The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept intoMarguerite's mind, she could not herself have said. With the ringtightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down thestairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alonewith the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could look again atthe ring, and study that device more closely.

  Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhangingsycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield, with the star-shapedlittle 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. Hadnot everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the deviceof that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpernel?

  Did she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns? set in gems and enamelin her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy shouldhave chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily havedone that . . . yes . . . quite easily . . . and . . . besides . . . whatconnection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband,with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter whorescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of abloodthirsty revolution?

  Her thoughts were in a whirl--her mind a blank . . . She did not seeanything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when afresh young voice called to her across the garden.

  "CHERIE!--CHERIE! where are you?" and little Suzanne, fresh as arosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and brown curls fluttering in thesoft 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'sarms, "so I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quiteso soon, did you, my darling little Margot CHERIE?"

  Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the folds of herkerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl'simpulsiveness.

  "Indeed, sweet one," she said with a smile, "it is delightful to haveyou all to myself, and for a nice whole long day. . . . You won't bebored?"

  "Oh! bored! Margot, how CAN you say such a wicked thing. Why! when wewere in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we wereallowed to be alone together."

  "And to talk secrets."

  The two young girls had linked their arms in one another's and beganwandering 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?" saidMarguerite, with a wistful little sigh.

  "How sadly you say it, CHERIE. . . . Ah, well, I suppose now that youare 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 youremember?--some we did not even confide to Sister Theresa of the HolyAngels--though she was such a dear."

  "And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one?" saidMarguerite, merrily, "which you are forthwith going to confide in me.Nay, you need not blush, CHERIE." she added, as she saw Suzanne's prettylittle face crimson with blushes. "Faith, there's naught to be ashamedof! 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 itmakes me very, very proud to hear you speak so well of him. I thinkmaman will consent," she added thoughtfully, "and I shall be--oh! sohappy--but, of course, nothing is to be thought of untilpapa is safe. . . ."

  Marguerite started. Suzanne's father! the Comte de Tournay!--oneof those whose life would be jeopardised if Chauvelin succeeded inestablishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

  She had understood all along from the Comtesse, and also from one or twoof the members of the league, that their mysterious leader had pledgedhis honour to bring the fugitive Comte de Tournay safely out of France.Whilst little Suzanne--unconscious of all--save her own all-importantlittle secret, went prattling on, Marguerite's thoughts went back to theevents of the past night.

  Armand's peril, Chauvelin's threat, his cruel "Either--or--" which shehad accepted.

  And then her own work in the matter, which should have culminated at oneo'clock in Lord Grenville's dining-room, when the relentless agentof the French Government would finally learn who was this mysteriousScarlet Pimpernel, who so openly defied an army of spies and placedhimself so boldly, and for mere sport, on the side of the enemies ofFrance.

  Since then she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had concluded thathe had failed, and yet, she had not felt anxious about Armand, becauseher husband had promised her that Armand would be safe.

  But now, suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along, an awful horrorcame upon her for what she had done. Chauvelin had told her nothing, itwas true; but she remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when shetook final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered somethingthen? Had he already laid his plans for catching the daring plotter,red-handed, in France, and sending him to the guillotine withoutcompunction or delay?

  Marguerite turned sick with horror, and her hand convulsively clutchedthe ring in her dress.

  "You are not listening, CHERIE," said Suzanne, reproachfully, as shepaused 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 yourhappiness makes me so very glad. . . . Have no fear, we will manage topropitiate maman. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes is a noble English gentleman; hehas money and position, the Comtesse will not refuse her consent. . . .But . . . now, little one . . . tell me . . . what is the latest newsabout your father?"

  "Oh!" said Suzanne with mad glee, "the best we could possibly hear. MyLord Hastings came to see maman early this morning. He said that all isnow well with dear papa, and we may safely expect him here in England inless than four days."

  "Yes," said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on Suzanne'slips, as she continued merrily:

  "Oh, we have no fear now! You don't know, CHERIE, that that great andnoble Scarlet Pimpernel himself has gone to save papa. He has gone,CHERIE . . . actually gone . . ." added Suzanne excitedly, "he was inLondon this morning; he will be in Calais, perhaps, to-morrow . . . wherehe will meet papa . . . and then . . . and then . . ."

  The blow had fallen. She had expected it all along, though she had triedfor the last half-hour to delude herself and to cheat her fears. He hadgone to Calais, had been in London this morning . . . he . . . theScarlet Pimpernel . . . Percy Blakeney . . . her husband . . . whom she hadbetrayed 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 dustin everybody's eyes.

  And all for the sheer sport and devilry of course!--saving men, womenand children from death, as other men destroy and kill animals for theexcitement, the love of the thing. The idle, rich man wanted some aimin life--he, and the few young bucks he enrolled under his banner, hadamused themselves for months in risking their lives for the sake of aninnocent few.

  Perhaps he had meant to tell her when they were first married; and thenthe story of the Marquis de St. Cyr had come to his ears, and he hadsuddenly turned from her, thinking, no doubt, that she might somedaybetray him and his comrades, who had sworn to follow him; and so he hadtricked her, as he tricked all others, whilst hundreds now owed theirlives 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 consummatelywell played. No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect, inthe apparently brainless nincompoop, the man whose reckless daring andresourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French spies, both inFrance and in England. Even last night when Chauvelin went to LordGrenville's dining-ro
om to seek that daring Scarlet Pimpernel, he onlysaw 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 fatein order to save her brother, had Marguerite Blakeney sent her husbandto his death?

  No! no! no! a thousand times no! Surely Fate could not deal a blow likethat: Nature itself would rise in revolt: her hand, when it held thattiny scrap of paper last night, would have surely have been struck numbere 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 ScarletPimpernel had gone today . . . ?"

  "Marguerite, CHERIE, what is it? You frighten me. . . ."

  "It is nothing, child, I tell you . . . nothing . . . I must be alonea minute--and--dear one . . . I may have to curtail our time togetherto-day. . . . I may have to go away--you'll understand?"

  "I understand that something has happened, CHERIE, and that you wantto 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 thinkof me."

  She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite. Child as she was, shefelt the poignancy of her friend's grief, and with the infinite tact ofher girlish tenderness, she did not try to pry into it, but was ready toefface herself.

  She kissed Marguerite again and again, then walked sadly back acrossthe 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 groomcame running round the house towards his mistress. He carried a sealedletter in his hand. Suzanne instinctively turned back; her heart toldher that here perhaps was further ill news for her friend, and she feltthat poor Margot was not in a fit state to bear any more.

  The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress, then he handed her thesealed letter.

  "What is that?" asked Marguerite.

  "Just come by runner, my lady."

  Marguerite took the letter mechanically, and turned it over in hertrembling fingers.

  "Who sent it?" she said.

  "The runner said, my lady," replied the groom, "that his orders wereto deliver this, and that your ladyship would understand from whom itcame."

  Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her what itcontained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.

  It was a letter by Armand St. Just to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes--the letterwhich Chauvelin's spies had stolen at "The Fisherman's Rest," and whichChauvelin 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 compromisingletter . . . 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 herwaist. With superhuman effort she regained control over herself--therewas 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 Imust send you home, child. And--stay, tell one of the maids to prepare atravelling dress and cloak for me."

  Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly and obeyed withouta word; the child was overawed by the terrible, nameless misery in herfriend's face.

  A minute later the groom returned, followed by the runner who hadbrought the letter.

  "Who gave you this packet?" asked Marguerite.

  "A gentleman, my lady," replied the man, "at 'The Rose and Thistle' innopposite Charing Cross. He said you would understand."

  "At 'The Rose and Thistle'? What was he doing?"

  "He was waiting for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered."

  "The coach?"

  "Yes, my lady. A special coach he had ordered. I understood from his manthat he was posting straight to Dover."

  "That's enough. You may go." Then she turned to the groom: "My coach andthe four swiftest horses in the stables, to be ready at once."

  The groom and runner both went quickly off to obey. Marguerite remainedstanding for a moment on the lawn quite alone. Her graceful figurewas as rigid as a statue, her eyes were fixed, her hands were tightlyclasped across her breast; her lips moved as they murmured with patheticheart-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 haddone--unwittingly--an awful and terrible thing--the very worst crime, inher eyes, that woman ever committed--she saw it in all its horror. Hervery blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret seemed nowto her another deadly sin. She ought to have known! she ought to haveknown!

  How could she imagine that a man who could love with so much intensityas Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first--how could such a manbe the brainless idiot he chose to appear? She, at least, ought to haveknown that he was wearing a mask, and having found that out, she shouldhave torn it from his face, whenever they were alone together.

  Her love for him had been paltry and weak, easily crushed by her ownpride; 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 shehad sinned; now she must repay, not by empty remorse, but by prompt anduseful action.

  Percy had started for Calais, utterly unconscious of the fact thathis most relentless enemy was on his heels. He had set sail early thatmorning from London Bridge. Provided he had a favourable wind, he wouldno doubt be in France within twenty-four hours; no doubt he had reckonedon the wind and chosen this route.

  Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post to Dover, charter a vesselthere, and undoubtedly reach Calais much about the same time. Once inCalais, Percy would meet all those who were eagerly waiting for thenoble and brave Scarlet Pimpernel, who had come to rescue them fromhorrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed upon hisevery movement, Percy would thus not only be endangering his own life,but that of Suzanne's father, the old Comte de Tournay, and of thoseother fugitives who were waiting for him and trusting in him. There wasalso Armand, who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the knowledgethat 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 thetask.

  Unfortunately, she could not do all this quite alone. Once in Calais shewould not know where to find her husband, whilst Chauvelin, in stealingthe papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary. Above everything, she wished to warn Percy.

  She knew enough about him by now to understand that he would neverabandon those who trusted in him, that he would not turn his back fromdanger, and leave the Comte de Tournay to fall into the bloodthirstyhands that knew of no mercy. But if he were warned, he might form newplans, be more wary, more prudent. Unconsciously, he might fall into acunning trap, but--once warned--he might yet succeed.

  And if he failed--if indeed Fate, and Chauvelin, with all the resourcesat his command, proved too strong for the daring plotter after all--thenat 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 diedboth together, locked in each other's arms, with the supreme happinessof knowing that passion had responded to passion, and that allmisunderstandings were at an end.

  Her whole body stiffened as with a great and firm resolution. This shemeant to do, if God gave her w
its and strength. Her eyes lost theirfixed look; they glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting himagain so soon, in the very midst of most deadly perils; they sparkledwith the joy of sharing these dangers with him--of helping himperhaps--of being with him at the last--if she failed.

  The childlike sweet face had become hard and set, the curved mouth wasclosed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do or die, withhim and for his sake. A frown, which spoke of an iron will and unbendingresolution, appeared between the two straight brows; already her planswere formed. She would go and find Sir Andrew Ffoulkes first; he wasPercy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered, with a thrill, with whatblind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of his mysterious leader.

  He would help her where she needed help; her coach was ready. A changeof raiment, and a farewell to little Suzanne, and she could be on herway.

  Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly into thehouse.

  CHAPTER XX THE FRIEND