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

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.

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.

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.

“Gentlemen!” said His Royal Highness suddenly, “we are forgetting the ladies. My lord Hastings,” he added, turning to one of the gentlemen who stood close to him, “I pray you to remedy this unpardonable neglect. Men’s quarrels are not fit for ladies’ dainty ears.”

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.

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:

“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!”

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 riveted upon his face.

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 reassure 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.

She smiled and passed out of his sight, preceded by Désirée Candeille, who, escorted by one of the gentlemen, had become singularly silent and subdued.

In the little room now there only remained a few men. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes had taken the precaution of closing the door after the ladies had gone.

Then His Royal Highness turned once more to Monsieur Chauvelin and said with an obvious show of indifference:

“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.”

“La, your Royal Highness,” interposed Sir Percy, “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,” he added, turning once more to Chauvelin, “that in the pocket of that exquisitely cut coat of yours, you have a passport⁠—name in blank perhaps⁠—which you had specially designed for me?”

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 tonight had been prearranged, 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.

“The passport will be forthcoming in due course, sir,” retorted Chauvelin evasively, “when our seconds have arranged all formalities.”

“Seconds be demmed, sir,” rejoined Sir Percy placidly, “you do not propose, I trust, that we travel a whole caravan to France.”

“Time, place and conditions must be settled, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin; “you are too accomplished a cavalier, I feel sure, to wish to arrange such formalities yourself.”

“Nay! neither you nor I, Monsieur⁠ ⁠… er⁠ ⁠… Chauvelin,” quoth Sir Percy blandly, “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?”

“Certainly, Sir Percy.”

“As for seconds? Perish the thought. One second only, I