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

Marguerite studied the portrait, for it interested her: after that she turned and looked again at the ponderous desk. It was covered with a mass of papers, all neatly tied and docketed, which looked like accounts and receipts arrayed with perfect method. It had never before struck Marguerite⁠—nor had she, alas! found it worth while to inquire⁠—as to how Sir Percy, whom all the world had credited with a total lack of brains, administered the vast fortune which his father had left him.

Since she had entered this neat, orderly room, she had been taken so much by surprise, that this obvious proof of her husband’s strong business capacities did not cause her more than a passing thought of wonder. But it also strengthened her in the now certain knowledge that, with his worldly inanities, his foppish ways, and foolish talk, he was not only wearing a mask, but was playing a deliberate and studied part.

Marguerite wondered again. Why should he take all this trouble? Why should he⁠—who was obviously a serious, earnest man⁠—wish to appear before his fellow-men as an empty-headed nincompoop?

He may have wished to hide his love for a wife who held him in contempt⁠ ⁠… but surely such an object could have been gained at less sacrifice, and with far less trouble than constant incessant acting of an unnatural part.

She looked round her quite aimlessly now: she was horribly puzzled, and a nameless dread, before all this strange, unaccountable mystery, had begun to seize upon her. She felt cold and uncomfortable suddenly in this severe and dark room. There were no pictures on the wall, save the fine Boucher portrait, only a couple of maps, both of parts of France, one of the North coast and the other of the environs of Paris. What did Sir Percy want with those, she wondered.

Her head began to ache, she turned away from this strange Blue Beard’s chamber, which she had entered, and which she did not understand. She did not wish Frank to find her here, and with a fast look round, she once more turned to the door. As she did so, her foot knocked against a small object, which had apparently been lying close to the desk, on the carpet, and which now went rolling, right across the room.

She stooped to pick it up. It was a solid gold ring, with a flat shield, on which was engraved a small device.

Marguerite turned it over in her fingers, and then studied the engraving on the shield. It represented a small star-shaped flower, of a shape she had seen so distinctly twice before: once at the opera, and once at Lord Grenville’s ball.

At what particular moment the strange doubt first crept into Marguerite’s mind, she could not herself have said. With the ring tightly clutched in her hand, she had run out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone with the flowers, and the river and the birds, she could look again at the ring, and study that device more closely.

Stupidly, senselessly, now, sitting beneath the shade of an overhanging sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold shield, with the star-shaped little flower engraved upon it.

Bah! It was ridiculous! she was dreaming! her nerves were overwrought, and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences. Had not everybody about town recently made a point of affecting the device of that mysterious and heroic Scarlet Pimpernel?

Did not she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns? set in gems and enamel in her hair? What was there strange in the fact that Sir Percy should have chosen to use the device as a seal-ring? He might easily have done that⁠ ⁠… yes⁠ ⁠… quite easily⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… besides⁠ ⁠… what connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband, with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the daring plotter who rescued French victims from beneath the very eyes of the leaders of a bloodthirsty revolution?

Her thoughts were in a whirl⁠—her mind a blank⁠ ⁠… She did not see anything that was going on around her, and was quite startled when a fresh young voice called to her across the garden.

“Chérie!⁠—chérie! where are you?” and little Suzanne, fresh as a rosebud, with eyes dancing with glee, and brown curls fluttering in the soft morning breeze, came running across the lawn.

“They told me you were in the garden,” she went on prattling merrily, and throwing herself with a pretty, girlish impulse into Marguerite’s arms, “so I ran out to give you a surprise. You did not expect me quite so soon, did you, my darling little Margot chérie?”

Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring in the folds of her kerchief, tried to respond gaily and unconcernedly to the young girl’s impulsiveness.

“Indeed, sweet one,” she said with a smile, “it is delightful to have you all to myself, and for a nice whole long day.⁠ ⁠… You won’t be bored?”

“Oh! bored! Margot, how can you say such a wicked thing. Why! when we were in the dear old convent together, we were always happy when we were allowed to be alone together.”

“And to talk secrets.”

The two young girls had linked their arms in one another’s and began wandering round the garden.

“Oh! how lovely your home is, Margot, darling,” said little Suzanne, enthusiastically, “and how happy you must be!”

“Aye, indeed! I ought to be happy⁠—oughtn’t I, sweet one?” said Marguerite, with a wistful little sigh.

“How sadly you say it, chérie.⁠ ⁠… Ah, well, I suppose now that you are a married woman you won’t care to talk secrets with me any longer. Oh! what lots and lots of secrets we used to have at school! Do you remember?⁠—some we did not even confide to Sister Theresa of the Holy Angels⁠—though she was such a dear.”

“And now you have one all-important secret, eh, little one?” said Marguerite,