Marguerite Blakeney had watched the slight sable-clad figure ofChauvelin, as he worked his way through the ball-room. Then perforce shehad had to wait, while her nerves tingled with excitement.
Listlessly she sat in the small, still deserted boudoir, looking outthrough the curtained doorway on the dancing couples beyond: lookingat them, yet seeing nothing, hearing the music, yet conscious of naughtsave a feeling of expectancy, of anxious, weary waiting.
Her mind conjured up before her the vision of what was, perhaps at thisvery moment, passing downstairs. The half-deserted dining-room, thefateful hour--Chauvelin on the watch!--then, precise to the moment, theentrance of a man, he, the Scarlet Pimpernel, the mysterious leader, whoto Marguerite had become almost unreal, so strange, so weird was thishidden identity.
She wished she were in the supper-room, too, at this moment, watchinghim as he entered; she knew that her woman's penetration would at oncerecognise in the stranger's face--whoever he might be--that strongindividuality which belongs to a leader of men--to a hero: to themighty, high-soaring eagle, whose daring wings were becoming entangledin the ferret's trap.
Woman-like, she thought of him with unmixed sadness; the irony of thatfate seemed so cruel which allowed the fearless lion to succumb to thegnawing of a rat! Ah! had Armand's life not been at stake! . . .
"Faith! your ladyship must have thought me very remiss," said a voicesuddenly, close to her elbow. "I had a deal of difficulty in deliveringyour message, for I could not find Blakeney anywhere at first . . ."
Marguerite had forgotten all about her husband and her message tohim; his very name, as spoken by Lord Fancourt, sounded strange andunfamiliar to her, so completely had she in the last five minutes livedher old life in the Rue de Richelieu again, with Armand always near herto love and protect her, to guard her from the many subtle intrigueswhich were forever raging in Paris in those days.
"I did find him at last," continued Lord Fancourt, "and gave him yourmessage. He said that he would give orders at once for the horses to beput to."
"Ah!" she said, still very absently, "you found my husband, and gave himmy message?"
"Yes; he was in the dining-room fast asleep. I could not manage to wakehim up at first."
"Thank you very much," she said mechanically, trying to collect herthoughts.
"Will your ladyship honour me with the CONTREDANSE until your coach isready?" asked Lord Fancourt.
"No, I thank you, my lord, but--and you will forgive me--I really am tootired, and the heat in the ball-room has become oppressive."
"The conservatory is deliciously cool; let me take you there, and thenget you something. You seem ailing, Lady Blakeney."
"I am only very tired," she repeated wearily, as she allowed LordFancourt to lead her, where subdued lights and green plants lentcoolness to the air. He got her a chair, into which she sank. This longinterval of waiting was intolerable. Why did not Chauvelin come and tellher the result of his watch?
Lord Fancourt was very attentive. She scarcely heard what he said, andsuddenly startled him by asking abruptly,--
"Lord Fancourt, did you perceive who was in the dining-room just nowbesides Sir Percy Blakeney?"
"Only the agent of the French government, M. Chauvelin, equally fastasleep in another corner," he said. "Why does your ladyship ask?"
"I know not . . . I . . . Did you notice the time when you were there?"
"It must have been about five or ten minutes past one. . . . I wonderwhat your ladyship is thinking about," he added, for evidently the fairlady's thoughts were very far away, and she had not been listening tohis intellectual conversation.
But indeed her thoughts were not very far away: only one storey below,in this same house, in the dining-room where sat Chauvelin still on thewatch. Had he failed? For one instant that possibility rose before as ahope--the hope that the Scarlet Pimpernel had been warned by Sir Andrew,and that Chauvelin's trap had failed to catch his bird; but that hopesoon gave way to fear. Had he failed? But then--Armand!
Lord Fancourt had given up talking since he found that he had nolistener. He wanted an opportunity for slipping away; for sittingopposite to a lady, however fair, who is evidently not heeding the mostvigorous efforts made for her entertainment, is not exhilarating, evento a Cabinet Minister.
"Shall I find out if your ladyship's coach is ready," he said at last,tentatively.
"Oh, thank you . . . thank you . . . if you would be so kind . . . Ifear I am but sorry company . . . but I am really tired . . . and,perhaps, would be best alone."
But Lord Fancourt went, and still Chauvelin did not come. Oh! whathad happened? She felt Armand's fate trembling in the balance . . . shefeared--now with a deadly fear that Chauvelin HAD failed, and that themysterious Scarlet Pimpernel had proved elusive once more; then she knewthat she need hope for no pity, no mercy, from him.
He had pronounced his "Either--or--" and nothing less would content him:he was very spiteful, and would affect the belief that she had wilfullymisled him, and having failed to trap the eagle once again, hisrevengeful mind would be content with the humble prey--Armand!
Yet she had done her best; had strained every nerve for Armand's sake.She could not bear to think that all had failed. She could not sitstill; she wanted to go and hear the worst at once; she wondered eventhat Chauvelin had not come yet, to vent his wrath and satire upon her.
Lord Grenville himself came presently to tell her that her coach wasready, and that Sir Percy was already waiting for her--ribbons inhand. Marguerite said "Farewell" to her distinguished host; many ofher friends stopped her, as she crossed the rooms, to talk to her, andexchange pleasant AU REVOIRS.
The Minister only took final leave of beautiful Lady Blakeney on thetop of the stairs; below, on the landing, a veritable army of gallantgentlemen were waiting to bid "Good-bye" to the queen of beautyand fashion, whilst outside, under the massive portico, Sir Percy'smagnificent bays were impatient pawing the ground.
At the top of the stairs, just after she had taken final leave of herhost, she suddenly saw Chauvelin; he was coming up the stairs slowly,and rubbing his thin hands very softly together.
There was a curious look on his mobile face, partly amused and whollypuzzled, as his keen eyes met Marguerite's they became strangelysarcastic.
"M. Chauvelin," she said, as he stopped on the top of the stairs, bowingelaborately before her, "my coach is outside; may I claim your arm?"
As gallant as ever, he offered her his arm and led her downstairs. Thecrowd was very great, some of the Minister's guests were departing,others were leaning against the banisters watching the throng as itfiled up and down the wide staircase.
"Chauvelin," she said at last desperately, "I must know what hashappened."
"What has happened, dear lady?" he said, with affected surprise. "Where?When?"
"You are torturing me, Chauvelin. I have helped you to-night . . . surelyI have the right to know. What happened in the dining-room at oneo'clock just now?"
She spoke in a whisper, trusting that in the general hubbub of the crowdher words would remain unheeded by all, save the man at her side.
"Quiet and peace reigned supreme, fair lady; at that hour I was asleepin one corner of one sofa and Sir Percy Blakeney in another."
"Nobody came into the room at all?"
"Nobody."
"Then we have failed, you and I?"
"Yes! we have failed--perhaps . . ."
"But Armand?" she pleaded.
"Ah! Armand St. Just's chances hang on a thread . . . pray heaven, dearlady, that that thread may not snap."
"Chauvelin, I worked for you, sincerely, earnestly . . . remember . . ."
"I remember my promise," he said quietly. "The day that the ScarletPimpernel and I meet on French soil, St. Just will be in the arms of hischarming sister."
"Which means that a brave man's blood will be on my hands," she said,with a shudder.
"His blood, or that of your brother. Surely at the present moment youmust
hope, as I do, that the enigmatical Scarlet Pimpernel will startfor Calais to-day--"
"I am only conscious of one hope, citoyen."
"And that is?"
"That Satan, your master, will have need of you elsewhere, before thesun rises to-day."
"You flatter me, citoyenne."
She had detained him for a while, mid-way down the stairs, trying to getat the thoughts which lay beyond that thin, fox-like mask. But Chauvelinremained urbane, sarcastic, mysterious; not a line betrayed to the poor,anxious woman whether she need fear or whether she dared to hope.
Downstairs on the landing she was soon surrounded. Lady Blakeney neverstepped from any house into her coach, without an escort of flutteringhuman moths around the dazzling light of her beauty. But before shefinally turned away from Chauvelin, she held out a tiny hand to him,with that pretty gesture of childish appeal which was essentially herown. "Give me some hope, my little Chauvelin," she pleaded.
With perfect gallantry he bowed over that tiny hand, which looked sodainty and white through the delicately transparent black lace mitten,and kissing the tips of the rosy fingers:--
"Pray heaven that the thread may not snap," he repeated, with hisenigmatic smile.
And stepping aside, he allowed the moths to flutter more closely roundthe candle, and the brilliant throng of the JEUNESSE DOREE, eagerlyattentive to Lady Blakeney's every movement, hid the keen, fox-like facefrom her view.
CHAPTER XVI RICHMOND