Less than three minutes later, there came to Chauvelin's expectant earsthe soft sound made by a woman's skirts against the stone floor. Duringthose three minutes, which had seemed an eternity to his impatience, hehad sat silently watching the slumber--affected or real--of his enemy.
Directly he heard the word: "Halt!" outside the door, he jumped to hisfeet. The next moment Marguerite had entered the room.
Hardly had her foot crossed the threshold than Sir Percy rose, quietlyand without haste but evidently fully awake, and turning towards her,made her a low obeisance.
She, poor woman, had of course caught sight of him at once. His presencehere, Chauvelin's demand for her reappearance, the soldiers in a smallcompact group outside the door, all these were unmistakable proofs thatthe awful cataclysm had at last occurred.
The Scarlet Pimpernel, Percy Blakeney, her husband, was in the hands ofthe Terrorists of France, and though face to face with her now, withan open window close to him, and an apparently helpless enemy underhis hand, he could not--owing to the fiendish measures taken byChauvelin--raise a finger to save himself and her.
Mercifully for her, nature--in the face of this appallingtragedy--deprived her of the full measure of her senses. She could moveand speak and see, she could hear and in a measure understand what wassaid, but she was really an automaton or a sleep-walker, moving andspeaking mechanically and without due comprehension.
Possibly, if she had then and there fully realized all that the futuremeant, she would have gone mad with the horror of it all.
"Lady Blakeney," began Chauvelin after he had quickly dismissed thesoldiers from the room, "when you and I parted from one another justnow, I had no idea that I should so soon have the pleasure of a personalconversation with Sir Percy.... There is no occasion yet, believe me,for sorrow or fear.... Another twenty-four hours at most, and you willbe on board the 'Day-Dream' outward bound for England. Sir Percy himselfmight perhaps accompany you; he does not desire that you should journeyto Paris, and I may safely say, that in his mind, he has alreadyaccepted certain little conditions which I have been forced to imposeupon him ere I sign the order for your absolute release."
"Conditions?" she repeated vaguely and stupidly, looking in bewildermentfrom one to the other.
"You are tired, m'dear," said Sir Percy quietly, "will you not sitdown?"
He held the chair gallantly for her. She tried to read his face,but could not catch even a flash from beneath the heavy lids whichobstinately veiled his eyes.
"Oh! it is a mere matter of exchanging signatures," continued Chauvelinin response to her inquiring glance and toying with the papers whichwere scattered on the table. "Here you see is the order to allow SirPercy Blakeney and his wife, nee Marguerite St. Just, to quit the townof Boulogne unmolested."
He held a paper out towards Marguerite, inviting her to look at it. Shecaught sight of an official-looking document, bearing the motto andseal of the Republic of France, and of her own name and Percy's writtenthereon in full.
"It is perfectly en regle, I assure you," continued Chauvelin, "and onlyawaits my signature."
He now took up another paper which looked like a long closely-writtenletter. Marguerite watched his every movement, for instinct told herthat the supreme moment had come. There was a look of almost superhumancruelty and malice in the little Frenchman's eyes as he fixed them onthe impassive figure of Sir Percy, the while with slightly tremblinghands he fingered that piece of paper and smoothed out its creases withloving care.
"I am quite prepared to sign the order for your release, Lady Blakeney,"he said, keeping his gaze still keenly fixed upon Sir Percy. "When itis signed you will understand that our measures against the citizens ofBoulogne will no longer hold good, and that on the contrary, the generalamnesty and free pardon will come into force."
"Yes, I understand that," she replied.
"And all that will come to pass, Lady Blakeney, the moment Sir Percywill write me in his own hand a letter, in accordance with the draftwhich I have prepared, and sign it with his name.
"Shall I read it to you?" he asked.
"If you please."
"You will see how simple it all is.... A mere matter of form.... I prayyou do not look upon it with terror, but only as the prelude to thatgeneral amnesty and free pardon, which I feel sure will satisfy thephilanthropic heart of the noble Scarlet Pimpernel, since three score atleast of the inhabitants of Boulogne will owe their life and freedom tohim."
"I am listening, Monsieur," she said calmly.
"As I have already had the honour of explaining, this little documentis in the form of a letter addressed personally to me and of course inFrench," he said finally, and then he looked down on the paper and beganto read:
Citizen Chauvelin--
In consideration of a further sum of one million francs and on theunderstanding that this ridiculous charge brought against me ofconspiring against the Republic of France is immediately withdrawn, andI am allowed to return to England unmolested, I am quite prepared toacquaint you with the names and whereabouts of certain persons who underthe guise of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel are even now conspiringto free the woman Marie Antoinette and her son from prison and to placethe latter upon the throne of France. You are quite well aware thatunder the pretence of being the leader of a gang of English adventurers,who never did the Republic of France and her people any real harm, Ihave actually been the means of unmasking many a royalist plot beforeyou, and of bringing many persistent conspirators to the guillotine. Iam surprised that you should cavil at the price I am asking this timefor the very important information with which I am able to furnish you,whilst you have often paid me similar sums for work which was agreat deal less difficult to do. In order to serve your governmenteffectually, both in England and in France, I must have a sufficiency ofmoney, to enable me to live in a costly style befitting a gentleman ofmy rank. Were I to alter my mode of life I could not continue to mix inthat same social milieu to which all my friends belong and wherein, asyou are well aware, most of the royalist plots are hatched.
Trusting therefore to receive a favourable reply to my just demandswithin the next twenty-four hours, whereupon the names in question shallbe furnished you forthwith,
I have the honour to remain, Citizen,
Your humble and obedient servant,
When he had finished reading, Chauvelin quietly folded the paper upagain, and then only did he look at the man and the woman before him.
Marguerite sat very erect, her head thrown back, her face very paleand her hands tightly clutched in her lap. She had not stirred whilstChauvelin read out the infamous document, with which he desired to branda brave man with the ineradicable stigma of dishonour and of shame.After she heard the first words, she looked up swiftly and questioninglyat her husband, but he stood at some little distance from her, rightout of the flickering circle of yellowish light made by the burningtallow-candle. He was as rigid as a statue, standing in his usualattitude with legs apart and hands buried in his breeches pockets.
She could not see his face.
Whatever she may have felt with regard to the letter, as the meaning ofit gradually penetrated into her brain, she was, of course, convincedof one thing, and that was that never for a moment would Percy dreamof purchasing his life or even hers at such a price. But she would haveliked some sign from him, some look by which she could be guided as toher immediate conduct: as, however, he gave neither look nor sign, shepreferred to assume an attitude of silent contempt.
But even before Chauvelin had had time to look from one face to theother, a prolonged and merry laugh echoed across the squalid room.
Sir Percy, with head thrown back, was laughing whole-heartedly.
"A magnificent epistle, sir," he said gaily, "Lud love you, wheredid you wield the pen so gracefully?... I vow that if I signed thisinteresting document no one will believe I could have expressed myselfwith perfect ease.. and in French too..."
"Nay, Sir Percy," rejoined Chauvelin dril
y, "I have thought of all that,and lest in the future there should be any doubt as to whether your ownhand had or had not penned the whole of this letter, I also make it acondition that you write out every word of it yourself, and sign it herein this very room, in the presence of Lady Blakeney, of myself, ofmy colleagues and of at least half a dozen other persons whom I willselect."
"It is indeed admirably thought out, Monsieur," rejoined Sir Percy,"and what is to become of the charming epistle, may I ask, after Ihave written and signed it?... Pardon my curiosity.... I take a naturalinterest in the matter... and truly your ingenuity passes belief..."
"Oh! the fate of this letter will be as simple as was the writingthereof.... A copy of it will be published in our 'Gazette de Paris'as a bait for enterprising English journalists.... They will not bebackward in getting hold of so much interesting matter.... Can you notsee the attractive headlines in 'The London Gazette,' Sir Percy? 'TheLeague of the Scarlet Pimpernel unmasked! A gigantic hoax! The originof the Blakeney millions!'... I believe that journalism in England hasreached a high standard of excellence... and even the 'Gazette de Paris'is greatly read in certain towns of your charming country.... His RoyalHighness the Prince of Wales, and various other influential gentlemenin London, will, on the other hand, be granted a private view of theoriginal through the kind offices of certain devoted friends whom wepossess in England.... I don't think that you need have any fear, SirPercy, that your caligraphy will sink into oblivion. It will be ourbusiness to see that it obtains the full measure of publicity which itdeserves..."
He paused a moment, then his manner suddenly changed: the sarcastic tonedied out of his voice, and there came back into his face that look ofhatred and cruelty which Blakeney's persiflage had always the power toevoke.
"You may rest assured of one thing, Sir Percy," he said with a harshlaugh, "that enough mud will be thrown at that erstwhile gloriousScarlet Pimpernel... some of it will be bound to stick..."
"Nay, Monsieur... er... Chaubertin," quoth Blakeney lightly, "I have nodoubt that you and your colleagues are past masters in the graceful artof mud-throwing.... But pardon me... er.... I was interrupting you....Continue, Monsieur... continue, I pray. 'Pon my honour, the matter isvastly diverting."
"Nay, sir, after the publication of this diverting epistle, meseems yourhonour will ceased to be a marketable commodity."
"Undoubtedly, sir," rejoined Sir Percy, apparently quite unruffled,"pardon a slip of the tongue... we are so much the creatures ofhabit.... As you were saying...?"
"I have but little more to say, sir.... But lest there should even nowbe lurking in your mind a vague hope that, having written this letter,you could easily in the future deny its authorship, let me tell youthis: my measures are well taken, there will be witnesses to yourwriting of it.... You will sit here in this room, unfettered, uncoercedin any way, and the money spoken of in the letter will be handed over toyou by my colleague, after a few suitable words spoken by him, and youwill take the money from him, Sir Percy... and the witnesses willsee you take it after having seen you write the letter... they willunderstand that you are being PAID by the French government for givinginformation anent royalist plots in this country and in England... theywill understand that your identity as the leader of that so-called bandis not only known to me and to my colleague, but that it also coversyour real character and profession as the paid spy of France."
"Marvellous, I call it... demmed marvellous," quoth Sir Percy blandly.
Chauvelin had paused, half-choked by his own emotion, his hatred andprospective revenge. He passed his handkerchief over his forehead, whichwas streaming with perspiration.
"Warm work, this sort of thing... eh... Monsieur... er...Chaubertin?..." queried his imperturbable enemy.
Marguerite said nothing; the whole thing was too horrible for words,but she kept her large eyes fixed upon her husband's face... waitingfor that look, that sign from him which would have eased the agonizinganxiety in her heart, and which never came.
With a great effort now, Chauvelin pulled himself together and, thoughhis voice still trembled, he managed to speak with a certain amount ofcalm:
"Probably, Sir Percy, you know," he said, "that throughout the whole ofFrance we are inaugurating a series of national fetes, in honour of thenew religion which the people are about to adopt.... Demoiselle DesireeCandeille, whom you know, will at these festivals impersonate theGoddess of Reason, the only deity whom we admit now in France.... Shehas been specially chosen for this honour, owing to the services whichshe has rendered us recently... and as Boulogne happens to be the luckycity in which we have succeeded in bringing the Scarlet Pimpernel tojustice, the national fete will begin within these city walls, withDemoiselle Candeille as the thrice-honoured goddess."
"And you will be very merry here in Boulogne, I dare swear..."
"Aye, merry, sir," said Chauvelin with an involuntary and savage snarl,as he placed a long claw-like finger upon the momentous paper beforehim, "merry, for we here in Boulogne will see that which will fill theheart of every patriot in France with gladness.... Nay! 'twas not thedeath of the Scarlet Pimpernel we wanted... not the noble martyrdom ofEngland's chosen hero... but his humiliation and defeat... derisionand scorn... contumely and contempt. You asked me airily just now, SirPercy, how I proposed to accomplish this object... Well! you know itnow--by forcing you... aye, forcing--to write and sign a letter andto take money from my hands which will brand you forever as a liar andinformer, and cover you with the thick and slimy mud of irreclaimableinfamy..."
"Lud! sir," said Sir Percy pleasantly, "what a wonderful command youhave of our language.... I wish I could speak French half as well..."
Marguerite had risen like an automaton from her chair. She felt that shecould no longer sit still, she wanted to scream out at the top of hervoice, all the horror she felt for this dastardly plot, which surelymust have had its origin in the brain of devils. She could notunderstand Percy. This was one of those awful moments, which shehad been destined to experience once or twice before, when the wholepersonality of her husband seemed to become shadowy before her, to slip,as it were, past her comprehension, leaving her indescribably lonely andwretched, trusting yet terrified.
She thought that long ere this he would have flung back every insult inhis opponent's teeth; she did not know what inducements Chauvelin hadheld out in exchange for the infamous letter, what threats he had used.That her own life and freedom were at stake, was, of course, evident,but she cared nothing for life, and he should know that certainly shewould care still less if such a price had to be paid for it.
She longed to tell him all that was in her heart, longed to tell him howlittle she valued her life, how highly she prized his honour! but howcould she, before this fiend who snarled and sneered in his anticipatedtriumph, and surely, surely Percy knew!
And knowing all that, why did he not speak? Why did he not tear thatinfamous paper from out that devil's hands and fling it in his face?Yet, though her loving ear caught every intonation of her husband'svoice, she could not detect the slightest harshness in his airy laugh;his tone was perfectly natural and he seemed to be, indeed, just as heappeared--vastly amused.
Then she thought that perhaps he would wish her to go now, that he feltdesire to be alone with this man, who had outraged him in everythingthat he held most holy and most dear, his honour and his wife... thatperhaps, knowing that his own temper was no longer under control, he didnot wish her to witness the rough and ready chastisement which he wasintending to mete out to this dastardly intriguer.
Yes! that was it no doubt! Herein she could not be mistaken; she knewhis fastidious notions of what was due and proper in the presence of awoman, and that even at a moment like this, he would wish the manners ofLondon drawing-rooms to govern his every action.
Therefore she rose to go, and as she did so, once more tried to read theexpression in his face... to guess what was passing in his mind.
"Nay, Madam," he said, whilst he bowed gracefully before her, "
I fear methis lengthy conversation hath somewhat fatigued you.... This merry jest'twixt my engaging friend and myself should not have been prolonged sofar into the night.... Monsieur, I pray you, will you not give ordersthat her ladyship be escorted back to her room?"
He was still standing outside the circle of light, and Margueriteinstinctively went up to him. For this one second she was obliviousof Chauvelin's presence, she forgot her well-schooled pride, herfirm determination to be silent and to be brave: she could no longerrestrain the wild beatings of her heart, the agony of her soul, andwith sudden impulse she murmured in a voice broken with intense love andsubdued, passionate appeal:
"Percy!"
He drew back a step further into the gloom: this made her realize themistake she had made in allowing her husband's most bitter enemy toget this brief glimpse into her soul. Chauvelin's thin lips curled withsatisfaction, the brief glimpse had been sufficient for him, the rapidlywhispered name, the broken accent had told him what he had not knownhitherto: namely, that between this man and woman there was a bond farmore powerful that that which usually existed between husband and wife,and merely made up of chivalry on the one side and trustful reliance onthe other.
Marguerite having realized her mistake, ashamed of having betrayedher feelings even for a moment, threw back her proud head and gave herexultant foe a look of defiance and of scorn. He responded with one ofpity, not altogether unmixed with deference. There was something almostunearthly and sublime in this beautiful woman's agonizing despair.
He lowered his head and made her a deep obeisance, lest she should seethe satisfaction and triumph which shone through his pity.
As usual Sir Percy remained quite imperturbable, and now it was he, who,with characteristic impudence, touched the hand-bell on the table:
"Excuse this intrusion, Monsieur," he said lightly, "her ladyship isoverfatigued and would be best in her room."
Marguerite threw him a grateful look. After all she was only a womanand was afraid of breaking down. In her mind there was no issue to thepresent deadlock save in death. For this she was prepared and had butone great hope that she could lie in her husband's arms just once againbefore she died. Now, since she could not speak to him, scarcely daredto look into the loved face, she was quite ready to go.
In answer to the bell, the soldier had entered.
"If Lady Blakeney desires to go..." said Chauvelin.
She nodded and Chauvelin gave the necessary orders: two soldiers stoodat attention ready to escort Marguerite back to her prison cell. As shewent towards the door she came to within a couple of steps from whereher husband was standing, bowing to her as she passed. She stretchedout an icy cold hand towards him, and he, in the most approved Londonfashion, with the courtly grace of a perfect English gentleman, tookthe little hand in his and stooping very low kissed the delicatefinger-tips.
Then only did she notice that the strong, nervy hand which held herstrembled perceptibly, and that his lips--which for an instant rested onher fingers--were burning hot.
Chapter XXVII: The Decision