The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy (book recommendations TXT) 📗

When the two young men were alone, my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to me.”

In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers?⁠ ⁠… Had Armand been imprudent?⁠ ⁠… The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily and lightly.

“Faith! and your impudence passes belief,” she said merrily. “Robbery and violence!⁠—in England!⁠—in a crowded inn! Your men might have been caught in the act!”

“What if they had? They are children of France, and have been trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have experience.”

“Well? And those papers?” she asked carelessly.

“Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of certain names⁠ ⁠… certain movements⁠ ⁠… enough, I think, to thwart their projected coup for the moment, it would only be for the moment, and still leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“La! my friend,” she said, with the same assumed flippancy of manner, “then you are where you were before, aren’t you? and you can let me enjoy the last strophe of the aria. Faith!” she added, ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yawn, “had you not spoken about my brother⁠ ⁠…”

“I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just.”

“Well? And?”

“That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be prepared for it, to have all her wits about her⁠—those wits which had been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods.

That letter of Armand’s⁠—foolish, imprudent Armand⁠—was in Chauvelin’s hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before.

“La, man!” she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full and squarely in the face, “did I not say it was some imaginary plot.⁠ ⁠… Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel!⁠ ⁠… Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises!⁠ ⁠… Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination!”

“Let me make my point clear, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, with the same unruffled calm, “I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon.”

Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realise what had best be done.

In the house Storace had finished the aria, and was even now bowing in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.

“Chauvelin,” said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all along, “Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another. It seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Now, tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn’t that so?”

“France’s most bitter enemy, citoyenne⁠ ⁠… all the more dangerous, as he works in the dark.”

“All the more noble, you mean.⁠ ⁠… Well!⁠—and you would now force me to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand’s safety?⁠—Is that it?”

“Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady,” protested Chauvelin, urbanely. “There can be no question of force, and the service which I would ask of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking name of spying.”

“At any rate, that is what it is called over here,” she said drily. “That is your intention, is it not?”

“My intention is, that you yourself win the free pardon for Armand St. Just by doing me a small service.”

“What is it?”

“Only watch for me tonight, Citoyenne St. Just,” he said eagerly. “Listen: among the papers which were found about the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!” he added, taking a tiny scrap of paper from his pocketbook and handing it to her.

It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two young men had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they were attacked by Chauvelin’s minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a distorted, evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud⁠—

“ ‘Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly necessary. You have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be at G.’s ball.’ ”

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand.”

“There is a device here in the corner, a small red flower⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes.”

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said eagerly, “and G.’s ball means Grenville’s ball.⁠ ⁠… He will be at my Lord Grenville’s ball tonight.”

“That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,” concluded Chauvelin, blandly. “Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after