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The Scarlet Pimpernel-Part18_Baroness Emmuska Orczy(1865-1947)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"Yes?--And?"



"I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The

papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of



the neighborhood of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called `Le

Chat Gris,' of a lonely place somewhere on the coast--the Pere



Blanchard's hut--which I must endeavor to find. All these places are

given as the point where this meddlesome Englishman has bidden the



traitor de Tournay and others to meet his emissaries. But it seems

that he has decided not to send his emissaries, that `he will start



himself to-morrow.' Now, one of these persons whom I shall see anon

in the supper-room, will be journeying to Calais, and I shall follow



that person, until I have tracked him to where 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 whose energies has

outdone me, whose ingenuity has baffled me, whose audacity has set me



wondering--yes! me!--who have seen a trick or two in my time--the

mysterious and elusive Scarlet Pimpernel."



"And Armand?" she pleaded.

"Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the



Scarlet Pimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that

imprudent letter of his by special courier. More than that, I will



pledge you the word of France, that the day I lay hands on that

meddlesome Englishman, St. Just will 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 of music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like

tread, gliding through the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear



him go down the massivestaircase, reach the dining-room and open the

door. Fate HAD decided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile



and abominable thing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay

back in her chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her



relentless enemy ever present before her aching eyes.

When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted.



It had that woebegone, forsaken, tawdry appearance, which reminds one

so much of a ball-dress, the morning after.



Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay

about, the chairs--turned towards one another in groups of twos and



threes--very close to one another--in the far corners of the room,

which spoke of recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and



champagne; there were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled

pleasant, animated discussions over the latest scandal; there were



chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid,

like antiquated dowager; there were a few isolated, single chairs,



close to the table, that spoke of gourmands intent on the most

RECHERCHE dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that spoke



volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's cellars.

It was a ghostlike replica, in fact, of that fashionable



gathering upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and

good suppers are given; a picture drawn with white chalk on grey



cardboard, dull and colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and

gorgeously embroidered coats were no longer there to fill in the



foreground, and now that the candles flickered sleepily in their

sockets.



Chauvelin smiled benignly, and rubbing his long, thin hands

together, he looked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the



last flunkey had retired in order to join his friends in the hall

below. All was silence in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of



the gavotte, the hum of distant talk and laughter, and the rumble of

an occasional coach outside, only seemed to reach this palace of the



Sleeping Beauty as the murmur of some flitting spooks far away.

It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious, and so still, that



the keenest observer--a veritable prophet--could never have guessed

that, at this present moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing



but a trap laid for the capture of the most cunning and audacious

plotter those stirring times had ever seen.



Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the immediate

future. What would this man be like, whom he and the leaders of the



whole revolution had sworn to bring to his death? Everything about

him was weird and mysterious; his personality, which he so cunningly



concealed, the power he wielded over nineteen English gentlemen who

seemed to obey his every command blindly and enthusiastically, the



passionate love and submission he had roused in his little trained

band, and, above all, his marvellous audacity, the boundless impudence



which had caused him to beard his most implacable enemies, within the




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