a last ironical smile and bow, he once more kissed

her hand, and disappeared down the footpath in the wake of the

soldiers, and followed by the imperturbable Desgas.

CHAPTER XXXI THE ESCAPE

Marguerite listened--half-dazed as she was--to the

fast-retreating, firm footsteps of the four men.

All nature was so still that she, lying with her ear close to

the ground, could distinctly trace the sound of their tread, as they