The Scarlet Pimpernel (15 page)

She gave a quick cry of alarm:

"The candles, Sir Andrew—quick!"

There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had blown
out as the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease upon the
valuable carpet; one had ignited the paper shade aver it. Sir Andrew
quickly and dexterously put out the flames and replaced the candelabra
upon the table; but this had taken him a few seconds to do, and those
seconds had been all that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at
the paper, and to note its contents—a dozen words in the same distorted
handwriting she had seen before, and bearing the same device—a
star-shaped flower drawn in red ink.

When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw upon her face alarm
at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue; whilst the tiny
and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly
the young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved, as his
fingers closed tightly over it.

"For shame, Sir Andrew," she said, shaking her head with a playful
sigh, "making havoc in the heart of some impressionable duchess, whilst
conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well! I do
believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened the entire
Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make me drop
love's message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. To
think that, a moment longer, and I might have known the secrets of an
erring duchess."

"You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, now as calm as
she was herself, "if I resume the interesting occupation which you have
interrupted?"

"By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the love-god
again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement against my
presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!"

Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill, and was once
again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had remained alight.
He did not notice the strange smile on the face of his fair VIS-A-VIS,
so intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps, had he done
so, the look of relief would have faded from his face. He watched the
fateful note, as it curled under the flame. Soon the last fragment fell
on the floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes.

"And now, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite Blakeney, with the pretty
nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of smiles,
"will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking me
to dance the minuet?"

The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the
half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate.
"Start myself tomorrow. . . ." This she had read quite distinctly; then
came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated the
next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another sentence,
like letters of fire, before her mental vision, "If you wish to speak
to me again I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely."
The whole was signed with the hastily-scrawled little device—a tiny
star-shaped flower, which had become so familiar to her.

One o'clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last minuet
was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney
leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate figures.

Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock upon its
ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours
more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In two hours she
must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly
gained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether
she will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his
fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It
seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too,
was noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved
her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when
she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous;
her brother's kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to
be looking reproachfully at her. "You might have saved me, Margot!" he
seemed to say to her, "and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you
do not know, whom you have never seen, and preferred that he should be
safe, whilst you sent me to the guillotine!"

All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite's brain, while,
with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mazes of the
minuet. She noted—with that acute sense of hers—that she had succeeded
in completely allaying Sir Andrew's fears. Her self-control had
been absolutely perfect—she was a finer actress at this moment, and
throughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the
boards of the Comedie Francaise; but then, a beloved brother's life had
not depended upon her histrionic powers.

She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further allusions to
the supposed BILLET DOUX, which had caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such an
agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under her
sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever doubt may have crossed
his mind at the moment, she had, by the time the last bars of the
minuet had been played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he never
realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what effort it cost her
to keep up a constant ripple of BANAL conversation.

When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her into the next
room.

"I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal Highness," she
said, "but before we part, tell me . . . am I forgiven?"

"Forgiven?"

"Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . But remember, I am
not an English woman, and I do not look upon the exchanging of BILLET
DOUX as a crime, and I vow I'll not tell my little Suzanne. But now,
tell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on Wednesday?"

"I am not sure, Lady Blakeney," he replied evasively. "I may have to
leave London to-morrow."

"I would not do that, if I were you," she said earnestly; then seeing
the anxious look reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily; "No one can
throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, we should so miss you on
the bowling-green."

He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where already His Royal
Highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney.

"Madame, supper awaits us," said the Prince, offering his arm to
Marguerite, "and I am full of hope. The goddess Fortune has frowned so
persistently on me at hazard, that I look with confidence for the smiles
of the goddess of Beauty."

"Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card tables?" asked
Marguerite, as she took the Prince's arm.

"Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the richest
among my father's subjects, has also the most outrageous luck. By the
way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life would be
but a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies."

Supper had been extremely gay. All those present declared that never had
Lady Blakeney been more adorable, nor that "demmed idiot" Sir Percy more
amusing.

His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeks
at Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel verse, "We seek
him here, we seek him there," etc., was sung to the tune of "Ho! Merry
Britons!" and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly against
the table. Lord Grenville, moreover, had a most perfect cook—some wags
asserted that he was a scion of the old French NOBLESSE, who having lost
his fortune, had come to seek it in the CUISINE of the Foreign Office.

Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely not a
soul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terrible
struggle which was raging within her heart.

The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past midnight,
and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table.
Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted
against one another—the dearly-beloved brother and he, the unknown
hero.

Marguerite had not tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour; she
knew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once, and incline
the balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him,
there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, undefined hope that
"something" would occur, something big, enormous, epoch-making, which
would shift from her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden of
responsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives.

But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariably
seem to assume when our very nerves ache with their incessant ticking.

After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had left, and
there was general talk of departing among the older guests; the young
were indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte, which would fill
the next quarter of an hour.

Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a limit to the
most enduring of self-control. Escorted by a Cabinet Minister, she had
once more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still the most deserted
among all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must be lying in wait
for her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible opportunity for a
TETE-A-TETE. His eyes had met hers for a moment after the 'fore-supper
minuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat, with those searching pale
eyes of his, had divined that her work was accomplished.

Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible conflict
heart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees.
But Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for he was her
brother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a tiny
babe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying a traitor's
death on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell upon—impossible
in fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for the stranger, the
hero . . . well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite would redeem her
brother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy, then let that
cunning Scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that.

Perhaps—vaguely—Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter, who for so
many months had baffled an army of spies, would still manage to evade
Chauvelin and remain immune to the end.

She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty discourse
of the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had found in Lady
Blakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the keen, fox-like
face of Chauvelin peeping through the curtained doorway.

"Lord Fancourt," she said to the Minister, "will you do me a service?"

"I am entirely at your ladyship's service," he replied gallantly.

"Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if he is,
will you tell him that I am very tired, and would be glad to go home
soon."

The commands of a beautiful woman are binding on all mankind, even on
Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly.

"I do not like to leave your ladyship alone," he said.

"Never fear. I shall be quite safe here—and, I think, undisturbed . . .
but I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive back to Richmond.
It is a long way, and we shall not—an we do not hurry—get home before
daybreak."

Lord Fancourt had perforce to go.

The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped into the room, and the
next instant stood calm and impassive by her side.

"You have news for me?" he said.

An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round Marguerite's
shoulders; though her cheeks glowed with fire, she felt chilled and
numbed. Oh, Armand! will you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride,
of dignity, of womanliness a devoted sister is making for your sake?

"Nothing of importance," she said, staring mechanically before her, "but
it might prove a clue. I contrived—no matter how—to detect Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes in the very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, in
this very room. That paper I succeeded in holding between my fingers
for the space of two minutes, and to cast my eyes on it for that of ten
seconds."

"Time enough to learn its contents?" asked Chauvelin, quietly.

She nodded. Then continued in the same even, mechanical tone of voice—

"In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough device of a small
star-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines, everything else was
scorched and blackened by the flame."

"And what were the two lines?"

Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant she felt
that she could not speak the words, which might send a brave man to his
death.

"It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned," added Chauvelin, with
dry sarcasm, "for it might have fared ill with Armand St. Just. What
were the two lines citoyenne?"

"One was, 'I start myself to-morrow,'" she said quietly, "the other—'If
you wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock
precisely.'"

Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece.

"Then I have plenty of time," he said placidly.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head and heart
throbbed with the awful strain upon her nerves. Oh, this was cruel!
cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her choice was made:
had she done a vile action or one that was sublime? The recording angel,
who writes in the book of gold, alone could give an answer.

"What are you going to do?" she repeated mechanically.