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
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
"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
"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
"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
"Is that a threat, citoyen?" she asked at
"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--
"Your brother, St. Just, is in peril."
Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before
him. He could only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to
be watching the stage intently, but Chauvelin was a keen observer;
he noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the
mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension of the beautiful, graceful
"Lud, then," she said with affected merriment,
"since `tis one of your imaginary plots, you'd best go back to
your own seat and leave me enjoy the music."
And with her hand she began to beat time nervously
against the cushion of the box. Selina Storace was singing the
"Che faro" to an audience that hung spellbound upon the prima
donna's lips. Chauvelin did not move from his seat; he quietly
watched that tiny nervous hand, the only indication that his shaft
had indeed struck home.
"Well?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly,
and with the same feigned unconcern.
"Well, citoyenne?" he rejoined placidly.
"About my brother?"
"I have news of him for you which, I think,
will interest you, but first let me explain. . . . May I?"
The question was unnecessary. He felt, though
Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him, that
her every nerve was strained to hear what he had to say.
"The other day, citoyenne," he said, "I asked
for your help. . . . France needed it, and I thought I could rely
on you, but you gave me your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies
of my own affairs and your own social duties have kept up apart.
. .although many things have happened. . . ."
"To the point, I pray you, citoyen," she said
lightly; "the music is entrancing, and the audience will get impatient
of your talk."
"One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I
had the honour of meeting you at Dover, and less than an hour
after I had your final answer, I obtained possession of some papers,
which revealed another of those subtle schemes for the escape
of a batch of French aristocrats--that traitor de Tournay amongst
others--all organized by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious organization have
come into my hands, but not all, and I want you--nay! you must
help me to gather them together."
Marguerite seemed to have listened to him
with marked impatience; she now shrugged her shoulders and said
"Bah! man. Have I not already told you that
I care nought about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel.
And had you not spoken about my brother. . ."
"A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,"
he continued imperturbably. "Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst
and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at `The Fisherman's Rest' at Dover
that same night."
"I know. I saw them there."
"They were already known to my spies as members
of that accursed league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted
the Comtesse de Tournay and her children across the Channel. When
the two young men were alone, my spies forced their way into the
coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants,
seized their papers, and brought them to me."
In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers?.
. .Had Armand been imprudent?. . .The very thought struck her
with nameless terror. Still she would not let this man see that
she feared; she laughed gaily and lightly.
"Faith! and your impudence pases belief,"
she said merrily. "Robbery and violence!--in England!--in a crowded
inn! Your men might have been caught in the act!"
"What if they had? They are children of France,
and have been trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught
they would have gone to jail, or even to the gallows, without
a word of protest or indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth
the risk. A crowded inn is safer for these little operations than
you think, and my men have experience."
"Well? And those papers?" she asked carelessly.
"Unfortunately, though they have given me
cognisance of certain names. . .certain movements. . .enough,
I think, to thwart their projected coup for the moment,
it would only be for the moment, and still leaves me in ignorance
of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
"La! my friend," she said, with the same assumed
flippancy of manner, "then you are where you were before, aren't
you? and you can let me enjoy the last strophe of the aria.
Faith!" she added, ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yawn,
"had you not spoken about my brother. . ."
"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among
the papers there was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written
by your brother, St. Just."
"That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy
with the enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member,
of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
The blow had been struck at last. All along,
Marguerite had been expecting it; she would not show fear, she
was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant even. She wished,
when the shock came, to be prepared for it, to have all her wits
about her--those wits which had been nicknamed the keenest in
Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had
spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted
to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his countrymen,
of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods.
That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent
Armand--was in Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she
had seen the letter with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold
that letter for purposes of his own, until it suited him to destroy
it or to make use of it against Armand. All that she knew, and
yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had
"La, man!" she said, speaking over her shoulder
and looking him full and squarely in the face, "did I not say
it was some imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with that enigmatic
Scarlet Pimpernel!. . .Armand busy helping those French aristocrats
whom he despises!. . .Faith, the tale does infinite credit to
"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said
Chauvelin, with the same unruffled calm, "I must assure you that
St. Just is compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon."
Inside the orchestra box all was silent for
a moment or two. Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert,
trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realise what
had best be done.
In the house Storace had finished the aria,
and was even now bowing in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century
fashion, to the enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the
"Chauvelin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last,
quietly, and without that touch of bravado which had characterised
her attitude all along, "Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to
understand one another. It seems that my wits have become rusty
by contact with this damp climate. Now, tell me, you are very
anxious to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn't
"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne. .
.all the more dangerous, as he works in the dark."
"All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!--and
you would now force me to do some spying work for you in exchange
for my brother Armand's safety?--Is that it?"
"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady," protested
Chauvelin, urbanely. "There can be no question of force, and the
service which I would ask of you, in the name of France, could
never be called by the shocking name of spying."
"At any rate, that is what it is called over
here," she said drily. "That is your intention, is it not?"
"My intention is, that you yourself win the
free pardon for Armand St. Just by doing me a small service."
"What is it?"
"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St.
Just," he said eagerly. "Listen: among the papers which were found
about the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note.
See!" he added, taking a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket-book
and handing it to her.
It was the same scrap of paper which, four
days ago, the two young men had been in the act of reading, at
the very moment when they were attacked by Chauvelin's minions.
Marguerite took it mechanically and stooped to read it. There
were only two lines, written in a distorted, evidently disguised,
handwriting; she read them half aloud--
"`Remember we must not meet more often than
is strictly necessary. You have all instructions for the 2nd.
If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be at G.'s ball.'"
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand."
"There is a device here in the corner, a small
red flower. . ."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel," she said eagerly,
"and G.'s ball means Grenville's ball. . . . He will be at my
Lord Grenville's ball to-night."
"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,"
concluded Chauvelin, blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes, after they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were
carried by my orders to a lonely house in the Dover Road, which
I had rented for the purpose: there they remained close prisoners
until this morning. But having found this tiny scrap of paper,
my intention was that they should be in London, in time to attend
my Lord Grenville's ball. You see, do you not? that they must
have a great deal to say to their chief. . .and thus they will
have an opportunity of speaking to him to-night, just as he directed
them to do. Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants
found every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the Dover
Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good horses standing
ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not seen them yet,
but I think we may safely conclude that they did not draw rein
until they reached London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne!"
"It does seem simple, doesn't it?" she said,
with a final bitter attempt at flippancy, "when you want to kill
a chicken. . .you take hold of it. . .then you wring its neck.
. .it's only the chicken who does not find it quite so simple.
Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a hostage for my obedience.
. . . You find it simple. . . . I don't."
"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving
the brother you love from the consequences of his own folly."
Marguerite's face softened, her eyes at last
grew moist, as she murmured, half to herself:
"The only being in the world who has loved
me truly and constantly. . . . But what do you want me to do,
Chauvelin?" she said, with a world of despair in her tear-choked
voice. "In my present position, it is well-nigh impossible!"
"Nay, citoyenne," he said drily and relentlessly,
not heeding that despairing, childlike appeal, which might have
melted a heart of stone, "as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you,
and with your help to-night I may--who knows?--succeed in finally
establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . You
are going to the ball anon. . . . Watch for me there, citoyenne,
watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you hear a chance word
or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutely beyond
suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville's
ball to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word
of France that your brother shall be safe."
Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat.
Marguerite felt herself entangled in one of those webs, from which
she could hope for no escape. A precious hostage was being held
for her obedience: for she knew that this man would never make
an empty threat. No doubt Armand was already signalled to the
Committee of Public Safety as one of the "suspect"; he would not
be allowed to leave France again, and would be ruthlessly struck,
if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment--woman-like--she
still hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this man, whom
she now feared and hated.
"If I promise to help you in this matter,
Chauvelin," she said pleasantly, "will you give me that letter
of St. Just's?"
"If you render me useful service to-night,
citoyenne," he replied with a sarcastic smile, "I will give you
that letter. . . to-morrow."
"You do not trust me?"
"I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St.
Just's life is forfeit to his country. . .it rests with you to
"I may be powerless to help you," she pleaded,
"were I ever so willing."
"That would be terrible indeed," he said quietly,
"for you. . .and for St. Just."
Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this
man she could expect no mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved
life in the hollow of his hand. She knew him too well not to know
that, if he failed in gaining his own ends, he would be pitiless.
She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air
of opera-house. The heart-appealing strains of the music seemed
to reach her, as from a distant land. She drew her costly lace
scarf up around her shoulders, and sat silently watching the brilliant
scene, as if in a dream.
For a moment her thoughts wandered away from
the loved one who was in danger, to that other man who also had
a claim on her confidence and her affection. She felt lonely,
frightened for Armand's sake; she longed to seek comfort and advice
from someone who would know how to help and console. Sir Percy
Blakeney had loved her once; he was her husband; why should she
stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He had very little brains,
it is true, but he had plenty of muscle: surely, if she provided
the thought, and he the manly energy and pluck, together they
could outwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from
his vengeful hands, without imperilling the life of the noble
leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St.
Just well--he seemed attached to him--she was sure that he could
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,
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.
to Chapter 11 - LORD GRENVILLE'S BALL
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