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

of highborn English gentlemen, among whom rumour asserted was His Royal Highness himself.

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle blue eyes, which were looking so tenderly and longingly after little Suzanne, who was being led away from the pleasant tête-à-tête by her stern mother. Marguerite watched him across the room, as he finally turned away with a sigh, and seemed to stand, aimless and lonely, now that Suzanne’s dainty little figure had disappeared in the crowd.

She watched him as he strolled towards the doorway, which led to a small boudoir beyond, then paused and leaned against the framework of it, looking still anxiously all round him.

Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her present attentive cavalier, and she skirted the fashionable crowd, drawing nearer to the doorway, against which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get closer to him, she could not have said: perhaps she was impelled by an all-powerful fatality, which so often seems to rule the destinies of men.

Suddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to stand still, her eyes, large and excited, flashed for a moment towards that doorway, then as quickly were turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was still in the same listless position by the door, but Marguerite had distinctly seen that Lord Hastings⁠—a young buck, a friend of her husband’s and one of the Prince’s set⁠—had, as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something into his hand.

For one moment longer⁠—oh! it was the merest flash⁠—Marguerite paused: the next she had, with admirably played unconcern, resumed her walk across the room⁠—but this time more quickly towards that doorway whence Sir Andrew had now disappeared.

All this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught sight of Sir Andrew leaning against the doorway, until she followed him into the little boudoir beyond, had occurred in less than a minute. Fate is usually swift when she deals a blow.

Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It was Marguerite St. Just who was there only: Marguerite St. Just who had passed her childhood, her early youth, in the protecting arms of her brother Armand. She had forgotten everything else⁠—her rank, her dignity, her secret enthusiasms⁠—everything save that Armand stood in peril of his life, and that there, not twenty feet away from her, in the small boudoir which was quite deserted, in the very hands of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, might be the talisman which would save her brother’s life.

Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between the moment when Lord Hastings slipped the mysterious “something” into Sir Andrew’s hand, and the one when she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir Andrew was standing with his back to her and close to a table upon which stood a massive silver candelabra. A slip of paper was in his hand, and he was in the very act of perusing its contents.

Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the slightest sound upon the heavy carpet, not daring to breathe until she had accomplished her purpose, Marguerite slipped close behind him.⁠ ⁠… At that moment he looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan, passed her hand across her forehead, and murmured faintly:

“The heat in the room was terrible⁠ ⁠… I felt so faint⁠ ⁠… Ah!⁠ ⁠…”

She tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir Andrew, quickly recovering himself, and crumpling in his hand the tiny note he had been reading, was only apparently, just in time to support her.

“You are ill, Lady Blakeney?” he asked with much concern, “Let me⁠ ⁠…”

“No, no, nothing⁠—” she interrupted quickly. “A chair⁠—quick.”

She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing back her head, closed her eyes.

“There!” she murmured, still faintly; “the giddiness is passing off.⁠ ⁠… Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I assure you I already feel better.”

At moments like these there is no doubt⁠—and psychologists actually assert it⁠—that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing to do with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not that we hear or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there with her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was immediately behind her, and on her right was the table with the five-armed candelabra upon it. Before her mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand’s face. Armand, whose life was in the most imminent danger, and who seemed to be looking at her from a background upon which were dimly painted the seething crowd of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of Public Safety, with Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, demanding Armand’s life in the name of the people of France, and the lurid guillotine with its stained knife waiting for another victim⁠ ⁠… Armand!⁠ ⁠…

For one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir. Beyond, from the brilliant ballroom, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the frou-frou of rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry crowd, came as a strange, weird accompaniment to the drama which was being enacted here.

Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that that extra sense became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not see, for her two eyes were closed, she could not hear, for the noise from the ballroom drowned the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of paper; nevertheless she knew⁠—as if she had both seen and heard⁠—that Sir Andrew was even now holding the paper to the flame of one of the candles.

At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened her eyes, raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the burning scrap of paper from the young man’s hand. Then she blew out the flame, and held the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.

“How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew,” she said gaily, “surely ’twas your grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign remedy against giddiness.”

She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly between her jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save her brother