The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of theautumn 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'sORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of thehouse, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliantthrong, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this "latestimportation from Germany."

  Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA by hernumerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite of theladies, had received special gracious recognition from the royal box;and now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to the secondact, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound on the magic strainsof the great maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh ofsatisfaction, previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish andfrivolous tongues. In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faceswere to be seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was findingbrief relaxation in to-night's musical treat; the Prince of Wales,jovial, rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, movedabout from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those ofhis more intimate friends.

  In Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting personalityattracted everyone's attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd,sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenlycritical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hairfree from any powder. Lord Grenville--Foreign Secretary of State--paidhim 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 haughtyaristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist EMIGRESwho, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of theircountry, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrowand care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed,either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt theirthoughts 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 arrivedfrom France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy blacksilk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourningabout her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly tryingby witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to theComtesse's sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte,both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne's eyesseemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded house, she hadlooked eagerly all around, scanning every face, scrutinised every box.Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settledherself 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 discreetknock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appearedin the doorway of the box, "you could not arrive more _A_ PROPOS. Hereis Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latestnews from France."

  The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands withthe ladies.

  "Alas!" he said sadly, "it is of the very worst. The massacres continue;Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundredvictims a day."

  Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listeninghorror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in herown misguided country.

  "Ah, monsieur!" she said in broken English, "it is dreadful to hear allthat--and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is terriblefor me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilsthe is in such peril."

  "Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, "your sitting in aconvent won't make your husband safe, and you have your children toconsider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and prematuremourning."

  The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend.Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted ajockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and mostgentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by someladies at that time.

  "Besides which, Madame," added Lord Grenville, "did you not tell meyesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged theirhonour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?"

  "Ah, yes!" replied the Comtesse, "and that is my only hope. I saw LordHastings yesterday . . . he reassured me again."

  "Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, thatthey 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 youngenough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits enthroned inyour box to-night."

  "I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remember that in servingour country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the accreditedagent of his Government . . ."

  "Odd's fish, man!" she retorted, "you don't call those bloodthirstyruffians 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 shewishes to send to us."

  "Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox overthere is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find--an I'm muchmistaken, that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy, beyondtrying to do mischief to royalist refugees--to our heroic ScarletPimpernel and to the members of that brave little league."

  "I am sure," said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips, "that if thisChauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in LadyBlakeney."

  "Bless the woman!" ejaculated Lady Portarles, "did ever anyone see suchperversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab, will you pleaseexplain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In yourposition here in England, Madame," she added, turning a wrathful andresolute face towards the Comtesse, "you cannot afford to put on thehoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady Blakeneymay or may not be in sympathy with those Ruffians in France; she may ormay 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 fashionin this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money than any half-dozenother men put together, he is hand and glove with royalty, and yourtrying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you look afool. Isn't that so, my Lord?"

  But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflectionsthis comely tirade of Lady Portarles' led the Comtesse de Tournay,remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the third act ofORPHEUS, and admonishments to silence came from every part of the house.

  Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back intohis box, where M. Chauvelin had sat through this ENTR'ACTE, with hiseternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intentlyfixed upon a box opposite him, where, with much frou-frou of silkenskirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity amongst theaudience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered, accompanied by herhusband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden,reddish curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at thenape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed inthe very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladiesthat night had discarded the crossover fichu and broad-lapelledover-dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or three years.She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown, which so soon wasto become the approved mode in every country in Europe. It suited hergraceful, regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmeringstuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.

  As she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box, taking stock ofall those present whom she
knew. Many bowed to her as she did so, andfrom the royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute.

  Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the thirdact, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little handtoying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms andneck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, the gift of theadoring 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, itsparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurkedaround the lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the hey dayof youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, FETED, petted,cherished. Two days ago the DAY DREAM had returned from Calais, bringingher news that her idolised brother had safely landed, that he thought ofher, and would be prudent for her sake.

  What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck's impassionedstrains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanishedlove-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had madeup for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly advantagesupon 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 ina continued procession came to pay homage to the queen of fashion. SirPercy 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 ofLondon, and had just dismissed them all, wishing to be alone with Gluckfor 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 theintruder.

  Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, andnow, without pausing for that impatient "Come in," he quietly slippedinto the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite'schair.

  "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, andhave no mind for talking."

  "But this is my only opportunity," he said, as quietly, and withoutwaiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her--so closethat he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the audience, andwithout being seen, in the dark background of the box. "This is my onlyopportunity," he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no reply, "Lady Blakeneyis always so surrounded, so FETED by her court, that a mere old friendhas but very little chance."

  "Faith, man!" she said impatiently, "you must seek for anotheropportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville's ball to-night after theopera. 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 tome, Citoyenne St. Just."

  Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voiceabove a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet therewas something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, whichseemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of somedeadly hitherto unguessed peril. "Is that a threat, citoyen?" she askedat 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 heedlesslyby, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment ofmischief 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 seeit in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently,but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of theeyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension ofthe beautiful, graceful figure.

  "Lud, then," she said with affected merriment, "since 'tis one of yourimaginary plots, you'd best go back to your own seat and leave me enjoythe music."

  And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushionof the box. Selina Storace was singing the "Che faro" to an audiencethat hung spellbound upon the prima donna's lips. Chauvelin did notmove from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the onlyindication that his shaft had indeed struck home.

  "Well?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feignedunconcern.

  "Well, citoyenne?" he rejoined placidly.

  "About my brother?"

  "I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but firstlet me explain. . . . May I?"

  The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held herhead steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained tohear 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 meyour answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own affairs andyour own social duties have kept us apart . . . although many things havehappened. . . ."

  "To the point, I pray you, citoyen," she said lightly; "the music isentrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk."

  "One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meetingyou at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, Iobtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of thosesubtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats--thattraitor de Tournay amongst others--all organized by that arch-meddler,the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysteriousorganization 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; shenow shrugged her shoulders and said gaily--

  "Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about yourschemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about mybrother . . ."

  "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 herchildren across the Channel. When the two young men were alone, my spiesforced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinionedthe two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to me."

  In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand beenimprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Stillshe would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily andlightly.

  "Faith! and your impudence passes belief," she said merrily. "Robberyand violence!--in England!--in a crowded inn! Your men might have beencaught in the act!"

  "What if they had? They are children of France, and have been trained byyour humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to jail,or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion; atany rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is safer for theselittle 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 projectedCOUP for the moment, it would only be for the moment, and still leavesme 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 meenjoy the last strophe of the ARIA. Faith!" she added, ostentatiouslysmothering an imaginary yawn, "had you not spoken about mybrother . . ."

  "I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letterto S
ir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just."

  "Well? And?"

  "That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies ofFrance, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of theScarlet Pimpernel."

  The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had beenexpecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seemunconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to beprepared for it, to have all her wits about her--those wits which hadbeen nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. Sheknew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, tooblindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of hiscountrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposelessfalsehoods.

  That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in Chauvelin'shands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her owneyes; 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, moreloudly than she had done before.

  "La, man!" she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full andsquarely in the face, "did I not say it was some imaginary plot. . . .Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel! . . . Armand busyhelping those French aristocrats whom he despises! . . . Faith, the taledoes infinite credit to your imagination!"

  "Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, with the sameunruffled calm, "I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyondthe slightest hope of pardon."

  Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Margueritesat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to facethe situation, to realise what had best be done.

  In the house Storace had finished the ARIA, and was even now bowing inher classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to theenthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.

  "Chauvelin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and withoutthat touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all along,"Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another. It seemsthat my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Now,tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity of the ScarletPimpernel, isn't that so?"

  "France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne . . . all the more dangerous, ashe works in the dark."

  "All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!--and you would now forceme to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand'ssafety?--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 ofyou, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking nameof 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 SirAndrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!" he added, taking a tinyscrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.

  It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two youngmen had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they wereattacked by Chauvelin's minions. Marguerite took it mechanically andstooped 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. Youhave all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, Ishall 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 meansGrenville's ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville's ballto-night."

  "That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne," concluded Chauvelin,blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they werepinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a lonelyhouse in the Dover Road, which I had rented for the purpose: there theyremained close prisoners until this morning. But having found this tinyscrap of paper, my intention was that they should be in London, in timeto attend my Lord Grenville's ball. You see, do you not? that they musthave a great deal to say to their chief . . . and thus they will have anopportunity of speaking to him to-night, just as he directed them to do.Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants found every barand bolt open in that lonely house on the Dover Road, their jailersdisappeared, and two good horses standing ready saddled and tethered inthe yard. I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely concludethat they did not draw rein until they reached London. Now you see howsimple it all is, citoyenne!"

  "It does seem simple, doesn't it?" she said, with a final bitter attemptat flippancy, "when you want to kill a chicken . . . you take hold ofit . . . then you wring its neck . . . it's only the chicken who doesnot find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my throat, and ahostage for my obedience. . . . You find it simple. . . . I don't."

  "Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you lovefrom the consequences of his own folly."

  Marguerite's face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as shemurmured, 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 worldof despair in her tear-choked voice. "In my present position, it iswell-nigh impossible!"

  "Nay, citoyenne," he said drily and relentlessly, not heeding thatdespairing, childlike appeal, which might have melted a heart of stone,"as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your help to-night Imay--who knows?--succeed in finally establishing the identity of theScarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to the ball anon. . . . Watchfor me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if youhear a chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom SirAndrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutelybeyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville'sball to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word of Francethat your brother shall be safe."

  Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite felt herselfentangled 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 thatthis man would never make an empty threat. No doubt Armand was alreadysignalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the "suspect";he would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be ruthlesslystruck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment--woman-like--shestill hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this man, whom shenow feared and hated.

  "If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin," she saidpleasantly, "will you give me that letter of St. Just's?"

  "If you render me useful service to-night, citoyenne," he replied with asarcastic 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 tohis 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 forSt. Just."

  Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect nomercy. 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 ownends, he would be pitiless.

  She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of opera-house. Theheart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from adistant 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 indanger, to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and heraffection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand's sake; she longedto seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to help andconsole. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once; he was her husband; whyshould she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He had very littlebrains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle: surely, if she providedthe thought, and he the manly energy and pluck, together they couldoutwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from his vengefulhands, without imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallantlittle band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well--he seemed attachedto 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 tobe absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS, and was beatingtime to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.

  A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. Itwas Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing thathalf-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her everynerve.

  "Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m'dear," he said, with his mostexasperating 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 risenwhen Sir Percy entered the box.

  "Are you coming, m'dear?"

  "Hush! Sh! Sh!" came in angry remonstrance from different parts ofthe house. "Demmed impudence," commented Sir Percy with a good-naturedsmile.

  Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to havevanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without looking ather husband:

  "I am ready to go," she said, taking his arm. At the door of the boxshe turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his CHAPEAU-BRASunder his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips, was preparing tofollow the strangely ill-assorted couple.

  "It is only AU REVOIR, Chauvelin," she said pleasantly, "we shall meetat my Lord Grenville's ball, anon."

  And in her eyes the astute Frenchman, read, no doubt, something whichcaused him profound satisfaction, for, with a sarcastic smile, he tooka delicate pinch of snuff, then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot, herubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together.

  CHAPTER XI LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL