and bloodthirsty
tribunal of the Revolution, within the very walls of
Paris itself, and had snatched away condemned victims, almost from the
very foot of the guillotine. With a
shudder, she recalled the events
of the last few days, her escape from Paris with her two children, all
three of them
hidden beneath the hood of a rickety cart, and lying
amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not
daring to breathe,
whilstthe mob howled, "A la lanterne les aristos!" at the awful West
Barricade.
It had all occurred in such a
miraculous way; she and her
husband had understood that they had been placed on the list of
"suspected persons," which meant that their trial and death were but a
matter of days--of hours, perhaps.
Then came the hope of
salvation; the
mysterious epistle,
signed with the enigmatical
scarletdevice; the clear, peremptory
directions; the
parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the
poor wife's heart in two; the hope of
reunion; the
flight with her two
children; the covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like
some
horrible evil demon, with the
ghastlytrophy on her whip handle!
The Comtesse looked round at the
quaint,
old-fashioned English
inn, the peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she
closed her eyes to shut out the haunting
vision of that West
Barricade, and of the mob
retreating panic-stricken when the old hag
spoke of the plague.
Every moment under that cart she expected
recognition, arrest,
herself and her children tried and condemned, and these young
Englishmen, under the
guidance of their brave and
mysterious leader,
had risked their lives to save them all, as they had already saved
scores of other
innocent people.
And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought
those of Sir Andrew
plainly told him that she thought that HE at any
rate
rescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through
a higher and nobler
motive than his friend would have her believe.
"How many are there in your brave
league, Monsieur?" she asked timidly.
"Twenty all told, Mademoiselle," he replied, "one to command,
and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the
same cause--to obey our leader and to
rescue the
innocent."
"May God protect you all, Messieurs," said the Comtesse, fervently.
"He had done that so far, Madame."
"It is wonderful to me, wonderful!--That you should all be so
brave, so
devoted to your fellowmen--yet you are English!--and in
France
treachery is rife--all in the name of liberty and fraternity."
"The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us
aristocrats than the men," said the Vicomte, with a sigh.
"Ah, yes," added the Comtesse, while a look of
haughty disdain
and
intensebitterness shot through her
melancholy eyes, "There was
that woman, Marguerite St. Just for
instance. She denounced the
Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family to the awful
tribunal of the
Terror."
"Marguerite St. Just?" said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick
and
apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.
"Marguerite St. Just?--Surely. . ."
"Yes!" replied the Comtesse, "surely you know her. She was a
leading
actress of the Comedie Francaise, and she married an
Englishman
lately. You must know her--"
"Know her?" said Lord Antony. "Know Lady Blakeney--the most
fashionable woman in London--the wife of the richest man in England?
Of course, we all know Lady Blakeney."
"She was a school-fellow of mine at the
convent in Paris,"
interposed Suzanne, "and we came over to England together to learn
your language. I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe
that she ever did anything so wicked."
"It certainly seems incredible," said Sir Andrew. "You say
that she
actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she
have done such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake--"
"No mistake is possible, Monsieur," rejoined the Comtesse,
coldly. "Marguerite St. Just's brother is a noted
republican. There
was some talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis
de St. Cyr. The St. Justs' are quite
plebeian, and the
republicangovernment employs many spies. I assure you there is no
mistake. . . . You had not heard this story?"
"Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in
England no one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her
husband, is a very
wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate
friend of the Prince of Wales. . .and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion
and society in London."
"That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very
quiet life in England, but I pray god that while I remain in this
beautiful country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just."
The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little
company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent;
Sir Andrew fidgeted
uneasily with his fork,
whilst the Comtesse,
encased in the plate-armour of her
aristocratic prejudices, sat,
rigid and unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony,
he looked
extremelyuncomfortable, and glanced once or twice
apprehensively
towards Jellyband, who looked just as
uncomfortable as himself.
"At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?" he
contrived to
whisperunobserved, to mine host.
"Any moment, my lord,"
whispered Jellyband in reply.
Even as he spoke, a distant
clatter was heard of an
approaching coach; louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became
distinguishable, then the
rattle of horses' hoofs on the
uneven cobble
stones, and the next moment a
stable boy had thrown open the
coffee-room door and rushed in excitedly.
"Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady," he shouted at the top of his
voice, "they're just arriving."
And with more shouting, jingling of
harness, and iron hoofs
upon the stones, a
magnificent coach, drawn by four
superb bays, had
halted outside the porch of "The Fisherman's Rest."
CHAPTER V MARGUERITE
In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee-room of the inn
became the scene of
hopelessconfusion and
discomfort. At the first
announcement made by the
stable boy, Lord Antony, with a
fashionableoath, had jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused
directions to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits' end
what to do.
"For goodness' sake, man," admonished his
lordship, "try to
keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies
withdraw. Zounds!" he added, with another more
emphatic oath, "this
is most unfortunate."
"Quick Sally! the candles!" shouted Jellyband, as hopping
about from one leg to another, he ran
hither and t
hither, adding to
the general
discomfort of everybody.
The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect,
trying to hide her
excitement beneath more becoming SANG-FROID, she
repeated mechanically,--
"I will not see her!--I will not see her!"
Outside, the
excitementattendant upon the
arrival of very
important guests grew apace.
"Good-day, Sir Percy!--Good-day to your ladyship! Your
servant, Sir Percy!"--was heard in one long, continued
chorus, with
alternate more
feeble tones of--"Remember the poor blind man! of your
charity, lady and gentleman!"
Then suddenly a
singularly sweet voice was heard through all
the din.
"Let the poor man be--and give him some supper at my expense."
The voice was low and
musical, with a slight sing-song in it,
and a faint SOUPCON of foreign intonation in the
pronunciation of
the consonants.
Everyone in the coffee-room heard it and paused instinctively,
listening to it for a moment. Sally was
holding the candles by the
opposite door, which led to the bedrooms
upstairs, and the Comtesse
was in the act of
beating a hasty
retreat before that enemy who owned
such a sweet
musical voice; Suzanne
reluctantly was preparing to
follow her mother, while casting regretful glances towards the door,
where she hoped still to see her dearly-beloved, erstwhile
school-fellow.
Then Jellyband threw open the door, still stupidly and blindly
hoping to avert the
catastrophe, which he felt was in the air, and the
same low,
musical voice said, with a merry laugh and mock
consternation,--