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

with the tempering, Monsieur,” quoth Blakeney, “the blades were fashioned at Toledo just two hundred years ago.”

“Ah! here I see an inscription,” said Chauvelin, holding the sword close to his eyes, the better to see the minute letters engraved in the steel.

“The name of the original owner. I myself bought them⁠—when I travelled in Italy⁠—from one of his descendants.”

“Lorenzo Giovanni Cenci,” said Chauvelin, spelling the Italian names quite slowly.

“The greatest blackguard that ever trod this earth. You, no doubt, Monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine, theft, murder, nothing came amiss to Signor Lorenzo⁠ ⁠… neither the deadly drug in the cup nor the poisoned dagger.”

He had spoken lightly, carelessly, with that same tone of easy banter which he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and the same drawly manner which was habitual to him. But at these last words of his, Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly replaced the sword⁠—which he had been examining⁠—upon the table.

He threw a quick, suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning back against the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat, was idly toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one which the ex-ambassador had so suddenly put down.

“Well, Monsieur,” quoth Sir Percy after a slight pause, and meeting with a swift glance of lazy irony his opponent’s fixed gaze. “Are you satisfied with the weapons? Which of the two shall be yours, and which mine?”

“Of a truth, Sir Percy⁠ ⁠…” murmured Chauvelin, still hesitating.

“Nay, Monsieur,” interrupted Blakeney with pleasant bonhomie, “I know what you would say⁠ ⁠… of a truth, there is no choice between this pair of perfect twins: one is as exquisite as the other.⁠ ⁠… And yet you must take one and I the other⁠ ⁠… this or that, whichever you prefer.⁠ ⁠… You shall take it home with you tonight and practise thrusting at a haystack or at a bobbin, as you please⁠ ⁠… The sword is yours to command until you have used it against my unworthy person⁠ ⁠… yours until you bring it out four days hence⁠—on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, when the cathedral bells chime the evening Angelus; then you shall cross it against its faithless twin.⁠ ⁠… There, Monsieur⁠—they are of equal length⁠ ⁠… of equal strength and temper⁠ ⁠… a perfect pair⁠ ⁠… Yet I pray you choose.”

He took up both the swords in his hands and carefully balancing them by the extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards, he held them out towards the Frenchman. Chauvelin’s eyes were fixed upon him, and he from his towering height was looking down at the little sable-clad figure before him.

The Terrorist seemed uncertain what to do. Though he was one of those men whom by the force of their intellect, the strength of their enthusiasm, the power of their cruelty, had built a new anarchical France, had overturned a throne and murdered a king, yet now, face to face with this affected fop, this lazy and debonnair adventurer, he hesitated⁠—trying in vain to read what was going on behind that low, smooth forehead or within the depth of those lazy, blue eyes.

He would have given several years of his life at this moment for one short glimpse into the innermost brain cells of this daring mind, to see the man start, quiver but for the fraction of a second, betray himself by a tremor of the eyelid. What counterplan was lurking in Percy Blakeney’s head, as he offered to his opponent the two swords which had once belonged to Lorenzo Cenci?

Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger in the fastidious mind of this accomplished gentleman?

Surely not!

Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears. It seemed madness even to think of Italian poisons, of the Cencis or the Borgias in the midst of this brilliantly lighted English drawing-room.

But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words and with looks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe and to read. He forced himself once more to careless laughter and nonchalance of manner and schooled his lips to smile up with gentle irony at the good-humoured face of his arch-enemy.

He tapped one of the swords with his long pointed finger.

“Is this the one you choose, sir?” asked Blakeney.

“Nay! which do you advise, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin lightly. “Which of those two blades think you is most like to hold after two hundred years the poison of the Cenci?”

But Blakeney neither started nor winced. He broke into a laugh, his own usual pleasant laugh, half shy and somewhat inane, then said in tones of lively astonishment:

“Zounds! sir, but you are full of surprises.⁠ ⁠… Faith! I never would have thought of that.⁠ ⁠… Marvellous, I call it⁠ ⁠… demmed marvellous.⁠ ⁠… What say you, gentlemen?⁠ ⁠… Your Royal Highness, what think you?⁠ ⁠… Is not my engaging friend here of a most original turn of mind.⁠ ⁠… Will you have this sword or that, Monsieur?⁠ ⁠… Nay, I must insist⁠—else we shall weary our friends if we hesitate too long.⁠ ⁠… This one then, sir, since you have chosen it,” he continued, as Chauvelin finally took one of the swords in his hand. “And now for a bowl of punch.⁠ ⁠… Nay, Monsieur, ’twas demmed smart what you said just now⁠ ⁠… I must insist on your joining us in a bowl.⁠ ⁠… Such wit as yours, Monsieur, must need whetting at times.⁠ ⁠… I pray you repeat that same sally again⁠ ⁠…”

Then finally turning to the Prince and to his friends, he added:

“And after that bowl, gentlemen, shall we rejoin the ladies?”

XIII Reflections

It seemed indeed as if the incident were finally closed, the chief actors in the drama having deliberately vacated the centre of the stage.

The little crowd which had stood in a compact mass round the table, began to break up into sundry small groups: laughter and desultory talk, checked for a moment by that oppressive sense of unknown danger, which had weighed on the spirits of those present, once more became general. Blakeney’s lightheartedness had put everyone into good-humour;