The Scarlet Pimpernel (14 page)

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.