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

entreat, and that one a lady⁠—the most adorable⁠—the most detestable⁠—the most true⁠—the most fickle amidst all her charming sex.⁠ ⁠… Do you agree, sir?”

“You have not told me her name, Sir Percy?”

“Chance, Monsieur, Chance.⁠ ⁠… With His Royal Highness’ permission let the wilful jade decide.”

“I do not understand.”

“Three throws of the dice, Monsieur.⁠ ⁠… Time⁠ ⁠… Place⁠ ⁠… Conditions, you said⁠—three throws and the winner names them.⁠ ⁠… Do you agree?”

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, and did not quite like to trust to this arbitration of the dice-box.

He turned, quite involuntarily, in appeal to the Prince of Wales and the other gentlemen present.

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.

“Chance, by all means,” quoth His Highness gaily.

“Chance! Chance!” repeated the others eagerly.

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.

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.

Therefore he shrugged his shoulders with well-marked indifference, and said lightly:

“As you please.”

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.

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.

“Place first, Monsieur?” suggested Sir Percy.

“As you will, sir,” assented Chauvelin.

He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him and the two men threw.

“ ’Tis mine, Monsieur,” said Blakeney carelessly, “mine to name the place where shall occur this 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?”

“Oh! the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin coldly, “the whole of France stands at your disposal.”

“Aye! I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such boundless hospitality,” retorted Blakeney imperturbably.

“Do you care for the woods around Paris, sir?”

“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 ⁠… ?”

“Undoubtedly, Sir Percy.”

“Then Boulogne it is⁠ ⁠… the ramparts, an you will, on the south side of the town.”

“As you please,” rejoined Chauvelin drily. “Shall we throw again?”

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.

“ ’Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin,” said Blakeney, after a rapid glance at the dice. “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?”

“The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bell chimes the evening Angelus,” came Chauvelin’s ready reply.

“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?⁠ ⁠… Methought the Angelus was forbidden to be rung.”

“Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy,” retorted Chauvelin drily, “and I’ll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung that night.”

“At what hour is that, sir?”

“One hour after sundown.”

“But why four days after this? Why not two or three?”

“I might have asked, why the southern ramparts, Sir Percy; why not the western? I chose the fourth day⁠—does it not suit you?” asked Chauvelin ironically.

“Suit me! Why, sir, nothing could suit me better,” rejoined Blakeney with his pleasant laugh. “Zounds! but I call it marvellous⁠ ⁠… demmed marvellous⁠ ⁠… I wonder now,” he added blandly, “what made you think of the Angelus?”

Everyone laughed at this, a little irrelevantly perhaps.

“Ah!” continued Blakeney gaily, “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 ⁠…”

“Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight, Sir Percy?” said Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his antagonist’s gibes, and trying to disguise his irritation