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

She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his very voice shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making superhuman efforts to keep in check.

“Aye! the madness of my pride!” she said sadly. “Hardly had I gone, already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered! wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which you have never laid aside until⁠ ⁠… until now.”

She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted against his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in her voice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully.

“Nay, Madame, it is no mask,” he said icily; “I swore to you⁠ ⁠… once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything⁠ ⁠… it has served its purpose.”

But now she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back into her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man who loved her, would help her bear the burden.

“Sir Percy,” she said impulsively, “Heaven knows you have been at pains to make the task, which I had set to myself, difficult to accomplish. You spoke of my mood just now; well! we will call it that, if you will. I wished to speak to you⁠ ⁠… because⁠ ⁠… because I was in trouble⁠ ⁠… and had need⁠ ⁠… of your sympathy.”

“It is yours to command, Madame.”

“How cold you are!” she sighed. “Faith! I can scarce believe that but a few months ago one tear in my eye had set you well-nigh crazy. Now I come to you⁠ ⁠… with a half-broken heart⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠…”

“I pray you, Madame,” he said, whilst his voice shook almost as much as hers, “in what way can I serve you?”

“Percy!⁠—Armand is in deadly danger. A letter of his⁠ ⁠… rash, impetuous, as were all his actions, and written to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, has fallen into the hands of a fanatic. Armand is hopelessly compromised⁠ ⁠… tomorrow, perhaps he will be arrested⁠ ⁠… after that the guillotine⁠ ⁠… unless⁠ ⁠… oh! it is horrible!”⁠ ⁠… she said, with a sudden wail of anguish, as all the events of the past night came rushing back to her mind, “horrible!⁠ ⁠… and you do not understand⁠ ⁠… you cannot⁠ ⁠… and I have no one to whom I can turn⁠ ⁠… for help⁠ ⁠… or even for sympathy⁠ ⁠…”

Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the awful uncertainty of Armand’s fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready to fall, and leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.

At first mention of Armand St. Just’s name and of the peril in which he stood, Sir Percy’s face had become a shade more pale; and the look of determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously his face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in his eyes.

“And so,” he said with bitter sarcasm, “the murderous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it?⁠ ⁠… Begad, Madame,” he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically, “will you dry your tears?⁠ ⁠… I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I⁠ ⁠…”

Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil with his very life, his very heart’s blood.⁠ ⁠… But pride had the better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently⁠—

“Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the honour to serve you?”

She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite’s fingers, this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold as marble.

“Can you do aught for Armand?” she said sweetly and simply. “You have so much influence at court⁠ ⁠… so many friends⁠ ⁠…”

“Nay, Madame, should you not seek the influence of your French friend, M. Chauvelin? His extends, if I mistake not, even as far as the Republican Government of France.”

“I cannot ask him, Percy.⁠ ⁠… Oh! I wish I dared to tell you⁠ ⁠… but⁠ ⁠… but⁠ ⁠… he has put a price on my brother’s head, which⁠ ⁠…”

She would have given worlds if she had felt the courage then to tell him everything⁠ ⁠… all she had done that night⁠—how she had suffered and how her hand had been forced. But she dared not give way to that impulse⁠ ⁠… not now, when she was just beginning to feel that he still loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back. She dared not make another confession to him. After all, he might not understand; he might not sympathise with her struggles and temptation. His love still dormant might sleep the sleep of death.

Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was one of intense longing⁠—a veritable prayer for that confidence, which her foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed, and said with marked coldness⁠—

“Faith,