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

days ago the Daydream had returned from Calais, bringing her news that her idolised brother had safely landed, that he thought of her, and would be prudent for her sake.

What wonder for the moment, and listening to Glück’s impassioned strains, that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished love-dreams, forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had made up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly advantages upon her.

He had stayed beside her in the box just as long as convention demanded, making way for His Royal Highness, and for the host of admirers who in a continued procession came to pay homage to the queen of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away, to talk to more congenial friends probably. Marguerite did not even wonder whither he had gone⁠—she cared so little; she had had a little court round her, composed of the jeunesse dorée of London, and had just dismissed them all, wishing to be alone with Glück for a brief while.

A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.

“Come in,” she said with some impatience, without turning to look at the intruder.

Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, and now, without pausing for that impatient “Come in,” he quietly slipped into the box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite’s chair.

“A word with you, citoyenne,” he said quietly.

Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether feigned.

“Lud, man! you frightened me,” she said with a forced little laugh, “your presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Glück, and have no mind for talking.”

“But this is my only opportunity,” he said, as quietly, and without waiting for permission, he drew a chair close behind her⁠—so close that he could whisper in her ear, without disturbing the audience, and without being seen, in the dark background of the box. “This is my only opportunity,” he repeated, as she vouchsafed him no reply, “Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so fêted by her court, that a mere old friend has but very little chance.”

“Faith, man!” she said impatiently, “you must seek for another opportunity then. I am going to Lord Grenville’s ball tonight after the opera. So are you, probably. I’ll give you five minutes then.⁠ ⁠…”

“Three minutes in the privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me,” he rejoined placidly, “and I think that you will be wise to listen to me, Citoyenne St. Just.”

Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes, which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as would the sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril. “Is that a threat, citoyen?” she asked at last.

“Nay, fair lady,” he said gallantly, “only an arrow shot into the air.”

He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a mouse running heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be done. Then he said quietly⁠—

“Your brother, St. Just, is in peril.”

Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see it in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently, but Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes, the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension of the beautiful, graceful figure.

“Lud, then,” she said with affected merriment, “since ’tis one of your imaginary plots, you’d best go back to your own seat and leave me enjoy the music.”

And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion of the box. Selina Storace was singing the “Che farò” to an audience that hung spellbound upon the prima donna’s lips. Chauvelin did not move from his seat; he quietly watched that tiny nervous hand, the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck home.

“Well?” she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned unconcern.

“Well, citoyenne?” he rejoined placidly.

“About my brother?”

“I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but first let me explain.⁠ ⁠… May I?”

The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had to say.

“The other day, citoyenne,” he said, “I asked for your help.⁠ ⁠… France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me your answer.⁠ ⁠… Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and your own social duties have kept us apart⁠ ⁠… although many things have happened.⁠ ⁠…”

“To the point, I pray you, citoyen,” she said lightly; “the music is entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk.”

“One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meeting you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I obtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of those subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats⁠—that traitor de Tournay amongst others⁠—all organized by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious organization have come into my hands, but not all, and I want you⁠—nay! you must help me to gather them together.”

Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily⁠—

“Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my brother⁠ ⁠…”

“A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,” he continued imperturbably. “Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at the Fisherman’s Rest at Dover that same night.”

“I know. I saw them there.”

“They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay and her children across the Channel.