The Elusive Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (feel good books to read .txt) 📗

would ever see him again. She could not imagine how the French Committee of Public Safety could 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 Déroulède and Juliette Marny over from France, her heart went out to the two young people in sheer gladness and pride because of his precious life, which he had risked for them.

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, whilst the merry chatter of people round her warned her to keep her words and looks under control.

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.

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.

“Surely, Lady Blakeney, you have no thought of patronising that gruesome spectacle?” said Lord Anthony Dewhurst, as Marguerite almost mechanically had paused within a few yards of the solitary booth.

“I don’t know,” she said, with enforced gaiety, “the place seems to attract me. And I need not look at the spectacle,” she added significantly, as she pointed to a roughly-scribbled notice at the entrance of the tent: “In aid of the starving poor of Paris.”

“There’s a good-looking woman who sings, and a hideous mechanical toy that moves,” said one of the young men in the crowd. “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.”

“Then it must be my sins that are helping to lure me too at the present moment,” said Marguerite lightly. “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.”

“May I escort you then, Lady Blakeney?” said Lord Tony.

“Nay! I would rather go in alone,” she replied a trifle impatiently. “I beg of you not to heed my whim, and to await my return, there, where the music is at its merriest.”

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.

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.

“For the starving poor of Paris,” 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.

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.

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.

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.

She drew nearer to have a better look, and the yokels who had lingered behind, paused, wondering if she would make any remark.

“Her ladyship was born in France,” murmured one of the men, close to her, “she would know if the thing really looks like that.”

“She do seem interested,” quoth another in a whisper.

“Lud love us all!” said a buxom wench, who was clinging to the arm of a nervous-looking youth, “I believe they’re coming for more money.”

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.

Marguerite thought that the face seemed familiar to her, and she also noticed that the woman carried a large embroidered reticule in her bemittened hand.

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 meagerness of the entertainment, and they dreaded being lured to further extravagance.

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.

“For the poor of Paris, Madame,” said the latter mechanically, holding out her reticule.

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.

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,