The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close;
and a long, chilly English summer's evening was throwing a misty
pall over the green Kentish landscape.
The Day Dream had set sail, and Marguerite
Blakeney stood alone on the edge of the cliff over an hour, watching
those white sails, which bore so swiftly away from her the only
being who really cared for her, whom she dared to love, whom she
knew she could trust.
Some little distance away to her left the lights
from the coffee-room of "The Fisherman's Rest" glittered yellow
in the gathering mist; from time to time it seemed to her aching
nerves as if she could catch from thence the sound of merry-making
and of jovial talk, or even that perpetual, senseless laugh of
her husband's, which grated continually upon her sensitive ears.
Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely
alone. She supposed that, in his own stupid, good-natured way,
he may have understood that she would wish to remain alone, while
those white sails disappeared into the vague horizon, so many
miles away. He, whose notions of propriety and decorum were supersensitive,
had not suggested even that an attendant should remain within
call. Marguerite was grateful to her husband for all this; she
always tried to be grateful to him for his thoughtfulness, which
was constant, and for his generosity, which really was boundless.
She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter thoughts
of him, which made her--in spite of herself--say cruel, insulting
things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him.
Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him
feel that she too held him in contempt, that she too had forgotten
that she had almost loved him. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts
seemed unable to soar beyond the tying of a cravat or the new
cut of a coat. Bah! And yet!. . .vague memories, that were sweet
and ardent and attuned to this calm summer's evening, came wafted
back to her memory, on the invisible wings of the light sea-breeze:
the tie when first he worshipped her; he seemed so devoted--a
very slave--and there was a certain latent intensity in that love
which had fascinated her.
Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which
throughout his courtship she had looked upon as the slavish fidelity
of a dog, seemed to vanish completely. Twenty-four hours after
the simple little ceremony at old St. Roch, she had told him the
story of how, inadvertently, she had spoken of certain matters
connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr before some men--her friends--who
had used this information against the unfortunate Marquis, and
sent him and his family to the guillotine.
She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her
dear brother, loved Angele de St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian,
and the Marquis full of the pride and arrogant prejudices of his
caste. One day Armand, the respectful, timid lover, ventured on
sending a small poem--enthusiastic, ardent, passionate--to the
idol of his dreams. The next night he was waylaid just outside
Paris by the valets of Marquis de St. Cyr, and ignominiously thrashed--thrashed
like a dog within an inch of his life--because he had dared to
raise his eyes to the daughter of the aristocrat. The incident
was one which, in those days, some two years before the great
Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France; incidents
of that type, in fact, led to bloody reprisals, which a few years
later sent most of those haughty heads to the guillotine.
Marguerite remembered it all: what her brother
must have suffered in his manhood and his pride must have been
appalling; what she suffered through him and with him she never
attempted even to analyse.
Then the day of retribution came. St. Cyr and
his kin had found their masters, in those same plebeians whom
they had despised. Armand and Marguerite, both intellectual, thinking
beings, adopted with the enthusiasm of their years the Utopian
doctrines of the Revolution, while the Marquis de St. Cyr and
his family fought inch by inch for the retention of those privileges
which had placed them socially above their fellow-men. Marguerite,
impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the purport of her words,
still smarting under the terrible insult her brother had suffered
at the Marquis' hands, happened to hear--amongst her own coterie--that
the St. Cyrs were in treasonable correspondence with Austria,
hoping to obtain the Emperor's support to quell the growing revolution
in their own country.
In those days one denunciation was sufficient:
Marguerite's few thoughtless words anent the Marquis de St. Cyr
bore fruit within twenty-four hours. He was arrested. His papers
were searched: letters from the Austrian Emperor, promising to
send troops against the Paris populace, were found in his desk.
He was arraigned for treason against the nation, and sent to the
guillotine, whilst his family, his wife and his sons, shared in
this awful fate.
Marguerite, horrified at the terrible consequences
of her own thoughtlessness, was powerless to save the Marquis:
his own coterie, the leaders of the revolutionary movement, all
proclaimed her as a heroine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney,
she did not perhaps altogether realise how severely he would look
upon the sin, which she had so inadvertently committed, and which
still lay heavily upon her soul. She made full confession of it
to her husband, trusting his blind love for her, her boundless
power over him, to soon make him forget what might have sounded
unpleasant to an English ear.
Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it
very quietly; hardly, in fact, did he appear to understand the
meaning of all she said; but what was more certain still, was
that never after that could she detect the slightest sign of that
love, which she once believed had been wholly hers. Now they had
drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy seemed to have laid aside his
love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse
him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; endeavouring
to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love; tried
to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He remained the
same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous, invariably
a gentleman: she had all that the world and a wealthy husband
can give to a pretty woman, yet on this beautiful summer's evening,
with the white sails of the Day Dream finally hidden by
the evening shadows, she felt more lonely than that poor tramp
who plodded his way wearily along the rugged cliffs.
With another heavy sigh, Marguerite Blakeney
turned her back upon the sea and cliffs, and walked slowly back
towards "The Fisherman's Rest." As she drew near, the sound of
revelry, of gay, jovial laughter, grew louder and more distinct.
She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pleasant voice, Lord
Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's occasional, drawly, sleepy
comments; then realising the loneliness of the road and the fast
gathering gloom round her, she quickened her steps. . .the next
moment she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards her. Marguerite
did not look up: she was not the least nervous, and "The Fisherman's
Rest" was now well within call.
The stranger paused when he saw Marguerite coming
quickly towards him, and just as she was about to slip past him,
he said very quietly:
"Citoyenne St. Just."
Marguerite uttered a little cry of astonishment,
at thus hearing her own familiar maiden name uttered so close
to her. She looked up at the stranger, and this time, with a cry
of unfeigned pleasure, she put out both her hands effusively towards
"Chauvelin!" she exclaimed.
"Himself, citoyenne, at your service," said the
stranger, gallantly kissing the tips of her fingers.
Marguerite said nothing for a moment or two,
as she surveyed with obvious delight the not very prepossessing
little figure before her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty than
thirty--a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a curious fox-like
expression in the deep, sunken eyes. He was the same stranger
who an hour or two previously had joined Mr. Jellyband in a friendly
glass of wine.
"Chauvelin. . .my friend. . ." said Marguerite,
with a pretty little sigh of satisfaction. "I am mightily pleased
to see you."
No doubt poor Marguerite St. Just, lonely in
the midst of her grandeur, and of her starchy friends, was happy
to see a face that brought back memories of that happy time in
Paris, when she reigned--a queen--over the intellectual coterie
of the Rue de Richelieu. She did not notice the sarcastic little
smile, however, that hovered round the thin lips of Chauvelin.
"But tell me," she added merrily, "what in the
world, or whom in the world, are you doing here in England?"
"I might return the subtle compliment, fair lady,"
he said. "What of yourself?"
"Oh, I?" she said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Je m'ennuie, mon ami, that is all."
They had reached the porch of "The Fisherman's
Rest," but Marguerite seemed loth to go within. The evening air
was lovely after the storm, and she had found a friend who exhaled
the breath of Paris, who knew Armand well, who could talk of all
the merry, brilliant friends whom she had left behind. So she
lingered on under the pretty porch, while through the gaily-lighted
dormer-window of the coffee-room sounds of laughter, of calls
for "Sally" and for beer, of tapping of mugs, and clinking of
dice, mingled with Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and mirthless laugh.
Chauvelin stood beside her, his shrewd, pale, yellow eyes fixed
on the pretty face, which looked so sweet and childlike in this
soft English summer twilight.
"You surprise me, citoyenne," he said quietly,
as he took a pinch of snuff.
"Do I now?" she retorted gaily. "Faith, my little
Chauvelin, I should have thought that, with your penetration,
you would have guessed that an atmosphere composed of fogs and
virtues would never suit Marguerite St. Just."
"Dear me! is it as bad as that?" he asked, in
"Quite," she retorted, "and worse."
"Strange! Now, I thought that a pretty woman
would have found English country life peculiarly attractive."
"Yes! so did I," she said with a sigh, "Pretty
women," she added meditatively, "ought to have a good time in
England, since all the pleasant things are forbidden them--the
very things they do every day."
"You'll hardly believe it, my little Chauvelin,"
she said earnestly, "but I often pass a whole day--a whole day--without
encountering a single temptation."
"No wonder," retorted Chauvelin, gallantly, "that
the cleverest woman in Europe is troubled with ennui."
She laughed one of her melodious, rippling, childlike
"It must be pretty bad, mustn't it?" she asked
archly, "or I should not have been so pleased to see you."
"And this within a year of a romantic love match.
. .that's just the difficulty. . ."
"Ah!. . .that idyllic folly," said Chauvelin,
with quiet sarcasm, "did not then survive the lapse of. . .weeks?"
"Idyllic follies never last, my little Chauvelin.
. .They come upon us like the measles. . .and are as easily cured."
Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff: he seemed
very much addicted to that pernicious habit, so prevalent in those
days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient
veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with which he strove
to read the very souls of those with whom he came in contact.
"No wonder," he repeated, with the same gallantry,
"that the most active brain in Europe is troubled with ennui."
"I was in hopes that you had a prescription against
the malady, my little Chauvelin."
"How can I hope to succeed in that which Sir
Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish?"
"Shall we leave Sir Percy out of the question
for the present, my dear friend? she said drily.
"Ah! my dear lady, pardon me, but that is just
what we cannot very well do," said Chauvelin, whilst once again
his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted a quick
glance at Marguerite. "I have a most perfect prescription against
the worst form of ennui, which I would have been happy
to submit to you, but--"
"There is Sir Percy."
"What has he to do with it?"
"Quite a good deal, I am afraid. The prescription
I would offer, fair lady, is called by a very plebeian name: Work!"
Chauvelin looked at Marguerite long and scrutinisingly.
It seemed as if those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every
one of her thoughts. They were alone together; the evening air
was quite still, and their soft whispers were drowned in the noise
which came from the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took as step
or two from under the porch, looked quickly and keenly all round
him, then seeing that indeed no one was within earshot, he once
more came back close to Marguerite.
"Will you render France a small service, citoyenne?"
he asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent his thin,
fox-like face a singular earnestness.
"La, man!" she replied flippantly, "how serious
you look all of a sudden. . . . Indeed I do not know if I would
render France a small service--at any rate, it depends upon the
kind of service she--or you--want."
"Have you ever heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
Citoyenne St. Just?" asked Chauvelin, abruptly.
"Heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?" she retorted
with a long and merry laugh, "Faith man! we talk of nothing else.
. . . We have hats 'a la Scarlet Pimpernel'; our horses are called
`Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the Prince of Wales' supper party the
other night we had a `souffle a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'. . .Lud!"
she added gaily, "the other day I ordered at my milliner's a blue
dress trimmed with green, and bless me, if she did not call that
`a la Scarlet Pimpernel.'"
Chauvelin had not moved while she prattled merrily
along; he did not even attempt to stop her when her musical voice
and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening
air. But he remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and
his voice, clear, incisive, and hard, was not raised above his
breath as he said,--
"Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical
personage, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and know, that
the man who hides his identity under that strange pseudonym, is
the most bitter enemy of our republic, of France. . .of men like
Armand St. Just." "La!.." she said, with a quaint little sigh,
"I dare swear he is. . . . France has many bitter enemies these
"But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France,
and should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril."
"My brother Armand devotes his life to France,"
she retorted proudly; "as for me, I can do nothing. . .here in
England. . . ."
"Yes, you. . ." he urged still more earnestly,
whilst his thin fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive
and full of dignity, "here, in England, citoyenne. . .you alone
can help us. . . . Listen!--I have been sent over here by the
Republican Government as its representative: I present my credentials
to Mr. Pitt in London to-morrow. One of my duties here is to find
out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has
become a standing menace to France, since it is pledged to help
our cursed aristocrats--traitors to their country, and enemies
of the people--to escape from the just punishment which they deserve.
You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they are over here,
those French emigres try to rouse public feeling against
the Republic. . .They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold
enough to attack France. . .Now, within the last month scores
of these emigres, some only suspected of treason, others
actually condemned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded
in crossing the Channel. Their escape in each instance was planned,
organized and effected by this society of young English jackanapes,
headed by a man whose brain seems as resourceful as his identity
is mysterious. All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my
spies have failed to discover who he is; whilst the others are
the hands, he is the head, who beneath this strange anonymity
calmly works at the destruction of France. I mean to strike at
that head, and for this I want your help--through him afterwards
I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck in English
society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne!"
he urged, "find him for France."
Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned
speech without uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly
daring to breathe. She had told him before that this mysterious
hero of romance was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged;
already, before this, her heart and her imagination had stirred
by the thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued
hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an unmerciful fate. She
had but little real sympathy with those haughty French aristocrats,
insolent in their pride of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay
de Basserive was so typical an example; but republican and liberal-minded
though she was from principle, she hated and loathed the methods
which the young Republic had chosen for establishing itself. She
had not been in Paris for some months; the horrors and bloodshed
of the Reign of Terror, culminating in the September massacres,
had only come across the Channel to her as a faint echo. Robespierre,
Danton, Marat, she had not known in their new guise of bloody
judiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine. Her very soul
recoiled in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her
brother Armand--moderate republican as he was--might become one
day the holocaust.
Then, when first she heard of this band of young
English enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellowmen, dragged
women and children, old and young men, from a horrible death,
her heart had glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin
spoke, her very soul went out to the gallant and mysterious leader
of the reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who gave
it freely and without ostentation, for the sake of humanity.
Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished
speaking, the lace at her bosom rose and fell with her quick,
excited breathing; she no longer heard the noise of drinking from
the inn, she did not heed her husband's voice or his inane laugh,
her thoughts had gone wandering in search of the mysterious hero!
Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had he come her way:
everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination; his personality,
his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of those who served under
him in that same noble cause, and, above all, that anonymity which
crowned him, as if with a halo of romantic glory.
"Find him for France, citoyenne!"
Chauvelin's voice close to her ear roused her
from her dreams. The mysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty
yards away from her, a man was drinking and laughing, to whom
she had sworn faith and loyalty.
"La! man," she said with a return of her assumed
flippancy, "you are astonishing. Where in the world am I to look
"You go everywhere, citoyenne," whispered Chauvelin,
insinuatingly, "Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so
I am told. . .you see everything, you hear everything."
"Easy, my friend," retorted Marguerite, drawing,
herself up to her full height and looking down, with a slight
thought of contempt on the small, thin figure before her. "Easy!
you seem to forget that there are six feet of Sir Percy Blakeney,
and a long line of ancestors to stand between Lady Blakeney and
such a thing as you propose."
"For the sake of France, citoyenne!" reiterated
"Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway; for even
if you did know who this Scarlet Pimpernel is, you could do nothing
to him--an Englishman!"
"I'd take my chance of that," said Chauvelin,
with a dry, rasping little laugh. "At any rate we could send him
to the guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when there is
a diplomatic fuss about it, we can apologise--humbly--to the British
Government, and, if necessary, pay compensation to the bereaved
"What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin," she
said, drawing away from him as from some noisome insect. "Whoever
the man may be, he is brave and noble, and never--do you hear
me?--never would I lend a hand to such villiany."
"You prefer to be insulted by every French aristocrat
who comes to this country?"
Chauvelin had taken sure aim when he shot this
tiny shaft. Marguerite's fresh young cheeks became a thought more
pale and she bit her under lip, for she would not let him see
that the shaft had struck home.
"That is beside the question," she said at last
with indifference. "I can defend myself, but I refuse to do any
dirty work for you--or for France. You have other means at your
disposal; you must use them, my friend."
And without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite
Blakeney turned her back on him and walked straight into the inn.
"That is not your last word, citoyenne," said
Chauvelin, as a flood of light from the passage illumined her
elegant, richly-clad figure, "we meet in London, I hope!"
"We meet in London," she said, speaking over
her shoulder at him, "but that is my last word."
She threw open the coffee-room door and disappeared
from his view, but he remained under the porch for a moment or
two, taking a pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub,
but his shrewd, fox-like face looked neither abashed nor disappointed;
on the contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied,
played around the corners of his thin lips.
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