terror. Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she
laughed gaily and lightly.
"Faith! and your impudence pases belief," she said merrily.
"Robbery and violence!--in England!--in a
crowded inn! Your men might
have been caught in the act!"
"What if they had? They are children of France, and have been
trained by your
humble servant. Had they been caught they would have
gone to jail, or even to the
gallows, without a word of protest or
indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A
crowded inn
is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have
experience."
"Well? And those papers?" she asked carelessly.
"Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of
certain names. . .certain movements. . .enough, I think, to thwart
their projected COUP for the moment, it would only be for the
moment, and still leaves me in
ignorance of the
identity of the
Scarlet Pimpernel.
"La! my friend," she said, with the same assumed flippancy of
manner, "then you are where you were before, aren't you? and you can
let me enjoy the last strophe of the ARIA. Faith!" she added,
ostentatiously smothering an
imaginary yawn, "had you not
spoken about
my brother. . ."
"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there
was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St.
Just."
"Well? And?"
"That letter shows him to be not only in
sympathy with the
enemies of France, but
actually a
helper, if not a member, of the
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had
been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem
unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be
prepared for it, to have all her wits about her--those wits which had
been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch.
She knew that Chauvelin had
spoken the truth; the man was too earnest,
too
blindlydevoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud
of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low,
purposeless falsehoods.
That letter of Armand's--foolish, imprudent Armand--was in
Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter
with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes
of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it
against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh
more gaily, more loudly than she had done before.
"La, man!" she said,
speaking over her shoulder and looking
him full and
squarely in the face, "did I not say it was some
imaginary plot. . . . Armand in
league with that enigmatic Scarlet
Pimpernel!. . .Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he
despises!. . .Faith, the tale does
infinite credit to your
imagination!"
"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, with
the same unruffled calm, "I must assure you that St. Just is
compromised beyond the slightest hope of
pardon."
Inside the
orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two.
Marguerite sat, straight
upright, rigid and inert,
trying to think,
trying to face the situation, to realise what had best be done.
In the house Storace had finished the ARIA, and was even now
bowing in her
classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century
fashion, to the
enthusiasticaudience, who cheered her to the echo.
"Chauvelin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and
without that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all
along, "Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another.
It seems that my wits have become rusty by
contact with this damp
climate. Now, tell me, you are very
anxious to discover the
identityof the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn't that so?"
"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne. . .all the more
dangerous, as he works in the dark."
"All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!--and you would now
force me to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother
Armand's safety?--Is that it?"
"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady," protested Chauvelin,
urbanely. "There can be no question of force, and the service which I
would ask of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the
shocking name of spying."
"At any rate, that is what it is called over here," she said
drily. "That is your
intention, is it not?"
"My
intention is, that you yourself win the free
pardon for
Armand St. Just by doing me a small service."
"What is it?"
"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just," he said
eagerly. "Listen: among the papers which were found about the person
of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!" he added,
takinga tiny scrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.
It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two
young men had been in the act of
reading, at the very moment when they
were attacked by Chauvelin's minions. Marguerite took it mechanically
and stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a
distorted,
evidently disguised,
handwriting; she read them half
aloud--
"`Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly
necessary. You have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to
speak to me again, I shall be at G.'s ball.'"
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand."
"There is a
device here in the corner, a small red
flower. . ."
"Yes."
"The Scarlet Pimpernel," she said
eagerly, "and G.'s ball
means Grenville's ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville's ball
to-night."
"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne," concluded
Chauvelin, blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
after they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my
orders to a
lonely house in the Dover Road, which I had rented for the
purpose: there they remained close prisoners until this morning. But
having found this tiny scrap of paper, my
intention was that they
should be in London, in time to attend my Lord Grenville's ball. You
see, do you not? that they must have a great deal to say to their
chief. . .and thus they will have an opportunity of
speaking to him
to-night, just as he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning,
those two young
gallants found every bar and bolt open in that
lonelyhouse on the Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good
horses
standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not
seen them yet, but I think we may
safely conclude that they did not
draw rein until they reached London. Now you see how simple it all
is, citoyenne!"
"It does seem simple, doesn't it?" she said, with a final
bitter attempt at flippancy, "when you want to kill a chicken. . .you
take hold of it. . .then you wring its neck. . .it's only the chicken
who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my
throat, and a hostage for my
obedience. . . . You find it
simple. . . . I don't."
"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother
you love from the consequences of his own folly."