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

would accept it, so long as the man she loved were given one single chance of escape.

Therefore she turned to her arch-enemy in a more conciliatory spirit now, and even endeavoured to match her own diplomatic cunning against his.

“I do not understand,” she said tentatively. “How can my actions influence those of my husband? I am a prisoner in Boulogne: he probably is not aware of that fact yet and⁠ ⁠…”

“Sir Percy Blakeney may be in Boulogne at any moment now,” he interrupted quietly. “An I mistake not, few places can offer such great attractions to that peerless gentleman of fashion than doth this humble provincial town of France just at this present.⁠ ⁠… Hath it not the honour of harbouring Lady Blakeney within its gates?⁠ ⁠… And your ladyship may indeed believe me when I say that the day that Sir Percy lands in our hospitable port, two hundred pairs of eyes will be fixed upon him, lest he should wish to quit it again.”

“And if there were two thousand, sir,” she said impulsively, “they would not stop his coming or going as he pleased.”

“Nay, fair lady,” he said, with a smile, “are you then endowing Sir Percy Blakeney with the attributes which, as popular fancy has it, belong exclusively to that mysterious English hero, the Scarlet Pimpernel?”

“A truce to your diplomacy, Monsieur Chauvelin,” she retorted, goaded by his sarcasm, “why should we try to fence with one another? What was the object of your journey to England? of the farce which you enacted in my house, with the help of the woman Candeille? of that duel and that challenge, save that you desired to entice Sir Percy Blakeney to France?”

“And also his charming wife,” he added with an ironical bow.

She bit her lip, and made no comment.

“Shall we say that I succeeded admirably?” he continued, speaking with persistent urbanity and calm, “and that I have strong cause to hope that the elusive Pimpernel will soon be a guest on our friendly shores?⁠ ⁠… There! you see I too have laid down the foils.⁠ ⁠… As you say, why should we fence? Your ladyship is now in Boulogne, soon Sir Percy will come to try and take you away from us, but believe me, fair lady, that it would take more than the ingenuity and the daring of the Scarlet Pimpernel magnified a thousandfold to get him back to England again⁠ ⁠… unless⁠ ⁠…”

“Unless?⁠ ⁠…”

Marguerite held her breath. She felt now as if the whole universe must stand still during the next supreme moment, until she had heard what Chauvelin’s next words would be.

There was to be an “unless” then? An “either-or” more terrible no doubt than the one he had formulated before her just a year ago.

Chauvelin, she knew, was past master in the art of putting a knife at his victim’s throat and of giving it just the necessary twist with his cruel and relentless “unless”!

But she felt quite calm, because her purpose was resolute. There is no doubt that during this agonizing moment of suspense she was absolutely firm in her determination to accept any and every condition which Chauvelin would put before her as the price of her husband’s safety. After all, these conditions, since he placed them before her, could resolve themselves into questions of her own life against her husband’s.

With that unreasoning impulse which was one of her most salient characteristics, she never paused to think that, to Chauvelin, her own life or death were only the means to the great end which he had in view: the complete annihilation of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

That end could only be reached by Percy Blakeney’s death⁠—not by her own.

Even now as she was watching him with eyes glowing and lips tightly closed, lest a cry of impatient agony should escape her throat, he⁠—like a snail that has shown its slimy horns too soon, and is not ready to face the enemy as yet⁠—seemed suddenly to withdraw within his former shell of careless suavity. The earnestness of his tone vanished, giving place to light and easy conversation, just as if he were discussing social topics with a woman of fashion in a Paris drawing-room.

“Nay!” he said pleasantly, “is not your ladyship taking this matter in too serious a spirit? Of a truth you repeated my innocent word ‘unless’ even as if I were putting knife at your dainty throat. Yet I meant naught that need disturb you yet. Have I not said that I am your friend? Let me try and prove it to you.”

“You will find that a difficult task, Monsieur,” she said drily.

“Difficult tasks always have had a great fascination for your humble servant. May I try?”

“Certainly.”

“Shall we then touch at the root of this delicate matter? Your ladyship, so I understand, is at this moment under the impression that I desire to encompass⁠—shall I say?⁠—the death of an English gentleman for whom, believe me, I have the greatest respect. That is so, is it not?”

“What is so, M. Chauvelin?” she asked almost stupidly, for truly she had not even begun to grasp his meaning. “I do not understand.”

“You think that I am at this moment taking measures for sending the Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine? Eh?”

“I do.”

“Never was so great an error committed by a clever woman. Your ladyship must believe me when I say that the guillotine is the very last place in the world where I would wish to see that enigmatic and elusive personage.”

“Are you trying to fool me, M. Chauvelin? If so, for what purpose? And why do you lie to me like that?”

“On my honour, ’tis the truth. The death of Sir Percy Blakeney⁠—I may call him that, may I not?⁠—would ill suit the purpose which I have in view.”

“What purpose? You must pardon me, Monsieur Chauvelin,” she added with a quick, impatient sigh, “but of a truth I am getting confused, and my wits must have become dull in the past few days. I pray to you to add to your many protestations of friendship a