El Dorado: An Adventure of the Scarlet Pimpernel

  CHAPTER XII. WHAT LOVE IS

  "Well, now, Armand, what is it?" asked Blakeney, the moment thefootsteps of his friends had died away down the stone stairs, and theirvoices had ceased to echo in the distance.

  "You guessed, then, that there was... something?" said the younger man,after a slight hesitation.

  "Of course."

  Armand rose, pushing the chair away from him with an impatient nervygesture. Burying his hands in the pockets of his breeches, he beganstriding up and down the room, a dark, troubled expression in his face,a deep frown between his eyes.

  Blakeney had once more taken up his favourite position, sitting on thecorner of the table, his broad shoulders interposed between the lamp andthe rest of the room. He was apparently taking no notice of Armand, butonly intent on the delicate operation of polishing his nails.

  Suddenly the young man paused in his restless walk and stood in front ofhis friend--an earnest, solemn, determined figure.

  "Blakeney," he said, "I cannot leave Paris to-morrow."

  Sir Percy made no reply. He was contemplating the polish which he hadjust succeeded in producing on his thumbnail.

  "I must stay here for a while longer," continued Armand firmly. "I maynot be able to return to England for some weeks. You have the threeothers here to help you in your enterprise outside Paris. I am entirelyat your service within the compass of its walls."

  Still no comment from Blakeney, not a look from beneath the fallenlids. Armand continued, with a slight tone of impatience apparent in hisvoice:

  "You must want some one to help you here on Sunday. I am entirely atyour service... here or anywhere in Paris... but I cannot leave thiscity... at any rate, not just yet...."

  Blakeney was apparently satisfied at last with the result of hispolishing operations. He rose, gave a slight yawn, and turned toward thedoor.

  "Good night, my dear fellow," he said pleasantly; "it is time we wereall abed. I am so demmed fatigued."

  "Percy!" exclaimed the young man hotly.

  "Eh? What is it?" queried the other lazily.

  "You are not going to leave me like this--without a word?"

  "I have said a great many words, my good fellow. I have said 'goodnight,' and remarked that I was demmed fatigued."

  He was standing beside the door which led to his bedroom, and now hepushed it open with his hand.

  "Percy, you cannot go and leave me like this!" reiterated Armand withrapidly growing irritation.

  "Like what, my dear fellow?" queried Sir Percy with good-humouredimpatience.

  "Without a word--without a sign. What have I done that you should treatme like a child, unworthy even of attention?"

  Blakeney had turned back and was now facing him, towering above theslight figure of the younger man. His face had lost none of its graciousair, and beneath their heavy lids his eyes looked down not unkindly onhis friend.

  "Would you have preferred it, Armand," he said quietly, "if I had saidthe word that your ears have heard even though my lips have not utteredit?"

  "I don't understand," murmured Armand defiantly.

  "What sign would you have had me make?" continued Sir Percy,his pleasant voice falling calm and mellow on the younger man'ssupersensitive consciousness: "That of branding you, Marguerite'sbrother, as a liar and a cheat?"

  "Blakeney!" retorted the other, as with flaming cheeks and wrathful eyeshe took a menacing step toward his friend; "had any man but you dared tospeak such words to me--"

  "I pray to God, Armand, that no man but I has the right to speak them."

  "You have no right."

  "Every right, my friend. Do I not hold your oath?... Are you notprepared to break it?"

  "I'll not break my oath to you. I'll serve and help you in every wayyou can command... my life I'll give to the cause... give me the mostdangerous--the most difficult task to perform.... I'll do it--I'll do itgladly."

  "I have given you an over-difficult and dangerous task."

  "Bah! To leave Paris in order to engage horses, while you and the othersdo all the work. That is neither difficult nor dangerous."

  "It will be difficult for you, Armand, because your head is notsufficiently cool to foresee serious eventualities and to prepareagainst them. It is dangerous, because you are a man in love, and a manin love is apt to run his head--and that of his friends--blindly into anoose."

  "Who told you that I was in love?"

  "You yourself, my good fellow. Had you not told me so at the outset,"he continued, still speaking very quietly and deliberately and neverraising his voice, "I would even now be standing over you, dog-whip inhand, to thrash you as a defaulting coward and a perjurer .... Bah!"he added with a return to his habitual bonhomie, "I would no doubt evenhave lost my temper with you. Which would have been purposeless andexcessively bad form. Eh?"

  A violent retort had sprung to Armand's lips. But fortunately at thatvery moment his eyes, glowing with anger, caught those of Blakeney fixedwith lazy good-nature upon his. Something of that irresistible dignitywhich pervaded the whole personality of the man checked Armand'shotheaded words on his lips.

  "I cannot leave Paris to-morrow," he reiterated more calmly.

  "Because you have arranged to see her again?"

  "Because she saved my life to-day, and is herself in danger."

  "She is in no danger," said Blakeney simply, "since she saved the lifeof my friend."

  "Percy!"

  The cry was wrung from Armand St. Just's very soul. Despite the tumultof passion which was raging in his heart, he was conscious again of themagnetic power which bound so many to this man's service. The words hehad said--simple though they were--had sent a thrill through Armand'sveins. He felt himself disarmed. His resistance fell before the subtlestrength of an unbendable will; nothing remained in his heart but anoverwhelming sense of shame and of impotence.

  He sank into a chair and rested his elbows on the table, burying hisface in his hands. Blakeney went up to him and placed a kindly hand uponhis shoulder.

  "The difficult task, Armand," he said gently.

  "Percy, cannot you release me? She saved my life. I have not thanked heryet."

  "There will be time for thanks later, Armand. Just now over yonder theson of kings is being done to death by savage brutes."

  "I would not hinder you if I stayed."

  "God knows you have hindered us enough already."

  "How?"

  "You say she saved your life... then you were in danger... Heron and hisspies have been on your track; your track leads to mine, and I have swornto save the Dauphin from the hands of thieves.... A man in love, Armand,is a deadly danger among us.... Therefore at daybreak you must leaveParis with Hastings on your difficult and dangerous task."

  "And if I refuse?" retorted Armand.

  "My good fellow," said Blakeney earnestly, "in that admirable lexiconwhich the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel has compiled for itself thereis no such word as refuse."

  "But if I do refuse?" persisted the other.

  "You would be offering a tainted name and tarnished honour to the womanyou pretend to love."

  "And you insist upon my obedience?"

  "By the oath which I hold from you."

  "But this is cruel--inhuman!"

  "Honour, my good Armand, is often cruel and seldom human. He is agodlike taskmaster, and we who call ourselves men are all of us hisslaves."

  "The tyranny comes from you alone. You could release me an you would."

  "And to gratify the selfish desire of immature passion, you would wishto see me jeopardise the life of those who place infinite trust in me."

  "God knows how you have gained their allegiance, Blakeney. To me now youare selfish and callous."

  "There is the difficult task you craved for, Armand," was all the answerthat Blakeney made to the taunt--"to obey a leader whom you no longertrust."

  But this Armand could not brook. He had spoken hotly, impetuously,smarting under the discipline which thwarted his desire, but hi
s heartwas loyal to the chief whom he had reverenced for so long.

  "Forgive me, Percy," he said humbly; "I am distracted. I don't thinkI quite realised what I was saying. I trust you, of course ...implicitly... and you need not even fear... I shall not break my oath,though your orders now seem to me needlessly callous and selfish.... Iwill obey... you need not be afraid."

  "I was not afraid of that, my good fellow."

  "Of course, you do not understand... you cannot. To you, your honour,the task which you have set yourself, has been your only fetish.... Lovein its true sense does not exist for you.... I see it now... you do notknow what it is to love."

  Blakeney made no reply for the moment. He stood in the centre of theroom, with the yellow light of the lamp falling full now upon his tallpowerful frame, immaculately dressed in perfectly-tailored clothes, uponhis long, slender hands half hidden by filmy lace, and upon his face,across which at this moment a heavy strand of curly hair threw a curiousshadow. At Armand's words his lips had imperceptibly tightened, his eyeshad narrowed as if they tried to see something that was beyond the rangeof their focus.

  Across the smooth brow the strange shadow made by the hair seemed tofind a reflex from within. Perhaps the reckless adventurer, the carelessgambler with life and liberty, saw through the walls of this squalidroom, across the wide, ice-bound river, and beyond even the gloomy pileof buildings opposite, a cool, shady garden at Richmond, a velvety lawnsweeping down to the river's edge, a bower of clematis and roses, witha carved stone seat half covered with moss. There sat an exquisitelybeautiful woman with great sad eyes fixed on the far-distant horizon.The setting sun was throwing a halo of gold all round her hair, herwhite hands were clasped idly on her lap.

  She gazed out beyond the river, beyond the sunset, toward an unseenbourne of peace and happiness, and her lovely face had in it a look ofutter hopelessness and of sublime self-abnegation. The air was still.It was late autumn, and all around her the russet leaves of beech andchestnut fell with a melancholy hush-sh-sh about her feet.

  She was alone, and from time to time heavy tears gathered in her eyesand rolled slowly down her cheeks.

  Suddenly a sigh escaped the man's tightly-pressed lips. With a strangegesture, wholly unusual to him, he passed his hand right across hiseyes.

  "Mayhap you are right, Armand," he said quietly; "mayhap I do not knowwhat it is to love."

  Armand turned to go. There was nothing more to be said. He knew Percywell enough by now to realise the finality of his pronouncements. Hisheart felt sore, but he was too proud to show his hurt again to aman who did not understand. All thoughts of disobedience he had putresolutely aside; he had never meant to break his oath. All that he hadhoped to do was to persuade Percy to release him from it for awhile.

  That by leaving Paris he risked to lose Jeanne he was quite convinced,but it is nevertheless a true fact that in spite of this he did notwithdraw his love and trust from his chief. He was under the influenceof that same magnetism which enchained all his comrades to the will ofthis man; and though his enthusiasm for the great cause had somewhatwaned, his allegiance to its leader was no longer tottering.

  But he would not trust himself to speak again on the subject.

  "I will find the others downstairs," was all he said, "and will arrangewith Hastings for to-morrow. Good night, Percy."

  "Good night, my dear fellow. By the way, you have not told me yet whoshe is."

  "Her name is Jeanne Lange," said St. Just half reluctantly. He had notmeant to divulge his secret quite so fully as yet.

  "The young actress at the Theatre National?"

  "Yes. Do you know her?"

  "Only by name."

  "She is beautiful, Percy, and she is an angel.... Think of my sisterMarguerite... she, too, was an actress.... Good night, Percy."

  "Good night."

  The two men grasped one another by the hand. Armand's eyes proffereda last desperate appeal. But Blakeney's eyes were impassive andunrelenting, and Armand with a quick sigh finally took his leave.

  For a long while after he had gone Blakeney stood silent and motionlessin the middle of the room. Armand's last words lingered in his ear:

  "Think of Marguerite!"

  The walls had fallen away from around him--the window, the riverbelow, the Temple prison had all faded away, merged in the chaos of histhoughts.

  Now he was no longer in Paris; he heard nothing of the horrors that evenat this hour of the night were raging around him; he did not hear thecall of murdered victims, of innocent women and children crying forhelp; he did not see the descendant of St. Louis, with a red cap onhis baby head, stamping on the fleur-de-lys, and heaping insults on thememory of his mother. All that had faded into nothingness.

  He was in the garden at Richmond, and Marguerite was sitting on thestone seat, with branches of the rambler roses twining themselves in herhair.

  He was sitting on the ground at her feet, his head pillowed in her lap,lazily dreaming whilst at his feet the river wound its graceful curvesbeneath overhanging willows and tall stately elms.

  A swan came sailing majestically down the stream, and Marguerite, withidle, delicate hands, threw some crumbs of bread into the water. Thenshe laughed, for she was quite happy, and anon she stooped, and he feltthe fragrance of her lips as she bent over him and savoured the perfectsweetness of her caress. She was happy because her husband was by herside. He had done with adventures, with risking his life for others'sake. He was living only for her.

  The man, the dreamer, the idealist that lurked behind the adventuroussoul, lived an exquisite dream as he gazed upon that vision. He closedhis eyes so that it might last all the longer, so that through theopen window opposite he should not see the great gloomy walls of thelabyrinthine building packed to overflowing with innocent men, women,and children waiting patiently and with a smile on their lips for acruel and unmerited death; so that he should not see even through thevista of houses and of streets that grim Temple prison far away, and thelight in one of the tower windows, which illumined the final martyrdomof a boy-king.

  Thus he stood for fully five minutes, with eyes deliberately closedand lips tightly set. Then the neighbouring tower-clock of St. Germainl'Auxerrois slowly tolled the hour of midnight. Blakeney woke from hisdream. The walls of his lodging were once more around him, and throughthe window the ruddy light of some torch in the street below fought withthat of the lamp.

  He went deliberately up to the window and looked out into the night. Onthe quay, a little to the left, the outdoor camp was just breaking upfor the night. The people of France in arms against tyranny were allowedto put away their work for the day and to go to their miserable homesto gather rest in sleep for the morrow. A band of soldiers, rough andbrutal in their movements, were hustling the women and children. Thelittle ones, weary, sleepy, and cold, seemed too dazed to move. Onewoman had two little children clinging to her skirts; a soldier suddenlyseized one of them by the shoulders and pushed it along roughly in frontof him to get it out of the way. The woman struck at the soldier in astupid, senseless, useless way, and then gathered her trembling chicksunder her wing, trying to look defiant.

  In a moment she was surrounded. Two soldiers seized her, and two moredragged the children away from her. She screamed and the children cried,the soldiers swore and struck out right and left with their bayonets.There was a general melee, calls of agony rent the air, rough oathsdrowned the shouts of the helpless. Some women, panic-stricken, startedto run.

  And Blakeney from his window looked down upon the scene. He no longersaw the garden at Richmond, the lazily-flowing river, the bowers ofroses; even the sweet face of Marguerite, sad and lonely, appeared dimand far away.

  He looked across the ice-bound river, past the quay where rough soldierswere brutalising a number of wretched defenceless women, to that grimChatelet prison, where tiny lights shining here and there behind barredwindows told the sad tale of weary vigils, of watches through the night,when dawn would bring martyrdom and death.


  And it was not Marguerite's blue eyes that beckoned to him now, it wasnot her lips that called, but the wan face of a child with matted curlshanging above a greasy forehead, and small hands covered in grime thathad once been fondled by a Queen.

  The adventurer in him had chased away the dream.

  "While there is life in me I'll cheat those brutes of prey," hemurmured.