The Scarlet Pimpernel (5 page)

The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and emotion
had overmastered her rigid, aristocratic bearing. She was crying gently
to herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her
tears.

Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the Comtesse
whilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply for
her; their very silence testified to that—but in every century, and
ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt
somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And so
the two young men said nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide
their feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.

"As for me, Monsieur," said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked through a
wealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, "I trust you absolutely, and
I KNOW that you will bring my dear father safely to England, just as you
brought us to-day."

This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief,
that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes, and to bring a
smile upon everybody's lips.

"Nay! You shame me, Mademoiselle," replied Sir Andrew; "though my life
is at your service, I have been but a humble tool in the hands of our
great leader, who organised and effected your escape."

He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne's eyes
fastened upon him in undisguised wonder.

"Your leader, Monsieur?" said the Comtesse, eagerly. "Ah! of course,
you must have a leader. And I did not think of that before! But tell me
where is he? I must go to him at once, and I and my children must throw
ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he has done for us."

"Alas, Madame!" said Lord Antony, "that is impossible."

"Impossible?—Why?"

"Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark, and his identity is
only known under the solemn oath of secrecy to his immediate followers."

"The Scarlet Pimpernel?" said Suzanne, with a merry laugh. "Why! what a
droll name! What is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?"

She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young man's face
had become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm;
hero-worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed literally to glow
upon his face. "The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle," he said at last
"is the name of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also the
name chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the
world, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he
has set himself to do."

"Ah, yes," here interposed the young Vicomte, "I have heard speak of
this Scarlet Pimpernel. A little flower—red?—yes! They say in
Paris that every time a royalist escapes to England that devil,
Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with that
little flower designated in red upon it. . . . Yes?"

"Yes, that is so," assented Lord Antony.

"Then he will have received one such paper to-day?"

"Undoubtedly."

"Oh! I wonder what he will say!" said Suzanne, merrily. "I have heard
that the picture of that little red flower is the only thing that
frightens him."

"Faith, then," said Sir Andrew, "he will have many more opportunities of
studying the shape of that small scarlet flower."

"Ah, monsieur," sighed the Comtesse, "it all sounds like a romance, and
I cannot understand it all."

"Why should you try, Madame?"

"But, tell me, why should your leader—why should you all—spend your
money and risk your lives—for it is your lives you risk, Messieurs,
when you set foot in France—and all for us French men and women, who
are nothing to you?"

"Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport," asserted Lord Antony, with his
jovial, loud and pleasant voice; "we are a nation of sportsmen, you
know, and just now it is the fashion to pull the hare from between the
teeth of the hound."

"Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a more noble motive,
I am sure for the good work you do."

"Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . . . as for me, I
vow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet
encountered.—Hair-breath escapes . . . the devil's own risks!—Tally
ho!—and away we go!"

But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. To her it seemed
preposterous that these young men and their great leader, all of them
rich, probably wellborn, and young, should for no other motive than
sport, run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantly
doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in France, would be
no safeguard to them. Anyone found harbouring or assisting suspected
royalists would be ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed, whatever
his nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen had, to her
own knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the
Revolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched away
condemned victims, almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With a
shudder, she recalled the events of the last few days, her escape from
Paris with her two children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood
of a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not
daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled, "A la lanterne les aristos!"
at the awful West Barricade.

It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband had
understood that they had been placed on the list of "suspected persons,"
which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days—of
hours, perhaps.

Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed with
the enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; the
parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife's heart
in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the
covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible
evil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!

The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the
peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her
eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the
mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.

Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself
and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under
the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their
lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other
innocent people.

And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought those
of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that HE at any rate
rescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through a
higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.

"How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?" she asked timidly.

"Twenty all told, Mademoiselle," he replied, "one to command, and
nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same
cause—to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent."

"May God protect you all, Messieurs," said the Comtesse, fervently.

"He had done that so far, Madame."

"It is wonderful to me, wonderful!—That you should all be so brave, so
devoted to your fellowmen—yet you are English!—and in France treachery
is rife—all in the name of liberty and fraternity."

"The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us aristocrats
than the men," said the Vicomte, with a sigh.

"Ah, yes," added the Comtesse, while a look of haughty disdain and
intense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes, "There was that
woman, Marguerite St. Just for instance. She denounced the Marquis de
St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror."

"Marguerite St. Just?" said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and
apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.

"Marguerite St. Just?—Surely . . ."

"Yes!" replied the Comtesse, "surely you know her. She was a leading
actress of the Comedie Francaise, and she married an Englishman lately.
You must know her—"

"Know her?" said Lord Antony. "Know Lady Blakeney—the most fashionable
woman in London—the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we
all know Lady Blakeney."

"She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris," interposed
Suzanne, "and we came over to England together to learn your language.
I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did
anything so wicked."

"It certainly seems incredible," said Sir Andrew. "You say that she
actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done such
a thing? Surely there must be some mistake—"

"No mistake is possible, Monsieur," rejoined the Comtesse, coldly.
"Marguerite St. Just's brother is a noted republican. There was some
talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr.
The St. Justs' are quite plebeian, and the republican government employs
many spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not heard
this story?"

"Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no
one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very
wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince
of Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in
London."

"That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet
life in England, but I pray god that while I remain in this beautiful
country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just."

The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little
company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir
Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased
in the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid and
unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked
extremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively
towards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.

"At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?" he contrived
to whisper unobserved, to mine host.

"Any moment, my lord," whispered Jellyband in reply.

Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach;
louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable,
then the rattle of horses' hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the
next moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and rushed
in excitedly.

"Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady," he shouted at the top of his voice,
"they're just arriving."

And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs upon the
stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had halted
outside the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest."

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, erstwhile school-fellow.

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 an apparition.