The Scarlet Pimpernel

N THE OPERA BOX

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 the pit, as
well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Glück’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 Germany.”

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 émigrés
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, scanned every face,
scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was not
there, for she settled herself down 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 à propos. Here
is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest
news from France.”

The distinguished diplomatist 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 me again.”

“Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, that
they surely will accomplish. Ah!” added the old diplomatist 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 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 the 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 homely 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 all through this entr’acte,
with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes
intently fixed upon a box opposite to 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 cross-over 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
heyday of youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, fêted,
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 Glück’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 dorée of London, and had just dismissed them
all, wishing to be alone with Glück for a brief while.

A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.

“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 Glück, 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 she vouchsafed him no reply, “Lady
Blakeney is always so surrounded, so fêted by her court, that a mere
old friend has but very little chance.”

“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 would 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 peril.
“Is that a threat, citoyen?” she asked at last.

“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 figure.

“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 to
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 farò” 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 us 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 organised by that arch-meddler,
the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious
organisation have fallen 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 gaily—

“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 passes 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.”

“Well? And?”

“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 done before.

“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 your imagination!”

“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 echo.

“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 that so?”

“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 a 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 . . .”

“Yes.”

“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 on 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 assistance 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 redeem it.”

“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 the 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 help.

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 soul-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 towards 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, anon.”

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.