Supper had been extremely gay. All those present declared that never hadLady Blakeney been more adorable, nor that "demmed idiot" Sir Percy moreamusing.
His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeksat Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel verse, "We seekhim here, we seek him there," etc., was sung to the tune of "Ho! MerryBritons!" and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly againstthe table. Lord Grenville, moreover, had a most perfect cook--some wagsasserted that he was a scion of the old French NOBLESSE, who having losthis fortune, had come to seek it in the CUISINE of the Foreign Office.
Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely not asoul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terriblestruggle which was raging within her heart.
The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past midnight,and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table.Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pittedagainst one another--the dearly-beloved brother and he, the unknownhero.
Marguerite had not tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour; sheknew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once, and inclinethe balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him,there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, undefined hope that"something" would occur, something big, enormous, epoch-making, whichwould shift from her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden ofresponsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives.
But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariablyseem to assume when our very nerves ache with their incessant ticking.
After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had left, andthere was general talk of departing among the older guests; the youngwere indefatigable and had started on a new gavotte, which would fillthe next quarter of an hour.
Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a limit to themost enduring of self-control. Escorted by a Cabinet Minister, she hadonce more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still the most desertedamong all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must be lying in waitfor her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible opportunity for aTETE-A-TETE. His eyes had met hers for a moment after the 'fore-supperminuet, and she knew that the keen diplomat, with those searching paleeyes of his, had divined that her work was accomplished.
Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible conflictheart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees.But Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for he was herbrother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a tinybabe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying a traitor'sdeath on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell upon--impossiblein fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for the stranger, thehero . . . well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite would redeem herbrother's life at the hands of the relentless enemy, then let thatcunning Scarlet Pimpernel extricate himself after that.
Perhaps--vaguely--Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter, who for somany months had baffled an army of spies, would still manage to evadeChauvelin and remain immune to the end.
She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty discourseof the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had found in LadyBlakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the keen, fox-likeface of Chauvelin peeping through the curtained doorway.
"Lord Fancourt," she said to the Minister, "will you do me a service?"
"I am entirely at your ladyship's service," he replied gallantly.
"Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if he is,will you tell him that I am very tired, and would be glad to go homesoon."
The commands of a beautiful woman are binding on all mankind, even onCabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly.
"I do not like to leave your ladyship alone," he said.
"Never fear. I shall be quite safe here--and, I think, undisturbed . . .but I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive back to Richmond.It is a long way, and we shall not--an we do not hurry--get home beforedaybreak."
Lord Fancourt had perforce to go.
The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped into the room, and thenext instant stood calm and impassive by her side.
"You have news for me?" he said.
An icy mantle seemed to have suddenly settled round Marguerite'sshoulders; though her cheeks glowed with fire, she felt chilled andnumbed. Oh, Armand! will you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride,of dignity, of womanliness a devoted sister is making for your sake?
"Nothing of importance," she said, staring mechanically before her, "butit might prove a clue. I contrived--no matter how--to detect Sir AndrewFfoulkes in the very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, inthis very room. That paper I succeeded in holding between my fingersfor the space of two minutes, and to cast my eyes on it for that of tenseconds."
"Time enough to learn its contents?" asked Chauvelin, quietly.
She nodded. Then continued in the same even, mechanical tone of voice--
"In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough device of a smallstar-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines, everything else wasscorched and blackened by the flame."
"And what were the two lines?"
Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant she feltthat she could not speak the words, which might send a brave man to hisdeath.
"It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned," added Chauvelin, withdry sarcasm, "for it might have fared ill with Armand St. Just. Whatwere the two lines citoyenne?"
"One was, 'I start myself to-morrow,'" she said quietly, "the other--'Ifyou wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clockprecisely.'"
Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece.
"Then I have plenty of time," he said placidly.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head and heartthrobbed with the awful strain upon her nerves. Oh, this was cruel!cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her choice was made:had she done a vile action or one that was sublime? The recording angel,who writes in the book of gold, alone could give an answer.
"What are you going to do?" she repeated mechanically.
"Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend."
"On what?"
"On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely."
"You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But you do not knowhim."
"No. But I shall presently."
"Sir Andrew will have warned him."
"I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he stoodand watched you, for a moment or two, with a look which gave me tounderstand that something had happened between you. It was only natural,was it not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature of that'something.' I thereupon engaged the young man in a long andanimated conversation--we discussed Herr Gluck's singular success inLondon--until a lady claimed his arm for supper."
"Since then?"
"I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came upstairsagain, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the subject ofpretty Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay. I knew he would not move until LadyPortarles had exhausted on the subject, which will not be for anotherquarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one now."
He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway where, drawingaside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to Marguerite thedistant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with LadyPortarles.
"I think," he said, with a triumphant smile, "that I may safely expectto find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair lady."
"There may be more than one."
"Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed by oneof my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will leave forFrance to-morro
w. ONE of these will be the 'Scarlet Pimpernel.'"
"Yes?--And?"
"I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The papers found atDover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of the neighborhoodof Calais, of an inn which I know well, called 'Le Chat Gris,' of alonely place somewhere on the coast--the Pere Blanchard's hut--whichI must endeavor to find. All these places are given as the point wherethis meddlesome Englishman has bidden the traitor de Tournay and othersto meet his emissaries. But it seems that he has decided not to send hisemissaries, that 'he will start himself to-morrow.' Now, one of thesepersons whom I shall see anon in the supper-room, will be journeyingto Calais, and I shall follow that person, until I have tracked him towhere those fugitive aristocrats await him; for that person, fair lady,will be the man whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man whoseenergies has outdone me, whose ingenuity has baffled me, whose audacityhas set me wondering--yes! me!--who have seen a trick or two in mytime--the mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel."
"And Armand?" she pleaded.
"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the ScarletPimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that imprudent letterof his by special courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word ofFrance, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome Englishman, St. Justwill be here in England, safe in the arms of his charming sister."
And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the clock,Chauvelin glided out of the room.
It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the din ofmusic, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like tread, glidingthrough the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear him go down themassive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door. Fate HADdecided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile and abominablething, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay back in herchair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy everpresent before her aching eyes.
When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It hadthat woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so muchof a ball-dress, the morning after.
Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, thechairs--turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes--veryclose to one another--in the far corners of the room, which spoke ofrecent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne; therewere sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animateddiscussions over the latest scandal; there were chairs straight up in arow that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated dowagers;there were a few isolated, single chairs, close to the table, that spokeof gourmands intent on the most RECHERCHE dishes, and others overturnedon the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville'scellars.
It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable gatheringupstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppersare given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull andcolourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroideredcoats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that thecandles flickered sleepily in their sockets.
Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands together, helooked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the last flunkey hadretired in order to join his friends in the hall below. All was silencein the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, the humof distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of an occasional coachoutside, only seemed to reach this palace of the Sleeping Beauty as themurmur of some flitting spooks far away.
It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that the keenestobserver--a veritable prophet--could never have guessed that, at thispresent moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laidfor the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those stirringtimes had ever seen.
Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the immediate future. Whatwould this man be like, whom he and the leaders of the whole revolutionhad sworn to bring to his death? Everything about him was weird andmysterious; his personality, which he so cunningly concealed, the powerhe wielded over nineteen English gentlemen who seemed to obey his everycommand blindly and enthusiastically, the passionate love and submissionhe had roused in his little trained band, and, above all, his marvellousaudacity, the boundless impudence which had caused him to beard his mostimplacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris.
No wonder that in France the SOBRIQUET of the mysterious Englishmanroused in the people a superstitious shudder. Chauvelin himself as hegazed round the deserted room, where presently the weird hero wouldappear, felt a strange feeling of awe creeping all down his spine.
But his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the Scarlet Pimpernelhad not been warned, and felt equally sure that Marguerite Blakeney hadnot played him false. If she had . . . a cruel look, that would havemade her shudder, gleamed in Chauvelin's keen, pale eyes. If she hadplayed him a trick, Armand St. Just would suffer the extreme penalty.
But no, no! of course she had not played him false!
Fortunately the supper-room was deserted: this would make Chauvelin'stask all the easier, when presently that unsuspecting enigma would enterit alone. No one was here now save Chauvelin himself.
Stay! as he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude of the room,the cunning agent of the French Government became aware of the peaceful,monotonous breathing of some one of my Lord Grenville's guests, who, nodoubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was enjoying a quiet sleep,away from the din of the dancing above.
Chauvelin looked round once more, and there in the corner of a sofa,in the dark angle of the room, his mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweetsounds of peaceful slumbers proceedings from his nostrils, reclined thegorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman inEurope.
Chauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid, unconscious, at peacewith all the world and himself, after the best of suppers, and a smile,that was almost one of pity, softened for a moment the hard lines of theFrenchman's face and the sarcastic twinkle of his pale eyes.
Evidently the slumberer, deep in dreamless sleep, would not interferewith Chauvelin's trap for catching that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. Againhe rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir PercyBlakeney, he too, stretched himself out in the corner of anothersofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth sounds of peacefulbreathing, and . . . waited!
CHAPTER XV DOUBT