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The Scarlet Pimpernel-Part12_Baroness Emmuska Orczy(1865-1947)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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St. Just, seemed to give him strange faction" target="_blank" title="n.满意；满足">satisfaction.

"Armand St. Just a traitor after all," he murmured. "Now,



fair Marguerite Blakeney," he added viciously between his clenched

teeth, "I think that you will help me to find the Scarlet Pimpernel."



CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX

It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the



first of the autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.

The house was packed, both in the smart orchestra boxes and in



the pit, as well as in the more plebeian balconies and galleries

above. Gluck's ORPHEUS made a strong appeal to the more



intellectual portions of the house, whilst the fashionable women, the

gaily-dressed and brilliantthrong, spoke to the eye of those who



cared but little for this "latest importation from Germany."

Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA



by her numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged

favourite of the ladies, had received special gracious recognition



from the royal box; and now the curtain came down after the glorious

finale to the second act, and the audience, which had hung spell-bound



on the magic strains of the great maestro, seemed collectively to

breathe a long sigh of faction" target="_blank" title="n.满意；满足">satisfaction, previous to letting loose its



hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues.

In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces were to be



seen. Mr. Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding brief

relaxation in to-night's musical treat; the Prince of Wales, jovial,



rotund, somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about

from box to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those of his



more intimate friends.

In Lord Grenville's box, too, a curious, interesting



personality attracted everyone's attention; a thin, small figure with

shrewd, sarcastic face and deep-set eyes, attentive to the music,



keenly critical of the audience, dressed in immaculate black, with

dark hair free from any powder. Lord Grenville--Foreign Secretary of



State--paid him marked, though frigid deference.

Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of



beauty, one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the

haughty aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist



EMIGRES who, persecuted by the relentless, revolutionaryfaction of

their country, had found a peacefulrefuge in England. On these faces



sorrow and care were deeply writ; the women especially paid but little

heed, either to the music or to the brilliantaudience; no doubt their



thoughts were far away with husband, brother, son maybe, still in

peril, or lately succumbed to a cruel fate.



Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately

arrived from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep,



heavy black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the

aspect of mourning about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles,



who was vainlytrying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to

bring a smile to the Comtesse's sad mouth. Behind her sat little



Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many

strangers. Suzanne's eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered the



crowded house, she had looked eagerly all around, scanning every face,

scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was



not there, for she settled herself quietly behind her mother, listened

apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the



audience itself.

"Ah, Lord Grenville," said Lady Portarles, as following a



discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State

appeared in the doorway of the box, "you could not arrive more _A_



PROPOS. Here is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to

hear the latest news from France."



The distinguisheddiplomat had come forward and was shaking

hands with the ladies.



"Alas!" he said sadly, "it is of the very worst. The

massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the



guillotine claims a hundred victims a day."

Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair,



listening horror-struck to this brief and graphicaccount of what went




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