The Elusive Pimpernel

by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy

  It would be very difficult indeed to say why--at Blakeney's lightlyspoken words--an immediate silence should have fallen upon all thosepresent. All the actors in the little drawing-room drama, who had playedtheir respective parts so unerringly up to now, had paused a while, justas if an invisible curtain had come down, marking the end of a scene,and the interval during which the players might recover strength andenergy to resume their roles. The Prince of Wales as foremost spectatorsaid nothing for the moment, and beyond the doorway, the audience thereassembled seemed suddenly to be holding its breath, waiting--eager,expectant, palpitation--for what would follow now.

  Only here and there the gentle frou-frou of a silk skirt, the rhythmicflutter of a fan, broke those few seconds' deadly, stony silence.

  Yet it was all simple enough. A fracas between two ladies, the gentlemeninterposing, a few words of angry expostulation, then the inevitablesuggestion of Belgium or of some other country where the childish andbarbarous custom of settling such matters with a couple of swords hadnot been as yet systematically stamped out.

  The whole scene--with but slight variations--had occurred scores oftimes in London drawing-rooms, English gentlemen had scores of timescrossed the Channel for the purpose of settling similar quarrels incontinental fashion.

  Why should the present situation appear so abnormal? Sir PercyBlakeney--an accomplished gentleman--was past master in the art offence, and looked more than a match in strength and dexterity for themeagre, sable-clad little opponent who had so summarily challenged himto cross over to France, in order to fight a duel.

  But somehow everyone had a feeling at this moment that this proposedduel would be unlike any other combat every fought between twoantagonists. Perhaps it was the white, absolutely stony and unexpressiveface of Marguerite which suggested a latent tragedy: perhaps it was thelook of unmistakable horror in Juliette's eyes, or that of triumphin those of Chauvelin, or even that certain something in His RoyalHighness' face, which seemed to imply that the Prince, careless man ofthe world as he was, would have given much to prevent this particularmeeting from taking place.

  Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a certain wave of electricalexcitement swept over the little crowd assembled there, the whilethe chief actor in the little drama, the inimitable dandy, Sir PercyBlakeney himself, appeared deeply engrossed in removing a speck ofpowder from the wide black satin ribbon which held his gold-rimmedeyeglass.

  "Gentlemen!" said His Royal Highness suddenly, "we are forgetting theladies. My lord Hastings," he added, turning to one of the gentlemenwho stood close to him, "I pray you to remedy this unpardonable neglect.Men's quarrels are not fit for ladies' dainty ears."

  Sir Percy looked up from his absorbing occupation. His eyes met thoseof his wife; she was like a marble statue, hardly conscious of what wasgoing on round her. But he, who knew every emotion which swayed thatardent and passionate nature, guessed that beneath that stony calm therelay a mad, almost unconquerable impulse: and that was to shout to allthese puppets here, the truth, the awful, the unanswerable truth, totell them what this challenge really meant; a trap wherein one manconsumed with hatred and desire for revenge hoped to entice a brave andfearless foe into a death-dealing snare.

  Full well did Percy Blakeney guess that for the space of one secondhis most cherished secret hovered upon his wife's lips, one turn ofthe balance of Fate, one breath from the mouth of an unseen sprite, andMarguerite was ready to shout:

  "Do not allow this monstrous thing to be! The Scarlet Pimpernel, whomyou all admire for his bravery, and love for his daring, stands beforeyou now, face to face with his deadliest enemy, who is here to lure himto his doom!"

  For that momentous second therefore Percy Blakeney held his wife'sgaze with the magnetism of his own; all there was in him of love, ofentreaty, of trust, and of command went out to her through that lookwith which he kept her eyes riveted upon his face.

  Then he saw the rigidity of her attitude relax. She closed her eyes inorder to shut out the whole world from her suffering soul. She seemedto be gathering all the mental force of which her brain was capable, forone great effort of self-control. Then she took Juliette's hand in hers,and turned to go out of the room; the gentlemen bowed as she swept pastthem, her rich silken gown making a soft hush-sh-sh as she went. Shenodded to some, curtseyed to the Prince, and had at the last momentthe supreme courage and pride to turn her head once more towards herhusband, in order to reassure him finally that his secret was as safewith her now, in this hour of danger, as it had been in the time oftriumph.

  She smiled and passed out of his sight, preceded by Desiree Candeille,who, escorted by one of the gentlemen, had become singularly silent andsubdued.

  In the little room now there only remained a few men. Sir AndrewFfoulkes had taken the precaution of closing the door after the ladieshad gone.

  Then His Royal Highness turned once more to Monsieur Chauvelin and saidwith an obvious show of indifference:

  "Faith, Monsieur! meseems we are all enacting a farce, which can haveno final act. I vow that I cannot allow my friend Blakeney to go over toFrance at your bidding. Your government now will not allow my father'ssubjects to land on your shores without a special passport, and thenonly for a specific purpose."

  "La, your Royal Highness," interposed Sir Percy, "I pray you have nofear for me on that score. My engaging friend here has--an I mistakenot--a passport ready for me in the pocket of his sable-hued coat, andas we are hoping effectually to spit one another over there... gadzooks!but there's the specific purpose.... Is it not true, sir," he added,turning once more to Chauvelin, "that in the pocket of that exquisitelycut coat of yours, you have a passport--name in blank perhaps--which youhad specially designed for me?"

  It was so carelessly, so pleasantly said, that no one save Chauvelinguessed the real import of Sir Percy's words. Chauvelin, of course, knewtheir inner meaning: he understood that Blakeney wished to convey to himthe fact that he was well aware that the whole scene to-night had beenprearranged, and that it was willingly and with eyes wide open that hewalked into the trap which the revolutionary patriot had so carefullylaid for him.

  "The passport will be forthcoming in due course, sir," retortedChauvelin evasively, "when our seconds have arranged all formalities."

  "Seconds be demmed, sir," rejoined Sir Percy placidly, "you do notpropose, I trust, that we travel a whole caravan to France."

  "Time, place and conditions must be settled, Sir Percy," repliedChauvelin; "you are too accomplished a cavalier, I feel sure, to wish toarrange such formalities yourself."

  "Nay! neither you nor I, Monsieur... er... Chauvelin," quoth Sir Percyblandly, "could, I own, settle such things with persistent good-humour;and good-humour in such cases is the most important of all formalities.Is it not so?"

  "Certainly, Sir Percy."

  "As for seconds? Perish the thought. One second only, I entreat, andthat one a lady--the most adorable--the most detestable--the mosttrue--the most fickle amidst all her charming sex.... Do you agree,sir?"

  "You have not told me her name, Sir Percy?"

  "Chance, Monsieur, Chance.... With His Royal Highness' permission letthe wilful jade decide."

  "I do not understand."

  "Three throws of the dice, Monsieur.... Time... Place... Conditions, yousaid--three throws and the winner names them.... Do you agree?"

  Chauvelin hesitated. Sir Percy's bantering mood did not quite fitin with his own elaborate plans, moreover the ex-ambassador feareda pitfall of some sort, and did not quite like to trust to thisarbitration of the dice-box.

  He turned, quite involuntarily, in appeal to the Prince of Wales and theother gentlemen present.

  But the Englishman of those days was a born gambler. He lived with thedice-box in one pocket and a pack of cards in the other. The Princehimself was no exception to this rule, and the first gentleman inEngland was the most avowed worshipper of Hazard in the land.

  "Chance, by all means," quoth His Highness gaily.

  "
Chance! Chance!" repeated the others eagerly.

  In the midst of so hostile a crowd, Chauvelin felt it unwise to resist.Moreover, one second's reflection had already assured him that thisthrowing of the dice could not seriously interfere with the success ofhis plans. If the meeting took place at all--and Sir Percy now had gonetoo far to draw back--then of necessity it would have to take place inFrance.

  The question of time and conditions of the fight, which at best wouldbe only a farce--only a means to an end--could not be of paramountimportance.

  Therefore he shrugged his shoulders with well-marked indifference, andsaid lightly:

  "As you please."

  There was a small table in the centre of the room with a settee and twoor three chairs arranged close to it. Around this table now an eagerlittle group had congregated: the Prince of Wales in the forefront,unwilling to interfere, scarce knowing what madcap plans were floatingthrough Blakeney's adventurous brain, but excited in spite of himself atthis momentous game of hazard the issues of which seemed so nebulous,so vaguely fraught with dangers. Close to him were Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Lord Grenville and perhaps a half scoregentlemen, young men about town mostly, gay and giddy butterflies offashion, who did not even attempt to seek in this strange game of chanceany hidden meaning save that it was one of Blakeney's irresponsiblepranks.

  And in the centre of the compact group, Sir Percy Blakeney in hisgorgeous suit of shimmering white satin, one knee bent upon a chair, andleaning with easy grace--dice-box in hand--across the small gilt-leggedtable; beside him ex-Ambassador Chauvelin, standing with arms foldedbehind his back, watching every movement of his brilliant adversary likesome dark-plumaged hawk hovering near a bird of paradise.

  "Place first, Monsieur?" suggested Sir Percy.

  "As you will, sir," assented Chauvelin.

  He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him and thetwo men threw.

  "'Tis mine, Monsieur," said Blakeney carelessly, "mine to name the placewhere shall occur this historic encounter, 'twixt the busiest manin France and the most idle fop that e'er disgraced these threekingdoms.... Just for the sake of argument, sir, what place would yousuggest?"

  "Oh! the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin coldly,"the whole of France stands at your disposal."

  "Aye! I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such boundlesshospitality," retorted Blakeney imperturbably.

  "Do you care for the woods around Paris, sir?"

  "Too far from the coast, sir. I might be sea-sick crossing over theChannel, and glad to get the business over as soon as possible.... No,not Paris, sir--rather let us say Boulogne.... Pretty little place,Boulogne... do you not think so...?"

  "Undoubtedly, Sir Percy."

  "Then Boulogne it is.. the ramparts, an you will, on the south side ofthe town."

  "As you please," rejoined Chauvelin drily. "Shall we throw again?"

  A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between theadversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts oflaughter. Now the dice rattled again and once more the two men threw.

  "'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin," said Blakeney, after a rapidglance at the dice. "See how evenly Chance favours us both. Mine, thechoice of place... admirably done you'll confess.... Now yours thechoice of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir.... The southern rampartsat Boulogne--when?"

  "The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bellchimes the evening Angelus," came Chauvelin's ready reply.

  "Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolishedCathedrals, and bells and chimes.... The people of France have now togo to hell their own way... for the way to heaven has been barred bythe National Convention.... Is that not so?... Methought the Angelus wasforbidden to be rung."

  "Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy," retorted Chauvelin drily, "andI'll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung thatnight."

  "At what hour is that, sir?"

  "One hour after sundown."

  "But why four days after this? Why not two or three?"

  "I might have asked, why the southern ramparts, Sir Percy; why not thewestern? I chose the fourth day--does it not suit you?" asked Chauvelinironically.

  "Suit me! Why, sir, nothing could suit me better," rejoined Blakeneywith his pleasant laugh. "Zounds! but I call it marvellous... demmedmarvellous... I wonder now," he added blandly, "what made you think ofthe Angelus?"

  Everyone laughed at this, a little irrelevantly perhaps.

  "Ah!" continued Blakeney gaily, "I remember now.... Faith! to think thatI was nigh forgetting that when last you and I met, sir, you had justtaken or were about to take Holy Orders.... Ah! how well the thoughtof the Angelus fits in with your clerical garb.... I recollect that thelatter was mightily becoming to you, sir..."

  "Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight, Sir Percy?"said Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his antagonist's gibes, andtrying to disguise his irritation beneath a mask of impassive reserve.

  "The choice of weapons you mean," here interposed His Royal Highness,"but I thought that swords had already been decided on."

  "Quite so, your Highness," assented Blakeney, "but there are variouslittle matters in connection with this momentous encounter which are ofvast importance.... Am I not right, Monsieur?... Gentlemen, I appeal toyou.... Faith! one never knows... my engaging opponent here might desirethat I should fight him in green socks, and I that he should wear ascarlet flower in his coat."

  "The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy?"

  "Why not, Monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole, againstthe black of the clerical coat, which I understand you sometime affectin France... and when it is withered and quite dead you would find thatit would leave an overpowering odour in your nostrils, far stronger thanthat of incense."

  There was general laughter after this. The hatred which every member ofthe French revolutionary government--including, of course, ex-AmbassadorChauvelin--bore to the national hero was well known.

  "The conditions then, Sir Percy," said Chauvelin, without seeming tonotice the taunt conveyed in Blakeney's last words. "Shall we throwagain?"

  "After you, sir," acquiesced Sir Percy.

  For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box andthrew. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details quitefailed to interest him. What mattered the conditions of the fight whichwas only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the open?The hour and place were decided on and Sir Percy would not fail to come.Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous spirit notto feel in the least doubtful on that point. Even now, as he gazed withgrudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy,noted the thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad forehead anddeep-set, half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein PercyBlakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only emotion thatreally swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of adventure.

  The ruling passion strong in death!

  Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne onehour after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his usualmarvellous good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physicaland mental strength, to escape from the trap into which he was so readyto walk.

  That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?

  But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one greatthing: namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should beleft to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning,but also with power, and if the entire force of the republican armythen available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for thepurpose, the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance ofescape left for the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.

  His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney'spleasant voice.

  "Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin," he said, "I fear me your luck ha
s desertedyou. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more."

  "Then it is for you, Sir Percy," rejoined the Frenchman, "to name theconditions under which we are to fight."

  "Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur?" quoth Sir Percy lightly. "By myfaith! I'll not plague you with formalities.... We'll fight with ourcoats on if it be cold, in our shirtsleeves if it be sultry.... I'llnot demand either green socks or scarlet ornaments. I'll even try andbe serious for the space of two minutes, sir, and confine my wholeattention--the product of my infinitesimal brain--to thinking out somepleasant detail for this duel, which might be acceptable to you. Thus,sir, the thought of weapons springs to my mind.... Swords you said, Ithink. Sir! I will e'en restrict my choice of conditions to that of theactual weapons with which we are to fight.... Ffoulkes, I pray you," headded, turning to his friend, "the pair of swords which lie across thetop of my desk at this moment....

  "We'll not ask a menial to fetch them, eh, Monsieur?" he continuedgaily, as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes at a sign from him had quickly left theroom. "What need to bruit our pleasant quarrel abroad? You will like theweapons, sir, and you shall have your own choice from the pair.... Youare a fine fencer, I feel sure... and you shall decide if a scratch ortwo or a more serious wound shall be sufficient to avenge MademoiselleCandeille's wounded vanity."

  Whilst he prattled so gaily on, there was dead silence among allthose present. The Prince had his shrewd eyes steadily fixed upon him,obviously wondering what this seemingly irresponsible adventurer heldat the back of his mind. There is no doubt that everyone felt oppressed,and that a strange murmur of anticipatory excitement went round thelittle room, when, a few seconds later, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes returned,with two sheathed swords in his hand.

  Blakeney took them from his friend and placed them on the little tablein front of ex-Ambassador Chauvelin. The spectators strained their necksto look at the two weapons. They were exactly similar one to theother: both encased in plain black leather sheaths, with steel ferrulespolished to shine like silver; the handles too were of plain steel,with just the grip fashioned in a twisted basket pattern of the samehighly-tempered metal.

  "What think you of these weapons, Monsieur?" asked Blakeney, who wascarelessly leaning against the back of a chair.

  Chauvelin took up one of the two swords and slowly drew it from out itsscabbard, carefully examining the brilliant, narrow steel blade as hedid so.

  "A little old-fashioned in style and make, Sir Percy," he said, closelyimitating his opponent's easy demeanour, "a trifle heavier, perhaps,than we in France have been accustomed to lately, but, nevertheless, abeautifully tempered piece of steel."

  "Of a truth there's not much the matter with the tempering, Monsieur,"quoth Blakeney, "the blades were fashioned at Toledo just two hundredyears ago."

  "Ah! here I see an inscription," said Chauvelin, holding the sword closeto his eyes, the better to see the minute letters engraved in the steel.

  "The name of the original owner. I myself bought them--when I travelledin Italy--from one of his descendants."

  "Lorenzo Giovanni Cenci," said Chauvelin, spelling the Italian namesquite slowly.

  "The greatest blackguard that ever trod this earth. You, no doubt,Monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine, theft, murder,nothing came amiss to Signor Lorenzo... neither the deadly drug in thecup nor the poisoned dagger."

  He had spoken lightly, carelessly, with that same tone of easy banterwhich he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and the same drawlymanner which was habitual to him. But at these last words of his,Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly replaced thesword--which he had been examining--upon the table.

  He threw a quick, suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning backagainst the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat, wasidly toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one which theex-ambassador had so suddenly put down.

  "Well, Monsieur," quoth Sir Percy after a slight pause, and meetingwith a swift glance of lazy irony his opponent's fixed gaze. "Are yousatisfied with the weapons? Which of the two shall be yours, and whichmine?"

  "Of a truth, Sir Percy..." murmured Chauvelin, still hesitating.

  "Nay, Monsieur," interrupted Blakeney with pleasant bonhomie, "I knowwhat you would say... of a truth, there is no choice between this pairof perfect twins: one is as exquisite as the other.... And yet you musttake one and I the other... this or that, whichever you prefer....You shall take it home with you to-night and practise thrusting at ahaystack or at a bobbin, as you please... The sword is yours to commanduntil you have used it against my unworthy person... yours until youbring it out four days hence--on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, whenthe cathedral bells chime the evening Angelus; then you shall crossit against its faithless twin.... There, Monsieur--they are of equallength... of equal strength and temper... a perfect pair... Yet I prayyou choose."

  He took up both the swords in his hands and carefully balancing them bythe extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards, he held them out towardsthe Frenchman. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon him, and he from histowering height was looking down at the little sable-clad figure beforehim.

  The Terrorist seemed uncertain what to do. Though he was one ofthose men whom by the force of their intellect, the strength of theirenthusiasm, the power of their cruelty, had built a new anarchicalFrance, had overturned a throne and murdered a king, yet now, face toface with this affected fop, this lazy and debonnair adventurer, hehesitated--trying in vain to read what was going on behind that low,smooth forehead or within the depth of those lazy, blue eyes.

  He would have given several years of his life at this moment for oneshort glimpse into the innermost brain cells of this daring mind, to seethe man start, quiver but for the fraction of a second, betray himselfby a tremor of the eyelid. What counterplan was lurking in PercyBlakeney's head, as he offered to his opponent the two swords which hadonce belonged to Lorenzo Cenci?

  Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger inthe fastidious mind of this accomplished gentleman?

  Surely not!

  Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears. It seemed madness evento think of Italian poisons, of the Cencis or the Borgias in the midstof this brilliantly lighted English drawing-room.

  But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words and withlooks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe and to read. Heforced himself once more to careless laughter and nonchalance of mannerand schooled his lips to smile up with gentle irony at the good-humouredface of his arch-enemy.

  He tapped one of the swords with his long pointed finger.

  "Is this the one you choose, sir?" asked Blakeney.

  "Nay! which do you advise, Sir Percy," replied Chauvelin lightly. "Whichof those two blades think you is most like to hold after two hundredyears the poison of the Cenci?"

  But Blakeney neither started nor winced. He broke into a laugh, his ownusual pleasant laugh, half shy and somewhat inane, then said in tones oflively astonishment:

  "Zounds! sir, but you are full of surprises.... Faith! I never wouldhave thought of that....Marvellous, I call it... demmed marvellous....What say you, gentlemen?... Your Royal Highness, what think you?... Isnot my engaging friend here of a most original turn of mind.... Will youhave this sword or that, Monsieur?... Nay, I must insist--else we shallweary our friends if we hesitate too long.... This one then, sir, sinceyou have chosen it," he continued, as Chauvelin finally took one ofthe swords in his hand. "And now for a bowl of punch.... Nay, Monsieur,'twas demmed smart what you said just now... I must insist on yourjoining us in a bowl.... Such wit as yours, Monsieur, must need whettingat times. ... I pray you repeat that same sally again..."

  Then finally turning to the Prince and to his friends, he added:

  "And after that bowl, gentlemen, shall we rejoin the ladies?"

  Chapter XIII: Reflections