Marguerite neither moved nor spoke. She felt two pairs of eyes fixedupon her, and with all the strength of will at her command she forcedthe very blood in her veins not to quit her cheeks, forced her eyelidsnot to betray by a single quiver the icy pang of a deadly premonitionwhich at sight of Chauvelin seemed to have chilled her entire soul.
There he stood before her, dressed in his usual somber garments, a lookalmost of humility in those keen grey eyes of his, which a year ago onthe cliffs of Calais had peered down at her with such relentless hate.
Strange that at this moment she should have felt an instinct of fear.What cause had she to throw more than a pitiful glance at the man whohad tried so cruelly to wrong her, and who had so signally failed?
Having bowed very low and very respectfully, Chauvelin advanced towardsher, with all the airs of a disgraced courtier craving audience from hisqueen.
As he approached she instinctively drew back.
"Would you prefer not to speak to me, Lady Blakeney?" he said humbly.
She could scarcely believe her ears, or trust her eyes. It seemedimpossible that a man could have so changed in a few months. He evenlooked shorter than last year, more shrunken within himself. His hair,which he wore free from powder, was perceptibly tinged with grey.
"Shall I withdraw?" he added after a pause, seeing that Marguerite madeno movement to return his salutation.
"It would be best, perhaps," she replied coldly. "You and I, MonsieurChauvelin, have so little to say to one another."
"Very little indeed," he rejoined quietly; "the triumphant and happyhave ever very little to say to the humiliated and the defeated. ButI had hoped that Lady Blakeney in the midst of her victory would havespared one thought of pity and one of pardon."
"I did not know that you had need of either from me, Monsieur."
"Pity perhaps not, but forgiveness certainly."
"You have that, if you so desire it."
"Since I failed, you might try to forget."
"That is beyond my power. But believe me, I have ceased to think of theinfinite wrong which you tried to do to me."
"But I failed," he insisted, "and I meant no harm to YOU."
"To those I care for, Monsieur Chauvelin."
"I had to serve my country as best I could. I meant no harm to yourbrother. He is safe in England now. And the Scarlet Pimpernel wasnothing to you."
She tried to read his face, tried to discover in those inscrutable eyesof his, some hidden meaning to his words. Instinct had warned her ofcourse that this man could be nothing but an enemy, always and at alltimes. But he seemed so broken, so abject now, that contempt for hisdejected attitude, and for the defeat which had been inflicted on him,chased the last remnant of fear from her heart.
"I did not even succeed in harming that enigmatical personage,"continued Chauvelin with the same self-abasement. "Sir Percy Blakeney,you remember, threw himself across my plans, quite innocently of course.I failed where you succeeded. Luck has deserted me. Our governmentoffered me a humble post, away from France. I look after the interestsof French subjects settled in England. My days of power are over. Myfailure is complete. I do not complain, for I failed in a combat ofwits... but I failed... I failed... I failed... I am almost a fugitiveand I am quite disgraced. That is my present history, Lady Blakeney," heconcluded, taking once more a step towards her, "and you will understandthat it would be a solace if you extended your hand to me just oncemore, and let me feel that although you would never willingly look uponmy face again, you have enough womanly tenderness in you to force yourheart to forgiveness and mayhap to pity."
Marguerite hesitated. He held out his hand and her warm, impulsivenature prompted her to be kind. But instinct would not be gainsaid: acurious instinct to which she refused to respond. What had she to fearfrom this miserable and cringing little worm who had not even in himthe pride of defeat? What harm could he do to her, or to those whom sheloved? Her brother was in England! Her husband! Bah! not the enmity ofthe entire world could make her fear for him!
Nay! That instinct, which caused her to draw away from Chauvelin, asshe would from a venomous asp, was certainly not fear. It was hate! Shehated this man! Hated him for all that she had suffered because ofhim; for that terrible night on the cliffs of Calais! The peril toher husband who had become so infinitely dear! The humiliations andself-reproaches which he had endured.
Yes! it was hate! and hate was of all emotions the one she mostdespised.
Hate? Does one hate a slimy but harmless toad or a stinging fly?It seemed ridiculous, contemptible and pitiable to think of hate inconnection with the melancholy figure of this discomfited intriguer,this fallen leader of revolutionary France.
He was holding out his hand to her. If she placed even the tips ofher fingers upon it, she would be making the compact of mercy andforgiveness which he was asking of her. The woman Desiree Candeilleroused within her the last lingering vestige of her slumbering wrath.False, theatrical and stagy--as Marguerite had originally suspected--sheappeared to have been in league with Chauvelin to bring about thisundesirable meeting.
Lady Blakeney turned from one to another, trying to conceal her contemptbeneath a mask of passionless indifference. Candeille was standing closeby, looking obviously distressed and not a little puzzled. An instant'sreflection was sufficient to convince Marguerite that the whilom actressof the Varietes Theatre was obviously ignorant of the events towhich Chauvelin had been alluding: she was, therefore, of no seriousconsequence, a mere tool, mayhap, in the ex-ambassador's hands. At thepresent moment she looked like a silly child who does not understand theconversation of the "grown-ups."
Marguerite had promised her help and protection, had invited her to herhouse, and offered her a munificent gift in aid of a deserving cause.She was too proud to go back now on that promise, to rescind thecontract because of an unexplainable fear. With regard to Chauvelin,the matter stood differently: she had made him no direct offer ofhospitality: she had agreed to receive in her house the officialchaperone of an unprotected girl, but she was not called upon to showcordiality to her own and her husband's most deadly enemy.
She was ready to dismiss him out of her life with a cursory word ofpardon and a half-expressed promise of oblivion: on that understandingand that only she was ready to let her hand rest for the space of onesecond in his.
She had looked upon her fallen enemy, seen his discomfiture and hishumiliation! Very well! Now let him pass out of her life, all themore easily, since the last vision of him would be one of such utterabjection as would even be unworthy of hate.
All these thoughts, feelings and struggles passed through her mindwith great rapidity. Her hesitation had lasted less than five seconds:Chauvelin still wore the look of doubting entreaty with which he hadfirst begged permission to take her hand in his. With an impulsive tossof the head, she had turned straight towards him, ready with the phrasewith which she meant to dismiss him from her sight now and forever, whensuddenly a well-known laugh broke in upon her ear, and a lazy, drawlyvoice said pleasantly:
"La! I vow the air is fit to poison you! Your Royal Highness, I entreat,let us turn our backs upon these gates of Inferno, where lost soulswould feel more at home than doth your humble servant."
The next moment His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had entered thetent, closely followed by Sir Percy Blakeney.
Chapter VIII: The Invitation