The Scarlet Pimpernel Baroness Orczy (book recommendations website .TXT) 📖

when her musical voice and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and his voice, clear, incisive, and hard, was not raised above his breath as he said⁠—

“Then, as you have heard of that enigmatical personage, citoyenne, you must also have guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identity under that strange pseudonym, is the most bitter enemy of our republic, of France⁠ ⁠… of men like Armand St. Just.”

“La!” she said, with a quaint little sigh, “I dare swear he is.⁠ ⁠… France has many bitter enemies these days.”

“But you, citoyenne, are a daughter of France, and should be ready to help her in a moment of deadly peril.”

“My brother Armand devotes his life to France,” she retorted proudly; “as for me, I can do nothing⁠ ⁠… here in England.⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, you⁠ ⁠…” he urged still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox-like face seemed suddenly to have grown impressive and full of dignity, “here, in England, citoyenne⁠ ⁠… you alone can help us.⁠ ⁠… Listen!⁠—I have been sent over here by the Republican Government as its representative: I present my credentials to Mr. Pitt in London tomorrow. One of my duties here is to find out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel, which has become a standing menace to France, since it is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats⁠—traitors to their country, and enemies of the people⁠—to escape from the just punishment which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they are over here, those French émigrés try to rouse public feeling against the Republic⁠ ⁠… They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold enough to attack France⁠ ⁠… Now, within the last month scores of these émigrés, some only suspected of treason, others actually condemned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the Channel. Their escape in each instance was planned, organized and effected by this society of young English jackanapes, headed by a man whose brain seems as resourceful as his identity is mysterious. All the most strenuous efforts on the part of my spies have failed to discover who he is; whilst the others are the hands, he is the head, who beneath this strange anonymity calmly works at the destruction of France. I mean to strike at that head, and for this I want your help⁠—through him afterwards I can reach the rest of the gang: he is a young buck in English society, of that I feel sure. Find that man for me, citoyenne!” he urged, “find him for France.”

Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin’s impassioned speech without uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe. She had told him before that this mysterious hero of romance was the talk of the smart set to which she belonged; already, before this, her heart and her imagination had been stirred by the thought of the brave man, who, unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible, often an unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an example; but republican and liberal-minded though she was from principle, she hated and loathed the methods which the young Republic had chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some months; the horrors and bloodshed of the Reign of Terror, culminating in the September massacres, had only come across the Channel to her as a faint echo. Robespierre, Danton, Marat, she had not known in their new guise of bloody judiciaries, merciless wielders of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled in horror from these excesses, to which she feared her brother Armand⁠—moderate republican as he was⁠—might become one day the holocaust.

Then, when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts, who, for sheer love of their fellowmen, dragged women and children, old and young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to the gallant and mysterious leader of the reckless little band, who risked his life daily, who gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake of humanity.

Her eyes were moist when Chauvelin had finished speaking, the lace at her bosom rose and fell with her quick, excited breathing; she no longer heard the noise of drinking from the inn, she did not heed her husband’s voice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering in search of the mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had he come her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination; his personality, his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of those who served under him in that same noble cause, and, above all, that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo of romantic glory.

“Find him for France, citoyenne!”

Chauvelin’s voice close to her ear roused her from her dreams. The mysterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a man was drinking and laughing, to whom she had sworn faith and loyalty.

“La! man,” she said with a return of her assumed flippancy, “you are astonishing. Where in the world am I to look for him?”

“You go everywhere, citoyenne,” whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly, “Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so I am told⁠ ⁠… you see everything, you hear everything.”

“Easy, my friend,” retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her full height and looking down, with a slight thought of contempt on the small, thin figure before her. “Easy! you seem to forget that there are six feet of Sir Percy Blakeney, and a long line of ancestors to stand between Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose.”

“For the sake of France, citoyenne!” reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly.

“Tush, man, you talk nonsense anyway;