The Scarlet Pimpernel Read online

  They all looked a merry, even a happy party, as they sat round thetable; Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst, two typicalgood-looking, well-born and well-bred Englishmen of that year of grace1792, and the aristocratic French comtesse with her two children, whohad just escaped from such dire perils, and found a safe retreat at laston the shores of protecting England.

  In the corner the two strangers had apparently finished their game; oneof them arose, and standing with his back to the merry company at thetable, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple caped coat.As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was busylaughing and chatting, and he murmured the words "All safe!": hiscompanion then, with the alertness borne of long practice, slipped on tohis knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the oakbench. The stranger then, with a loud "Good-night," quietly walked outof the coffee-room.

  Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silentmanoeuvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of thecoffee-room behind him, they all instinctively sighed a sigh of relief.

  "Alone, at last!" said Lord Antony, jovially.

  Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with thegraceful affection peculiar to the times, he raised it aloft, and saidin broken English,--

  "To His Majesty George Three of England. God bless him for hishospitality to us all, poor exiles from France."

  "His Majesty the King!" echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drankloyally to the toast.

  "To His Majesty King Louis of France," added Sir Andrew, with solemnity."May God protect him, and give him victory over his enemies."

  Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of theunfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed tocast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance.

  "And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Antony, merrily."May we welcome him in England before many days are over."

  "Ah, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand sheconveyed her glass to her lips, "I scarcely dare to hope."

  But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next fewmoments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally handed roundthe plates and everyone began to eat.

  "Faith, Madame!" said Lord Antony, after a while, "mine was no idletoast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the Vicomtesafely in England now, surely you must feel reasurred as to the fate ofMonsieur le Comte."

  "Ah, Monsieur," replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, "I trust inGod--I can but pray--and hope . . ."

  "Aye, Madame!" here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, "trust in God by allmeans, but believe also a little in your English friends, who have swornto bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as they have broughtyou to-day."

  "Indeed, indeed, Monsieur," she replied, "I have the fullest confidencein you and your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread throughoutthe whole of France. The way some of my own friends have escaped fromthe clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was nothing short of amiracle--and all done by you and your friends--"

  "We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . ."

  "But my husband, Monsieur," said the Comtesse, whilst unshed tearsseemed to veil her voice, "he is in such deadly peril--I would neverhave left him, only . . . there were my children . . . I was torn betweenmy duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without me . . . and youand your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would be safe.But, oh! now that I am here--amongst you all--in this beautiful, freeEngland--I think of him, flying for his life, hunted like a poor beast. . . in such peril . . . Ah! I should not have left him . . . I should nothave left him! . . ."

  The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue, sorrow and emotionhad overmastered her rigid, aristocratic bearing. She was crying gentlyto herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away hertears.

  Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the Comtessewhilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply forher; their very silence testified to that--but in every century, andever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always feltsomewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And sothe two young men said nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hidetheir feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.

  "As for me, Monsieur," said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked through awealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, "I trust you absolutely, andI KNOW that you will bring my dear father safely to England, just as youbrought us to-day."

  This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief,that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes, and to bring asmile upon everybody's lips.

  "Nay! You shame me, Mademoiselle," replied Sir Andrew; "though my lifeis at your service, I have been but a humble tool in the hands of ourgreat leader, who organised and effected your escape."

  He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence that Suzanne's eyesfastened upon him in undisguised wonder.

  "Your leader, Monsieur?" said the Comtesse, eagerly. "Ah! of course,you must have a leader. And I did not think of that before! But tell mewhere is he? I must go to him at once, and I and my children must throwourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he has done for us."

  "Alas, Madame!" said Lord Antony, "that is impossible."

  "Impossible?--Why?"

  "Because the Scarlet Pimpernel works in the dark, and his identity isonly known under the solemn oath of secrecy to his immediate followers."

  "The Scarlet Pimpernel?" said Suzanne, with a merry laugh. "Why! what adroll name! What is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?"

  She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young man's facehad become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm;hero-worship, love, admiration for his leader seemed literally to glowupon his face. "The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle," he said at last"is the name of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also thename chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all theworld, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task hehas set himself to do."

  "Ah, yes," here interposed the young Vicomte, "I have heard speak ofthis Scarlet Pimpernel. A little flower--red?--yes! They say inParis that every time a royalist escapes to England that devil,Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, receives a paper with thatlittle flower designated in red upon it. . . . Yes?"

  "Yes, that is so," assented Lord Antony.

  "Then he will have received one such paper to-day?"

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Oh! I wonder what he will say!" said Suzanne, merrily. "I have heardthat the picture of that little red flower is the only thing thatfrightens him."

  "Faith, then," said Sir Andrew, "he will have many more opportunities ofstudying the shape of that small scarlet flower."

  "Ah, monsieur," sighed the Comtesse, "it all sounds like a romance, andI cannot understand it all."

  "Why should you try, Madame?"

  "But, tell me, why should your leader--why should you all--spend yourmoney and risk your lives--for it is your lives you risk, Messieurs,when you set foot in France--and all for us French men and women, whoare nothing to you?"

  "Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport," asserted Lord Antony, with hisjovial, loud and pleasant voice; "we are a nation of sportsmen, youknow, and just now it is the fashion to pull the hare from between theteeth of the hound."

  "Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a more noble motive,I am sure for the good work you do."

  "Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . . . as for me, Ivow, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yetencountered.--Hair-breath escapes . . . the devil's own risks!--Tallyho!--and away we go!"

  But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. To her it seemedpreposterous that these young men and their great leader, all of themrich, probably wellborn, and young, should
for no other motive thansport, run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantlydoing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in France, would beno safeguard to them. Anyone found harbouring or assisting suspectedroyalists would be ruthlessly condemned and summarily executed, whateverhis nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen had, to herown knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of theRevolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched awaycondemned victims, almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With ashudder, she recalled the events of the last few days, her escape fromParis with her two children, all three of them hidden beneath the hoodof a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, notdaring to breathe, whilst the mob howled, "A la lanterne les aristos!"at the awful West Barricade.

  It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband hadunderstood that they had been placed on the list of "suspected persons,"which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days--ofhours, perhaps.

  Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed withthe enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; theparting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife's heartin two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; thecovered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horribleevil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!

  The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, thepeace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed hereyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of themob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.

  Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herselfand her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, underthe guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked theirlives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of otherinnocent people.

  And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought thoseof Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that HE at any raterescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through ahigher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.

  "How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?" she asked timidly.

  "Twenty all told, Mademoiselle," he replied, "one to command, andnineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the samecause--to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent."

  "May God protect you all, Messieurs," said the Comtesse, fervently.

  "He had done that so far, Madame."

  "It is wonderful to me, wonderful!--That you should all be so brave, sodevoted to your fellowmen--yet you are English!--and in France treacheryis rife--all in the name of liberty and fraternity."

  "The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us aristocratsthan the men," said the Vicomte, with a sigh.

  "Ah, yes," added the Comtesse, while a look of haughty disdain andintense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes, "There was thatwoman, Marguerite St. Just for instance. She denounced the Marquis deSt. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror."

  "Marguerite St. Just?" said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick andapprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.

  "Marguerite St. Just?--Surely . . ."

  "Yes!" replied the Comtesse, "surely you know her. She was a leadingactress of the Comedie Francaise, and she married an Englishman lately.You must know her--"

  "Know her?" said Lord Antony. "Know Lady Blakeney--the most fashionablewoman in London--the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, weall know Lady Blakeney."

  "She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris," interposedSuzanne, "and we came over to England together to learn your language.I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever didanything so wicked."

  "It certainly seems incredible," said Sir Andrew. "You say that sheactually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done sucha thing? Surely there must be some mistake--"

  "No mistake is possible, Monsieur," rejoined the Comtesse, coldly."Marguerite St. Just's brother is a noted republican. There was sometalk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr.The St. Justs are quite plebeian, and the republican government employsmany spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not heardthis story?"

  "Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England noone would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a verywealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Princeof Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society inLondon."

  "That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quietlife in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautifulcountry, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just."

  The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry littlecompany gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; SirAndrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encasedin the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid andunbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he lookedextremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensivelytowards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.

  "At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?" he contrivedto whisper unobserved, to mine host.

  "Any moment, my lord," whispered Jellyband in reply.

  Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach;louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable,then the rattle of horses' hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and thenext moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and rushedin excitedly.

  "Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady," he shouted at the top of his voice,"they're just arriving."

  And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs upon thestones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had haltedoutside the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest."

  CHAPTER V MARGUERITE