The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long, chilly Englishsummer's evening was throwing a misty pall over the green Kentishlandscape.
The DAY DREAM had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on theedge of the cliff over an hour, watching those white sails, which boreso swiftly away from her the only being who really cared for her, whomshe 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 timeto time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from thencethe sound of merry-making and of jovial talk, or even that perpetual,senseless laugh of her husband's, which grated continually upon hersensitive ears.
Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely alone. She supposedthat, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have understood thatshe would wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared intothe vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose notions of proprietyand decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested even that anattendant should remain within call. Marguerite was grateful to herhusband for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for histhoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his generosity, which reallywas boundless. She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitterthoughts 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 heldhim in contempt, that she too had forgotten that she had almost lovedhim. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts seemed unable to soar beyondthe tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. Bah! And yet! . . . vaguememories, that were sweet and ardent and attuned to this calm summer'sevening, came wafted back to her memory, on the invisible wings of thelight sea-breeze: the tie when first he worshipped her; he seemed sodevoted--a very slave--and there was a certain latent intensity in thatlove which had fascinated her.
Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which throughout his courtshipshe had looked upon as the slavish fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanishcompletely. Twenty-four hours after the simple little ceremony at oldSt. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she hadspoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr beforesome men--her friends--who had used this information against theunfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.
She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear brother, loved Angelede St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian, and the Marquis full ofthe pride and arrogant prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, therespectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem--enthusiastic,ardent, passionate--to the idol of his dreams. The next night he waswaylaid just outside Paris by the valets of Marquis de St. Cyr, andignominiously thrashed--thrashed like a dog within an inch of hislife--because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of thearistocrat. The incident was one which, in those days, some two yearsbefore the great Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France;incidents of that type, in fact, led to bloody reprisals, which a fewyears later sent most of those haughty heads to the guillotine.
Marguerite remembered it all: what her brother must have suffered inhis manhood and his pride must have been appalling; what she sufferedthrough him and with him she never attempted even to analyse.
Then the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and his kin had found theirmasters, in those same plebeians whom they had despised. Armand andMarguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted with theenthusiasm of their years the Utopian doctrines of the Revolution,while the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family fought inch by inch for theretention of those privileges which had placed them socially above theirfellow-men. Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating thepurport of her words, still smarting under the terrible insult herbrother had suffered at the Marquis' hands, happened to hear--amongsther own coterie--that the St. Cyrs were in treasonable correspondencewith Austria, hoping to obtain the Emperor's support to quell thegrowing revolution in their own country.
In those days one denunciation was sufficient: Marguerite's fewthoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr bore fruit withintwenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers were searched: lettersfrom the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the Parispopulace, were found in his desk. He was arraigned for treason againstthe nation, and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family, his wife andhis sons, shared in this awful fate.
Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences of her ownthoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis: his own coterie, theleaders of the revolutionary movement, all proclaimed her as a heroine:and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogetherrealise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she had soinadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily upon her soul. Shemade full confession of it to her husband, trusting his blind love forher, her boundless power over him, to soon make him forget what mighthave sounded unpleasant to an English ear.
Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly; hardly, infact, did he appear to understand the meaning of all she said; but whatwas more certain still, was that never after that could she detect theslightest sign of that love, which she once believed had been whollyhers. Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to havelaid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She triedto 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 thesame, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous, invariably agentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy husband can give toa pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's evening, with the whitesails of the DAY DREAM finally hidden by the evening shadows, she feltmore lonely than that poor tramp who plodded his way wearily along therugged cliffs.
With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back upon thesea and cliffs, and walked slowly back towards "The Fisherman's Rest."As she drew near, the sound of revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grewlouder and more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes'pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband'soccasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness ofthe road and the fast gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps. . . the next moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towardsher. Marguerite did not look up: she was not the least nervous, and "TheFisherman'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 herown familiar maiden name uttered so close to her. She looked up at thestranger, and this time, with a cry of unfeigned pleasure, she put outboth her hands effusively towards him.
"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed.
"Himself, citoyenne, at your service," said the stranger, gallantlykissing the tips of her fingers.
Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two, as she surveyed withobvious delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her.Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty--a clever, shrewd-lookingpersonality, with a curious fox-like expression in the deep, sunkeneyes. He was the same stranger who an hour or two previously had joinedMr. Jellyband in a friendly glass of wine.
"Chauvelin . . . my friend . . ." said Marguerite, with a pretty littlesigh 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 backmemories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned--a queen--overthe intellectual coterie of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not noticethe sarcastic little smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips ofChauvelin.
"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the world, or whom in theworld, are you doing here in E
ngland?"
"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady," he said. "What ofyourself?"
"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 Margueriteseemed 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 knewArmand well, who could talk of all the merry, brilliant friends whomshe had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty porch, whilethrough the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the coffee-room sounds oflaughter, of calls for "Sally" and for beer, of tapping of mugs, andclinking of dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and mirthlesslaugh. Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixedon the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this softEnglish summer twilight.
"You surprise me, citoyenne," he said quietly, as he took a pinch ofsnuff.
"Do I now?" she retorted gaily. "Faith, my little Chauvelin, I shouldhave thought that, with your penetration, you would have guessed that anatmosphere 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 Englishcountry life peculiarly attractive."
"Yes! so did I," she said with a sigh, "Pretty women," she addedmeditatively, "ought to have a good time in England, since all thepleasant 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 asingle temptation."
"No wonder," retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, "that the cleverest woman inEurope 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 nothave been so pleased to see you."
"And this within a year of a romantic love match . . . that's just thedifficulty . . ."
"Ah! . . . that idyllic folly," said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm, "didnot then survive the lapse of . . . weeks?"
"Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin . . . They come upon uslike the measles . . . and are as easily cured."
Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed very much addictedto that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those days; perhaps, too, hefound the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the quick,shrewd glances with which he strove to read the very souls of those withwhom he came in contact.
"No wonder," he repeated, with the same gallantry, "that the most activebrain in Europe is troubled with ENNUI."
"I was in hopes that you had a prescription against the malady, mylittle Chauvelin."
"How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir Percy Blakeney has failedto accomplish?"
"Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question for the present, my dearfriend?" she said drily.
"Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just what we cannot very welldo," said Chauvelin, whilst once again his eyes, keen as those of afox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. "I have a mostperfect prescription against the worst form of ENNUI, which I would havebeen 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, fairlady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!"
"Work?"
Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly. It seemed asif those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one of her thoughts.They were alone together; the evening air was quite still, and theirsoft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room.Still, Chauvelin took a step or two from under the porch, lookedquickly and keenly all round him, then seeing that indeed no one waswithin earshot, he once more came back close to Marguerite.
"Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?" he asked, with asudden change of manner, which lent his thin, fox-like face a singularearnestness.
"La, man!" she replied flippantly, "how serious you look all of asudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I WOULD render France a smallservice--at any rate, it depends upon the kind of service she--oryou--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 merrylaugh, "Faith man! we talk of nothing else. . . . We have hats 'a laScarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at thePrince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'souffle a laScarlet Pimpernel.' . . . Lud!" she added gaily, "the other day I orderedat my milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if shedid not call that 'a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'"
Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily along; he did noteven attempt to stop her when her musical voice and her childlike laughwent echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious andearnest 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, youmust also have guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identityunder 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 tohelp 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-likeface 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 asits representative: I present my credentials to Mr. Pitt in Londonto-morrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this Leagueof the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France,since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats--traitors to theircountry, and enemies of the people--to escape from the just punishmentwhich they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once theyare over here, those French EMIGRES try to rouse public feeling againstthe Republic . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy boldenough to attack France . . . Now, within the last month scores of theseEMIGRES, some only suspected of treason, others actually condemned bythe Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the Channel.Their escape in each instance was planned, organized and effected bythis society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose brainseems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the moststrenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover whohe is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath thisstrange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. I meanto strike at that head, and for this I want your help--through himafterwards I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck inEnglish 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 withoututtering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe. Shehad told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk ofthe smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her heart andher imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave man, who,unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often anunmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with those haughtyFrench aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste, of whom theComtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an example; butrepublican and liberal-minded though she was from principle, she hatedand loathed the met
hods which the young Republic had chosen forestablishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some months; thehorrors and bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, culminating in theSeptember massacres, had only come across the Channel to her as a faintecho. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not known in their new guiseof bloody judiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine. Her verysoul recoiled in horror from these excesses, to which she feared herbrother Armand--moderate republican as he was--might become one day theholocaust.
Then, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts,who, for sheer love of their fellowmen, dragged women and children, oldand young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pridefor them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to thegallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who riskedhis life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sakeof humanity.
Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished speaking, the lace ather bosom rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing; she no longerheard the noise of drinking from the inn, she did not heed her husband'svoice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering in search ofthe mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had hecome her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination;his personality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of thosewho served under him in that same noble cause, and, above all, thatanonymity 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. Themysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a manwas drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty.
"La! man," she said with a return of her assumed flippancy, "you areastonishing. 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 seeeverything, you HEAR everything."
"Easy, my friend," retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her fullheight and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small,thin figure before her. "Easy! you seem to forget that there are sixfeet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to standbetween 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 thisScarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him--an Englishman!"
"I'd take my chance of that," said Chauvelin, with a dry, rasping littlelaugh. "At any rate we could send him to the guillotine first to coolhis ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we canapologise--humbly--to the British Government, and, if necessary, paycompensation to the bereaved family."
"What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin," she said, drawing away fromhim as from some noisome insect. "Whoever the man may be, he is braveand noble, and never--do you hear me?--never would I lend a hand to suchvillainy."
"You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat who comes to thiscountry?"
Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft. Marguerite'sfresh young cheeks became a touch 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. "Ican defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you--or forFrance. You have other means at your disposal; you must use them, myfriend."
And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned herback on him and walked straight into the inn.
"That is not your last word, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, as a flood oflight from the passage illumined her elegant, richly-clad figure, "wemeet in London, I hope!"
"We meet in London," she said, speaking over her shoulder at him, "butthat 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 ofsnuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-likeface looked neither abashed nor disappointed; on the contrary, a curioussmile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied, played around the corners ofhis thin lips.
CHAPTER IX THE OUTRAGE
The Scarlet Pimpernel Page 8