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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+3" FACE="Apple Chancery"><IMG SRC="../images/top.gif"
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The Elusive Pimpernel</FONT><FONT SIZE="+2" FACE="Apple Chancery"><BR>
Baroness Orczy<BR>
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<P><CENTER><A HREF="echp1.html"><B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery">Chapter
I - Paris: 1793</FONT></B></A><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp2.html">Chapter
II - A Retrospect</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp3.html">Chapter
III - Ex-ambassador Chauvelin</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp4.html">Chapter
IV - The Richmond Gala</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp5.html">Chapter
V - Sir Percy and his Lady</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp6.html">Chapter
VI - For the Poor of Paris</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp7.html">Chapter
VII - Premonition</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp8.html">Chapter
VIII - The Invitation</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp9.html">Chapter
IX - Demoiselle Candeille</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp10.html">Chapter
X - Lady Blakeney's Rout</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp11.html">Chapter
XI - The Challenge</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp12.html">Chapter
XII - Time&shy;Place&shy;Conditions</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp13.html">Chapter
XIII - Reflections</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp14.html">Chapter
XIV - The Ruling Passion</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp15.html">Chapter
XV - Farewell</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp16.html">Chapter
XVI - The Passport</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp17.html">Chapter
XVII - Boulogne</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp18.html">Chapter
XVIII - No. 6</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp19.html">Chapter
XIX - The Strength of the Weak</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp20.html">Chapter
XX - Triumph</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp21.html">Chapter
XXI - Suspense</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp22.html">Chapter
XXII - Not Death</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp23.html">Chapter
XXIII - The Hostage</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp24.html">Chapter
XXIV - Colleagues</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp25.html">Chapter
XXV - The Unexpected</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp26.html">Chapter
XXVI - The Terms of the Bargain</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp27.html">Chapter
XXVII - The Decision</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp28.html">Chapter
XXVIII - The Midnight Watch</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp29.html">Chapter
XXIX - The National F&ecirc;te</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp30.html">Chapter
XXX - The Procession</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp31.html">Chapter
XXXI - Final Dispositions</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp32.html">Chapter
XXXII - The Letter</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp33.html">Chapter
XXXIII - The English Spy</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp34.html">Chapter
XXXIV - The Angelus</A></FONT></B><BR>
<B><FONT SIZE="+1" FACE="Apple Chancery"><A HREF="echp35.html">Chapter
XXXV - Marguerite</A></FONT></B></CENTER></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter I<BR>
Paris: 1793</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">There was not even a reaction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On! Ever on! In that wild, surging torrent; sowing the wind of
anarchy, of terrorism, of lust of blood and hate, and reaping
a hurricane of destruction and of horror.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On! Ever on! France, with Paris and all her children still rushes
blindly, madly on; defies the powerful coalition, Austria, England,
Spain, Prussia, all joined together to stem the flow of carnage,
defies the Universe and defies God!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Paris this September, 1793! - or shall we call it Vend&eacute;miaire,
Year I of the Republic? Call it what we will! Paris! A city of
bloodshed, of humanity in its lowest, most degraded, aspect, France
herself a gigantic self-devouring monster, her fairest cities
destroyed, Lyons razed to the ground, Toulon, Marseilles, masses
of blackened ruins, her bravest sons turned to lustful brutes
or to abject cowards seeking safety at the cost of any humiliation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That is thy reward, O mighty, holy Revolution! Apotheosis of equality
and fraternity! Grand rival of decadent Christianity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Five weeks now since Marat, the bloodthirsty Friend of the People,
succumbed beneath the sheath-knife of a virgin patriot; a month
since his murderers walked proudly, even enthusiastically, to
the guillotine! There has been no reaction - only a great sigh!
... Not of content or satisfied lust, but a sigh such as the man-eating
tiger might heave after his first taste of long-coveted blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A sigh for more!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A king on the scaffold; a queen, degraded and abased, awaiting
death, which lingers on the threshold of her infamous prison;
eight hundred scions of ancient houses that have made the history
of France; brave generals, Custine, Blanchelande, Houchard, Beauharnais;
worthy patriots, noble-hearted women, misguided enthusiasts, all
by the score and by the hundred, up the few wooden steps which
lead to the guillotine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
An achievement, of a truth! And still that sigh for more! But
for the moment - a few seconds only - Paris looked around her
mighty self, and thought things over!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The man-eating tiger for the space of a sigh licked his powerful
jaws and pondered! Something new! - something wonderful!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
We have had a new Constitution, a new Justice, new Laws, a new
Almanac! What next?<BR>
Why, obviously! How comes it that great intellectual, aesthetic
Paris never thought of such a wonderful thing before? A new religion!!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Christianity is old and obsolete, priests are aristocrats, wealthy
oppressors of the people, the Church but another form of wanton
tyranny.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Let us by all means have a new religion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Already something has been done to destroy the old! To destroy!
Always to destroy! Churches have been ransacked, altars spoliated,
tombs desecrated, priests and curates murdered; but that is not
enough.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There must be a new religion; and to attain that there must be
a new God. &quot;Man is a born idol-worshipper.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Very well then! Let the People have a new religion and a new God.
Stay! - Not a God this time! For God means Majesty, Power, Kingship!
Everything in fact which the mighty hand of the people of France
has struggled and fought to destroy. Not a God, but a goddess.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A goddess! An idol! A toy! Since even the man-eating tiger must
play sometimes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Paris wanted a new religion, and a new toy, and grave men, ardent
patriots, mad enthusiasts, sat in the Assembly of the Convention
and seriously discussed the means of providing her with both these
things which she asked for.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chaumette I think it was who first solved the difficulty - Procureur
Chaumette, head of the Paris Municipality, he who had ordered
that the cart, which bore the dethroned queen to the squalid prison
of the Conciergerie, should be led slowly past her own late palace
of the Tuileries, and should be stopped there just long enough
for her to see and to feel, in one grand mental vision, all that
she had been when she dwelt there, and all that she now was by
the will of the People. Chaumette, as you see, was refined, artistic;
the torture of the fallen Queen's heart meant more to him than
a blow of the guillotine on her neck.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
No wonder, therefore, that it was Procureur Chaumette who first
discovered exactly what type of new religion Paris wanted just
now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Let us have a goddess of Reason,&quot; he said, &quot;typified
if you will by the most beautiful woman in Paris. Let us have
a feast of the Goddess of Reason, let there be a pyre of all the
gew-gaws which for centuries have been flaunted by over-bearing
priests before the eyes of starving multitudes, let the people
rejoice and dance around that funeral pile, and above it all let
the new goddess tower smiling and triumphant. The Goddess of Reason!
The only deity our new and regenerate France shall acknowledge
throughout the centuries which are to come!&quot; Loud applause
greeted the impassioned speech.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A new goddess, by all means!&quot; shouted the grave gentlemen
of the National Assembly, &quot;the Goddess of Reason!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They were all eager that the People should have this toy; something
to play with and to tease, round which to dance the mad carmagnole
and sing the ever recurring &quot;&Ccedil;a ira.&quot; Something
to distract the minds of the populace from the consequences of
its own deeds, and the helplessness of its legislators.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Procureur Chaumette enlarged upon its original idea, like a true
artist who sees the broad effect of a picture at a glance and
then fills in the minute details; he was already busy elaborating
his scheme.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The goddess must be beautiful ... not too young ... Reason
can only go hand in hand with the riper age of second youth ...
she must be decked out in classical draperies, severe yet suggestive
... she must be rouged and painted ... for she is a mere idol
... easy to be appeased with incense, music, and laughter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was getting deeply interested in his subject, seeking minutiae
of detail, with which to render his theme more and more attractive.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But patience was never the characteristic of the revolutionary
government of France. The National Assembly soon tired of Chaumette's
dithyrambic utterances. Up aloft on the Mountain, Danton was yawning
like a gigantic leopard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Soon Henriot was on his feet. He had a far finer scheme than that
of the Procureur to place before his colleagues. A grand nation
f&ecirc;te, semi-religious in character, but of the new religion
which destroyed and desecrated and never knelt in worship.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Citizen Chaumette's Goddess of Reason by all means - Henriot conceded
that the idea was a good one - but the goddess merely as a figure-head:
around her a procession of unfrocked and apostate priests, typifying
the destruction of ancient hierarchy, mules carrying loads of
sacred vessels, the spoils of ten thousand churches of France,
and ballet girls in bacchanalian robes, dancing the carmagnole
around the new deity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Public Prosecutor, Foucquier Tinville, thought all these schemes
very tame. Why should the people of France be led to think that
the era of a new religion would mean an era of milk and water,
or pageants and of fireworks? Let every man, woman and child know
that this was an era of blood, of blood and again of blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh!&quot; he exclaimed in passionate accents, &quot;would
that all the traitors in France had but one head, that it might
be cut off with one blow of the guillotine!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He approved of the National f&ecirc;te, but he desired an apotheosis
of the guillotine; he undertook to find ten thousand traitors
to be beheaded on one grand and glorious day: ten thousand heads
to adorn the Place de la Revolution on a great, never-to-be-forgotten
evening, after the guillotine had accomplished this record work.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Collot d'Herbois would also have his say. Collot lately hailed
from the South, with a reputation for ferocity unparalleled throughout
the whole of this horrible decade. He would not be outdone by
Tinville's bloodthirsty schemes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was the inventor of the &quot;Noyades,&quot; which had been
so successful at Lyons and Marseilles. &quot;Why not give the
inhabitants of Paris one of these exhilarating spectacles?&quot;
he asked with a coarse, brutal laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he explained his invention of which he was inordinately proud.
Some two or three hundred traitors, men, women and children, tied
securely together upon a barge in the middle of the river: the
barge with a hole in her bottom! Not too large! Only sufficient
to cause her to sink slowly, very slowly in sight of the crowd
of delighted spectators.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The cries of the women and children, and even of the men, as they
felt the waters rising and gradually enveloping them, as they
felt themselves powerless even for a fruitless struggle, had proved
most exhilarating, so Citizen Collot declared, to the hearts of
the true patriots of Lyons. </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus the discussion continued.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This was the era when every man had but one desire, that of outdoing
others in ferocity and brutality, and but one care, that of saving
his own head by threatening that of his neighbour. The great duel
between the Titanic leaders of these turbulent parties, the conflict
between hot-headed Danton on the one side and cold-blooded Robespierre
on the other, had only just begun, the great, all-devouring monsters
had dug their claws into one another, but the issue of the combat
was still at stake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Neither of these two giants had taken part in these deliberations
anent the new religion and the new goddess. Danton gave signs
now and then of the greatest impatience, and muttered something
about a new form of tyranny, a new kind of oppression.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On the left, Robespierre in immaculate sea-green coat and carefully
gauffered linen, was quiety polishing the nails of his right hand
against the palm of his left.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But nothing escaped him of what was going on. His ferocious egoism,
his unbounded ambition was even now calculating what advantages
to himself might accrue from this idea of the new religion and
of the National f&ecirc;te, what personal aggrandisment he could
derive therefrom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The matter outwardly seemed trivial enough, but already his keen
and calculating mind had seen various side issues which might
tend to place him - Robespierre - on a yet higher and more unassailable
pinnacle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Surrounded by those who hated him, those who envied and those
who feared him, he ruled over them all by the strength of his
own cold-blooded savagery, by the resistless power of his merciless
cruelty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He cared about nobody but himself, about nothing but his own exaltation:
every action of his career, since he gave up his small practice
in a quiet provincial town in order to throw himself into the
wild vortex of revolutionary politics, every word he ever uttered
had but one aim - Himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He saw his colleagues and comrades of the old Jacobin Clubs ruthlessly
destroyed around him: friends he had none, and all left him indifferent;
and now he had hundreds of enemies in every assembly and club
in Paris, and these, too, one by one were being swept up in that
wild whirlpool which they themselves had created.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Impassive, serene, always ready with a calm answer when passions
raged most hotly round him, Robespierre, the most amibitious,
most self-seeking demagogue of his time, had acquired the reputation
of being incorruptible and selfless, an enthusiastic servant of
the Republic.<BR>
</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sea-green Incorruptible!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And thus whilst others talked and argued, waxed hot over schemes
for processions and pageantry, or loudly denounced the whole matter
as the work of a traitor, he, of the sea-green coat, sat quietly
polishing his nails.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But he had already weighed all these discussions in the balance
of his mind, placed them in the crucible of his amibition, and
turned them into something that would benefit him and strengthen
his position.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Aye! The feast should be brilliant enough! Gay or horrible, mad
or fearful, but through it all the people of France must be made
to feel that there was a guiding hand which ruled the destinies
of all, a head which framed the new laws, which consolidated the
new religion and established its new goddess: the Goddess of Reason.
Robespierre, her prophet!<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter II<BR>
A Retrospect</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">The room was close and dark, filled with the
smoke from a defective chimney. A tiny boudoir, once the dainty
sanctum of imperious Marie Antoinette; a faint and ghostly odour,
like unto the perfume of spectres, seemed still to cling to the
stained walls, and to the torn Gobelin tapestries.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Everywhere lay the impress of a heavy and destroying hand: that
of the great and glorious Revolution.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the mud-soiled corners of the room a few chairs, with brocaded
cushions rudely torn, leant broken and desolate against the walls.
A small footstool, once gilt-legged and satin-covered, had been
overturned and roughly kicked to one side, and there it lay on
its back, like some little animal that had been hurt, stretching
its broken limbs upwards, pathetic to behold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
From the delicately wrought Buhl table the silver inlay had been
harshly stripped out of its bed of shell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Across the Lunette, painted by Boucher and representing a chaste
diana surrounded by a bevy of nymphs, an uncouth hand had scribbled
in charcoal the device of the Revolution: <I>Libert&eacute;, Egalit&eacute;,
Fraternit&eacute; ou la Mort; </I>whilst, as if to give a crowning
point to the work of destruction and to emphasise its motto, someone
had decorated the portrait of Marie Antoinette with a scarlet
cap, and drawn a red and ominous line across her neck.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And at the table two men were sitting in close and eager conclave.
Between them a solitary tallow candle, unsnuffed and weirdly flickering,
threw fantastic shadows upon the walls, and illumined with fitful
and uncertain light the faces of the two men.<BR>
</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How different were these in character!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One, high cheek-boned, with coarse, sensuous lips, and hair elaborately
and carefully powdered, the other pale and thin-lipped, with the
keen eyes of a ferret and a high, intellectual forehead, from
which the sleek brown hair was smoothly brushed away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The first of these men was Robespierre, the ruthless and incorruptible
demagogue, the other was Citizen Chauvelin, ex-ambassador of the
Revolutionary Government at the English Court.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The hour was late, and the noise from the great, seething city
preparing for sleep came to this remote little apartment in the
now deserted Palace of the Tuileries merely as a faint and distant
echo.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was two days after the Fructidor Riots. Paul D&eacute;roulede
and the woman, Juliette Marny, both condemned to death, had been
literally spirited away out of the cart which was conveying them
from the Hall of Justice to the Luxembourg Prison, and news had
just been received by the Committee of Public Safety that at Lyons
the Abb&eacute; de Mesnil, with the ci-devant Chevalier d'Egremont
and the latter's wife and family, had effected a miraculous and
wholly incomprehensible escape from the northern prison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But this was not all. When Arras fell into the hands of the Revolutionary
army, and a regular cordon was formed round the town so that not
a single Royalist traitor might escape, some three-score women
and children, twelve priests, the old aristocrats Chermeuil, Delleville
and Galipaux, and many others, managed to pass the barriers and
were never recaptured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Raids were made in the suspected houses: in Paris chiefly, where
the escaped prisoners might have found refuge &shy; or, better
still, where their helpers and rescuers might still be lurking.
Foucquier Tinville, Public Prosecutor, led and conducted these
raids, assisted by that bloodthirsty vampire, Merlin. They heard
of a house in the Rue de l'Ancienne Com&eacute;die, where an Englishman
was said to have lodged for two days.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They demanded admittance, and were taken to the rooms where the
Englishman had stayed. These were bare and squalid, like hundreds
of other rooms in the poorer quarters of Paris. The landlady,
toothless and grimy, had not yet tidied up the one where the Englishman
had slept; in fact, she did not know he had left for good.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He had paid for his room a week in advance, and came and went
as he liked, she explained to Citizen Tinville. She never bothered
about him, as he never took a meal in the house, and he was only
there two days. She did not know her lodger was English until
the day he left. She thought he was a Frenchman from the South,
as he certainly had a peculiar accent when he spoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It was the day of the riots,&quot; she continued; &quot;he
would go out, and I told him I did not think that the streets
would be safe for a foreigner like him: for he always wore such
very fine clothes, and I made sure that the starving men and women
of Paris would strip them off his back when their tempers were
roused. But he only laughed. He gave me a bit of paper and told
me that if he did not return I might conclude that he had been
killed, and if the Committee of Public Safety asked me questions
about him, I was just to show the bit of paper and there would
be no further trouble.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had talked volubly, more than a little terrified at Merlin's
scowls, and the attitude of Citizen Tinville, who was known to
be very severe if anyone committed any blunders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But the Citizeness &shy;her name was Brogard, and her husband's
brother kept an inn in the neighbourhood of Calais &shy; the Citizeness
Brogard had a clear conscience. She held a licence from the Committee
of Public Safety for letting apartments, and she had always given
due notice to the Committee of the arrival and departure of her
lodgers. The only thing was that if any lodger paid her more than
ordinarily well for the accommodation, and he so desired it, she
would send in the notice conveniently late, and conveniently vaguely
worded as to the description, status, and nationality of her more
liberal patrons.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This had occurred in the case of her recent English visitor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But she did not explain it quite like that to Citizen Foucquier
Tinville or to Citizen Merlin. However, she was rather frightened,
and produced the scrap of paper which the Englishman had left
with her, together with the assurance that when she showed it
there would be no further trouble.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Tinville took it roughly out of her hand, but would not glance
at it. He crushed it into a ball and then Merlin snatched it from
him with a coarse laugh, smoothed out the creases on his knee,
and studied it for a moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There were four lines of what looked like poetry, written in a
language which Merlin did not understand. English, no doubt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But what was perfectly clear, and easily comprehended by anyone,
was the little drawing in the corner, done in red ink, and representing
a small, star-shaped flower.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then Tinville and Merlin both cursed loudly and volubly, and,
bidding their men follow them, turned away from the house in the
Rue de l'Ancienne Com&eacute;die and left its toothless landlady
on her own doorstep still volubly protesting her patriotism and
her desire to serve the Government of the Republic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Tinville and Merlin, however, took the scrap of paper to Citizen
Robespierre, who smiled grimly as he in his turn crushed the offensive
little document in the palm of his well-washed hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Robespierre did not swear. He never wasted either words or oaths;
but he slipped the bit of paper inside the double lid of his silver
snuff-box, and then he sent a special messenger to Citizen Chauvelin
in the Rue Corneille, bidding him come that same evening, after
ten o'clock, to room No. 16 in the ci-devant Palace of the Tuileries.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was now half-past ten, and Chauvelin and Robespierre sat opposite
one another in the ex-boudoir of Queen Marie Antoinette, and between
them on the table, just below the tallow candle, was a much-creased
exceedingly grimy bit of paper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It had passed through several unclean hands before Citizen Robespierre's
immaculately white fingers had smoothed it out and placed it before
the eyes of ex-ambassador Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The latter, however, was not looking at the paper, he was not
even looking at the pale, cruel face before him. He had closed
his eyes, and for a moment had lost sight of the small, dark room,
of Robespierre's ruthless gaze, of the mud-stained walls, and
the greasy floor. He was seeing, as in a bright and sudden vision,
the brilliantly lighted salons of the Foreign Office in London,
with beautiful Marguerite Blakeney gliding queen-like on the arm
of the Prince of Wales.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He heard the flutter of many fans, the frou-frou of silk dresses,
and above all the din and sound of dance music he heard an inane
laugh and an affected voice repeating the doggerel rhyme that
was even now written on that dirty piece of paper which Robespierre
had placed before him:&shy;</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We seek him here, we seek him
there,<BR>
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!<BR>
Is he in heaven, is he in hell,<BR>
That demmed elusive Pimpernel?&quot;</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was a mere flash! One of memory's swiftly
effaced pictures, when she shows us for the fraction of a second
indelible pictures from out our past. Chauvelin, in that same
second, while his own eyes were closed and Robespierre's fixed
upon him, also saw the lonely cliffs of Calais, heard the same
voice singing &quot;God save the King!&quot; the volley of musketry,
the despairing cries of Marguerite Blakeney; and once again he
felt the keen and bitter pang of complete humiliation and defeat.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter III<BR>
Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">Robespierre had quietly waited the while.
He was in no hurry: being a night-bird of very pronounced tastes,
he was quite ready to sit here until the small hours of the morning,
watching Citizen Chauvelin mentally writhing in the throes of
recollections of the past few months. There was nothing that delighted
the sea-green Incorruptible quite so much as the aspect of a man
struggling with a hopeless situation, and feeling a net of intrigue
drawing gradually tighter and tighter around him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Even now, when he saw Chauvelin's smooth forehead wrinkled into
an anxious frown, and his thin hand nervously clutched upon the
table, Robespierre heaved a pleasurable sigh, leaned back in his
chair, and said with an amiable smile:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You do agree with me, then, Citizen, that the situation
has become intolerable?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then as Chauvelin did not reply, he continued, speaking more sharply:
<BR>
&quot;And how terribly galling it all is, when we could have had
that man under the guillotine by now, if you had not blundered
so terribly last year.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His voice had become hard nad trenchant like that knife to which
he was so ready to make constant allusion. But Chauvelin still
remained silent. There was really nothing that he could say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Citizen Chauvelin, how you must hate that man!&quot; exclaimed
Robespierre at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then only did Chauvelin break the silence which up to now he had
appeared to have forced himself to keep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I do!&quot; he said with unmistakable fervour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then why do you not make an effort to retrieve the blunders
of last year?&quot; queried Robespierre blandly. &quot;The Republic
has been unusually patient and long-suffering with you, Citizen
Chauvelin. She has taken your many services and well-known patriotism
into consideration. But you know,&quot; he added significantly,
&quot;that she has no use for worthless tools.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then as Chauvelin seemed to have relapsed into sullen silence,
he continued with his original ill-omened blandness:<BR>
&quot;Ma foi! Citizen Chauvelin, were I standing in your buckled
shoes, I would not lose another hour in trying to avenge mine
own humiliation!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Have I ever had a chance?&quot; burst out Chauvelin with
ill-suppressed vehemence. &quot;What can I do single-handed? Since
war has been declared I can not go to England unless the Government
will find some official reason for my doing so. There is much
grumbling and wrath over here, and when that damned Scarlet Pimpernel
League has been at work, when a score or so of valuable prizes
have been snatched from under the very knife of the guillotine,
then, there is much gnashing of teeth and useless cursings, but
nothing serious or definite is done to smother those accursed
English flies which come buzzing about our ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! You forget, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; retorted Robespierre,
&quot;that we of the Committee of Public Safety are far more helpless
than you. You know the language of these people: we don't. You
know their manners and customs, their ways of thought, the methods
they are likely to employ: we know none of these things. You have
seen and spoken to men in England who are members of that damned
League. You have seen the man who is its leader. We have not.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He leant forward on the table and looked more searchingly at the
thin, pallid face before him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If you named that leader to me now, if you described him,
we could go to work more easily. You could name him, an you would,
Citizen Chauvelin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I cannot,&quot; retorted Chauvelin doggedly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah! But I think you could. But there! I do not blame your
silence. You would wish to reap the reward of your own victory,
to be the instrument of your own revenge. Passons! I think it
natural! But in the name of your own safety, Citizen,, do not
be too greedy with your secret. If the man is known to you, find
him again, find him, lure him to France! We want him &shy; the
people want him! And if the people do not get what they want,
they will turn on those who have withheld their prey.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I understand, Citizen, that your own safety and that of
your Government is involved in this renewed attempt to capture
the Scarlet Pimpernel,&quot; retorted Chauvelin drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And your head, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; concluded Robespierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! I know that well enough, and you may believe me, an
you will, Citizen, when I say that I care but little about that.
The question is, if I am to lure that man to France, what will
you and your Government do to help me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Everything,&quot; replied Robespierre, &quot;provided you
have a definite plan and a definite purpose.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I have both. But I must go to England in, at least, a semi-official
capacity. I can do nothing if I am to hide in disguise in out
of the way corners.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That is easily done. There has been some talk with the British
authorities anent the security and welfare of peaceful French
subjects settled in England. After a good deal of correspondence
they have suggested our sending a semi-official representative
over there to look after the interests of our own people commercially
and financially. We can easily send you over in that capacity
if it would suit your purpose.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Admirably. I have only need of a cloak. That one will do
as well as another.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Is that all?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Not quite. I have several plans in my head, and I must know
that I am fully trusted. Above all, I must have power Decisive,
absolute, illimitable power.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was nothing of the weakling about this small, sable-clad
man, who looked the redoubtable Jacobin leader straight in the
face, and brought a firm fist resolutely down upon the table before
him. Robespierre paused awhile ere he replied; he was eyeing the
other man keenly, trying to read if behind that earnest, frowning
brow there did not lurk some selfish ulterior motive along with
that demand for absolute power.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Chauvelin did not flinch beneath that gaze which could make
every cheek in Franch blanch with unnamed terror, and after that
slight moment of hesitation Robespierre said quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You shall have the complete power of a military dictator
in every town or borough of France which you may visit. The Revolutionary
Government shall create you, before you start for England, Supreme
Head of all the Sub-Committees of Public Safety. This will mean
that in the name of the safety of the Republic every order given
by you, of whatsoever nature it might be, must be obeyed implicitly
under pain of an arraignment for treason.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin sighed a quick, sharp sigh of intense satisfaction,
which he did not even attempt to disguise before Robespierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I shall want agents,&quot; he said, &quot;or shall we say
spies? And, of course, money.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You shall have both. We keep a very efficient secret service
in England, and they do a great deal of good over there. There
is much dissastisfaction in their Midland counties &shy; you remember
the Birmingham riots? They were chiefly the work of our own spies.
Then you know Candeille, the actress? She has found her way among
some of those circles in London who have what they call Liberal
tendencies. I believe they are called Whigs. Funny name, isn't
it? It means perruque, I think. Candeille has given charity performances,
in aid of our Paris poor, in one or two of these Whig clubs, and
incidentally she has been very useful to us.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A woman is always useful in such cases. I shall seek out
the Citizeness Candeille.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And if she renders you useful assistance, I think I can
offer her what should prove a tempting prize. Women are so vain!&quot;
he added, contemplating with rapt attention the enamel-like polish
on his fingernails. &quot;There is a vacancy in the Maison Moli&eacute;re.
Or &shy; what might prove more attractive still &shy; in connection
with the proposed Nation f&ecirc;te, and the new religion for
the people, we have not yet chosen a Goddess of Reason. That should
appeal to any feminine mind. The impersonation of a goddess, with
processions, pageants, and the rest. Great importance and prominence
given to one personality. What say you, Citizen? If you really
have need of a woman for the furtherance of your plans, you have
that at your disposal which may enhance her zeal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I thank you, Citizen,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin calmly. &quot;I
always entertained a hope that some day the Revolutionary Government
would call again on my services. I admit that I failed last year.
The Englishman is resourceful. He has wits and he is very rich.
He would not have succeeded, I think, but for his money &shy;
and corruption and bribery are rife in Paris and on our coasts.
He slipped through my fingers at the very moment when I thought
that I held him most securely. I do admit all that, but I am prepared
to redeem my failure of last year, and there is nothing more to
discuss. I am ready to start.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He looked round for his cloak and hat, and quietly readjusted
the set of his necktie. But Robespierre detained him a while longer:
that born mountebank, born torturer of the souls of men, had not
gloated sufficiently yet on the agony of mind of this fellow man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin had always been trusted and respected. His services
in connection with the foreign affairs of the Revolutionary Government
had been invaluable, both before and since the beginning of the
European War. At one time he formed part of that merciless decemvirate,
which &shy; with Robespierre at its head &shy; meant to govern
France by laws of bloodshed and of unparalleled ferocity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But the sea-green Incorruptible had since tired of him, then had
endeavoured to push him on one side, for Chauvelin was keen and
clever, and, moreover, he possessed all those qualities of selfless
patriotism which were so conspicuously lacking in Robespierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His failure in bringing that interfering Scarlet Pimpernel to
justice and the guillotine had completed Chauvelin's downfall.
Though not otherwise molested, he had been left to moulder in
obscurity during this past year. He would soon enough have been
completely forgotten.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Now he was not only to be given one more chance to regain public
favour, but he had demanded power which, in consideration of the
aim in view, Robespierre himself could not refuse to grant him.
But the Incorruptible, ever envious and jealous, would not allow
him to exult too soon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
With characteristic blandness he seemed to be entering into all
Chauvelin's schemes, to be helping him in every way he could,
for there was something at the back of his mind which he meant
to say to the ex-ambassador, before the latter took his leave:
something which would show him that he was but on trial once again,
and which would demonstrate to him with perfect clearness that
over him there hovered the all powerful hand of the master.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You have but to tname the sum you want, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot;
said the Incorruptible, with an encouraging smile; &quot;the Government
will not stint you, and you shall not fail for lack of authority
or for lack of funds.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is pleasant to hear that the Government has such uncounted
wealth,&quot; remarked Chauvelin with dry sarcasm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! The last few weeks have been very profitable,&quot;
retorted Robespierre, &quot;we have confiscated money and jewels
from emigrant royalists to the tune of several million francs.
You remember the traitor Juliette Marny, who escaped to England
lately? Well! Her mother's jewels and quite a good deal of gold
were discovered by one of our most able spies to be under the
care of a certain Abb&eacute; Foucquet, a calotin from Boulogne
&shy; devoted to the family, so it seems.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes?&quot; queries Chauvelin indifferently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Our men seized the jewels and gold, that is all. We don't
know yet what we mean to do with the priest. The fisher-folk of
Boulogne like him, and we can lay our hands on him at any time,
if we want his old head for the guillotine. But the jewels were
worth having. There's a historic necklace worth half a million
at least.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Could I have it?&quot; asked Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Robespierre laughed and shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You said it belonged to the Marny family,&quot; continued
the ex-ambassador. &quot;Juliette Marny is in England. I might
meet her. I cannot tell what may happen: but I feel that the historic
necklace might prove useful. Just as you please,&quot; he added
with renewed indifference. &quot;It was a thought that flashed
through my mind when you spoke &shy;nothing more.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And to show you how thoroughly the Government trusts you,
Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; replied Robespierre with perfect urbanity,
&quot;I will myself direct that the Marny necklace be placed unreservedly
in your hands; and a sum of fifty thousand francs for your expenses
in England. You see,&quot; he added blandly, &quot;we give you
no excuse for a second failure.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I need none,&quot; retorted Chauelin drily, as he finally
rose from his seat, with a sigh of satisfaction that this interview
was ended at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Robespierre, too, had risen, and pushing his chair aside,
he took a step or two towards Chauvelin. He was a much taller
man than the ex-ambassador. Spare and gaunt, he had a very upright
bearing, and in the uncertain light of the candle he seemed to
tower strangely and weirdly above the other man: the pale hue
of his coat, his light-coloured hair, the whiteness of his linen,
all helped to give to his appearance at that moment a curious
spectral effect.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin somehow felt an unpleasant shiver running down his spine
as Robespierre, perfectly urbane and gentle in his manner, place
a long, bony hand upon his shoulder.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; said the Incorruptible, with some
degree of dignified solemnity, &quot;meseems that we very quickly
understood one another this evening. Your own conscience, no doubt,
gave you a premonition of what the purport of my summons to you
would be. You say that you always hoped the Revolutionary Government
would give you one great chance to redeem your failure of last
year. I, for one, always intended that you should have that chance,
for I saw, perhaps, just a little deeper into your heart than
my colleagues. I saw not only enthusiasm for the cause of the
People of France, not only abhorrence for the enemy of your country,
I saw a purely personal and deadly hate of an individual man &shy;
the unknown and mysterious Englishman who proved too clever for
you last year. And because I believe that hatred will prove sharper
and more far-seeing than selfless patriotism, therefore I urged
the Committee of Public Safety to allow you to work out your own
revenge, and thereby to serve your country more effectually than
any other &shy;perhaps more pure-minded &shy; patriot would do.
You go to England well provided with all that is necessary for
the success of your plans, for the accomlishment of your own personal
vengeance. The Revolutionary Government will help you with money,
passports, safe conducts; it places its spies and agents at your
disposal. It gives you practically unlimited power, wherever you
may go. It will not enquire into your motives, nor yet your means,
so long as these lead to success. But private vengeance or patriotism,
whatever may actuate you, we here in France demand that you deliver
into our hands the man who is known in two countries as The Scarlet
Pimpernel! We want him alive if possible, or dead if it must be
so, and we want as many of his henchmen as will follow him to
the guillotine. Get them to France, and we'll know how to deal
with them, and let the whole of Europe be damned.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He paused for awhile, his hand still resting on Chauvelin's shoulder,
his pale green eyes holding those of the other man as if in a
trance. But Chauvelin neither stirred nor spoke. His triumph left
him quite calm; his fertile brain was already busy with his plans.
There was no room for fear in his heart, and it was without the
slightest tremor that he waited for the conclusion of Robespierre's
oration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Perhaps, Citizen Chauvelin,&quot; said the latter at last,
&quot;you have already guessed what there is left for me to say.
But lest there should remain in your mind one faint glimmer of
doubt of or hope, let me tell you this. The Revolutionary Government
gives you this chance of redeeming your failure, but this one
only; if you fail again, your outraged country will know neither
pardon nor mercy. Whether you return to France or remain in England,
whether you travel North, South, East or West, cross the oceans,
or traverse the Alps, the hand of an avenging People will be upon
you. Your second failure will be punished by death, wherever you
may be, either by the guillotine, if you are in France, or if
you seek refuge elsewhere, then by the hand of an assassin. Look
to it, Citizen Chauvelin! For there will be no escape this time,
not even if the mightiest tyrant on earth tried to protect you,
not even if you succeed in building up an empire and placing yourself
upon a throne.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His thin, strident voice echoed weirdly in the small, close boudoir.
Chauvelin made no reply. There was nothing that he could say.
All that Robespierre had put so emphatically before him, he had
fully realised, even whilst he was forming his most daring plans.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was an &quot;either&shy;or&quot; this time, uttered to <I>him</I>
now. He thought again of Marguerite Blakeney, and the terrible
alternative he had put before <I>her </I>less than a year ago.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Well! He was prepared to take the risk. He would not fail again.
He was going to England under more favourable conditions this
time. He knew <I>who </I>the man was, whom he was bidden to lure
to France and to death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And he returned Robespierre's threatening gaze boldly and unflinchingly;
then he prepared to go. He took up his hat and cloak, opened the
door and peered for a moment into the dark corridor, wherein,
in the far distance, the steps of a solitary sentinel could be
faintly heard: he put on his hat, turned to look once more into
the room where Robespierre stood quiety watching him, and went
his way.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter IV<BR>
The Richmond Gala</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">It was perhaps the most brilliant September
ever known in England, where the last days of dying summer are
nearly always golden and beautiful.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Strange that in this country, where that same season is so peculiarly
radiant with a glory all its own, there should be no special expression
in the language with which to accurately name it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
So we needs must call it &quot;fin d'&eacute;t&eacute;&quot; &shy;
the ending of the summer; not the absolute end, nor yet the ultimate
departure, but the tender lingering of a friend obliged to leave
us anon, yet who fain would steal a day here and there, a week
or so in which to stay with us: who would make that last pathetic
farewell of his endure a little while longer still, and brings
forth in gorgeous array for our final gaze all that he has which
is most luxuriant, most desirable, most worthy of regret.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And in this year of grace 1793, departing summer had lavished
the treasures of her palette upon woodland and river banks; had
tinged the once crude green of larch and elm with a tender hue
of gold, had brushed the oaks with tones of warm russet, and put
patches of sienna and crimson on the beech.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the gardens the roses were still in bloom &shy; not the delicate
blush or lemon ones of June, nor yet the pale Banksias and climbers,
but the full-blooded red roses of late summer, and deep-coloured
apricot ones, with crinkled outside leaves faintly kissed by the
frosty dew. In sheltered spots the purple clematis still lingered,
whilst the dahlias, brilliant of hue, seemed overbearing in their
gorgeous insolence, flaunting their crudely coloured petals against
sober backgrounds of mellow leaves, or the dull, mossy tones of
ancient, encircling walls.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Gala had always been held about the end of September. The
weather, on the riverside, was most dependable then, and there
was always sufficient sunshine as an excuse for bringing out madam's
last new muslin gown, or her pale-coloured, quilted petticoat.
Then the ground was dry and hard, good alike for walking and for
setting up tents and booths. And of these there was of a truth
a most goodly array this year: mountebanks and jugglers from every
corner of the world, so it seemed, for there was a man with a
face as black as my lord's tricorne, and another with such flat,
yellow cheeks as made one think of batter pudding and spring aconite,
of eggs and other very yellow things.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a tent wherein dogs &shy; all sorts of dogs, big, little,
black, white, or tan &shy; did things which no Christian with
respect for his own backbone would have dared to perform, and
another where a weird-faced old man made bean stalks and walking
sticks, coins of the realm and lace 'kerchiefs, vanish into thin
air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And as it was nice and hot, one could sit out upon the green and
listen to the strains of the band, which discoursed sweet music,
and watc the young people tread a measure on the sward.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The quality had not yet arrived, for humbler folk had partaken
of a very early dinner, so as to get plenty of fun and long hours
of delight for the sixpenny toll demanded at the gates.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was so much to see and so much to do: games of bowls on
the green, and a beautiful Aunt Sally; there was a skittle alley,
and two merry-go-rounds; there were performing monkeys and dancing
bears, a woman so fat that three men with arms outstretched could
not get round her, and a man so thin that he could put a lady's
bracelet round his neck and her garter round his waist. There
were some funny little dwarfs, with pinched faces and a knowing
manner, and a giant come all the way from Russia &shy; so 'twas
said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The mechanical toys, too, were a great attraction. You dropped
a penny into a little slit in a box, and a doll would begin to
dance and play the fiddle; and there ws the Magic Mill, where,
for another modest copper, a row of tiny figures, wrinkled and
old and dressed in the shabbiest of rags, marched in weary procession
up a flight of steps into the mill, only to emerge again the next
moment at a further door of this wonderful building looking young
and gay, dressed in gorgeous finery and tripping a dance measure
as they descended some steps and were finally lost to view.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But what was most wonderful of all, and collected the goodliest
crowd of gazers and the largest amount of coins, was a miniature
representation of what was going on in France even at this very
moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And you could not help but be convinced of the truth of it all,
so cleverly was it done. There was a background of houses and
a very red-looking sky.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Too red!&quot; some people said, but were immediately quashed
by the dictum of the wise, that the sky represented a sunset,
as anyone who looked could see. Then there were a number of little
figures, no taller than your hand, but with little wooden faces
and arms and legs, just beautifully made little dolls, and these
were dressed in kirtles and breeches &shy; all rags mostly &shy;
and little coats and wooden shoes. They were massed together in
groups with their arms all turned upwards.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And in the centre of this little stage, on an elevated platform,
there were miniature wooden posts close together, and with a long,
flat board at right angles at the foot of the posts, at the top,
was a miniature knife, which ran up and down in a groove and was
drawn by a miniature pulley. Folk who knew said that this was
a model of a guillotine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And lo and behold! When you dropped a penny into a slot just below
the wooden stage, the crowd of little figures started waving their
arms up and down, and another little doll would ascend the elevated
platform and lie down on the red board at the foot of the wooden
posts. Then a figure dressed in brilliant scarlet put out an arm,
presumably to touch the pulley, and the tiny knife would rattle
down on to the poor little reclining doll's neck, and its head
would roll off into a basket beyond.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then there was a loud whirr of wheels, a buzz of internal mechanism,
and all the little figures would stop dead, with arms outstretched,
whilst the beheaded doll rolled off the board and was lost to
view, no doubt preparatory to going through the same gruesome
pantomime again. It was very thrilling, and very terrible: a certain
air of hushed awe reigned in the booth where this mechanical wonder
was displayed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The booth itself stood in a secluded portion of the grounds, far
from the toll-gates, and the bandstand, and the noise of the merry-go-round,
and there were great texts, written in red letters on a black
ground, pinned all along the walls: &quot;Please spare a copper
for the starving poor of Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A lady, dressed in grey quilted petticoat and pretty grey and
black striped paniers, could be seen walking in the booth from
time to time, then disappearing through a partition beyond. She
would emerge again presently, carrying an embroidered reticule,
and would wander round among the crowd, holding out the bag by
its chain, and repeating in tones of somewhat monotonous appeal:
&quot;For the starving poor of Paris, if you please!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had fine dark eyes, rather narrow and tending upwards at the
outer corners, which gave her face a not altogether pleasant expression.
Still, they <I>were</I> fine eyes, and when she went round soliciting
alms most of the men put a hand into their breeches pocket and
dropped a coin into her embroidered reticule.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She said the word &quot;poor&quot; in rather a funny way, rolling
the &quot;r&quot; at the end, and she also said &quot;please&quot;
as if it were spelt with a long line of &quot;e's,&quot; and so
it was concluded that she was French and was begging for her poorer
sisters. At stated intervals during the day the mechanical toy
was rolled into a corner, and the lady in grey stood up on a platform,
and sang queer little songs, the words of which nobody could understand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Il &eacute;tait une bergere, et ron et ron petit pataplon&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But it all left an impression of sadness and of suppressed awe
upon the minds and susceptibilities of the worthy Richmond yokels,
come with their wives or sweethearts to enjoy the fun of the fair,
and gladly did everyone emerge out of that melancholy booth into
the sunshine, the brightness, and the noise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lud! But she do give me the creeps,&quot; said Mistress
Polly, the pretty barmaid from the &quot;Bell Inn&quot; down by
the river. &quot;And I must say that I don't see why we English
folk should send our hard-earned pennies to those murdering ruffians
over the water. Bein' starving, so to speak, don't make a murderer
a better man if he goes on murdering,&quot; she added with indisputable
if ungrammatical logic. &quot;Come, let's look at something more
cheerful now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And without waiting for anyone else's assent, she turned towards
the more lively portion of the grounds closely followed by a ruddy-faced,
somewhat sheepish looking youth, who very obviously was her attendant
swain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was getting on for three o'clock now, and the quality were
beginning to arrive. Lord Anthony Dewhurst was already there,
chucking every pretty girl under the chin, to the annoyance of
her beau. Ladies were arriving all the time, and the humbler feminine
hearts were constantly a-flutter at sight of rich brocaded gowns,
and the new Charlottes, all crinkled velvet and soft marabout,
which were so becoming to the pretty faces beneath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was incessant and loud talking and chattering, with here
and there the shriller tones of a French voice being distinctly
noticeable in the din. There were a good many French ladies and
gentlemen present, easily recognisable, even in the distance,
for their clothes were of more sober hue and of lesser richness
than those of their English compeers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But they were great lords and ladies, nevertheless &shy; dukes
and duchesses and countesses, come to England for fear of being
murdered by those devils in their own country. Richmond was full
of them just now, as they were made right welcome both at the
Palace and at the magnificent home of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Ah! Here comes Sir Andrew Ffoulkes with his lady! So pretty and
dainty does she look, like a little china doll, in her new-fashioned,
short-waisted gown, her brown hair in soft waves above her smooth
forehead, her great hazel eyes fixed in unaffected admiration
on the gallant husband by her side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;No wonder she dotes on him!&quot; sighed pretty Mistress
Polly, after she had bobbed her curtsey to my lady. &quot;The
brave deeds he did for love of her! Rescued her from those murderers
over in France, and brought her to England safe and sound, having
fought no end of them single-handed, so I've heard it said. Have
not you, Master Thomas Jezzard?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And she looked defiantly at her meek-looking cavalier.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Bah!&quot; replied Master Thomas with quite unusual vehemence
in response to the disparaging look in her brown eyes, &quot;'tis
not he who did it all, as you well know, Mistress Polly. Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes is a gallant gentleman, you may take your Bible oath
on that, but he that fights the murdering frog-eaters single-handed
is he whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel: the bravest gentleman
in all the world.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then, as at mention of the national hero, he thought that he detected
in Mistress Polly's eyes an enthusiasm which he could not very
well ascribe to his own individuality, he added with some pique:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But they do say that this same Scarlet Pimpernel is mightily
ill-favoured, and that's why no one ever sees him. They say he
is fit to scare the crows away, and that no Frenchy can look twice
at his face, for it's so ugly, and so they let him get out of
the country rather than look at him again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then they do say a mighty lot of nonsense,&quot; retorted
Mistress Polly, with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, &quot;and
if that be so, then why don't you go over to France and join hands
with the Scarlet Pimpernel? I'll warrant no Frenchman'll want
to look twice at your face.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A chorus of laughter greeted this sally, for the two young people
had in the meanwhile been joined by several of their friends,
and now formed part of a merry group near the band, some sitting,
others standing, but all bent on seeing as much as there was to
see in Richmond Gala this day. There was Johnny Cullen, the grocer's
apprentice from Twickenham, and Ursula Quekett, the baker's daughter,
and several &quot;young 'uns&quot; from the neighbourhood, as
well as some older folks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And all of them enjoyed a joke when they heard one, and thought
Mistress Polly's retort mightily smart. But then Mistress Polly
was possessed of two hundred pounds, all her own, left to her
by her grandmother, and on the strength of this extensive fortune
had acquired a reputation for beauty and wit not easily accorded
to a wench that had been penniless.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Mistress Polly was also very kind-hearted. She loved to tease
Master Jezzard, who was an indefatigable hanger-on at her pretty
skirts, and whose easy conquest had rendered her somewhat contemptuous;
but at the look of perplexed annoyance and bewildered distress
in the lad's face, her better nature soon got the upper hand.
She realised that her remark had been unwarrantably spiteful,
and, wishing to make atonement, she said with a touch of coquetry
which quickly spread balm over the honest yokel's injured vanity:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;La! Master Jezzard, you do seem to make a body say some
queer things. But there! You must own 'tis mighty funny about
that Scarlet Pimpernel!&quot; she added, appealing to the company
in general, just as if Master Jezzard had been disputing the fact.
&quot;Why won't he let anyone see who he is? And those who know
him won't tell. Now I have it for a fact from my lady's own maid
Lucy, that the young lady as is stopping at Lady Blakeney's house
has actually spoken to the man. She came over from France, come
a fortnight tomorrow; she and the gentleman they call Mossoo D&eacute;roulede.
They both saw the Scarlet Pimpernel and spoke to him. <I>He </I>brought
them over from France. Then why won't they say?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Say what?&quot; commented Johnny Cullen, the apprentice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Perhaps he isn't,&quot; said old Clutterbuck, who was clerk
of the vestry at the church of St. John the Evangelist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes!&quot; he added sententiously, for he was fond of his
own sayings and usually liked to repeat them before he had quite
done with them, &quot;that's it, you may be sure. Perhaps he isn't.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What do you mean, Master Clutterbuck?&quot; asked Ursula
Quekett, for she knew the old man liked to explain his wise saws,
and as she wanted to marry his son, she indulged him whenever
she could. &quot;What do you mean? He isn't what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;He isn't &shy; that's all,&quot; explained Clutterbuck with
vague solemnity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then, seeing that he had gained the attention of the little party
round him, he condescended to come to more logical phraseology.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I mean, that perhaps we must not ask ' Who <I>is </I>this
mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel?' but 'Who <I>was</I> that poor and
unfortunate gentleman?'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then you think&shy;&shy;&quot; suggested Mistress Polly,
who felt unaccountably low-spirited at ths oratorical pronouncement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I have it for a fact,&quot; said Mr. Clutterbuck solemnly,
&quot;that he whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel no longer exists
now; that he was collared by the Frenchies, as far back as last
fall, and, in the language of the poets, has never been heard
of no more.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Mr. Clutterbuck was very fond of quoting from the works of certain
writers whose names he never mentioned, but who went by the poetical
generality of &quot;the poets.&quot; Whenever he made use of phrases
which he was supposed to derive from these great and un-named
authors, he solemnly and mechanically raised his hat, as a tribute
of respect to these giant minds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You think that the Scarlet Pimpernel is dead, Mr. Clutterbuck?
That those horrible Frenchies murdered him? Surely you don't mean
that?&quot; sighed Mistress Polly ruefully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Mr. Clutterbuck put his hand up to his hat, preparatory, no doubt,
to making another appeal to the mysterious poets, but was interrupted
in the very act of uttering great thoughts by a loud and prolonged
laugh, which came echoing from a distant corner of the grounds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lud! But I'd know that laugh anywhere,&quot; said Mistress
Quekett, whilst all eyes were turned in the direction whence the
merry noise had come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Half a head taller than any of his friends around him, his lazy
blue eyes scanning from beneath their drooping lids the motley
throng around him, stood Sir Percy Blakeney, the centre of a gaily-dressed
little group which seemingly had just crossed the toll-gate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A fine specimen of a man, for sure,&quot; remarked Johnny
Cullen, the apprentice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Aye! You may take your Bible oath on that!&quot; sighed
Mistress Polly, who was inclined to be sentimental.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Speakin' as the poets,&quot; pronounced Mr. Clutterbuck
sententiously, &quot;inches don't make a man.&quot;<BR>
&quot;Nor fine clothes neither,&quot; added Master Jezzard, who
did not approve of Mistress Polly's sentimental sigh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There's my lady!&quot; gasped Miss Barbara suddenly clutching
Master Clutterbuck's arm vigorously. &quot;Lud! But she is beautiful
today!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Beautiful indeed, and radiant with youth and happiness, Marguerite
Blakeney had just gone through the gates and was walking along
the sward towards the bandstands. She was dressed in clinging
robes of shimmery green texture, the new-fashioned, high-waisted
effect suiting her graceful figure to perfection. The large Charlotte,
made of velvet to match the gown, cast a deep shadow over the
upper part of her face, and fave a peculiar softness to the outline
of her forehead and cheeks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Long lace mittens covered her arms and hands, and a scarf of diaphanous
material, edged with dull gold, hung loosely around her shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yes! She was beautiful! No captious chronicler has ever denied
that! And no one who knew her before, and who saw her again on
this late summer's afternoon, could fail to mark the additional
charm of her magnetic personality. There was a tenderness in her
face as she turned her head to and fro, a joy of living in her
eyes that was quite irresistibly fascinating.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Just now she was talking animatedly with the young girl who was
walking beside her, and laughing merrily the while:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! We'll find your Paul, never fear! Lud! Child, have
you forgotten he is in England now, and that there's no fear of
his being kidnapped here on the green in broad daylight?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The young girl gave a slight shudder, and her child-like face
became a shade paler than before. Marguerite took her hand and
gave it a kindly pressure. Juliette Marny, but lately come to
England, saved from under the very knife of the guillotine by
a timely and daring rescue, could scarcely believe as yet that
she and the man she loved were really out of danger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There is Monsieur D&eacute;roulede,&quot; said Marguerite
after a slight pause, giving the young girl time to recover herself
and pointing to a group of men close by. &quot;He is among friends,
as you see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
They made such a pretty picture, these two women, as they stood
together for a moment on the green, with the brilliant September
sun throwing golden reflections and luminous shadows on their
slender forms. Marguerite, tall and queen-like in her rich gown,
and costly jewels, wearing with glorious pride the invisible crown
of happy wifehood; Juliette, slim and girlish, dressed all in
white, with a soft, straw hat on her fair curls, and bearing on
an otherwise young and childlike face the hard imprint of the
terrible sufferings she had undergone, of the deathly moral battle
her tender soul had had to fight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Soon a group of friends joined them. Paul D&eacute;roulede among
these, also Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lady Ffoulkes, and, strolling
slowly towards them, his hands buried in the pockets of his fine
cloth breeches, his broad shoulders set to advantage in a coat
of immaculate cut, priceless lace ruffles at neck and wrist, came
the inimitable Sir Percy.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter V<BR>
Sir Percy and His Lady</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">To all appearances he had not changed since
those early days of matrimony when his young wife dazzled London
society by her wit and by her beauty, and he was one of the many
satellites that helped to bring into bold relief the brilliance
of her presence, of her sallies, and of her smiles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His friends alone, mayhap &shy;and of these only an intimate few
&shy; had understood that beneath that self-same lazy manner,
those shy and awkward ways, that half-inane, half-cynical laugh,
there now lurked an undercurrent of tender and passionate happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That Lady Blakeney was in love with her own husband nobody could
fail to see, and in the more frivolous cliques of fashionable
London, this extraordinary phenomenon had oft been eagerly discussed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A monstrous thing, of a truth, for a woman of fashion to
adore her own husband!&quot; was the universal pronouncement of
the gaily-decked little world that centered around Carlton House
and Ranelagh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Not that Sir Percy Blakeney was unpopular with the fair sex. Far
be it from the veracious chronicler's mind even to suggest such
a thing. The ladies would have voted any gathering dull if Sir
Percy's witty sallies did not ring from end to end of the dancing
hall, if his new satin coat and broidered waistcoat did not call
for comment or admiration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But that was the frivolous set, to which Lady Blakeney had never
belonged.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was well-known that she had always viewed her good-natured
husband as the most willing and most natural butt for her caustic
wit; she still was fond of aiming a shaft or two at him, and he
was still equally ready to let the shaft glance harmlessly against
the flawless shield of his own imperturbable good humour; but
now, contrary to all precedent, to all usages and customs of London
society, Marguerite seldom was seen at routs or at the opera without
her husband; she accompanied him to all the races, and even one
night &shy;oh, horror! &shy; had danced the gavotte with him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Society shuddered and wondered! &shy;tried to put Lady Blakeney's
sudden infatuation down to foreign eccentricity, and finally consoled
itself with the thought that, after all, this nonsense could not
last, and that she was too clever a woman and he too perfect a
gentleman to keep up this abnormal state of things for any length
of time.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the meanwhile, the ladies averred that this matrimonial love
was a very one-sided affair. No one could assert that Sir Percy
was anything but politely indifferent to his wife's obvious attentions.
His lazy eyes never once lighted up when she entered a ballroom,
and there were those who knew for a fact that her ladyship spent
many lonely days in her beautiful home at Richmond, whilst her
lord and master absented himself with persistent if unchivalrous
regularity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His presence at the Gala had been a surprise to everyone, for
all thought him away fishing in Scotland or shooting in Yorkshire,
anywhere save close to the apron-strings of his doting wife. He
himself seemed conscious of the fact that he had not been expected
at this end-of-summer f&ecirc;te, for as he strolled forward to
meet his wife and Juliette Marny, and acknowledged with a bow
here and a nod there the many greetings from subordinates and
friends, there was quite an apologetic air about his good-looking
face, and an obvious shyness in his smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Marguerite gave a happy little laugh when she saw him coming
towards her:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh, Sir Percy!&quot; she said gaily, &quot;and pray have
you seen the show? I vow 'tis the maddest, merriest throng I've
seen for many a day. Nay! But for the sighs and shudders of my
poor little Juliette, I should be enjoying one of the liveliest
days of my life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She patted Juliette's arm affectionately.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Do not shame me before Sir Percy,&quot; murmured the young
girl, casting shy glances at the elegant cavalier before her,
vainly trying to find in the indolent, foppish personality of
this society butterfly some trace of the daring man of action,
the bold adventurer who had snatched her and her lover from out
the very tumbril that bore them both to death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know I ought to be gay,&quot; she continued, with an attempt
at a smile; &quot;I ought to forget everything, save what I owe
to&shy;&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Sir Percy's laugh broke in on her half-finished sentence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lud! And to think of all that I ought not to forget!&quot;
he said loudly. &quot;Tony here has been clamouring for iced punch
this last half-hour, and I promised to find a booth wherein the
noble liquid is properly dispensed. Within half an hour from now
His Royal Highness will be here. I assure you, Mlle. Juliette,
that from that time onwards I have to endure the qualms of the
damned, for the heir to Great Britain's throne always contrives
to be thirsty when I am satiated, which is Tantalus' torture magnified
a thousandfold, or to be satiated when my parched palate most
requires solace; in either case I am a most pitiable man.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;In either case you contrive to talk a deal of nonsense,
Sir Percy,&quot; said Marguerite gaily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What else would your ladyship have me do this lazy, hot
afternoon?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Come and view the booths with me,&quot; she said. &quot;I
am dying for the sight of the fat woman and the lean man, the
pig-faced child, the dwarfs, and the giants. There! Monsieur D&eacute;roulede,&quot;
she added, turning to the young Frenchman who was standing close
beside her, &quot;take Mlle. Juliette to hear the clavecin players.
I vow she is tired of my company.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The gaily-dressed group was breaking up. Juliette and Paul D&eacute;roulede
were only too ready to stroll off arm-in-arm together, and Sir
Andrew Ffoulkes was ever in attendance on his young wife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
For one moment Marguerite caught her husband's eye. No one was
within earshot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Percy,&quot; she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, m'dear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;When did you return?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Early this morning.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You crossed over from Calais?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;From Boulogne.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why did you not let me know sooner?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I could not, dear. I arrived at my lodgings in town looking
a disgusting object I could not appear before you until I had
washed some of the French mud from off my person. Then His Royal
Highness demanded my presence. He wanted news of the Duchesse
de Verneuil, whom I had the honour of escorting over from France.
By the time I had told him all that he wished to hear, there was
no chance of finding you at home, and I thought I should see you
here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite said nothing for a moment, but her foot impatiently
tapped the ground, and her fingers were fidgeting with the gold
fringe of her scarf. The look of joy, of exquisite happiness,
seemed to have suddenly vanished from her face; there was a deep
furrow between her brows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She sighed a short, sharp sigh, and cast a rapid upward glance
at her husband.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Percy,&quot; she said abruptly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, m'dear.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;These anxieties are terrible to bear. You have been twice
over to France within the last month, dealing with your life as
lightly as if it did not now belong to me. When will you give
up these mad adventures, and leave others to fight their own battles
and to save their own lives as best they may?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had spoken with increased vehemence, although her voice was
scarce raised above a whisper. Even in her sudden, passionate
anger, she was on her guard not to betray his secret. He did not
reply immediately, but seemed to be studying the beautiful face
on which heart-broken anxiety was now distinctly imprinted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he turned and looked at the solitary booth in the distance,
across the frontal of which a large placard had been recently
affixed, bearing the words! &quot;Come and see the true representation
of the guillotine!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In front of the booth a man, dressed in ragged breeches, with
Phrygian cap on his head, adorned with a tricolour cockade, was
vigorously beating a drum, shouting volubly the while: </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Come in and see, come in and see! The only realistic presentation
of the original guillotine. Hundreds parish in Paris every day!
Come and see! Come and see! The perfectly vivid performance of
what goes on hourly in Paris at the present moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite had followed the direction of Sir Percy's eyes. She,
too, was looking at the booth; she heard the man's monotonous,
raucous cries. She gave a slight shudder and once more looked
imploringly at her husband. His face &shy;though outwardly as
lazy and calm as before &shy;had a strange, set look about the
mouth and firm jaw, and his slender hand, the hand of a dandy
accustomed to handle cards and dice and to play lightly with the
foils, was clutched tightly beneath the folds of the priceless
Mechlin frills.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was but a momentary stiffening of the whole, powerful frame,
an instant's flash of the ruling passion hidden within that very
secretive soul. Then he once more turned towards her, the rigid
lines of his face relaxed, he broke into a pleasant laugh, and
with the most elaborate and most courtly bow he took her hand
in his and, raising her fingers to his lips, he gave the answer
to her question:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;When your ladyship has ceased to be the most admired woman
in Europe &shy; namely, when I am in my grave.&quot;</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>For the Poor of Paris</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter VI<BR>
For the Poor of Paris</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></B><FONT SIZE="+1">There was no time to say more then.
For the laughing, chatting groups of friends had once more closed
up round Marguerite and her husband, and she, ever on the alter,
gave neither look nor sign that any serious conversation had taken
place between Sir Percy and herself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Whatever she might feel or dread with regard to the foolhardy
adventures in which he still persistently embarked, no member
of the League ever guarded the secret of his chief more loyally
than did Marguerite Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Though her heart overflowed with a passionate pride in her husband,
she was clever enough to conceal every emotion save that which
Nature had insisted on imprinting on her face, her present radiant
happiness and her irresistible love. And thus before the world
she kept up that bantering way with him, which had characterised
her earlier matrimonial life, that good-natured, easy contempt
which he had so readily accepted in those days, and which their
entourage would have missed and would have enquired after, if
she had changed her manner towards him too suddenly. </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In her heart she knew full well that within Percy Blakeney's soul
she had a great and powerful rival: his wild, mad, passionate
love of adventure. For it he would sacrifice everything, even
his life; she dared not ask herself if he would sacrifice his
love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Twice in a few weeks he had been over to France: every time he
went she could not know if she would ever see him again. She could
not imagine how the French Committee of Public Safety woulc so
clumsily allow the hated Scarlet Pimpernel to slip through its
fingers. But she never attempted either to warn him or to beg
him not to go. When he brought Paul D&eacute;roulede and Juliette
Marny over from France, her heart went out to these two young
people in sheer gladdness and pride because of <I>his </I>precious
life, which <I>he</I> had risked for them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She loved Juliette for the dangers Percy had passed, for the anxieties
she herself had endured; only today, in the midst of this beautiful
sunshine, this joy of the earth, of summer and of the sky, she
had suddenly felt a mad, overpowering anxiety, a deadly hatred
of the wild adventurous life, which took him so often away from
her side. His pleasant, bantering reply precluded her following
up the subject, whist the merry chatter of peole round her warned
her to keep her words and looks under control.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But she seemed now to feel the want of being alone, and, somehow,
that distant booth with its flaring placard, and the crier in
the Phrygian cap, exercised a weird fascination over her.<BR>
Instinctively she bent her steps thither, and equally instinctively
the idle throng of her friends followed her. Sir Percy alone had
halted in order to converse with Lord Hastings who had just arrived.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Surely, Lady Blakeney, you have no thought of patronising
that gruesome spectacle?&quot; said Lord Anthony Dewhurst, as
Marguerite almost mechanically had paused within a few yards of
the solitary booth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I don't know,&quot; she said, with enforced gaiety, &quot;the
place seems to attract me. And I need not look at the spectacle,&quot;
she said significantly, as she pointed to a roughly-scribbled
notice at the entrance of the tent: &quot;In aid of the starving
poor of Paris.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;There's a good-looking woman who sings, and a hideous mechanical
toy that moves,&quot; said one of the young men in the crowd.
&quot;It is very dark and close inside the tent. I was lured in
there for my sins, and was in a mighty hurry to come out again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then it must be my sins that are helping to lure me, too,
at the present moment,&quot; said Marguerite lightly. &quot;I
pray you all to let me go in there. I want to hear the good-looking
woman sing, even if I do not see the hideous toy on the move.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;May I escort you then, Lady Blakeney?&quot; said Lord Tony.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! I would rather go in alone,&quot; she replied a trifle
impatiently. &quot;I beg of you not to heed my whim, and to await
my return, there, where the music is at its merriest.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It had been bad manners to insist. Marguerite, with a little comprehensive
nod to all her friends, left the young cavaliers still protesting,
and quickly passed beneath the roughly-constructed doorway that
gave access into the booth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A man, dressed in theatrical rags and wearing the characteristic
scarlet cap, stood immediately within the entrance, and ostentatiously
rattled a money-box at regular intervals.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For the starving poor of Paris,&quot; he drawled out in
nasal, monotonous tones the moment he caught sight of Marguerite
and of her rich gown. She dropped some gold into the box and then
passed on.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The interior of the booth was dark and lonely-looking after the
glare of the hot September sun and the noisy crowd that thronged
the sward outside. Evidently a performance had just taken place
on the elevated platform beyond, for a few yokels seemed to be
lingering in a desultory manner as if preparatory to going out.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A few disjointed comments reached Marguerite's ears as she approached,
and the small groups parted to allow her to pass. One or two women
gaped in astonishment at her beautiful dress, whilst others bobbed
a respectful curtsey.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The mechanical toy arrested her attention immediately. She did
not find it as gruesome as she expected, only singularly grotesque,
with all those wooden little figures in their quaint, arrested
action.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She drew nearer to have a better look, and the yokels who had
lingered behind, paused, wondering if she would make any remark.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Her ladyship was born in France,&quot; murmured one of the
men close to her; &quot;she would know if the thing really looks
like that.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;She do seem interested,&quot; quoth another in a whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lud love us all!&quot; said a buxom wench, who was clinging
to the arm of a nervous-looking youth, &quot;I believe they're
coming for more money.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On the elevated platform at the further end of the tent, a slim
figure had just made its appearance, that of a young woman dressed
in peculiarly sombre colours, and with a black lace hood thrown
lightly over her head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite thought that the face seemed familiar to her, she also
noticed that the woman carried a large embroidered reticule, in
her be-mittened hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a general exodus the moment she appeared. The Richmond
yokels did not like the look of that reticule. They felt that
sufficient demand had already been made upon their scant purses,
considering the meagreness of the entertainmnet, and they dreaded
being lured to further extravagance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
When Marguerite turned away from the mechanical toy, the last
of the little crowd had disappeared, and she was alone in the
booth with the woman in the dark kirtle and black lace hood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For the poor of Paris, madame,&quot; said the latter mechanically,
holding out her reticule.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite was looking at her intently. The face certainly seemed
familiar, recalling to her mind the far-off days in Paris, before
she married. Some young actress no doubt driven out of France
by that terrible turmoil which had caused so much sorrow and so
much suffering. The face was pretty, the figure slim and elegant,
and the look of obvious sadness in the dark, almond-shaped eyes
was calculated to inspire sympathy and pity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yet strangely enough Lady Blakeney felt repelled and chilled by
this sombrely-dressed young person: an instinct, which she could
not have explained and which she felt had no justification, warned
her that somehow or other the sadness was not quite genuine, the
appeal for the poor not quite hearfelt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Nevertheless, she took out her purse, and dropped some few sovereigns
into the capacious reticule; then she said very kindly: </FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I hope that you are satisfied with your day's work, madame;
I fear me our British country folk hold the strings of their purses
somewhat tightly these times.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The woman sighed and shrugged her shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh, madame!&quot; she said with a tone of great dejection,
&quot;one does what one can for one's starving countrymen, but
it is very hard to elicit sympathy over here for them, poor dears!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You are a Frenchwoman, of course,&quot; rejoined Marguerite,
who had noted that though the woman spoke English with a very
pronounced foreign accent, she had nevertheless expressed herself
with wonderful fluency and correctness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Just like Lady Blakeney herself,&quot; replied the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You know who I am?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Who could come to Richmond and not know Lady Blakeney by
sight?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But what you come to Richmond on this philanthropic errand
of yours?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I go where I think there is a chance of earning a little
money, for the cause which I have at heart,&quot; replied the
Frenchwoman with the same gentle simplicity, the same tone of
mournful dejection.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
What she said was undoubtedly noble and selfless. Lady Blakeney
felt in her heart that her keenest sympathy should have gone out
to this young woman &shy; pretty, dainty, hardly more than a girl
&shy; who seemed to be devoting her young life to a purely philanthropic
and unselfish cause. And yet in spite of herself, Marguerite seemed
unable to shake off that curious sense of mistrust which had assailed
her from the first, nor that feeling of unreality and stageiness
with which the Frenchwoman's attitude had originally struck her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yet she tried to be kind and to be cordial, tried to hide that
coldness in her manner which she felt was unjustified.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is all very praiseworthy on your part, madame,&quot;
seh said, somewhat lamely. &quot;Madame?&quot; she added interrogatively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My name is Candeille &shy;D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille,&quot;
replied the Frenchwoman.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Candeille?&quot; exclaimed Marguerite with sudden alacrity,
&quot;Candeille? surely..&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes of the Veri&eacute;t&eacute;s.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah! then I know why your face from the first seemed familiar
to me,&quot; said Marguerite, this time with unaffected cordiality.
&quot;I must have applauded you many a time in the olden days.
I am an ex-colleague, you know. My name was St. Just before I
married, and I was of the Maison Moli&eacute;re.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I knew that,&quot; said D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille,
&quot;and half hoped that you would remember me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! who forget Demoiselle Candeille, the most popluar star
in the theatrical firmament?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! that was so long ago.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Only four years.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A fallen star is soon lost out of sight.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why fallen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It was a choice for me between exile from France and the
guillotine,&quot; rejoined Candeille simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Surely not?&quot; queried Marguerite with a touch of genuine
sympathy. With characteristic impulsiveness she had now cast aside
her former misgivings: she had conquered her mistrust, at any
rate had relegated it to the background of her mind. This woman
was a colleague: she had suffered and was in distress, she had
every claim therefore on a compatriot's help and friendship. She
stretched out her hand and took D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille's
in her own; she forced herself to feel nothing but admiration
for this young woman, whose whole attitude spoke of sorrows nobly
borne, of misfortunes proudly endured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I don't know why I should sadden you with my story,&quot;
rejoined D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille, after a slight pause,
during which she seemed to be waging war against her own emotion.
&quot;It is not a very interesting one. Hundreds have suffered
as I did. I had enemies in Paris. God knows how that happened.
I had never harmed any one, but some one must have hated me and
must have wished me ill. Evil is so easily wrought in France these
days. A denunciation &shy;a perquisition&shy;an accusation. Then
the flight from Paris the forged passports the disguise the bribe
the hardships the squalid hiding-places. Oh! I have gone through
it all tasted every kind of humiliation endured every kind of
insult Remember! that I was not a noble aristocrat a Duchess or
an impoverished Countess &quot; she added with marked bitterness,
&quot;or perhaps the English cavaliers whom the popular voice
has called the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would have taken
some interest in me. I was only a poor actress, and had to find
my own way out of France alone, or else parish on the guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I am so sorry,&quot; said Marguerite, simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Tell me how you got on, once you were in England,&quot;
she continued, after a while, seeing that D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille seemed absorbed in thought.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I had a few engagements at first,&quot; replied the Frenchwoman.
&quot;I played at Sadler's Wells and with Mrs. Jordan at Covent
Garden, but the Aliens' Bill put an end to my chances of livlihood.
No manager cared to give me a part, and so &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! I had a few jewels, and I sold them A little money,
and I live on that But when I played at Covent Garden I contrived
to send part of my salary over to some of the poorer clubs of
Paris. My heart aches for those that are starving Por wretches,
they are misguided and misled by self-seeking demagogues It hurts
me to feel that I can do nothing more to help them and eases my
self-respect if, by singing at public fairs, I can still send
a few francs to those who are poorer than myself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had spoken with ever-increasing passion and vehemence. Marguerite,
with eyes fixed into vacancy, seeing neither the speaker nor her
surroundings, seeing only visions of those same poor wreckages
of humanity, who had been goaded into thirst for blood, when their
shrunken bodies should have been clamouring for healthy food,
Marguerite thus absorbed had totally forgotten her earlier prejudices,
and now completely failed to note all that was unreal, stagey,
theatrical, in the oratorical declamations of the ex-actress from
the Vari&eacute;t&eacute;s.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Pre-eminently true and loyal herself, in spite of the many deceptions
and treacheries which she had witnessed in her life, she never
looked for falsehood or for cant in others. Even now she only
saw before her a woman who had been wrongfully persecuted, who
had suffered and had forgiven those who had caused her to suffer.
She bitterly upbraided herself for her original mistrust of this
noble-hearted, unselfish woman, who was content to tramp around
in an alien country, bartering her talents for a few coins, in
order that some of those, who were the originators of her sorrows,
might have bread to eat and a bed in which to sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Mademoiselle,&quot; she said warmly, &quot;truly you shame
me, who am also French born, with the many sacrifices you so nobly
make for those who should have first claim on my sympathy. Believe
me, if I have not done as much as duty demanded of me in the cause
of my starving compatriots, it has not been for lack of good-will.
Is there any way now,&quot; she added eagerly, &quot;in which
I can help you? Putting aside the question of money, wherein I
pray you to command my assistance, what can I do to be of useful
service to you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You are very kind, Lady Blakeney&quot; said the other hesitatingly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well? What is it? I see there is something in your mind
&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is perhaps difficult to express but people say I have
a good voice. I sing some French ditties they are a novelty in
England I think. If I could sing them in fashionable salons I
might perhaps.. &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! you shall sing in fashionable salons,&quot; exclaimed
Marguerite eagerly; &quot;you shall become the fashion, and I'll
swear the Prince of Wales himself shall bid you sing at Carlton
House and you shall name your own fee, Mademoiselle and London
society shall vie with the &eacute;lite of Bath, as to which shall
lure you to its most frequented routs There! there! you shall
make a fortune for the Paris poor and to prove to you that I mean
every word I say, you shall begin your triumphant career in my
own salon to-morrow night. His Royal Highness will be present.
You shall sing your most engaging songs and for your fee you must
accept a hundred guineas, which you shall send to the poorest
workmen's club in Paris in the name of Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I thank your ladyship, but.. &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You'll not refuse?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I'll accept gladly but you will understand I am not very
old,&quot; said Candeille, quaintly. &quot;I ... I am only an
actress but if a young actress is unprotected then...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I understand,&quot; replied Marguerite gently, &quot;that
you are far too pretty to frequent the world all alone, and that
you have a mother, a sister, or a friend which? whom you would
wish to escort you to-morrow. Is that it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay,&quot; rejoined the actress, with marked bitterness,
&quot;I have neither mother, nor sister, but our revolutionary
government, with tardy compassion for those it has so relentlessly
driven out of France, has deputed a representative of their in
England to look after the interests of French subjects over here.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;They have realised over in Paris that my life here has been
devoted to the welfare of the poor people in France. The representative
whom the Government has sent to England is specially interested
in me and in my work. He is a stand-by for me in case of trouble
in case of insults A woman alone is oft subject to those, even
at the hands of so-called gentlemen and the official representative
of my own country becomes in such cases my most natural protector.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You will receive him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Certainly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then may I present him to your ladyship?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Whenever you like.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Now, an it please you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes. Here he comes, at your ladyship's service.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille's almond-shaped eyes were fixed
upon a distant part of the tent, behind Lady Blakeney, in the
direction of the main entrance to the booth. There was a slight
pause after she had spoken, and then Marguerite slowly turned
in order to see who the official representative of France was,
whom, at the young actress's request, she had just agreed to receive
in her house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the doorway of the tent, framed by its gaudy draperies, and
with the streaming sunshine as a brilliant background behind him,
stood the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter VII<BR>
Premonition</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite neither moved nor spoke. She felt
two pairs of eyes fixed upon her, and with all the strength of
will at her command she forced the very blood in her veins not
to quit her cheeks, forced her eyelids not to betray by a single
quiver the icy pang of a deadly premonition which at sight of
Chauvelin seemed to have chilled her entire soul.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There he stood before her, dressed in his usual sombre garments,
a look almost of humility in those keen grey eyes of his, which
a year ago on the cliffs of Calais had peered down at her with
such relentless hate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Strange that at this moment she should have felt an instinct of
fear. What cause had she to throw more than a pitiful glance at
the man who had tried so cruelly to wrong her and who had so signally
failed?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Having bowed very low and very respectfully, Chauvelin advanced
towards her, with all the airs of a disgraced courtier craving
audience from his queen.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
As he approached she instinctively drew back.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Would you prefer not to speak to me, Lady Blakeney?&quot;
he said humbly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She could scarcely believe her ears, or trust her eyes. It seemed
impossible that a man could have so changed in a few months. He
even looked shorter than last year, more shrunken within himself.
His hair, which he wore free from powder, was perceptibly tinged
with grey.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Shall I withdraw?&quot; he added after a pause, seeing that
Marguerite made no movement to return his salutation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It would be best, perhaps,&quot; she replied coldly. &quot;You
and I, Monsieur Chauvelin, have so little to say to one another.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Very little indeed,&quot; he rejoined quietly. &quot;The
triumphant and happy have ever very little to say to the humiliated
and the defeated. But I had hoped that Lady Blakeney, in the midst
of her victory, would have spared one thought of pity and one
of pardon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I did not know that you had need of either from me, Monsieur.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Pity, perhaps not; but fogiveness, certainly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You have that, if you so desire it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Since I failed, you might try to forget.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That is beyond my power. But, believe me, I have ceased
tot hink of the infinite wrong which you tried to do to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But I failed,&quot; he insisted, &quot;and I meant no harm
to <I>you.&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;To those I care for, Monsieur Chauvelin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I had to serve my country as best as I could. I meant no
harm to your brother. He is safe in England now. And the Scarlet
Pimpernel was nothing to you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She tried to read his face, tried to discover in those inscrutable
eyes of his some hidden meaning to his words. Instinct had warned
her, of course, that this man could be nothing but an enemy, always
and at all times. But he seemed so broken, so abject now, that
contempt for his dejected attitude, and for the defeat which had
been inflicted on him, chased the last remnant of fear from her
heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I did not even succeed in harming that enigmatical personage,&quot;
continued Chauvelin with the same self-abasement. &quot;Sir Percy
Blakeney, you remember, threw himself across my plans &shy; quite
innocently, of course. I failed where you succeeded. Luck has
deserted me. Our Government offered me a humble post, away from
France. I look after the interests of French subjects settled
in England. My days of power are over. My failure is complete.
I do not complain, for I failed in a combat of wits but I failed
I failed I failed I am almost a fugitive and I am quite disgraced.
That is my present history, Lady Blakeney,&quot; he concluded,
taking once more a step towards her; &quot;and you will understand
that it would be a solace if you extended your hand to me just
once more, and let me feel that although you would never willingly
look upon my face again, you have enough womanly tenderness in
you to force your heart to forgiveness, and mayhap to pity.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite hesitated. He held out his hand, and her warm, impulsive
nature prompted her to be kind. But instinct would not be gainsaid:
a curious instinct to which she refused to respond. What had she
to fear from this miserable and cringing little worm, who had
not even in him the pride of defeat? What harm could he do to
her, or to those whom she loved? Her brother was in England! Her
husband!! Bah! Not the enmity of the entire world could make her
fear for <I>him!</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">Nay! That instinct, which caused her
to draw away from Chauvelin, as she would from a venomous asp,
was certainly not fear. It was hate! She hated this man! -hated
him for all that she had suffered because of him; for that terrible
night on the cliffs of Calais! The peril to her husband who had
become so infinitely dear! The humiliations and self-reproaches
which she had endured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yes! It was hate! And hate was of all emotions the one she most
despised.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Hate? Does one hate a slimy but harmless toad, or a stinging fly?
It seemed ridiculous, contemptible, and pitiable to think of hate
in connection with that melancholy figure of this discomfited
intriguer, this fallen leader of revolutionary France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was holding out his hand to her. If she placed even the tips
of her fingers upon it, she would be making the compact of mercy
and forgiveness which he was asking of her. The woman D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille roused within her the last lingering vestige of her
slumbering wrath. False, theatrical, and stagey - as Marguerite
had originally suspected - she appeared to have been in league
with Chauvelin to bring about this undesirable meeting.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Lady Blakeney turned from one to another, trying to conceal her
contempt beneath a mask of passionless indifference. Candeille
was standing close by, looking obviously distressed and not a
little puzzled. An instant's reflection was sufficient to convince
Marguerite that the whilom actress of the Vari&eacute;t&eacute;s
Theatre was obviously ignorant of the events to which Chauvelin
had been alluding; she was, therefore, of no serious consequence
- a mere tool, mayhap, in the ex-ambassador's hands. At the present
moment she looked like a silly child who does not understand the
conversation of the &quot;grown-ups.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite had promised her help and protection, had invited her
to her house, and offered her a munificent gift in aid of a deserving
cause. She was too proud to go back now on that promise, to rescind
the contract because of an unexplainable fear. With regard to
Chauvelin the matter stood differently; she had made him no direct
offer of hospitality; she had agreed to receive in her house the
official chaperon of an unprotected girl, but she was not called
upon to show cordiality to her own and her husband's most deadly
enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She was ready to dismiss him out of her life with a cursory word
of pardon and a half-expressed promise of oblivion; on that understanding,
and that only, she was ready to let her hand rest for the space
of one second in his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had looked upon her fallen enemy, seen his discomfiture and
his humiliation! Very well! Now let him pass out of her life,
all the more easily since the last vision of him would be one
of such utter abjection as would even be unworthy of hate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
All these thoughts, feelings and struggles passed through her
mind with great rapidity. Her hesitation had lasted less than
five seconds: Chauvelin still wore the look of doubting entreaty,
with which he had first begged permission to take her hand in
his. With an impulsive toss of the head, she had turned straight
towards him, ready with the phrase with which she meant to dismiss
him from her sight now and for ever, when suddenly a well-known
laugh broke in upon her ear, and a lazy, drawly voice said pleasantly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;La! I vow the air is fit to poison you! Your Royal Highness,
I entreat, let us turn our backs upon these gates of Inferno,
where lost souls would feel more at home than doth your humble
servant.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The next moment His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had entered
the tent, closely followed by Sir Percy Blakeney.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter VIII<BR>
The Invitation</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">It was in truth a strange situation, this
chance meeting between Percy Blakeney and ex-Ambassador Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite looked up at her husband. She saw him shrug his broad
shoulders as he first caught sight of Chauvelin and glance down
in his usual lazy, good-humoured manner at the shrunken figure
of the silent Frenchman. The words she meant to say never crossed
her lips; she was waiting to hear what the two men would say to
one another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The instinct of the grande dame in her, the fashionable lady accustomed
to the exigencies of society, just gave her sufficient presence
of mind to make the requisite low curtsey before His Royal Highness.
But the Prince, forgetting his accustomed gallantry, was also
absorbed in this little scene before him. He, too, was looking
from the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin to that of gorgeously
arrayed Sir Percy. He, too, like Marguerite, was wondering what
was passing behind the low, smooth forehead of that inimitable
dandy, what behind the inscrutably good-humoured expression of
those sleepy eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Of the five persons thus present in the dark and stuffy booth,
certainly Sir Percy Blakeney seemed the least perturbed. He had
paused just long enough to allow Chauvelin to become fully conscious
of a feeling of supreme irritation and annoyance, then he strolled
up to the ex-ambassador, with hand outstretched and the most engaging
of smiles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ha!&quot; he said, with his half shy, half pleasant-tempered
smile, &quot;my engaging friend from France! I hope, sir, that
our demmed climate doth find you well and hearty to-day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The cheerful voice seemed to ease the tension. Marguerite sighed
a sigh of relief. After all, what was more natural than that Percy,
with his amazing fund of pleasant irresponsibility, should thus
greet the man who had once vowed to bring him to the guillotine?
Chauvelin himself, accustomed by now to the audacious coolness
of his enemy, was scarcely taken by surprise. He bowed low to
His Highness, who, vastly amused at Blakeney's sally, was inclined
to be gracious to everyone, even though the personality of Chauvelin,
as a well-known leader of a regicide government, was inherently
distasteful to him. But the Prince saw in the wizened little figure
before him an obvious butt for his friend Blakeney's impertinent
shafts, and although historians have been unable to assert positively
whether or no George Prince of Wales knew aught of Sir Percy's
dual life, yet there is no doubt that he was always ready to enjoy
a situation which brought about the discomfiture of any of the
Scarlet Pimpernel's avowed enemies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I, too, have not met M. Chauvelin for many a long month,&quot;
said His Royal Highness with an obvious show of irony. &quot;An
I mistake not, sir, you left my father's Court somewhat abruptly
last year?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
'Nay, your Royal Highness,&quot; said Sir Percy, gaily, &quot;my
friend Monsieur er Chaubertin and I had serious business to discuss,
which could only be dealt with in France Am I not right, Monsieur?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Quite right, Sir Percy,&quot; replied Chauvelin curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;We had to discuss the abominable soup in Calais, ahd we
not?&quot; continued Blakeney in the same tone of easy banter,
&quot;and wine that I vowed was vinegar. Monsieur er Chaubertin
no, no, I beg pardon Chauvelin Monsieur Chauvelin and I quite
agreed upon that point. The only matter on which we were not quite
at one was the question of snuff.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Snuff?&quot; laughed His Royal Highness, who seemed vastly
amused.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, your Royal Highness snuff Monsieur Chauvelin here has
- if I may be allowed to say so - so vitiated a taste in snuff
that he prefers it with an admixture of pepper. Is that not so,
Monsieur ...er ..Chaubertin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Chauvelin, Sir Percy,&quot; remarked the ex-ambassador drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He was determined not to lose his temper, and looked urbane and
pleasant, whilst his impudent enemy was enjoying a joke at his
expense. Marguerite the while had not taken her eyes off the keen,
shrewd face. Whilst the three men talked, she seemed suddenly
to have lost her sense of the reality of things. The present situation
appeared to her strangely familiar, like a dream which she had
dreamt ofttimes before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Suddenly it became absolutely clear to her that the whole scene
had been arranged and planned: the booth with its flaring placard,
Demoiselle Candeille soliciting her patronage, her invitation
to the young actress, Chauvelin's sudden appearance - all, all
had been concocted and arranged, not here, not in England at all,
but out there in Paris, in some dark gathering of bloodthirsty
ruffians, who had invented a final trap for the destruction of
the bold adventurer, who went by the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And she also was only a puppet, enacting a part which had been
written for her: she had acted just as <I>they</I> had anticipated,
had spoken the very words they had meant her to say: and when
she looked at Percy he seemed supremely ignorant of it all, unconscious
of this trap, of the existence of which everyone here present
was aware save, indeed, himself. She would have fought against
this weird feeling of obsession, of being a mechanical toy wound
up to do certain things, but this she could not do; her will appeared
paralysed, her tongue even refused her service.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
As in a dream, she heard His Royal Highness ask for the name of
the young actress, who was soliciting alms for the poor of Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That also had been pre-arranged. His Royal Highness for the moment
was also a puppet, made to dance, to speak, and to act as Chauvelin
and his colleagues over in France had decided that he should.
Quite mechanically Marguerite introduced Demoiselle Candeille
to the Prince's gracious notice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If your Highness will permit,&quot; she said, &quot;Mademoiselle
Candeille will give us some of her charming old French songs at
my rout to-morrow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;By all means! By all means!&quot; said the Prince. &quot;I
used to know some in my childhood's days. Charming and poetic
I know I know We shall be delighted to hear Mademoiselle sing.
Eh, Blakeney?&quot; he added good-humouredly, &quot;and for your
rout to-morrow, will you not also invite M. Chauvelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! But that goes without saying, your Royal Highness,&quot;
responded Sir Percy, with hospitable alacrity and a most approved
bow directed at his arch-enemy. &quot;We shall expect M. Chauvelin.
He and I have not met for so long, and he shall be made right
welcome at Blakeney Manor.&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter IX<BR>
Demoiselle Candeille</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">Her origin was of the humbles, for her mother
- so it was said - had been kitchen-maid in the household of the
Duc de Marny, but D&eacute;sir&eacute;e had received some kind
of education, and though she began life as a dresser in one of
the minor theatres of Paris, she became ultimately one of its
most popular stars.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She was small and dark, dainty in her manner and her ways, and
with a graceful little figure, peculiarly supple and sinuous.
Her humble origin certainly did not betray itself in her hands
and feet, which were exquisite in shape and lilliputian in size.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Her hair was soft and glossy, always free from powder, and cunningly
arranged so as to slightly over-shadow the upper part of the face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The chin was small and round, the mouth extraordinarily red, the
neck slender and long. But she was not pretty; so said all the
women. Her skin was rather coarse in texture and darkish in colour,
her eyes were narrow and slightly turned upwards at the corners;
no! she was distinctly not pretty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yet she pleased the men! Perhaps because she was so artlessly
determined to please them. The women said that Demoiselle Candeille
never left a man alone until she had succeeded in captivating
his fancy, if only for five minutes; an interval in a dance the
time to cross a muddy road.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But for five minutes she was determined to hold any man's complete
attention, and to exact his admiration. And she nearly always
succeeded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Therefore the women hated her. The men were amused. It is extremely
pleasant to have one's admiration compelled, one's attention so
determinedly sought after.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This, however, was in the olden days, just before Paris went qutie
mad, before the Reign of Terror had set in, and ci-devant Louis
the King had been executed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Candeille had taken it into her frolicsome little head that she
would like to go to London. The idea was, of course, in the nature
of an experiment. Those dull English people over the water knew
so little of what good acting really meant. Tragedy! Well! Passons!
Their heavy, large-boned actresses might manage one or two big
scenes, where a commanding presence and a powerful voice would
not come amiss, and where prominent teeth would pass unnoticed
in the agony of a dramatic climax.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But comedy!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Ah! &Ccedil;a non, p&aacute;r exemple! Demoiselle Candeille had
seen several English gentlemen and ladies in those same olden
days at the Tuileries, but she really could not imagine any of
them enacting the piquant scenes of Moli&egrave;re or Beaumarchais.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Demoiselle Candeille thought of every Englishborn individual as
having very large teeth. Now large teeth do not lend themselves
to well-spoken comedy scenes, to smiles, or to double-entendre.
Her own teeth were exceptionally small and white, and very sharp,
like those of a kitten.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yes! Demoiselle Candeille thought it would be extremely interesting
to go to London and to show to a nation of shopkeepers how daintily
one can be amused in a theatre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Permission to depart from Paris was easy to obtain. In fact, the
fair lady had never really found it difficult to obtain anything
she very much wanted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In this case, she had plenty of friends in high places. Marat
was still alive, and a great lover of the theatre. Tallien was
a personal admirer of hers, and Deputy Dupont would do anything
she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She wanted to act in London, at a theatre called Drury Lane. She
wanted to play Moli&egrave;re in England in French, and had already
spoken with several of her colleagues, who were ready to join
her. They would give public representations in aid of the starving
population of France; there were plenty of Socialistic clubs in
London quite Jacobin and Revolutionary in tendency: their members
would give her full support.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She would be serving her country and her countrymen, and incidentally
see something of the world and amuse herself. She was being bored
in Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then she thought of Marguerite St. Just, once of the Maison Moli&egrave;re,
who had captivated an English milor of enormous wealth. Demoiselle
Candeille had never been of the Maison Moli&egrave;re; she had
been the leading star at one of the minor - yet much-frequented
- theatres of Paris, but she felt herself quite able and ready
to captivate some other unattached milor, who would load her with
English money and incidentally bestow an English name upon her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
So she went to London.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The experiment, however, had not proved an unmitigated success.
At first she and her company did obtain a few engagements at one
or two of the minor theatres, to give representations of some
of the French classical comedies in the original language.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But these never quite became the fashion. The feeling against
France and all her doings was far too keen in that very set which
Demoiselle Candeille had desired to captivate with her talents,
to allow the English <I>jeunesse dor&eacute;e</I> to flock and
see Moli&egrave;re being played in French by a French troupe,
whilst Candeille's own compatriots residents in England had given
her but scant support.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One section of these - the aristocrats and &eacute;migr&eacute;s
- looked upon the actress who was a friend of all the Jacobins
in Paris as nothing better than <I>canaille.</I> They sedulously
ignored her presence in this country, and snubbed her whenever
they had an opportunity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The other section - chiefly consisting of agents and spies of
the Revolutionary Government - she would gladly have ignored.
They had at first made a constant demand on her purse, her talents,
and her time; then she grew tired of them, and felt more and more
chary of being identified with a set which was in such ill-odour
with that very same <I>jeunesse dor&eacute;e</I> whom Candeille
had desired to please.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In her own country she was, and always had been, a good Republican:
Marat had given her her first start in life by his violent praises
of her talent in his widely-circulated paper; she had been associated
in Paris with the whole coterie of artists and actors: every one
of them Republican to a man. But in London, although one might
be snubbed by the &eacute;migr&eacute;s and aristocrats, it did
not do to be mixed up with the sans-culotte journalists and pamphleteers
who haunted the Socialistic clubs of the English capital, and
who were the prime organisers of all those seditious gatherings
and treasonable unions that caused Mr. Pitt and his colleagues
so much trouble and anxiety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One by one D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille's comrades, male and
female, who had accompanied her to England returned to their own
country. When war was declared, some of them were actually sent
back under the provisions of the Aliens Bill.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But D&eacute;sir&eacute;e had stayed on.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Her old friends in Paris had managed to advise her that she would
not be very welcome there just now. The sans-culotte journalists
of England, the agents and spies of the Revolutionary Government,
had taken their revenge of the frequent snubs inflicted upon them
by the young actress, and in those days the fact of being unwelcome
in France was apt to have a more lurid and more dangerous significance.<BR>
Candeille did not dare return: at any rate, not for the present.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She trusted to her own powers of intrigue, and her well-known
fascinations, to re-conquer the friendship of the Jacobin clique,
and she once more turned her attention to the affiliated Socialistic
clubs of England. But between the proverbial two stools Demoiselle
Candeille soon came to the ground. Her machinations became known
in official quarters, her connection with all the seditious clubs
in London was soon bruited abroad, and one evening D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
found herself confronted with a document addressed to her: &quot;From
the Office of His Majesty's Privy Seal,&quot; wherein it was set
forth that, pursuant to the Statute 33, George III., cap. 5, she,
D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille, a French subject now resident
in England, was required to leave this kingdom by order of His
Majesty within seven days, and that in the event of the said D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille refusing to comply with this order, she would be liable
to commitment, brought to trial, and sentenced to imprisonment
for a month, and afterwards to removal within a limited time under
pain of transportation for life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This meant that Demoiselle Candeille had exactly seven days in
which to make complete her reconciliation with her former friends,
who now ruled Paris and France with a relentless and perpetually
blood-stained hand. No wonder that during the night which followed
the receipt of this momentous document, Demoiselle Candeille suffered
gravely from insomnia.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She dared not go back to France, she was ordered out of England!
What was to become of her? This was just three days before the
eventful afternoon of the Richmond Gala, and twenty-four hours
after ex-Ambassador Chauvelin had landed in England. Candeille
and Chauvelin had since then met at the &quot;Cercle des Jacobins
Fran&ccedil;ais&quot; in Soho Street, and now fair D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
found herself in lodgings in Richmond, the evening of the day
following the Gala, feeling that her luck had not altogether deserted
her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
One conversation with Citizen Chauvelin had brought the fickle
jade back to Demoiselle Candeille's service. Nay, more, the young
actress saw before her visions of intrigue, of dramatic situations,
of pleasant little bits of revenge - all of which was meat and
drink and air to breathe for Mademoiselle D&eacute;sir&eacute;e.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She was to sing in one of the most fashionable salons of England:
that was very pleasant. The Prince of Wales would hear and see
her! That opened out a vista of delightful possibilities! And
all she had to do was to act a part dictated to her by Citizen
Chauvelin, to behave as he directed, to move in the way he wished!
Well! That was easy enough, since the part which she would have
to play was one peculiarly suited to her talents.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She looked at herself critically in the glass. Her maid Fanchon
- a little French waif picked up in the slums of Soho - helped
to readjust a stray curl which had rebelled against the comb.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Now for the necklace, Mademoiselle,&quot; said Fanchon,
with suppressed excitement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It had just arrived by messenger: a large morocco case, which
now lay open on the dressing-table, displaying its dazzling contents.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Candeille scarcely dared to touch it, and yet it was for her.
Citizen Chauvelin had sent a note with it.<BR>
&quot;Citizeness Candeille will please accept this gift from the
Government of France, in acknowledgment of useful services past
and to come.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The note was signed with Robespierre's own name, followed by that
of Citizen Chauvelin. The morocco case contained a necklace of
diamonds worth the ransom of a king.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For useful services past and to come!&quot; and there were
promises of still further rewards, a complete pardon for all defalcations,
a place within the charmed circle of the Com&eacute;die Fran&ccedil;aise,
a grand pageant and apotheosis, with Citizeness Candeille impersonating
the Goddess of Reason, in the midst of a grand national f&ecirc;te,
and the acclamations of excited Paris: and all in exchange for
the enactment of a part - simple and easy - outlined for her by
Chauvlein!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
How strange! How inexplicable! Candeille took the necklace up
in her trembling fingers and gazed musingly at the priceless gems.
She had seen the jewels before, long, long ago! Round the neck
of the Duchesse de Marny, in whose service her own mother had
been. She - as a child - had often gazed at and admired the great
lady, who seemed like a wonderful fairy from an altogether different
world to that inhabited by the poor little kitchen slut.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
How wonderful are the vagaries of fortune! D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille, the kitchen-maid's daughter, now wearing her ex-mistress's
jewels. She supposed that these had been confiscated when the
last of the Marnys - the girl Juliette - had escaped from France!
- confiscated and now sent to her, Candeille, as a reward or as
a bribe!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In either case they were welcome. The actress's vanity was soothed.
She knew Juliette Marny was in England, and that she would meet
her to-night at Lady Blakeney's. After the many snubs which she
had endured from the French aristocrats settled in England, the
actress felt that she was about to enjoy an evening of triumph.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The intrigue excited her. She did not quite know what schemes
Chauvelin was aiming at, what ultimate end he had had in view
when he commanded her services and taught her the part which he
wished her to play.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That the schemes were vast and the end mighty she could not doubt.
The reward she had received was proof enough of that.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Little Fanchon stood there in speechless admiration whilst her
mistress still fondly fingered the magnificent necklace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Mademoiselle will wear the diamonds to-night?&quot; she
asked with evident anxiety: she would have been bitterly disappointed
to have seen the beautiful thing once more relegated to its dark
morocco case.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! Yes, Fanchon!&quot; said Candeille, with a sigh of great
satisfaction. &quot;See that they are fastened quite securely,
my girl.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She put the necklace round her shapely neck, and Fanchon looked
to see that the clasp was quite secure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There came the sound of loud knocking at the street door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That is M. Chauvelin come to fetch me with the chaise. Am
I quite ready, Fanchon?&quot; asked D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! Yes, Mademoiselle!&quot; sighed the little maid; &quot;and
Mademoiselle looks very beautiful to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lady Blakeney is very beautiful, too, Fanchon,&quot; rejoined
the actress na&iuml;vely; &quot;but I wonder if she will wear
anything as fine as the Marny necklace?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The knocking at the street door was repeated. Candeille took a
final, satisfied survey of herself in the glass. She knew her
part and felt that she had dressed well for it. She gave a final,
affectionate little tap to the diamonds round her neck, took her
cloak and hood from Fanchon, and was ready to go.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter X<BR>
Lady Blakeney's Rout</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">There are several accounts extant, in the
fashionable chronicles of the time, of the gorgeous reception
given that autumn by Lady Blakeney in her magnificent riverside
home.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Never had the spacious apartments of Blakeney Manor looked more
resplendent than on this memorable occasion - memorable because
of the events which brought the brilliant evening to a close.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Prince of Wales had come over by water from Carlton House;
the Royal Princesses came early, and all fashionable London was
there, chattering and laughing, displaying elaborate gowns and
priceless jewels, dancing, flirting, listening to the strains
of the string band, or strolling listlessly in the gardens, where
the late roses and clumps of heliotrope threw soft fragrance on
the balmy air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Marguerite was nervous and agitated. Strive how she might,
she could not throw off that foreboding of something evil to come,
which had assailed her from the first moment when she met Chauvelin
face to face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That unaccountable feeling of unreality was still upon her, that
sense that she, and the woman Candeille, Percy, and even His Royal
Highness, were, for the time being, the actors in a play written
and stage-managed by Chauvelin. The ex-ambassador's humility,
his offers of friendship, his quietude under Sir Percy's good-humoured
banter, everything was a sham. Marguerite knew it; her womanly
instinct, her passionate love, all cried out to her in warning;
but there was that in her husband's nature which rendered her
powerless in the face of such dangers, as, she felt sure, were
now threatening him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Just before her guests had begun to assemble, she had been alone
with him for a few minutes. She had entered the room in which
he sat, looking radiantly beautiful in a shimmering gown of white
and silver, with diamonds in her golden hair and round her exquisite
neck.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Moments like this when she was alone with him, were the joy of
her life. Then, and then only, did she see him as he really was,
with that wistful tenderness in his deep-set eyes, that occasional
flash of passion from beneath the lazily-drooping lids. For a
few minutes - seconds, mayhap - the spirit of the reckless adventurer
was laid to rest, relegated into the furthermost background of
his senses by the powerful emotions of the lover.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he would seize her in his arms, and hold her to him, with
a strange longing to tear from out his heart all other thoughts,
feelings, and passions save those which made him a slave to her
beauty and her smiles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Percy!&quot; she whispered to him to-night, when freeing
herself from his embrace she looked up at him, and for this one
heavenly second felt him all her own. &quot;Percy, you will do
nothing rash, nothing foolhardy, to-night. That man had planned
all that took place yesterday. He hates you and... &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In a moment his face and attitude had changed, the heavy lids
drooped over the eyes, the rigidity of the mouth relaxed, an that
quaint, half shy, half inane smile played around the firm lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Of course he does, m'dear,&quot; he said, in his usual affected,
drawly tones, &quot;of course he does, but that is so demmed amusing.
He does not really know what or how much he knows, or what I know...In
fact er ... we none of us know anything just at present...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He laughed lightly and carelessly, then deliberately readjusted
the set of his lace tie.<BR>
&quot;Percy!&quot; she said reproachfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes, m'dear.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lately, when you brought D&eacute;roul&egrave;de and Juliette
Marny to England I endured agonies of anxiety and... &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He sighed, a quick, short, wistful sigh, and said very gently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know you did, m'dear, and that is where the trouble lies.
I know that you are fretting, so I have to be so demmed quick
about the business, so as not to keep you in suspense too long
And now I can't take Ffoulkes away from his young wife, and Tony
and the others are so mighty slow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Percy!&quot; she said once me, with tender earnestness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I know, I know,&quot; he said, with a slight frown of self-reproach.
&quot;La! but I don't deserve your solicitude. Heaven knows what
a brute I was for years, whilst I neglected you, and ignored the
noble devotion which I, alas! do even now so little to deserve.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She would have said something more, but was interrupted by the
entrance of Juliette Marny into the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Some of your guests have arrived, Lady Blakeney,&quot; said
the young girl, apologising for her seeming intrusion. &quot;I
thought you would wish to know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Juliette looked very young and girlish in a simple white gown,
without a single jewel on her arms or neck. Marguerite regarded
her with unaffected approval.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You look charming to-night, Mademoiselle, does she not,
Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Thanks to your bounty,&quot; smiled Juliette, a trifle sadly.
&quot;Whilst I dressed to-night, I felt how I should have loved
to wear my dear mother's jewels, of which she used to be so proud.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;We must hope that you will recover them, dear, some day,&quot;
said Marguerite vaguely, as she led the young girl out of the
small study towards the larger reception rooms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Indeed, I hope so,&quot; sighed Juliette. &quot;When times
became so troublous in France after my dear father's death, his
confessor and friend, the Abb&eacute; Foucquet, took charge of
all my mother's jewels for me. He said they would be safe with
the ornaments of his own little church at Boulogne. He feared
no sacrilege, and thought they would be most effectually hidden
there, for no one would dream of looking for the Marny diamonds
in the crypt of a country church.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite said nothing in reply. Whatever her own doubts might
be upon such a subject, it could serve no purpose to distrub the
young girl's serenity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Dear Abb&eacute; Foucquet,&quot; said Juliette after awhile,
&quot;his is the kind of devotion which I feel sure will never
be found under the new r&eacute;gimes of anarchy and of so-called
equality. He would have laid down his life for my father or for
me. And I know that he would never part with the jewels which
I entrusted to his care, whilst he had breath and strength to
defend them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite would have wished to pursue the subject a little further.
It was very pathetic to witness poor Juliette's hopes and confidence,
which she felt sure would never be realised.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Lady Blakeney knew so much of what was going on in France just
now: spoliations, confiscations, official thefts, open robberies,
all in the name of equality or fraternity, and of patriotism.
She knew nothing, of course, of the Abb&eacute; Foucquet, but
the tender little picture of the devoted old man, painted by Juliette's
loving words, had appealed strongly to her sympathetic heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Instinct and knowledge of the political aspect of France told
her that by entrusting valuable family jewels to the old Abb&eacute;,
Juliette had most unwittingly placed the man she so much trusted
in danger of persecution at the hands of a government which did
not even admit the legality of family possessions. However, there
was neither time nor opportunity now to enlarge upon the subject.
Marguerite resolved to recur to it a little later, when she would
be alone with Mdlle. De Marny, and, above all, when she could
take counsel with her husband as to the best means of recovering
the young girl's property for her, whilst relieving a devoted
old man from the dangerous responsibility which he had so selflessly
undertaken.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the meanwhile the two women had reached the first of the long
line of State apartments wherein the brilliant f&ecirc;te was
to take place. The staircase and the hall below were already filled
with the early arrivals. Bidding Juliette to remain in the ballroom,
Lady Blakeney now took up her stand on the exquisitely-decorated
landing, ready to greet her guests. She had a smile and a pleasant
word for all, as, in a constant stream, the &eacute;lite of London
fashionable society began to file past her, exchanging the elaborate
greetings which the stilted mode of the day prescribed to this
butterfly world.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The lacqueys in the hall shouted the names of the guests as they
passed up the stairs: names celebrated in politics, in worlds
of sport, of science, or of art, great historic names, humble,
newly-made ones, noble illustrious titles. The spacious rooms
were filling fast. His Royal Highness, so 'twas said, had just
stepped out of his barge. The noise of laughter and chatter was
incessant, like unto a crowd of gaily-plumaged birds.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Huge bunches of apricot-coloured roses in silver vases made the
air heavy with their subtle perfume. Fans began to flutter. The
string band struck the preliminary cords of the gavotte.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At that moment the lacqueys at the foot of the stairs called out
in stentorian tones:<BR>
&quot;Mademoiselle D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille and Monsieur
Chauvelin!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite's heart gave a slight flutter; she felt a sudden tightening
of the throat. She did not see Candeille at first, only the slender
figure of Chauvelin dressed all in black, as usual, with head
bent and hands clasped behind his back; he was slowly mounting
the wide staircase, between a double row of brilliantly attired
men and women, who looked with no small measure of curiosity at
the ex-ambassador from revolutionary France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Demoiselle Candeille was leading the way up the stairs. She paused
on the landing, in order to make before her hostess a most perfect
and elaborate curtsey. She looked smiling and radiant, beautifully
dressed, a small wreath of wrought gold leaves in her hair, her
only jewel an absolutely regal one, a magnificent necklace of
diamonds round her shapely throat.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XI<BR>
The Challenge</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">It all occurred just before midnight, in one
of the smaller rooms, which lead in enfilade from the principal
ball-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Dancing had been going on for some time, but the evening was close,
and there seemed to be a growing desire on the part of Lady Blakeney's
guests to wander desultorily through the gardens and glass-houses,
or to sit about where some measure of coolness could be obtained.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a rumour that a new and charming French artiste was
to sing a few peculiarly ravishing songs, unheard in England before.
Close to the main ball-room was the octagon music-room, which
was brilliantly illuminated, and in which a large number of chairs
had been obviously disposed for the comfort of an audience. Into
this room many of the guests had already assembled. It was quite
clear that a chamber-concert - select and attractive as were all
Lady Blakeney's entertainments - was in contemplation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite herself, released for a moment from her constant duties
near her royal guests, had strolled through the smaller rooms,
accompanied by Juliette, in order to search for Mademoiselle Candeille
and to suggest the commencement of the improvised concert.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille had kept herself very much aloof
throughout the evening, only talking to the one or two gentlemen
whom her hostess had presented to her on her arrival, and with
M. Chauvelin always in close attendance upon her every movement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Presently, when dancing began, she retired to a small boudoir,
and there sat down, demurely waiting, until Lady Blakeney should
require her services.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
When Marguerite and Juliette Marny entered the little room, she
rose and came forward a few steps.<BR>
&quot;I am ready, Madame,&quot; she said pleasantly, &quot;whenever
you wish me to begin. I have thought out a short programme - shall
I start with the gay or the sentimental songs?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But before Marguerite had time to utter a reply, she felt her
arm nervously clutched by a hot and trembling hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
'Who who is this woman?&quot; murmured Juliette Marny close to
her ear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The young girl looked pale and very agitated, and her large eyes
were fixed in unmistakable wrath upon the French actress before
her. A little startled, not understanding Juliette's attitude,
Marguerite tried to reply lightly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;This is Mademoiselle Candeille, Juliette dear,&quot; she
said effecting the usual formal introduction, &quot;of the Vari&eacute;t&eacute;s
Theatre of Paris - Mademoiselle D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille
who will sing some charming French ditties for us to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
While she spoke she kept a restraining hand on Juliette's quivering
arm. Already, with the keen intuition which had been on the qui-vive
the whole evening, she scented some mystery in this sudden outburst
on the part of her young prot&eacute;g&eacute;e.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Juliette did not heed her: she felt surging up in her young,
overburdened heart all the wrath and the contempt of the persecuted,
fugitive aristocrat against the triumphant usurper. She had suffered
so much from that particular class of the risen kitchen-wench,
of which the woman before her was so typical an example: years
of sorrow, of poverty were behind her: loss of fortune, of kindred,
of friends - she, even now a pauper, living on the bounty of strangers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And all this through no fault of her own: the fault of her class
mayhap! but not hers!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had suffered much, and was still overwrought and nerve-strung:
for some reason she could not afterwards have explained, she felt
spiteful and uncontrolled, goaded into stupid fury by the look
of insolence and of triumph with which Candeille calmly regarded
her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Afterwards she would willingly have bitten out her tongue for
her vehemence, but for the moment she was absolutely incapable
of checking the torrent of her own emotions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Mademoiselle Candeille, indeed?&quot; she said in wrathful
scorn. &quot;D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille, you mean, Lady Blakeney!
My mother's kitchen-maid, flaunting shamelessly my dear mother's
jewels, which she has stolen mayhap...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The young girl was trembling from head to foot, tears of anger
obscured her eyes; her voice, which fortunately remained low -
not much above a whisper - was thick and husky.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Juliette! Juliette! I entreat you,&quot; admonished Marguerite;
&quot;you must control yourself, you must, indeed... you must
Mademoiselle Candeille, I beg of you to retire...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Candeille - well-schooled in the part she had to play - had
no intention of quitting the field of battle. The more wrathful
and excited Mademoiselle de Marny became the more insolent and
triumphant waxed the young actress's whole attitude. An ironical
smile played round the corners of her mouth, her almond-shaped
eyes were half-closed, regarding through drooping lashes the trembling
figure of the young impoverished aristocrat. Her head was thrown
well back, in obvious defiance of the social conventions, which
should have forbidden a fracas in Lady Blakeney's hospitable house,
and her fingers, provocatively toyed with the diamond necklace
which glittered and sparkled round her throat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had no need to repeat the words of a well-learnt part: her
own wit, her own emotions and feelings helped her to act just
as her employer would have wished her to do. Her native vulgarity
helped her to assume the very bearing which he would have desired.
In fact, at this moment D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille had forgotten
everything save the immediate present: a more than contemptuous
snub from one of those penniless aristocrats, who had rendered
her own sojourn in London so unpleasant and unsuccessful.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had suffered from these snubs before, but had never had the
chance of forcing an exclandre as a result of her own humiliation.
That spirit of hatred for the rich and idle classes, which was
so characteristic of revolutionary France, was alive and hot within
her: she had never had an opportunity - she, the humble fugitive
actress from a minor Paris theatre - to retort with forcible taunts
to the ironical remarks made at haughty &eacute;migr&eacute;s,
who swarmed in those very same circles of London society into
which she herself had vainly striven to penetrate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Now at last one of this same hated class, provoked beyond self-control,
was allowing childish and unreasoning fury to outstrip the usual
calm irony of aristocratic rebuffs.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Juliette had paused awhile, in order to check the wrathful tears
which, much against her will, were choking the words in her throat
and blinding her eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Hoity! toity!&quot; laughed Candeille. &quot;Hark at the
young baggage!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Juliette had turned to Marguerite and began explaining volubly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My mother's jewels!&quot; she said in the midst of her tears.
&quot;Ask her how she came by them? When I was obliged to leave
the home of my father - stolen from me by the Revolutionary Government
- I contrived to retain my mother's jewels you remember, I told
you just now The Abb&eacute; Foucquet - dear old man! - saved
them for me that and a little money which I had he took charge
of them he said he would place them in safety with the ornaments
of his church, and now I see them round that woman's neck... I
know that he would not have parted with them save with his life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
All the while that the young girl spoke in a voice half-choked
with sobs, Marguerite tried with all the physical and mental will
at her command to drag her out of the room and thus to put a summary
ending to this unpleasant scene. She ought to have felt angry
with Juliette for this childish and senseless outburst, were it
not for the fact that somehow she knew within her innermost heart
that all this had been arranged and pre-ordained: not by Fate,
not by a Higher Hand, but by the most skilful intriguer present-day
France had ever known.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And even now, as she was half-succeeding in turning Juliette away
from the sight of Candeille, she was not the least surprised or
startled at seeing Chauvelin standing in the very doorway through
which she had hoped to pass. One glance of his face had made her
fears tangible and real: there was a look of satisfaction and
triumph in his pale, narrow eyes, a flash in them of approbation
directed at the insolent attitude of the French actress: he looked
like the stage-manager of a play, content with the effect his
own well-arranged scenes were producing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
What he hoped to gain by this - somewhat vulgar - quarrel between
the two women, Marguerite, of course, could not guess: that something
was lurking in his mind, inimical to herself and to her husband,
she did not for a moment doubt, and at this moment she felt that
she would have given her very life to induce Candeille and Juliette
to cease this passage of arms, without further provocation on
either side.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But though Juliette might have been ready to yield to Lady Blakeney's
persuasion, D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille, under Chauvelin's
eye, and fired by her own desire to further humiliate this overbearing
aristocrat, did not wish the little scene to end so tamely just
yet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Your old calotin was made to part with his booty, m'dear,&quot;
she said, with a contemptuous shurg of her bare shoulders. &quot;Paris
and France have been starving these many years past: a paternal
Government seized all it could with which to reward those that
served it well, whilst all that would have bought bread and meat
for the poor was being greedily stowed away by shamless traitors!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Juliette winced at the insult.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh!&quot; she moaned, as she buried her flaming face in
her hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Too late now did she realise that she had deliberately stirred
up a mud-heap and sent noisome insects buzzing about her ears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Mademoiselle,&quot; said Marguerite authoritatively, &quot;I
must ask you to remember that Mlle. de Marny is my friend, and
that you are a guest in my house.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Aye! I try not to forget it,&quot; rejoined Candeille lightly;
&quot;but of a truth you must admit, Citizeness, that it would
requrie the patience of a saint to put up with the insolence of
a penniless baggage, who but lately has had to stand her trial
in her own country for impurity of conduct.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a moment's silence, whilst Marguerite distinctly heard
a short sigh of satisfaction escaping from the lips of Chauvelin.
Then a pleasant laugh broke upon the ears of the four actors who
were enacting the dramatic little scene, and Sir Percy Blakeney,
immaculate in his rich white satin coat and filmy lace ruffles,
exquisite in manners and courtesy, entered the little boudoir,
and with his long back slightly bent, his arm outstretched in
a graceful well-studied curve, he approached Mademoiselle D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;May I have the honour,&quot; he said with his most elaborate
air of courtly deference, &quot;of conducting Mademoiselle to
her chaise?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the doorway, just behind him, stood His Royal Highness the
Prince of Wales, chatting with apparent carelessness to Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes and Lord Anthony Dewhurst. A curtain beyond the open
door was partially drawn aside, disclosing one or two brilliantly
dressed groups, strolling desultorily through the further rooms.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The four persons assembled in the little boudoir had been so absorbed
by their own passionate emotions and the violence of their quarrel,
that they had not noticed the approach of Sir Percy Blakeney and
of his friends. Juliette and Marguerite certainly were startled,
and Candeille was evidently taken unawares. Chauvelin alone seemed
quite indifferent, and stood back a little when Sir Percy advanced,
in order to allow him to pass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Candeille recovered quickly enough from her surprise: without
heeding Blakeney's proffered arm, she turned with all the airs
of an insulted tragedy queen towards Marguerite.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;So 'tis I,&quot; she said with affected calm, &quot;who
am to bear every insult in a house in which I was bidden as a
guest. I am turned out like some intrusive and importunate beggar,
and I, the stranger in this land, am estined to find that amidst
all these brilliant English gentlemen there is not one man of
honour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;M. Chauvelin,&quot; she added loudly, &quot;our beautiful
country, has, meseems, deputed you to guard the honour as well
as the worldly goods of your unprotected compatriots. I call upon
you, in the name of France, to avenge the insults offered to me
to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She looked round defiantly from one to the other of the several
faces which were now turned towards her, but no one, for the moment,
spoke or stirred. Juliette, silent and ashamed, had taken Marguerite's
hand in hers, and was clinging to it as if wishing to draw strength
of character and firmness of purpose through the pores of the
other woman's delicate skin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Sir Percy, with backbone still bent in a sweeping curve, had not
relaxed his attitude of uttermost deference. The Prince of Wales
and his friends were viewing the scene with slightly amused aloofness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
For a moment - seconds at most - there was dead silence in the
room, during which time it almost seemed as if the beating of
several hearts could be distinctly heard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then Chauvelin, courtly and urbane, stepped calmly forward.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Believe me, Citizeness,&quot; he said, addressing Candeille
directly and with marked emphasis, &quot;I am entirely at your
command, but am I not helpless, seeing that those who have so
grossly insulted you are of your own irresponsible, if charming,
sex?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Like a great dog after a nap, Sir Percy Blakeney straightened
his long back and stretched it out to its full length.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;La!&quot; he said pleasantly, &quot;my ever-engaging friend
from Calais. Sir, your servant. Meseems we are ever destined to
discuss amiable matters, in an amiable spirit A glass of punch,
Monsieur...er ...Chauvelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I must ask you, Sir Percy,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin sternly,
&quot;to view this matter with becoming seriousness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Seriousness is never becoming, sir,&quot; said Blakeney,
politely smothering a slight yawn, &quot;and it is vastly unbecoming
in the presence of ladies.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Am I to understand, then, Sir Percy,&quot; said Chauvelin,
&quot;that you are prepared to apologise to Mademoiselle Candeille
for the insults offered to her by Lady Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Sir Percy again tried to smother that tiresome little yawn, which
seemed most distressing when he desired to be most polite. Then
he flicked off a grain of dust from his immaculate lace ruffle
and buried his long, slender hands in the capacious pockets of
his white satin breeches; finally he said, with the most good-natured
of smiles:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Sir, have you seen the latest fashion in cravats? I would
wish to draw your attention to the novel way in which we in England
tie a Mechlin-edged bow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Sir Percy,&quot; retorted Chauvelin firmly, &quot;since
you will not offer Mademoiselle Candeille the apology which she
has the right to expect from you, are you prepared that you and
I should cross swords like two honourable gentlemen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Blakeney laughed his usual pleasant, somewhat shy laugh, shook
his powerful frame, and looked from his altitude of six foot three
inches down on the small sable-clad figure of ex-Ambassador Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The question is, sir,&quot; he said slowly, &quot;should
we then be two honourable gentlemen crossing swords?&quot;<BR>
&quot;Sir Percy...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Sir?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin, who for one moment had seemed ready to lose his temper,
now made a sudden effort to resume a calm and easy attitude, and
said quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Of course, if one of us is coward enough to shirk the contest...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He did not complete the sentence, but shrugged his shoulders expressive
of contempt. The other side of the curtained doorway a little
crowd had gradually assembled, attracted hither by the loud and
angry voices which came from that small boudoir. Host and hostess
had been missed from the reception rooms for some time; His Royal
Highness, too, had not been seen for the last quarter of an hour.
Like flies attracted by the light, one by one, or in small, isolated
groups, some of Lady Blakeney's guests had found their way to
the room adjoining the Royal presence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
As His Highness was standing in the doorway itself, no one could,
of course, cross the threshold, but everyone could see into the
room and could take stock of the various actors in the little
comedy. They were witnessing a quarrel between the French envoy
and Sir Percy Blakeney, wherein the former was evidently in deadly
earnest and the latter merely politely bored. Amused comments
flew to and fro: laughter and a Babel of irresponsible chatter
made an incessant chirruping accompaniment to the duologue between
the two men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But at this stage the Prince of Wales, who hitherto had seemingly
kept aloof from the quarrel, suddenly stepped forward and abruptly
interposed the weight of his authority and of his social position
between the bickering adversaries.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Tush, man!&quot; he said impatiently, turning more especially
towards Chauvelin, &quot;you talk at random. Sir Percy Blakeney
is an English gentleman, and the laws of this country do not admit
of duelling, as you understand it in France; and I for one certainly
could not allow...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Pardon, your Royal Highness,&quot; interuppted Sir Percy,
with irresistible bonhomie, &quot;your Highness does not understand
the situation. My engaging friend here does not propose that I
should transgress the laws of this country, but that I should
go over to France with him, and fight him there, where duelling
and... er... other little matters of that sort are allowed.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes! quite so!&quot; rejoined the Prince. &quot;I understand
M. Chauvelin's desire ...But what about you, Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh!&quot; replied Sir Percy lightly, &quot;I have accepted
his challenge, of course!&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XII<BR>
Time-Place-Conditions</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">It would be very difficult indeed to say why
-at Blakeney's lightly-spoken words - an immediate silence should
have fallen upon all those present. All the actors in the little
drawing-room drama, who had played their respective parts so unerringly
up to now, had paused awhile, just as if an invisible curtain
had come down, marking the end of a scene, and the interval during
which the players might recover strength and energy to resume
their r&ocirc;les. The Prince of Wales as foremost spectator said
nothing for the moment, and, beyond the doorway, the audience
there assembled seemed suddenly to be holding its breath, waiting
-eager, expectant, palpitating - for what would follow now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Only here and there the gentle frou-frou of a silk skirt, the
rhythmic flutter of a fan, broke those few seconds' deadly, stony
silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yet it all was simple enough. A fracas between two ladies, the
gentlemen interposing, a few words of angry expostulation, and
then the inevitable suggestion of Belgium or of some other country
where the childish and barbarous custom of settling such matters
with a couple of swords had not been as yet systematically stamped
out.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The whole scene -with but slight variations - had occurred scores
of times in London drawing-rooms. English gentlemen had, scores
of times, crossed the Channel for the purpose of settling similar
quarrels in Continental fashion.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Why should the present situation appear so abnormal? Sir Percy
Blakeney - an accomplished gentleman - was past master in the
art of fence, and looked more than a match in strength and dexterity
for the meagre, sable-clad little opponent who had so summarily
challenged him to cross over to France, in order to fight a duel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But somehow everyone had a feeling at this moment that this proposed
duel would be unlike any other combat ever fought between two
antagonists. Perhaps it was the white, absolutely stony and unexpressive
face of Marguerite which suggested a latent tragedy; perhaps it
was the look of unmistakable horror in Juliette's eyes, or that
of triumph in those of Chauvelin, or even that certain something
in His Royal Highness' face, which seemed to imply that the Prince,
careless man of the world as he was, would have given much to
prevent this particular meeting from taking place.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a certain wave of electrical
excitement swept over the little crowd assembled there, the while
the chief actor in the little drama, the inimitable dandy, Sir
Percy Blakeney himself, appeared deeply engrossed in removing
a speck of powder from the wide black satin ribbon which held
his gold-rimmed eyeglass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Gentlemen!&quot; said His Royal Highness suddenly, &quot;we
are forgetting the ladies. My lord Hastings,&quot; he added, turning
to one of the gentlemen who stood close to him, &quot;I pray you
to remedy this unpardonable neglect. Men's quarrels are not fit
for ladies' dainty ears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Sir Percy looked up from his absorbing occupation. His eyes met
those of his wife; she was like a marble statue, hardly conscious
of what was going on round her. But he, who knew every emotion
which swayed that ardent and passionate nature, guessed that beneath
that stony calm there lay a mad, almost unconquerable impulse;
and that was to shout to all these puppets here the truth, the
awful, the unanswerable truth, to tell them what this challenge
really meant; a trap wherein one man, consumed with hatred and
desire for revenge, hoped to entice a brave and fearless foe into
a death-dealing snare.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Full well did Percy Blakeney guess that for the space of one second
his most cherished secret hovered upon his wife's lips, one turn
of the balance of Fate, one breath from the mouth of an unseen
sprite, and Marguerite was ready to shout:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Do not allow this monstrous thing to be! The Scarlet Pimpernel,
whom you all admire for his bravery, and love for his daring,
stands before you now, face to face with his deadliest enemy,
who is here to lure him to his doom!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
For that momentous second, therefore, Percy Blakeney held his
wife's gaze with the magnetism of his own; all there was in him
of love, of entreaty, of trust, and of command went out to her
through that look with which he kept her eyes rivetted upon his
face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then he saw the rigidity of her attitude relax. She closed her
eyes in order to shut out the whole world from her suffering soul.
She seemed to be gathering all the mental force of which her brain
was capable for one great effort of self-control. Then she took
Juliette's hand in hers, and turned to go out of the room; the
gentlemen bowed as she swept past them, her rich silken gown making
a soft hush-sh-sh as she went. She nodded to some, curtseyed to
the Prince, and had at the last moment the supreme courage and
pride to turn her head once more towards her husband, in order
to re-assure him finally that his secret was as safe with her
now, in this hour of danger, as it had been in the time of triumph.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She smiled and passed out of his sight, preceded by D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille, who, escorted by one of the gentlemen, had become singularly
silent and subdued.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the little room now there only remained a few men. Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes had taken the precaution of closing the door after theladies
had gone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then His Royal Highness turned once more to Monsieur Chauvelin
and said with an obvious show of indifference:<BR>
&quot;Faith, Monsieur! Meseems we are all enacting a farce, which
can have no final act. I vow that I cannot allow my friend Blakeney
to go over to France at your bidding. Your government now will
not allow my father's subjects to land on your shores without
a special passport, and then only for a specific purpose.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;La, your Royal Highness,&quot; interposed Sir Percy, &quot;I
pray you have no fear for me on that score. My engaging friend
here has -an I mistake not- a passport ready for me in the pocket
of his sable-hued coat, and as we are hoping effectually to spit
one another over there... gadzooks! but there's the specific purpose
... Is it not true, sir&quot; he added, turning once more to Chauvelin,
&quot;that in the pocket of that exquisitely-cut coat of yours
you have a passport-name in blank perhaps -which you had specifically
designed for me?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
It was so carelessly, so pleasantly said, that no one save Chauvelin
guessed the real import of Sir Percy's words. Chauvelin, of course,
knew their inner meaning: he understood that Blakeney wished to
convey to him the fact that he was well aware that the whole scene
to-night had been pre-arranged, and that it was willingly and
with eyes wide open that he walked into the trap which the revolutionary
patriot had so carefully laid for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The passport will be forthcoming in due course, sir,&quot;
retorted Chauvelin evasively, &quot;when our seconds have arranged
all formalities.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Seconds be demmed, sir,&quot; rejoined Sir Percy placidly.
&quot;You do not propose, I trust, that we travel a whole caravan
to France?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Time, place, and conditions must be settled, Sir Percy,&quot;
replied Chauvelin; &quot;you are too accomplished a cavalier,
I feel sure, to wish to arrange such formalities yourself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! neither you nor I, Monsieur er Chauvelin,&quot; quoth
Sir Percy blandly, &quot;could, I own, settle such things with
persistent good-humour; and good-humour in such cases is the most
important of all formalities. Is it not so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Certainly, Sir Percy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;As for seconds, perish the thought! One second only, I entreat,
and that one a lady - the most adorable -the most detestable -the
most true -the most fickle admist all her charming sex... Do you
agree, sir?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You have not told me her name, Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Chance, Monsieur, Chance. With His Royal Highness' permission,
let the wilful jade decide.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I do not understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Three throws of the dice, Monsieur ... Time Place Conditions,
you said -three throws and the winner names them... Do you agree?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin hesitated. Sir Percy's bantering mood did not quite
fit in with his own elaborate plans; moreover, the ex-ambassador
feared a pitfall of some sort, a did not quite like to trust to
this arbitration of the dice-box.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He turned, quite involuntarily, in appeal to the Prince of Wales,
and the other gentlemen present.<BR>
But the Englishman of those days was a born gambler. He lived
with the dice-box in one pocket and a pack of cards in the other.
The Prince himself was no exception to this rule, and the first
gentleman in England was the most avowed worshipper of Hazard
in the land.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Chance, by all means,&quot; quoth His Highness gaily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the midst of so hostile a crowd, Chauvelin felt it unwise to
resist. Moreover, one second's reflection had already assured
him that this throwing of the dice could not seriously interfere
with the success of his plans. If the meeting took place at all
-and Sir Percy now had gone too far to draw back -then of necessity
it would have to take place in France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The question of time and conditions of the fight, which at best
would be only a farce - only a means to an end -could not be of
paramount importance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Therefore he shrugged his shoulders with well-marked indifference,
and said lightly:<BR>
&quot;As you please.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a small table in the centre of the room with a settee
and two or three chairs arranged close to it. Around this table
now an eager little group had congregated: the Prince of Wales
in the forefront, unwilling to interfere, scarce knowing what
madcap plans were floating through Blakeney's adventurous brain,
but excited in spite of himself at this momentous game of hazard,
the issues of which seemed so nebulous, so vaguely fraught with
dangers. Close to him were Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Lord Anthony Dewhurst,
Lord Grenville, and perhaps a half score gentlemen, young men
about town mostly, gay and giddy butterflies of fashion, who did
not even attempt to seek, in this strange game of chance, any
hidden meaning save that it was one of Blakeney's irresponsible
pranks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And in the centre of the compact group, Sir Percy Blakeney, in
his gorgeous suit of shimmering white satin, one knee bent upon
a chair, and leaning with easy grace -dice-box in hand -across
the small gilt-legged table; beside him ex-Ambassador Chauvelin,
standing with arms folded behind his back, watching every movement
of his brilliant adversary, like some dark-plumaged hawk hovering
near a bird of paradise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Place first, Monsieur?&quot; suggested Sir Percy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;As you will, sir,&quot; assented Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him,
and the two men threw.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;'Tis mine, Monsieur,&quot; said Blakeney carelessly, &quot;mine
to name the place where shall occur the historic encounter, 'twixt
the busiest man in France and the most idle fop that e'er disgraced
these three kingdoms. Just for the sake of argument, sir, what
place would you suggest?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy,&quot; replied
Chauvelin coldly, &quot;the whole of France stands at your disposal.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Aye! I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such
boundless hospitality,&quot; retorted Blakeney imperturbably.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Do you care for the woods around Paris, sir?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Too far from the coast, sir. I might be seasick crossing
over the Channel, and glad to get the business over as soon as
possible... No, not Paris, sir -rather let us say Boulogne. Pretty
little place, Boulogne... do you not think so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Undoubtedly, Sir Percy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then Boulogne it is... the ramparts, as you will, on the
south side of the town.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;As you please,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin drily. &quot;Shall
we throw again?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between
the adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with
shouts of laughter. Now the dice rattled again, and once more
the two men threw.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chuavelin,&quot; said Blakeney,
after a rapid glance at the dice. &quot;See how evenly Chance
favours us both. Mine, the choice of place ...admirably done you'll
confess ...Now yours the choice of time. I wait upon your pleasure,
sir... The southern ramparts at Boulogne - when?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral
bell chimes the evening Angelus,&quot; came Chauvelin's ready
reply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolished
Cathedrals, and bells and chimes. The people of France have now
to go to hell their own way for the way to heaven has been barred
by the National Convention... Is that not so? Methough the Angelus
was forbidden to be rung.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy,&quot; retorted Chauvelin
drily, &quot;and I'll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus
shall be rung that night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;At what hour is that, sir?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;One hour after sundown.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But why four days after this? Why not two or three?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I might have asked, why the southern ramparts? Sir Percy,
why not the western? I chose the fourth day - does it not suit
you?&quot; asked Chauvelin ironically.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Suit me! Why, sir, nothing could suit me better,&quot; rejoined
Blakeney with his pleasant laugh. &quot;Zounds! But I call it
marvellous demmed marvelous. I wonder now,&quot; he added blandly,
&quot;what made you think of the Angelus?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Everyone laughed at this, a little irreverently perhaps.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah!&quot; continued Blakeney gaily, &quot;I remember now...
Faith! To think that I was nigh forgetting that when last you
and I met, sir, you had just taken or were about to take Holy
Orders... Ah! how well the thought of the Angelus fits in with
your clerical garb... I recollect that the latter was mightily
becoming to you, sir&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight,
Sir Percy?&quot; said Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his
antagonist's gibes, and trying to disguise his irritation beneath
a mask of impassive reserve.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The choice of weapons, you mean,&quot; here interposed His
Royal Highness; &quot;but I thought that swords had already been
decided on.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Quite so, your Highness,&quot; assented Blakeney, &quot;but
there are various little matters in connection with this momentous
encounter which are of vast importance ...Am I not right, Monsieur?
Gentlemen, I appeal to you...Faith! one never knows. My engaging
opponent here might desire that I should fight him in green socks,
and I that he should wear a scarlet flower in his coat.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why not, Monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole,
against the black of the clerical coat, which I understand you
sometimes affect in France and when it is withered and quite dead
you would find that it would leave an overpowering odour in your
nostrils, far stronger than that of incense.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was general laughter after this. The hatred which every
member of the French revolutionary government -including, of course,
ex-Ambassador Chauvelin- bore to the national hero was well known.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The conditions then, Sir Percy,&quot; said Chauvelin, without
seeming to notice the taunt conveyed in Blakeney's last words.
&quot;Shall we throw again?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;After you, sir,&quot; acquiesced Sir Percy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box
and threw. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details
quite failed to interest him. What mattered the conditions of
the fight which was only intended as a bait with which to lure
his enemy in the open. The hour and place were decided on, and
Sir Percy would not fail to come. Chauvelin knew enough of his
opponent's boldly adventurous spirit not to feel in the least
doubtful on that point. Even now, as he gazed with grudging admiration
at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy, noted the
thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad forehead, and
deep-set half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein
Percy Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only
emotion that really swayed him at this moment was his passionate
love of adventure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The ruling passion strong in death!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one
hour after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his
usual marvellous good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his
great physical and mental strength, to escape from the trap into
which he was ready to walk.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one
great thing: namely that on that eventful day nothing whatever
should be left to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not
only with cunning but also with power, and if the entire force
of the Republican army then available in the north of France had
to be requisitioned for the purpose, the ramparts of Boulogne
would be surrounded and no chance of escape left for the daring
Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by
Blakeney's voice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin,&quot; he said. &quot;I fear me
your luck has deserted you. Chance, as you see, has turned to
me once more.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Then it is for you, Sir Percy,&quot; rejoined the Frenchman,
&quot;to name the conditions under which we are to fight.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur?&quot; quoth Sir Percy
lightly. &quot;By my faith! I'll not plague you with formalities.
We'll fight with our coats on if it be cold, in our shirt-sleeves
if it be sultry... I'll not demand either green socks or scarlet
ornaments. I'll even try and be serious for the space of two minutes,
sir, and confine my whole attention -the product of my infinitesimal
brain - to thinking out some pleasant detail for this duel, which
might be acceptable to you. Thus, sir, the thought of weapons
springs to mind ...Swords, you said, I think. Sir! I will e'en
restrict my choice of conditions to that of the actual weapons
with which we are to fight. Ffoulkes, I pray you,&quot; he added,
turning to his friend, &quot;the pair of swords which lie across
the top of my desk at this moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;We'll not ask a menial to fetch them, eh, Monsieur?&quot;
he continued gaily, as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes at a sign from him
had quickly left the room. &quot;What need to bruit our pleasant
quarrel abroad? You will like the weapons, sir, and you shall
have your own choice from the pair. You are a finer fencer, I
feel sure and you shall decide if a scratch or two or a more serious
wound shall be sufficient to avenge Mademoiselle Candeille's wounded
vanity.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Whilst he prattled so gaily on, there was dead silence among all
those present. The Prince had his shrewd eyes steadily fixed upon
him, obviously wondering what this seemingly irresponsible adventurer
held at the back of his mind. There is no doubt that everyone
felt oppressed, and that a strange murmur of anticipatory excitement
went round the little room, when, a few seconds later, Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes returned, with two sheathed swords in his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Blakeney took them from his friend and placed them on the little
table in front of ex-Ambassador Chauvelin. The spectators strained
their necks to look at the two weapons. They were exactly similar
one to the other: both encased in plain black leather sheaths,
with steel ferrules polished to shine like silver; the handles,
too, were of plain steel, with just the grip fashioned in a twisted
basket pattern of the same highly-tempered metal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What think you of these weapons, Monsieur?&quot; asked Blakeney,
who was carelessly leaning against the back of a chair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin took up one of the two swords, and slowly drew it from
out its scabbard, carefully examining the brilliant, narrow steel
blade as he did so.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;A little old-fashioned in style and make, Sir Percy,&quot;
he said, closely imitating his opponent's easy demeanour, &quot;a
trifle heavier, perhaps, than we in France have been accustomed
to lately, but, nevertheless, a beautifully-tempered piece of
steel.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Of a truth there's not much the matter with the tempering,
Monsieur,&quot; quoth Blakeney, &quot;the blades were fashioned
at Toledo, just two hundred years ago.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah! here I see an inscription,&quot; said Chauvelin, holding
the sword close to his eyes, the better to see the minute letters
engraved in the steel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The name of the original owner. I myself bought them - when
I travelled in Italy- from one of his descendants.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Lorenzo Giovanni Cenci,&quot; said Chauvelin, spelling the
Italian names quite slowly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;The greatest blackgaurd that ever trod this earth. You,
no doubt, Monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine,
theft, murder; nothing came amiss to Signor Lorenzo... neither
the deadly drug in the cup nor the poisoned dagger.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He had spoken lightly, carelessly, with that same tone of easy
banter, which he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and
the same drawly manner, which was habitual to him. But at these
last words of his, Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly
replaced the sword -which he had been examining - upon the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He threw a quick, suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning
back against the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat,
was idly toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one
which the ex-ambassador had so suddenly put down.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Well, Monsieur,&quot; quoth Sir Percy, after a slight pause,
and meeting with a swift glance of lazy irony his opponent's fixed
gaze. &quot;Are you satisified with the weapons? Which of the
two shall be yours, and which mine?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Of a truth, Sir Percy&quot; murmured Chauvelin still hesitating.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay, Monsieur,&quot; interuppted Blakeney with pleasant
bonhomie, &quot;I know what you would say of a truth, there is
no choice between this pair of perfect twins: one is as exquisite
as the other. And yet you must take one and I the other... this
or that, whichever you prefer. You shall take it home with you
to-night and practise thrusting at a haystack or at a bobbin.
The sword is yours to command until you have used it against my
unworthy person ...yours until you bring it out four days hence
-on the souther ramparts of Boulogne, when the Cathedral bells
chime the evening Angelus; then you shall cross it against its
faithless twin. There, Monsieur -they are of equal length of equal
strength and temper a perfect pair. Yet I pray you, choose.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He took up both the swords in his hands, and carefully balancing
them by the extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards, he held
them out toward the Frenchman. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon
him, and he from his towering height was looking down at the little
sable-clad figure before him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The Terrorist seemed uncertain what to do. Though he was one of
those men who, by the force of their intellect, the strength of
their enthusiasm, the power of their cruelty, had built a new
anarchical France, had overturned a throne and murdered a king,
yet now, face to face with this affected fop, this lazy and debonnair
adventurer, he hesitated -trying in vain to read what was going
on behind that low, smooth forehead or within the depths of those
lazy, blue eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He would have given several years of his life at this moment for
one short glimpse into the innermost brain cells of his daring
mind, to see the man start, quiver but for the fraction of a second,
betray himself by a tremor of the eyelid. What counter-plan was
lurking in Percy Blakeney's head, as he offered to his opponent
the two swords, which had once belonged to Lorenzo Cenci?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger
in the fastidious mind of this accomplished English gentleman?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Surely not!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears. It seemed madness
even to think of Italian poisons, of the Cencis or the Borgias
in the midst of this brilliantly-lighted English drawing-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words
and with looks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe,
and to read. He forced himself once more to careless laughter
and non-chalance of manner and schooled his lips to smile up with
gentle irony at the good-humoured face of his arch-enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He tapped one of the swords with his long-pointed finger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Is this the one you choose, sir?&quot; asked Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! which do you adivse, Sir Percy?&quot; replied Chauvelin
lightly. &quot;Which of those two blades think you is most like
to hold after two hundred years the poison of the Cenci?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Blakeney neither started nor winced. He broke into a laugh,
his own usual pleasant laught, half shy and somehwat inane, then
said in tones of lively astonishment</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Zounds! Sir, but you are full of surprises. Faith! I never
would have thought of that! Marvellous, I call, it demmed marvellous!
What say you, gentlemen? Your Royal Highness, what think you?
Is not my engaging friend here of a most original turn of mind?
Will you have this sword or that, Monsieur? Nay, I must insist
-else we shall weary our friends if we hesitate too long. This
one, then, sir, since you have chosen it,&quot; he continued,
as Chauvelin finally took one of the swords in his hand. &quot;And
now for a bowl of punch. Nay, Monsieur, 'twas demmed smart what
you said just now. I must insist on your joining us in a bowl.
Such wit as yours, Monsieur, must need whetting at times. I pray
you repeat that same sally again!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then, finally turning to the Prince and to his friends, he added:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;And after that bowl, gentlemen, shall we rejoin the ladies?&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XIII<BR>
Reflections</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">It seemed indeed as if the incident were finally
closed, the chief actors in the drama having deliberately vacated
the centre of the stage.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The little crowd which had stood in a compact mass round the table
began to break up intou sundry small groups: laughter and desultory
talk, checked for a moment by that oppressive sense of unknown
danger, which had weighed on the spirits of those present, once
more becamse general. Blakeney's light-heartedness had put everyone
into a good humour; since he evidently did not look upon the challenge
as a matter of serious moment, why then, no one else had any cause
for anxiety, and the younger men were right glad to join in that
bowl of punch which their genial host had offered with so merry
a grace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Lacqueys appeared, throwing open the doors. From a distance the
sound of dance music once more broke upon the ear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A few of the men only had remained silent, deliberately holding
aloof from the renewed mirthfulness. Foremost amongst these was
His Royal Highness, who was looking distinctly troubled, and who
had taken Sir Percy by the arm and was talking to him with obvious
earnestness. Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Lord Hastings were holding
converse in a secluded corner of the room, whilst Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
as being the host's most intimate friend, felt it incumbent on
him to say a few words to ex-Ambassador Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The latter was desirous of effecting a retreat. Blakeney's invitation
to join in the friendly bowl of punch could not be taken seriously,
and the Terrorist wanted to be alone, in order to think out the
events of the past hour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
A lacquey waited on him, took the momentous sword from his hand,
found his hat and cloak, and called his coach for him: Chauvelin,
having taken formal leave of his host and acquaintances, quickly
worked his way to the staircase and hall, through the less-frequented
apartments.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He sincerely wished to avoid meeting Lady Blakeney face to face.
Not that the slightest twinge of remorse disturbed his mind, but
he feared some impulsive action on her part, which indirectly
might interfere with his future plans. Fortunately no one took
much heed of the darkly-clad, insignificant little figure, that
glided so swiftly by, obviously determined to escape attention.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In the hall he found Demoiselle Candeille waiting for him. She
too had evidently been desirous of leaving Blakeney Manor as soon
as possible. He saw her to her chaise; then escorted her as far
as her lodgings, which were close by: there were still one or
two things which he wished to discuss with her, one or two final
instructions which he desired to give.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
On the whole, he was satisfied with his evening's work: the young
actress had well supported him, and had played her part so far
with marvellous <I>sang-froid </I>and skill. Sir Percy, whether
willingly or blindly, had seemed only too ready to walk into the
trap which was being set for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This fact alone disturbed Chauvelin not a little, and as, half
an hour or so later, having taken final leave of his ally, he
sat alone in the coach which was conveying him back to town, the
sword of Lorenzo Cenci close to his hand, he pondered very seriously
over it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That the adventurous Scarlet Pimpernel should have guessed all
along that sooner or later the French Revolutionary Government
-whom he had defrauded of some of its most important victims -would
desire to be even with him, and to bring him to the scaffold,
was not to be wondered at. But that he should be so blind as to
imagine that Chauvelin'' challenge was anything else but a lure
in induce him to go to France could not possibly be supposed.
So bold an adventurer, so keen an intriguer was sure to have scented
the trap immediately, and if he appeared ready to fall into it,
it was because there had already sprung up in his resourceful
mind some bold coup or subtle counter-plan, with shich he hoped
to gratify his own passionate love of sport, whilst once more
bringing his enemies to discomfiture and humiliation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Undoubtedly Sir Percy Blakeney, as an accomplished gentleman of
the period, could not very well under the circumstances which
had been so carefully stage-managed and arranged by Chauvelin,
refuse the latter's challenge to fight him on the other side of
the Channel. Any hesitation on the part of the leader of that
daring Scarlet Pimpernel League would have covered him with a
faint suspicion of pusillanimity, and a subtle breath of ridicule,
and in a moment the prestige of the unknown and elusive hero would
have vanished for ever.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But apart from the necessity of the fight, Blakeney seemed to
enter into the spirit of the plot directed against his own life
with such light-hearted merriment, such zest and joy, that Chauvelin
could not help but be convinced that the capture of the Scarlet
Pimpernel at Boulogne or elsewhere would not prove quite so easy
a matter as he had at first anticipated.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That same night he wrote a long and circumstantial letter to his
colleague, Citizen Robespierre, shifting thereby, as it were,
some of the responsibility of coming events from his own shoulders
on to the executive of the Committee of Public Safety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
<I>&quot;I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre,&quot; </I>he
wrote, <I>&quot;and to the members of the Revolutionary Government
who have entrusted me with the delicate mission, that four days
from this date, at one hour after sunset, the man who goes by
the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the ramparts
of Boulogne, on the south side of the town. I have done what has
been asked of me. On that day, and at that hour, I shall have
brought the enemy of the Revolution, the intriguer against the
policy of the Republic, within the power of the Government which
he has flouted and outraged. Now look to it, citizens all, that
the fruits of my diplomacy and of my skill be not lost to France
again. The man will be there at my bidding; 'tis for you to see
that he does not escape this time.&quot;</I></FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
</FONT></I><FONT SIZE="+1">This letter he sent by the special
courier which the National Convention had placed at his disposal
in case of emergency. Having sealed it and entrusted it to the
man, Chauvelin felt at peace with the world and with himself.
Although he was not so sure of success as he would have wished,
he yet could not see <I>how</I> failure could possibly come about:
and the only regret which he felt to-night, when he finally, in
the early dawn, sought a few hours' troubled rest, was that that
momentous fourth day was still so very far distant.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XIV<BR>
The Ruling Passion</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meanwhile silence had fallen over the
beautiful old manorial house. One by one the guests had departed,
leaving that peaceful sense of complete calm and isolation which
follows the noisy chatter of any great throng bent chiefly on
enjoyment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The evening had been universally acknowledged to have been brilliantly
successful. True, the much-talked-of French artiste had not sung
the promised ditties, but in the midst of the whirl and excitement
of dances, of the inspiriting tunes of the string band, the elaborate
supper and recherch&eacute; wines, no one had paid much heed to
this change in the programme of entertainments.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And everyone had agreed that never had Lady Blakeney looked more
radiantly beautiful than on this night. She seemed absolutely
indefatigable; a perfect hostess, full of charming little attentions
towards everyone, although more than ordinarily absorbed by her
duties towards her many Royal guests.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The dramatic incident which had taken place in the small boudoir
had not been much bruited abroad. It was always considered bad
form in those courtly days to discuss men's quarrels before ladies,
and in this instance those who were present when it all occurred
instinctively felt that their discretion would be appreciated
in high circles, and held their tongues accordingly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Thus the brilliant evening was brought to a happy conclusion,
without a single cloud to mar the enjoyment of the guests. Marguerite
performed a veritable miracle of fortitude, forcing her very smiles
to seem natural and gay, chatting pleasantly, even wittily, upon
every known fashionable topic of the day, laughing merrily the
while her poor, aching heart was filled with unspeakable misery.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Now, when everybody had gone, when the last of her guests had
bobbed before her the prescribed curtsey, to which she had invariably
responded with the same air of easy self-possession, now at last
she felt free to give rein to her thoughts, to indulge in the
luxury of looking her own anxiety in the face and to let the tension
of her nerves relax.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had been the last to leave, and Percy had
strolled out with him as far as the garden gate, for Lady Ffoulkes
had left in her chaise some time ago, and Sir Andrew meant to
walk to his home not many yards distant from Blakeney Manor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
In spite of herself Marguerite felt her heartstrings tighten as
she thought of this young couple so lately wedded. People smiled
a little when Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' name was mentioned: some called
him effeminate, other uxorious, his fond attachment for his pretty
little wife was thought to pass the bounds of decorum. There was
no doubt that since his marriage the young man had greatly changed.
His love of sport and adventure seemed to have died out completely,
yielding evidently to the great, more overpowering love, that
for his young wife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Suzanne was nervous for her husband's safety. She had sufficient
influence over him to keep him at home, when other members of
the brave little League of the Scarlet Pimpernel followed their
leader with mad zest on some bold adventure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite, too, at first had smiled in kindly derision when Suzanne
Ffoulkes, her large eyes filled with tears, had used her wiles
to keep Sir Andrew tied to her own dainty apron-strings. But somehow,
lately, with that gentle contempt which she felt for the weaker
man, there had mingled a half-acknowledged sense of envy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
How different 'twixt her and her husband.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Percy loved her truly and with a depth of passion proportionate
to his own curious dual personality: it were sacrilege almost,
to doubt the intensity of his love. But, nevertheless, she had
at all times a feeling as if he were holding himself and his emotions
in check, as if his love, as if she, Marguerite, his wife, were
but secondary matters in his life; as if her anxieties, her sorrow
when he left her, her fears for his safety, were but small episodes
in the great book of life which he had planned out and conceived
for himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then she would hate herself for such thoughts: they seemed like
doubts of him. Did any man ever love a woman, she asked herself,
as Percy loved her? He was difficult to understand, and perhaps
-oh! that was an awful &quot;perhaps&quot;- perhaps there lurked
somewhere in his mind a slight mistrust of her. She had betrayed
him once! -unwittingly, 'tis true! Did he fear she might do so
again?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And to-night, after her guests had gone, she threw open the great
windows that gave on the beautiful terrace, with its marble steps
leading down to the cool rive beyond. Everything now seemed so
peaceful and still; the scent of the heliotrope made the midnight
air swoon with its intoxicating fragrance; the rhythmic murmur
of the waters came gently echoing from below, and from far away
there came the melancholy cry of a night-bird on the prowl.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
That cry made Marguerite shudder: her thoughts flew back to the
episodes of this night and to Chauvelin, the dark bird of prey,
with his mysterious, death-dealing plans, his subtle intrigues,
which all tended towards the destruction of one man: his enemy,
the husband whom Marguerite loved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Oh! how she hated these while adventures which took Percy away
from her side. Is not a woman who loves -be it husband or child
-the most truly selfish, the most cruelly callous creature in
the world -there, where the safety and the well-being of the loved
one is in direct conflict with the safety and well-being of others.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She would right gladly have closed her eyes to every horror perpetrated
in France; she would not have known what went on in Paris; she
wanted her husband! And yet, month after month, with but short
intervals, she saw him risk that precious life of his, which was
the very essence of her own soul, for others! for others! always
for others!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And she! she! Marguerite, his wife, was powerless to hold him
back! Powerless to keep him beside her, when that mad fit of passion
mad fit of passion seized him to go on one of those wild quests,
wherefrom she always feared he could not return alive: and this,
although she might use every noble artifice, every tender wile
of which a loving and beautiful wife is capable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
At times like those her own proud heart was filled with hatred
and with envy towards everything that took him away from her:
and to-night all these passionate feelings, which she felt were
quite unworthy of her and of him, seemed to surge within her soul
more tumultuously than ever. She was longing to throw herself
in his arms, to pour out into his loving ear all that she suffered,
in fear and anxiety, and to make one more appeal to his tenderness
and to that passion which had so often made him forget the world
at her feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And so instinctively she walked along the terrace towards that
more secluded part of the garden just above the river bank, where
she had so oft wandered hand in hand with him in the honeymoon
of their love. There great clumps of old-fashioned cabbage roses
grew in untidy splendour, and belated lilies sent intoxicating
odours into the air, whilst the heavy masses of Egyptian and Michaelmas
daisies looked like ghostly constellations in the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She thought Percy must soon be coming this way. Though it was
so late, she knew that he would not go to bed. After the events
of the night, his ruling passion, strong in death, would be holding
him in its thrall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She, too, felt wide awake and unconscious of fatigue; when she
reached the secluded path beside the river, she peered eagerly
up and down, and listened for a sound.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Presently it seemed to her that above the gentle clapper of the
waters she could hear a rustle and the crunching of the fine gravel
under carefully measured footsteps. She waited awhile. The footsteps
seemed to draw nearer, and soon, although the starlit night was
very dark, she perceived a cloaked and hooded figure approaching
cautiously towards her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Who goes there?&quot; she called suddenly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
The figure paused: then came rapidly forward, and a voice said
timidly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Ah! Lady Blakeney!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Who are you?&quot; asked Marguerite peremptorily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;It is ID&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille,&quot; replied the
midnight prowler.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Demoiselle Candeille!&quot; ejaculated Marguerite, wholly
taken by surprise. &quot;What are you doing here, alone, and at
this hour?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Sh-sh-sh&quot; whispered Candeille eagerly, as she approached
quite close to Marguerite and drew her hood still lower over her
eyes. &quot;I am all alone I wanted to see some one-you, if possible,
Lady Blakeney for I could not rest I wanted to know what had happened.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What had happened? When? I don't understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What happened between Citizen Chauvelin and your husband?&quot;
asked Candeille.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;What is that to you?&quot; replied Marguerite haughtily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I pray you, do not misunderstand me&quot; pleaded Candeille
eagerly. &quot;I know my presence in your house the quarrel which
I provoked must have filled your heart with hatred and suspicion
towards me. But oh! how can I persuade you? I acted unwillingly
will you not believe me? I was that man's tool and... Oh God!&quot;
she added with sudden, wild vehemence, &quot;if only you could
know what tyranny that accursed Government of France exercises
over poor helpless women or men who happen to have fallen within
reach of its relentless clutches.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Her voice broke down in a sob: Marguerite hardly knew what to
say or think. She had always mistrusted this woman, with her theatrical
ways and stagey airs, from the very first moment that she saw
her in the tent on the green: and she did not wish to run counter
against her instinct in anything pertaining to the present crisis.
And yet, in spite of her mistrust, the actress's vehement words
found an echo in the depths of her own heart. How well she knew
what tyranny of which Candeille spoke with such bitterness. Had
she not suffered from it, endured terrible sorrow and humiliation,
when under the ban of that same appalling tyranny she had betrayed
the identity -then unknown to her -of the Scarlet Pimpernel?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Therefore when Candeille paused after those last excited words,
she said with more gentleness than she had shown hitherto, though
still quite coldly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;But you have not yet told me why you came back here to-night?
If Citizen Chauvelin was your taskmaster, then you must know all
that has occurred.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I had a vague hope that I might see you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For what purpose?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;To warn you if I could.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I need no warning.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Or are you too proud to take one? Do you know, Lady Blakeney,
that Citizen Chauvelin has a personal hatred against your husband?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;How do you know that?&quot; asked Marguerite, with her suspicions
once more on the qui-vive. She could not understand Candeille's
attitude. This midnight visit, the vehemence of her language,
the strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance which she displayed.
What did this woman know of Chauvelin's secret plans? Was she
his open ally, or his helpless tool? And was she even now playing
a part taught her or commanded her by that prince of intriguers?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Candeille, however, seemed quite unaware of the spirit of antagonism
and mistrust which Marguerite took but little pains now to disguise.
She clasped her hands together, and her voice shook with the earnestness
of her entreaty: <BR>
&quot;Oh!&quot; she said eagerly, &quot;have I not seen that look
of hatred in Chauvelin's eyes? He hates your husband I tell you
...Why I know not, but he hates him and means that great harm
shall come to Sir Percy through this absurd duel ... Oh! Lady
Blakeney, do not let him go. I entreat you, do not let him go!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But Marguerite proudly drew back a step or two, away from the
reach of those hands, stretched out towards her in such vehement
appeal.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You are overwrought, Mademoiselle,&quot; she said coldly.
&quot;Believe me, I have no need either of your entreaties or
of your warning I should like you to think that I have no wish
to be ungrateful that I appreciate any kind thought you may have
harboured for me in your mind But beyond that please forgive me
if I say it somewhat crudely- I do not feel that the matter concerns
you in the least The hour is late,&quot; she added more gently,
as if desiring to attenuate the harshness of her last words. &quot;Shall
I send my maid to escort you home? She is devoted and discreet...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay!&quot; retorted the other in tones of quiet sadness,
&quot;there is no need of discretion. I am not ashamed of my visit
to you to-night. You are very proud, and for your sake I will
pray to God that sorrow and humiliation may not come to you, as
I feared. We are never likely to meet again, Lady Blakeney...
you will not wish it, and I shall have passed out of your life
as swiftly as I had entered into it. But there was another thought
lurking in my mind when I came to-night. In case Sir Percy goes
to France, the duel is to take place in or near Boulogne... this
much I do know... would you not wish to go with him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Truly, Mademoiselle, I must repeat to you...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;That 'tis no concern of mine, I know, I own that. But, you
see, when I came back here to-night in the silence and the darkness
-I had not guessed that you would be so proud... I thought that
I, a woman, would know how to touch your womanly heart ....I was
clumsy I suppose... I made so sure that you would wish to go with
your husband, in case... in case he insisted on running his head
into the noose, which I feel sure Chauvelin has prepared for him.
I myself start for France shortly. Citizen Chauvelin has provided
me with the necessary passport for myself and my maid, who was
to have accompanied me. Then, just now, when I was all alone and
thought over all the mischief which that fiend had forced me to
do for him, it seemed to me that perhaps...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She broke off abruptly, and tried to read the other woman's face
in the gloom. But Marguerite, who was taller than the Frenchwoman,
was standing, very stiff and erect, giving the young actress neither
discouragement nor confidence. She did not interrupt Candeille's
long and voluble explanation: vaguely she wondered what it all
was about, and even now, when the Frenchwoman paused, Marguerite
said nothing, but watcher her quietly as she took a folded paper
from the capacious pocket of her cloak and then held it out with
a look of timidity towards Lady Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;My maid need not come with me,&quot; said D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille humbly; &quot;I would far rather travel alone... this
is her passport, and... Oh! you need not take it out of my hand,&quot;
she added in tones of bitter self-deprecation, as Marguerite made
no sign of taking the paper from her. &quot;See! I will leave
it here among the roses! You mistrust me now ... it is only natural....
presently, perhaps, calmer reflection will come you will see that
my purpose now is selfless that I only wish to serve you and him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She stooped and placed the folded paper in the midst of a great
clump of centifolium roses, and then without another word she
turned and went her way. For a few moments, whilst Marguerite
still stood there, puzzled and vaguely moved, she could hear the
gentle frou-frou of the other woman's skirts against the soft
sand of the path, and then a long-drawn sigh that sounded like
a sob.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then all was still again. The gentle midnight breeze caressed
the tops of the ancient oaks and elms behind her, drawing murmurs
from their dying leaves like unto the whisperings of ghosts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Marguerite shuddered with a slight sense of cold. Before her,
amongst the dark clump of leaves and the roses invisible in the
gloom, there fluttered with a curious, melancholy flapping, the
folded paper placed there by Candeille. She watched it for awhile,
as, disturbed by the wind, it seemed ready to take its flight
towards the river. Anon it fell to the ground, and Marguerite,
with sudden overpowering impulse, stooped and picked it up. Then
clutching it nervously in her hand, she walked rapidly back towards
the house.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XV<BR>
Farewell</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><B><BR>
</B><FONT SIZE="+1">As she neared the terrace, she became conscious
of several forms moving about at the foot of the steps, some few
feet below where she was standing. Soon she saw the glimmer of
lanthorns, heard whispering voices, and the lapping of the water
against the side of a boat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Anon a figure, laden with cloaks and sundry packages passed down
the steps close beside her. Even in the darkness Marguerite recognised
Benyon, her husband's confidential valet. Without a moment's hesitation,
she flew along the terrace towards the wing of the house occupied
by Sir Percy. She had not gone far before she discerned his tall
figure walking leisurely along the path which here skirted part
of the house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He had on his large caped coat, which was thrown open in front,
displaying a grey travelling suit of fine cloth; his hands were
as usual buried in the pockets of his breeches, and on his head
he wore the folding chapeau-bras which he habitually affected.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Before she had time to think, or to realise that he was going,
before she could utter one single word, she was in his arms, clinging
to him with passionate intensity, trying in the gloom to catch
every expression of his eyes, every quiver of the face now bent
down so close to her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Percy, you cannot go... you cannot go!...&quot; she pleaded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She had felt his strong arms closing round her, his lips seeking
hers, her eyes, her hair, her clinging hands, which dragged at
his shoulders in a wild agony of despair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If you really loved me, Percy,&quot; she murmured, &quot;you
would not go, you would not go...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He would not trust himself to speak; it well-night seemed as if
his sinews cracked with the violent effort at self-control. Oh!
how she loved him, when she felt in him the passionate lover,
the wild, untamed creature that he was at heart, on whom the frigid
courtliness of manner sat but as a thin veneer. This was his own
real personality, and there was little now of the elegant and
accomplished gentleman of fashion, schooled to hold every emotion
in check, to hide every thought, every desire save that for amusement
or for display.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She -feeling her power and his weakness now- gave herself wholly
to his embrace, not grudging one single, passionate caress, yielding
her lips to him, the while she murmured:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You cannot go... you cannot ...why should you go?... It
is madness to leave me... I cannot let you go...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Her arms clung tenderly round him, her voice was warm and faintly
shaken with suppressed tears, and as he wildly murmured: &quot;Don't!
for pity's sake!&quot; she almost felt that her love would be
triumphant.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;For pity's sake, I'll go on pleading, Percy!&quot; she whispered;
&quot;oh! my love, my dear! do not leave me!...we have scarce
had time to savour our happiness... we have such arrears of joy
to make up... Do not go, Percy... there's so much I want to say
to you.... Nay! you shall not! you shall not!&quot;she added with
sudden vehemence. &quot;Look me straight in the eyes, my dear,
and tell me if you can leave me now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He did not reply, but, almost roughly, he placed his hand over
her tear-dimmed eyes, which were turned up to his in an agony
of tender appeal. Thus he blindfolded her with that wild caress.
She should not see -no, not eve she!- that for the space of a
few seconds stern manhood was well-nigh vanquished by the magic
of her love.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
All that was most human in him, all that was weak in this strong
and untamed nature, cried aloud for peace and luxury and idleness:
for long summer afternoons spent in lazy content, for the companionship
of horses and dogs and of flowers, with no thought or cares save
those for the next evening's gavotte, no graver occupation save
that of sitting at <I>her</I> feet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And during these few seconds, whilst his hand lay across her eyes,
the lazy, idle fop of fashionable London was fighting a hand-to-hand
fight with the bold leader of a band of adventurers: and his own
passionate love for his wife ranged itself with fervent intensity
on the side of his weaker self. Forgotten were the horrors of
the guillotine, the calls of the innocent, the appeal of the helpless,
forgotten the daring adventures, the excitements, the hair's-breadth
escapes: for those few seconds, heavenly in themselves, he only
remembered her-his wife- her beauty and her tender appeal to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She would have pleaded again, for she felt that she was winning
in this fight: her instinct -that unerring instinct of the woman
who loves and feels herself beloved- told her that for the space
of an infinitesimal fraction of time, his iron will was inclinded
to bend; but he checked her pleading with a kiss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Then there came the change.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Like a gigantic wave carried inwards by the tide, his turbulent
emotion seemed suddenly to shatter itself against a rock of self-control.
Was it a call from the boatmen below? a distant scrunching of
feet upon the gravel?-who knows, perhaps only a sigh in the midnight
air, a ghostly summons from the land of dreams that recalled him
to himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Even as Marguerite was still clinging to him, with the ardent
fervour of her own passion, she felt the rigid tension of his
arms relax, the power of his embrace weaken, the wild love-light
become dim in his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He kissed her fondly, tenderly, and with infinite gentleness smoothed
away the little damp curls from her brow. There was a wistfulness
now in his caress, and in his kiss there was the finality of a
long farewell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;'Tis time I went,&quot; he said, &quot;or we shall miss
the tide.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
These were the first coherent words he had spoken since first
she had met him here in this lonely part of the garden, and his
voice was perfectly steady, conventional, and cold. An icy pang
shot through Marguerite's heart. It was as if she had been abruptly
wakened from a beautiful dream.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;You are not going, Percy!&quot; she murmured, and her own
voice now sounded hollow and forced. &quot;Oh! if you loved me
you would not go!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;If I loved you!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Nay! in this at least there was no dream! No coldness in his voice
when he repeated those words with such a sigh of tenderness, such
a world of longing, that the bitterness of her great pain vanished,
giving place to tears. He took her hand in his. The passion was
momentarily conquered, forced within his innermost soul, by his
own alter ego, that second personality in him, the cold-blooded
and cooly-calculating adventurer who juggled with his life and
tossed it recklessly upon the sea of chance 'twixt a doggrel and
a smile. But the tender love lingered on, fighting the enemy a
while longer, the wistful desire was there for her kiss, the tired
longing for the exquisite repose of her embrace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He took her hand in his, and bent his lips to it, and with the
warmth of his kiss upon it, she felt a moisture like a tear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;I must go, dear,&quot; he said after a little while.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Why? Why?&quot; she repeated obstinately. &quot;Am I nothing,
then? Is my life of no account? My sorrows? My fears? My misery?
Oh!&quot; she added, with vehement bitterness, &quot;why should
it always be others? What are others to you and to me, Percy?...Are
we not happy here? ....Have you not fulfilled to its uttermost
that self-imposed duty to people who can be nothing to us? ...
Is not your life ten thousand times more precious to me than the
lives of ten thousand others?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Even through the darkness, and because his face was so close to
hers, she could see a quaint little smile playing round the corners
of his mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay, m'dear,&quot; he said gently,&quot; 'tis not ten thousand
lives that call to me to-day... only one at best ...Don't you
hate to think of that poor little old cur&eacute; sitting in the
midst of his ruined pride and hopes: the jewels so confidently
entrusted to his care stolen from him, he waiting, perhaps, in
his little presbytery for the day when those brutes will march
him to prison and to death ... Nay! I think a little sea voyage
and English country air would suit the Abb&eacute; Foucquet, m'dear,
and I only mean to ask him to cross the Channel with me?...&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Percy!&quot; she pleaded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Oh! I know! I know!&quot; he rejoined with that short deprecatory
sigh of his, which seemed always to close any discussion between
them on that point, &quot;you are thinking of that absurd duel...&quot;
He laughed lightly, good-humouredly, and his eyes gleamed with
merriment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;La, m'dear!&quot; he said gaily, &quot;will you not reflect
a moment? Could I refuse the challenge before His Royal Highness
and the ladies? I couldn't... Faith! that ws it... Just a case
of couldn't ...Fate did it all... the quarrel... my interference,
the challenge... <I>He</I> had planned it all, of course ... Let
us own that he is a brave man, seeing that he and I are not even
yet for that beating he gave me on the Calais cliffs.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Yes! he has planned it all,&quot; she retorted vehemently.
&quot;The quarrel to-night, your journey to France, your meeting
with him face to face at a given hour and place where he can most
readily, most easily close the death-trap upon you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
This time he broke into a laugh. A good, hearty laugh, full of
the joy of living, of the madness and intoxication of a bold adventure,
a laugh that had not one particle of anxiety or of tremor in it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
&quot;Nay! m'dear!&quot; he said, &quot;but your ladyship is astonishing
... Close a death-trap upon your humble servant? ... Nay! the
governing citizens of France will have to be very active and mighty
wide-awake ere they succeed in stealing a march on me... Zounds!
but we'll give them an exciting chase this time... Nay, little
woman, do not fear!&quot; he said with sudden infinite gentleness;
&quot;those demmed murderers have not got me yet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Oh! how often she had fought with him thus: with him, the adventurer,
the part of his dual nature that was her bitter enemy, and which
took him, the lover, away from her side. She knew so well the
finality of it all, the amazing hold which that unconquerable
desire for these mad adventurers had upon him. Impulsive, ardent
as she was, Marguerite felt in her very soul an overwhelming fury
against herself for her own weakness, her own powerlessness in
the face of that which for ever threatened to ruin her life and
her happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Yes! and his also! for he loved her! he loved her! he loved her!
The thought went on hammering in her mind, for she knew of its
great truth. He loved her and went away! And she, poor, puny weakling,
was unable to hold him back; the tendrils which fastened his soul
to hers were not so tenacious as those which made him cling to
suffering humanity, over there in France, where men and women
were in fear of death and torture, and looked upon the elusive
and mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel as a heaven-bor hero sent to
save them from their doom. To them at these times his very heart-strings
seemed to turn with unconquerable force, and when, with all the
ardour of her own passion, she tried to play upon the cords of
his love for her, he could not respond, for they -the strangers-
had the stronger claim.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
And yet through it all she knew that this love of humanity, this
mad desire to serve and to help, in no way detracted from his
love for her. Nay, it intensified it, made it purer and better,
adding to the joy of perfect intercourse the poetic and subtle
fragrance of ever-recurring pain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
But now at last she felt weary of the fight: her heart was aching,
bruised and sore. An infinite fatigue seemed to weight like lead
upon her very soul. This seemed so different to any other parting,
that had perforce been during the past year. The presence of Chauvelin
in her house, the obvious planning of this departure for France,
ahd filled her with a foreboding, nay, almost a certitude of a
gigantic and deadly cataclysm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
Her senses began to reel; she seemed not to see anything very
distinctly: even the loved form took on a strange and ghost-like
shape. He now looked preternaturally tall, and there was a mist
between her and him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She thought that he spoke to her again, but she was not quite
sure, for his voice sounded like some weird and mysterious echo.
A bouquet of climbing heliotrope close by threw a fragrance into
the evening air, which turned her giddy with its overpowering
sweetness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
She closed her eyes, for she felt as if she must die, if she held
them open any longer; and as she closed them it seemed to her
as if he folded her in one last, long, heavenly embrace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
He felt her graceful figure swaying in his arms like a tall and
slender lily bending to the wind. He saw that she was but half-conscious,
and thanked heaven for this kindly solace to this heart-breaking
farewell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1"><BR>
There was a sloping, mossy bank close by, there where the marble
terrance yielded to the encroaching shrubbery: a tangle of pale
pink monthly roses made a bower overhead. She was just sufficiently
conscious to enable him to lead her to this soft green couch.
There he laid her amongst the roses, kissed the dear, tired eyes,
her hands, her lips, her tiny feet, and went.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XVI <BR>
The Passport</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The rhythmic clapper of oars roused Marguerite
from this trance-like swoon. <BR>
<BR>
In a moment she was on her feet, all her fatigue gone, her numbness
of soul and body vanished as in a flash. She was fully conscious
now!-conscious that he had gone!-that, according to every probability
under heaven and every machination concocted in hell, he would
never return from France alive, and that she had failed to hear
the last words which he spoke to her, had failed to glean his
last look or to savour his final kiss.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Though the night was starlit and balmy, it
was singularly dark, and vainly did Marguerite strain her eyes
to catch sight of that boat which was bearing him away so swiftly
now: she strained her ears, vaguely hoping to catch one last,
lingering echo of his voice. But all was silence, save that monotonous
clapper, which seemed to beat against her heart like a rhythmic
knell of death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She could hear the oars distinctly: there were
six or eight she thought: certainly no fewer. Eight oarsmen probably,
which meant the larger boat, and undoubtedly the longer journey.
. . not to London only, with a view to posting to Dover, but to
Tilbury Fort where the <I>Day Dream</I> would be in readiness
to start with a favourable tide.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thought was returning to her, slowly and coherently:
the pain of the last farewell was still there, bruising her very
senses with its dull and heavy weight; but it had become numb
and dead, leaving her, herself, her heart and soul, stunned and
apathetic, whilst her brain was gradually resuming its activity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the more she thought it over, the more
certain she grew that her husband was going as far as Tilbury
by river, and would embark on the <I>Day Dream</I> there. Of course,
he would go to Boulogne at once. The duel was to take place there,
Candeille had told her that . . . adding that she thought, she,
Marguerite would wish to go with him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To go with him!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Heavens above! was not that the only real,
tangible, thought in that whirling chaos which was raging in her
mind?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To go with him! Surely there must be some means
of reaching him yet! Fate, Nature, God Himself would never permit
so monstrous a thing as this: that she should be parted from her
husband, now when his life was not only in danger, but forfeit
already. . . lost. . . a precious thing all but gone from this
world.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Percy was going to Boulogne . . . she must
go too. By posting at once to Dover, she could get the tidal boat
on the morrow and reach the French coast quite as soon as the
<I>Day Dream</I>. Once at Boulogne, she would have no difficulty
in finding her husband, of that she felt sure. She would have
but to dog Chauvelin's footsteps, find out something of his plans,
of the orders he gave to troops or to spies- oh! she would find
him!- of that she was never for a moment in doubt!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How well she remembered her journey to Calais
just a year ago, in company with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes! Chance had
favoured her then, had enabled her to be of service to her husband,
if only by distracting Chauvelin's attention for awhile to herself.
Heaven knows! she had but little hope of being of use to him now:
an aching sense was in her that fate had at last been too strong!-
that the daring adventurer had staked once too often, had cast
the die and had lost.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the bosom of her dress she felt the sharp
edge of the paper left for her by D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille
among the roses in the park. She had picked it up almost mechanically
then, and tucked it away, hardly heeding what she was doing. Whatever
the motive of the French actress had been in placing the passport
at her disposal, Marguerite blessed her in her heart for it. To
the woman she had mistrusted, she would owe the last supreme happiness
of her life.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her resolution never once wavered. Percy would
not take her with him: that was understandable. She could neither
expect it nor think it. But she, on the other hand, could not
stay in England, at Blakeney Manor, whilst any day, any hour,
the death-trap set by Chauvelin for the Scarlet Pimpernel might
be closing upon the man whom she worshipped. She would go mad
if she stayed. As there could be no chance of escape for Percy
now, as he had agreed to meet his deadly enemy face to face at
a given place, and a given hour, she could not be a hindrance
to him: and she knew enough subterfuges, enough machinations and
disguises by now, to escape Chauvelin's observation, unless. .
. unless Percy wanted her, and then she would be there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No! she could not be a hindrance. She had a
passport in her pocket, everything en r&egrave;gle, nobody could
harm her, and she could come and go as she pleased. There were
plenty of swift horses in the stables, plenty of devoted servants
to do her bidding quickly and discreetly: moreover, at moments
like these, conventionalities and the possible conjectures and
surmises of others became of infinitesimally small importance.
The household of Blakeney Manor were accustomed to the master's
sudden journeys and absences of several days, presumably on some
shooting or other sporting expeditions, with no one in attendance
on him, save Benyon, his favourite valet. These passed without
any comments now! Bah! let everyone marvel for once at her ladyship's
sudden desire to go to Dover, and let it all be a nine days' wonder;
she certainly did not care. Skirting the house, she reached the
stables beyond. One or two men were still astir. To these she
gave the necessary orders for her coach and four, then she found
her way back to the house.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Walking along the corridor, she went past the
room occupied by Juliette de Marny. For a moment she hesitated,
then she turned and knocked at the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Juliette was not yet in bed, for she went to
the door herself and opened it. Obviously she had been quite unable
to rest, her hair was falling loosely over her shoulders, and
there was a look of grave anxiety on her young face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Juliette,&quot; said Marguerite in a
hurried whisper, the moment she had closed the door behind her
and she and the young girl were alone, &quot;I am going to France
to be near my husband. He has gone to meet that fiend in a duel
which is nothing but a trap, set to capture him and lead him to
his death. I want you to be of help to me, here in my house, in
my absence.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I would give my life for you, Lady Blakeney,&quot;
said Juliette simply, &quot;is it not<I> his</I> since he saved
it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is only a little presence of mind,
a little coolness and patience, which I will ask of you, dear,&quot;
said Marguerite. &quot;You, of course, know who your rescuer was,
therefore you will understand my fears. Until to-night I had vague
doubts as to how much Chauvelin really knew, but now these doubts
have naturally vanished. He and the French Revolutionary Government
know that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney are one and
the same. The whole scene to-night was pre-arranged: you and I
and all the other spectators, and that woman Candeille- we were
all puppets piping to that devil's tune. The duel, too, was pre-arranged!.
. . that woman wearing your mother's jewels!. . . Had you not
provoked her, a quarrel between her and me, or one of my guests,
would have been forced somehow. . . I wanted to tell you this,
lest you should fret, and think that you were in any way responsible
for what has happened. . . You were not. . . He had arranged it
all . . . You were only the tool. . . just as I was. . . You must
understand and believe that. . . Percy would hate to think that
you felt yourself to blame. . . You are not that, in anyway. .
. The challenge was bound to come. . . Chauvelin had arranged
that it should come, and if you had failed him as a tool he soon
would have found another! Do you believe that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I believe that you are an angel of goodness,
Lady Blakeney,&quot; replied Juliette, struggling with her tears,
&quot;and that you are the only woman in the world worthy to be
his wife.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But,&quot; insisted Marguerite firmly,
as the young girl took her cold hand in her own, and, gently fondling
it, covered it with grateful kisses, &quot;but if. . . if anything
happens. . . anon. . . you will believe firmly that you were in
no way responsible?. . . that you were innocent. . . and merely
a blind tool?. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;God bless you for that!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will believe it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And now for my request,&quot; rejoined
Lady Blakeney in a more quiet, more matter-of-fact tone of voice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must represent me, here, when I am
gone: explain as casually and as naturally as you can that I have
gone to join my husband on his yacht for a few days. Lucie, my
maid, is devoted, and a tower of secrecy; she will stand between
you and the rest of the household in concocting soe plausible
story. To every friend who calls, to anyone of our world whom
you may meet, you must tell the same tale, and if you not an air
of incredulity in anyone, if you hear whispers of there being
some mystery-well! let the world wag its buy tongue- I care less
than nought: it will soon tire of me and my doings, and having
torn my reputation to shreds, will quickly leave me in peace.
But to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,&quot; she added earnestly, &quot;tell
the whole truth from me. He will understand and do as he thinks
right.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will do all you ask, Lady Blakeney,
and am proud to think that I shall be serving you, even in so
humble and easy a capacity. When do you start?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At once. Good-bye, Juliette.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She bent down to the young girl and kissed
her tenderly on the forehead, then she glided out of the room
as rapidly as she had come. Juliette, of course, did not try to
detain her, or to force her help or companionship on her when,
obviously, she would wish to be alone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite quickly reached her room. Her maid
Lucie was already waiting for her. Devoted and silent as she was,
one glance at her mistress' face told her that trouble -grave
and imminent- had reached Blakeney Manor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite, whilst Lucie undressed her, took
up the passport and carefully perused the personal description
of one C&eacute;line Dumont, maid to Citzeness D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille, which was given therein: tall, blue eyes, light hair,
age about twenty-five. It all might have been vaguely meant for
her. She had a dark cloth gown, and long black cloak with hood
to come well over the head. These she now donned, with some thick
shoes, and a dark-coloured handkerchief tied over her head under
the head, so as to hide the golden glory of her hair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was quite calm and in no haste. She made
Lucie pack a small hand valise with some necessaries for the journey,
and provided herself plentifully with money -French and English
notes- which she tucked well away inside her dress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she bade her maid, who was struggling
with her tears, a kindly farewell, and quickly went down to her
coach.<BR>
</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XVII<BR>
Boulogne</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">During the journey Marguerite had not much
leisure to think. The discomforts and petty miseries incidental
on cheap travelling had the very welcome effect of making her
forget, for the time being, the soul-rending crisis through which
she was now passing.<BR>
<BR>
For, of necessity, she had to travel at the cheap rate, among
the crowd of poorer passengers who were herded aft the packet
boat, leaning up against one another, sitting on bundles and packages
of all kinds; that part of the deck, reeking with the smell of
tar and sea-water, damp, squally, and stuffy, was an abomination
of hideous discomfort to the dainty fastidious lady of fashion,
yet she almost welcomed the intolerable propinquity, the cold
douches of salt water, which every now and then wetted her through
and through, for it was the consequent sense of physical wretchedness
that helped her to forget the intolerable anguish in her mind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And among these poorer travellers she felt
secure from obersvation. No one took much notice of her. She looked
just like one of the herd, and in the huddled-up little figure
in the dark, bedraggled clothes, no one would for a moment have
recognised the dazzling personality of Lady Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Drawing her hood well over her head, she sat
in a secluded corner of the deck, upon the little black valise
which contained the few belongings she had brought with her. Her
cloak and dress, now mud-stained and dank with splashings of salt
water, attracted no one's attention. There was a keen north-easterly
breeze, cold and penetrating, but favourable to a rapid crossing.
Marguerite, who had gone through several hours of weary travelling
by coach before she embarked at Dover in the late afternoon, was
unspeakably tired. She had watched the golden sunset out at sea
until her eyes were burning with pain, and as the dazzling crimson
and orange and purple gave place to the soft grey tones of evening,
she descried the round cupola of the church of Our Lady of Boulogne
against the dull background of the sky.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that her mind became a blank. A sort
of torpor fell over her sense: she was wakeful and yet half-asleep,
unconscious of everything around her, seeing nothing but the distant
massive towers of old Boulogne churches gradually detaching themselves
one by one from out the fast-gathering gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The town seemed like a dream city, a creation
of some morbid imagination, presented to her mind's eye as the
city of sorrow and of death.<BR>
<BR>
When the boat finally scraped her sides along the rough wooden
jetty, Marguerite felt as if she were being forcibly awakened.
She was numb and stiff and thought she must have fallen asleep
during the last half-hour of the journey.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Everything round her was dark. The sky was
overcast, and the night seemed unusually sombre. Figures were
moving all round her; there was noise and confusion of voices,
and a general pushing and shouting, which seemed strangely weird
in this gloom. Here, among the poorer passengers, there had not
been thought any necessity for a light: one solitary lantern fixed
to a mast only enhanced the intense blackness of everything around.
Now and then a face would come within range of this meagre streak
of yellow light, looking strangely distorted, with great, elongated
shadows across the brow and chin, a grotesque, ghostly apparition,
which quickly vanished again, scurrying off like some frightened
gnome, giving place to other forms, other figures, all equally
grotesque and equally weird.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite watched them all half-stupidly and
motionlessly for awhile. She did not quite know what she ought
to do, and did not like to ask any questions: she was dazed and
the darkness blinded her. Then gradually things began to detach
themselves more clearly. On looking straight before her, she began
to discern the landing-place, the little wooden bridge across
which the passengers walked, one by one, from the boat on to the
jetty. The first-class passengers were evidently alighting now:
the crowd, of which Marguerite formed a unit, had been pushed
back in a more compact herd, out of the way for the moment so
that their betters might get along more comfortably.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beyond the landing-stage a little booth had
been erected, a kind of tent, open in front and lighted up within
by a couple of lanthorns. Under this tent there was a table, behind
which sat a man dressed in some sort of official-looking clothes,
and wearing the tricolour scarf across his chest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All the passengers from the boat had apparently
to file past this tent. Marguerite could see them now quite distinctly,
the profiles of the various faces, as they paused for a moment
in front of the table, being brilliantly illuminated by one of
the lanterns. Two sentinels, wearing the uniform of the National
Guard, stood each side of the table. The passengers, one by one,
took out their passport as they went by, handed it to the man
in the official dress, who examined it carefully, very lengthily,
then signed it, and returned the paper to its owner: but at times
he appeared doubtful, folded the passport, and put it down in
front of him: the passenger would protest; Marguerite could not
hear what was said, but she could see that some argument was attempted,
quickly dismissed by a peremptory order from the official. The
doubtful passport was obviously put on one side for further examination,
and the unfortunate owner therof detained, until he or she had
been able to give more satisfactory references to the representatives
of the Committee of Public Safety stationed at Boulogne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This process of examination necessarily took
a long time. Marguerite was getting horribly tired, her feet ached,
and she scarcely could hold herself upright: yet she watched all
these people mechanically, making absurd little guesses in her
weary mind as to whose passport would find favour in the eyes
of the official and whose would be found suspect and inadequate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Suspect! a terrible word these times! since
Merlin's terrible law decreed now that every man, woman, or child,
who was suspected by the Republic of being a traitor, was a traitor
in fact.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How sorry she felt for those whose passports
were detained: who tried to argue -so needlessly!- and who were
finally led off by a soldier, who had stepped out from somewhere
in the dark, and had to await further examination, probably imprisonment,
and often death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As to herself, she felt quite safe: the passport
given to her by Chauvelin's own accomplice was sure to be quite
en r&egrave;gle.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then suddenly her heart seemed to give a sudden
leap and then to stop in its beating for a second or two. In one
of the passengers, a man who was just passing in front of the
tent, she had recognised the form and profile of Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had no passport to show, but evidently the
official knew who he was, for he stood up and saluted, and listened
deferentially whilst the ex-ambassador apparently gave him a few
instructions. It seemed to Marguerite that these instructions
related to two women who were close behind Chauvelin at the time,
and who presently seemed to file past without going through the
usual formalities of showing their passports. But of this she
could not be quite sure. The women were closely hooded and veiled,
and her own attention had been completely absorbed by this sudden
appearance of her deadly enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yet what more natural than that Chauvelin should
be here now. His object accomplished, he had no doubt posted to
Dover, just as she had done. There was no difficulty in that,
and a man of his type and importance would always have unlimited
means and money at his command to accomplish any journey he might
desire to undertake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was nothing strange or even unexpected
in the man's presence here; and yet somehow it had made the whole,
awful reality more tangible, more wholly unforgetable. Marguerite
remembered his abject words to her, when first she had seen him
at the Richmond f&ecirc;te: he said that he had fallen into disgrace,
that, having failed in his service to the Republic, he had been
relegated to a subordinate position, pushed aside with contumely
to make room for better, abler men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well! all that was a lie, of course, a cunning
method of gaining access into her house; of that she had already
been convinced, when Candeille provoked the esclandre which led
to the challenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That on French soil he seemed in anything but
a subsidiary position, that he appeared to rule rather than to
obey, could in no way appear to Marguerite in the nature of surprise.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As the actress had been a willing tool in the
cunning hands of Chauvelin, so were probably all these people
around her. When others cringed in the face of officialism, the
ex-ambassador had stepped forth as a master: he had shown a badge,
spoken a word mayhap, and the man in the tent, who had made other
people tremble, stood up deferentially and obeyed all commands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was all very simple and very obvious: but
Marguerite's mind had been asleep, adn it was the sight of the
sable-clad little figure which had roused it from its happy torpor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a moment now her brain was active and alert,
and presently it seemed to her as if another figure -taller than
those around- had crossed the barrier immediately in the wake
of Chauvelin. Then she chided herself for her fancies!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It could not be her husband. Not yet! He had
gone by water, and would scarce be in Boulogne before the morning!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ah! now at last came the turn of the second-class
passengers! There was a general bousculade, and the human bundle
began to move. Marguerite lost sight of the tent and its awe-inspiring
appurtenances: she was a mere unit again in this herd on the move.
She, too, progressed along slowly, one step at a time; it was
wearisome and she was deadly tired. She was beginning to form
plans now that she had arrived in France. All along she had made
up her mind that she would begin by seeking out the Abb&eacute;
Foucquet, for he would prove a link 'twixt her husband and herself.
She knew that Percy would communicate with the abb&eacute;; had
he not told her that the rescue of the devoted old man from the
clutches of the Terrorists would be one of the chief objects of
his journey? It had never occured to her what she would do if
she found the Abb&eacute; Foucquet gone from Boulogne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;H&eacute;! la m&egrave;re! your passport!&quot;<BR>
<BR>
The rough words roused her from her meditations. She had moved
forward, quite mechanically, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts
not following the aim of her feet. Thus she must have crossed
the bridge along with some of the crowd, must have landed on the
jetty and reached the front of the tent, without really knowing
what she was doing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ah, yes! her passport! She had quite forgotten
that! But she had it by her, quite in order, given to her in a
fit of tardy remorse by Demoiselle Candeille, the intimate friend
of one of the most influential members of the Revolutionary Government
of France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She took the passport from the bosom of her
dress and handed it to the man in the official dress.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your name?&quot; he asked peremptorily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;C&eacute;line Dumont,&quot; she replied
unhesitatingly, for had she not rehearsed all this in her mind
dozens of times, until her tongue could rattle off the borrowed
name as easily as it could her own; &quot;servitor to Citizeness
D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man, who had vry carefully been examining
the paper the while, placed it down on the table deliberately
in front of him, and said:<BR>
<BR>
&quot;C&eacute;line Dumont! Eh! la m&egrave;re! what tricks are
you up to now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tricks? I don't understand!&quot; she
sadi quietly, for she was not afraid. The passport was en r&egrave;gle:
she knew she had nothing to fear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! but I think you do!&quot; retorted
the official with a sneer; &quot;and 'tis a mighty clever one,
I'll allow. C&eacute;line Dumont, ma foi! Not badly imagined,
ma petite m&egrave;re: and all would have passed off splendidly;
unfortunately, C&eacute;line Dumont, servitor to Citizeness Candeille,
passed through these barriers along with her mistress not half
an hour ago.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with long, grimy fingers he pointed to
an entry in the large book which lay open before him, and wherein
he had apparently been busy making notes of the various passengers
who had filed past him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he looked up with a triumphant leer at
the calm face of Marguerite. She still did not feel really frightened,
only puzzled and perturbed; but all the blood had rushed away
from her face, leaving her cheeks ashen white, and pressing against
her heart, until it almost choked her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are making a mistake, citizen,&quot;
she said very quietly. &quot;I am Citizeness Candeille's maid.
She gave me the passport herself, just before I left England;
if you will ask her the question, she will confirm what I say,
and she assured me that it was quite en r&egrave;gle.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the man only shrugged his shoulders and
laughed derisively. The incident evidently amused him, yet he
must have seen so many of the same sort; in the far corner of
the tent Marguerite seemed to discern a few moving forms, soldiers,
she thought, for she caught sight of a glint like that of steel.
One or two men stood close behind the official at the desk, and
the sentinels were to the right and left of the tent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With an instinctive sense of appeal, Marguerite
looked round from one face to the other: but each looked absolutely
impassive and stolid, quite uninterested in this little scene,
the exact counterpart of a dozen others, enacted on this very
spot within the last hour.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;H&eacute;! l&agrave;! l&agrave;! petite
m&egrave;re!&quot; said the official in the same tone of easy
persiflage which he had adopted all along; &quot;but we do know
how to concoct a pretty lie, aye! - and so circumstantially too!
Unfortunately it was Citizeness D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille
herself who happened to be standing just where you are at the
present moment, along with her maid, C&eacute;line Dumont, both
of whom were specially signed for and recommended as perfectly
trustworthy by no less a person than Citoyen Chauvelin of the
Committee of Public Safety.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But I assure you that there is a mistake,&quot;
pleaded Marguerite earnestly. &quot;'Tis the other woman who lied;
I have my passport and. . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A truce on this,&quot; retorted the man
peremptorily. &quot;If everything is as you say, and if you have
nothing to hide, you'll be at liberty to continue your journey
to-morrow, after you have explained yourself before the Citizen
Governor. Next one now, quick!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite tried another protest, just as those
others had done, whom she had watched so mechanically before.
But already she knew that that would be useless, for she felt
that a heavy hand was being placed on her shoulder, and that she
was being roughly led away.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a flash she had understood and seen the
whole sequel of the awful trap, which had all along been destined
to engulg her as well as her husband.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What a clumsy, blind fool she had been!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What a miserable antagonist to the subtle schemes
of a past master of intrigue as was Chauvelin. To have enticed
the Scarlet Pimpernel to France was a great thing! The challenge
was clever, the acceptance of it by the bold adventurer a foregone
conclusion, but the master stroke of the whole plan was done,
when she, the wife, was enticed over, too, with the story of Candeille's
remorse and the offer of the passport.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Fool! fool that she was!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And how well did Chauvelin know feminine nature!
How cleverly he had divined her thoughts, her feelings, the impulsive
way in which she would act; how easily he had guessed that, knowing
her husband's danger, she, Marguerite, would immediately follow
him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now the trap had closed on her - and she saw
it all, when it was too late.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Percy Blakeney in France! his wife a prisoner!
her freedom and safety in exchange for his life!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The hopelessness of it all struck her with
appalling force, and her senses reeled with the awful finality
of the disaster.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yet instinct in her still struggled for freedom.
Ahead of her, and all around her, beyond the tent and in the far
distance, there was a provocative, alluring darkness: if she only
could get away, only could reach the shelter of that remote and
sombre distance, she would hide, and wait, not blunder again -
oh no! she would be prudent and wary, if only she could get away!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One woman's struggles against five men! It
was pitiable, sublime, absolutely useless.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The man in the tent seemed to be watching her
with much amusement for a moment or two, as her whole, graceful
body stiffened for that absurd and unequal physical contest. He
seemed vastly entertained at the sight of this good-looking young
woman striving to pit her strength against five sturdy soldiers
of the Republic.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Allons! that will do, now!&quot; he said
at last, roughly. &quot;We have no time to waste! Get the jade
away, and let her cool her temper in No. 6, until the Citizen
Governor gives further orders.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Take her away!&quot; he shouted more
loudly, banging a grimy fist down on the table before him, as
Marguerite still struggled on with the blind madness of despair.
&quot;Pardi! can none of you rid us of that turbulent baggage!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd behind were pushing forward: the
guard within the tent were jeering at those who were striving
to drag Marguerite away: these latter were cursing loudly and
volubly, until one of them, tired out, furious and brutal, raised
his heavy fist and with an obscene oath brought it crashing down
upon the unfortunate woman's head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Perhaps, though it was the work of a savage
and cruel creature, the blow proved more merciful than it had
been intended: it had caught Marguerite full between the eyes;
her aching senses, wearied and reeling already, gave way beneath
this terrible violence; her useless struggles ceased, her arms
fell inert by her side, and losing consciousness completely, her
proud unbendable spirit was spared the humiliating knowledge of
hr final removal by the rough soldiers, and of the complete wreckage
of her last, lingering hopes.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XVIII<BR>
No. 6</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Consciousness returned very slowly, very painfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was night when last Marguerite had clearly
known what was going on around her; it was day-light before she
realised that she still lived, that she still knew and suffered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her head ached intolerably: that was the first
conscious sensation which came to her; then she vaguely perceived
a pale ray of sunshine, very hazy and narrow, which came from
somewhere in front of her, and struck her in the face. She kept
her eyes tightly shut, for that filmy light caused her an increase
of pain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She seemed to be lying on her back, and her
fingers wandering restlessly around felt a hard paillasse beneath
their touch, then a rough pillow, and her own cloak laid over
her: thought had not yet returned, only the sensation of great
suffering and of infinite fatigue.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Anon she ventured to open her eyes, and gradually
one or two objects detached themselves from out the haze which
still obscured her vision.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Firstly, the narrow aperture - scarecly a window
- filled in with tiny squares of coarse, unwashed glass, through
which the rays of the morning sun were making kindly efforts to
penetrate, then the cloud of dust illumined by those same rays
and made up- so it seemed to the poor tired brain that strove
to perceive- of myriads of abnormally large molecules, over-abundant,
and over-active, for they appeared to be dancing a kind of wild
saraband before Marguerite's aching eyes, advancing and retreating,
forming themselves into group and taking on funny shapes of weird
masques and grotesque faces, which grinned at the unconscious
figure lying helpless on the rough paillase.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Through and beyond them Marguerite gradually
became aware of three walls of a narrow room, dank and grey, half
covered with whitewash and half with greenish mildew! Yes! and
there, opposite to her and immediately beneath that semblance
of a window was another paillasse, and on it something dark, that
moved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The words: &quot;Libert&eacute;, Egalit&eacute;,
Frternit&eacute; ou la Mort!&quot; stared out at her from somewhere
beyond those active molecules of dust, but she also saw just above
the other paillasse the vague outline of a dark crucifix.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It seemed a terrible effort to co-ordinate
all these things, and to try and realise what the room was, and
what was the meaning of the paillasse, the narrow window and the
stained walls, too much altogether for the aching head to take
in save very slowly, very gradually.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite was content to wait and to let memory
creep back as reluctantly as it would.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Do you think, my child, you could drink
a little of this now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was a gentle, rather tremulous voice which
struck upon her ear. She opened her eyes, and noticed that the
dark something which had previously been on the opposite paillasse
was no longer there, and that there appeared to be a presence
close to her only vaguely defined, someone kindly and tender who
had spoken to her in French, with that soft sing-song accent peculiar
to the Normandy peasants, and who now seemed to be presseing something
cool and soothing to her lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They gave me this for you!&quot; continued
the tremulous voice close to her ear; &quot;I think it would do
you good, if you tried to take it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A hand and arm were thrust underneath the rough
pillow, causing her to raise her head a little. A glass was held
to her lips and she drank.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The hand that held the glass was all wrinkled,
brown and dry, and trembled slightly, but the arm which supported
her head was firm and very kind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There! I am sure you feel better now.
Close your eyes again and try to go to sleep.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She did as she was bid, and was ready enough
to close her eyes. It seemed to her presently as if something
had been interposed between her head and that trying ray of white
September sun.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Perhaps she slept peacefully for a little while
after that, for though her head was still very painful, her mouth
and throat felt less parched and dry. Through this sleep, or semblance
of sleep, she was conscious of the same pleasant voice softly
droning Paters and Aves close to her ear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus she lay during the greater part of that
day. Not quite fully conscious, not quite awake to the awful memories
which anon would crowd upon her thick and fast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From time to time the same kind and trembling
hand would with gentle pressure force a little liquid food through
her unwilling lips: some warm soup, or anon a glass of milk. Beyond
the pain in her head, she was conscious of no physical ill; she
felt at perfect peace, and an extraordinary sense of quiet and
repose seemed to pervade this small room, with its narrow window,
through which the rays of the sun came gradually in more golden
splendour as the day drew towards noon, and then they vanished
altogether.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The drony voice close beside her acted as a
soporific upon her nerves. In the afternoon she fell into a real
and beneficent sleep. . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But after that she woke to full consciousness!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh! the horror, the foly of it all!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It came back to her with all the inexorable
force of an appalling certainty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was a prisoner in the hands of those who
long ago had sworn to bring the Scarlet Pimpernel to death!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She! his wife, a hostage in their hands! her
freedom and safety offered to him as the price of his own! Here
there was no question of dreams or of nightmares: no illusions
as to the ultimate intentions of her husband's enemies. It was
all a reality, and even now, before she had the strength fully
to grasp the whole nature of this horrible situation, she knew
that, by her own act of mad and passionate impulse, she had hopelessly
jeopardised the life of the man she loved.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For with that sublime confidence in him begotten
of her love, she never for a moment doubted which of the two alternatives
he would choose, when once they were placed before him. He would
sacrifice himself for her; he would prefer to die a thousand deaths
so long as they set her free.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For herself, her own sufferings, her danger
or humiliation she cared nothing! Nay! at this very moment she
was conscious of a wild, passionate desire for death. . . . In
this sudden onrush of memory and of thought she wished with all
her soul and heart and mind to die here suddenly, on this hard
paillasse, in this lonely and dark prison. . . so that she should
be out of the way once and for all. . . so that she should <I>not</I>
be the hostage to be bartered against his precious life and freedom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He would suffer acutely, terribly at her loss,
because he loved her above everything else on earth; he would
suffer in every fibre of his passionate and ardent nature, but
he would not then have to endure the humiliations, the awful alternatives,
the galling impotence and miserable death, the relentless &quot;either-or&quot;
which his enemies were even now preparing for him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And then came a revulsion of feeling. Marguerite's
was essentially a buoyant and active nature, a keen brain which
worked and schemed and planned, rather than one ready to accept
the inevitable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Hardly had these thoughts of despair and of
death formulated themselves in her mind, than, with brilliant
swiftness, a new train of ideas began to take root.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What if matters were not so hopeless after
all?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already her mind had flown instinctively to
thoughts of escape. Had she the right to despair? She, the wife
and intimate companion of the man who had astonished the world
with his daring, his prowess, his amazing good-luck, she to imagine
for a moment that in this all-supreme moment of his adventurous
life the Scarlet Pimpernel would fail!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Was not English society peopled with men, women,
and children whom his ingenuity had rescued from plights quite
as seemingly hopeless as was her own, and would not all the resources
of that inventive brain be brought to bear upon this rescue which
touched him nearer and more deeply than any which he had attempted
hitherto?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now Marguerite was chiding herself for her
doubts and for her fears. Already she remembered that admist the
crowd on the landing stage she had perceived a figure -unusually
tall- following in the wake of Chauvelin and his companions. Awakened
hope had already assured her that she had not been mistaken, that
Percy, contrary to her own surmises, had reached Boulogne last
night: he always acted so differently to what anyone might expect,
that it was quite possible that he had crossed over in the packet-boat
after all, unbeknown to Marguerite as well as to his enemies.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh yes! the more she thought about it all,
the more sure was she that Percy was already in Boulogne, and
that he knew of her capture and her danger.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What right had she to doubt, even for a moment,
that he would know how to reach her, how- when the time came-
to save himself and her?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A warm glow began to fill her veins, she felt
excited and alert, absolutely unconscious now of pain or fatigue,
in this radiant joy of re-awakened hope.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She raised herself slightly, leaning on her
elbow: she was still very weak, an the slight movement had made
her giddy, but soon she would be strong and well . . . she must
be strong and well and ready to do his bidding, when the time
for escape will have come.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! you are better, my child, I see.
. . &quot; said that quaint, tremulous voice again, with its soft
sing-song accent. &quot;But you must not be so venturesome, you
know. The physician said that you had received a cruel blow. The
brain has been rudely shaken. . . and you must lie quite still
to-day, or your poor little head will begin to ache again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite turned to look at the speaker, and,
in spite of her excitement, of her sorrow, and of her anxieties,
she could not help smiling at the whimsical little figure which
sat opposite to her, on a very rickety chair, solemnly striving
with slow and measured movement of hand and arm, and a large supply
of breath, to get up a polish on the worn-out surface of an ancient
pair of buckled shoes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The figure was slender and almost wizened,
the thin shoulders round with an habitual stoop, the lean shanks
were encased in a pair of much-darned, coarse black stockings.
It was the figure of an old man, with a gentle, clear-cut face
furrowed by a forest of wrinkles, and surmounted by scanty white
locks above a smooth forehead, which looked yellow and polished
like an ancient piece of ivory.<BR>
<BR>
He had looked across at Marguerite as he spoke, and a pair of
innately kind and mild blue eyes were fixed with tender reproach
upon her. Marguerite thought that she had never seen quite so
much goodness and simple-heartedness portrayed on any face before.
It literally beamed out of those pale blue eyes, which seemed
quite full of unshed tears.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old man wore a tattered garment, a miracle
of shining cleanliness, which had once been a soutane of smooth
black cloth, but was now a mass of patches and threadbare at shoulders
and knees. He seemed deeply intent in the task of polishing his
shoes, and having delivered himself of his little admonition,
he very solemnly and earnestly resumed his work.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite's first and most natural instinct
had, of course, been one of dislike and mistrust of any one who
appeared to be in some way on guard over her. But when she took
in every detail of the quaint figure of the old man, his scrupulous
tidiness of apparel, the resigned stoop of his shoulders, and
met in full the gaze of those moist eyes, she felt that the whole
aspect of the man, as he sat there polishing his shoes, was infintely
pathetic, and, in its simplicity, commanding of respect.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who are you?&quot; asked Lady Blakeney
at last, for the old man, after looking at her with a kind of
appealing wonder, seemed to be waiting for her to speak.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A priest of the good God, my dear child,&quot;
replied the old man with a deep sigh and a shake of his scanty
locks, &quot;who is not alowed to serve his divine Master any
longer. A poor old fellow, very harmless and very helpless, who
has been set here to watch over you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must not look upon me as a jailer
because of what I say, my child,&quot; he added with a quaint
air of deference and apology. &quot;I am very old and very small,
and only take up a very little room. I can make myself very scarce,
you shall hardly know that I am here. . . They forced me to it,
much against my will . . . But they are strong and I am weak,
how could I deny them since they put me here? After all,&quot;
he concluded na&iuml;vely, &quot;perhaps it is the will of le
bon Dieu, and He knows best, my child, He knows best.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The shoes evidently refused to respond any
further to the old man's efforts at polishing them. He contemplated
them now, with a whimsical look of regret on his furrowed face,
then set them down on the floor and slipped his stockinged feet
into them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite was silently watching him, still
leaning on her elbow. Evidently her brain was still numb and fatigued,
for she did not seem able to grasp all that the old man said.
She smiled to herself, too, as she watched him. How could she
look upon him as a jailer? He did not seem at all like a Jacobin
or a Terrorist, there was nothing of the dissatisfied democrat,
of the snarling anarchist ready to lend his hand to any act of
ferocity directed against a so-called aristocrat, about this pathetic
little figure in the ragged soutane and worn shoes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He seemed singularly bashful, too, and ill
at east, and loth to meet Marguerite's great, ardent eyes, which
were fixed questioningly upon him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You must forgive me, my daughter,&quot;
he said shyly, &quot;for concluding my toilet before you. I had
hoped to be quite ready before you woke, but I had some trouble
with my shoes; except for a little water and soap, the prison
authorities will not provide us poor captives with any means of
cleanliness and tidiness, and le bon Dieu does love a tidy body
as well as a clean soul.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But there, there,&quot; he added fussily,
&quot;I must not continue to gossip like this. You would like
to get up, I know, and refresh your face and hands with a little
water. Oh! you will see how well I have thought it out. I need
not interfere with you at all, and when you make your little bit
of toilette, you will feel quite alone . . . just as if the old
man was not there.&quot;<BR>
<BR>
He began busying himself about the room, dragging the rickety,
rush-bottomed chairs forward. There were four of these in the
room, and he began forming a kind of bulwark with them, placing
two side by side, then piling the two others up above.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will see, my child, you will see!&quot;
he kept repeating at intervals as the work of construction progressed.
It was no easy matter, for he was of low stature, and his hands
were unsteady from apparently uncontrollable nervousness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite leaning slightly forward, her chin
resting in her hand, was too puzzled and anxious to grasp the
humour of this comical situation. She certainly did not understand.
This old man had in some sort of way, and for a hitherto unexplained
reason, been set as a guard over her; it was not an unusual device
on the part of the inhuman wretches who now ruled over France
to add to the miseries and terrors of captivity where a woman
of refinement was concerned, the galling outrage of never leaving
her alone for a moment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That peculiar form of mental torture, surely
the invention of brains rendered mad by their own ferocious cruelty,
was even now being inflicted on the hapless, dethroned Queen of
France. Marguerite, in far-off England, had shuddered when she
heard of it, and in her heart had prayed, as indeed every pure-minded
woman did then, that proud, unfortunate Marie Antoinette might
soon find release from such torments in death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was evidently some similar intention
with regard to Marguerite herself in the minds of those who now
held her prisoner. But this old man seemed so feeble and so helpless,
his very delicacy of thought as he built up a screen to divide
the squalid room into two, proved him to be singularly inefficient
for the task of a watchful jailer.<BR>
<BR>
When the four chairs appeared fairly steady, and in comparatively
little danger of toppling, he dragged the paillasse forward and
propped it up against the chairs. Finally he drew the table along,
which held the cracked ewer and basin, and placed it against this
improvised partition: then he surveyed the whole construction
with evident gratification and delight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There now!&quot; he said, turning a face
beaming with satisfaction to Marguerite, &quot;I can continue
my prayers on the other side of the fortress. Oh! it is quite
safe. . .&quot; he added, as with a fearsom hand he touched his
engineering feat with gingerly pride, &quot;and you will be quite
private. . . Try and forget that the old abb&eacute; is in the
room. . . He does not count. . . really he does not count. . .
he has ceased to be of any moments these many months, now that
Saint Joseph is closed, and he may no longer say Mass.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was obviously prattling on in order to hide
his nervous bashfulness. He ensconced himself behind his own finely
constructed bulwark, drew a breviary from his pocket, and having
found a narrow ledge on one of the chairs, on which he could sit,
without much danger of bringing the elaborate screen on to the
top of his head, he soon became absorbed in his orisons.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite watched him for a little while longer:
he was evidently endeavouring to make her think that he had become
oblivious of her presence, and his transparent little manoeuvres
amused and puzzled her not a little.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He looked so comical with his fussy and shy
ways, yet withal so gentle, and so kindly that she felt completely
reassured and quite calm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She tried to raise herself still further, and
found the process astonishingly easy. Her limbs still ached, and
the violent, intermittent pain in her head certainly made her
feel sick and giddy at times, but otherwise she was not ill. She
sat up on the paillasse, then put her feet to the ground, and
presently walked up to the improvised dressing-room and bathed
her face and hands. The rest had done her good, and she felt quite
capable of co-ordinating her thoughts, of moving about without
too much pain and of preparing herself both mentally and physically
for the grave events which she knew must be imminent.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">While she busied herself with her toilet her
thoughts dwelt on the one all-absorbing theme: Percy was in Boulogne;
he would reach her without fail; in fact, he might communicate
with her at any moment now, and had without a doubt already evolved
a plan of escape for her, more daring and ingenious than any which
he had conceived hitherto; therefore, she must be ready, and prepared
for any eventuality, she must be strong and eager, in no way despondent,
for if he were here, would he not chide her for her want of faith.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By the time she had smoothed her hair and tidied
her dress, Marguerite caught herself singing quite cheerfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So full of buoyant hope was she.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 19 - The Strength of the Weak</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XIX<BR>
The Strength of the Weak</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;M. L'Abb&eacute;!. . .&quot; said Marguerite
gravely.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, mon enfant.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old man looked up from his breviary and
saw Marguerite's great earnest eyes fixed with obvious calm and
trust upon him. She had finished her toilet as well as she could,
had shaken up and tidied the paillasse, and was now sitting on
the edge of it, her hands clasped between her knees. There was
something which still puzzled her, and, impatient and impulsive
as she was, she had watched the abb&eacute; as he calmly went
on reading the Latin prayers for the last five minutes, and now
she could contain her questionings no longer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You said just now that they set you to
watch over me. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So they did, my child, so they did. .
&quot; he replied with a sigh, as he quietly closed his book and
slipped it back into his pocket. &quot;Ah! they are very cunning
. . . and we must remember that they have the power. No doubt,&quot;
added the old man, with his own quaint philosophy, &quot;no doubt
le bon Dieu meant them to have the power, or they would not have
it, would they?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;By 'they' you mean the Terrorists and anarchists of France,
M. l'Abb&eacute;. . . The Committee of Public Safety who pillage
and murder, outrage women, and desecrate religion. . . Is that
not so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Alas! my child!&quot; he sighed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And it is 'they' who have set you to
watch over me?. . . I confess I don't understand. . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She laughed, quite involuntarily indeed, for,
in spite of the reassurance in her heart, her brain was still
in a whirl of passionate anxiety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You don't look at all like one of 'them,'
M. l'Abb&eacute;,&quot; she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The good God forbid!&quot; ejaculated
the old man, raising protesting hands up towards the very distant,
quite invisible sky. &quot;How could I, a humble priest of the
Lord, range myself with those who would flout and defy Him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet I am a prisoner of the Republic and
you are my jailer, M. l'Abb&eacute;.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, yes!&quot; he sighed. &quot;But I
am very helpless. This was my cell. I had been here with Fran&ccedil;ois
and F&eacute;licit&eacute;, my sister's children, you know. Innocent
lambs, whom those fiends would lead to slaughter. Last night,&quot;
he continued, speaking volubly, &quot;the soldiers came in and
dragged Fran&ccedil;ois and F&eacute;licit&eacute; out of this
room, where, in spite of the danger before us, in spite of what
we suffered, we had contrived to be quite happy together. I could
read the Mass, and the dear children would say their prayers night
and morning at my knee.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused awhile. The unshed tears in his mild,
blue eyes struggled for freedom now, and one or two flowed slowly
down his wrinkled cheeks. Marguerite, though heart-sore and full
of agonising sorrow herself, felt her whole noble soul go out
to this kind old man, so pathetic, so high and simple-minded in
his grief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She said nothing, however, and the abb&eacute;
continued, after a few seconds' silence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When the children had gone, they brought
you in here, mon enfant, and laid you on the paillasse where F&eacute;licit&eacute;
used to sleep. You looked very white, and stricken down, like
one of God's lambs attacked by the ravening wolf. Your eyes were
closed and you were blissfully unconscious. I was taken before
the governor of the prison, and he told me that you would share
the cell with me for a time, and that I was to watch you night
and day, because. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old man paused again. Evidently what he
had to say was very difficult to put into words. He groped in
his pockets and brought out a large bandana handkerchief, red
and yellow and gree, with which he began to mop his moist forehead.
The quaver in his voice and the trembling of his hands became
more apparent and pronounced.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, M. l'Abb&eacute;? Because?. . .&quot;
queried Marguerite gently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They said that if I guarded you well,
F&eacute;licit&eacute; and Fran&ccedil;ois would be set free,&quot;
replied the old man after a while, during which he made vigorous
efforts to overcome his nervousness, &quot;and that if you escaped
the children and I would be guillotined the very next day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was silence in the little room now. The
abb&eacute; was sitting quite still, clasping his trembling fingers,
and Marguerite neither moved nor spoke. What the old man had just
said was very slowly finding its way to the innermost cells of
her brain. Until her mind had thoroughly grasped the meaning of
it all, she could not trust herself to make a single comment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was some seconds before she fully understood
it all, before she realised what it meant not only to her, but
indirectly to her husband. Until now she had not been fully conscious
of the enormous wave of hope which almost in spite of herself
and risen triumphant above the dull, gray sea of her former despair;
only now, when it had been shattered against this deadly rock
of almost superhuman devilry and cunning, did she understand what
she had hoped, and what she must now completely forswear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No bolts and bars, no fortified towers or inaccessible
fortresses could prove so effectual a prison for Marguerite Blakeney
as the dictum which morally bound her to her cell.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you escape, the children and I would
be guillotined the very next day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This meant that even if Percy knew, even if
he could reach her, he could never set her free, since her safety
meant death to two innocent children and to this simple-hearted
man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It would require more than the ingenuity of
the Scarlet Pimpernel himself to untie this Gordian knot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't mind for myself, of course,&quot;
the old man went on with gentle philosophy. &quot;I have lived
my life. What matters if I die to-morrow, or if I linger on until
my earthly span is legitimately run out. I am ready to go home
whenever my Father calls me. But it is the children, you see.
I have to think of them. Fran&ccedil;ois is his mother's only
son, the bread-winner of the household, a good lad and studious,
too, and F&eacute;licit&eacute; has always been very delicate.
She is blind from birth, and. . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! don't . . . for pity's sake, don't.
. .&quot; moaned Marguerite in an agony of helplessness. &quot;I
understand. . . you need not fear for your children, M. l'Abb&eacute;:
no harm shall come to them through me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is as the good God wills!&quot; replied
the old man quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as Marguerite had once more relapsed
into silence, he fumbled for his beads, and his gentle voice began
droning the Paters and Aves, wherein no doubt his childlike heart
found peace and solace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He understood that the poor woman would not
wish to speak, he knew as well as she did the overpowering strength
of his helpless appeal. Thus the minutes sped on, the jailer and
the captive tied to one another by the strongest bonds that hand
of man can forge, had nothing to say to one another: he, the old
priest, imbued with the traditions of his calling, could pray
and resign himself to the will of the Almighty, but she was young
and ardent and passionate, she loved and was beloved, and an impassable
barrier was built up between her and the man she worshipped!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A barrier fashioned by the weak hands of children,
one of who was delicate and blind. Outside was air and freedom,
re-union with her husband, an agony of happy remorse, a kiss from
his dear lips, and trembling hands held her back from it all,
because of Fran&ccedil;ois who was the bread-winner and of F&eacute;licit&eacute;
who was blind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mechanically, now, Marguerite rose again, and
like an automaton -lifeless and thoughtless - she began putting
the dingy and squalid room to rights. The abb&eacute; helped her
to demolish the improvised screen; with the same gentle delicacy
of thought which had caused him to build it up, he refrained from
speaking to her now: he would not intrude himself on her grief
and her despair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Later on, she forced herself to speak again,
and asked the old man his name.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My name is Foucquet,&quot; he replied.
&quot;Jean Baptiste Marie Foucquet, late parish priest of the
Church of S. Joseph, the patron saint of Boulogne.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Foucquet! This was l'Abb&eacute; Foucquet!
the faithful friend and servant of the de Marny family.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite gazed at him with great, questioning
eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What a wealth of memories crowded in on her
mind at sound of that name! Her beautiful home at Richmond, her
brilliant array of servants and guests, His Royal Highness at
her side! life in free, joyous, happy England -how infinitely
remote it now seemed. Her ears were filled with the sound of a
voice, drawly and quaint and gentle, a voice and a laugh half
shy, wholly mirthful, and oh! so infinitely dear:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think a little sea voyage and English
country air would suit the Abb&eacute; Foucquet, m'dear, and I
only mean to ask him to cross the Channel with me. . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh! the joy and confidence expressed in those
words! the daring! the ambition! the pride! and the soft, languorous
air of the old-world garden round her then, the passion of his
embrace! the heavy scent of late roses and of heliotrope, which
caused her to swoon in his arms!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now a narrow prison cell, and that pathetic,
tender little creature there, with trembling hands and tear-dimmed
eyes, the most powerful and most relentless jailer which the ferocious
cunning of her deadly enemies could possibly have devised.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she talked to him of Juliette Marny.<BR>
<BR>
The abb&eacute; did not know that Mlle. de Marny had succeeded
in reaching England safely, and was overjoyed to hear it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He recounted to Marguerite the story of the
Marny jewels: how he had put them safely away in the crypt of
his little church, until the Assembly of the Convention had ordered
the closing of the churches, and placed before every minister
of le bon Dieu the alternative of apostasy or death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;With me it has only been prison so far,&quot;
continued the old man simply, &quot;but prison has rendered me
just as helpless as the guillotine would have done, for the enemies
of le bon Dieu have ransacked the church of Saint Joseph and stolen
the jewels which I should have guarded with my life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But it was obvious joy for the abb&eacute;
to tal of Juliette Marny's happiness. Vaguely, in his remote little
provincial cure, he had heard of the prowess and daring of the
Scarlet Pimpernel, and liked to think that Juliette owed her safety
to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The good God will reward him and those
whom he cares for,&quot; added Abb&eacute; Foucquet with that
earnest belief in divine interference which seemed so strangely
pathetic under these present circumstances.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite sighed, and for the first time in
this terrible soul-stirring crisis through which she was passing
so bravely, she felt a beneficent moisture in her eyes: the awful
tension of her nerves relaxed. She went up to the old man, took
his wrinkled hand in hers, and falling on her knees beside him,
she eased her overburdened heart in a flood of tears.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XX<BR>
Triumph</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The day that Citizen Chauvelin's letter was
received by the members of the Committee of Public Safety was,
indeed, one of great rejoicing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The &quot;Moniteur&quot; tells us that in the
S&eacute;ance of September 22nd, 1793, or Vend&eacute;miaire 1st
of the Year I., it was decreed that sixty prisoners, not absolutely
proved guilty of treason against the Republic -only suspected-
were to be set free.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sixty! . .at the mere news of the possible
capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Committee was inclined to be magnanimous.
Ferocity yielded for the moment to the elusive joy of anticipatory
triumph.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A glorious prize was about to fall into the
hands of those who had the welfare of the people at heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Robespierre and his decemvirs rejoiced, and
sixty persons had cause to rejoice with them. So be it! There
were plans evolved already as to national f&ecirc;tes and wholesale
pardons, when that impudent and meddlesome Englishman at last
got his deserts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Wholesale pardons which could easily be rescinded
afterwards. Even with those sixty it was a mere respite. Those
of le Salut Public only loosened their hold for awhile, were nobly
magnanimous for a day, quite prepared to be doubly ferocious the
next.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meanwhile let us heartily rejoice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Scarlet Pimpernel is in France, or will
be very soon, and on an appointed day he will present himself
conveniently to the soldiers of the Republic for capture and for
subsequent guillotine. England is at war with us, there is nothing,
therefore, further to fear from her. We might hang every Englishman
we can lay hands on, and England could do no more than she is
doing at the present moment: bombard our ports bluster and threaten,
join hands with Flanders, and Austria, and Sardinia, and the devil
if she choose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Allons! vogue la gal&egrave;re! The Scarlet
Pimpernel is, perhaps, on our shores at this very moment! Our
most stinging, most irritating foe is about to be delivered into
our hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Citizen Chauvelin's letter is very categorical:</FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I guarantee to you, Citizen Robespierre,
and to the Members of the Revolutionary Government, who have entrusted
me with the delicate mission. . .&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Robespierre's sensuous lips curl into a sarcastic
smile. Citizen Chauvelin's pen was ever florid in its style: <I>&quot;entrusted
me with the delicate mission,&quot;</I> is hardly the way to describe
an order given under penalty of death.<BR>
<BR>
But let it pass!</FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;. . .that four days from this date,
at one hour after sunset, the man who goes by the mysterious name
of the Scarlet Pimpernel will be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne,
at the extreme southern corner of the town.&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Four days from this date&quot;</FONT></I><FONT
 SIZE="+1"> . . . and Citizen Chauvelin's letter is dated the
nineteenth of September, 1793.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Too much of an aristocrat -Monsieur le
Marquis Chauvelin. . .&quot; sneers Merlin, the Jacobin. &quot;He
does not know that all good citizens had called that date the
28th Fructidor, Year I of the Republic.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No matter,&quot; retorts Robespierre,
with impatient frigidity, &quot;whatever we may call the day,
it was forty-eight hours ago, and in forty-eight hours more that
damned Englishman will have run his head into a noose, from which,
an I mistake not, he'll not find it easy to extricate himself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you believe in Citizen Chauvelin's
assertion,&quot; commented Danton, with a lazy shrug of the shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only because he asks for help from us,&quot;
quoth Robespierre drily; &quot;he is sure that the man will be
there, but not sure if he can tackle him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But many were inclined to think that Chauvelin's
letter was an idle boast. They knew nothing of the circumstances
which had caused that letter to be written: they could not conjecture
how it was that the ex-ambassador could be so precise in naming
the day and hour when the enemy of France would be at the mercy
of those whom he had outraged and flouted.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nevertheless, Citizen Chauvelin asks for help,
and help must not be denied him. There must be no shadow of blame
upon the actions of the Committee of Public Safety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had been weak once, had allowed the
prize to slip through his fingers; it must not occur again. He
has a wonderful head for devising plans, but he needs a powerful
hand to aid him, so that he may not fail again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot d'Herbois, just home from Lyons and
Tours, is the right man in an emergency like this. Citizen Collot
is full of ideas; the inventor of the &quot;Noyades&quot; is sure
to find a means of converting Boulogne into one gigantic prison,
out of which the mysterious English adventurer will find it impossible
to escape.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And whilst the deliberations go on, whilst
this Committee of butchers is busy slaughtering in imagination
the game which it has not yet succeeded in bringing down, there
comes another messenger from Citizen Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He must have ridden hard on the other one's
heels, and something very unexpected and very sudden must have
occurred to cause the citizen to send this second note.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This time it is curt and to the point. Robespierre
unfolds it and reads it to his colleagues.</FONT></P>

<P><I><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We have caught the woman - his wife
- there may be murder attempted against my person, send me some
one at once, who will carry out my instructions in case of my
sudden death.&quot;</FONT></I></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Robespierre's lips curl in satisfaction, showing
a row of yellowish teeth, long and sharp like the fangs of a wolf.
A murmur like unto the snarl of a pack of hyenas rises round the
table, as Chauvelin's letter is handed round.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Every one has guessed the importance of this
preliminary capture: &quot;the woman - his wife.&quot; Chauvelin
evidently thinks much of it, for he anticipates an attempt against
his life, nay! he is quite prepared for it, ready to sacrifice
it for the sake of his revenge.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Who had accused him of weakness?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He only thinks of his duty, not of his life,
he does not fear for himself, only that the fruits of his skill
might be jeopardised through assassination.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Well! this English adventurer is capable of
any act of desperation to save his wife and himself, and Citizen
Chauvelin must not be let in lurch.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus, Citizen Collot d'Herbois is despatched
forthwith to Boulogne to be a helpmeet and counsellor to Citizen
Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Everything that can humanly be devised must
be done to keep the woman secure and to set the trap for that
elusive Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once he is caught the whole of France shall
rejoice, and Boulogne, who has been instrumental in running the
quarry to earth, must be specially privileged on that day.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A general amnesty for all prisoners the day
the Scarlet Pimpernel is captured. A public holiday and a pardon
for all natives of Boulogne who are under sentence of death: they
shall be allowed to find their way to the various English boats
- trading and smuggling craft - that always lie at anchor in the
roads there.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Committee of Public Safety feel amazingly
magnanimous towards Boulogne; a proclamation embodying the amnesty
and the pardon is at once drawn up and signed by Robespierre and
his bloodthirsty Council of Ten; it is entrusted to Citizen Collot
d'Herbois to be read out at every corner of the ramparts as an
inducement to the little town to do its level best. The Englishman
and his wife -captured in Boulogne - will both be subsequently
brought to Paris, formally tried on a charge of conspiring against
the Republic, and guillotined as English spies, but Boulogne shall
have the greater glory and shall reap the first and richest reward.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And armed with the magnanimous proclamation,
the orders for general rejoicings and a grand local f&ecirc;te,
armed also with any and every power over the entire city, its
municipality, its garrison, its forts, for himself and his colleague
Chauvelin, Citizen Collot d'Herbois starts for Boulogne forthwith.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Needless to tell him not to let the grass grow
under his horse's hoofs. The capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
though not absolutely an accomplished fact, is nevertheless, a
practical certainty, and no one rejoices over this great even
more than the man who is to be present and see all the fun.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Riding and driving, getting what relays of
horses or waggons from roadside farms that he can, Collot is not
like to waste much time on the way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is 157 miles to Boulogne by road, and Collot,
burning with ambition to be in at the death, rides or drives as
no messenger of good tidings has ever ridden or driven before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He does not stop to eat, but munches chunks
of bread and cheese in the recess of the lumbering chaise or waggon
that bears him along whenever his limbs refuse him service and
he cannot mount a horse.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The chronicles tell us that twenty-four hours
after he left Paris, half-dazed with fatigue, but ferocious and
eager still, he is borne to the gates of Boulogne by an old cart
horse requisitioned from some distant farm, and which falls down
dead at the Porte Gayole, whilst its rider, with a last effort,
loudly clamours for admittance into the town &quot;in the name
of the Republic.&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXI<BR>
Suspence</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In his memorable interview with Robespierre,
the day before he left for England, Chauvelin had asked that absolute
power be given him, in order that he might carry out the plans
for the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which he had in his
mind. Now that he was back in France he had no cause to complain
that the Revolutionary Government had grudged him this power for
which he had asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Implicit obedience had followed whenever he
had commanded.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as he heard that a woman had been arrested
in the act of uttering a passport in the name of C&eacute;line
Dumont, he guessed at once that Marguerite Blakeney had, with
characteristic impulse, fallen into the trap which, with the aid
of the woman Candeille, he had succeeded in laying for her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was not the least surprised at that. He
knew human nature, feminine nature, far too well, ever to have
been in doubt for a moment that Marguerite would follow her husband
without calculating either costs or risks.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ye gods! the irony of it all! Had she not been
called the cleverest woman in Europe at one time? Chauvelin himself
had thus acclaimed her, in those olden days, before she and he
became such mortal enemies, and when he was one of the many satellites
that revolved round brilliant Marguerite St. Just. And to-night,
when a sergeant of the town guard brought him news of her capture,
he smiled grimly to himself: &quot;the cleverest woman in Europe&quot;
had failed to perceive the trap laid temptingly open for her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more she had betrayed her husband into
the hands of those who would not let him escape a second time.
And now she had done it with her eyes open, with loving, passionate
heart, which ached for self-sacrifice, and only succeeded in imperilling
the loved one more hopelessly than before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sergeant was waiting for orders. Citizen
Chauvelin had come to Boulogne, armed with more full and more
autocratic powers than any servant of th new republic had ever
been endowed with before. The governor of the town, the captain
of the guard, the fort and municipality were all as abject slaves
before him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as he had taken possession of the quarters
organised for him in the town hall, he had asked for a list of
prisoners who for one cause or another were being detained pending
further investigations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The list was long, and contained many names
which were of not the slightest interest to Chauvelin: he passed
them over impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To be released at once,&quot; he said
curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He did not want the guard to be burdened with
unnecessary duties, nor the prisons of the little seaport town
to be inconveniently encumbered. He wanted room, space, air, the
force and intelligence of the entire town at his command for the
one capture which meant life and revenge to him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A woman - name unknown - found in possession
of a forged passport in the name of C&eacute;line Dumont, maid
to the Citizeness D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille - attempted
to land - was interrogated and failed to give satisfactory explanation
of herself - detained in room No. 6 of the Gayole Prison.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This was one of the last names on the list,
the only one of any importance to Citizen Chauvelin. When he read
it he nearly drove his nails into the palms of his hands, so desperate
an effort did he make not to betray before the sergeant, by look
or sigh, the exultation which he felt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For a moment he shaded his eyes against the
glare of the lamp, but it was not long before he had forumlated
a plan and was ready to give his orders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He asked for a list of prisoners already detained
in the various forts. The name of l'Abb&eacute; Foucquet, with
those of this niece and nephew, attracted his immediate attention.
He asked for further information respecting these people, heard
that the boy was a widow's only son, the sole supporter of his
mother's declining years; the girl was ailing, suffering from
incipient phthisis, and was blind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Pardi! the very thing! L'Abb&eacute; himself,
the friend of Juliette Marny, the pathetic personality around
which this final adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel was intended
to revolve! and these two young people! his sister's children!
one of them blind and ill, the other full of vigour and manhood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Citizen Chauvelin had soon made up his mind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A few quick orders to the sergeant of the guard,
and l'Abb&eacute; Foucquet, weak, helpless and gentle, became
the relentless jailer who would guard Marguerite more securely
than a whole regiment of loyal soldiers could have done.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, having despatched a messenger to the
Committee of Public Safety, Chauvelin laid himself down to rest.
Fate had not deceived him. He had thought and schemed and planned,
and events had shaped themselves exactly as he had foreseen, and
the fact that Marguerite Blakeney was at the present moment a
prisoner in his own hands was merely the result of his own calculations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for the Scarlet Pimpernel, Chauvelin could
not very well conceive what he would do under these present circumstances.
The duel on the southern ramparts had, of course, become a farce,
not likely to be enacted, now that Marguerite's life was at stake.
The daring adventurer was caught in a network at last, from which
all his ingenuity, all his wit, his impudence, and his amazing
luck could never extricate him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And in Chauvelin's mind there was still something
more. Revenge was the sweetest emotion his bruised and humbled
pride could know: he had not yet tasted its complete intoxicating
joy: but every hour now his cup of delight became more and more
full: in a few days it would overflow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the meanwhile he was content to wait. The
hours sped by and there was no news yet of that elusive Pimpernel.
Of Marguerite he knew nothing save that she was well guarded;
the sentry who passed up and down outside room No. 6 had heard
her voice and that of the Abb&eacute; Foucquet in the course of
the afternoon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had asked the Committee of Public
Safety for aid in his difficult task, but forty-eight hours at
least must elapse before such aid could reach him. Forty-eight
hours during which the hand of an assassin might be lurking for
him, and might even reach him ere his vengeance was fully accomplished.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That was the only thought which really troubled
him. He did not want to die before he had seen the Scarlet Pimpernel
a withered, abject creature, crushed in fame and honour, too debased
to find glorification even in death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At this moment he only cared for his life because
it was needed for the complete success of his schemes. No one
else he knew would have that note of personal hatred towards the
enemy of France which was necessary now in order to carry out
successfully the plans which he had formed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Robespierre and all the others only desired
the destruction of a man who had intrigued against the reign of
terror which they had established; his death on the guillotine,
even if it were surrounded with the halo of martyrdom, would have
satisfied them completely. Chauvelin looked further than that.
He hated the man! he had suffered humiliation through him individually.
He wished to see him as an object of contempt rather than of pity.
And because of the anticipation of this joy, he was careful of
his life, and throughout those two days which elapsed between
the capture of Marguerite and the arrival of Collot d'Herbois
at Boulogne, Chauvelin never left his quarters at the H&ocirc;tel
de Ville, and requisitioned a special escort consisting of proved
soldiers of the town guard to attend his every footstep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">On the evening of the 22nd, after the arrival
of Citizen Collot in Boulogne, he gave orders that the woman from
No. 6 cell be brought before him in the ground floor room of the
Fort Gayole.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chpater 22 - Not Death</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXII<BR>
Not Death</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two days of agonising suspense, of alternate
hope and despair, had told heavily on Marguerite Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Her courage was still indomitable, her purpose
firm and her faith secure, but she was without the slightest vestige
of news, entirely shut off from the outside world, left to conjecture,
to scheme, to expect and to despond alone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Abb&eacute; Foucquet had tried in his gentle
way to be of comfort to her, and she in her turn did her very
best not to render his position more cruel than it already was.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A message came to him twice during those forty-eight
hours from Fran&ccedil;ois and F&eacute;licit&eacute;, a little
note scribbled by the boy, or a token sent by the blind girl,
to tell the abb&eacute; that the children were safe and well:
that they would be safe and well so long as the citizeness with
the name unknown remained closely guarded by him in room No. 6.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When these messages came, the old man would
sigh and murmur something about the good God: and hope, which
perhaps had faintly risen in Marguerite's heart within the last
hour or so, would once more sink back into the abyss of uttermost
despair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Outside the monotonous walk of the sentry sounded
like the perpetual thud of a hammer beating upon her bruised temple.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What's to be done? My God! what's to
be done?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
Where was Percy now?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How to reach him!. . . . Oh, God! grant
me light!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The one real terror which she felt was that
she would go mad. Nay! that she was in a measure mad already.
For hours now - or was it days? . . . or years? . . . she had
heard nothing save that rhythmic walk of the sentinel, and the
kindly, tremulous voice of the abb&eacute; whispering consolations,
or murmuring prayers in her ears, she had seen nothing save that
prison door of rough deal, painted a dull gray, with great old-fashioned
lock, and hinges rusty with the damp of ages.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She had kept her eyes fixed on that door until
they burned and ached with well-night intolerable pain; yet she
felt that she could not look elsewhere, lest she missed the golden
moment when the bolts would be drawn, and that dull, gray door
would swing slowly on its rusty hinges.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Surely, surely, that was the commencement of
madness!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yet for Percy's sake, because he might want
her, because he might have need of her courage and of her presence
of mind, she tried to keep her wits about her. But it was difficult!
oh! terribly difficult! especially when the shades of evening
began to gather in, and peopled the squalid, white-washed room
with innumerable, threatening ghouls.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then when the moon came up, a silver ray crept
in through the tiny window and struck full upon that gray door,
making it look weird and spectral, like the entrance to a house
of ghosts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even now, as there was a distinct sound of
the pushing of bolts and bars, Marguerite thought that she was
the prey of hallucinations. The Abb&eacute; Foucquet was sitting
in the remote and darkest corner of the room, quietly telling
his beads. His serene philosophy and gentle placidity could in
no way be disturbed by the opening or shutting of a door, or by
the bearer of good or evil tidings.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The room now seemed strangely gloomy and cavernous,
with those deep, black shadows all around and that white ray of
the moon which struck so weirdly on the door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite shuddered with one of those unaccountable
premonitions of something evil about to come, which ofttimes assail
those who have a nervous and passionate temperament.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The door swung slowly open upon its hinges:
there was a quick word of command, and the light of a small oil
lamp struck full into the gloom. Vaguely Marguerite discerned
a group of men, soldirs no doubt, for there was the glint of arms
and the suggestion of tricolour cockades and scarves. One of the
men was holding the lamp aloft, another took a few steps forward
into the room. He turned to Marguerite, entirely ignoring the
presence of the old priest, and addressing her peremptorily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your presence is desired by the citizen
governor,&quot; he said curtly; &quot;stand up and follow me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Whither am I to go?&quot; she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To where my men will take you. Now then,
quick's the word. The citizen governor does not like to wait.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At a word of command from him, two more soldiers
now entered the room and placed themselves one on each side of
Marguerite, who, knowing that resistance was useless, had already
risen and was prepared to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The abb&eacute; tried to utter a word of protest,
and came quickly forward towards Marguerite, but he was summarily
and very roughly pushed aside.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now then, calotin,&quot; said the first
soldier with an oath, &quot;this is none of your business. Forward!
march!&quot; he added, addressing his men, &quot;and you, citizeness,
will find it wiser to come quietly along and not to attempt any
tricks with me, or the gag and manacles will have to be used.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Marguerite had no intention of resisting.
She was too tired even to wonder as to what they meant to do with
her or whither they were going; she moved as in a dream and felt
a hope within her that she was being led to death: summary executions
were the order of the day, she knew that, and sighed for this
simple solution of the awful problem which had been harassing
her these past two days.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was being led along a passage, stumbling
ever and anon as she walked, for it was but dimly lighted by the
same little oil lamp, which one of the soldiers was carrying in
front, holding it high up above his head: then they went down
a narrow flight of stone steps, until she and her escort reached
a heavy oak door.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A halt was ordered at this point: and the man
in command of the little party pushed the door open and walked
in. Marguerite caught sight of a room beyond, dark and gloomy-looking,
as was her own prison cell. Somewhere on the left there was obviously
a window; she could not see it, but guessed that it was there
because the moon struck full upon the floor, ghostlike and spectral,
well fitting in with the dreamlike state in which Marguerite felt
herself to be.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the centre of the room she could discern
a table with a chair close beside it, also a couple of tallow-candles,
which flickered in the draught caused, no doubt, by that open
window which she could not see.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All these little details impressed themselves
on Marguerite's mind, as she stood there, placidly waiting until
she should once more to be told to move along. The table, the
chair, that unseen window, trivial objects though they were, assumed
before her over-wrought fancy an utterly disproportionate importance.
She caught herself presently counting up the number of boards
visible on the floor, and watching the smoke of the tallow-candles
rising up towards the grimy ceiling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After a few minutes' weary waiting, which seemed
endless to Marguerite, there came a short word of command from
within, and she was roughly pushed forward into the room by one
of the men. The cool air of a late September's evening gently
fanned her burning temples. She looked round her, and now perceived
that some one was sitting at the table, the other side of the
tallow-candles -a man, with head bent over a bundle of papers
and shading his face against the light with his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He rose as she approached, and the flickering
flame of the candles played weirdly upon the slight, sable-clad
figure, illumining the keen, ferret-like face, and throwing fitful
gleams across the deep-set eyes and the narrow, cruel mouth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mechanically Marguerite took the chair which
the soldier drew towards her, ordering her curtly to sit down.
She seemed to have but little power to move. Though all her faculties
had suddenly become preternaturally alert at sight of this man,
whose very life now was spent in doing her the most grievous wrong
that one human being can do to another, yet all these faculties
were forcefully centred in the one mighty effort not to flinch
before him, not to let him see for a moment that she was afraid.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She compelled her eyes to look at him fully
and squarely, her lips not to tremble, her very heart to stop
its wild, excited beating. She felt his keen eyes fixed intently
upon her, but more in curiosity than in hatred or satisfied vengeance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When she had sat down he came round the table
and moved towards her. When he drew quite near, she instinctively
recoiled. It had been an almost imperceptible action on her part,
and certainly an involuntary one, for she did not wish to betray
a single thought or emotion, until she knew what he wished to
say.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he had noted her movement - a sort of drawing
up and stiffening of her whole person as he approached. He seemed
pleased to see it, for he smiled sarcastically, but with evident
satisfaction, and - as if his purpose was now accomplished - he
immediately withdrew and went back to his former seat on the other
side of the table.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After that he ordered the soldiers to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But remain at attention outside, you
and your men,&quot; he added, &quot;ready to enter if I call.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was Marguerite's turn to smile at this obvious
sign of a lurking fear on Chauvelin's part, and a line of sarcasm
and contempt curled her full lips. <BR>
<BR>
The soldiers having obeyed, and the oak door having closed upon
them, Marguerite was now alone with the man whom she hated and
loathed beyond every living thing on earth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She wondered when he would begin to speak and
why he had sent for her. But he seemed in no hurry to begin. Still
shading his face with his hand, he was watching her with utmost
attention: she, on the other hand, was looking through and beyond
him, with contemptuous indifference, as if his presence here did
not interest her in the least.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She would give him no opening for this conversation
which he had sought, and which she felt would prove either purposeless
or else deeply wounding to her heart and to her pride. She sat,
therefore, quite still with the flickering and yellow light fully
illumining her delicate face, with its childlike curves, and delicate
features, the noble, straight brow, the great blue eyes and halo
of golden hair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My desire to see you here to-night must
seem strange to you, Lady Blakeney,&quot; said Chauvelin at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, as she did not reply, he continued, speaking
quite gently, almost deferentially: <BR>
<BR>
&quot;There are various matters of grave importance, which the
events of the next twenty-four hours will reveal to your ladyship,
and believe me that I am actuated by motives of pure friendship
towards you in this my effort to mitigate the unpleasantness of
such news as you might hear to-morrow perhaps, by giving you due
warning of what its nature might be.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She turned great questioning eyes upon him,
and in their expression she tried to put all the contempt which
she felt, all the bitterness, all the defiance and the pride.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He quietly shrugged his shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! I fear me,&quot; he said, &quot;that
your ladyship, as usual, doth me grievous wrong. It is but natural
that you should misjudge me, yet, believe me. . .&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;A truce on this foolery, M. Chauvelin,&quot; she broke in,
with sudden impatient vehemence, &quot;pray, leave your protestations
of friendship and courtesy alone, there is no one here to hear
them. I pray you proceed with what you have to say.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; It was a sigh of satisfaction
on the part of Chauvelin. Her anger and impatience, even at this
early stage of the interview, proved sufficiently that her icy
restraint was only on the surface.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Chauvelin always knew how to deal with
vehemence. He loved to play with the emotions of a passionate
fellow-creature: it was only the imperturbable calm of a certain
enemy of his that was wont to shake his own impenetrable armour
of reserve.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As your ladyship desires,&quot; he said,
with a slight and ironical bow of the head. &quot;But before proceeding
according to your wish, I am compelled to ask your ladyship just
one question.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And that is?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Have you reflected what your present position means to that
inimitable prince of dandies, Sir Percy Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is it necessary for your present purpose,
Monsieur, that you should mention my husband's name at all?&quot;
she asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is indispensable, fair lady,&quot;
he replied suavely, &quot;for is not the fate of your husband
so closely intertwined with yours, that his actions will inevitably
be largely influenced by your own?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
Marguerite gave a start of surprise, and as Chauvelin had paused
she tried to read what hidden meaning lay behind these last words
of his. Was it his intention then to propose some bargain, one
of those terrible &quot;either-ors&quot; of which he seemed to
possess the malignant secret? Oh! if that was so; if, indeed he
had sent for her in order to suggest one of those terrible alternatives
of his, then - be it what it may, be it the wildest conception
which the insane brain of a fiend could invent, she would accept
it, so long as the man she loved were given one single chance
of escape.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Therefore she turned to her arch-enemy in a
more conciliatory spirit now, and even endeavoured to match her
own diplomatic cunning against his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do not understand,&quot; she said tentatively.
&quot;How can my actions influence those of my husband? I am a
prisoner in Boulogne; he probably is not aware of that fact yet,
and. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy Blakeney may be in Boulogne
at any moment now,&quot; he interrupted quietly. &quot;An I mistake
not, few places can offer such great attractions to that peerless
gentleman of fashion than doth this humble provincial town of
France just at this present. . . .Hath it not the honour of harbouring
Lady Blakeney within its gates?. . . And your ladyship may indeed
believe me when I say, that the day that Sir Percy lands in our
hospitable port, two hundred pairs of eyes will be fixed upon
him, lest he should wish to quit it again.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And if there were two thousand, sir,&quot;
she said impulsively, &quot;they would not stop his coming or
going as he pleased.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, fair lady,&quot; he said, with a
smile, &quot;are you then endowing Sir Percy Blakeney with the
attributes which, as popular fancy has it, belong exclusively
to that mysterious English hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A truce to your diplomacy, Monsieur Chauvelin,&quot;
she retorted, goaded by his sarcasm; &quot;why should we try to
fence with one another? What was the object of your journey to
England? of the farce which you enacted in my house, with the
help of the woman Candeille? of that duel and that challenge,
save that you desired to entice Sir Percy Blakeney to France?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And also his charming wife,&quot; he
added, with an ironical bow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She bit her lip and made no comment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Shall we say that I succeeded admirably?&quot;
he continued, speaking with persistant urbanity and calm &quot;and
that I have strong cause to hope that that elusive Pimpernel will
soon be a guest on our friendly shores?. . . There! you see, I,
too, have laid down the foils. . . As you say, why should we fence?
Your ladyship is now in Boulogne, soon Sir Percy will come to
try and take you away from us, but, believe me, fair lady, that
it would take more than the ingenuity and the daring of the Scarlet
Pimpernel magnified a thousandfold to get him back to England
again. . . unless. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Unless?. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite held her breath. She felt now as
if the whole universe must stand still during the next supreme
moment, until she heard what Chauvelin's next words would be.<BR>
<BR>
There was to be an &quot;unless&quot; then? An &quot;either-or&quot;
more terrible, no doubt, than the one he had formulated before
her just a year ago.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin, she knew, was pastmaster in the
art of putting a knife at his victim's throat, and giving it just
the necessary twist with his cruel and relentless &quot;unless&quot;!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she felt quite calm, because her purpose
was resolute. There is no doubt that during this agonising moment
of suspence she was absolutely firm in her determination to accept
any and every condition, which Chauvelin would put before her
as the price of her husband's safety. After all, these conditions,
since he placed them before <I>her</I>, could but resolve themselves
into questions of her own life as against her husband's.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With that unreasoning impulse, which was one
of her most salient characteristics, she never paused to think
that, to Chauvelin, her own life or death were only the means
to the great end which he had in view: the complete annihilation
of the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That end could only be reached by Percy Blakeney's
death - not by her own.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even now, as she was watching him with eyes
glowing and lips tightly closed, lest a cry of impatient agony
should escape her throat, he, like a snail that has shown its
slimy horns too soon, and is not ready to face the enemy as yet,
seemed suddenly to withdraw within his former shell of careless
suavity. The earnestness of his tone vanished, giving place to
light and easy conversation, just as if he were discussing social
topics with a woman of fashion in a Paris drawing-room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay!&quot; he said pleasantly, &quot;is
not your ladyship taking this matter in too serious a spirit?
Of a truth, you repeated my innocent word 'unless,' even as if
I were putting a knife at your dainty throat. Yet I meant naught
that need disturb you yet. Have I not said that I am your friend?
Let me try and prove it to you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will find it a difficult task, Monsieur,&quot;
she said drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Difficult tasks always have had a great
fascination for your humble servant. May I try?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Certainly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Shall we then touch at the root of this
delicate matter? Your ladyship, so I understand, is at this moment
under the impression that I desire to encompass - shall I say?
the death of an English gentleman for whom, believe me, I have
the greatest respect. That is so, is it not?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What is so, M. Chauvelin?&quot; she asked
almost stupidly, for truly she had not even begun to grasp his
meaning. &quot;I do not understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You think that I am at this moment taking
measures for sending the Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine?
Eh?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Never was so great an error committed
by a clever woman. Your ladyship must believe me when I say that
the guillotine is the very last place in the world where I would
wish to see that enigmatic and elusive personage.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you trying to fool me, M. Chauvelin?
If so, for what purpose? And why do you lie to me like that?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;On my honour, 'tis the truth. The death
of Sir Percy Blakeney - I may call him that, may I not - would
ill suit the purpose which I have in view.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What purpose? You must pardon me, Monsieur
Chauvelin,&quot; she added with a quick, impatient sigh, &quot;
but of a truth, I am getting confused, and my wits must have become
dull in the past few days. I pray you to add to your many protestations
of friendship a little more clearness in your speech, and, if
possible, a little more brevity. What, then, is the purpose which
you had in view when you enticed my husband to come over to France?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My purpose was the destruction of the
Scarlet Pimpernel, not the death of Sir Percy Blakeney. Believe
me, I have a great regard for Sir Percy. He is a most accomplished
gentleman, witty, brilliant, an inimitable dandy. Why should he
not grace with his presence the drawing-rooms of London or of
Brighton for many years to come?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She looked at him with puzzled inquiry. For
one moment the thought flashed through her mind that, after all,
Chauvelin might be still in doubt as to the identity of the Scarlet
Pimpernel . . . But no! that hope was madness. . . It was preposterous
and impossible. . . But then, why? why? why?. . . Oh, God! for
a little more patience!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What I have just said may seem a little
enigmatic to your ladyship,&quot; he continued blandly, &quot;but
surely so clever a woman as yourself, so great a lady as is the
wife Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, will be aware that there are
other means of destroying an enemy than the taking of his life.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;For instance, Monsieur Chuavelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is the destruction of his honour,&quot;
he replied slowly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A long, bitter laugh, almost hysterical in
its loud outburst, broke from the very depths of Marguerite's
convulsed heart.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The destruction of his honour! . . .
ha! ha! ha! ha! . . . of a truth, Monsieur Chauvelin, your inventive
powers have led you beyond the bounds of dreamland! . . . Ha!
ha! ha! ha! . . . It is in the land of madness that you are wandering,
sir, when you talk in one breath of Sir Percy Blakeney and the
possible destruction of his honour!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he remained apparently quite unruffled,
and when her laughter had somewhat subsided, he said placidly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Perhaps!. . .&quot;<BR>
<BR>
Then he rose from his chair, and once more approached her. This
time she did not shrink from him. The suggestion which he had
made just now, this talk of attacking her husband's honour rather
than his life seemed so wild and preposterous - the conception
truly of a mind unhinged - that she looked upon it as a sign of
extreme weakness on his part, almost as an acknowledgement of
impotence.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she watched him as he moved round the table
more in curiosity now than in fright. He puzzled her, and she
still had a feeling at the back of her mind that there must be
something more definite and more evil lurking at the back of that
tortuous brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will your ladyship allow me to conduct
you to yonder window?&quot; he said, &quot;the air is cool, and
what I have to say can best be done in sight of yonder sleeping
city.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">His tone was one of perfect courtesy, even
of respectful deference, through which not the slightest trace
of sarcasm could be discerned, and she, still actuated by curiosity
and interest, not in any way by fear, quietly rose to obey him.
Though she ignored the hand which he was holding out towards her,
she followed him readily enough as he walked up to the window.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All through this agonising and soul-stirring
interview she had felt heavily oppressed by the close atmosphere
of the room, rendered nauseous by the evil smell of the smoky
tallow-candles, which were left to spread their grease and smoke
abroad unchecked. Once or twice she had gazed longingly towards
the suggestion of pure air outside.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin evidently had still much to say to
her: the torturing, mental rack to which she was being subjected
had not yet fully done its work. It still was capable of one or
two turns, a twist or so which might succeed in crushing her pride
an her defiance. Well! so be it! she was in the man's power: had
placed herself therein through her own unreasoning impulse. This
interview was but one of the many soul-agonies which she had been
called upon to endure, and, if by submitting to it all she could
in a measure mitigate her own faults and be of help to the man
she loved, she would find the sacrifice small and the mental torture
easy to bear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Therefore, when Chauvelin beckoned to her to
draw near, she went up to the window, and leaning her head against
the deep stone embrasure, she looked out into the night.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter 23 - The Hostage</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXIII<BR>
The Hostage</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin, without speaking, extended his hand
out towards the city, as if to invite Marguerite to gaze upon
it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She was quite unconscious what hour of the
night it might be, but it must have been late, for the little
town, encircled by the stony arms of its forts, seemed asleep.
The moon, now slowly sinking in the west, edged the towers and
spires with filmy lines of silver. To the right Marguerite caught
sight of the frowning Beffroi, which even as she gazed out began
tolling its heavy bell. It sounded like the tocsin, dull and muffled.
After ten strokes it was still.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Ten o'clock! At this hour, in far-off England,
in fashionable London, the play was just over, crowds of gaily-dressed
men and women poured out of the open gates of the theatres, calling
loudly for attendant or chaise. Thence to balls or routs, gaily
fluttering like so many butterflies, brilliant and irresponsible.
. .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And in England also, in the beautiful gardens
of her Richmond home, ofttimes at ten o'clock she had wandered
alone with Percy, when he was at home, and the spirit of adventure
in him was momentarily laid to rest. Then, when the night was
very dark and the air heavy with the scent of roses and lilies,
she lay quiescent in his arms in that little arbour beside the
river. The rhythmic lapping of the waves was the only sound that
stirred the balmy air. He seldom spoke then, for his voice would
shake whenever he uttered a word: but his impenetrable armour
of flippancy was pierced through, and he did not speak because
his lips were pressed to hers, and his love had soared beyond
the domain of speech.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A shudder of intense mental pain went through
her now, as she gazed on the sleeping city, and sweet memories
of the past turned bitterness in this agonising present. One by
one, as the moon gradually disappeared behind a bank of clouds,
the towers of Boulogne were merged in the gloom. In front of her,
far far away, beyond the flat sand dunes, the sea seemed to be
calling to her with a ghostly and melancholy moan.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The window was on the ground floor of the fort,
and gave direct on to the wide and shady walk which runs along
the crest of the city walls; from where she stood Marguerite was
looking straight along the ramparts, some thirty m&egrave;tres
wide at this point, flanked on either side by the granite balustrade,
and adorned with a double row of ancient elms, stunted and twisted
into grotesque shapes by the persistent action of the wind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;These wide ramparts are a peculiarity
of this city. . .&quot; said a voice close to her ear. &quot;At
times of peace they form an agreeable promenade under the shade
of the trees, and a delightful meeting-place for lovers. . . or
enemies. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sound brought her back to the ugly realities
of the present: the rose-scented garden at Richmond, the lazily
flowing river, the tender memories which for that brief moment
had confronted her from out a happy past, suddenly vanished from
her ken. Instead of these the brine-laden sea air struck her quivering
nostrils, the echo of the old Beffroi died away in her ear, and
now, from out one of the streets or open places of the sleeping
city, there came the sound of a raucous voice, shouting in monotonous
tones a string of words, the meaning of which failed to reach
her brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Not many feet below the window the southern
ramparts of the town stretched away into the darkness. She felt
unaccountably cold, suddenly, as she looked down upon them, and,
with aching eyes, tried to pierce the gloom. She was shivering,
in spite of the mildness of this early autumnal night: her overwrought
fancy was peopling the lonely wall with unearthly shapes, strolling
along, discussing in spectral language a strange duel which was
to take place here between a noted butcher of men and a mad Englishman
overfond of adventure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The ghouls seemed to pass and repass along
in front of her and to be laughing audibly because that mad Englishman
had been offered his life in exchange for his honour. They laughed
and laughed, no doubt because he refused the bargain - Englishmen
were always eccentric, and in these days of equality and other
devices of a free and glorious Revolution, honour was such a very
marketable commodity that it seemed ridiculous to prize it quite
so highly. Then they strolled away again and disappeared, whilst
Marguerite distinctly heard the scrunching of the path beneath
their feet. She leant forward to peer still further into the darkness,
for this sound had seemed so absolutely real, but immediately
a detaining hand was placed upon her arm and a sarcastic voice
murmured at her elbow:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The result, fair lady, would only be
a broken leg or arm; the height is not great enough for picturesque
suicides, and, believe me, these ramparts are only haunted by
ghosts.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She drew back as if a viper had stung her:
for the moment she had become oblivious of Chauvelin's presence.
However, she would not take notice of his taunt, and after a slight
pause, he asked her if she could hear the town crier over in the
public streets.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; she replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What he says at the present moment is
of vast importance to your ladyship,&quot; he remarked drily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How so?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your ladyship is a precious hostage.
We are taking measures to guard our valuable property securely.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite thought of the Abb&eacute; Foucquet,
who no doubt was still quietly telling his beads, even if in his
heart he had begun to wonder what had become of her. She thought
of Fran&ccedil;ois, who was the breadwinner, and of F&eacute;licit&eacute;,
who was blind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Methinks you and your colleagues have
done that already,&quot; she said.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Not as competely as we would wish. We
know the daring of the Scarlet Pimpernel. We are not even ashamed
to admit that we fear his luck, his impudence, and his marvellous
ingenuity. . . Have I not told you that I have the greatest possible
respect for that mysterious English hero. . . An old priest and
two young children might be spirited away by that enigmatical
adventurer, even whilst Lady Blakeney herself is made to vanish
from our sight.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! I see your ladyship is taking my
simple words as a confession of weakness,&quot; he continued,
noting the swift sigh of hope which had involuntarily escaped
her lips. &quot;Nay! an it please you, you shall despise me for
it. But a confession of weakness is the first sign of strength.
The Scarlet Pimpernel is still at large, whilst we guard our hostage
securely; he is bound to fall into our hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! still at large!&quot; she retorted
with impulsive defiance. &quot;Think you that all your bolts and
bars, the ingenuity of yourself and your colleagues, the collaboration
of the devil himself, would succeed in outwitting the Scarlet
Pimpernel, now that his purpose will be to try and drag <I>me
</I>from out your clutches?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She felt hopeful and proud. Now that she had
the pure air of heaven in her lungs, that from afar she could
smell the sea, and could feel that perhaps in a straight line
of vision from where she stood the Day Dream, with Sir Percy on
board, might be lying out there in the roads, it seemed impossible
that he should fail in freeing her and those poor people -an old
man and two children - whose lives depended on her own.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Chauvelin only laughed a dry, sarcastic
laugh, and said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hm! perhaps not! . . . It, of course,
will depend on you and your personality. . . your feelings in
such matters. . . and whether an English gentleman likes to save
his own skin at the expense of others.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite shivered as if from cold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah! I see,&quot; resumed Chauvelin quietly,
&quot;that your ladyship has not quite grasped the position. That
public crier is a long way off: the words have lingered on the
evening breeze and have failed to reach your brain. Do you suppose
that I and my colleagues do not know that all the ingenuity of
which the Scarlet Pimpernel is capable will now be directed in
piloting Lady Blakeney, and incidentally the Abb&eacute; Foucquet
with his nephew and niece, safely across the Channel? Four people!
. . . Bah! a bagatelle for this mighty conspirator, who but lately
snatched twenty aristocrats from the prisons of Lyons. . . Nay!
nay! two children and an old man were not enough to guard our
precious hostage, and I was not thinking of either the Abb&eacute;
Foucquet or the two children, when I said that an English gentleman
would not save himself at the expense of others.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Of whom, then, were you thinking, Monsieur
Chauvelin? Whom else have you set to guard the prize which you
value so highly?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The whole city of Boulogne,&quot; he
replied simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I do not understand.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let me make my point clear. My colleague,
Citizen Collot d'Herbois, rode over from Paris yesterday; like
myself, he is a member of the Committee of Public Safety, whose
duty it is to look after the welfare of France by punishing all
those who conspire against her laws and the liberties of the people.
Chief among these conspirators, whom it is our duty to punish
is, of course, that impudent adventurer who calls himself the
Scarlet Pimpernel. He has given the Government of France a great
deal of trouble through his attempts - mostly successful, as I
have already admitted- at frustrating the just vengeance which
an oppressed country has the right to wreak on those who have
proved themselves to be tyrants and traitors.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is it necessary to recapitulate all this,
Monsieur Chauvelin?&quot; she asked impatiently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think so,&quot; he replied blandly.
&quot;You see, my point is this. We feel that in a measure now
the Scarlet Pimpernel is in our power. Within the next few hours
he will land at Boulogne. . . Boulogne, where he has agreed to
fight a duel with me . . Boulogne, where Lady Blakeney happens
to be at this present moment. . . as you see, Boulogne has a grave
responsibility to bear: just now she is to a certain extent the
proudest city in France since she holds within her gates a hostage
for the appearance on our shores of her country's most bitter
enemy. But she must not fall from that high estate. Her double
duty is clear before her: she must guard Lady Blakeney and capture
the Scarlet Pimpernel; if she fail in the former she must be punished,
if she succeed in the latter she shall be rewarded.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused and leaned out of the window again,
whilst she watched him, breathless and terrified. She was beginning
to understand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hark!&quot; he said, looking straight
at her. &quot;Do you hear the crier now? He is proclaiming the
punishment and the reward. He is making it clear to the citizens
of Boulogne that on the day when the Scarlet Pimpernel falls into
the hands of the Committee of Public Safety a general amnesty
will be granted to all natives of Boulogne who are under arrest
at the present time, and a free pardon to all those who, born
within these city walls, are to-day under sentence of death. .
. A noble reward, eh? Well deserved, you'll admit? . . . Should
you wonder, then, if the whole town of Boulogne were engaged just
now in finding that mysterious hero and delivering him into our
hands? . . . How many mothers, sisters, wives, think you, at the
present moment, would fail to lay hands on the English adventurer,
if a husband's or son's life or freedom happened to be at stake?
. . . I have some records here,&quot; he continued, pointing in
the direction of the table, &quot;which tell me that there are
five-and-thirty natives of Boulogne in the local prisons, a dozen
more in the prisons in Paris; of these at least twenty have been
tried and are condemned to death. Every hour that the Scarlet
Pimpernel succeeds in evading his captors, so many deaths lie
at his door. If he succeeds in once more reaching England safely,
three-score lives mayhap will be the price of his escape. . .
Nay! but I see your ladyship is shivering with cold . . .&quot;
he added, with a dry little laugh. &quot;Shall I close the window?
or do you wish to hear what punishment will be meted out to Boulogne,
if, on the day that the Scarlet Pimpernel is captured, Lady Blakeney
happens to have left the shelter of these city walls?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I pray you proceed, Monsieur,&quot; she
rejoined with perfect calm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Committee of Public Safety,&quot;
he resumed, &quot;would look upon this city as a nest of traitors,
if on the day that the Scarlet Pimpernel becomes our prisoner
Lady Blakeney herself, the wife of that notorious English spy,
had already quitted Boulogne. The whole town knows by now that
you are in our hands -- you, the most precious hostage we can
hold for the ultimate capture of the man whom we all fear and
detest. Virtually the town crier is at the present moment proclaiming
to the inhabitants of this city: 'We want the man, but we already
have his wife; see to it, citizens, that she does not escape!
For if she do, we shall summarily shoot the breadwinner in every
family in the town!'&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A cry of horror escaped Marguerite's parched
lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you devils, then, all of you,&quot;
she gasped, &quot;that you should think of such things?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Aye! some of us are devils, no doubt,&quot; said Chauvelin
drily; &quot;but why should you honour us in this case with so
flattering an epithet? We are mere men, striving to guard our
property, and mean no harm to the citizens of Boulogne. We have
threatened them, true! but is it not for you and that elusive
Pimpernel to see that the threat is never put into execution?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You would not do it!&quot; she repeated,
horror-stricken.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Nay! I pray you, fair lady, do not deceive
yourself. At present the proclamation sounds like a mere threat,
I'll allow, but let me assure you that if we fail to capture the
Scarlet Pimpernel, and if you, on the other hand, are spirited
out of this fortress by that mysterious adventurer, we shall undoubtedly
shoot or guillotine every able-bodied man and woman in this town.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had spoken quietly and emphatically, neither
with bombast nor with rage, and Marguerite saw in his face nothing
but a calm and ferocious determination of an entire nation embodied
in this one man, to be revenged at any cost. She would not let
him see the depth of her despair, nor would she let him read in
her face the unutterable hopelessness which filled her soul. It
were useless to make an appeal to him: she knew full well that
from his she could obtain neither gentleness nor mercy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I hope that at last I have made the situation
quite clear to your ladyship?&quot; he was asking quite pleasantly
now. &quot;See how easy is your position: you have but to remain
quiescent in room No. 6, and if any chance of escape be offered
you ere the Scarlet Pimpernel is captured, you need but to think
of all the families in Boulogne, who would be deprived of their
breadwinner -fathers and sons mostly, but there are girls, too,
who support their mothers or sisters: the fish-curers of Boulogne
are mostly women, and there are the net-makers and the seamstresses:
all would suffer if your ladyship were no longer to be found in
No. 6 room of this ancient fort; whilst all would be included
in the amnesty if the Scarlet Pimpernel fell into our hands. .
. &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a low, satisfied chuckle, which made
Marguerite think of the evil spirits in hell exulting over the
torments of unhappy lost souls.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think, Lady Blakeney,&quot; he added
drily, and making her an ironical bow, &quot;that your humble
servant hath outwitted the elusive hero at last.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Quietly he turned on his heel and went back
into the room, Marguerite remaining motionless beside the open
window, where the soft, brine-laden air, the distant murmur of
the sea, the occasional cry of a sea-mew, all seemed to mock her
agonising despair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The voice of the town crier came nearer and
nearer now: she could here the words he spoke quite distinctly:
something about &quot;amnesty&quot; and pardon, the reward for
the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel, the lives of men, women
and children in exchange for his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Oh! she knew what all that meant! - that Percy
would not hesitate one single instant to throw his life into the
hands of his enemies, in exchange for that of others. Others!
others! always others! the sigh that had made her heart ache so
often in England, what terrible significance it bore now.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And how he would suffer in his heart and in
his pride, because of her whom he could not even attempt to save,
since it would mean the death of others! - of others, always of
others!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She wondered if he had already landed in Boulogne!
Again she remembered the vision on the landing-stage: his massive
figure, the glimpse she had of the loved form, in the midst of
the crowd!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The moment he entered the town he would hear
the proclamation read, see it posted up no doubt on every public
building, and realise that she had been foolish enough to follow
him, that she was a prisoner, and that he could do nothing to
save her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What would he do? Marugerite, at the thought,
instinctively pressed her hands to her heart: the agony of it
all had become physically painful. She hoped that perhaps this
pain meant approaching death! Oh! how easy would this simple solution
be!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The moon peered out from beneath the bank of
clouds which had obscured her for so long; smiling, she drew her
pencilled silver lines along the edges of towers and pinnacles,
the frowning Beffroi, and those stony walls which seemed to Marguerite
as if they encircled a gigantic graveyard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The town crier had evidently ceased to read
the proclamation. One by one the windows in the public square
were lighted up from within. The citizens of Boulogne wanted to
think over the strange events which had occured without their
knowledge, yet which were apparently to have such direful or such
joyous consequences for them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A man to be captured! - the mysterious English
adventurer of whom they had all heard, but whom nobody had seen.
And a woman - his wife - to be guarded until the man was safely
under lock and key!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite felt as if she could almost hear
them talking it over and vowing that she should not escape, and
that the Scarlet Pimpernel should soon be captured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A gentle wind stirred the old gnarled trees
on the southern ramparts, a wind that sounded like the sigh of
swiftly dying hope.<BR>
<BR>
What could Percy do now? His hands were tied, and he was inevitably
destined to endure the awful agony of seeing the woman he loved
die a terrible death beside him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Having captured him, they would not keep him
long: no necessity for a trial, for detention, for formalities
of any kind. A summary execution at dawn on the public place,
a roll of drums, a public holiday to mark the joyful event, and
a brave man will have ceased to live, a noble heart have stilled
its beatings for ever, whilst a whole nation gloried over the
deed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sleep, citizens of Boulogne! all is still!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The night watchman had replaced the town crier.
All was quiet within the city walls: the inhabitants could sleep
in peace, a beneficent Government was wakeful and guarding their
rest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But many of the windows in the town remained
lighted up, and at a little distance below her, round the corner
so that she could not see it, a small crowd must have collected
in front of the gateway which led into the courtyard of the Gayole
Fort. Marguerite could hear a persistent murmur of voices, mostly
angry and threatening, and once there were loud cries of: &quot;English
spies,&quot; and &quot;&agrave; la lanterne!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The citizens of Boulogne are guarding
the treasures of France!&quot; commented Chauvelin drily, as he
laughed again, that cruel, mirthless laugh of his.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she roused herself from her torpor: she
did not know how long she had stood beside the open window, but
the fear seized her that that man must have seen and gloated over
the agony of her mind. She straightened her graceful figure, threw
back her proud head defiantly, and quietly walked up to the table,
where Chauvelin seemed once more absorbed in the perusal of his
papers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is this interview over?&quot; she asked
quietly, and without the slightest tremor in her voice. &quot;May
I go now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As soon as you wish,&quot; he replied
with gentle irony.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He regarded her with obvious delight, for truly
she was beautiful: grand in this attitude of defiant despair.
The man, who had spent the last half-hour in martyrising her,
gloried over the misery which he had wrought, and which all her
strength of will could not entirely banish from her face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you believe me, Lady Blakeney,&quot;
he added, &quot;that there is no personal animosity in my heart
towards you or your husband? Have I not told you that I do not
wish to compass his death?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yet you propose to send him to the guillotine
as soon as you have laid hands on him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have explained to you the measures
which I have taken in order to make sure that we do lay hands
on the Scarlet Pimpernel. Once he is in our power, it will rest
with him to walk to the guillotine or to embark with you on board
his yacht.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You propose to place an alternative before
Sir Percy Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Certainly.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To offer him his life?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;And that of his charming wife.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In exchange for what?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;His honour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He will refuse, Monsieur.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We shall see.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he touched a handbell which stood on the
table, and within a few seconds the door was opened and the soldier
who had led Marguerite hither re-entered the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The interview was at an end. It had served
its purpose. Marguerite knew now that she must not even think
of escape for herself, or hope for safety for the man she loved.
Of Chauvelin's talk of a bargain which would touch Percy's honour
she would not even think: and she was too proud to ask anything
further from him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin stood up and made her a deep bow,
as she crossed the room and finally went out of the door. The
little company of soldiers closed in around her, and she was once
more led along the dark passages, back to her own prison cell.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXIV<BR>
Colleagues</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As soon as the door had closed behind Marguerite
there came from somewhere in the room the sound of a yawn, a grunt,
and a volley of oaths.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The flickering light of the tallow candles
had failed to penetrate into all the corners, and now from out
one of these dark depths a certain something began to detach itself,
and to move forward towards the table at which Chauvelin had once
more resumed his seat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Has that damned aristocrat gone at last?&quot;
queried a hoarse voice, as a burly body, clad in loose-fitting
coat and mud-stained boots and breeches, appeared within the narrow
circle of light.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes,&quot; replied Chauvelin, curtly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And a cursed long time you have been
with the baggage,&quot; grunted the other surlily. &quot;Another
five minutes and I'd have taken the matter in my own hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An assumption of authority,&quot; commented
Chauvelin, quietly, &quot;to which your position here does not
entitle you, Citizen Collot.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot d'Herbois lounged lazily forward, and
presently he threw his ill-knit figure into the chair lately vacated
by Marguerite. His heavy, square face bore distinct traces of
the fatigue endured in the past twenty-four hours on horseback
or in jolting market wagons. His temper, too, appeared to have
suffered on the way, and at Chauvelin's curt and dictatorial replies
he looked as surly as a chained dog.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You were wasting your breath over that
woman,&quot; he muttered, bringing a large and grimy fist heavily
down on the table, &quot;and your measures are not quite so sound
as you fondly imagine, Citizen Chauvelin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They were mostly of your imagining, Citizen
Collot,&quot; rejoined the other quietly, &quot;and of your suggestion.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I added a touch of strength and determination
to your mild, milk-and-water notions, citizen,&quot; snarled Collot
spitefully. &quot;I'd have knocked that intriguing woman's brains
out at the very first possible opportunity had I been consulted
earlier than this.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite regardless of the fact that such
violent measures would completely damn all our chances of success
as far as the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel is concerned,&quot;
remarked Chauvelin, drily, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.
&quot;Once his wife is dead, the Englishman will never run his
head into the noose which I have so carefully prepared for him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So you say, citizen; and therefore I
suggested to you certain measures to prevent the woman escaping
which you will find adequate, I hope.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You need have no fear, Citizen Collot,&quot;
said Chauvelin curtly; &quot;this woman will make no attempt to
escape now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If she does. . .&quot; and Collot d'Herbois
swore an obscene oath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I think she understands that we mean
to put our threat in execution.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Threat? . . . It was no empty threat,
citizen. . . Sacr&eacute; tonnerre! if that woman escapes now,
by all the devils in hell I swear that I'll wield the guillotine
myself and cut off the head of every able-bodied man or woman
in Boulogne with my own hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As he said this his face assumed such an expression
of inhuman cruelty, such a desire to kill, such a savage lust
for blood that instinctively Chauvelin shuddered and shrank away
from his colleague. All through his career there is no doubt that
this man, who was of gentle birth, of gentle breeding, and who
had once been called M. le Marquis de Chauvelin, must have suffered
in his susceptibilities and in his pride when in contact with
the revolutionaries with whom he had chosen to cast his lot. He
could not have thrown off all his old ideas of refinement quite
so easily as to feel happy in the presence of such men as Collot
d'Herbois, or Marat in his day - men who had become brute beasts,
more ferocious far than any wild animal; more scientifically cruel
than any feline prowler in jungle or desert.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One look in Collot's distorted face was sufficient
at this moment to convince Chauvelin that it were useless for
him to view the proclamation against the citizens of Boulogne
merely as an idle threat, even if he had wished to do so. That
Marguerite would not under the circumstances attempt to escape,
that Sir Percy Blakeney himself would be forced to give up all
thoughts of rescuing her, was a foregone conclusion in Chauvelin's
mind, but if this high-born English gentleman had not happened
to be the selfless hero that he was, if Marguerite Blakeney were
cast in a different, a rougher mould - if, in short, the Scarlet
Pimpernel, in the face of the proclamation did succeed in dragging
his wife out of the clutches of the Terrorists, then it was equally
certain that Collot d'Herbois would carry out his rabid and cruel
reprisals to the full. And if, in the course of the wholesale
butchery of the able-bodied and wage-earning inhabitants of Boulogne,
the headsman should sink worn out, then would this ferocious sucker
of blood put his own hand to the guillotine, with the same joy
and lust which he had felt when he ordered one hundred and thirty-eight
women of Nantes to be stripped naked by the soldiery before they
were flung helter-skelter into the river.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A touch of strength and determination! Aye!
Citizen Collot d'Herbois had plenty of that. Was it he, or Carri&egrave;re,
who at Arras commanded mothers to stand by while their children
were being guillotined? And surely it was Maignet, Collot's friend
and colleague, who at Bedouin, because the Red Flag of the Republic
has been mysteriously torn down over night, burnt the entire little
village down to the last hovel and guillotined every one of the
three hundred and fifty inhabitants?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Chauvelin knew all that. Nay, more! he
was himself a member of that so-called government which had countenanced
these butcheries by giving unlimited powers to men like Collot,
like Maignet and Carri&egrave;re. He was at one with them in their
Republican ideas, and he believed in the regeneration and purification
of France through the medium of the guillotine, but he propounded
his theories and carried out his most bloodthirsty schemes with
physically clean hands and in an immaculately-cut coat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even now, when Collot d'Herbois lounged before
him, with mud-bespattered legs stretched out before him, with
dubious linen at neck and wrists, and an odour of rank tobacco
and stale, cheap, wine pervading his whole personality, the more
fastidious man of the world, who had consorted with the dandies
of London and Brighton, winced at the enforced proximity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But it was the joint characteristic of all
these men who had turned France into a vast butchery and charnel-house,
that they all feared and hated one another, even more whole-heartedly
than they hated the aristocrats and so-called traitors whom they
sent to the guillotine. Citizen Lebon is said to have dipped his
sword into the blood which flowed from the guillotine, whilst
exclaiming: &quot;Comme je l'aime ce sang coul&eacute; de tra&icirc;tre!&quot;
but he and Collot and Danton and Robespierre, all of them in fact,
would have regarded with more delight still the blood of any one
of their colleagues.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At this very moment Collot d'Herbois and Chauvelin
would with utmost satisfaction have denounced, one the other,
to the tender mercies of the Public Prosecutor. Collot made no
secret of his hatred for Chauvelin, and the latter disguised it
but thinly under the veneer of contemptuous indifference.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As for that damned Englishman,&quot;
added Collot now, after a slight pause, and with another savage
oath, &quot;if 'tis my good fortune to lay hands on him, I'd shoot
him then and there like a mad dog, and rid France once and for
ever of this accursed spy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And think you, Citizen Collot,&quot;
rejoined Chauvelin, with a shrug of the shoulders, &quot;that
France would be rid of all English adventurers by the summary
death of this one man?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He is the ringleader, at any rate. .
.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And has at least nineteen disciples to
continue his traditions of conspiracy and intrigue. None, perhaps,
so ingenious as himself, none with the same daring and good luck
perhaps, but still a number of ardent fools only too ready to
follow in the footsteps of their chief. Then there's the halo
of martyrdom around the murdered hero, the enthusiasm created
by his noble death. . . Nay! nay, citizen, you have not lived
among these English people, you do not understand them, or you
would not talk of sending their popular hero to an honoured grave.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Collot d'Herbois only shook his powerful
frame like some big, sulky dog, and spat upon the floor to express
his contempt of this wild talk, which seemed to have no real tangible
purpose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have not caught your Scarlet Pimpernel
yet, citizen,&quot; he said with a snort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, but I will after sundown to-morrow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;How do you know?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have ordered the Angelus to be rung
at one of the closed churches, and he agreed to fight a duel with
me on the southern ramparts at that hour and on that day,&quot;
said Chauvelin simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You take him for a fool?&quot; sneered
Collot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, only for a foolhardy adventurer.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You imagine that with his wife as hostage
in our hands, and the whole city of Boulogne on the look out for
him for the sake of the amnesty, the man would be fool enough
to walk on those ramparts at a given hour for the express purpose
of getting himself caught by you and your men?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am quite sure that if we do not lay
hands on him before that given hour he will be on the ramparts
at the Angelus to-morrow,&quot; said Chauvelin emphatically.<BR>
<BR>
Collot shrugged his broad shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is the man mad?&quot; he asked with an
incredulous laugh.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, I think so,&quot; rejoined the other
with a smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And having caught your hare,&quot; queried
Collot, &quot;how do you propose to cook him?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Twelve picked men will be on the ramparts
ready to seize him the moment he appears.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And to shoot him at sight, I hope.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Only as a last resource, for the Englishman
is powerful, and may cause our half-famished men a good deal of
trouble. But I want him alive if possible. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why? A dead lion is safer than a live
one any day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! we'll kill him right enough, citizen.
I pray you have no fear. I hold a weapon ready for that meddlesome
Scarlet Pimpernel which will be a thousand times more deadly and
more effectual than a chance shot, or even the guillotine.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What weapon is that, Citizen Chauvelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin leaned forward across the table and
rested his chin on his hands; instinctively Collot, too, leaned
towards him, and both men peered furtively round them, as if wondering
if prying ears happened to be lurking round. It was Chauvelin's
pale eyes which now gleamed with hatred and with an insatiable
lust for revenge at least as powerful as Collot's lust for blood;
the unsteady light of the tallow candles threw grotesque shadows
across his brows, and his mouth was set in such rigid lines of
implacable cruelty that the brutish sot beside him gazed on him
amazed, vaguely scenting here a depth of feeling which was beyond
his power to comprehend. He repeated his question under his breath:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What weapon do you mean to use against
that accursed spy, Citizen Chauvelin?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Dishonour and ridicule!&quot; replied
the other quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In exchange for his life and that of
his wife.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As the woman told you just now. . . he
will refuse.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We shall see, citizen.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are mad to think such things, citizen,
and ill serve the Republic by sparing her bitterest foe.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A long, sarcastic laugh broke from Chauvelin's
parted lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Spare him?- Spare the Scarlet Pimpernel!
. . .&quot; he ejaculated. &quot;Nay, citizen, you need have no
fear of that. But, believe me, I have schemes in my head by which
the man, whom we all hate, will be more truly destroyed than your
guillotine could ever accomplish; schemes whereby the hero who
is now worshipped in England as a demi-god will suddenly become
an object of loathing and of contempt. . . Ah! I see you understand
me now . . . I wish to so cover him with ridicule that the very
name of the small wayside flower will become a term of derision
and of scorn. Only then shall we be rid of these pestilential
English spies, only then will the entire League of the Scarlet
Pimpernel become a thing of the past when its whilom leader, now
thought akin to a god, will have found refuge in a suicide's grae
from the withering contempt of the entire world.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had spoken low, hardly above a whisper,
and the echo of his last words died away in the great, squalid
room like a long drawn out sigh. There was dead silence for awhile
save for the murmur of the wind outside and from the floor above
the measured tread of the sentinel guarding the precious hostage
in No. 6.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Both men were staring straight in front of
them. Collot d'Herbois, incredulous, half-contemptuous, did not
altogether approve of these schemes, which seemed to him wild
and uncanny; he liked the direct simplicity of a summary trial,
of the guillotine, or of his own well stage-managed &quot;Noyades.&quot;
He did not feel that any ridicule or dishonour would necessarily
paralyse a man in his efforts at intrigue, and would have liked
to set Chauvelin's authority aside, to behead the woman upstairs
and then to take his chance of capturing the man later on.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the orders of the Committee of Public Safety
had been peremptory: he was to be Chauvelin's help, not his master,
and to obey him in all things. He did not dare to take any initiative
in the matter, for in that case, if he failed, the reprisals against
him would indeed be terrible.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was fairly satisfied now that Chauvelin
had accepted his suggestion of summarily sending to the guillotine
one member of every family resident in Boulogne if Marguerite
succeeded in effecting an escape, and, of a truth, Chauvelin had
hailed the fiendish suggestion with delight. The old abb&eacute;,
with his nephew and niece, were undoubtedly not sufficient deterrents
against the daring schemes of the Scarlet Pimpernel, who, as a
matter of fact, could spirit them out of Boulogne just as easily
as he would his own wife.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot's plan tied Marguerite to her own prison
cell more completely than any other measure could have done, more
so, indeed, than the originator thereof knew or believed. . .
A man like this d'Herbois- born in the gutter, imbued with every
brutish tradition which generations of jail-birds had bequeathed
to him- would not, perhaps, fully realise the fact that neither
Sir Percy nor Marguerite Blakeney would ever save themselves at
the expense of others. He had merely made the suggestion, because
he felt that Chauvelin's plans were complicated and obscure, and,
above all, insufficient, and that perhaps after all the English
adventurer and his wife would succeed in once more outwitting
him, when there would remain the grand and bloody compensation
of a wholesale butchery in Boulogne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Chauvelin was quite satisfied. He knew
that under present circumstances neither Sir Percy nor Marguerite
would make any attempt at escape. The ex-ambassador had lived
in England; he understood the classt to which these two belonged,
and was quite convinced that no attempt would be made on either
side to get Lady Blakeney away, whilst the present ferocious order
against the breadwinner of every family in the town held good.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Aye! the measures were sound enough. Chauvelin
was easy in his mind about that. In another twenty-four hours
he would hold the man completely in his power who had so boldly
outwitted him last year; to-night he would sleep in peace - an
entire city was guarding the precious hostage.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll go to bed now, citizen,&quot; he
said to Collot, who, tired and sulky, was moodily fingering the
papers on the table. The scraping sound which he made thereby
grated on Chauvelin's overstrung nerves. He wanted to be alone,
and the sleepy brute's presence here jarred on his own solemn
mood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To his satisfaction, Collot grunted a surly
assent. Very leisurely he rose from his chair, stretched out his
loose limbs, shook himself like a shaggy cur, and, without uttering
another word, he gave his colleague a curt nod and slowly lounged
out of the room.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXV<BR>
The Unexpected</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction
when Collot d'Herbois finally left him to himself. He listened
for awhile until the heavy footsteps died away in the distance,
then leaning back in his chair, he gave himself over to the delights
of the present situation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite was in his power. Sir Percy Blakeney
compelled to treat for her rescue if he did not wish to see her
die a miserable death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! my elusive hero,&quot; he muttered
to himself, &quot;methinks that we shall be able to cry quits
at last.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Outside everything had become still. Even the
wind in the trees out there on the ramparts had ceased their melancholy
moaning. The man was alone with his thoughts. He felt secure and
at peace, sure of victory, content to await the events of the
next twenty-four hours. The other side of the door, the guard,
which he had picked out from the amongst the more feeble and ill-fed
garrison of the little city for attendance on his own person,
were ranged ready to respond to his call.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Dishonour and ridicule! Derision and
scorn!&quot; he murmured, gloating over the very sound of these
words, which expressed all that he hoped to accomplish, &quot;utter
abjection, then perhaps a suicide's grave. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He loved the silence around him, for he could
murmur these words and hear them echoing against the bare stone
walls like the whisperings of all the spirits of hate which were
waiting to lend him their aid.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">How long he had remained thus absorbed in his
meditations he could not afterwards have said; a minute or two
perhaps at most, whilst he leaned back in his chair with eyes
closed, savouring the sweets of his own thoughts, when suddenly
the silence was interrupted by a loud and pleasant laugh and a
drawly voice speaking in merry accents:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Lud love you, Monsieur Chaubertin!
and pray how do you propose to accomplish all these pleasant things?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a moment Chauvelin was on his feet, and
with eyes dilated, lips parted in awed bewilderment, he was gazing
towards the open window, where, astride upon the sill, one leg
inside the room, the other out, and with the moon shining full
on his suit of delicate-coloured cloth, his wide-caped coat and
elegant chapeau-bras, sat the imperturbable Sir Percy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I heard you muttering such pleasant words,
Monsieur,&quot; continued Blakeney calmly, &quot;that the temptation
seized me to join in the conversation. A man talking to himself
is ever in a sorry plight. . . he is either a madman or a fool.
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He laughed his own quaint and inane laugh,
and added, apologetically:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Far be it from me, sir, to apply either
epithet to you. . . demmed bad form calling another fellow names.
. . just when he does not quite feel himself, eh?. . . You don't
feel quite yourself, I fancy, just now. . . eh, Monsieur Chaubertin.
. . er . . . beg pardon, Chauvelin? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He sat there quite comfortably, one slender
hand resting on the gracefully fashioned hilt of his sword - the
sword of Lorenzo Cenci- the other holding up the gold-rimmed eyeglass,
through which he was regarding his avowed enemy; he was dressed
as for a ball, and his perpetually amiable smile lurked round
the corners of his firm lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had undoubtedly for the moment lost
his presence of mind. He did not think of calling to his picked
guard, so completely taken aback was he by this unforeseen move
on the part of Sir Percy. Yet, obviously, he should have been
ready for this eventuality. Had he not caused the town crier to
loudly proclaim throughout the city that if <I>one</I> female
prisoner escaped from Fort Gayole the entire able-bodied population
of Boulogne would suffer?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The moment Sir Percy entered the gates of the
town, he could not help but hear the proclamation, and hear at
the same time that this one female prisoner who was so precious
a charge was the wife of the English spy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Moreover, was it not a fact that whenever or
wherever the Scarlet Pimpernel was least expected, there and then
would he surely appear? Having once realised that it was his wife
who was incarcerated in Fort Gayole, was it not natural that he
would go and prowl around the prison, and along the avenue on
the summit of the southern ramparts, which was accessible to every
passer-by? No doubt he had laid in hiding among the trees, had
perhaps caught snatches of Chauvelin's recent talk with Collot.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Aye! it was all so natural, so simple! Strange
that it should have been so unexpected!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Furious at himself for his momentary stupor,
he now made a vigorous effort to face his impudent enemy with
the same sang-froid of which the latter had so inexhaustible a
fund.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He walked quietly towards the window, compelling
his nerves to perfect calm and his mood to indifference. The situation
had ceased to astonish him; already his keen mind had seen its
possibilities, its grimness, and its humour, and he was quite
prepared to enjoy these to the full.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy now was dusting the sleeve of his
coat with a lace-edged handkerchief, but just as Chauvelin was
about to come near him, he stretched out one leg, turning the
point of a dainty boot towards the ex-ambassador.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would you like to take hold of me by
the leg, Monsieur Chaubertin?&quot; he said gaily. &quot;'Tis
more effectual than a shoulder, and your picked guard of six stalwart
fellows can have the other leg. . . Nay! I pray you, sir, do not
look at me like that. . . . I vow that it is myself and not my
ghost. . . But if you still doubt me, I pray you call the guard
. . . ere I fly out again towards the fitful moon. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, Sir Percy,&quot; said Chauvelin,
with a steady voice, &quot;I have no thought that you will take
flight just yet. . . Methinks you desire conversation with me,
or you had not paid me so unexpected a visit.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, sir, the air is too oppressive for
lengthy conversation. . . I was strolling along these ramparts,
thinking of our pleasant encounter at the hour of the Angelus
to-morrow. . . when this light attracted me. . . I feared I had
lost my way, and climbed the window to obtain information.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As to your way to the nearest prison
cell, Sir Percy?&quot; queried Chauvelin drily.<BR>
<BR>
&quot;As to anywhere, where I could sit more comfortably than
on this demmed sill. . . . It must be very dusty, and I vow 'tis
terribly hard. . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I presume, Sir Percy, that you did my
colleague and myself the honour of listening to our conversation?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;An you desired to talk secrets, Monsieur.
. . er. . . Chaubertin. . . you should have shut this window.
. . and closed this avenue of trees against the chance passer-by.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What we said was no secret, Sir Percy.
It is all over the town to-night.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite so. . .you were only telling the
devil your mind. . . eh?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I had also been having conversation with
Lady Blakeney. . . Did you hear any of that, sir?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Sir Percy had evidently not heard this
question, for he seemed quite absorbed in the task of removing
a speck of dust from his immaculate chapeau-bras.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;These hats are all the rage in England
just now,&quot; he said airily, &quot;but they have had their
day, do you not think so, Monsieur? When I return to town, I shall
have to devote my whole mind to the invention of a new headgear.
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When will you return to England, Sir
Percy?&quot; queried Chauvelin with good-natured sarcasm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At the turn of the tide to-morrow eve,
Monsieur,&quot; replied Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In company with Lady Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Certainly, sir. . . and yours, if you
will honour us with your company.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you return to England to-morrow, Sir
Percy, Lady Blakeney, I fear me, cannot accompany you.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You astonish me, sir,&quot; rejoined
Blakeney, with an exclamation of genuine and unaffected surprise.
&quot;I wonder, now, what would prevent her?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;All those whose death would be the result
of her flight, if she succeeded in escaping from Boulogne. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Sir Percy was staring at him, with wide
open eyes, expressive of utmost amazement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Dear, dear, dear. . . Lud! but that sounds
most unfortunate. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have not heard of the measures which
I have taken to prevent Lady Blakeney quitting this city without
our leave?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No, Monsieur Chaubertin. . .no. . .I
have heard nothing. . . .&quot; rejoined Sir Percy blandly. &quot;I
lead a very retired life when I come abroad, and. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would you wish to hear them now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Quite unnecessary, sir, I assure you.
. . and the hour is getting late.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy, are you aware of the fact
that unless you listen to what I have to say, your wife will be
dragged before the Committee of Public Safety in Paris within
the next twenty-four hours?&quot; said Chauvelin firmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What swift horses you must have, sir,&quot;
quoth Blakeney pleasantly. &quot;Lud! to think of it! . . . I
always heard that these demmed French horses would never beat
ours across country.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Chauvelin now would not allow himself to
be ruffled by Sir Percy's apparent indifference. Keen reader of
emotions as he was, he had not failed to note a distant change
in the drawly voice, a sound of something hard and trenchant in
the flippant laugh, ever since Marguerite's name was first mentioned.
Blakeney's attitude was apparently as careless, as audacious as
before, but Chauvelin's keen eyes had not missed the almost imperceptible
tightening of the jaw and the rapid clenching of one hand on the
sword hilt, even whilst the other toyed in graceful idleness with
the filmy Mechlin lace cravat.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy's head was well thrown back, and
the pale rays of the moon caught the edge of the clear-cut profile,
the low massive brow, the drooping lids through which the audacious
plotter was lazily regarding the man who held not only his own
life, but that of the woman was was infinitely dear to him, in
the hollow of his hand.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am afraid, Sir Percy,&quot; continued
Chauvelin drily, &quot;that you are under the impression that
bolts and bars will yield to your usual good luck, now that so
precious a life is at stake as that of Lady Blakeney.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am a great believer in impressions,
Monsieur Chauvelin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I told her just now that if she quitted
Boulogne ere the Scarlet Pimpernel is in our hands, we should
summarily shoot one member of every family in the town - the bread-winner.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A pleasant conceit, Monsieur. . . and
one that does infinite credit to your inventive faculties.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lady Blakeney, therefore, we hold safely
enough,&quot; continued Chauvelin, who no longer heeded the mocking
observations of his enemy, &quot;as for the Scarlet Pimpernel.
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have but to ring a bell, to raise
a voice, and he, too, will be under lock and key within the next
two minutes, eh?. . . Passons, Monsieur. . . you are dying to
say something further. . . I pray you proceed. . . your engaging
countenance is becoming quite interesting in its seriousness.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What I wish to say to you, Sir Percy,
is in the nature of a proposed bargain.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Indeed? . . . Monsieur, you are full
of surprises. . . like a pretty woman. . . And pray, what are
the terms of this proposed bargain?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Your side of the bargain, Sir Percy,
or mine? Which will you hear first?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, yours, Monsieur . . . yours, I pray
you. . . Have I not said that you are like a pretty woman? . .
. Place aux dames, sir! always!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;My share of the bargain, sir, is simple
enough: Lady Blakeney, escorted by yourself and any of your friends
who might be in the city at the time, shall leave Boulogne harbour
at sunset to-morrow, free and unmolested, if you on the other
hand will do your share . . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I don't yet know what my share in this
interesting bargain is to be, sir. . . but, for the sake of argument,
let us suppose that I do not carry it out. . . What then? . .
&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then, Sir Percy. . . putting aside for
the moment the question of the Scarlet Pimpernel altogether. .
. then, Lady Blakeney will be taken to Paris, and will be incarcerated
in the prison of the Temple, lately vacated by Marie Antoinette
-there she will be treated in exactly the same way as the ex-queen
is now being treated in the Conciergerie. . . . Do you know what
that means, Sir Percy?. . . .It does not mean a summary trial
and a speedy death, with the halo and glory of martyrdom thrown
in. . . it means days, weeks, nay, months, perhaps, of misery
and humiliation . . . it means, that, like Marie Antoinette, she
will never be allowed solitude for one single instant of the day
or night. . . it means the constant proximity of soldiers, drunk
with cruelty and with hate. . . the insults, the shame. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You hound! . . . you dog! . . . you cur!
. . . do you not see that I must strangle you for this? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That attack had been so sudden and so violent
that Chauvelin had not the time to utter the slightest call for
help. But a second ago, Sir Percy Blakeney had been sitting on
the window-sill, outwardly listening with perfect calm to what
his enemy had to say; now, he was at the latter's throat, pressing
with long and slender hands the breath out of the Frenchman's
body, his usually placid face distorted into a mask of hate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You cur! . . . you cur! . . .&quot; he
repeated; &quot;am I to kill you, or will you unsay those words?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then, suddenly, he relaxed his grip. The habits
of a lifetime would not be gainsaid even now. A second ago his
face had been livid with rage and hate, now a quick flush overspread
it, as if he were ashamed of this loss of self-control. He threw
the little Frenchman away from him like he would a beast which
had snarled, and passed his hand across his brow.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lud forgive me!&quot; he said quaintly,
&quot;I had almost lost my temper.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin was not slow in recovering himself.
He was plucky and alert, and his hatred for this man was so great
that he had actually ceased to fear him. Now he quietly readjusted
his cravat, made a vigorous effort to reconquer his breath, and
said, firmly, as soon as he could contrive to speak at all:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And if you did strangle me, Sir Percy,
you would do yourself no good. The fate which I have mapped out
for Lady Blakeney would then irrevocably be hers, for she is in
our power, and none of my colleagues are disposed to offer you
a means of saving her from it, as I am ready to do.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney was now standing in the middle of
the room, with his hands buried in the pockets of his breeches,
his manner and attitude once more calm, debonnair, expressive
of lofty self-possession and of absolute indifference. He came
quite close to the meagre, little figure of his exultant enemy,
thereby forcing the latter to look up at him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! . . . ah! . . yes!&quot; he said
airily, &quot;I had nigh forgotten . . . you were talking of a
bargain . . . my share of it . . . eh? . . . Is it me you want?
. . . Do you wish to see me in your Paris prisons? . . . I assure
you, sir, that the propinquinty of drunken soldiers may disgust
me, but it would in no way disturb the equanimity of my temper.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am quite sure of that, Sir Percy -
and I can but repeat what I had the honour of saying to Lady Blakeney
just now - I do not desire the death of so accomplished a gentleman
as yourself.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Strange, Monsieur,&quot; retorted Blakeney,
with a return of his accustomed flippancy. &quot;Now I do desire
your death very strongly indeed - there would be so much less
vermin on the face of the earth. . . . But pardon me - I was interrupting
you. . . Will you be so kind as to proceed?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had not winced at the insult. His
enemy's attitude now left him completely indifferent. He had seen
that self-possessed man of the world, that dainty and fastidious
dandy, in the throes of an overmastering passion. He had very
nearly paid with his life for the joy of having roused that supercilious
and dormant lion. In fact, he was ready to welcome any insults
from Sir Percy Blakeney now, since these would be only additional
evidences that the Englishman's temper was not yet under control.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I will try to be brief, Sir Percy,&quot;
he said, setting himself the task of imitating his antagonist's
affected manner. &quot;Will you not sit down? . . . We must try
and discuss these matters like two men of the world. . . . As
for me, I am always happiest beside a board littered with papers
. . . I am not an athlete, Sir Percy . . . and serve my country
with my pen rather than with my fists.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whist he spoke he had reached the table, and
once more took the chair whereon he had been sitting lately, when
he dreamed the dreams which were so near realisation now. He pointed
with a graceful gesture to the other vacant chair, which Blakeney
took without a word.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah!&quot; said Chauvelin, with a sigh
of satisfaction, &quot;I see that we are about to understand one
another. . . . I have always felt that it was a pity, Sir Percy,
that you and I could not discuss certain matters pleasantly with
one another . . . Now, about this unfortunate incident of Lady
Blakeney's incarceration, I would like you to believe that I had
no part in the arrangements which have been made for her detention
in Paris. My colleagues have arranged it all . . . and I have
vainly tried to protest against the rigorous measures which are
to be enforced against her in the Temple prison. . . . But these
are answering so admirably in the case of the ex-queen, they have
so completely broken her spirit and her pride, that my colleagues
felt that they would prove equally useful in order to bring the
Scarlet Pimpernel - through his wife - to an humbler frame of
mind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment, distinctly pleased with
his preoration, satisfied that his voice had been without a tremor
and his face impassive, and wondering what effect this somewhat
lengthy preamble had upon Sir Percy, who through it all had remained
singularly quiet. Chauvelin was preparing himself for the next
effect which he hoped to produce, and was vaguely seeking for
the best words with which to fully express his meaning, when he
was suddenly startled by a sound as unexpected as it was disconcerting.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the sound of a loud and prolonged snore.
He pushed the candle aside, which somewhat obstructed his line
of vision, and casting a rapid glance at the enemy, with whose
life he was toying, even as a cat doth with that of a mouse, he
saw that the aforesaid mouse was calmly and unmistakably asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">An impatient oath escaped Chauvelin's lips,
and he brought his fist heavily down on the table, making the
metal candlesticks rattle and causing Sir Percy to open one sleep
eye.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A thousand pardons, sir,&quot; said Blakeney,
with a slight yawn. &quot;I am so demmed fatigued, and your preface
was unduly long . . . Beastly bad form, I know, going to sleep
during a sermon . . . but I haven't had a wink of sleep all day.
. . I pray you to excuse me . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Will you condescend to listen, Sir Percy?&quot;
queried Chauvelin peremptorily, &quot;or shall I call the guard
and give up all thoughts of treating with you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Just which ever you demmed well prefer,
sir,&quot; rejoined Blakeney imperturbably.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And once more stretching out his long limbs,
he buried his hands in the pockets of his breeches and apparently
prepared himself for another quiet sleep. Chauvelin looked at
him for a moment, vaguely wondering what to do next. He felt strangely
irritated at what he firmly believed was mere affectation on Blakeney's
part, and although he was burning with impatience to place the
terms of the proposed bargain before this man, yet he would have
preferred to be interrogated, to deliver his &quot;either-or&quot;
with becoming sterness and decision, rather than to take the initiative
in this discussion, where he should have been calm and indifferent,
whilst his enemy should have been nervous and disturbed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy's attitude had disconcerted him,
a touch of the grotesque had been given to what should have been
a tense moment, and it was terribly galling to the pride of the
ex-diplomatist that with this elusive enemy, and in spite of his
own preparedness for any eventuality, it was invariably the unforeseen
that happened.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">After a moment's reflection, however, he decided
upon a fresh course of action. He rose and crossed the room, keeping
as much as possible an eye upon Sir Percy, but the latter sat
placid and dormant, and evidently in no hurry to move. Chauvelin,
having reached the door, opened it noiselessly, and to the sergeant
in command of his bodyguard who stood at attention outside, he
whispered hurriedly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The prisoner from No. 6 . . . Let two
of the men bring her hither back to me at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter 26 - The Terms of the Bargain</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXVI<BR>
The Terms of the Bargain</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Less than three minutes later, there came to
Chauvelin's expectant ears the soft sound made by a woman's skirts
against the stone floor. During those three minutes, which had
seemed an eternity to his impatience, he had sat silently watching
the slumber -affected or real - of his enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Directly he heard the word &quot;Halt!&quot;
outside the door, he jumped to his feet. The next moment Marguerite
had entered the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Hardly had her foot crossed the threshold than
Sir Percy rose, quietly and without haste but evidently fully
awake, and, turning towards her, made her a low obeisance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She, poor woman, had, of course, caught sight
of him at once. His presence here, Chauvelin's demand for her
reappearance, the soldiers in a small, compact group outside the
door -all these were unmistakable proofs that the awful cataclysm
had at last occurred.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Scarlet Pimpernel, Percy Blakeney, her
husband, was in the hands of the Terrorists of France, and, though
face to face with her now, with an open window close to him, and
an apparently helpless enemy under his hand, he could not -owing
to the fiendish measures taken by Chauvelin -raise a finger to
save himself or her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mercifully for her, nature -in the face of
this appalling tragedy -deprived her of the full measure of her
senses. She could move and speak and see, she could hear and in
a measure understand what was said, but she was really an automaton
or a sleepwalker, moving and speaking mechanically and without
due comprehension.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Possibly, if she had then and there fully realised
all that the future meant, she would have gone mad with the horror
of it all.<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Lady Blakeney,&quot; began Chauvelin after he had quickly
dismissed the soldiers from the room, &quot;when you and I parted
from one another just now, I had no idea that I should so soon
have the pleasure of a personal conversation with Sir Percy .
. . There is no occasion yet, believe me, for sorrow or for fear.
. . . Another twenty-four hours at most, and you will be on board
the <I>Day Dream</I> outward bound for England. Sir Percy himself
might perhaps accompany you, he does not desire that you should
journey to Paris, and I may safely say that, in his mind, he has
already accepted certain little conditions which I have been forced
to impose upon him, ere I sign the order for your absolute release.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Conditions?&quot; she repeated vaguely
and stupidly, looking in bewilderment from one to the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You are tired, m'dear,&quot; said Sir
Percy quietly; &quot;will you not sit down?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He held the chair gallantly for her. She tried
to read his face, but could not catch even a flash from beneath
the heavy lids which obstinately veiled his eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! it is a mere matter of exchanging
signatures,&quot; continued Chauvelin, in response to her inquiring
glance, and toying with the papers which were scattered on the
table. &quot;Here, you see, is the order to allow Sir Percy Blakeney
and his wife, n&eacute;e Marguerite St. Just, to quit the town
of Boulogne unmolested.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He held a paper out towards Marguerite, inviting
her to look at it. She caught sight of an official-looking document,
bearing the motto and seal of the Republic of France, and of her
own name and Percy's written thereon in full.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is perfectly on r&egrave;gle, I assure
you,&quot; continued Chauvelin, &quot;and only awaits my signature.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He now took up another paper, which looked
like a long, closely-written letter. Marguerite watched his every
movement, for instinct told her that the supreme moment had come.
There was a look of almost superhuman cruelty and malice in the
little Frenchman's eyes as he fixed them on the impassive figure
of Sir Percy, the while, with slightly trembling hands, he fingered
that piece of paper and smoothed out its creases with loving care.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am quite prepared to sign the order
for your release, Lady Blakeney,&quot; he said, keeping his gaze
still keenly fixed upon Sir Percy. &quot;When it is signed, you
will understand that our measures against the citizens of Boulogne
will no longer hold good, and that, on the contrary, the general
amnesty and free pardon will come into force.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes, I understand that,&quot; she replied.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And all that will come to pass, Lady
Blakeney, the moment Sir Percy will write me in his own hand a
letter, in accordance with the draft which I have prepared, and
sign it with his name.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Shall I read it to you?&quot; he asked.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If you please.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will see how simple it all is. .
. A mere matter of form. . . I pray you, do not look upon it with
terror, but only as the prelude to that general amnesty and free
pardon, which I feel sure will satisfy the philanthropic heart
of the noble Scarlet Pimpernel, since three-score at least of
the inhabitants of Boulogne will owe their life and freedom to
him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I am listening, Monsieur,&quot; she said
calmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As I have already had the honour of explaining,
this little document is in the form of a letter addressed personally
to me, and, of course, in French,&quot; he said finally; then
he looked down on the paper and began to read:</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<BLOCKQUOTE>
  <P><FONT SIZE="+1">Citizen Chauvelin, --In consideration of a
  further sum of one million francs, and on the understanding that
  this ridiculous charge brought against me of conspiring against
  the Republic of France is immediately withdrawn, and I am allowed
  to return to England unmolested, I am quite prepared to acquaint
  you with the names and whereabouts of certain persons who, under
  the guise of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, are even now
  conspiring to free the woman Marie Antoinette and her son from
  prison, and to place the latter upon the throne of France. You
  are quite well aware that under the pretence of being the leader
  of a gang of English adventurers, who never did the Republic
  of France and her people any real harm, I have actually been
  the means of unmasking many a Royalist plot before you, and of
  bringing many persistent conspirators to the guillotine. I am
  surprised that you should cavil at the price I am asking this
  time for the very important information with which I am able
  to furnish you, whilst you have often paid me similar sums for
  work which was a great deal less difficult to do. In order to
  serve your Government effectually, both in England and in France,
  I must have a sufficiency of money, to enable me to live in a
  costly style befitting a gentleman of my rank. Were I to alter
  my mode of life I could not continue to mix in that same social
  milieu to which all my friends belong, and wherein, as you are
  well aware, most of the Royalist plots are hatched.</FONT></P>
  <P><FONT SIZE="+1">Trusting, therefore, to receive a favourable
  reply to my just demands within the next twenty-four hours, whereupon
  the names in question shall be furnished you forthwith, -I have
  the honour to remain, citizen, your humble and obedient servant.</FONT></P></BLOCKQUOTE>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When he had finished reading, Chauvelin quietly
folded the paper up again, and then only did he look at the man
and the woman before him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite sat very erect, her head thrown
back, her face very pale, and her hands tightly clutched in her
lap. She had not stirred whilst Chauvelin read out the infamous
document, with which he desired to brand a brave man with the
ineradicable stigma of dishonour and of shame. After she heard
the first words, she looked up swiftly and questioningly at her
husband, but he stood at some little distance from her, right
out of the flickering circle of yellowish light made by the burning
tallow candles. He was as rigid as a statue, standing in his usual
attitude, with legs apart and hands buried in his breeches pockets.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She could not see his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whatever she may have felt with regard to the
letter, as the meaning of it gradually penetrated into her brain,
she was, of course, convinced of one thing, and that was that
never for a moment would Percy dream of purchasing his life or
even hers at such a price. But she would have liked some sign
from him, some look by which she could be guided as to her immediate
conduct: as, however, he gave neither look nor sign, she preferred
to assume an attitude of silent contempt.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But even before Chauvelin had had time to look
from one face to the other, a prolonged and merry laugh echoed
across the squalid room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy, with head thrown back, was laughing
whole-heartedly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A magnificent epistle, sir,&quot; he
said gaily. &quot;Lud love you, where did you learn to wield the
pen so gracefully? . . . I vow that if I signed this interesting
document, no one would believe I could have expressed myself with
such perfect ease . . . and in French, too. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, Sir Percy,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin
drily, &quot;I have thought of all that, and lest in the future
there should be any doubt as to whether your own hand had or had
not penned the whole of this letter, I also make it a condition
that you write out every word of it yourself, and sign it here
in this very room, in the presence of Lady Blakeney, of myself,
of my colleague, and of at least half a dozen other persons whom
I will select.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is indeed admirably thought out, Monsieur,&quot;
rejoined Sir Percy, &quot;and what is to become of the charming
epistle, may I ask, after I have written and signed it?. . . .
Pardon my curiosity. . . I take a natural interest in the matter
. . . and truly your ingenuity passes belief. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! the fate of this letter will be as
simple as was the writing thereof. . . A copy of it will be published
in our <I>Gazette de Paris</I>, as a bait for enterprising English
journalists. . . They will not be backward in getting hold of
so much interesting matter . . . .Can you not see the attractive
headlines in <I>The London Gazette</I>, Sir Percy? 'The League
of the Scarlet Pimpernel unmasked! A gigantic hoax! The origin
of the Blakeney millions!' . . . I believe that journalism in
England has reached a high standard of excellence . . . and even
the <I>Gazette de Paris</I> is greatly read in certain towns of
your charming country. . . His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales,
and various other influential gentlemen in London, will, on the
other hand, be granted a private view of the original, through
the kind offices of certain devoted friends whom we possess in
England . . . I don't think that you need have any fear, Sir Percy,
that your caligraphy will sink into oblivion. It will be our business
to see that it obtains the full measure of publicity which it
deserves. . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused a moment, then his manner suddenly
changed: the sarcastic tone died out of his voice, and there came
back into his face that look of hatred and cruelty which Blakeney's
persiflage had always the power to evoke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You may rest assured of one thing, Sir
Percy,&quot; he said with a harsh laugh, &quot;that enough mud
will be thrown at that erstwhile glorious Scarlet Pimpernel. .
. some of it will be bound to stick. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, Monsieur . . . er. . . Chaubertin,&quot;
quoth Blakeney lightly, &quot;I have no doubt that you and your
colleagues are past masters in the graceful art of mud-throwing
. . . But pardon me. . . .er . . . I was interrupting you . .
. Continue, Monsieur . . . continue, I pray. 'Pon my honour, the
matter is vastly diverting.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, sir. After the publication of this
diverting epistle, meseems your honour will cease to be a marketable
commodity.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Undoubtedly, sir,&quot; rejoined Sir
Percy, apparently quite unruffled; &quot;pardon a slip of the
tongue. . . we are so much the creatures of habit . . . As you
were saying . . . ?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have but little more to say, sir. .
. But lest there should even now be lurking in your mind a vague
hope that, having written this letter, you could easily in the
future deny its authorship, let me tell you this: my measures
are well taken: there will be witnesses to your writing of it.
. . You will sit here in this room, unfettered, uncoerced in any
way. . . and the money spoken of in the letter will be handed
over to you by my colleague, after a few suitable words spoken
by him, and you will take the money from him, Sir Percy. . . and
the witnesses will see you take it, after having seen you write
the letter . . . they will understand that you are being <I>paid</I>
by the French Government for giving information anent Royalist
plots in this country and in England . . .they will understand
that your identity as the leader of the so-called band is not
only known to me and to my colleague, but that it also covers
your real character and profession as the paid spy of France.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Marvellous, I call it . . . demmed marvellous,&quot;
quoth Sir Percy blandly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had paused, half-choked by his own
emotion, his hatred, and prospective revenge. He passed his handkerchief
over his forehead, which was streaming with perspiration.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Warm work, this sort of thing . . . eh
. . Monsieur . . . er . . . Chaubertin? . . .&quot; queried his
imperturbable enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite said nothing; the whole thing was
too horrible for words; but she kept her large eyes fixed upon
her husband's face. . . waiting for that look, that sign from
him which would have eased the agonising anxiety in her heart,
and which never came.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a great effort now, Chauvelin pulled himself
together, and though his voice still trembled, he managed to speak
with a certain amount of calm:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Probably, Sir Percy, you know,&quot;
he said, &quot;that throughout the whole of France we are inaugurating
a series of national f&ecirc;tes, in honour of the new religion
which the people are about to adopt . . . Demoiselle D&eacute;sir&eacute;e
Candeille, whom you know, will at these festivals impersonate
the Goddess of Reason, the only deity whom we admit now in France
. . . She has been specially chosen for this honour, owing to
the services which she has rendered us recently . . . and as Boulogne
happens to be the lucky city in which we have succeeded in bringing
the Scarlet Pimpernel to justice, the national f&ecirc;te will
begin within these city walls, with Demoiselle Candeille as the
thrice-honoured goddess.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you will be very merry here in Boulogne,
I dare swear . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye, merry, sir,&quot; said Chauvelin
with an involuntary and savage snarl, as he place a long, claw-like
finger upon the momentous paper before him, &quot;merry, for we
here in Boulogne will see that which will fill the heart of every
patriot in France with gladness . . . Nay! 'twas not the death
of the Scarlet Pimpernel we wanted . . . not the noble martyrdom
of England's chosen hero . . . but his humiliation and defeat
. . . derision and scorn . . contumely and contempt. You asked
me airily just now, Sir Percy, how I proposed to accomplish this
object . . . Well! you know it now -by forcing you . . . aye,
<I>forcing</I> - to write and sign a letter, and to take money
from my hands which will brand you for ever as a liar and an informer,
and cover you with thick and slimy mud of irreclaimable infamy.
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lud! sir,&quot; said Sir Percy pleasantly,
&quot;what a wonderful command you have our language . . . I wish
I could speak French half as well . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite had risen like an automaton from
her chair. She felt that she could no longer sit still; she wanted
to scream out at the top of her voice all the horror she felt
for this dastardly plot, which surely must have had its origin
in the brain of devils. She could not understand Percy. This was
one of those awful moments, which she had been destined to experience
once or twice before, when the whole personality of her husband
seemed to become shadowy before her, to slip, as it were, past
her comprehension, leaving her indescribably lonely and wretched,
trusting, yet terrified.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She thought that long ere this he would have
flung back every insult in his opponent's teeth; she did not know
what inducements Chauvelin had held out in exchange for the infamous
letter, what threats he had used. That her own life and freedom
were at stake was, of course, evident; but she cared nothing for
life, and he should know that certainly she would care still less,
if such a price had to be paid for it.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She longed to tell him all that was in her
heart, longed to tell him how little she valued her life, how
highly she prized his honour! But how could she, before this fiend,
who snarled and sneered in his anticipated triumph? And surely,
surely Percy knew!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And, knowing all that, why did he not speak?
Why did he not tear that infamous paper from out that devil's
hands and fling it in his face? Yet, though her loving ear caught
every intonation of her husband's voice, she could not detect
the slightest harshness in his airy laugh; his tone was perfectly
natural, and he seemed to be, indeed - just as he appeared - vastly
amused.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then she thought that perhaps he would wish
her to go now, that he felt a desire to be alone with this man,
who had outraged him in everything that he held most holy and
most dear -his honour and his wife . . . that perhaps, knowing
that his own temper was no longer under control, he did not wish
her to witness the rough-and-ready chastisement which he was intending
to mete out to this dastardly intriguer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Yes! that was it, no doubt! Herein she could
not be mistaken; she knew his fastidious notions of what was due
and proper in the presence of a woman, and that even at a moment
like this he would wish the manners of London drawing-rooms to
govern his every action.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Therefore she rose to go, and as she did so,
once more tried to read the expression in his face . . . to guess
what was passing in his mind.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, madam,&quot; he said, whilst he
bowed gracefully before her, &quot;I fear me this lengthy conversation
hath somewhat fatigued you . . . This merry jest 'twixt my engaging
friend and myself should not have been prolonged so far into the
night l. . . Monsieur, I pray you, will you not give orders that
her ladyship be escorted back to her room?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was still standing outside the circle of
light, and Marguerite instinctively went up to him. For this one
second she was oblivious of Chauvelin's presence, she forgot her
well-schooled pride, her firm determination to be silent and to
be brave: she could not longer restrain the wild beatings of her
heart, the agony of her soul, and with sudden impulse she murmured,
in a voice broken with intense love and subdued, passionate appeal:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He drew back a step further into the gloom:
this made her realise the mistake she had made in allowing her
husband's most bitter enemy to get this brief glimpse into her
soul. Chauvelin's thin lips curled with satisfaction, the brief
glimpse had been sufficient for him, the rapidly whispered name,
the broken accent had told him what he had not known hitherto,
namely, that between this man and woman there was a bond far more
powerful than that which usually existed between husband and wife,
and merely made up of chivalry on the one side and trustful reliance
on the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite, having realised her mistake, ashamed
of having betrayed her feelings even for a moment, threw back
her proud head and gave her exultant foe a look of defiance and
of scorn. He responded with one of pity, not altogether unmixed
with deference. There was something almost unearthly and sublime
in this beautiful woman's agonising despair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He lowered his head and made her a deep obeisance,
lest she should see the satisfaction and triumph which shone through
his pity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As usual, Sir Percy remained quite imperturbable,
and now it was he who, with characteristic impudence, touched
the handbell on the table:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Excuse this intrusion, Monsieur,&quot;
he said lightly; &quot;her ladyship is over-fatigued and would
be best in her room.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Marguerite threw him a grateful look. After
all, she was only a woman and was afraid of breaking down. In
her mind there was no issue to the present deadlock save death.
For this she was prepared, and had but one great hope, that she
could lie in her husband's arms just once again before she died.
Now, since she could not speak to him, scarcely dared to look
into the loved face, she was quite ready to go.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In answer to the bell, the soldier had entered.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If Lady Blakeney desires to go . . .&quot;
said Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She nodded, and Chauvelin gave the necessary
orders: two soldiers stood at attention ready to escort Marguerite
back to her prison cell. As she went towards the door she came
to within a couple of steps from where her husband was standing,
bowing to her as she passed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She stretched out an icy cold hand towards
him, and he, in the most approved London fashion, with the courtly
grace of a perfect English gentleman, took the little hand in
his and, stooping very low, kissed the delicate finger-tips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then only did she notice that the strong, nervy
hand which held hers trembled perceptibly, and that his lips -which
for an instant rested on her fingers -were burning hot.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXVII<BR>
The Decision</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Once more the two men were alone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As far as Chauvelin was concerned he felt that
everything was not yet settled, and until a moment ago he had
been in doubt as to whether Sir Percy would accept the infamous
conditions which had been put before him, or allow his pride and
temper to get the better of him and throw the deadly insults back
into his adversary's teeth.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But now a new secret had been revealed to the
astute diplomatist. A name, softly murmured by a broke-hearted
woman, had told him a tale of love and passion which he had not
even suspected before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Since he had made this discovery he knew that
the ultimate issue was no longer in doubt. Sir Percy Blakeney,
the bold adventurer, ever ready for a gamble where lives were
at stake, might have demurred before he subscribed to his own
dishonour in order to save his wife from humiliation and the shame
of the terrible fate that had been mapped out for her. But the
same man passionately in love with such a woman as Marguerite
Blakeney would count the world well lost for her sake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">One sudden fear alone had shot through Chauvelin's
heart when he stood face to face with the two people whom he had
so deeply and cruelly wronged, and that was that Blakeney, throwing
aside all thought of the scores of innocent lives that were at
stake, might forget everything, risk everything, dare everything
in order to get his wife away there and then.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For the space of a few seconds Chauvelin had
felt that his own life was in jeopardy, and that the Scarlet Pimpernel
would indeed make a desperate effort to save himself and his wife.
But the fear was short lived; Marguerite -as he had well forseen
-would never save herself at the expense of others, and she was
tied! tied! tied! That was his triumph and his joy!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When Marguerite finally left the room Sir Percy
made no motion to follow her, but turned once more quietly to
his antagonist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As you were saying, Monsieur? . . .&quot;
he queried lightly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! there is nothing more to say, Sir
Percy,&quot; rejoined Chauvelin; &quot;my conditions are clear
to you, are they not? Lady Blakeney's and your own immediate release
in exchange for a letter written to me by your own hand, and signed
here by you -in this room- in my presence and that of sundry other
persons whom I need not name just now. Also certain money passing
from my hand to yours. Failing the letter, a long, hideously humiliating
sojourn in the Temple prison for your wife, a prolonged trial
and the guillotine as a happy release! . . . I would add the same
thing for yourself, only that I will do you the justice to admit
that you probably do not care.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay! a grave mistake, Monsieur . . .
I do care . . . vastly care, I assure you . . . and would seriously
object to ending my life on your demmed guillotine . . a nasty,
uncomfortable thing, I should say . . . and I am told that an
inexperienced barber is deputed to cut one's hair . . . Brrr!
. . . Now, on the other hand, I like the idea of a national f&ecirc;te
. . . that pretty wench, Candeille, dressed as a goddess . . .
the boom of the cannon when your amnesty comes into force . .
. You <I>will</I> boom the cannon, will you not, Monsieur? . .
. Cannons are demmed noisy, but they are effective sometimes,
do you not think so, Monsieur?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Very effective certainly, Sir Percy,&quot;
sneered Chauvelin; &quot;and we will certainly boom the cannon
from this very fort, an it so please you . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;At what hour, Monsieur, is my letter
to be ready?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why! at any hour you please, Sir Percy.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The <I>Day Dream</I> could weight anchor
at eight o'clock . . . would an hour before that be convenient
to yourself?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Certainly, Sir Percy . . . if you will
honour me by accepting my hospitality in these uncomfortable quarters
until seven o'clock to-morrow eve? . . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you, Monsieur . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then am I to understand, Sir Percy, that
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A loud and ringing laugh broke from Blakeney's
lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That I accept your bargain, man! . .
. Zounds! I tell you I accept . . . I'll write the letter, I'll
sign it . . . an you have our free passes ready for us in exchange
. . . At seven o'clock to-morrow eve, did you say? . . . Man!
do not look so astonished . . . The letter, the signature, the
money . . . all your witnesses . . . have everything ready . .
. I accept, I say . . . And now, in the name of all the evil spirits
in hell let me have some supper and a bed, for I vow that I am
demmed fatigued.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And without more ado Sir Percy once more rang
the handbell, laughing boisterously the while; then suddenly,
with quick transition of mood, his laugh was lost in a gigantic
yawn, and throwing his long, body on to a chair, he stretched
out his legs, buried his hands in his pockets, and the next moment
was peacefully asleep.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXVIII<BR>
The Midnight Watch</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Boulogne had gone through many phases, in its
own languid and sleepy way, whilst the great upheaval of a gigantic
revolution shook other cities of France to their very foundations.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At first the little town had held somnolently
aloof, and whilst Lyons and Tours conspired and rebelled, whilst
Marseilles and Toulon opened their ports to the English, and Dunkirk
was ready to surrender to the allied forces, she had gazed through
half-closed eyes at all the turmoil, and then quietly turned over
and gone to sleep again.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Boulogne fished and mended nets, built boats,
and manufactured boots with placid content, whilst France murdered
her king and butchered her citizens.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The initial noise of the great revolution was
only wafted on the southerly breezes from Paris to the little
sea-port towns of northern France, and lost much of its volume
and power in this aerial transit: the fisher-folk were too poor
to worry about the dethronement of kings: the struggle for daily
existence, the perils and hardships of deep-sea fishing engrossed
all the faculties they possessed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As for the burghers and merchants of the town,
they were at first content with reading an occasional article
in the <I>Gazette de Paris</I> or the <I>Gazette des Tribunaux</I>,
brought hither by one or other of the many travellers who crossed
the city on their way to the harbour. They were interested in
these articles, at times even comfortably horrified at the doings
in Paris, the executions and the tumbrils, but on the whole they
liked the idea that the country was in future to be governed by
duly chosen representatives of the people, rather than by a prey
to the despotism of kings, and they were really quite pleased
to see the tricolour flag hoisted on the old Beffroi, there where
the snow-white standard of the Bourbons had erstwhile flaunted
its golden fleur de lys in the glare of the midday sun.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The worthy burgesses of Boulogne were ready
to shout: &quot;Vive la R&eacute;publique!&quot; with the same
cheerful and raucous Normandy accent as they had lately shouted
&quot;Dieu prot&egrave;ge le Roy!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The first awakening from this happy torpor
came when that tent was put up on the landing stage in the harbour.
Officials, dressed in shabby uniforms and wearing tricolour cockades
and scarves, were now quartered in the Town Hall, and repaired
daily to that roughly-erected tent, accompanied by so many soldiers
from the garrison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There installed, they busied themselves with
examining carefully the passports of all those who had dwelt in
the city -father and son and grandfather, and many generations
before that, and had come and gone in and out of their own boats
as they pleased, were now stopped as they beached their craft
and made to give an account of themselves to these officials from
Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was, of a truth, more than ridiculous, that
these strangers should ask of Jean-Marie who he was, or of Pierre
what was his business, or of D&eacute;sir&eacute; Fran&ccedil;ois
whither he was going, when Jean-Marie and Pierre and D&eacute;sir&eacute;
Fran&ccedil;ois had plied their nets in the roads outside Boulogne
harbour for more years than they would care to count.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It also caused no small measure of annoyance
that fishermen were ordered to wear tricolour cockades on their
caps. They had no special ill-feeling against tricolour cockades,
but they did not care about them. Jean-Marie flatly refused to
have one pinned on, and being admonished somewhat severely by
one of the Paris officals, he became obstinate about the whole
thing, and threw the cockade violently on the ground and spat
upon it, not from any sentiment of anti-Republicanism, but just
from a feeling of Norman doggedness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was arrested, shut up in Fort Gayole, tried
as a traitor, and publicly guillotined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The consternation in Boulogne was appalling.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The one little spark had found its way to a
barrel of blasting powder, and caused a terrible explosion. Within
twenty-four hours of Jean-Marie's execution the whole town was
in the throes of the Revolution. What the death of King Louis,
the arrest of Marie Antoinette, the massacres of September had
failed to do, that the arrest and execution of an elderly fisherman
accomplished in a trice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">People began to take sides in politics. Some
families realised that they came from ancient lineage, and that
their ancestors had helped to build up the throne of the Bourbons.
Others looked up ancient archives, and remembered past oppressions
at the hands of the aristocrats.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus some burghers of Boulogne became ardent
reactionaries, whilst others secretly nursed enthusiastic royalist
convictions: some were ready to throw in their lot with the anarchists,
to deny the religion of their fathers, to scorn the priests and
close the places of worsh, others adhered strictly still to the
usages and practices of the Church.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Arrests became frequent: the guillotine, erected
in the Place de la S&eacute;n&eacute;chauss&eacute;e, had plenty
of work to do. Soon the cathedral was closed, the priests thrown
into prison, whilst scores of families hoped to escape a similar
fate by summary flight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Vague rumours of a band of English adventurers
soon reached the little sea-port town. The Scarlet Pimpernel -English
spy or hero, as he was alternately called - had helped many a
family with pronounced royalist tendencies to escape the fury
of the blood-thirsty Terrorists.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus gradually the anti-revolutionaries had
been weeded out of the city: some by death and imprisonment, others
by flight. Boulogne became the hotbed of anarchism: the idlers
and loafers inseparable from any town where there is a garrison
and a harbour, practically ruled the city now. Denunciations were
the order of the day. Every one who owned any money, or lived
with any comfort, was accused of being a traitor and suspected
of conspiracy. The fisher-folk wandered about the city, surly
and discontented: their trade was at a standstill, but there was
a trifle to be earned by giving information: information which
meant the arrest, ofttimes the death, of men, women, and even
children who had tried to seek safety in flight, and to denounce
whom -as they were trying to hire a boat anywhere along the coast
-meant a good square meal for a starving family.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then came the awful cataclysm.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A woman -a stranger- had been arrested and
imprisoned in the Fort Gayole, and the town-crier publicly proclaimed
that if she escaped from jail, one member of every family in the
town -rich or poor, republican or royalist, Catholic or freethinker
-would be summarily guillotined.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That member, the bread-winner!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Why, then, with the Duvals it would be
young Fran&ccedil;ois-Auguste. He keeps his old mother with his
boot-making. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And it would be Marie Lebon; she has
her blind father dependent on her net-mending.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And old Mother Laferri&egrave;re, whose
grandchildren were left penniless. . . she keeps them from starvation
by her wash-tub.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But Fran&ccedil;ois-Auguste is a real
Republican; he belongs to the Jacobin Club.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And look at Pierre, who never meets a
calotin but he must needs spit on him.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Is there no safety anywhere? . . . are
we to be butchered like so much cattle? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Somebody makes the suggestion:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is a threat . . . they would not dare!
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would not dare?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">'Tis old Andr&eacute; Lemoine who has spoken,
and he spits vigorously on the ground. Andr&eacute; Lemoine has
been a soldier, he was in the Vend&eacute;e. He was wounded at
Tours . . . and he knows!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Would not dare?&quot; . . . he says in
a whisper. &quot;I tell you, friends, that there's nothing the
present Government would not dare. There was the Plaine Saint
Mauve. . . Did you ever hear about that? . . . little children
fusilladed by the score . . . little ones, I say, and women with
babies at their breasts . . . weren't they innocent? . . Five
hundred innocent people butchered in La Vend&eacute;e . . . until
the headsman sank -worn out . . . I could tell worse than that
. . . for I know . . . There's nothing they would not dare! .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Consternation was so great that the matter
could not even be discussed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll go to Gayole and see this woman,
at any rate.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Angry, sullen crowds assembled in the streets.
The proclamation had been read just as the men were leaving the
public-houses, preparing to go home for the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They brought the news to the women, who, at
home, were setting the soup and bread on the table for their husband's
supper. There was no thought of going to bed or of sleeping that
night. The bread-winner in every family, and all those dependent
on him for daily sustenance were trembling for their lives.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Resistance to the barbarous order would have
been worse than useless, nor did the thought of it enter the heads
of these humble and ignorant fisher-folk, wearied out with the
miserable struggle for existence. There was not sufficient spirit
left in this half-starved population of a small provincial city
to suggest open rebellion. A regiment of soldiers come up from
the south was quartered in the Ch&acirc;teau, and the natives
of Boulogne could not have mustered more than a score of disused
blunderbuss between them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then they remembered tales which Andr&eacute;
Lemoine had told, the fate of Lyons, razed to the ground, or Toulon
burnt to ashes, and they did not dare rebel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But brothers, fathers, sons, trooped out towards
Gayole, in order to have a good look at the frowning pile, which
held the hostage for their safety. It looked dark and gloomy enough,
save for one window which gave on the southern ramparts. This
window was wide open, and a feeble light flickered from the room
beyond, as as the men stood about, gazing at the walls in sulky
silence, they suddenly caught the sound of a loud laugh proceeding
from within, and of a pleasant voice speaking quite gaily in a
language which they did not understand, but which sounded like
English.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Against the heavy oaken gateway, leading to
the courtyard of the prison, the proclamation, written on stout
parchment, had been pinned up. Beside it hung a tiny lantern,
the dim light of which flickered in the evening breeze, and brought
at times into sudden relief the bold writing and heavy signature,
which stood out, stern and grim, against the yellowish background
of the paper, like black signs of approaching death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Facing the gateway and the proclamation, the
crowd of men took its stand. The moon, from behind them, cast
fitful, silvery glances at the weary heads bent in anxiety and
watchful expectancy: on old heads and young heads, dark, curly
heads, and heads grizzled with age, on backs bent with toil, and
hands rough and gnarled like seasoned timber.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All night the men stood and watched.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sentinels from the town guard were stationed
at the gates, but these might prove inattentive or insufficient;
they had not the same price at stake, so the entire able-bodied
population of Boulogne watched the gloomy prison that night, lest
anyone escaped by wall or window.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They were guarding the precious hostage, whose
safety was the stipulation for their own.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was dead silence among them, and dead
silence all around, save for that monotonous tok-tok-tok of the
parchment flapping in the breeze. The moon, who all along had
been capricious and chary on her light, made a final retreat behind
a gathering bank of clouds, and the crowd, the soldiers, and the
great grim wall were all equally wrapped in gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Only the little lantern on the gateway now
made a ruddy patch of light, and tinged that fluttering parchment
with the colour of blood. Every now and then an isolated figure
would detach itself from out the watching throng, and go up to
the heavy, oaken door, in order to gaze at the proclamation. Then
the light of the lantern illumined a dark head or a grey one,
for a moment or two: black or white locks were stirred gently
in the wind, and a sigh of puzzlement and disappointment would
be distinctly heard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At times a group of three or four would stand
there for awhile, not speaking, only sighing and casting eager,
questioning glances at one another, whilst trying vainly to find
some hopeful word, some turn of phrase or meaning that would be
less direful, in that grim and ferocious proclamation. Then a
rough word from the sentinel, a push from the butt-end of a bayonet
would disperse the little group and send the men, sullen and silent,
back into the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus they watched for hours whilst the bell
of the Beffroi tolled all the hours of that tedious night. A thin
rain began to fall in the small hours of the morning, a wetting
soaking drizzle which chilled the weary watchers to the bone.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But they did not care.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We must not sleep, for the woman might
escape.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Some of them squatted down in the muddy road,
the luckier ones managed to lean their backs against the slimy
walls.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Twice before the hour of midnight they heard
that same quaint merry laugh proceeding from the lighted room,
through the open window. Once it sounded very loud and very prolonged,
as if in response to a delightful joke.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Anon the heavy gateway of the Gayole was opened
from within, and half a dozen soldiers came walking out of the
courtyard. They were dressed in the uniform of the town guard,
but had evidently been picked out of the rank and file, for all
six were exceptionally tall and stalwart, and towered above the
sentinel, who saluted and presented arms as they marched out of
the gate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the midst of them walked a slight, dark
figure, clad entirely in black, save for the tricolour scarf round
his waist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd of watchers gazed on the little party
with suddently-awakened interest.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who is it?&quot; whispered some of the
men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The citizen governor,&quot; suggested
one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The new public executioner,&quot; ventured
another.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! no!&quot; quoth Pierre Maxime, the
doyen of Boulogne fishermen, and a great authority on every matter,
public or private, within the town, &quot;no, no, he is the man
who has come down from Paris, the friend of Robespierre. He makes
the law now, the citizen governor even must obey him. 'Tis he
who made the law that if the woman up yonder should escape . .
.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush! . . . sh! . . sh! . . .&quot; came
in frightened accents from the crowd.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush, Pierre Maxime! . . . the citizen
might hear thee,&quot; whispered the man who stood closest to
the old fisherman, &quot;the citizen might hear thee, and think
that we rebelled . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What are these people doing here?&quot;
queried Chauvelin, as he passed out into the street.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They are watching the prison, citizen,&quot;
replied the sentinel, whom he had thus addressed, &quot;lest the
female prisoner should attempt to escape.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a satisfied smile, Chauvelin turned towards
the Town Hall, closely surrounded by his escort. The crowd watched
him and the soldiers as they quickly disappeared in the gloom,
then they resumed the stolid, wearisome vigil of the night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old Beffroi now tolled the midnight hour,
the one solitary light in the old fort was extinguished, and after
that the frowning pile remained dark and still.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter 29 - The National F&ecirc;te</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXIX<BR>
The National F&ecirc;te</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizens of Boulogne, awake!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They had not slept, only some of them had fallen
into drowsy somnolence, heavy and nerve-racking, worse, indeed,
than any wakefulness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Within the houses the women, too, had kept
the tedious vigil, listening for every sound, dreading every bit
of news which the wind might waft in through the small, open windows.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">If one prisoner escaped, every family in Boulogne
would be deprived of the breadwinner. Therefore the women wept,
and tried to remember those Paters and Aves which the tyranny
of liberty, fraternity, and equality had ordered them to forget.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Broken rosaries were fetched out from neglected
corners, and knees stiff with endless, thankless toil were bent
once more in prayer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh, God! Good God! Do not allow that
woman to flee!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Holy Virgin! Mother of God! make that
she should not escape!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Some of the women went out in the early dawn
to take hot soup or coffee to their men, who were watching outside
the prison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Has anything been seen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Have ye seen the woman?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Which room is she in?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Why won't they let us see her?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Are you sure she hath not already escaped?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Questions and surmises went round in muffled
whispers as the steaming cans were passed round. No one had a
definite answer to give, although D&eacute;sir&eacute; Melun declared
that he had, once during the night, caught sight of a woman's
face at one of the windows above: but as he could not describe
the woman's face, nor locate with any degree of precision the
particular window at which she was supposed to have appeared,
it was unanimously decided that D&eacute;sir&eacute; must have
been dreaming.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizens of Boulogne, awake!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The cry came first from the Town Hall, and
therefore from behind the crowd of men and women, whose faces
had been so resolutely set for all these past hours towards the
Gayole Prison.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They were all awake! but too tired and cramped
to move as yet, and to turn in the direction whence arose that
cry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizens of Boulogne, awake!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was just the voice of Auguste Moleaux, the
town crier of Boulogne, who, bell in hand, was trudging his way
along the Rue Daumont, closely followed by two fellows of the
municipal guard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Auguste was in the very midst of the sullen
crowd before the men ever troubled about his presence here, but
now, with many a vigorous &quot;Allons donc!&quot; and &quot;Voyez-moi
&ccedil;a, fais donc place, voyons!&quot; he elbowed hiw way through
the throng.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was neither tired nor cramped, he served
the Republic in comfort and ease, and had slept soundly on his
paillasse in the little garret allotted to him in the Town Hall.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd parted in silence to allow him to
pass. Auguste was lean and powerful, the scanty and meagre food
doled out to him by a paternal Government had increased his muscular
strength whilst reducing his fat. He had very hard elbows, and
soon he managed, by dint of pushing and cursing, to reach the
gateway of Gayole.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Voyons! enlevez-moi &ccedil;a,&quot;
he commanded in stentorian tones, pointing to the proclamation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The fellows of the municipal guard fell to
and tore the parchment away from the door, whilst the crowd looked
on with stupid amazement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What did it all mean?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then Auguste Moleaux turned and faced the men.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mes enfants,&quot; he said, &quot;my
little cabbages! wake up! The Government of the Republic has decreed
that to-day is to be a day of gaiety and public rejoicings!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Gaiety? . . . Public rejoicings, forsooth,
when the breadwinner of every family . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hush! Hush! Be silent all of you,&quot;
quoth Auguste impatiently. &quot;You do not understand! . . .
All that is at an end . . . There is no fear that the woman shall
escape . . . You are all to dance and rejoice . . . The Scarlet
Pimpernel has been captured in Boulogne -last night. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Qui &ccedil;a the Scarlet Pimpernel?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Mais! 'tis that mysterious English adventurer
who rescued people from the guillotine!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A hero? quoi?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No! no! only an English spy, a friend
of aristocrats . . . he would have cared nothing for the breadwinners
of Boulogne . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He would not have raised a finger to
save them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Who knows?&quot; sighed a feminine voice.
&quot;Perhaps he came to Boulogne to help them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And he has been caught, anyway,&quot;
concluded Auguste Moleaux sententiously; &quot;And, my little
cabbages, remember this, that so great is the pleasure of the
all-powerful Committee of Public Safety at his capture, that because
he has been caught in Boulogne, therefore Boulogne is to be specially
rewarded!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Holy Virgin, who'd have thought it?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sh. . . Jeannette, dost not know that
there's no Holy Virgin now?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And dost know, Auguste, how we are to
be rewarded?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It is a difficult matter for the human mind
to turn very quickly from despair to hope, and the fishermen of
Boulogne had not yet grasped the fact that they were to make merry,
and that thoughts of anxiety must be abondoned for those of gaiety.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Auguste Moleux took out a parchment from the
capacious pocket of his coat; he put on his most solemn air of
officialdom, and, pointing with extended forefinger to the parchment,
he said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A general amnesty to all natives of Boulogne
who are under arrest at the present moment: a free pardon to all
natives of Boulogne who are under sentence of death: permission
to all natives of Boulogne to quit the town with their families,
to embark on any vessel they please, in or out of the harbour,
and to go whithersoever they choose, without passports, formalities,
or questions of any kind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Dead silence followed this announcement. Hope
was just beginning to crowd anxiety and sullenness out of the
way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Then poor Andr&eacute; Legrand will be
pardoned,&quot; whispered a voice suddenly; &quot;he was to have
been guillotined to-day.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And Denise Latour! She was innocent enough,
the gentle pigeon.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And they'll let poor Abb&eacute; Foucquet
out of prison, too.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And Fra&ccedil;ois!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And poor F&eacute;licit&eacute;, who
is blind!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;M. l'Abb&eacute; would be wise to leave
Boulogne, with the children.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He will, too: thou canst be sure of that!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is not good to be a priest just now!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah! calotins are best dead than alive.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But some in the crowd were silent; others whispered
eagerly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thinkest thou it would be safer for us
to get out of the country whilst we can?&quot; said one of the
men in a muffled tone, and clutching nervously at a woman's wrist.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! aye! it might leak out about that
boat we procured for . . .&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Sh. . . I was thinking of that . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We can go to my Aunt Lebrun in Belgium.
. . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Others talked in whispers of England, or the
New Land across the seas: they were those who had something to
hide -money received from refugee aristocrats, boats sold to would-be
&eacute;migr&eacute;s, information withheld, denunciations shirked:
the amnesty would not last long, 'twas best to safely out of the
way.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In the meanwhile, my cabbages,&quot;
quoth Auguste sententiously, &quot;are you not grateful to Citizen
Robespierre, who has sent this order specially down from Paris?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! aye!&quot; assented the crowd cheerfully.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hurrah for Citizen Robespierre!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Vive la R&eacute;publique!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you will enjoy yourselves to-day?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That we will!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Processions?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! with music and dancing.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Out there, far away, beyond the harbour, the
grey light of dawn was yielding to the crimson glow of morning.
The rain had ceased, and heavy, slaty clouds parted here and there,
displaying glints of delicate turquoise sky and tiny ethereal
vapours, in the dim and remote distance of infinity, flecked with
touches of rose and gold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The towers and pinnacles of old Boulogne detached
themselves, one by one, from the misty gloom of night. The old
bell of the Beffroi tolled the hour of six. Soon the massive cupola
of Notre Dame was clothed in purple hues, and the gilt cross on
S. Joseph threw back across the square a blinding ray of gold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The town sparrows began to twitter, and from
far out at sea, in the direction of Dunkirk, there came the muffled
boom of cannon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And remember, my pigeons,&quot; admonished
Auguste Moleaux solemnly, &quot;that in this order which Robespierre
has sent from Paris it also says that from to-day onwards le bon
Dieu has ceased to be!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Many faces were turned towards the east just
then, for the rising sun, tearing with one gigantic sweep the
bank of clouds asunder, now displayed his magnificence in a gorgeous
immensity of flaming crimson. The sea, in response, turned to
liquid fire beneath the glow, whilst the whole sky was irradiated
with the first blush of morning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Le bon Dieu has ceased to be!!!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There is only one religion in France
now,&quot; explained Auguste Moleaux, &quot;the religion of Reason!
We are all citizens!! We are all free and all able to think for
ourselves. Citizen Robespierre has decreed that there is no good
God. Le bon Dieu was a tyrant and an aristocrat, and, like all
tyrants and aristocrats, He has been deposed. There is no good
God, there is no Holy Virgin, and no Saints -only Reason, who
is a goddess, and whom we all honour.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And the townsfolk of Boulogne, with eyes still
fixed on the gorgeous east, shouted with sullen obedience:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hurrah for the Goddess of Reason!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hurrah for Robespierre!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Only the women, trying to escape the town crier's
prying eyes, or the soldier's stern gaze, hastily crossed themselves
behind their husband's backs, terrified lest le bon Dieu had,
after all, not altogether ceased to exist at the bidding of Citizen
Robespierre.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus the worthy natives of Boulogne, forgetting
their anxieties and fears, were ready enough to enjoy the national
f&ecirc;te ordained for them by the Committee of Public Safety,
in honour of the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel. They were even
willing to accept this new religion which Robespierre had invented:
a religion which was only a mockery, with an actress to represent
its supreme deity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Mais que voulez-vous? Boulogne had long ago
ceased to have faith in God: the terrors of the Revolution, which
culminated in that agonising watch of last night, had smothered
all thoughts of worship and of prayer.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Scarlet Pimpernel must indeed be a dangerous
spy, that his arrest should cause so much joy in Paris!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even Boulogne had learned by experience that
the Committee of Public Safety did not readily give up a prey,
once its vulture-like claws had closed upon it. The proportion
of condemnations as against acquittals was as a hundred to one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But because this one man was taken, scores
to-day were to be set free!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the evening, at a given hour -seven o'clock
had Auguste Moleaux, the town crier, understood -the boom of the
cannon would be heard, the gates of the town would be opened,
the harbour would become a free port.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The inhabitants of Boulogne were ready to shout:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Vive the Scarlet Pimpernel!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Whatever he was - hero or spy - he was undoubtedly
the primary cause of all their joy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By the time Auguste Moleux had cried out the
news throughout the town, and pinned the new proclamation of mercy
up on every public building, all traces of fatigue and anxiety
had vanished. In spite of the fact that wearisome vigils had been
kept in every home that night, and that hundreds of men and women
had stood about for hours in the vicinity of the Gayole Fort,
no sooner was the joyful news known than all lassitude was forgotten,
and everyone set to with right merry will to make a great f&ecirc;te-day
a complete success.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There is in every native of Normandy, be he
peasant or gentleman, an infinite capacity for enjoyment, and
at the same time a marvellous faculty for co-ordinating and systematising
his pleasures.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In a trice the surly crowds had vanished. Instead
of these, there were groups of gaily visaged men pleasantly chattering
outside every eating and drinking place in the town. The national
holiday had come upon these people quite unawares, so the early
part of it had to be spent in thinking out a satisfactory programme
for it. Sipping their beer or coffee, or munching their cherries
&agrave; l'eau-de-vie, the townsfolk of Boulogne, so lately threatened
with death, were quietly organising processions.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was to be a grand muster on the Place
de la S&eacute;n&eacute;chauss&eacute;e, then a torchlight and
lanthornlight march right round the ramparts, culminating in a
gigantic assembly outside the Town Hall, where the Citizen Chauvelin,
representing the Committee of Public Safety, would receive an
address of welcome from the entire population of Boulogne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The procession was to be in costume! There
were to be Pierrots and Pierrettes, Harlequins and English clowns,
aristocrats and goddesses! All day the women and girls were busy
contriving travesties of all sorts, and the little tumble-down
shops in the Rue du Ch&acirc;teau and the Rue Fr&eacute;d&eacute;ric
Sauvage -kept chiefly by Jews and English traders- were ransacked
for old bits of finery, and for remnants of costumes, worn in
the days when Boulogne was still a gay city and carnivals were
held every year.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And then, of course, there would be the Goddess
of Reason, in her triumphal car! -the apotheosis of the new religion,
which was to make everybody happy, rich and free.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Forgotten were the anxieties of the night,
the fears of death, the great and glorious Revolution, which for
this one day would cease her perpetual demand for the toll of
blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Nothing was remembered save the pleasures and
joy of the moment, and at times the name of that Englishman -spy,
hero, or adventurer - the cause of all this bounty: the Scarlet
Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXX<BR>
The Procession</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The grandfathers of the present generation
of Boulonnese remembered the great day of the National F&ecirc;te,
when all Boulogne, for twenty-four hours, went crazy with joy.
So many families had fathers, brothers, sons, languishing in prison
under some charge of treason, real or imaginary, so many had dear
ones for whom this memorable day of September, 1793, was one of
never-to-be-forgotten relief and thanksgiving.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The weather all day had been exceptionally
fine. After that glorious sunrise the sky had remained all day
clad in its gorgeous mantle of blue, and the sun had continued
to smile benignly on the many varied doings of this gay little
seaport town. When it began to sink slowly towards the West a
few little fluffy clouds appeared on the horizon, and from a distance,
although the sky remained clear and blue, the sea looked quite
dark and slaty against the brilliancy of the firmament.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Gradually, as the splendour of the sunset gave
place to the delicate purple and grey tints of evening, the little
fluffy clouds merged themselves into denser masses, and these,
too, soon became absorbed in the great, billowy banks which the
south-westerly wind was blowing seawards.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">By the time that the last grey streak of dusk
vanished in the West, the whole sky looked heavy with clouds,
and the evening set in, threatening and dark.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But this by no means mitigated the anticipation
of pleasure to come. On the contrary, the fast-gathering gloom
was hailed with delight, since it would surely help to show off
the coloured lights of the lanthorns and give additional value
to the glow of the torches.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Of a truth 'twas a motley throng which began
to assemble on the Place de la S&eacute;n&eacute;chauss&eacute;e,
just as the old bell of the Beffroi tolled the hour of six. Men,
women, and children in ragged finery, Pierrots with neck frills
and floured faces, hideous masks of impossible beasts roughly
besmeared with crude colours. There were gaily-coloured dominoes,
blue, green, pink, and purple; harlequins combining all the colours
of the rainbow in one tight-fitting garment, and Columbines with
short, tarlatan skirts, beneath which peeped bare feet and ankles.
There were judges' perruques, and soldiers' helmets of past generations,
tall Normandy caps adorned with hundreds of streaming ribbons
and powdered headgear which recalled the glories of Versailles.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Everything was torn and dirty, the dominoes
were in rags, the Pierrot frills, mostly made up of paper, already
hung in strips over the wearers' shoulders. But what mattered
that?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd pushed and jolted, shouted and laughed,
the girls screamed as the men snatched a kiss here and there from
willing or unwilling lips, or stole an arm round a gaily-accoutred
waist. The spirit of old King Carnival was in the evening air
-a spirit just awakened from a long Rip Van Winkle-like sleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the centre of the Place stood the guillotine,
grim and guant, with long, thin arms stretched out towards the
sky, the last glimmer of waning light striking the triangular
knife, there, where it was not rusty with stains of blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">For weeks now Madame Guillotine had been much
occupied plying her gruesome trade; she now stood there in the
gloom, passive and immovable, seeming to wait placidly for the
end of this holiday, ready to begin her work again on the morrow.
She towered above these merrymakers, hoisted up on the platform
whereon many an innocent foot had trodden, the tattered basket
beside her, into which many an innocent head had rolled.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What cared they to-night for Madame Guillotine
and the horrors of which she told? A crowd of Pierrots with floured
faces and tattered neck-frills had just swarmed up the wooden
steps, shouting and laughing, chasing each other round and round
on the platform, until one of them lost his footing and fell into
the basket, covering himself with bran and staining his clothes
with blood.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Ah, vogue la gal&egrave;re! We must be
merry tonight!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And all these people, who for weeks past had
been staring death and the guillotine in the face, had denounced
each other with savage callousness in order to save themselves,
or hidden for days in dark cellars to escape apprehension, now
laughed and danced and shrieked with gladness in a sudden, hysterical
outburst of joy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Close beside the guillotine stood the triumphal
car of the Goddess of Reason, the special feature of this great
national f&ecirc;te. It was only a rough market cart, painted
by an unpractised hand with bright, crimson paint, and adorned
with huge clusters of autumn-tinted leaves, and the scarlet berries
of mountain ash and rowan, culled from the town gardens, or the
country side outside the city walls.<BR>
<BR>
In the cart the goddess reclined on a crimson-draped seat, she
herself swathed in white, and wearing a gorgeous necklace around
her neck. D&eacute;sir&eacute;e Candeille, a little pale, a little
apprehensive of all this noise, had obeyed the final dictates
of her taskmaster. She had been the means of bringing the Scarlet
Pimpernel to France and vengeance, she was to be honoured therefore
above every other woman in France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She sat in the car, vaguely thinking over the
events of the past few days, whilst watching the throng of rowdy
merrymakers seething around her. She thought of the noble-hearted,
proud woman whom she had helped to bring from her beautiful English
home to sorrow and humiliation in a dank, French prison; she thought
of the gallant English gentleman, with his pleasant voice and
courtly, debonnair manners.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had roughly told her, only this morning,
that both were now under arrest as English spies, and that their
fate no longer concerned her. Later on the governor of the city
had come to tell her that Citizen Chauvelin desired her to take
part in the procession and the national f&ecirc;te, as the Goddess
of Reason, and that the people of Boulogne were ready to welcome
her as such. This had pleased Candeille's vanity, and all day,
whilst arranging the finery which she meant to wear for the occasion,
she had ceased to think of England and of Lady Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But now, when she arrived on the Place de la
S&eacute;n&eacute;chauss&eacute;e, and mounting her car, found
herself on a level with the platform of the guillotine, her memory
flew back to England, to the lavish hospitality of Blakeney Manor,
Marguerite's gentle voice, the pleasing grace of Sir Percy's manners,
and she shuddered a little when that cruel glint of evening light
caused the knife of the guillotine to glisten from out the gloom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But anon her reflections were suddenly interrupted
by loud and prolonged shouts of joy. A whole throng of Pierrots
had swarmed into the Place from every side, carrying lighted torches
and tall staves, on which were hung lanthorns with many-coloured
lights.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The procession was ready to start. A stentorian
voice shouted out in resonant accents:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;En avant, la grosse caisse!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A man now, portly and gorgeous in scarlet and
blue, detached himself from out the crowd. His head was hidden
beneath the monstrous mask of a cardboard lion, roughly painted
in brown and yellow, with crimson for the widely-open jaws and
the corners of the eyes to make them seem ferocious and bloodshot.
His coat was of bright crimson cloth, with cuts and slashings
in it, through which bunches of bright blue paper were made to
protrude, in imitation of the costume of mediaeval times.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had blue stockings on and bright scarlet
slippers, and behind him floated a large strip of scarlet flannel,
on which moons and suns and stars of gold had been showered in
plenty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Upon his portly figure in front he was supporting
the big drum, which was securely strapped round his shoulders
and tarred cordages, the spoil of some fishing vessel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a merciful slit in the jaw of the
cardboard lion, through which the portly drummer puffed and spluttered
as he shouted lustily:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;En avant!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And wielding the heavy drumstick with a powerful
arm, he brought it crashing down against the side of the mighty
instrument.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hurrah! Hurrah! en avant les trompettes!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A fanfare of brass instruments followed, lustily
blown by twelve young men in motley coats of green, and tall,
peaked hats adorned with feathers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The drummer had begun to march, closely followed
by the trumpeters. Behind them a bevy of Columbines in many-coloured
tarlatan skirts and hair flying wildly in the breeze, giggling,
pushing, exchanging ribald jokes with the men behind, and getting
kissed or slapped for their pains.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then the triumphal car of the goddess, with
Demoiselle Candeille standing straight up in it, a tall, gold
wand in one hand, the other resting in a mass of scarlet berries.
All round the car, helter-skelter, tumbling, pushing, came Pierrots
and Pierrettes carrying lanthorns, and Harlequins bearing the
torches.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And after the car the long line of more sober
folk, the older fishermen, the women in caps and many-hued skirts,
the serious townsfolk who had scorned the travesty, yet would
not be left out of the procession. They all began to march, to
the tune of those noisy brass trumpets which were thundering forth
snatches from the newly-composed &quot;Marseillaise.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Above the sky became more heavy with clouds.
Anon a few drops of rain began to fall, making the torches sizzle
and splutter, and scatter grease and tar around, and wetting the
light-covered shoulders of tarlatan-clad Columbines. But no one
cared! The glow of so much merrymaking kept the blood warm and
the skin dry.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The flour all came off the Pierrots' faces,
the blue paper slashings of the drummer-in-chief hung in pulpy
lumps against his gorgeous scarlet cloak. The trumpeters' feathers
became streaky and bedraggled.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But in the name of that good God who had ceased
to exist, who in this world or out of it cared if it rained, or
thundered and stormed! This was a national holiday, for an English
spy was captured, and all natives of Boulogne were free of the
guillotine to-night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The revellers were making the circuit of the
town, with lanthorns fluttering in the wind, and flickering torches
held up aloft illumining laughing faces red with the glow of a
drunken joy, young faces that only enjoyed the moment's pleasure,
serious ones that withheld a frown at thought of the morrow. The
fitful light played on the grotesque masques of beasts and reptiles,
on the diamond necklace of a very earthly goddess, on God's glorious
spoils from gardens and country-side, on smothered anxiety and
repressed cruelty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd had turned its back on the guillotine,
and the trumpets now changed the inspiriting tune of the &quot;Marseillaise&quot;
to the ribald vulgarity of the &quot;Ca ira!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Everyone yelled and shouted. Girls with flowing
hair produced broomsticks, and, astride on these, broke from the
ranks and danced a mad and obscene saraband, a dance of witches
in the weird glow of sizzling torches, to the accompaniment of
raucous laughter and of coarse jokes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus the procession passed on, a sight to gladden
the eyes of those who had desired to smother all thought of the
Infinite, of Eternity and of God in the minds of those to whom
they had nothing to offer in return. A threat of death yesterday,
misery, starvation, and squalor! All the hideousness of a destroying
anarchy, that had nothing to give save a national f&ecirc;te,
a tinsel goddess, some shallow laughter and momentary intoxication;
a travesty of clothes and of religion, and a dance on the ashes
of the past.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And there along the ramparts, where the massive
walls of the city encircled the frowning prisons of Gayole and
the old Ch&acirc;teau, dark groups were crouching, huddled together
in compact masses, which, in the gloom, seemed to vibrate with
fear. Like hunted quarry seeking for shelter, sombre figures flattened
themselves in the angles of the dank walls, as the noisy carousers
drew nigh. Then as the torches and lanthorns detached themselves
from out the evening shadows, hand would clutch hand and hearts
would beat with agonised suspense, whilst the dark and shapeless
forms would try to appear smaller, flatter, less noticeable than
before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And when the crowd had passed noisily along,
leaving behind it a trail of torn finery, of glittering tinsel
and of scarlet berries, when the boom of the big drum and the
grating noise of the brass trumpets had somewhat died away, wan
faces, pale with anxiety, would peer from out the darkness, and
nervous hands would grasp with trembling fingers the small bundles
of poor belongings tied up hastily in view of flight.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At seven o'clock, so 'twas said, the cannon
would boom from the old Beffroi. The guard would throw open the
prison gates, and those who had something or somebody to hide,
and those who had a great deal to fear, would be free to go withersoever
they chose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And mothers, sisters, sweethearts stood watching
by the gates, for loved ones to-night would be set free, all along
of the capture of that English spy, the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXXI<BR>
Final Dispositions</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">To Chauvelin the day had been one of restless
inquietude and nervous apprehension.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot d'Herbois harassed him with questions
and complaints intermixed with threats but thinly veiled. At his
suggestion, Gayole had been transformed into a fully-manned, well-garrisoned
fortress. Troops were to be seen everywhere, on the stairs and
in the passages, the guard-rooms and offices: picked men from
the municipal guard, and the company which had been sent down
from Paris some time ago.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had not resisted these orders given
by his colleague. He knew quite well that Marguerite would make
no attempt at escape, but he had long ago given up all hope of
persuading a man of the type of Collot d'Herbois that a woman
of her temperament would never think of saving her own life at
the expense of others, and that Sir Percy Blakeney, in spite of
his adoration for his wife, would sooner see her die before him,
than allow the lives of innocent men and women to be the price
of hers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot was one of those brutish sots -not by
any means infrequent among the Terrorists of that time- who, born
in the gutter, still loved to wallow in his native element, and
who measured all his fellow-creatures by the same standard which
he had always found good enough for himself. In this man there
was neither the enthusiastic patriotism of a Chauvelin, nor the
ardent selfishness of a Danton. He served the revolution and fostered
the anarchical spirit of the times only because these brought
him a competence and a notoriety which an orderly and fastidious
government would obviously have never offered him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">History shows no more despicable personality
than that of Collot d'Herbois, one of the most hideous products
of that utopian Revolution, whose grandly conceived theories of
a universal levelling of mankind only succeeded in dragging into
prominence a number of half-brutish creatures who, revelling in
their own abasement, would otherwise have remained content in
inglorious obscurity.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin tolerated and half-feared Collot,
knowing full well that if now the Scarlet Pimpernel escaped from
his hands, he would expect no mercy from his colleagues.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The scheme by which he hoped to destroy not
only the heroic leader but the entire League, by bringing opprobrium
and ridicule upon them, was wonderfully subtle in its refined
cruelty, and Chauvelin, knowing by now something of Sir Percy
Blakeney's curiously blended character, was never for a moment
in doubt but that he would write the infamous letter, save his
wife by sacrificing his honour, and then seek oblivion and peace
in suicide.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With so much disgrace, so much mud cast upon
their chief, the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would cease to
be. <I>That</I> had been Chauvelin's plan all along. For this
end he had schemed and thought and planned, from the moment that
Robespierre had given him the opportunity of redeeming his failure
of last year. He had built up the edifice of his intrigue, bit
by bit, from the introduction of his tool, Candeille, to Marguerite
at the Richmond gala, to the arrest of Lady Blakeney in Boulogne.
All that remained for him to see now would be the attitude of
Sir Percy Blakeney to-night, when, in exchange for the stipulated
letter, he would see his wife set free.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">All day Chauvelin had wondered how it would
all go off. He had stage-managed everything, but he did not know
how the chief actor would play his part.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From time to time, when his feeling of restlessness
became quite unendurable, the ex-ambassador would wander round
Fort Gayole, and on some hastily conceived pretext demand to see
one or the other of his prisoners. Marguerite, however, observed
complete silence in his presence: she acknowledged his greeting
with a slight inclination of the head, and in reply to certain
perfunctory queries of his -which he put to her in order to justify
his appearance - she either nodded or gave curt monosyllabic answers
through partially-opened lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I trust that everything is arranged for
your comfort, Lady Blakeney?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you, sir.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You will be rejoining the <I>Day Dream</I>
to-night. Can I send a messenger over to the yacht for you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you. No.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy is well. He is fast asleep,
and hath not asked for your ladyship. Shall I let him know that
you are well?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A nod of acquiescence from Marguerite, and
Chauvelin's string of queries was at an end. He marvelled at her
quietude, and thought that she should have been as restless as
himself.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Later on in the day, and egged on by Collot
d'Herbois and by his own fears, he had caused Marguerite to be
removed from room No. 6.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This change he heralded by another brief visit
to her, and his attitude this time was one of deferential apology.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A matter of expediency, Lady Blakeney,&quot;
he explained, &quot;and I trust that the change will be for your
comfort.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Again the same curt nod of acquiescence on
her part, and a brief:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;As you command, Monsieur!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But when he had gone, she turned with a sudden,
passionate outburst towards the Abb&eacute; Foucquet, her faithful
companion through the past long, weary hours. She fell on her
knees beside him and sobbed in an agony of grief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! if I could only know . . . if I could
only see him! . . . for a minute! . . a second! . . . if only
I could know! . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She felt as if the awful uncertainty would
drive her mad.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">If she could only know! If she could only know
what he meant to do!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The good God knows!&quot; said the old
man, with his usual, simple philosophy, &quot;and perhaps it is
all for the best.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The room which Chauvelin had now destined for
Marguerite, was one which gave from the larger one, wherein last
night he had had his momentous interview with her and with Sir
Percy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was small, square and dark, with no window
in it: only a small ventilating hole high up in the wall and heavily
grated. Chauvelin, who desired to prove to her that there was
no wish on his part to add physical discomfort to her mental tortures,
had given orders that the little place should be made as habitable
as possible. A thick, soft carpet had been laid on the ground;
there was an easy chair and a comfortable-looking couch with a
couple of pillows and a rug upon it, and oh, marvel! on the round
central table, a vase with a huge bunch of many-coloured dahlias,
which seemed to throw a note as if of gladness into this strange
and gloomy little room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At the furthest corner, too, a construction
of iron uprights and crossway bars had been hastily contrived
and fitted with curtains, forming a small recess, behind which
was a tidy washstand, fine clean towels, and plenty of fresh water.
Evidently the shops of Boulogne had been commandeered in order
to render Marguerite's sojourn here outwardly agreeable.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But as the place was innocent of window, so
was it innocent of doors, The one that gave into the large room
had been taken out of its hinges, leaving only the frame, on each
side of which stood a man from the municipal guard with fixed
bayonet.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin himself had conducted Marguerite
to her new prison. She followed him- silent and apathetic- with
not a trace of that awful torrent of emotion which had overwhelmed
her but half-an-hour ago, when she had fallen on her knees beside
the old priest and sobbed her heart out in a passionate fit of
weeping. Even the sight of the soldiers left her outwardly indifferent.
As she stepped across the threshold she noticed that the door
itself had been taken away: then she gave another quick glance
at the soldiers, whose presence there would control her every
movement.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The though of Queen Marie Antoinette in the
Conciergerie prison with the daily, hourly humiliation and shame
which this constant watch imposed upon her womanly pride and modesty,
flashed suddenly across Marguerite's mind, and a deep blush of
horror rapidly suffused her pale cheeks, whilst an almost imperceptible
shudder shook her delicate frame.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Perhaps, as in a flash, she had at this moment
received an inkling of what the nature of that terrible &quot;either-or&quot;
might be with which Chauvelin was trying to force an English gentleman
to dishonour. Sir Percy Blakeney's wife had been threatened with
Marie Antoinette's fate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You see, Madame,&quot; said her cruel
enemy's unctuous voice close to her ear, &quot;that we have tried
our humble best to make your brief sojourn here as agreeable as
possible. May I express a hope that you will be quite comfortable
in this room, until the time when Sir Percy will be ready to accompany
you to the <I>Day-Dream</I>.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I thank you, sir,&quot; she replied quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And if there is anything you require,
I pray you to call. I shall be in the next room all day and entirely
at your service.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A young orderly now entered bearing a small
collation -eggs, bread, milk and wine -which he set on the central
table. Chauvelin bowed low before Marguerite and withdrew. Anon
he ordered the two sentinels to stand the other side of the doorway,
against the wall on his own room, and well out of sight of Marguerite,
so that, as she moved about her own narrow prison, if she ate
or slept, she might have the illusion that she was unwatched.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The sight of the soldiers had had the desired
effect on her. Chauvelin had seen her shudder, and knew that she
understood or that she guessed. He was now satisfied, and really
had no wish to harass her beyond endurance.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Moreover, there was always the proclamation,
which threatened the bread-winners of Boulogne with death, if
Marguerite Blakeney escaped, and which would be in full force
until Sir Percy had written, signed, and delivered into Chauvelin's
hands, the letter which was to be the signal for the general amnesty.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had indeed cause to be satisfied
with his measures. There was no fear that his prisoners would
attempt to escape.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even Collot d'Herbois had to admit that everything
was well done. He had read the draft of the proposed letter, and
was satisfied with its contents. Gradually now into his loutish
brain there had filtrated the conviction that Citizen Chauvelin
was right, that that accursed Scarlet Pimpernel and his brood
of English spies would be more effectually annihilated by all
the dishonour and ridicule which such a letter written by the
mysterious hero would heap upon them all, than they could ever
be through the relentless work of the guillotine. His only anxiety
now was whether the Englishman would write that letter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Bah! he'll do it,&quot; he would say
whenever he thought the whole matter over. &quot;Sacr&eacute;
tonnerre! but 'tis an easy means to save his own skin.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You would sign such a letter without
hesitation, eh, Citizen Collot?&quot; said Chauvelin, with well-concealed
sarcasm, on one occasion, when his colleague discussed the all-absorbing
topic with him; &quot;you would show no hesitation, if your life
were at stake, and you were given the choice between writing that
letter, and . . . the guillotine?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Parbleu!&quot; responded Collot with
conviction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;More especially,&quot; continued Chauvelin
drily, &quot;if a million francs were promised you as well?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Sacr&eacute; Anglais!&quot; swore Collot angrily, &quot;you
don't propose giving him that money, do you?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We'll place it ready to his hand, at
any rate, so that it should appear as if he had actually taken
it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot looked up at his colleague in ungrudging
admiration. Chauvelin had, indeed, left nothing undone, had thought
everything out in this strangely conceived scheme for the destruction
of the enemy of France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But in the name of all the dwellers in
hell, citizen,&quot; admonished Collot, &quot;guard that letter
well, once it is in your hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll do better than that,&quot; said
Chauvelin, &quot;I will hand it over to you, Citizen Collot, and
you shall ride with it to Paris at once.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;To-night!&quot; assented Collot, with
a shout of triumph, as he brought his grimy fist-crashing down
on the table, &quot;I'll have a horse ready saddled at this very
gate, and an escort of mounted men. . . we'll ride like hell's
own furies and not pause to breathe until that letter is in Citizen
Robepsierre's hands.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well though on, citizen,&quot; said Chauvelin
approvingly. &quot;I pray you give the necessary orders, that
the horses be ready saddled, and the men booted and spurred, and
waiting at the Gayole gate at seven o'clock this evening.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I wish the letter were written and safely
in our hands by now.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay! the Englishman will have it ready
by this evening, never fear. The tide is high at half-past seven,
and he will be in haste for his wife to be aboard his yacht, ere
the turn, even if he . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He paused, savouring the thoughts which had
suddenly flashed across his mind, and a look of intense hatred
and cruel satisfaction for a moment chased away the studied impassiveness
of his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What do you mean, citizen?&quot; queried
Collot anxiously; &quot;even if he . . .what? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! nothing, nothing! I was only trying
to make vague guesses as to what the Englishman will do<I> after</I>
he has written the letter,&quot; quoth Chauvelin reflectively.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Morbleu! he'll return to his own accursed
country . . glad enough to have escaped with his skin . . . I
suppose,&quot; added Collot with sudden anxiety, &quot;you have
no fear that he will refuse at the last moment to write that letter?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The two men were sitting in the large room,
out of which opened the one which was now occupied by Marguerite.
They were talking at the further end of it, close to the window,
and though Chauvelin had mostly spoken in a whisper, Collot had
ofttimes shouted, and the ex-ambassador was wondering how much
Marguerite had heard.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now at Collot's anxious query he gave a quick,
furtive glance in the direction of the further room wherein she
sat, so silent and so still, that it seemed almost as if she must
be sleeping.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You don't think that the Englishman will
refuse to write the letter?&quot; insisted Collot with angry impatience.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;No!&quot; replied Chauvelin quietly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But if he does?&quot; persisted the other.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If he does, I send the woman to Paris
to-night and have him hanged as a spy in this prison yard without
further formality or trial . . .&quot; replied Chauvelin firmly;
&quot;so either way, you see, citizen,&quot; he added in a whisper,
&quot;the Scarlet Pimpernel is done for . . . But I think that
he will write the letter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Parbleu! so do I! . . .&quot; rejoined
Collot, with a harsh laugh.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chapter 32 - The Letter</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXXII<BR>
The Letter</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Later on, when his colleague left him in order
to see to the horses and to his escort for the night, Chauvelin
called Sergeant H&eacute;bert, his old and trusted familiar, to
him and gave him some final orders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Angelus must be rung at the proper
hour, friend H&eacute;bert,&quot; he began with a grim smile.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The Angelus, Citizen?&quot; quoth the
sergeant, with complete stupefaction; &quot;'tis months now since
it has been rung. It was forbidden by a decree of the Convention,
and I doubt me if any of our men would know how to set about it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin's eyes were fixed before him in apparent
vacancy, while the same grim smile still hovered round his thin
lips. Something of that irresponsible spirit of adventure which
was the mainspring of all Sir Percy Blakeney's actions must for
the moment have pervaded the mind of his deadly enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had thought out this idea of having
the Angelus run to-night, and was thoroughly pleased with the
notion. This was the day when the duel was to have been fought;
seven o'clock would have been the very hour, and the sound of
the Angelus to have been the signal for the combat, and there
was something very satisfying in the thought that that same Angelus
should be rung as a signal that the Scarlet Pimpernel was withered
and broken at last.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In answer to H&eacute;bert's look of bewilderment,
Chauvelin said quietly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We must have some signal between ourselves
and the guard at the different gates, also with the harbour officials:
at a given moment the general amnesty must take effect and the
harbour become a free port I have a fancy that the signal shall
be the ringing of the Angelus: the cannons at the gates and the
harbour can boom in response; then the prisons can be thrown open
and prisoners can either participate in the evening f&ecirc;te
or leave the city immediately, as they choose. The Committee of
Public Safety has promised the amnesty: it will carry out its
promises to the full, and when Citizen Collot d'Herbois arrives
in Paris with the joyful news, all natives of Boulogne in the
prisons there will participate in the free pardon too.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I understand all that, Citizen,&quot;
said H&eacute;bert, still somewhat bewildered, &quot;but not the
Angelus.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A fancy, friend H&eacute;bert; and I
mean to have it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;But who is to ring it, Citizen?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Morbleu! haven't you one calotin left
in Boulogne whom you can press into doing this service?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! calotins enough! There's the Abb&eacute;
Foucquet in this very building . . . in No. 6 cell . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sacr&eacute; tonnerre!&quot; ejaculated
Chauvelin exultantly, &quot;the very man! I know his dossier well!
Once he is free, he will make straightway for England . . . he
and his family . . . and will help to spread the glorious news
of the dishonour and disgraces of the much-vaunted Scarlet Pimpernel!
. . . The very man, friend H&eacute;bert! . . .Let him be stationed
here . . . to see the letter written . . . to see the money handed
over -for we will go through with that farce- and make him understand
that the moment I give him the order, he can run over to his old
church, S. Joseph, and ring the Angelus . . . The old fool will
be delighted . . . more especially when he knows that he will
thereby be giving the very signal which will set his own sister's
children free . . . You understand? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I understand, citizen.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And you can make the old calotin understand?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;I think so, citizen . . . You want him in this room . .
. At what time?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A quarter before seven.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes. I'll bring him along myself, and
stand over him, lest he plays any pranks.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Oh! he'll not trouble you,&quot; sneered
Chauvelin. &quot;He'll be deeply interested in the proceedings.
The woman will be here, too, remember,&quot; he added with a jerky
movement of the hand in the direction of Marguerite's room; &quot;the
two might be made to stand together, with four of your fellows
round them.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I understand, citizen. Are any of us
to escort the Citizen Foucquet when he goes to S. Joseph?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! two men had best go with him. There
will be a crowd in the streets by then . . . How far is it from
here to the church?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Less than five minutes.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Good. See to it that the doors are opened
and the bell-ropes easy of access.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It shall be seen to, citizen. How many
men will you have inside this room to-night?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let the walls be lined with men whom
you can trust. I anticipate neither trouble nor resistance. The
whole thing is a simple formality, to which the Englishman has
already intimated his readiness to submit. If he changes his mind
at the last moment, there will be no Angelus rung, no booming
of the cannons or opening of the prison doors: there will be no
amnesty, and no free pardon. The woman will be at once conveyed
to Paris, and . . . But he'll not change his mind, friend H&eacute;bert,&quot;
he concluded in suddenly altered tones, and speaking quite lightly,
&quot;he'll not change his mind.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The conversation between Chauvelin and his
familiar had been carried on in whispers: not that the Terrorist
cared whether Marguerite overheard or not, but whispering had
become a habit with this man, whose tortuous ways and subtle intrigues
did not lend themselves to discussion in a loud voice.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin was sitting at the central table,
just where he had been last night when Sir Percy Blakeney's sudden
advent broke in on his meditations. The table had been cleared
of the litter of multitudinous papers which had encumbered it
before. On it now there were only a couple of heavy pewter candlesticks,
with the tallow candles fixed ready in them, a leather pad, an
ink well, a sand box, and two or three quill pens: everything
disposed, in fact, for the writing and signing of the letter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Already in imagination Chauvelin saw his impudent
enemy, the bold and daring adventurer, standing there beside that
table and putting his name to the consummation of his own infamy.
The mental picture thus evoked brought a gleam of cruel satisfaction
and of satiated lust into the keen, ferret-like face, and a smile
of intense joy lit up the narrow, pale-coloured eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He looked round the room where the great scene
would be enacted: two soldiers were standing on guard outside
Marguerite's prison, two more at attention near the door which
gave on the passage: his own half-dozen picked men were waiting
his commands in the corridor. Presently the whole room would be
lined with troops, himself, and Collot standing with eyes fixed
on the principal actor of the drama! H&eacute;bert with specially
selected troopers, standing on guard over Marguerite!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No, no! he had left nothing to chance this
time; and down below the horses would be ready saddled, that were
to convey Collot and the precious document to Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No! nothing was left to chance, and in either
case he was bound to win. Sir Percy Blakeney would either write
the letter, in order to save his wife, and heap dishonour on himself,
or he would shrink from the terrible ordeal at the last moment
and let Chauvelin and the Committee of Public Safety work their
will with her and him.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;In any case, the pillory as a spy and
summary hanging for you, my friend,&quot; concluded Chauvelin
in his mind, &quot;and for you wife . . .Bah! once you are out
of the way, even she will cease to matter.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He left H&eacute;bert on guard in the room.
An irresistible desire seized him to go and have a look at his
discomfited enemy, and from the latter's attitude make a shrewd
guess as to what he meant to do to-night.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy had been given a room on one of the
upper floors of the old prison. He had in no way been closely
guarded, and the room itself had been made as comfortable as may
be. He had seemed quite happy and contented when he had been conducted
hither by Chauvelin the evening before.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I hope you quite understand, Sir Percy,
that you are my guest here to-night,&quot; Chauvelin had said
suavely, &quot;but that you are free to come and go just as you
please.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lud love you, sir,&quot; Sir Percy had
replied gaily, &quot;but I verily believe that I am!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It is only Lady Blakeney whom we have
cause to watch until to-morrow,&quot; added Chauvelin with quiet
significance. &quot;Is not that so, Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Sir Percy seemed whenever his wife's name
was mentioned to lapse into irresistible somnolence. He yawned
now with his usual affectation, and asked at what hour gentlemen
in France were wont to breakfast.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Since then Chauvelin had not seen him. He had
repeatedly asked how the English prisoner was faring, and whether
he seemed to be sleeping and eating heartily. The orderly in charge
invariably reported that the Englishman seemed well, but did not
eat much. On the other hand, he had ordered, and lavishly paid
for, measure after measure of brandy and bottle after bottle of
wine.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Hm! How strange these Englishmen are!&quot;
mused Chauvelin. &quot;This so-called hero is nothing but a wine-sodden
brute, who seeks to nerve himself for a trying ordeal by drowning
his faculties in brandy . . Perhaps, after all, he doesn't care!
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But the wish to have a look at that strangely
complex creature -hero, adventurer, or mere lucky fool -was irresistible,
and Chauvelin in the later part of the afternoon went up to the
room which had been allotted to Sir Percy Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He never moved now without his escort, and
this time also two of his favourite bodyguard accompanied him
to the upper floor. He knocked at the door, but received no answer;
after a second or two he bade his men wait in the corridor, and
gently turning the latch, he walked in.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was an odour of brandy in the air, on
the table two or three empty bottles of wine and a glass half-filled
with cognac testified to the truth of what the orderly had said,
whilst sprawling across the camp bedstead, which obviously was
too small for his long limbs, his head thrown back his mouth open
for a vigorous snore, lay the imperturbable Sir Percy, fast asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin went up to the bedstead and looked
down upon the reclining figure of the man who had oft been called
the most dangerous enemy of Republican France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Of a truth, a fine figure of a man, Chauvelin
was ready enough to admit that: the long, hard limbs, the wide
chest, and slender, white hands- all bespoke the man of birth,
breeding, and energy: the face, too, looked strong and clearly
cut in repose, now that the perpetually inane smile did not play
round the firm lips, nor the lazy, indolent expression mar the
seriousness of the straight brow. For one moment -it was a mere
flash - Chauvelin felt almost sorry that so interesting a career
should be thus ignominiously brought to a close.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Terrorist felt that if his own future,
his own honour and integrity were about to be so hopelessly crushed,
he would have wandered up and down this narrow room like a caged
beast, eating out his heart with self-reproach and remorse, and
racking his nerves and brain for an issue out of the terrible
alternative which meant dishonour or death.<BR>
<BR>
But this man drank and slept.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Perhaps he does not care!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And as if in answer to Chauvelin's puzzled
musings, a deep snore escaped the sleeping adventurer's parted
lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin sighed, perplexed and troubled. He
looked round the little room, then went up to a small side table
which stood against the wall, and on which were two or three quill
pens and an ink well, also some loosely scattered sheets of paper.
These he turned over with a careless hand, and presently came
across a closely-written page:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Citizen Chauvelin: -In consideration
of a further sum of one million francs . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was the beginning of the letter! . . . only
a few words so far . . with several corrections of misspelt words.
. . and a line left out here and there, which confused the meaning
. . a beginning made by the unsteady hand of that drunken fool
. . an attempt only at present . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But still . . . a beginning.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Close by was the draft of it as written out
by Chauvelin, and which Sir Percy had evidently begun to copy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He had made up his mind, then. . . He meant
to subscribe with his own hand to his lasting dishonour . . .
and, meaning it, he slept!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin felt the paper trembling in his hand.
He felt strangely agitated and nervous, now that the issue was
so near . . . so sure! . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;There's no demmed hurry for that, is
there . . . er . . Monsieur . .Chaubertin? . .&quot; came from
the slowly wakening Sir Percy in somewhat thick, heavy accents,
accompanied by a prolonged yawn. &quot;I haven't got the demmed
thing quite ready . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin had been so startled that the paper
dropped from his hand. He stooped to pick it up.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay! why should you be so scared, sir?&quot;
continued Sir Percy lazily. &quot;Did you think I was drunk? .
. . I assure you, sir, on my honour, I am not so drunk as you
think I am.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have no doubt, Sir Percy,&quot; replied
Chauvelin ironically, &quot;that you have all your marvellous
faculties entirely at your command . . . I must apologise for
disturbing your papers,&quot; he added, replacing the half-written
page on the table; &quot;I thought, perhaps, that if the letter
was quite ready. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;It will be, sir . . it wil be . . . for
I am not drunk, I assure you . . . and can write with a steady
hand . . . and do honour to my signature . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;When will you have the letter ready,
Sir Percy?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The <I>Day Dream</I> must leave the harbour
at the turn of the tide,&quot; quoth Sir Percy thickly. &quot;It'll
be demmed well time by then . . . won't it, sir? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;About sundown, Sir Percy . . . not later
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;About sundown . . . not later . .&quot;
muttered Blakeney, as he once more stretched his long limbs along
the narrow bed.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He gave a loud and hearty yawn.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I'll not fail you . . .&quot; he murmured,
as he closed his eyes and gave a final struggle to get his head
at a comfortable angle; &quot;the letter will be written in my
best cali. . . . calig . . .Lud! but I'm not so drunk as you think
I am . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But as if to belie his own oft-repeated assertion,
hardly was the last word out of his mouth, than his stertorous
and even breathing proclaimed the fact that he was once more fast
asleep.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a shrug of the shoulders and a look of
unutterable contempt at his broken-down enemy, Chauvelin turned
on his heel and went out of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But outside in the corridor he called the orderly
to him, and gave strict commands that no more wine or brandy was
to be served to the Englishman under any circumstances whatever.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;He has two hours in which to sleep off
the effects of all that brandy which he has consumed,&quot; he
mused as he finally went back to his own quarters, &quot;and by
that time he will be able to write with a steady hand.&quot;</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXXIII<BR>
The English Spy</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And now at last the shades of evening were
drawing in thick and fast. Within the walls of Fort Gayole the
last rays of the setting sun had long ago ceased to shed their
dying radiance, and through the thick stone embrasures and the
dusty panes of glass the grey light of dusk soon failed to penetrate.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">In the large ground-floor room, with its window
opened upon the wide promenade of the southern ramparts, a silence
reigned which was oppressive. The air was heavy with the fumes
of the two tallow candles on the table, which smoked persistently.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Against the walls a row of figures in dark
blue uniforms with scarlet facings, drab breeches, and heavy riding
boots, silent and immovable, with fixed bayonets, like so many
automatons lining the room all round; at some little distance
from the central table and out of the immediate circle of light,
a small group composed of five soldiers in the same blue and scarlet
uniforms. One of these was Sergeant H&eacute;bert. In the centre
of this group two persons were sitting: a woman and an old man.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Abb&eacute; Foucquet had been brought down
from his prison cell a few minutes ago, and told to watch what
would go on around him, after which he would be allowed to go
to his old church, S. Joseph, and ring the Angelus once more before
he and his family left Boulogne for ever.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Angelus would be the signal for the opening
of all the prison gates in the town. Everyone to-night could come
and go as they pleased, and having rung the Angelus, the abb&eacute;
would be at liberty to join Fran&ccedil;ois and F&eacute;licit&eacute;
and their old mother, his sister, outside the purlieus of the
town.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The Abb&eacute; Foucquet did not quite understand
all this, which was very rapidly and roughly explained to him.
It was such a very little while ago that he had expected to see
the innocent children mounting up those awful steps which lead
to the guillotine, whilst he himself was looking death quite near
in the face, that all this talk of amnesty and of pardon had not
quite fully reached his brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But he was quite content that it had all been
ordained by le bon Dieu, and very happy at the thought of ringing
the dearly-loved Angelus in his own old church once again. So
when he was peremptorily pushed into the room and found himself
close to Marguerite, with four or five soldiers standing round
them, he quietly pulled his old rosary from his pocket and began
murmuring gentle Paters and Aves under his breath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Beside him sat Marguerite, rigid as a statue,
her cloak thrown over her shoulders, so that its hood might hide
her face. She could not now have said how that awful day had passed,
how she had managed to survive the terrible, nerve-racking suspense,
the agonising doubt as to what was going to happen. But above
all, what she had found most unendurable was the torturing thought
that in this same grim and frowning building her husband was there
. . . somewhere . . . how far or how near she could not say .
. . but she knew that she was parted from him, and perhaps would
not see him again, not even at the hour of death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">That Percy would never write that infamous
letter and <I>live</I>, she knew. That he might write it in order
to save her she feared was possible, whilst the look of triumph
on Chauvelin's face had aroused her most agonising terrors.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When she was summarily ordered to go into the
next room she realised at once that all hope now was more than
futile. The walls lined with troops, the attitude of her enemies,
and, above all, that table with paper, ink, and pens ready, as
it were, for the accomplishment of the hideous and monstrous deed,
all made her very heart numb, as if it were held within the chill
embrace of death.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;If the woman moves, speaks, or screams
gag her at once!&quot; said Collot roughly the moment she sat
down, and Sergeant H&eacute;bert stood over her, gag and cloth
in hand, whilst two soldiers placed heavy hands on her shoulders.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But she neither moved, nor spoke, not even
presently when a loud and cheerful voice came echoing from a distant
corridor, and anon the door opened and her husband came in, accompanied
by Chauvelin.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The ex-ambassador was very obviously in a state
of acute nervous tension, his hands were tightly clasped behind
his back, and his movements were curiously irresponsible and jerky.
But Sir Percy Blakeney looked a picture of calm unconcern: the
lace bow at his throat was tied with scrupulous care, his eyeglass
upheld at quite the correct angle, and his delicate-coloured caped
coat was thrown back sufficiently to afford a glimpse of the dainty
cloth suit and exquisitely embroidered waistcoat beneath.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was the perfect presentation of a London
dandy, and might have been entering a royal drawing-room in company
with an honoured guest. Marguerite's eyes were riveted on him
as he came well within the circle of light projected by the candles,
but not even with that acute sixth sense of a passionate and loving
woman could she detect the slightest tremor in the aristocratic
hand which held the gold-rimmed eye-glass, nor the faintest quiver
of the firmly-moulded lips.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">This had occurred just as the bell of the old
Beffroi chimed three-quarters after six. Now it was close on seven,
and in the centre of the room, and with his face and figure well
lighted up by the candles, at the table, pen in hand, sat Sir
Percy writing.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At his elbow, just behind him, stood Chauvelin
on the one side and Collot d'Herbois on the other, both watching
with fixed and burning eyes the writing of that letter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy seemed in no hurry. He wrote slowly
and deliberately, carefully copying the draft of the letter which
was propped up in front of him. The spelling of some of the French
words seemed to have troubled him at first, for when he began
he made many facetious and self-deprecatory remarks anent his
own want of education, and carelessness in youth in acquiring
the gentle art of speaking so elegant a language.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Presently, however, he appeared more at his
ease, or perhaps less inclined to talk, since he only received
curt, monosyllabic answers to his pleasant sallies. Five minutes
had gone by without any other sound, save the spasmodic creak
of Sir Percy's pen upon the paper, the while Chauvelin and Collot
watched every word he wrote.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But gradually from afar there had risen in
the stillness of evening a distant, rolling noise like that of
surf breaking against the cliffs. Nearer and louder it grew, and
as it increased in volume, so it gained now in diversity. The
monotonous roll like far-off thunder was just as continuous as
before, but now shriller notes broke out from amongst the more
remote sounds, a loud laugh seemed ever and anon to pierce the
distance and to rise above the persistent hubbub, which became
the mere accompaniment to these isolated tones.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The merrymakers of Boulogne having started
from the Place de la S&eacute;n&eacute;chauss&eacute;e, were making
the round of the town by the wide avenue which tops the ramparts.
They were coming past the Fort Gayole, shouting, singing, brass
trumpets in front, big drum ahead, drenched, hot, and hoarse,
but supremely happy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy looked up for a moment as the noise
drew nearer, then turned to Chauvelin, and, pointing to the letter,
he said:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have nearly finished!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The suspence in the smoke-laden atmosphere
of this room was becoming unendurable, and four hearts at least
were beating wildly with overpowering anxiety. Marguerite's eyes
were fixed with tender intensity on the man she so passionately
loved. She did not understand his actions or his motives, but
she felt a wild longing in her to drink in every line of that
loved face, as if with this last long look she was bidding an
eternal farewell to all hopes of future earthly happiness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The old priest had ceased to tell his beads.
Feeling in his kindly heart the echo of the appalling tragedy
which was being enacted before him, he had put out a fatherly,
tentative hand towards Marguerite, and given her icy fingers a
comforting pressure.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And in the hearts of Chauvelin and his colleague
there was satisfied revenge, eager, exultant triumph, and that
terrible nerve-tension which immediately precedes the long-expected
climax.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But who can say what went on within the heart
of that bold adventurer about to be brought to the lowest depths
of humiliation which it is in the power of man to endure? What
behind that smooth, unruffled brow still bent laboriously over
the page of writing?</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd was now on the Place Daumont; some
of the foremost in the ranks were ascending the stone steps which
lead to the southern ramparts. The noise had become incessant;
Pierrots and Pierrettes, Harlequins and Columbines had worked
themselves up into a veritable intoxication of shouts and laughter.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Now, as they all swarmed up the steps and caught
sight of the open window, almost on a level with the ground, and
of the large, dimly-lighted room, they gave forth one terrific
and voluminous &quot;Hurrah!&quot; for the paternal government
up in Paris, who had given them cause for all this joy. Then they
recollected how the amnesty, the pardon, the national f&ecirc;te,
this brilliant procession had come about, and somebody in the
crowd shouted:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Allons! let us have a look at that English
spy. . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Let us see the Scarlet Pimpernel!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Yes! yes! let us see what he is like!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They shouted and stamped and swarmed round
the open window, swinging their lanthorns and demanding, in a
loud tone of voice, that the English spy be shown to them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Faces, wet with rain and perspiration, tried
to peep in at the window. Collot gave brief orders to the soldiers
to close the shutters at once and to push away the crowd, but
the crowd would not be pushed. It would not be gainsaid, and when
the soldiers tried to close the window twenty angry fists broke
the panes of glass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I can't finish this writing in your lingo,
Sir, whilst this demmed row is going on,&quot; said Sir Percy
placidly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You have not much more to write, Sir
Percy,&quot; urged Chauvelin, with nervous impatience; &quot;I
pray you finish the matter now, and get you gone from out this
city.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Send that demmed lot away then,&quot;
rejoined Sir Percy, calmly.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They won't go . . . They want to see
you . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Sir Percy paused a moment, pen in hand, as
if in deep reflection.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;They want to see me,&quot; he said, with
a laugh. &quot;Why, demn it all . . . then, why not let 'em? .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with a few rapid strokes of the pen he
quickly finished the letter, adding his signature with a bold
flourish, whilst the crowd, pushing, jostling, shouting and cursing
the soldiers, still loudly demanded to see the Scarlet Pimpernel.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin felt as if his heart would veritably
burst with the wildness of is beating.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then Sir Percy, with one hand lightly pressed
on the letter, pushed his chair away, and with his pleasant ringing
voice, said once again:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Well! demn it . . . let 'em see me! .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With that he sprang to his feet and up to his
full height, and as he did so he seized the two massive pewter
candlesticks, one in each hand, and with powerful arms well outstretched
he held them high above his head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The letter . . .&quot; murmured Chauvelin,
in a hoarse whisper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But even as he was quickly reaching out a hand,
which shook with the intensity of his excitement, towards the
letter on the table, Blakeney, with one loud and sudden shout,
threw the heavy candlesticks on to the floor. They rattled down
with a terrific crash, the lights were extinguished, and the whole
room was immediately plunged in utter darkness.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The crowd gave a wild yell of fear: they had
only caught sight for one instance of that gigantic figure- which,
with arms outstretched, had seemed supernaturally tall- weirdly
illumined by the flickering light of the tallow candles, and the
next moment disappearing into utter darkness before their very
gaze. Overcome with sudden superstitious fear, Pierrots and Pierrettes,
drummer and trumpeters, turned and fled in every direction.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Within the room all was wild confusion. The
soldiers had heard a cry:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;La fen&eacute;tre! La fen&eacute;tre!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Who gave it no one knew, no one could afterwards
recollect; certain it is that with one accord the majority of
the men made a rush for the open window, driven thither partly
by the wild instinct of the chase after an escaping enemy, and
partly by the same superstitious terror which had caused the crowd
to flee. They clambered over the sill and dropped down on to the
ramparts below, then started in wild pursuit.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But when the crash came, Chauvelin had given
one frantic shout:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The letter!!! . . . Collot! . . . A moi
. . . In his hand . . . The letter! . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">There was a sound of a heavy thud, of a terrible
scuffle there on the floor in the darkness, and then a yell of
victory from Collot d'Herbois.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I have the letter! A Paris!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Victory!&quot; echoed Chauvelin, exultant
and panting, &quot;victory!! The Angelus, friend H&eacute;bert!
Take the calotin to ring the Angelus!!!&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">It was instinct which caused Collot d'Herbois
to find the door; he tore it open, letting in a feeble ray of
light from the corridor. He stood in the doorway one moment, his
slouchy, ungainly form distinctly outlined against the lighter
background beyond, a look of exultant and malicious triumph, of
deadly hate and cruelty distinctly imprinted on his face, and
with upraised hand wildly flourishing the precious document, the
brand of dishonour for the enemy of France.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A Paris!&quot; shouted Chauvelin to him
excitedly. &quot;Into Robespierre's hands . . . The letter! .
. .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he fell back panting, exhausted on the
nearest chair.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Collot, without looking again behind him, called
wildly for the men who were to escort him to Paris. They were
picked troopers, stalwart veterans from the old municipal guard.
They had not broken their ranks throughout the turmoil, and fell
into line in perfect order as they followed Citizen Collot out
of the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Less than five minutes later there was the
noise of stamping and champing of bits in the courtyard below,
a shout from Collot, and the sound of a cavalcade galloping at
break-neck speed toward the distant Paris gate.</FONT></P>

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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXXIV<BR>
The Angelus</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And gradually all noises died away around the
old Fort Gayole. The shouts and laughter of the merrymakers, who
had quickly recovered from their fright, now came only as the
muffled rumble of a distant storm, broken here and there by the
shrill note of a girl's loud laughter, or a vigorous fanfare from
the brass trumpets.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The room where so much turmoil had taken place,
where so many hearts had beaten with torrent-like emotions, where
the awesome tragedy of revenge and hate, of love and passion had
been consummated, was now silent and at peace.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The soldiers had gone: some in pursuit of the
revellers, some with Collot d'Herbois, others with H&eacute;bert
and the calotin who was to ring the Angelus.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin, overcome with the intensity of his
exultation and the agony of the suspense which he had endured,
sat, vaguely dreaming, hardly conscious, but wholly happy and
content. Fearless, too, for his triumph was complete, and he cared
not now if he lived or died.<BR>
<BR>
He had lived long enough to see the complete annihilation and
dishonour of his enemy.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">What had happened to Sir Percy Blakeney now,
what to Marguerite, he neither knew nor cared. No doubt the Englishman
had picked himself up and got away through the window or the door:
he would be anxious to get his wife out of the town as quickly
as possible. The Angelus would ring directly, the gates would
be opened, the harbour made free to everyone. . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And Collot was a league outside Boulogne by
now . . . a league nearer to Paris.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">So what mattered the humble wayside English
flower, the damaged and withered Scarlet Pimpernel? . . . .</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">A slight noise suddenly caused him to start.
He had been dreaming, no doubt, having fallen into some kind of
torpor, akin to sleep, after the deadly and restless fatigue of
the past four days. He certainly had been unconscious of everything
around him, of time and of place. But now he felt fully awake.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And again he heard that slight noise, as if
something or someone was moving in the room.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He tried to peer into the darkness, but could
distinguish nothing. He rose and went to the door. It was still
open, and close behind it, against the wall, a small oil lamp
was fixed, which lip up the corridor.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin detached the lamp and came back with
it into the room. Just as he did so there came to his ears the
first sound of the little church bell ringing the Angelus.<BR>
<BR>
He stepped into the room, holding the lamp high above his head;
its feeble rays fell full upon the brilliant figure of Sir Percy
Blakeney.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He was smiling pleasantly, bowing slightly
towards Chauvelin, and in his hand he held the sheathed sword,
the blade of which had been fashioned in Toledo for Lorenzo Cenci,
and the fellow of which was lying now -Chauvelin himself knew
not where.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;The day and the hour, Monsieur, I think,&quot;
said Sir Percy with courtly grace, &quot;when you and I are to
cross swords together; those are the southern ramparts, meseems.
Will you precede, sir? and I will follow.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">At sight of this man, of his impudence, and
of his daring, Chauvelin felt like an icy grip on his heart. His
cheeks became ashen white, his thin lips closed with a snap, and
the hand which held the lamp aloft trembled visibly. Sir Percy
stood before him, still smiling, and with a graceful gesture pointing
towards the ramparts.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">From the church of Saint Joseph the gentle,
melancholy tones of the Angelus sounding the second Ave Maria
came faintly echoing in the evening air.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a violent effort Chauvelin forced himself
to self-control, and tried to shake off the strange feeling of
obsession which had overwhelmed him in presence of this extraordinary
man. He walked quite quietly up to the table and placed the lamp
upon it. As in a flash recollection had come back to him . . .
the past few minutes! . . . the letter! and Collot well on his
way to Paris!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Bah! he had nothing to fear now, save perhaps
death at the hand of this adventurer, turned assassin in his misery
and humiliation!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A truce on this folly, Sir Percy,&quot;
he said roughly. &quot;As you well know, I had never any intention
of fighting you with these poisoned swords of yours, and . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;I knew that, M. Chauvelin . . . But do
<I>you</I> know that I have the intention of killing you now .
. . as you stand . . . like a dog! . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And, throwing down the sword with one of those
uncontrolled outbursts of almost animal passion which for one
instant revealed the real, inner man, he went up to Chauvelin,
and, towering above him like a great avenging giant, he savoured
for one second the joy of looking down on that puny, slender figure
which he could crush with sheer brute force with one blow from
his powerful hands.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">But Chauvelin at this moment was beyond fear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And if you killed me now, Sir Percy,&quot;
he said quietly, and looking the man whom he so hated fully in
the eyes, &quot;you could not destroy that letter which my colleague
is taking to Paris at this very moment.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As he had anticipated, his words seemed to
change Sir Percy's mood in an instant. The passion in the handsome,
aristocratic face faded in a trice, the hard lines round the jaw
and lips relaxed, the fire of revenge died out from the lazy blue
eyes, and the next moment a long, loud, merry laugh raised the
dormant echoes of the old fort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, Monsieur Chaubertin,&quot; said
Sir Percy gaily, &quot;but this is marvellous . . . demmed marvellous
. . . do you hear that, m'dear? . . . Gadzooks! but 'tis the best
joke I have heard this past twelve months . . . Monsieur here
thinks . . . Lud! but I shall die of laughing. . . . Monsieur
here thinks . . . that 'twas that demmed letter which went to
Paris . . . and that an English gentleman lay scuffling on the
floor and allowed a letter to be filched from him . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Sir Percy!&quot; . . . gasped Chauvelin,
as an awful thought seemed suddenly to flash across his fevered
brain.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lud, sir, you are astonishing!&quot;
said Sir Percy, taking a very much crumpled sheet of paper from
the capacious pocket of his elegant caped coat and holding it
close to Chauvelin's horror-stricken gaze. &quot;<I>This</I> is
the letter which I wrote at that table yonder, in order to gain
time and in order to fool you . . . But by the Lord, you are a
bigger demmed fool than ever I took you to be, if you thought
it would serve any other purpose save that of my hitting you in
the face with it.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And with a quick and violent gesture he struck
Chauvelin full in the face with the paper.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You would like to know, Monsieur Chaubertin,
would you not . . .&quot; he added pleasantly, &quot;what letter
it is that your friend Citizen Collot is taking in such hot haste
to Paris for you? . . . Well! the letter is not long, and 'tis
written in verse . . . I wrote it myself upstairs to-day, whilst
you thought me sodden with brandy and three-parts asleep. But
brandy is easily flung out of the window. . . Did you think I
drank it all? . . . . Nay! as you remember, I told you that I
was not so drunk as you thought? . . . Aye! the letter is writ
in English verse, Monsieur, and it reads thus:</FONT></P>

<BLOCKQUOTE>
  <P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We seek him here! we seek him
  there!<BR>
  Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!<BR>
  Is he in heaven? is he in hell?<BR>
  That demmed elusive Pimpernel?&quot;</FONT></CENTER></P></BLOCKQUOTE>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;A neat rhyme, I fancy, Monsieur, and
one which will, if rightly translated, greatly please your friend
and ruler, Citizen Robespierre . . . Your colleague, Citizen Collot
is well on his way to Paris with it by now . . . No, no, Monsieur
. . . as you rightly said just now . . . I really could not kill
you . . . God having blessed me with the saving sense of humour
. . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even as he spoke the third Ave Maria of the
Angelus died away on the evening air. From the harbour and the
Old Chateau there came the loud boom of the cannon.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The hour of the opening of the gates, of the
general amnesty and free harbour, was announced throughout Boulogne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Chauvelin was livid with rage, fear, and baffled
revenge. He made a sudden rush for the door in a blind desire
to call for help, but Sir Percy had toyed long enough with his
prey. The hour was speeding on: H&eacute;bert and some of the
soldiers might return, and it was time to think of safety and
of flight. Quick as a hunted panther, he had interposed his tall
figure between his enemy and the latter's chance of calling for
aid, then, seizing the little man by the shoulders, he pushed
him back into that portion of the room where Marguerite and the
Abb&eacute; Foucquet had been lately sitting.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The gag, with cloth and cord, which had been
intended for a woman, were lying on the ground close by, just
where H&eacute;bert had dropped them when he marched the old abb&eacute;
off to the church.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With quick and dexterous hands, Sir Percy soon
reduced Chauvelin to an impotent and silent bundle. The ex-ambassador,
after four days of harrowing nerve-tension, followed by so awful
a climax, was weakened physically and mentally, whilst Blakeney,
powerful, athletic, and always absolutely unperturbed, was fresh
in body and spirit. He had slept calmly all the afternoon, having
quietly thought out all his plans, left nothing to chance, and
acted methodically and quickly, and invariably with perfect repose.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Having fully assured himself that the cords
were well fastened, the gag secure, and Chauvelin completely helpless,
he took the now inert mass up in his arms and carried it into
the adjoining room, where Marguerite for twelve hours had endured
a terrible martyrdom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He laid his enemy's helpless form upon the
couch, and for one moment looked down on it with a strange feeling
of pity, quite unmixed with contempt. The light from the lamp
in the further room struck vaguely upon the prostrate figure of
Chauvelin. He seemed to have lost consciousness, for the eyes
were closed, only the hands, which were tied securely to his body,
had a spasmodic, nervous twitch in them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">With a good-natured shrug of the shoulders,
the imperturbable Sir Percy turned to go, but just before he did
so, he took a scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket and slipped
it between Chauvelin's trembling fingers. On the paper were scribbled
the four lines of verse which in the next four-and-twenty hours
Robespierre himself and his colleague would read.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then Blakeney finally went out of the room.</FONT></P>

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  <TITLE>Chp 35 - Marguerite</TITLE>
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<P><CENTER><B><FONT SIZE="+2">Chapter XXXV<BR>
Marguerite</FONT></B></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">As he re-entered the large room, she was standing
beside the table, with one dainty hand resting against the back
of the chair, her whole graceful figure bent forward as if in
an agony of ardent expectation.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Never for an instant, in that supreme moment
when his precious life was at stake, did she waver in courage
or presence of mind. From the time that he jumped up and took
the candlesticks in his hands, her sixth sense showed her as in
a flash what he meant to do and how he would wish her to act.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">When the room was plunged in darkness she stood
absolutely still; when she heard the scuffle on the floor she
never trembled, for her passionate heart had already told her
that he never meant to deliver that infamous letter into his enemies'
hands. Then, when there was a general scramble, when the soldiers
rushed away, when the room became empty and Chauvelin alone remained,
she shrank quietly into the darkest corner of the room, hardly
breathing, only waiting . . . waiting for a sign from him!</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">She could not see him, but she felt the loved
presence there, somewhere close to her, and she knew that he would
wish her to wait . . . She watched him silently. . . ready to
help if he called . . . equally ready to remain still and to wait.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Only when the helpless body of her deadly enemy
was well out of the way did she come from out the darkness, and
now she stood with the full light of the lamp illumining her ruddy
golden hair, the delicate blush on her cheek, the flame of love
dancing in her glorious eyes.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Thus he saw her as he re-entered the room,
and for one second he paused at the door, for the joy of seeing
her there seemed greater than he could bear.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Forgotten was the agony of mind which he had
endured, the humiliations and the dangers which still threatened:
he only remembered that she loved him and that he worshipped her.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The next moment she lay clasped in his arms.
All was still around them, save for the gentle patter-patter of
the rain on the trees of the ramparts: and from very far away
the echo of laughter and music from the distant revellers.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And then the cry of the sea-mew, thrice repeated,
from just beneath the window.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Blakeney and Marguerite awoke from their brief
dream: once more the passionate lover gave place to the man of
action.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;'Tis Tony, an I mistake not,&quot; he
said hurriedly, as with loving fingers, still slightly trembling
with suppressed passion, he re-adjusted the hood over her head.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Lord Tony?&quot; she murmured.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Aye! with Hastings and one or two others.
I told them to be ready for us to-night, as soon as the place
was quiet.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;You were so sure of success, then, Percy?&quot;
she asked in wonderment.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;So sure,&quot; he replied simply.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he led her to the window and lifted her
on to the sill. It was not high from the ground, and two pairs
of willing arms were there ready to help her down.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Then he, too, followed, and quietly the little
party turned to walk towards the gate. The ramparts themselves
now looked strangely still and silent: the merrymakers were far
away, only one or two passers-by hurried swiftly past here and
there, carrying bundles, evidently bent on making use of that
welcome permission to leave this dangerous soil.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The little party walked on in silence, Marguerite's
small hand resting on her husband's arm. Anon they came upon a
group of soldiers who were standing somewhat perfunctorily and
irresolutely close by the open gate of the fort.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Tiens c'est l'Anglais!&quot; said one.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Morbleu! he is on his way back to England,&quot;
commented another lazily.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The gates of Boulogne had been thrown open
to everyone when the Angelus was run and the cannon boomed. The
general amnesty had been proclaimed, everyone had the right to
come and go as they pleased, the sentinels had been ordered to
challenge no one and to let everybody pass.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">No one knew that the great and glorious plans
for the complete annihilation of the Scarlet Pimpernel and his
League had come to naught, that Collot was taking a mighty hoax
to Paris, and that the man who had thought out and nearly carried
through the most fiendishly cruel plan ever conceived for the
destruction of an enemy, lay helpless, bound and gagged, within
his own stronghold.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">And so the little party, consisting of Sir
Percy and Marguerite, Lord Anthony Dewhurst and my lord Hastings,
passed unchallenged through the gates of Boulogne.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Outside the precincts of the town they met
my lord Everingham and Sir Philip Glynde, who had met the Abb&eacute;
Foucquet outside his little church and escorted him safely out
of the city, whilst Fran&ccedil;ois and F&eacute;licit&eacute;,
with their old mother, had been under the charge of other members
of the League.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;We were all in the procession, dressed
up in all sorts of ragged finery, until the last moment,&quot;
explained Lord Tony to Marguerite, as the entire party now quickly
made its way to the harbour. &quot;We did not know what was going
to happen. . . All we knew was that we should be wanted about
this time - the hour when the duel was to have been fought - and
somewhere near here on the southern ramparts. . . and we always
have strict orders to mix with any crowd if there happens to be
one. When we saw Blakeney raise the candlesticks, we guessed what
was coming, and we each went to our respective posts. It was all
quite simple.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">The young man spoke gaily and lightly, but
through the easy banter of his tone there pierced the enthusiasm
and pride of the soldier in the glory and daring of his chief.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Between the city walls and the harbour there
was much bustle and agitation. The English packet boat would lift
anchor at the turn of the tide, and as everyone was free to get
aboard without leave or passport, there were a very large number
of passengers, bound for the land of freedom.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Two boats from the Day Dream were waiting in
readiness for Sir Percy and my lady, and those whom they would
bring with them.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Silently the party embarked, and as the boats
pushed off and the sailors from Sir Percy's yacht bent to their
oars, the old Abb&eacute; Foucquet began gently droning a Pater
and Ave, to the accompaniment of his beads.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He accepted joy, happiness, and safety with
the same gentle philosophy as he would have accepted death, but
Marguerite's keen and loving ears caught at the end of each Pater
a gently murmured request to le bon Dieu to bless and protect
our English rescuer.</FONT></P>

<P><CENTER><FONT SIZE="+1">* * * * * *</FONT></CENTER></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Only once did Marguerite make allusion to that
terrible time, which had become the past.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">They were wandering together down the chestnut
alley in the beautiful garden at Richmond. It was evening, and
the air was heavy with the rich odour of wet earth, of belated
roses, and dying mignonette. She had paused in the alley and placed
a trembling hand upon his arm, whilst raising her eyes, filled
with tears of tender passion, up to his face.</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Percy,&quot; she murmured, &quot;have
you forgiven?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;What, m'dear?&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;That awful evening in Boulogne . . .
what that fiend demanded. . . his awful 'either-or' . . . I brought
it all upon you . . . it was all my fault.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Nay, my dear, for that 'tis I should
thank you . . . &quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Thank me?&quot;<BR>
<BR>
&quot;Aye,&quot; he said, whilst in the fast-gathering dusk she
could only just perceive the sudden hardening of his face, the
look of wild passion in his eyes; &quot;but for that evening in
Boulogne, but for that alternative which that devil placed before
me, I might never have known how much you meant to me.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">Even the recollection of all the sorrow, the
anxiety, the torturing humiliations of that night seemed completely
to change him: the voice became trenchant, the hands were tightly
clenched. But Marguerite drew nearer to him, her two hands were
on his breast, she murmured gently:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;And now? . . .&quot;</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">He folded her in his arms with an agony of
joy, and said earnestly:</FONT></P>

<P><FONT SIZE="+1">&quot;Now I know.&quot;</FONT></P>

<P>&nbsp;</P>

<P><CENTER><B>THE END</B></CENTER></P>

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