The Elusive Pimpernel

  There was no time to say more then. For the laughing, chatting groupsof friends had once more closed up round Marguerite and her husband,and she, ever on the alert, gave neither look nor sign that any seriousconversation had taken place between Sir Percy and herself.

  Whatever she might feel or dread with regard to the foolhardy adventuresin which he still persistently embarked, no member of the Leagueever guarded the secret of his chief more loyally than did MargueriteBlakeney.

  Though her heart overflowed with a passionate pride in her husband, shewas clever enough to conceal every emotion save that which Nature hadinsisted on imprinting in her face, her present radiant happinessand her irresistible love. And thus before the world she kept up thatbantering way with him, which had characterized her earlier matrimoniallife, that good-natured, easy contempt which he had so readily acceptedin those days, and which their entourage would have missed and wouldhave enquired after, if she had changed her manner towards him toosuddenly.

  In her heart she knew full well that within Percy Blakeney's soulshe had a great and powerful rival: his wild, mad, passionate love ofadventure. For it he would sacrifice everything, even his life; shedared not ask herself if he would sacrifice his love.

  Twice in a few weeks he had been over to France: every time he went shecould not know if she would ever see him again. She could not imaginehow the French Committee of Public Safety could so clumsily allow thehated Scarlet Pimpernel to slip through its fingers. But she neverattempted either to warn him or to beg him not to go. When he broughtPaul Deroulede and Juliette Marny over from France, her heart wentout to the two young people in sheer gladness and pride because of hisprecious life, which he had risked for them.

  She loved Juliette for the dangers Percy had passed, for the anxietiesshe herself had endured; only to-day, in the midst of this beautifulsunshine, this joy of the earth, of summer and of the sky, she hadsuddenly felt a mad, overpowering anxiety, a deadly hatred of thewild adventurous life, which took him so often away from her side. Hispleasant, bantering reply precluded her following up the subject, whilstthe merry chatter of people round her warned her to keep her words andlooks under control.

  But she seemed now to feel the want of being alone, and, somehow, thatdistant booth with its flaring placard, and the crier in the Phrygiancap, exercised a weird fascination over her.

  Instinctively she bent her steps thither, and equally instinctively theidle throng of her friends followed her. Sir Percy alone had halted inorder to converse with Lord Hastings, who had just arrived.

  "Surely, Lady Blakeney, you have no though of patronising thatgruesome spectacle?" said Lord Anthony Dewhurst, as Marguerite almostmechanically had paused within a few yards of the solitary booth.

  "I don't know," she said, with enforced gaiety, "the place seemsto attract me. And I need not look at the spectacle," she addedsignificantly, as she pointed to a roughly-scribbled notice at theentrance of the tent: "In aid of the starving poor of Paris."

  "There's a good-looking woman who sings, and a hideous mechanical toythat moves," said one of the young men in the crowd. "It is very darkand close inside the tent. I was lured in there for my sins, and was ina mighty hurry to come out again."

  "Then it must be my sins that are helping to lure me too at the presentmoment," said Marguerite lightly. "I pray you all to let me go in there.I want to hear the good-looking woman sing, even if I do not see thehideous toy on the move."

  "May I escort you then, Lady Blakeney?" said Lord Tony.

  "Nay! I would rather go in alone," she replied a trifle impatiently. "Ibeg of you not to heed my whim, and to await my return, there, where themusic is at its merriest."

  It had been bad manners to insist. Marguerite, with a littlecomprehensive nod to all her friends, left the young cavaliers stillprotesting and quickly passed beneath the roughly constructed doorwaythat gave access into the booth.

  A man, dressed in theatrical rags and wearing the characteristic scarletcap, stood immediately within the entrance, and ostentatiously rattled amoney box at regular intervals.

  "For the starving poor of Paris," he drawled out in nasal monotonoustones the moment he caught sight of Marguerite and of her rich gown. Shedropped some gold into the box and then passed on.

  The interior of the booth was dark and lonely-looking after the glareof the hot September sun and the noisy crowd that thronged the swardoutside. Evidently a performance had just taken place on the elevatedplatform beyond, for a few yokels seemed to be lingering in a desultorymanner as if preparatory to going out.

  A few disjointed comments reached Marguerite's ears as she approached,and the small groups parted to allow her to pass. One or two womengaped in astonishment at her beautiful dress, whilst others bobbed arespectful curtsey.

  The mechanical toy arrested her attention immediately. She did not findit as gruesome as she expected, only singularly grotesque, with allthose wooden little figures in their quaint, arrested action.

  She drew nearer to have a better look, and the yokels who had lingeredbehind, paused, wondering if she would make any remark.

  "Her ladyship was born in France," murmured one of the men, close toher, "she would know if the thing really looks like that."

  "She do seem interested," quoth another in a whisper.

  "Lud love us all!" said a buxom wench, who was clinging to the arm of anervous-looking youth, "I believe they're coming for more money."

  On the elevated platform at the further end of the tent, a slimfigure had just made its appearance, that of a young woman dressed inpeculiarly sombre colours, and with a black lace hood thrown lightlyover her head.

  Marguerite thought that the face seemed familiar to her, and she alsonoticed that the woman carried a large embroidered reticule in herbemittened hand.

  There was a general exodus the moment she appeared. The Richmond yokelsdid not like the look of that reticule. They felt that sufficientdemand had already been made upon their scant purses, considering themeagerness of the entertainment, and they dreaded being lured to furtherextravagance.

  When Marguerite turned away from the mechanical toy, the last of thelittle crowd had disappeared, and she was alone in the booth with thewoman in the dark kirtle and black lace hood.

  "For the poor of Paris, Madame," said the latter mechanically, holdingout her reticule.

  Marguerite was looking at her intently. The face certainly seemedfamiliar, recalling to her mind the far-off days in Paris, beforeshe married. Some young actress no doubt driven out of France by thatterrible turmoil which had caused so much sorrow and so much suffering.The face was pretty, the figure slim and elegant, and the look ofobvious sadness in the dark, almond-shaped eyes was calculated toinspire sympathy and pity.

  Yet, strangely enough, Lady Blakeney felt repelled and chilled by thissombrely-dressed young person: an instinct, which she could not haveexplained and which she felt had no justification, warned her thatsomehow or other, the sadness was not quite genuine, the appeal for thepoor not quite heartfelt.

  Nevertheless, she took out her purse, and dropping some few sovereignsinto the capacious reticule, she said very kindly:

  "I hope that you are satisfied with your day's work, Madame; I fearme our British country folk hold the strings of their purses somewhattightly these times."

  The woman sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

  "Oh, Madame!" she said with a tone of great dejection, "one does whatone can for one's starving countrymen, but it is very hard to elicitsympathy over here for them, poor dears!"

  "You are a Frenchwoman, of course," rejoined Marguerite, who had notedthat though the woman spoke English with a very pronounced foreignaccent, she had nevertheless expressed herself with wonderful fluencyand correctness.

  "Just like Lady Blakeney herself," replied the other.

  "You know who I am?

  "Who could come to Richmond and not know Lady Blakeney by sight."

  "But what made you come to Richmond on this philanthropic errand of
yours?"

  "I go where I think there is a chance of earning a little money forthe cause which I have at heart," replied the Frenchwoman with the samegentle simplicity, the same tone of mournful dejection.

  What she said was undoubtedly noble and selfless. Lady Blakeney felt inher heart that her keenest sympathy should have gone out to thisyoung woman--pretty, dainty, hardly more than a girl--who seemed to bedevoting her young life in a purely philanthropic and unselfish cause.And yet in spite of herself, Marguerite seemed unable to shake off thatcurious sense of mistrust which had assailed her from the first, northat feeling of unreality and staginess with which the Frenchwoman'sattitude had originally struck her.

  Yet she tried to be kind and to be cordial, tried to hide that coldnessin her manner which she felt was unjustified.

  "It is all very praiseworthy on your part, Madame," she said somewhatlamely. "Madame...?" she added interrogatively.

  "My name is Candeille--Desiree Candeille," replied the Frenchwoman.

  "Candeille?" exclaimed Marguerite with sudden alacrity, "Candeille...surely..."

  "Yes... of the Varietes."

  "Ah! then I know why your face from the first seemed familiar to me,"said Marguerite, this time with unaffected cordiality. "I must haveapplauded you many a time in the olden days. I am an ex-colleague, youknow. My name was St. Just before I married, and I was of the MaisonMoliere."

  "I knew that," said Desiree Candeille, "and half hoped that you wouldremember me."

  "Nay! who could forget Demoiselle Candeille, the most popular star inthe theatrical firmament?"

  "Oh! that was so long ago."

  "Only four years."

  "A fallen star is soon lost out of sight."

  "Why fallen?"

  "It was a choice for me between exile from France and the guillotine,"rejoined Candeille simply.

  "Surely not?" queried Marguerite with a touch of genuine sympathy.With characteristic impulsiveness, she had now cast aside her formermisgivings: she had conquered her mistrust, at any rate had relegatedit to the background of her mind. This woman was a colleague: she hadsuffered and was in distress; she had every claim, therefore, on acompatriot's help and friendship. She stretched out her hand and tookDesiree Candeille's in her own; she forced herself to feel nothing butadmiration for this young woman, whose whole attitude spoke of sorrowsnobly borne, of misfortunes proudly endured.

  "I don't know why I should sadden you with my story," rejoined DesireeCandeille after a slight pause, during which she seemed to be wagingwar against her own emotion. "It is not a very interesting one. Hundredshave suffered as I did. I had enemies in Paris. God knows how thathappened. I had never harmed anyone, but someone must have hated me andmust have wished me ill. Evil is so easily wrought in France these days.A denunciation--a perquisition--an accusation--then the flight fromParis... the forged passports... the disguise... the bribe... thehardships... the squalid hiding places.... Oh! I have gone throughit all... tasted every kind of humiliation... endured every kind ofinsult.... Remember! that I was not a noble aristocrat... a Duchessor an impoverished Countess..." she added with marked bitterness, "orperhaps the English cavaliers whom the popular voice has called theLeague of the Scarlet Pimpernel would have taken some interest in me. Iwas only a poor actress and had to find my way out of France alone, orelse perish on the guillotine."

  "I am so sorry!" said Marguerite simply.

  "Tell me how you got on, once you were in England," she continued aftera while, seeing that Desiree Candeille seemed absorbed in thought.

  "I had a few engagements at first," replied the Frenchwoman. "I playedat Sadler's Wells and with Mrs. Jordan at Covent Garden, but the Aliens'Bill put an end to my chances of livelihood. No manager cared to give mea part, and so..."

  "And so?"

  "Oh! I had a few jewels and I sold them.... A little money and I live onthat.... But when I played at Covent Garden I contrived to send part ofmy salary over to some of the poorer clubs of Paris. My heart aches forthose that are starving.... Poor wretches, they are misguided and misledby self-seeking demagogues.... It hurts me to feel that I can do nothingmore to help them... and eases my self-respect if, by singing at publicfairs, I can still send a few francs to those who are poorer thanmyself."

  She had spoken with ever-increasing passion and vehemence. Marguerite,with eyes fixed into vacancy, seeing neither the speaker nor hersurroundings, seeing only visions of those same poor wreckages ofhumanity, who had been goaded into thirst for blood, when their shrunkenbodies should have been clamouring for healthy food,--Margueritethus absorbed, had totally forgotten her earlier prejudices and nowcompletely failed to note all that was unreal, stagy, theatrical, in theoratorical declamations of the ex-actress from the Varietes.

  Pre-eminently true and loyal herself in spite of the many deceptions andtreacheries which she had witnessed in her life, she never looked forfalsehood or for cant in others. Even now she only saw before her awoman who had been wrongfully persecuted, who had suffered and hadforgiven those who had caused her to suffer. She bitterly accusedherself for her original mistrust of this noble-hearted, unselfishwoman, who was content to tramp around in an alien country, barteringher talents for a few coins, in order that some of those, who were theoriginators of her sorrows, might have bread to eat and a bed in whichto sleep.

  "Mademoiselle," she said warmly, "truly you shame me, who am alsoFrench-born, with the many sacrifices you so nobly make for those whoshould have first claim on my own sympathy. Believe me, if I havenot done as much as duty demanded of me in the cause of my starvingcompatriots, it has not been for lack of good-will. Is there any waynow," she added eagerly, "in which I can help you? Putting aside thequestion of money, wherein I pray you to command my assistance, what canI do to be of useful service to you?"

  "You are very kind, Lady Blakeney..." said the other hesitatingly.

  "Well? What is it? I see there is something in your mind..."

  "It is perhaps difficult to express... but people say I have a goodvoice... I sing some French ditties... they are a novelty in England, Ithink.... If I could sing them in fashionable salons... I mightperhaps..."

  "Nay! you shall sing in fashionable salons," exclaimed Margueriteeagerly, "you shall become the fashion, and I'll swear the Prince ofWales himself shall bid you sing at Carlton House... and you shall nameyour own fee, Mademoiselle... and London society shall vie with theelite of Bath, as to which shall lure you to its most frequentedrouts.... There! there! you shall make a fortune for the Paris poor...and to prove to you that I mean every word I say, you shall begin yourtriumphant career in my own salon to-morrow night. His Royal Highnesswill be present. You shall sing your most engaging songs... and foryour fee you must accept a hundred guineas, which you shall send tothe poorest workman's club in Paris in the name of Sir Percy and LadyBlakeney."

  "I thank your ladyship, but..."

  "You'll not refuse?"

  "I'll accept gladly... but... you will understand... I am not very old,"said Candeille quaintly, "I... I am only an actress... but if a youngactress is unprotected... then..."

  "I understand," replied Marguerite gently, "that you are far too prettyto frequent the world all alone, and that you have a mother, a sisteror a friend... which?... whom you would wish to escort you to-morrow. Isthat it?"

  "Nay," rejoined the actress, with marked bitterness, "I have neithermother, nor sister, but our Revolutionary Government, with tardycompassion for those it has so relentlessly driven out of France,has deputed a representative of theirs in England to look after theinterests of French subjects over here!"

  "Yes?"

  "They have realised over in Paris that my life here has been devoted tothe welfare of the poor people of France. The representative whom thegovernment has sent to England is specially interested in me and inmy work. He is a stand-by for me in case of trouble... in case ofinsults... A woman alone is oft subject to those, even at the hands ofso-called gentlemen... and the official representative of my own country
becomes in such cases my most natural protector."

  "I understand."

  "You will receive him?"

  "Certainly."

  "Then may I present him to your ladyship?"

  "Whenever you like."

  "Now, and it please you."

  "Now?"

  "Yes. Here he comes, at your ladyship's service."

  Desiree Candeille's almond-shaped eyes were fixed upon a distant part ofthe tent, behind Lady Blakeney in the direction of the main entranceto the booth. There was a slight pause after she had spoken andthen Marguerite slowly turned in order to see who this officialrepresentative of France was, whom at the young actress' request she hadjust agreed to receive in her house. In the doorway of the tent, framedby its gaudy draperies, and with the streaming sunshine as a brilliantbackground behind him, stood the sable-clad figure of Chauvelin.

  Chapter VII: Premonition