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

“The choice of weapons you mean,” here interposed His Royal Highness, “but I thought that swords had already been decided on.”

“Quite so, your Highness,” assented Blakeney, “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.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy?”

“Why not, Monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole, against the black of the clerical coat, which I understand you sometime 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.”

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.

“The conditions then, Sir Percy,” said Chauvelin, without seeming to notice the taunt conveyed in Blakeney’s last words. “Shall we throw again?”

“After you, sir,” acquiesced Sir Percy.

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.

The ruling passion strong in death!

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 so ready to walk.

That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?

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.

His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney’s pleasant voice.

“Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin,” he said, “I fear me your luck has deserted you. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more.”

“Then it is for you, Sir Percy,” rejoined the Frenchman, “to name the conditions under which we are to fight.”

“Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur?” quoth Sir Percy lightly. “By my faith! I’ll not plague you with formalities.⁠ ⁠… We’ll fight with our coats on if it be cold, in our shirtsleeves 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 my 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,” he added, turning to his friend, “the pair of swords which lie across the top of my desk at this moment.⁠ ⁠…

“We’ll not ask a menial to fetch them, eh, Monsieur?” he continued gaily, as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes at a sign from him had quickly left the room. “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 fine 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.”

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.

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.

“What think you of these weapons, Monsieur?” asked Blakeney, who was carelessly leaning against the back of a chair.

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.

“A little old-fashioned in style and make, Sir Percy,” he said, closely imitating his opponent’s easy demeanour, “a trifle heavier, perhaps, than we in France have been accustomed to lately, but, nevertheless, a beautifully tempered piece of steel.”

“Of a truth there’s not much the matter