The Elusive Pimpernel Baroness Orczy (read more books txt) 📖

she had been quite unable to rest, her hair was falling loosely over her shoulders, and there was a look of grave anxiety on her young face.

“Juliette,” said Marguerite in a hurried whisper, the moment she had closed the door behind her and she and the young girl were alone, “I am going to France to be near my husband. He has gone to meet that fiend in a duel which is nothing but a trap, set to capture him, and lead him to his death. I want you to be of help to me, here in my house, in my absence.”

“I would give my life for you, Lady Blakeney,” said Juliette simply, “is it not his since he saved it?”

“It is only a little presence of mind, a little coolness and patience, which I will ask of you, dear,” said Marguerite. “You of course know who your rescuer was, therefore you will understand my fears. Until tonight, I had vague doubts as to how much Chauvelin really knew, but now these doubts have naturally vanished. He and the French Revolutionary Government know that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney are one and the same. The whole scene tonight was prearranged: you and I and all the spectators, and that woman Candeille⁠—we were all puppets piping to that devil’s tune. The duel, too, was prearranged!⁠ ⁠… that woman wearing your mother’s jewels!⁠ ⁠… Had you not provoked her, a quarrel between her and me, or one of my guests would have been forced somehow⁠ ⁠… I wanted to tell you this, lest you should fret, and think that you were in any way responsible for what has happened.⁠ ⁠… You were not.⁠ ⁠… He had arranged it all.⁠ ⁠… You were only the tool⁠ ⁠… just as I was.⁠ ⁠… You must understand and believe that.⁠ ⁠… Percy would hate to think that you felt yourself to blame⁠ ⁠… you are not that, in any way.⁠ ⁠… The challenge was bound to come.⁠ ⁠… Chauvelin had arranged that it should come, and if you had failed him as a tool, he soon would have found another! Do you believe that?”

“I believe that you are an angel of goodness, Lady Blakeney,” replied Juliette, struggling with her tears, “and that you are the only woman in the world worthy to be his wife.”

“But,” insisted Marguerite firmly, as the young girl took her cold hand in her own, and gently fondling it, covered it with grateful kisses, “but if⁠ ⁠… if anything happens⁠ ⁠… anon⁠ ⁠… you will believe firmly that you were in no way responsible?⁠ ⁠… that you were innocent⁠ ⁠… and merely a blind tool?⁠ ⁠…”

“God bless you for that!”

“You will believe it?”

“I will.”

“And now for my request,” rejoined Lady Blakeney in a more quiet, more matter-of-fact tone of voice. “You must represent me, here, when I am gone: explain as casually and as naturally as you can, that I have gone to join my husband on his yacht for a few days. Lucie, my maid, is devoted and a tower of secrecy; she will stand between you and the rest of the household, in concocting some plausible story. To every friend who calls, to anyone of our world whom you may meet, you must tell the same tale, and if you note an air of incredulity in anyone, if you hear whispers of there being some mystery, well! let the world wag its busy tongue⁠—I care less than naught: it will soon tire of me and my doings, and having torn my reputation to shreds will quickly leave me in peace. But to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,” she added earnestly, “tell the whole truth from me. He will understand and do as he thinks right.”

“I will do all you ask, Lady Blakeney, and am proud to think that I shall be serving you, even in so humble and easy a capacity. When do you start?”

“At once. Goodbye, Juliette.”

She bent down to the young girl and kissed her tenderly on the forehead, then she glided out of the room as rapidly as she had come. Juliette, of course, did not try to detain her, or to force her help of companionship on her when obviously she would wish to be alone.

Marguerite quickly reached her room. Her maid Lucie was already waiting for her. Devoted and silent as she was, one glance at her mistress’ face told her that trouble⁠—grave and imminent⁠—had reached Blakeney Manor.

Marguerite, whilst Lucie undressed her, took up the passport and carefully perused the personal description of one Céline Dumont, maid to Citizeness Désirée Candeille, which was given therein: tall, blue eyes, light hair, age about twenty-five. It all might have been vaguely meant for her. She had a dark cloth gown, and long black cloak with hood to come well over the head. These she now donned, with some thick shoes, and a dark-coloured handkerchief tied over her head under the hood, so as to hide the golden glory of her hair.

She was quite calm and in no haste. She made Lucie pack a small hand valise with some necessaries for the journey, and provided herself plentifully with money⁠—French and English notes⁠—which she tucked well away inside her dress.

Then she bade her maid, who was struggling with her tears, a kindly farewell, and quickly went down to her coach.

XVII Boulogne

During the journey Marguerite had not much leisure to think. The discomforts and petty miseries incidental on cheap travelling had the very welcome effect of making her forget, for the time being, the soul-rendering crisis through which she was now passing.

For, of necessity, she had to travel at the cheap rate, among the crowd of poorer passengers who were herded aft the packet boat, leaning up against one another, sitting on bundles and packages of all kinds; that part of the deck, reeking with the smell of tar and seawater, damp, squally and stuffy, was an abomination of hideous discomfort to the dainty, fastidious lady of fashion, yet she almost welcomed the intolerable propinquity, the cold douches of salt water, which