The Scarlet Pimpernel (20 page)

"You will come back?" she said tenderly.

"Very soon!" he replied, looking longingly into her blue eyes.

"Any . . . you will remember? . . ." she asked as her eyes, in response
to his look, gave him an infinity of promise.

"I will always remember, Madame, that you have honoured me by commanding
my services."

The words were cold and formal, but they did not chill her this time.
Her woman's heart had read his, beneath the impassive mask his pride
still forced him to wear.

He bowed to her again, then begged her leave to depart. She stood on one
side whilst he jumped on to Sultan's back, then, as he galloped out of
the gates, she waved him a final "Adieu."

A bend in the road soon hid him from view; his confidential groom had
some difficulty in keeping pace with him, for Sultan flew along in
response to his master's excited mood. Marguerite, with a sigh that was
almost a happy one, turned and went within. She went back to her room,
for suddenly, like a tired child, she felt quite sleepy.

Her heart seemed all at once to be in complete peace, and, though it
still ached with undefined longing, a vague and delicious hope soothed
it as with a balm.

She felt no longer anxious about Armand. The man who had just ridden
away, bent on helping her brother, inspired her with complete confidence
in his strength and in his power. She marvelled at herself for having
ever looked upon him as an inane fool; of course, THAT was a mask worn
to hide the bitter wound she had dealt to his faith and to his love. His
passion would have overmastered him, and he would not let her see how
much he still cared and how deeply he suffered.

But now all would be well: she would crush her own pride, humble it
before him, tell him everything, trust him in everything; and those
happy days would come back, when they used to wander off together in the
forests of Fontainebleau, when they spoke little—for he was always a
silent man—but when she felt that against that strong heart she would
always find rest and happiness.

The more she thought of the events of the past night, the less fear had
she of Chauvelin and his schemes. He had failed to discover the identity
of the Scarlet Pimpernel, of that she felt sure. Both Lord Fancourt
and Chauvelin himself had assured her that no one had been in
the dining-room at one o'clock except the Frenchman himself and
Percy—Yes!—Percy! she might have asked him, had she thought of it!
Anyway, she had no fears that the unknown and brave hero would fall in
Chauvelin's trap; his death at any rate would not be at her door.

Armand certainly was still in danger, but Percy had pledged his word
that Armand would be safe, and somehow, as Marguerite had seen him
riding away, the possibility that he could fail in whatever he undertook
never even remotely crossed her mind. When Armand was safely over in
England she would not allow him to go back to France.

She felt almost happy now, and, drawing the curtains closely together
again to shut out the piercing sun, she went to bed at last, laid
her head upon the pillow, and, like a wearied child, soon fell into a
peaceful and dreamless sleep.

The day was well advanced when Marguerite woke, refreshed by her long
sleep. Louise had brought her some fresh milk and a dish of fruit, and
she partook of this frugal breakfast with hearty appetite.

Thoughts crowded thick and fast in her mind as she munched her grapes;
most of them went galloping away after the tall, erect figure of her
husband, whom she had watched riding out of site more than five hours
ago.

In answer to her eager inquiries, Louise brought back the news that the
groom had come home with Sultan, having left Sir Percy in London. The
groom thought that his master was about to get on board his schooner,
which was lying off just below London Bridge. Sir Percy had ridden thus
far, had then met Briggs, the skipper of the DAY DREAM, and had sent the
groom back to Richmond with Sultan and the empty saddle.

This news puzzled Marguerite more than ever. Where could Sir Percy be
going just now in the DAY DREAM? On Armand's behalf, he had said. Well!
Sir Percy had influential friends everywhere. Perhaps he was going to
Greenwich, or . . . but Marguerite ceased to conjecture; all would be
explained anon: he said that he would come back, and that he would
remember. A long, idle day lay before Marguerite. She was expecting a
visit of her old school-fellow, little Suzanne de Tournay. With all
the merry mischief at her command, she had tendered her request for
Suzanne's company to the Comtesse in the Presence of the Prince of Wales
last night. His Royal Highness had loudly applauded the notion, and
declared that he would give himself the pleasure of calling on the two
ladies in the course of the afternoon. The Comtesse had not dared to
refuse, and then and there was entrapped into a promise to send little
Suzanne to spend a long and happy day at Richmond with her friend.

Marguerite expected her eagerly; she longed for a chat about old
school-days with the child; she felt that she would prefer Suzanne's
company to that of anyone else, and together they would roam through the
fine old garden and rich deer park, or stroll along the river.

But Suzanne had not come yet, and Marguerite being dressed, prepared to
go downstairs. She looked quite a girl this morning in her simple muslin
frock, with a broad blue sash round her slim waist, and the dainty
cross-over fichu into which, at her bosom, she had fastened a few late
crimson roses.

She crossed the landing outside her own suite of apartments, and stood
still for a moment at the head of the fine oak staircase, which led to
the lower floor. On her left were her husband's apartments, a suite of
rooms which she practically never entered.

They consisted of bedroom, dressing and reception room, and at the
extreme end of the landing, of a small study, which, when Sir Percy did
not use it, was always kept locked. His own special and confidential
valet, Frank, had charge of this room. No one was ever allowed to go
inside. My lady had never cared to do so, and the other servants, had,
of course, not dared to break this hard-and-fast rule.

Marguerite had often, with that good-natured contempt which she had
recently adopted towards her husband, chaffed him about this secrecy
which surrounded his private study. Laughingly she had always declared
that he strictly excluded all prying eyes from his sanctum for fear they
should detect how very little "study" went on within its four walls: a
comfortable arm-chair for Sir Percy's sweet slumbers was, no doubt, its
most conspicuous piece of furniture.

Marguerite thought of all this on this bright October morning as she
glanced along the corridor. Frank was evidently busy with his master's
rooms, for most of the doors stood open, that of the study amongst the
others.

A sudden burning, childish curiosity seized her to have a peep at Sir
Percy's sanctum. This restriction, of course, did not apply to her, and
Frank would, of course, not dare to oppose her. Still, she hoped that
the valet would be busy in one of the other rooms, that she might have
that one quick peep in secret, and unmolested.

Gently, on tip-toe, she crossed the landing and, like Blue Beard's wife,
trembling half with excitement and wonder, she paused a moment on the
threshold, strangely perturbed and irresolute.

The door was ajar, and she could not see anything within. She pushed it
open tentatively: there was no sound: Frank was evidently not there, and
she walked boldly in.

At once she was struck by the severe simplicity of everything around
her: the dark and heavy hangings, the massive oak furniture, the one or
two maps on the wall, in no way recalled to her mind the lazy man about
town, the lover of race-courses, the dandified leader of fashion, that
was the outward representation of Sir Percy Blakeney.

There was no sign here, at any rate, of hurried departure. Everything
was in its place, not a scrap of paper littered the floor, not a
cupboard or drawer was left open. The curtains were drawn aside, and
through the open window the fresh morning air was streaming in.

Facing the window, and well into the centre of the room, stood a
ponderous business-like desk, which looked as if it had seen much
service. On the wall to the left of the desk, reaching almost from floor
to ceiling, was a large full-length portrait of a woman, magnificently
framed, exquisitely painted, and signed with the name of Boucher. It was
Percy's mother.

Marguerite knew very little about her, except that she had died abroad,
ailing in body as well as in mind, which Percy was still a lad. She must
have been a very beautiful woman once, when Boucher painted her, and as
Marguerite looked at the portrait, she could not but be struck by the
extraordinary resemblance which must have existed between mother and
son. There was the same low, square forehead, crowned with thick, fair
hair, smooth and heavy; the same deep-set, somewhat lazy blue eyes
beneath firmly marked, straight brows; and in those eyes there was the
same intensity behind that apparent laziness, the same latent passion
which used to light up Percy's face in the olden days before his
marriage, and which Marguerite had again noted, last night at dawn, when
she had come quite close to him, and had allowed a note of tenderness to
creep into her voice.

Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her: after that she
turned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a
mass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accounts
and receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struck
Marguerite—nor had she, alas! found it worth while to inquire—as to
how Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of
brains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him.

Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she had been taken
so much by surprise, that this obvious proof of her husband's strong
business capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought of
wonder. But it also strengthened her in the now certain knowledge that,
with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and foolish talk, he was
not only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and studied part.

Marguerite wondered again. Why should he take all this trouble? Why
should he—who was obviously a serious, earnest man—wish to appear
before his fellow-men as an empty-headed nincompoop?

He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt
. . . but surely such an object could have been gained at less sacrifice,
and with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of an unnatural
part.

She looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was horribly puzzled, and
a nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, had
begun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly in
this severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, save the
fine Boucher portrait, only a couple of maps, both of parts of France,
one of the North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. What did
Sir Percy want with those, she wondered.

Her head began to ache, she turned away from this strange Blue Beard's
chamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. She
did not wish Frank to find her here, and with a fast look round, she
once more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot knocked against a
small object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk, on the
carpet, and which now went rolling, right across the room.

She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat shield,
on which was engraved a small device.

Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the engraving
on the shield. It represented a small star-shaped flower, of a shape she
had seen so distinctly twice before: once at the opera, and once at Lord
Grenville's ball.

At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept into
Marguerite's mind, she could not herself have said. With the ring
tightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down the
stairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone
with the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could look again at
the ring, and study that device more closely.

Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging
sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield, with the star-shaped
little flower engraved upon it.

Bah! It was ridiculous! she was dreaming! her nerves were overwrought,
and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had
not everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device
of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpernel?

Did she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns? set in gems and enamel
in her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should
have chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily have
done that . . . yes . . . quite easily . . . and . . . besides . . . what
connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband,
with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter who
rescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of a
bloodthirsty revolution?

Her thoughts were in a whirl—her mind a blank . . . She did not see
anything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when a
fresh young voice called to her across the garden.

"CHERIE!—CHERIE! where are you?" and little Suzanne, fresh as a
rosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and brown curls fluttering in the
soft morning breeze, came running across the lawn.

"They told me you were in the garden," she went on prattling merrily,
and throwing herself with a pretty, girlish impulse into Marguerite's
arms, "so I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite
so soon, did you, my darling little Margot CHERIE?"