CHAPTER XXIV. THE NEWS
The grey January day was falling, drowsy, and dull into the arms ofnight.
Marguerite, sitting in the dusk beside the fire in her small boudoir,shivered a little as she drew her scarf closer round her shoulders.
Edwards, the butler, entered with the lamp. The room looked peculiarlycheery now, with the delicate white panelling of the wall glowing underthe soft kiss of the flickering firelight and the steadier glow of therose-shaded lamp.
"Has the courier not arrived yet, Edwards?" asked Marguerite, fixing theimpassive face of the well-drilled servant with her large purple-rimmedeyes.
"Not yet, m'lady," he replied placidly.
"It is his day, is it not?"
"Yes, m'lady. And the forenoon is his time. But there have been heavyrains, and the roads must be rare muddy. He must have been delayed,m'lady."
"Yes, I suppose so," she said listlessly. "That will do, Edwards. No,don't close the shutters. I'll ring presently."
The man went out of the room as automatically as he had come. He closedthe door behind him, and Marguerite was once more alone.
She picked up the book which she had fingered idly before the light gaveout. She tried once more to fix her attention on this tale of love andadventure written by Mr. Fielding; but she had lost the thread of thestory, and there was a mist between her eyes and the printed pages.
With an impatient gesture she threw down the book and passed her handacross her eyes, then seemed astonished to find that her hand was wet.
She rose and went to the window. The air outside had been singularlymild all day; the thaw was persisting, and a south wind came across theChannel--from France.
Marguerite threw open the casement and sat down on the wide sill,leaning her head against the window-frame, and gazing out into the fastgathering gloom. From far away, at the foot of the gently sloping lawns,the river murmured softly in the night; in the borders to the right andleft a few snowdrops still showed like tiny white specks through thesurrounding darkness. Winter had begun the process of slowly sheddingits mantle, coquetting with Spring, who still lingered in the land ofInfinity. Gradually the shadows drew closer and closer; the reeds andrushes on the river bank were the first to sink into their embrace, thenthe big cedars on the lawn, majestic and defiant, but yielding stillunconquered to the power of night.
The tiny stars of snowdrop blossoms vanished one by one, and at last thecool, grey ribbon of the river surface was wrapped under the mantle ofevening.
Only the south wind lingered on, soughing gently in the drowsy reeds,whispering among the branches of the cedars, and gently stirring thetender corollas of the sleeping snowdrops.
Marguerite seemed to open out her lungs to its breath. It had come allthe way from France, and on its wings had brought something of Percy--amurmur as if he had spoken--a memory that was as intangible as a dream.
She shivered again, though of a truth it was not cold. The courier'sdelay had completely unsettled her nerves. Twice a week he cameespecially from Dover, and always he brought some message, some tokenwhich Percy had contrived to send from Paris. They were like tiny scrapsof dry bread thrown to a starving woman, but they did just help to keepher heart alive--that poor, aching, disappointed heart that so longedfor enduring happiness which it could never get.
The man whom she loved with all her soul, her mind and her body, didnot belong to her; he belonged to suffering humanity over there interror-stricken France, where the cries of the innocent, the persecuted,the wretched called louder to him than she in her love could do.
He had been away three months now, during which time her starving hearthad fed on its memories, and the happiness of a brief visit from him sixweeks ago, when--quite unexpectedly--he had appeared before her... homebetween two desperate adventures that had given life and freedom to anumber of innocent people, and nearly cost him his--and she had lain inhis arms in a swoon of perfect happiness.
But he had gone away again as suddenly as he had come, and for six weeksnow she had lived partly in anticipation of the courier with messagesfrom him, and partly on the fitful joy engendered by these messages.To-day she had not even that, and the disappointment seemed just nowmore than she could bear.
She felt unaccountably restless, and could she but have analysed herfeelings--had she dared so to do--she would have realised that theweight which oppressed her heart so that she could hardly breathe, wasone of vague yet dark foreboding.
She closed the window and returned to her seat by the fire, taking upher hook with the strong resolution not to allow her nerves to get thebetter of her. But it was difficult to pin one's attention down to theadventures of Master Tom Jones when one's mind was fully engrossed withthose of Sir Percy Blakeney.
The sound of carriage wheels on the gravelled forecourt in the front ofthe house suddenly awakened her drowsy senses. She threw down the book,and with trembling hands clutched the arms of her chair, strainingher ears to listen. A carriage at this hour--and on this damp winter'sevening! She racked her mind wondering who it could be.
Lady Ffoulkes was in London, she knew. Sir Andrew, of course, was inParis. His Royal Highness, ever a faithful visitor, would surely notventure out to Richmond in this inclement weather--and the courieralways came on horseback.
There was a murmur of voices; that of Edwards, mechanical and placid,could be heard quite distinctly saying:
"I'm sure that her ladyship will be at home for you, m'lady. But I'll goand ascertain."
Marguerite ran to the door and with joyful eagerness tore it open.
"Suzanne!" she called "my little Suzanne! I thought you were in London.Come up quickly! In the boudoir--yes. Oh! what good fortune hath broughtyou?"
Suzanne flew into her arms, holding the friend whom she loved so wellclose and closer to her heart, trying to hide her face, which was wetwith tears, in the folds of Marguerite's kerchief.
"Come inside, my darling," said Marguerite. "Why, how cold your littlehands are!"
She was on the point of turning back to her boudoir, drawing LadyFfoulkes by the hand, when suddenly she caught sight of Sir Andrew, whostood at a little distance from her, at the top of the stairs.
"Sir Andrew!" she exclaimed with unstinted gladness.
Then she paused. The cry of welcome died on her lips, leaving them dryand parted. She suddenly felt as if some fearful talons had gripped herheart and were tearing at it with sharp, long nails; the blood flew fromher cheeks and from her limbs, leaving her with a sense of icy numbness.
She backed into the room, still holding Suzanne's hand, and drawing herin with her. Sir Andrew followed them, then closed the door behind him.At last the word escaped Marguerite's parched lips:
"Percy! Something has happened to him! He is dead?"
"No, no!" exclaimed Sir Andrew quickly.
Suzanne put her loving arms round her friend and drew her down into thechair by the fire. She knelt at her feet on the hearthrug, and pressedher own burning lips on Marguerite's icy-cold hands. Sir Andrew stoodsilently by, a world of loving friendship, of heart-broken sorrow, inhis eyes.
There was silence in the pretty white-panelled room for a while.Marguerite sat with her eyes closed, bringing the whole armoury of herwill power to bear her up outwardly now.
"Tell me!" she said at last, and her voice was toneless and dull, likeone that came from the depths of a grave--"tell me--exactly--everything.Don't be afraid. I can bear it. Don't be afraid."
Sir Andrew remained standing, with bowed head and one hand resting onthe table. In a firm, clear voice he told her the events of the past fewdays as they were known to him. All that he tried to hide was Armand'sdisobedience, which, in his heart, he felt was the primary cause of thecatastrophe. He told of the rescue of the Dauphin from the Temple, themidnight drive in the coal-cart, the meeting with Hastings and Tony inthe spinney. He only gave vague explanations of Armand's stay in Pariswhich caused Percy to go back to the city, even at the moment when hismost daring plan had been so su
ccessfully carried through.
"Armand, I understand, has fallen in love with a beautiful woman inParis, Lady Blakeney," he said, seeing that a strange, puzzled look hadappeared in Marguerite's pale face. "She was arrested the day before therescue of the Dauphin from the Temple. Armand could not join us. He feltthat he could not leave her. I am sure that you will understand."
Then as she made no comment, he resumed his narrative:
"I had been ordered to go back to La Villette, and there to resume myduties as a labourer in the day-time, and to wait for Percy during thenight. The fact that I had received no message from him for two days hadmade me somewhat worried, but I have such faith in him, such belief inhis good luck and his ingenuity, that I would not allow myself to bereally anxious. Then on the third day I heard the news."
"What news?" asked Marguerite mechanically.
"That the Englishman who was known as the Scarlet Pimpernel had beencaptured in a house in the Rue de la Croix Blanche, and had beenimprisoned in the Conciergerie."
"The Rue de la Croix Blanche? Where is that?"
"In the Montmartre quarter. Armand lodged there. Percy, I imagine, wasworking to get him away; and those brutes captured him."
"Having heard the news, Sir Andrew, what did you do?"
"I went into Paris and ascertained its truth."
"And there is no doubt of it?"
"Alas, none! I went to the house in the Rue de la Croix Blanche. Armandhad disappeared. I succeeded in inducing the concierge to talk. Sheseems to have been devoted to her lodger. Amidst tears she told mesome of the details of the capture. Can you bear to hear them, LadyBlakeney?"
"Yes--tell me everything--don't be afraid," she reiterated with the samedull monotony.
"It appears that early on the Tuesday morning the son of theconcierge--a lad about fifteen--was sent off by her lodger with amessage to No. 9 Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois. That was the house wherePercy was staying all last week, where he kept disguises and so onfor us all, and where some of our meetings were held. Percy evidentlyexpected that Armand would try and communicate with him at that address,for when the lad arrived in front of the house he was accosted--sohe says--by a big, rough workman, who browbeat him into giving up thelodger's letter, and finally pressed a piece of gold into his hand. Theworkman was Blakeney, of course. I imagine that Armand, at the time thathe wrote the letter, must have been under the belief that MademoiselleLange was still in prison; he could not know then that Blakeney hadalready got her into comparative safety. In the letter he must havespoken of the terrible plight in which he stood, and also of his fearsfor the woman whom he loved. Percy was not the man to leave a comradein the lurch! He would not be the man whom we all love and admire, whoseword we all obey, for whose sake we would gladly all of us give ourlife--he would not be that man if he did not brave even certain dangersin order to be of help to those who call on him. Armand called and Percywent to him. He must have known that Armand was being spied upon, forArmand, alas! was already a marked man, and the watch-dogs ofthose infernal committees were already on his heels. Whether thesesleuth-hounds had followed the son of the concierge and seen him givethe letter to the workman in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, or whetherthe concierge in the Rue de la Croix Blanche was nothing but a spy ofHeron's, or, again whether the Committee of General Security kepta company of soldiers in constant alert in that house, we shall, ofcourse, never know. All that I do know is that Percy entered thatfatal house at half-past ten, and that a quarter of an hour later theconcierge saw some of the soldiers descending the stairs, carryinga heavy burden. She peeped out of her lodge, and by the light in thecorridor she saw that the heavy burden was the body of a man boundclosely with ropes: his eyes were closed, his clothes were stained withblood. He was seemingly unconscious. The next day the official organof the Government proclaimed the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel, andthere was a public holiday in honour of the event."
Marguerite had listened to this terrible narrative dry-eyed and silent.Now she still sat there, hardly conscious of what went on around her--ofSuzanne's tears, that fell unceasingly upon her fingers--of Sir Andrew,who had sunk into a chair, and buried his head in his hands. She washardly conscious that she lived; the universe seemed to have stood stillbefore this awful, monstrous cataclysm.
But, nevertheless, she was the first to return to the active realitiesof the present.
"Sir Andrew," she said after a while, "tell me, where are my Lords Tonyand Hastings?"
"At Calais, madam," he replied. "I saw them there on my way hither.They had delivered the Dauphin safely into the hands of his adherents atMantes, and were awaiting Blakeney's further orders, as he had commandedthem to do."
"Will they wait for us there, think you?"
"For us, Lady Blakeney?" he exclaimed in puzzlement.
"Yes, for us, Sir Andrew," she replied, whilst the ghost of a smileflitted across her drawn face; "you had thought of accompanying me toParis, had you not?"
"But Lady Blakeney--"
"Ah! I know what you would say, Sir Andrew. You will speak of dangers,of risks, of death, mayhap; you will tell me that I as a woman can donothing to help my husband--that I could be but a hindrance to him, justas I was in Boulogne. But everything is so different now. Whilst thosebrutes planned his capture he was clever enough to outwit them, but nowthey have actually got him, think you they'll let him escape? They'llwatch him night and day, my friend, just as they watched the unfortunateQueen; but they'll not keep him months, weeks, or even days inprison--even Chauvelin now will no longer attempt to play with theScarlet Pimpernel. They have him, and they will hold him until such timeas they take him to the guillotine."
Her voice broke in a sob; her self-control was threatening to leave her.She was but a woman, young and passionately in love with the man whowas about to die an ignominious death, far away from his country, hiskindred, his friends.
"I cannot let him die alone, Sir Andrew; he will be longing for me,and--and, after all, there is you, and my Lord Tony, and Lord Hastingsand the others; surely--surely we are not going to let him die, not likethat, and not alone."
"You are right, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew earnestly; "we are notgoing to let him die, if human agency can do aught to save him. AlreadyTony, Hastings and I have agreed to return to Paris. There are one ortwo hidden places in and around the city known only to Percy and tothe members of the League where he must find one or more of us if hesucceeds in getting away. All the way between Paris and Calais we haveplaces of refuge, places where any of us can hide at a given moment;where we can find disguises when we want them, or horses in anemergency. No! no! we are not going to despair, Lady Blakeney; there arenineteen of us prepared to lay down our lives for the Scarlet Pimpernel.Already I, as his lieutenant, have been selected as the leader of asdetermined a gang as has ever entered on a work of rescue before. Weleave for Paris to-morrow, and if human pluck and devotion can destroymountains then we'll destroy them. Our watchword is: 'God save theScarlet Pimpernel.'"
He knelt beside her chair and kissed the cold fingers which, with a sadlittle smile, she held out to him.
"And God bless you all!" she murmured.
Suzanne had risen to her feet when her husband knelt; now he stood upbeside her. The dainty young woman hardly more than a child--was doingher best to restrain her tears.
"See how selfish I am," said Marguerite. "I talk calmly of taking yourhusband from you, when I myself know the bitterness of such partings."
"My husband will go where his duty calls him," said Suzanne withcharming and simple dignity. "I love him with all my heart, becausehe is brave and good. He could not leave his comrade, who is also hischief, in the lurch. God will protect him, I know. I would not ask himto play the part of a coward."
Her brown eyes glowed with pride. She was the true wife of a soldier,and with all her dainty ways and childlike manners she was a splendidwoman and a staunch friend. Sir Percy Blakeney bad saved her entirefamily from death, the Comte and Comtesse de Tournai
, the Vicomte, herbrother, and she herself all owed their lives to the Scarlet Pimpernel.
This she was not like to forget.
"There is but little danger for us, I fear me," said Sir Andrew lightly;"the revolutionary Government only wants to strike at a head, it caresnothing for the limbs. Perhaps it feels that without our leader we areenemies not worthy of persecution. If there are any dangers, so muchthe better," he added; "but I don't anticipate any, unless we succeed infreeing our chief; and having freed him, we fear nothing more."
"The same applies to me, Sir Andrew," rejoined Marguerite earnestly."Now that they have captured Percy, those human fiends will care naughtfor me. If you succeed in freeing Percy I, like you, will have nothingmore to fear, and if you fail--"
She paused and put her small, white hand on Sir Andrew's arm.
"Take me with you, Sir Andrew," she entreated; "do not condemn me tothe awful torture of weary waiting, day after day, wondering, guessing,never daring to hope, lest hope deferred be more hard to bear thandreary hopelessness."
Then as Sir Andrew, very undecided, yet half inclined to yield,stood silent and irresolute, she pressed her point, gently but firmlyinsistent.
"I would not be in the way, Sir Andrew; I would know how to effacemyself so as not to interfere with your plans. But, oh!" she added,while a quivering note of passion trembled in her voice, "can't yousee that I must breathe the air that he breathes else I shall stifle ormayhap go mad?"
Sir Andrew turned to his wife, a mute query in his eyes.
"You would do an inhuman and a cruel act," said Suzanne with seriousnessthat sat quaintly on her baby face, "if you did not afford yourprotection to Marguerite, for I do believe that if you did not take herwith you to-morrow she would go to Paris alone."
Marguerite thanked her friend with her eyes. Suzanne was a childin nature, but she had a woman's heart. She loved her husband, and,therefore, knew and understood what Marguerite must be suffering now.
Sir Andrew no longer could resist the unfortunate woman's earnestpleading. Frankly, he thought that if she remained in England whilePercy was in such deadly peril she ran the grave risk of losing herreason before the terrible strain of suspense. He knew her to be a womanof courage, and one capable of great physical endurance; and really hewas quite honest when he said that he did not believe there would bemuch danger for the headless League of the Scarlet Pimpernel unless theysucceeded in freeing their chief. And if they did succeed, then indeedthere would be nothing to fear, for the brave and loving wife who, likeevery true woman does, and has done in like circumstances since thebeginning of time, was only demanding with passionate insistence theright to share the fate, good or ill, of the man whom she loved.