The Scarlet Pimpernel (13 page)

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 to
be absorbed in the sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS, and was beating
time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head.

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

"Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m'dear," he said, with his most
exasperating 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 risen
when Sir Percy entered the box.

"Are you coming, m'dear?"

"Hush! Sh! Sh!" came in angry remonstrance from different parts of
the house. "Demmed impudence," commented Sir Percy with a good-natured
smile.

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

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

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

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

The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for Foreign
Affairs—Lord Grenville—was the most brilliant function of the year.
Though the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who was anybody
had contrived to be in London in time to be present there, and to shine
at this ball, to the best of his or her respective ability.

His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present.
He was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville himself had
listened to the two first acts of ORPHEUS, before preparing to receive
his guests. At ten o'clock—an unusually late hour in those days—the
grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely decorated with exotic
palms and flowers, were filled to overflowing. One room had been set
apart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft
accompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the numerous and
brilliant company.

In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, the
distinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished men,
beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had already
filed past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies with him,
which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then, laughing
and talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card rooms
beyond.

Not far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against one of the console
tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking a
quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady
Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes glanced quickly
towards the door every time a new-comer appeared.

He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary Government of
France was not likely to be very popular in England, at a time when the
news of the awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror and
Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the Channel.

In his official capacity he had been received courteously by his English
colleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord Grenville had
entertained him more than once; but the more intimate circles of London
society ignored him altogether; the women openly turned their backs upon
him; the men who held no official position refused to shake his hand.

But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these social
amenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. He
was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised all
social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country:
these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs he
received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England.

But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believed
that the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France; he would
have wished to see every one of them annihilated: he was one of those
who, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to utter the
historic and ferocious desire "that aristocrats might have but one head
between them, so that it might be cut off with a single stroke of the
guillotine." And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat, who
had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey of which the
guillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no doubt that those
royalist EMIGRES, once they had managed to cross the frontier, did their
very best to stir up foreign indignation against France. Plots without
end were hatched in England, in Belgium, in Holland, to try and induce
some great power to send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King
Louis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders of that monster
republic.

Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality of
the Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He and
the few young jackanapes under his command, well furnished with money,
armed with boundless daring, and acute cunning, had succeeded in
rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the
EMIGRES, who were FETED at the English court, owed their safety to that
man and to his league.

Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would discover
the identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over to France,
and then . . . Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the very
thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the knife of the
guillotine, as easily as that of any other man.

Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, all
conversation stopped for a moment as the majordomo's voice outside
announced,—

"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney,
Lady Blakeney."

Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest.

The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of
salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with
Marguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous
shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant "Incroyable" style, his
fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and
the flat CHAPEAU-BRAS under his arm.

After the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord Grenville
said to his royal guest,—

"Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the accredited
agent of the French Government?"

Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped forward,
expecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the Prince
returned his salute with a curt nod of the head.

"Monsieur," said His Royal Highness coldly, "we will try to forget
the government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest—a
private gentleman from France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur."

"Monseigneur," rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. "Madame," he
added, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite.

"Ah! my little Chauvelin!" she said with unconcerned gaiety, and
extending her tiny hand to him. "Monsieur and I are old friends, your
Royal Highness."

"Ah, then," said the Prince, this time very graciously, "you are doubly
welcome, Monsieur."

"There is someone else I would crave permission to present to your Royal
Highness," here interposed Lord Grenville.

"Ah! who is it?" asked the Prince.

"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family, who have but
recently come from France."

"By all means!—They are among the lucky ones then!"

Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at the further
end of the room.

"Lud love me!" whispered his Royal Highness to Marguerite, as soon as he
had caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; "Lud love me! she
looks very virtuous and very melancholy."

"Faith, your Royal Highness," she rejoined with a smile, "virtue is like
precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed."

"Virtue, alas!" sighed the Prince, "is mostly unbecoming to your
charming sex, Madame."

"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Grenville,
introducing the lady.

"This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is ever glad
to welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from her
shores."

"Your Royal Highness is ever gracious," replied the Comtesse with
becoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by
her side: "My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur," she said.

"Ah! charming!—charming!" said the Prince, "and now allow me, Comtesse,
to introduce you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You
and she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every compatriot of
Lady Blakeney's is doubly welcome for her sake . . . her friends are our
friends . . . her enemies, the enemies of England."

Marguerite's blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at this gracious
speech from her exalted friend. The Comtesse de Tournay, who lately had
so flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson, at
which Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Comtesse, for whom
respect of royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well-schooled
in courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, as the
two ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another.

"His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame," said Marguerite,
demurely, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling blue eyes,
"but there is no need for his kind of meditation. . . . Your amiable
reception of me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly in my
memory."

"We poor exiles, Madame," rejoined the Comtesse, frigidly, "show our
gratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Monseigneur."

"Madame!" said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsey.

"Madame," responded the Comtesse with equal dignity.

The Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious words to the young
Vicomte.

"I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said. "I knew your
father well when he was ambassador in London."

"Ah, Monseigneur!" replied the Vicomte, "I was a leetle boy then . . .
and now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector, the Scarlet
Pimpernel."

"Hush!" said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he indicated
Chauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the whole of
this little scene, watching Marguerite and the Comtesse with an amused,
sarcastic little smile around his thin lips.

"Nay, Monseigneur," he said now, as if in direct response to the
Prince's challenge, "pray do not check this gentleman's display of
gratitude; the name of that interesting red flower is well known to
me—and to France."

The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.

"Faith, then, Monsieur," he said, "perhaps you know more about our
national hero than we do ourselves . . . perchance you know who he is.
. . . See!" he added, turning to the groups round the room, "the ladies
hang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself popular among the
fair sex if you were to gratify their curiosity."

"Ah, Monseigneur," said Chauvelin, significantly, "rumour has it in
France that your Highness could—an you would—give the truest account
of that enigmatical wayside flower."

He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke; but she betrayed
no emotion, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly.

"Nay, man," replied the Prince, "my lips are sealed! and the members of
the league jealously guard the secret of their chief . . . so his fair
adorers have to be content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England,
Monsieur," he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, "we but name
the Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair cheek is suffused with a blush of
enthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We know
not if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-formed; but we
know that he is the bravest gentleman in all the world, and we all feel
a little proud, Monsieur, when we remember that he is an Englishman.

"Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin," added Marguerite, looking almost with defiance
across at the placid, sphinx-like face of the Frenchman, "His Royal
Highness should add that we ladies think of him as of a hero of old . . .
we worship him . . . we wear his badge . . . we tremble for him when he
is in danger, and exult with him in the hour of his victory."

Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the Prince and to
Marguerite; he felt that both speeches were intended—each in their
way—to convey contempt or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince
he despised: the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair wore a spray
of small red flowers composed of rubies and diamonds—her he held in the
hollow of hand: he could afford to remain silent and to wait events.

A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence which had fallen
over everyone. "And we poor husbands," came in slow, affected accents
from gorgeous Sir Percy, "we have to stand by . . . while they worship a
demmed shadow."

Everyone laughed—the Prince more loudly than anyone. The tension
of subdued excitement was relieved, and the next moment everyone was
laughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed in
the adjoining rooms.