The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for ForeignAffairs--Lord Grenville--was the most brilliant function of the year.Though the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who was anybodyhad contrived to be in London in time to be present there, and to shineat this ball, to the best of his or her respective ability.
His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present.He was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville himself hadlistened to the two first acts of ORPHEUS, before preparing to receivehis guests. At ten o'clock--an unusually late hour in those days--thegrand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely decorated with exoticpalms and flowers, were filled to overflowing. One room had been setapart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the minuet made a softaccompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the numerous andbrilliant company.
In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, thedistinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished men,beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had alreadyfiled past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies with him,which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then, laughingand talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card roomsbeyond.
Not far from Lord Grenville's elbow, leaning against one of the consoletables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking aquiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and LadyBlakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes glanced quicklytowards the door every time a new-comer appeared.
He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary Government ofFrance was not likely to be very popular in England, at a time when thenews of the awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror andAnarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the Channel.
In his official capacity he had been received courteously by his Englishcolleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord Grenville hadentertained him more than once; but the more intimate circles of Londonsociety ignored him altogether; the women openly turned their backs uponhim; the men who held no official position refused to shake his hand.
But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these socialamenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. Hewas blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised allsocial inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country:these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs hereceived in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England.
But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believedthat the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France; he wouldhave wished to see every one of them annihilated: he was one of thosewho, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to utter thehistoric and ferocious desire "that aristocrats might have but one headbetween them, so that it might be cut off with a single stroke of theguillotine." And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat, whohad succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey of which theguillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no doubt that thoseroyalist EMIGRES, once they had managed to cross the frontier, did theirvery best to stir up foreign indignation against France. Plots withoutend were hatched in England, in Belgium, in Holland, to try and inducesome great power to send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free KingLouis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders of that monsterrepublic.
Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality ofthe Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He andthe few young jackanapes under his command, well furnished with money,armed with boundless daring, and acute cunning, had succeeded inrescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of theEMIGRES, who were FETED at the English court, owed their safety to thatman and to his league.
Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would discoverthe identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over to France,and then . . . Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the verythought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the knife of theguillotine, as easily as that of any other man.
Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, allconversation stopped for a moment as the majordomo's voice outsideannounced,--
"His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney,Lady Blakeney."
Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest.
The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit ofsalmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered withMarguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeousshimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant "Incroyable" style, hisfair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, andthe flat CHAPEAU-BRAS under his arm.
After the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord Grenvillesaid to his royal guest,--
"Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the accreditedagent of the French Government?"
Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped forward,expecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the Princereturned his salute with a curt nod of the head.
"Monsieur," said His Royal Highness coldly, "we will try to forgetthe government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest--aprivate gentleman from France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur."
"Monseigneur," rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. "Madame," headded, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite.
"Ah! my little Chauvelin!" she said with unconcerned gaiety, andextending her tiny hand to him. "Monsieur and I are old friends, yourRoyal Highness."
"Ah, then," said the Prince, this time very graciously, "you are doublywelcome, Monsieur."
"There is someone else I would crave permission to present to your RoyalHighness," here interposed Lord Grenville.
"Ah! who is it?" asked the Prince.
"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family, who have butrecently come from France."
"By all means!--They are among the lucky ones then!"
Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at the furtherend of the room.
"Lud love me!" whispered his Royal Highness to Marguerite, as soon as hehad caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; "Lud love me! shelooks very virtuous and very melancholy."
"Faith, your Royal Highness," she rejoined with a smile, "virtue is likeprecious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed."
"Virtue, alas!" sighed the Prince, "is mostly unbecoming to yourcharming sex, Madame."
"Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive," said Lord Grenville,introducing the lady.
"This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is ever gladto welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from hershores."
"Your Royal Highness is ever gracious," replied the Comtesse withbecoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly byher side: "My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur," she said.
"Ah! charming!--charming!" said the Prince, "and now allow me, Comtesse,to introduce you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. Youand she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every compatriot ofLady Blakeney's is doubly welcome for her sake . . . her friends are ourfriends . . . her enemies, the enemies of England."
Marguerite's blue eyes had twinkled with merriment at this graciousspeech from her exalted friend. The Comtesse de Tournay, who lately hadso flagrantly insulted her, was here receiving a public lesson, atwhich Marguerite could not help but rejoice. But the Comtesse, for whomrespect of royalty amounted almost to a religion, was too well-schooledin courtly etiquette to show the slightest sign of embarrassment, as thetwo ladies curtsied ceremoniously to one another.
"His Royal Highness is ever gracious, Madame," said Marguerite,demurely, and with a wealth of mischief in her twinkling blue eyes,"but there is no need for his kind of mediation. . . . Your amiablereception of me at our last meeting still dwells pleasantly in mymemory."
; "We poor exiles, Madame," rejoined the Comtesse, frigidly, "show ourgratitude to England by devotion to the wishes of Monseigneur."
"Madame!" said Marguerite, with another ceremonious curtsey.
"Madame," responded the Comtesse with equal dignity.
The Prince in the meanwhile was saying a few gracious words to the youngVicomte.
"I am happy to know you, Monsieur le Vicomte," he said. "I knew yourfather well when he was ambassador in London."
"Ah, Monseigneur!" replied the Vicomte, "I was a leetle boy then . . .and now I owe the honour of this meeting to our protector, the ScarletPimpernel."
"Hush!" said the Prince, earnestly and quickly, as he indicatedChauvelin, who had stood a little on one side throughout the whole ofthis little scene, watching Marguerite and the Comtesse with an amused,sarcastic little smile around his thin lips.
"Nay, Monseigneur," he said now, as if in direct response to thePrince's challenge, "pray do not check this gentleman's display ofgratitude; the name of that interesting red flower is well known tome--and to France."
The Prince looked at him keenly for a moment or two.
"Faith, then, Monsieur," he said, "perhaps you know more about ournational hero than we do ourselves . . . perchance you know who he is.. . . See!" he added, turning to the groups round the room, "the ladieshang upon your lips . . . you would render yourself popular among thefair sex if you were to gratify their curiosity."
"Ah, Monseigneur," said Chauvelin, significantly, "rumour has it inFrance that your Highness could--an you would--give the truest accountof that enigmatical wayside flower."
He looked quickly and keenly at Marguerite as he spoke; but she betrayedno emotion, and her eyes met his quite fearlessly.
"Nay, man," replied the Prince, "my lips are sealed! and the members ofthe league jealously guard the secret of their chief . . . so his fairadorers have to be content with worshipping a shadow. Here in England,Monsieur," he added, with wonderful charm and dignity, "we but namethe Scarlet Pimpernel, and every fair cheek is suffused with a blush ofenthusiasm. None have seen him save his faithful lieutenants. We knownot if he be tall or short, fair or dark, handsome or ill-formed; but weknow that he is the bravest gentleman in all the world, and we all feela little proud, Monsieur, when we remember that he is an Englishman.
"Ah, Monsieur Chauvelin," added Marguerite, looking almost with defianceacross at the placid, sphinx-like face of the Frenchman, "His RoyalHighness should add that we ladies think of him as of a hero of old . . .we worship him . . . we wear his badge . . . we tremble for him when heis in danger, and exult with him in the hour of his victory."
Chauvelin did no more than bow placidly both to the Prince and toMarguerite; he felt that both speeches were intended--each in theirway--to convey contempt or defiance. The pleasure-loving, idle Prince hedespised: the beautiful woman, who in her golden hair wore a spray ofsmall red flowers composed of rubies and diamonds--her he held in thehollow of his hand: he could afford to remain silent and to wait events.
A long, jovial, inane laugh broke the sudden silence which had fallenover everyone. "And we poor husbands," came in slow, affected accentsfrom gorgeous Sir Percy, "we have to stand by . . . while they worship ademmed shadow."
Everyone laughed--the Prince more loudly than anyone. The tensionof subdued excitement was relieved, and the next moment everyone waslaughing and chatting merrily as the gay crowd broke up and dispersed inthe adjoining rooms.
CHAPTER XII THE SCRAP OF PAPER