CHAPTER XXXII. SISTERS
The morning found her fagged out, but more calm. Later on she managedto drink some coffee, and having washed and dressed, she prepared to goout.
Sir Andrew appeared in time to ascertain her wishes.
"I promised Percy to go to the Rue de Charonne in the late afternoon,"she said. "I have some hours to spare, and mean to employ them in tryingto find speech with Mademoiselle Lange."
"Blakeney has told you where she lives?"
"Yes. In the Square du Roule. I know it well. I can be there in half anhour."
He, of course, begged to be allowed to accompany her, and anon they werewalking together quickly up toward the Faubourg St. Honore. The snow hadceased falling, but it was still very cold, but neither Marguerite norSir Andrew were conscious of the temperature or of any outward signsaround them. They walked on silently until they reached the torn-downgates of the Square du Roule; there Sir Andrew parted from Margueriteafter having appointed to meet her an hour later at a small eating-househe knew of where they could have some food together, before starting ontheir long expedition to the Rue de Charonne.
Five minutes later Marguerite Blakeney was shown in by worthy MadameBelhomme, into the quaint and pretty drawing-room with its soft-tonedhangings and old-world air of faded grace. Mademoiselle Lange wassitting there, in a capacious armchair, which encircled her delicatefigure with its frame-work of dull old gold.
She was ostensibly reading when Marguerite was announced, for an openbook lay on a table beside her; but it seemed to the visitor that mayhapthe young girl's thoughts had played truant from her work, for her posewas listless and apathetic, and there was a look of grave trouble uponthe childlike face.
She rose when Marguerite entered, obviously puzzled at the unexpectedvisit, and somewhat awed at the appearance of this beautiful woman withthe sad look in her eyes.
"I must crave your pardon, mademoiselle," said Lady Blakeney as soon asthe door had once more closed on Madame Belhomme, and she found herselfalone with the young girl. "This visit at such an early hour must seemto you an intrusion. But I am Marguerite St. Just, and--"
Her smile and outstretched hand completed the sentence.
"St. Just!" exclaimed Jeanne.
"Yes. Armand's sister!"
A swift blush rushed to the girl's pale cheeks; her brown eyes expressedunadulterated joy. Marguerite, who was studying her closely, wasconscious that her poor aching heart went out to this exquisite child,the far-off innocent cause of so much misery.
Jeanne, a little shy, a little confused and nervous in her movements,was pulling a chair close to the fire, begging Marguerite to sit. Herwords came out all the while in short jerky sentences, and from time totime she stole swift shy glances at Armand's sister.
"You will forgive me, mademoiselle," said Marguerite, whose simple andcalm manner quickly tended to soothe Jeanne Lange's confusion; "but Iwas so anxious about my brother--I do not know where to find him."
"And so you came to me, madame?"
"Was I wrong?"
"Oh, no! But what made you think that--that I would know?"
"I guessed," said Marguerite with a smile. "You had heard about methen?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Through whom? Did Armand tell you about me?"
"No, alas! I have not seen him this past fortnight, since you,mademoiselle, came into his life; but many of Armand's friends are inParis just now; one of them knew, and he told me."
The soft blush had now overspread the whole of the girl's face, evendown to her graceful neck. She waited to see Marguerite comfortablyinstalled in an armchair, then she resumed shyly:
"And it was Armand who told me all about you. He loves you so dearly."
"Armand and I were very young children when we lost our parents," saidMarguerite softly, "and we were all in all to each other then. And untilI married he was the man I loved best in all the world."
"He told me you were married--to an Englishman."
"Yes?"
"He loves England too. At first he always talked of my going there withhim as his wife, and of the happiness we should find there together."
"Why do you say 'at first'?"
"He talks less about England now."
"Perhaps he feels that now you know all about it, and that youunderstand each other with regard to the future."
"Perhaps."
Jeanne sat opposite to Marguerite on a low stool by the fire. Her elbowswere resting on her knees, and her face just now was half-hidden by thewealth of her brown curls. She looked exquisitely pretty sittinglike this, with just the suggestion of sadness in the listless pose.Marguerite had come here to-day prepared to hate this young girl, who ina few brief days had stolen not only Armand's heart, but his allegianceto his chief, and his trust in him. Since last night, when she had seenher brother sneak silently past her like a thief in the night, she hadnurtured thoughts of ill-will and anger against Jeanne.
But hatred and anger had melted at the sight of this child. Marguerite,with the perfect understanding born of love itself, had soon realisedthe charm which a woman like Mademoiselle Lange must of necessityexercise over a chivalrous, enthusiastic nature like Armand's. Thesense of protection--the strongest perhaps that exists in a good man'sheart--would draw him irresistibly to this beautiful child, with thegreat, appealing eyes, and the look of pathos that pervaded the entireface. Marguerite, looking in silence on the--dainty picture before her,found it in her heart to forgive Armand for disobeying his chief whenthose eyes beckoned to him in a contrary direction.
How could he, how could any chivalrous man endure the thought of thisdelicate, fresh flower lying crushed and drooping in the hands ofmonsters who respected neither courage nor purity? And Armand had beenmore than human, or mayhap less, if he had indeed consented to leave thefate of the girl whom he had sworn to love and protect in other handsthan his own.
It seemed almost as if Jeanne was conscious of the fixity ofMarguerite's gaze, for though she did not turn to look at her, the flushgradually deepened in her cheeks.
"Mademoiselle Lange," said Marguerite gently, "do you not feel that youcan trust me?"
She held out her two hands to the girl, and Jeanne slowly turned to her.The next moment she was kneeling at Marguerite's feet, and kissingthe beautiful kind hands that had been stretched out to her with suchsisterly love.
"Indeed, indeed, I do trust you," she said, and looked with tear-dimmedeyes in the pale face above her. "I have longed for some one in whom Icould confide. I have been so lonely lately, and Armand--"
With an impatient little gesture she brushed away the tears which hadgathered in her eyes.
"What has Armand been doing?" asked Marguerite with an encouragingsmile.
"Oh, nothing to grieve me!" replied the young girl eagerly, "for heis kind and good, and chivalrous and noble. Oh, I love him with all myheart! I loved him from the moment that I set eyes on him, and thenhe came to see me--perhaps you know! And he talked so beautiful aboutEngland, and so nobly about his leader the Scarlet Pimpernel--have youheard of him?"
"Yes," said Marguerite, smiling. "I have heard of him."
"It was that day that citizen Heron came with his soldiers! Oh! you donot know citizen Heron. He is the most cruel man in France. In Parishe is hated by every one, and no one is safe from his spies. He came toarrest Armand, but I was able to fool him and to save Armand. And afterthat," she added with charming naivete, "I felt as if, having savedArmand's life, he belonged to me--and his love for me had made me his."
"Then I was arrested," she continued after a slight pause, and at therecollection of what she had endured then her fresh voice still trembledwith horror.
"They dragged me to prison, and I spent two days in a dark cell,where--"
She hid her face in her hands, whilst a few sobs shook her whole frame;then she resumed more calmly:
"I had seen nothing of Armand. I wondered where he was, and I knewthat he would be eating out his heart with anxiety for me. But God
waswatching over me. At first I was transferred to the Temple prison, andthere a kind creature--a sort of man-of-all work in the prison tookcompassion on me. I do not know how he contrived it, but one morningvery early he brought me some filthy old rags which he told me to puton quickly, and when I had done that he bade me follow him. Oh! he was avery dirty, wretched man himself, but he must have had a kind heart. Hetook me by the hand and made me carry his broom and brushes. Nobody tookmuch notice of us, the dawn was only just breaking, and the passageswere very dark and deserted; only once some soldiers began to chaff himabout me: 'C'est ma fille--quoi?' he said roughly. I very nearly laughedthen, only I had the good sense to restrain myself, for I knew that myfreedom, and perhaps my life, depended on my not betraying myself. Mygrimy, tattered guide took me with him right through the interminablecorridors of that awful building, whilst I prayed fervently to God forhim and for myself. We got out by one of the service stairs and exit,and then he dragged me through some narrow streets until we came to acorner where a covered cart stood waiting. My kind friend told me to getinto the cart, and then he bade the driver on the box take me straightto a house in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois. Oh! I was infinitelygrateful to the poor creature who had helped me to get out of that awfulprison, and I would gladly have given him some money, for I am sure hewas very poor; but I had none by me. He told me that I should be quitesafe in the house in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, and begged me towait there patiently for a few days until I heard from one who had mywelfare at heart, and who would further arrange for my safety."
Marguerite had listened silently to this narrative so naively told bythis child, who obviously had no idea to whom she owed her freedom andher life. While the girl talked, her mind could follow with unspeakablepride and happiness every phase of that scene in the early dawn, whenthat mysterious, ragged man-of-all-work, unbeknown even to the womanwhom he was saving, risked his own noble life for the sake of her whomhis friend and comrade loved.
"And did you never see again the kind man to whom you owe your life?"she asked.
"No!" replied Jeanne. "I never saw him since; but when I arrived atthe Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois I was told by the good people who tookcharge of me that the ragged man-of-all-work had been none other thanthe mysterious Englishman whom Armand reveres, he whom they call theScarlet Pimpernel."
"But you did not stay very long in the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, didyou?"
"No. Only three days. The third day I received a communique fromthe Committee of General Security, together with an unconditionalcertificate of safety. It meant that I was free--quite free. Oh! I couldscarcely believe it. I laughed and I cried until the people in the housethought that I had gone mad. The past few days had been such a horriblenightmare."
"And then you saw Armand again?"
"Yes. They told him that I was free. And he came here to see me. Heoften comes; he will be here anon."
"But are you not afraid on his account and your own? He is--he must bestill--'suspect'; a well-known adherent of the Scarlet Pimpernel, hewould be safer out of Paris."
"No! oh, no! Armand is in no danger. He, too, has an unconditionalcertificate of safety."
"An unconditional certificate of safety?" asked Marguerite, whilst adeep frown of grave puzzlement appeared between her brows. "What doesthat mean?
"It means that he is free to come and go as he likes; that neither henor I have anything to fear from Heron and his awful spies. Oh! but forthat sad and careworn look on Armand's face we could be so happy; buthe is so unlike himself. He is Armand and yet another; his look at timesquite frightens me."
"Yet you know why he is so sad," said Marguerite in a strange, tonelessvoice which she seemed quite unable to control, for that tonelessnesscame from a terrible sense of suffocation, of a feeling as if herheart-strings were being gripped by huge, hard hands.
"Yes, I know," said Jeanne half hesitatingly, as if knowing, she wasstill unconvinced.
"His chief, his comrade, the friend of whom you speak, the ScarletPimpernel, who risked his life in order to save yours, mademoiselle, isa prisoner in the hands of those that hate him."
Marguerite had spoken with sudden vehemence. There was almost an appealin her voice now, as if she were trying not to convince Jeanne only, butalso herself, of something that was quite simple, quite straightforward,and yet which appeared to be receding from her, an intangible something,a spirit that was gradually yielding to a force as yet unborn, to aphantom that had not yet emerged from out chaos.
But Jeanne seemed unconscious of all this. Her mind was absorbed inArmand, the man whom she loved in her simple, whole-hearted way, and whohad seemed so different of late.
"Oh, yes!" she said with a deep, sad sigh, whilst the ever-ready tearsonce more gathered in her eyes, "Armand is very unhappy because of him.The Scarlet Pimpernel was his friend; Armand loved and revered him.Did you know," added the girl, turning large, horror-filled eyes onMarguerite, "that they want some information from him about the Dauphin,and to force him to give it they--they--"
"Yes, I know," said Marguerite.
"Can you wonder, then, that Armand is unhappy. Oh! last night, after hewent from me, I cried for hours, just because he had looked so sad. Heno longer talks of happy England, of the cottage we were to have, and ofthe Kentish orchards in May. He has not ceased to love me, for at timeshis love seems so great that I tremble with a delicious sense of fear.But oh! his love for me no longer makes him happy."
Her head had gradually sunk lower and lower on her breast, her voicedied down in a murmur broken by heartrending sighs. Every generousimpulse in Marguerite's noble nature prompted her to take that sorrowingchild in her arms, to comfort her if she could, to reassure her ifshe had the power. But a strange icy feeling had gradually invaded herheart, even whilst she listened to the simple unsophisticated talk ofJeanne Lange. Her hands felt numb and clammy, and instinctively shewithdrew away from the near vicinity of the girl. She felt as if theroom, the furniture in it, even the window before her were dancinga wild and curious dance, and that from everywhere around strangewhistling sounds reached her ears, which caused her head to whirl andher brain to reel.
Jeanne had buried her head in her hands. She was crying--softly, almosthumbly at first, as if half ashamed of her grief; then, suddenly itseemed, as if she could not contain herself any longer, a heavy sobescaped her throat and shook her whole delicate frame with itsviolence. Sorrow no longer would be gainsaid, it insisted on physicalexpression--that awful tearing of the heart-strings which leaves thebody numb and panting with pain.
In a moment Marguerite had forgotten; the dark and shapeless phantomthat had knocked at the gate of her soul was relegated back intochaos. It ceased to be, it was made to shrivel and to burn in the greatseething cauldron of womanly sympathy. What part this child had playedin the vast cataclysm of misery which had dragged a noble-heartedenthusiast into the dark torture-chamber, whence the only outlet ledto the guillotine, she--Marguerite Blakeney--did not know; what partArmand, her brother, had played in it, that she would not dare to guess;all that she knew was that here was a loving heart that was filled withpain--a young, inexperienced soul that was having its first tussle withthe grim realities of life--and every motherly instinct in Margueritewas aroused.
She rose and gently drew the young girl up from her knees, and thencloser to her; she pillowed the grief-stricken head against hershoulder, and murmured gentle, comforting words into the tiny ear.
"I have news for Armand," she whispered, "that will comfort him, amessage--a letter from his friend. You will see, dear, that when Armandreads it he will become a changed man; you see, Armand acted a littlefoolishly a few days ago. His chief had given him orders which hedisregarded--he was so anxious about you--he should have obeyed; andnow, mayhap, he feels that his disobedience may have been the--theinnocent cause of much misery to others; that is, no doubt, the reasonwhy he is so sad. The letter from his friend will cheer him, you willsee."
"Do you really think so, madam
e?" murmured Jeanne, in whose tear-stainedeyes the indomitable hopefulness of youth was already striving to shine.
"I am sure of it," assented Marguerite.
And for the moment she was absolutely sincere. The phantom had entirelyvanished. She would even, had he dared to re-appear, have mocked andderided him for his futile attempt at turning the sorrow in her heart toa veritable hell of bitterness.