The Scarlet Pimpernel (11 page)

"Good!" replied the man at the door; "now search their pockets and give
me all the papers you find."

This was promptly and quietly done. The masked man having taken
possession of all the papers, listened for a moment or two if there were
any sound within "The Fisherman's Rest." Evidently satisfied that this
dastardly outrage had remained unheard, he once more opened the door and
pointed peremptorily down the passage. The four men lifted Sir Andrew
and Lord Antony from the ground, and as quietly, as noiselessly as they
had come, they bore the two pinioned young gallants out of the inn and
along the Dover Road into the gloom beyond.

In the coffee-room the masked leader of this daring attempt was quickly
glancing through the stolen papers.

"Not a bad day's work on the whole," he muttered, as he quietly took off
his mask, and his pale, fox-like eyes glittered in the red glow of the
fire. "Not a bad day's work."

He opened one or two letters from Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pocket-book,
noted the tiny scrap of paper which the two young men had only just had
time to read; but one letter specially, signed Armand St. Just, seemed
to give him strange satisfaction.

"Armand St. Just a traitor after all," he murmured. "Now, fair
Marguerite Blakeney," he added viciously between his clenched teeth, "I
think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."

It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the
autumn 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's
ORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of the
house, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily-dressed and brilliant
throng, spoke to the eye of those who cared but little for this "latest
importation from Germany."

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

In Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting personality
attracted everyone's attention; a thin, small figure with shrewd,
sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music, keenly
critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with dark hair
free from any powder. Lord Grenville—Foreign Secretary of State—paid
him 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 haughty
aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist EMIGRES
who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of their
country, had found a peaceful refuge in England. On these faces sorrow
and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little heed,
either to the music or to the brilliant audience; no doubt their
thoughts 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 arrived
from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy black
silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning
about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly trying
by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to the
Comtesse's sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte,
both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne's eyes
seemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded house, she had
looked eagerly all around, scanning every face, scrutinised every box.
Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled
herself 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 discreet
knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared
in the doorway of the box, "you could not arrive more
A
PROPOS. Here
is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest
news from France."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Odd's fish, man!" she retorted, "you don't call those bloodthirsty
ruffians 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 she
wishes to send to us."

"Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox over
there is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find—an I'm much
mistaken, that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy, beyond
trying to do mischief to royalist refugees—to our heroic Scarlet
Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little league."

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

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

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

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

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

Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the third
act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little hand
toying with a small jewelled fan, her regal head, her throat, arms and
neck covered with magnificent diamonds and rare gems, the gift of the
adoring 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, it
sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurked
around the lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the hey day
of youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, FETED, petted,
cherished. Two days ago the DAY DREAM had returned from Calais, bringing
her news that her idolised brother had safely landed, that he thought of
her, and would be prudent for her sake.

What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck's impassioned
strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished
love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had made
up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly advantages
upon 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 in
a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen of fashion. Sir
Percy 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 of
London, and had just dismissed them all, wishing to be alone with Gluck
for 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 the
intruder.

Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, and
now, without pausing for that impatient "Come in," he quietly slipped
into the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's
chair.

"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, and
have no mind for talking."

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

"Faith, man!" she said impatiently, "you must seek for another
opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville's ball to-night after the
opera. 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 to
me, Citoyenne St. Just."

Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice
above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there
was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which
seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some
deadly hitherto unguessed peril. "Is that a threat, citoyen?" she asked
at 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 heedlessly
by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of
mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly—