The Scarlet Pimpernel

THE LEAGUE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL

They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round the
table; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typical
good-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace
1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, who
had just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at
last on the shores of protecting England.

In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game; one
of them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at the
table, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple caped coat.
As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was
busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the words “All safe!”: his
companion then, with the alertness borne of long practice, slipped on
to his knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the
oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud “Good-night,” quietly walked
out of the coffee-room.

Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and
silent manœuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the
coffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.

“Alone, at last!” said Lord Antony, jovially.

Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with the
graceful affectation peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft, and
said in broken English,—

“To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for his
hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France.”

“His Majesty the King!” echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank
loyally to the toast.

“To His Majesty King Louis of France,” added Sir Andrew, with
solemnity. “May God protect him, and give him victory over his
enemies.”

Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of the
unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed
to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband’s pleasant countenance.

“And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Antony,
merrily. “May we welcome him in England before many days are over.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand
she conveyed her glass to her lips, “I scarcely dare to hope.”

But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next few
moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally handed round
the plates and everyone began to eat.

“Faith, Madame!” said Lord Antony, after a while, “mine was no idle
toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the Vicomte
safely in England now, surely you must feel reassured as to the fate of
Monsieur le Comte.”

“Ah, Monsieur,” replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, “I trust in
God—I can but pray—and hope . . .”

“Aye, Madame!” here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, “trust in God by
all means, but believe also a little in your English friends, who have
sworn to bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as they have
brought you to-day.”

“Indeed, indeed, Monsieur,” she replied, “I have the fullest confidence
in you and in your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread
throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends have
escaped from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was
nothing short of a miracle—and all done by you and your friends—”

“We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . .”

“But my husband, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, whilst unshed tears
seemed to veil her voice, “he is in such deadly peril—I would never
have left him, only . . . there were my children . . . I was torn
between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without me . .
. and you and your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would
be safe. But, oh! now that I am here—amongst you all—in this beautiful,
free England—I think of him, flying for his life, hunted like a poor
beast . . . in such peril. . . . Ah! I should not have left him . . . I
should not have left him! . . .”

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 a 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 dessinated 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-breadth 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 well-born, 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 “À
la lanterne les aristos!” at that 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 fellow-men 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 has done that so far, Madame.”

“It is wonderful to me, wonderful!—That you should all be so brave, so
devoted to your fellow-men—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, whilst 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 Comédie Française, 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.”