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

very essence of her own soul, for others! for others! always for others!

And she! she! Marguerite, his wife, was powerless to hold him back! powerless to keep him beside her, when that mad fit of passion seized him to go on one of those wild quests, wherefrom she always feared he could not return alive: and this, although she might use every noble artifice, every tender wile of which a loving and beautiful wife is capable.

At times like those her own proud heart was filled with hatred and with envy towards everything that took him away from her: and tonight all these passionate feelings which she felt were quite unworthy of her and of him seemed to surge within her soul more tumultuously than ever. She was longing to throw herself in his arms, to pour out into his loving ear all that she suffered, in fear and anxiety, and to make one more appeal to his tenderness and to that passion which had so often made him forget the world at her feet.

And so instinctively she walked along the terrace towards that more secluded part of the garden just above the river bank, where she had so oft wandered hand in hand with him, in the honeymoon of their love. There great clumps of old-fashioned cabbage roses grew in untidy splendour, and belated lilies sent intoxicating odours into the air, whilst the heavy masses of Egyptian and Michaelmas daisies looked like ghostly constellations in the gloom.

She thought Percy must soon be coming this way. Though it was so late, she knew that he would not go to bed. After the events of the night, his ruling passion, strong in death, would be holding him in its thrall.

She too felt wide awake and unconscious of fatigue; when she reached the secluded path beside the river, she peered eagerly up and down, and listened for a sound.

Presently it seemed to her that above the gentle clapper of the waters she could hear a rustle and the scrunching of the fine gravel under carefully measured footsteps. She waited a while. The footsteps seemed to draw nearer, and soon, although the starlit night was very dark, she perceived a cloaked and hooded figure approaching cautiously toward her.

“Who goes there?” she called suddenly.

The figure paused: then came rapidly forward, and a voice said timidly:

“Ah! Lady Blakeney!”

“Who are you?” asked Marguerite peremptorily.

“It is I⁠ ⁠… Désirée Candeille,” replied the midnight prowler.

“Demoiselle Candeille!” ejaculated Marguerite, wholly taken by surprise. “What are you doing here? alone? and at this hour?”

“Sh-sh-sh⁠ ⁠…” whispered Candeille eagerly, as she approached quite close to Marguerite and drew her hood still lower over her eyes. “I am all alone⁠ ⁠… I wanted to see someone⁠—you if possible, Lady Blakeney⁠ ⁠… for I could not rest⁠ ⁠… I wanted to know what had happened.”

“What had happened? When? I don’t understand.”

“What happened between Citizen Chauvelin and your husband?” asked Candeille.

“What is that to you?” replied Marguerite haughtily.

“I pray you do not misunderstand me⁠ ⁠…” pleaded Candeille eagerly. “I know my presence in your house⁠ ⁠… the quarrel which I provoked must have filled your heart with hatred and suspicion towards me⁠ ⁠… but oh! how can I persuade you?⁠ ⁠… I acted unwillingly⁠ ⁠… will you not believe me?⁠ ⁠… I was that man’s tool⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… Oh God!” she added with sudden, wild vehemence, “if only you could know what tyranny that accursed government of France exercises over poor helpless women or men who happen to have fallen within reach of its relentless clutches⁠ ⁠…”

Her voice broke down in a sob. Marguerite hardly knew what to say or think. She had always mistrusted this woman with her theatrical ways and stagy airs, from the very first moment she saw her in the tent on the green: and she did not wish to run counter against her instinct, in anything pertaining to the present crisis. And yet in spite of her mistrust the actress’ vehement words found an echo in the depths of her own heart. How well she knew that tyranny of which Candeille spoke with such bitterness! Had she not suffered from it, endured terrible sorrow and humiliation, when under the ban of that same appalling tyranny she had betrayed the identity⁠—then unknown to her⁠—of the Scarlet Pimpernel?

Therefore when Candeille paused after those last excited words, she said with more gentleness than she had shown hitherto, though still quite coldly:

“But you have not yet told me why you came back here tonight? If Citizen Chauvelin was your taskmaster, then you must know all that has occurred.”

“I had a vague hope that I might see you.”

“For what purpose?”

“To warn you if I could.”

“I need no warning.”

“Or are too proud to take one.⁠ ⁠… Do you know, Lady Blakeney, that Citizen Chauvelin has a personal hatred against your husband?”

“How do you know that?” asked Marguerite, with her suspicions once more on the qui-vive. She could not understand Candeille’s attitude. This midnight visit, the vehemence of her language, the strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance which she displayed. What did this woman know of Chauvelin’s secret plans? Was she his open ally, or his helpless tool? And was she even now playing a part taught her or commanded her by that prince of intriguers?

Candeille, however, seemed quite unaware of the spirit of antagonism and mistrust which Marguerite took but little pains now to disguise. She clasped her hands together, and her voice shook with the earnestness of her entreaty.

“Oh!” she said eagerly, “have I not seen that look of hatred in Chauvelin’s cruel eyes?⁠ ⁠… He hates your husband, I tell you.⁠ ⁠… Why I know not⁠ ⁠… but he hates him⁠ ⁠… and means that great harm shall come to Sir Percy through this absurd duel.⁠ ⁠… Oh! Lady Blakeney, do not let him go⁠ ⁠… I entreat you, do not let him go!”

But Marguerite proudly drew back a step or two, away from the reach of those hands, stretched out towards her in such vehement appeal.

“You are overwrought, Mademoiselle,” she said coldly. “Believe me, I have no need either of your entreaties or