In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room
of the inn became the scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort.
At the first announcement made by the stable boy, Lord Antony,
with a fashionable oath, had jumped up from his seat and was now
giving many and confused directions to poor bewildered Jellyband,
who seemed at his wits' end what to do.
"For goodness' sake, man," admonished his lordship,
"try to keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while
the ladies withdraw. Zounds!" he added, with another more emphatic
oath, "this is most unfortunate."
"Quick Sally! the candles!" shouted Jellyband,
as hopping about from one leg to another, he ran hither and thither,
adding to the general discomfort of everybody.
The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid
and erect, trying to hide her excitement beneath more becoming
sang-froid, she repeated mechanically,--
"I will not see her!--I will not see her!"
Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival
of very important guests grew apace.
"Good-day, Sir Percy!--Good-day to your ladyship!
Your servant, Sir Percy!"--was heard in one long, continued chorus,
with alternate more feeble tones of--"Remember the poor blind
man! of your charity, lady and gentleman!"
Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard
through all the din.
"Let the poor man be--and give him some supper
at my expense."
The voice was low and musical, with a slight
sing-song in it, and a faint soupcon of foreign intonation
in the pronunciation of the consonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused
instinctively, listening to it for a moment. Sally was holding
the candles by the opposite door, which led to the bedrooms upstairs,
and the Comtesse was in the act of beating a hasty retreat before
that enemy who owned such a sweet musical voice; Suzanne reluctantly
was preparing to follow her mother, while casting regretful glances
towards the door, where she hoped still to see her dearly-beloved,
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly
and blindly hoping to avert the catastrophe, which he felt was
in the air, and the same low, musical voice said, with a merry
laugh and mock consternation,--
"B-r-r-r-r! I am as wet as a herring! Dieu!
has anyone ever seen such a contemptible climate?"
"Suzanne, come with me at once--I wish it," said
the Comtesse, peremptorily.
"Oh! Mama!" pleaded Suzanne.
"My lady. . .er. . .h'm!. . .my lady!. . ." came
in feeble accents from Jellyband, who stood clumsily trying to
bar the way.
"Pardieu, my good man," said Lady Blakeney,
with some impatience, "what are you standing in my way for, dancing
about like a turkey with a sore foot? Let me get to the fire,
I am perished with the cold."
And the next moment Lady Blakeney, gently pushing
mine host on one side, had swept into the coffee-room.
There are many portraits and miniatures extant
of Marguerite St. Just--Lady Blakeney as she was then--but it
is doubtful if any of these really do her singular beauty justice.
Tall, above the average, with magnificent presence and regal figure,
it is small wonder that even the Comtesse paused for a moment
in involuntary admiration before turning her back on so fascinating
Marguerite Blakeney was then scarcely five-and-twenty,
and her beauty was at its most dazzling stage. The large hat,
with its undulating and waving plumes, threw a soft shadow across
the classic brow with the auerole of auburn hair--free at the
moment from any powder; the sweet, almost childlike mouth, the
straight chiselled nose, round chin, and delicate throat, all
seemed set off by the picturesque costume of the period. The rich
blue velvet robe moulded in its every line the graceful contour
of the figure, whilst one tiny hand held, with a dignity all its
own, the tall stick adorned with a large bunch of ribbons which
fashionable ladies of the period had taken to carrying recently.
With a quick glance all around the room, Marguerite
Blakeney had taken stock of every one there. She nodded pleasantly
to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, whilst extending a hand to Lord Antony.
"Hello! my Lord Tony, why--what are you
doing here in Dover?" she said merrily.
Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned
and faced the Comtesse and Suzanne. Her whole face lighted up
with additional brightness, as she stretched out both arms towards
the young girl.
"Why! if that isn't my little Suzanne over there.
Pardieu, little citizeness, how came you to be in England?
And Madame too?"
She went up effusive to them both, with not a
single touch of embarrassment in her manner or in her smile. Lord
Tony and Sir Andrew watched the little scene with eager apprehension.
English though they were, they had often been in France, and had
mixed sufficiently with the French to realise the unbending hauteur,
the bitter hatred with which the old noblesse of France
viewed all those who had helped to contribute to their downfall.
Armand St. Just, the brother of beautiful Lady Blakeney--though
known to hold moderate and conciliatory views--was an ardent republican;
his feud with the ancient family of St. Cyr--the rights and wrongs
of which no outsider ever knew--had culminated in the downfall,
the almost total extinction of the latter. In France, St. Just
and his party had triumphed, and here in England, face to face
with these three refugees driven from their country, flying for
their lives, bereft of all which centuries of luxury had given
them, there stood a fair scion of those same republican families
which had hurled down a throne, and uprooted an aristocracy whose
origin was lost in the dim and distant vista of bygone centuries.
She stood there before them, in all the unconscious
insolence of beauty, and stretched out her dainty hand to them,
as if she would, by that one act, bridge over the conflict and
bloodshed of the past decade.
"Suzanne, I forbid you to speak to that woman,"
said the Comtesse, sternly, as she placed a restraining hand upon
her daughter's arm.
She had spoken in English, so that all might
hear and understand; the two young English gentlemen was as well
as the common innkeeper and his daughter. The latter literally
gasped with horror at this foreign insolence, this impudence before
her ladyship--who was English, now that she was Sir Percy's wife,
and a friend of the Princess of Wales to boot.
As for Lord Antony and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, their
very hearts seemed to stand still with horror at this gratuitous
insult. One of them uttered an exclamation of appeal, the other
one of warning, and instinctively both glanced hurriedly towards
the door, whence a slow, drawly, not unpleasant voice had already
Alone among those present Marguerite Blakeney
and these Comtesse de Tournay had remained seemingly unmoved.
The latter, rigid, erect and defiant, with one hand still upon
her daughter's arm, seemed the very personification of unbending
pride. For the moment Marguerite's sweet face had become as white
as the soft fichu which swathed her throat, and a very keen observer
might have noted that the hand which held the tall, beribboned
stick was clenched, and trembled somewhat.
But this was only momentary; the next instant
the delicate eyebrows were raised slightly, the lips curved sarcastically
upwards, the clear blue eyes looked straight at the rigid Comtesse,
and with a slight shrug of the shoulders--
"Hoity-toity, citizeness," she said gaily, "what
fly stings you, pray?"
"We are in England now, Madame," rejoined the
Comtesse, coldly, "and I am at liberty to forbid my daughter to
touch your hand in friendship. Come, Suzanne."
She beckoned to her daughter, and without another
look at Marguerite Blakeney, but with a deep, old-fashioned curtsey
to the two young men, she sailed majestically out of the room.
There was silence in the old inn parlour for
a moment, as the rustle of the Comtesse's skirts died away down
the passage. Marguerite, rigid as a statue followed with hard,
set eyes the upright figure, as it disappeared through the doorway--but
as little Suzanne, humble and obedient, was about to follow her
mother, the hard, set expression suddenly vanished, and a wistful,
almost pathetic and childlike look stole into Lady Blakeney's
Little Suzanne caught that look; the child's
sweet nature went out to the beautiful woman, scarcely older than
herself; filial obedience vanished before girlish sympathy; at
the door she turned, ran back to Marguerite, and putting her arms
round her, kissed her effusively; then only did she follow her
mother, Sally bringing up the rear, with a final curtsey to my
Suzanne's sweet and dainty impulse had relieved
the unpleasant tension. Sir Andrew's eyes followed the pretty
little figure, until it had quite disappeared, then they met Lady
Blakeney's with unassumed merriment.
Marguerite, with dainty affection, had kissed
her hand to the ladies, as they disappeared through the door,
then a humorous smile began hovering round the corners of her
"So that's it, is it?" she said gaily. "La! Sir
Andrew, did you ever see such an unpleasant person? I hope when
I grow old I sha'n't look like that."
She gathered up her skirts and assuming a majestic
gait, stalked towards the fireplace.
"Suzanne," she said, mimicking the Comtesse's
voice, "I forbid you to speak to that woman!"
The laugh which accompanied this sally sounded
perhaps a trifled forced and hard, but neither Sir Andrew nor
Lord Tony were very keen observers. The mimicry was so perfect,
the tone of the voice so accurately reproduced, that both the
young men joined in a hearty cheerful "Bravo!"
"Ah! Lady Blakeney!" added Lord Tony, "how they
must miss you at the Comedie Francaise, and how the Parisians
must hate Sir Percy for having taken you away."
"Lud, man," rejoined Marguerite, with a shrug
of her graceful shoulders, "`tis impossible to hate Sir Percy
for anything; his witty sallies would disarm even Madame la Comtesse
The young Vicomte, who had not elected to follow
his mother in her dignified exit, now made a step forward, ready
to champion the Comtesse should Lady Blakeney aim any further
shafts at her. But before he could utter a preliminary word of
protest, a pleasant though distinctly inane laugh, was heard from
outside, and the next moment an unusually tall and very richly
dressed figure appeared in the doorway.
to Chapter 6 - AN EXQUISITE OF '92
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