The Scarlet Pimpernel (16 page)

"Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend."

"On what?"

"On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely."

"You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But you do not know
him."

"No. But I shall presently."

"Sir Andrew will have warned him."

"I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he stood
and watched you, for a moment or two, with a look which gave me to
understand that something had happened between you. It was only natural,
was it not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature of that
'something.' I thereupon engaged the young man in a long and
animated conversation—we discussed Herr Gluck's singular success in
London—until a lady claimed his arm for supper."

"Since then?"

"I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came upstairs
again, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the subject of
pretty Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay. I knew he would not move until Lady
Portarles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be for another
quarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one now."

He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where, drawing
aside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to Marguerite the
distant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with Lady
Portarles.

"I think," he said, with a triumphant smile, "that I may safely expect
to find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair lady."

"There may be more than one."

"Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed by one
of my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will leave for
France to-morrow. ONE of these will be the 'Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

"Yes?—And?"

"I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The papers found at
Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of the neighborhood
of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called 'Le Chat Gris,' of a
lonely place somewhere on the coast—the Pere Blanchard's hut—which
I must endeavor to find. All these places are given as the point where
this meddlesome Englishman has bidden the traitor de Tournay and others
to meet his emissaries. But it seems that he has decided not to send his
emissaries, that 'he will start himself to-morrow.' Now, one of these
persons whom I shall see anon in the supper-room, will be journeying
to Calais, and I shall follow that person, until I have tracked him to
where those fugitive aristocrats await him; for that person, fair lady,
will be the man whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man whose
energies has outdone me, whose ingenuity has baffled me, whose audacity
has set me wondering—yes! me!—who have seen a trick or two in my
time—the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel."

"And Armand?" she pleaded.

"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the Scarlet
Pimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that imprudent letter
of his by special courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of
France, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome Englishman, St. Just
will be here in England, safe in the arms of his charming sister."

And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the clock,
Chauvelin glided out of the room.

It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the din of
music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like tread, gliding
through the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear him go down the
massive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door. Fate HAD
decided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile and abominable
thing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay back in her
chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever
present before her aching eyes.

When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It had
that woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much
of a ball-dress, the morning after.

Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the
chairs—turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes—very
close to one another—in the far corners of the room, which spoke of
recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne; there
were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animated
discussions over the latest scandal; there were chairs straight up in a
row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowager;
there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke
of gourmands intent on the most RECHERCHE dishes, and others overturned
on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's
cellars.

It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable gathering
upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers
are given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and
colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered
coats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the
candles flickered sleepily in their sockets.

Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands together, he
looked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the last flunkey had
retired in order to join his friends in the hall below. All was silence
in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, the hum
of distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of an occasional coach
outside, only seemed to reach this palace of the Sleeping Beauty as the
murmur of some flitting spooks far away.

It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that the keenest
observer—a veritable prophet—could never have guessed that, at this
present moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laid
for the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those stirring
times had ever seen.

Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the immediate future. What
would this man be like, whom he and the leaders of the whole revolution
had sworn to bring to his death? Everything about him was weird and
mysterious; his personality, which he so cunningly concealed, the power
he wielded over nineteen English gentlemen who seemed to obey his every
command blindly and enthusiastically, the passionate love and submission
he had roused in his little trained band, and, above all, his marvellous
audacity, the boundless impudence which had caused him to beard his most
implacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris.

No wonder that in France the SOBRIQUET of the mysterious Englishman
roused in the people a superstitious shudder. Chauvelin himself as he
gazed round the deserted room, where presently the weird hero would
appear, felt a strange feeling of awe creeping all down his spine.

But his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the Scarlet Pimpernel
had not been warned, and felt equally sure that Marguerite Blakeney had
not played him false. If she had . . . a cruel look, that would have
made her shudder, gleamed in Chauvelin's keen, pale eyes. If she had
played him a trick, Armand St. Just would suffer the extreme penalty.

But no, no! of course she had not played him false!

Fortunately the supper-room was deserted: this would make Chauvelin's
task all the easier, when presently that unsuspecting enigma would enter
it alone. No one was here now save Chauvelin himself.

Stay! as he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude of the room,
the cunning agent of the French Government became aware of the peaceful,
monotonous breathing of some one of my Lord Grenville's guests, who, no
doubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was enjoying a quiet sleep,
away from the din of the dancing above.

Chauvelin looked round once more, and there in the corner of a sofa,
in the dark angle of the room, his mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweet
sounds of peaceful slumbers proceedings from his nostrils, reclined the
gorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman in
Europe.

Chauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid, unconscious, at peace
with all the world and himself, after the best of suppers, and a smile,
that was almost one of pity, softened for a moment the hard lines of the
Frenchman's face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes.

Evidently the slumberer, deep in dreamless sleep, would not interfere
with Chauvelin's trap for catching that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. Again
he rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir Percy
Blakeney, he too, stretched himself out in the corner of another
sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth sounds of peaceful
breathing, and . . . waited!

Marguerite Blakeney had watched the slight sable-clad figure of
Chauvelin, as he worked his way through the ball-room. Then perforce she
had had to wait, while her nerves tingled with excitement.

Listlessly she sat in the small, still deserted boudoir, looking out
through the curtained doorway on the dancing couples beyond: looking
at them, yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of naught
save a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting.

Her mind conjured up before her the vision of what was, perhaps at this
very moment, passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining-room, the
fateful hour—Chauvelin on the watch!—then, precise to the moment, the
entrance of a man, he, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious leader, who
to Marguerite had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird was this
hidden identity.

She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watching
him as he entered; she knew that her woman's penetration would at once
recognise in the stranger's face—whoever he might be—that strong
individuality which belongs to a leader of men—to a hero: to the
mighty, high-soaring eagle, whose daring wings were becoming entangled
in the ferret's trap.

Woman-like, she thought of him with unmixed sadness; the irony of that
fate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to the
gnawing of a rat! Ah! had Armand's life not been at stake! . . .

"Faith! your ladyship must have thought me very remiss," said a voice
suddenly, close to her elbow. "I had a deal of difficulty in delivering
your message, for I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first . . ."

Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message to
him; his very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange and
unfamiliar to her, so completely had she in the last five minutes lived
her old life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always near her
to love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigues
which were forever raging in Paris in those days.

"I did find him at last," continued Lord Fancourt, "and gave him your
message. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to be
put to."

"Ah!" she said, still very absently, "you found my husband, and gave him
my message?"

"Yes; he was in the dining-room fast asleep. I could not manage to wake
him up at first."

"Thank you very much," she said mechanically, trying to collect her
thoughts.

"Will your ladyship honour me with the CONTREDANSE until your coach is
ready?" asked Lord Fancourt.

"No, I thank you, my lord, but—and you will forgive me—I really am too
tired, and the heat in the ball-room has become oppressive."

"The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take you there, and then
get you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blakeney."

"I am only very tired," she repeated wearily, as she allowed Lord
Fancourt to lead her, where subdued lights and green plants lent
coolness to the air. He got her a chair, into which she sank. This long
interval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tell
her the result of his watch?

Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, and
suddenly startled him by asking abruptly,—

"Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just now
besides Sir Percy Blakeney?"

"Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvelin, equally fast
asleep in another corner," he said. "Why does your ladyship ask?"

"I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?"

"It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. . . . I wonder
what your ladyship is thinking about," he added, for evidently the fair
lady's thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening to
his intellectual conversation.

But indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only one storey below,
in this same house, in the dining-room where sat Chauvelin still on the
watch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before as a
hope—the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir Andrew,
and that Chauvelin's trap had failed to catch his bird; but that hope
soon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then—Armand!

Lord Fancourt had given up talking since he found that he had no
listener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away; for sitting
opposite to a lady, however fair, who is evidently not heeding the most
vigorous efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, even
to a Cabinet Minister.

"Shall I find out if your ladyship's coach is ready," he said at last,
tentatively.

"Oh, thank you . . . thank you . . . if you would be so kind . . . I
fear I am but sorry company . . . but I am really tired . . . and,
perhaps, would be best alone."

But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not come. Oh! what
had happened? She felt Armand's fate trembling in the balance . . . she
feared—now with a deadly fear that Chauvelin HAD failed, and that the
mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once more; then she knew
that she need hope for no pity, no mercy, from him.

He had pronounced his "Either—or—" and nothing less would content him:
he was very spiteful, and would affect the belief that she had wilfully
misled him, and having failed to trap the eagle once again, his
revengeful mind would be content with the humble prey—Armand!