It would be very difficult indeed to say why--at Blakeney's lightly
spoken words--an immediate silence should have fallen upon all those
present. All the actors in the little drawing-room drama, who had played
their respective parts so unerringly up to now, had paused a while, just
as if an invisible curtain had come down, marking the end of a scene,
and the interval during which the players might recover strength and
energy to resume their roles. The Prince of Wales as foremost spectator
said nothing for the moment, and beyond the doorway, the audience there
assembled seemed suddenly to be holding its breath, waiting--eager,
expectant, palpitation--for what would follow now.
Only here and there the gentle frou-frou of a silk skirt, the rhythmic
flutter of a fan, broke those few seconds' deadly, stony silence.
Yet it was all simple enough. A fracas between two ladies, the gentlemen
interposing, a few words of angry expostulation, then the inevitable
suggestion of Belgium or of some other country where the childish and
barbarous custom of settling such matters with a couple of swords had
not been as yet systematically stamped out.
The whole scene--with but slight variations--had occurred scores of
times in London drawing-rooms, English gentlemen had scores of times
crossed the Channel for the purpose of settling similar quarrels in
continental fashion.
Why should the present situation appear so abnormal? Sir Percy
Blakeney--an accomplished gentleman--was past master in the art of
fence, and looked more than a match in strength and dexterity for the
meagre, sable-clad little opponent who had so summarily challenged him
to cross over to France, in order to fight a duel.
But somehow everyone had a feeling at this moment that this proposed
duel would be unlike any other combat ever fought between two
antagonists. Perhaps it was the white, absolutely stony and unexpressive
face of Marguerite which suggested a latent tragedy: perhaps it was the
look of unmistakable horror in Juliette's eyes, or that of triumph
in those of Chauvelin, or even that certain something in His Royal
Highness' face, which seemed to imply that the Prince, careless man of
the world as he was, would have given much to prevent this particular
meeting from taking place.
Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a certain wave of electrical
excitement swept over the little crowd assembled there, the while
the chief actor in the little drama, the inimitable dandy, Sir Percy
Blakeney himself, appeared deeply engrossed in removing a speck of
powder from the wide black satin ribbon which held his gold-rimmed
eyeglass.
“Gentlemen!” said His Royal Highness suddenly, “we are forgetting the
ladies. My lord Hastings,” he added, turning to one of the gentlemen
who stood close to him, “I pray you to remedy this unpardonable neglect.
Men's quarrels are not fit for ladies' dainty ears.”
Sir Percy looked up from his absorbing occupation. His eyes met those
of his wife; she was like a marble statue, hardly conscious of what was
going on round her. But he, who knew every emotion which swayed that
ardent and passionate nature, guessed that beneath that stony calm there
lay a mad, almost unconquerable impulse: and that was to shout to all
these puppets here, the truth, the awful, the unanswerable truth, to
tell them what this challenge really meant; a trap wherein one man
consumed with hatred and desire for revenge hoped to entice a brave and
fearless foe into a death-dealing snare.
Full well did Percy Blakeney guess that for the space of one second
his most cherished secret hovered upon his wife's lips, one turn of
the balance of Fate, one breath from the mouth of an unseen sprite, and
Marguerite was ready to shout:
“Do not allow this monstrous thing to be! The Scarlet Pimpernel, whom
you all admire for his bravery, and love for his daring, stands before
you now, face to face with his deadliest enemy, who is here to lure him
to his doom!”
For that momentous second therefore Percy Blakeney held his wife's
gaze with the magnetism of his own; all there was in him of love, of
entreaty, of trust, and of command went out to her through that look
with which he kept her eyes riveted upon his face.
Then he saw the rigidity of her attitude relax. She closed her eyes in
order to shut out the whole world from her suffering soul. She seemed
to be gathering all the mental force of which her brain was capable, for
one great effort of self-control. Then she took Juliette's hand in hers,
and turned to go out of the room; the gentlemen bowed as she swept past
them, her rich silken gown making a soft hush-sh-sh as she went. She
nodded to some, curtseyed to the Prince, and had at the last moment
the supreme courage and pride to turn her head once more towards her
husband, in order to reassure him finally that his secret was as safe
with her now, in this hour of danger, as it had been in the time of
triumph.
She smiled and passed out of his sight, preceded by Desiree Candeille,
who, escorted by one of the gentlemen, had become singularly silent and
subdued.
In the little room now there only remained a few men. Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes had taken the precaution of closing the door after the ladies
had gone.
Then His Royal Highness turned once more to Monsieur Chauvelin and said
with an obvious show of indifference:
“Faith, Monsieur! meseems we are all enacting a farce, which can have
no final act. I vow that I cannot allow my friend Blakeney to go over to
France at your bidding. Your government now will not allow my father's
subjects to land on your shores without a special passport, and then
only for a specific purpose.”
“La, your Royal Highness,” interposed Sir Percy, “I pray you have no
fear for me on that score. My engaging friend here has--an I mistake
not--a passport ready for me in the pocket of his sable-hued coat, and
as we are hoping effectually to spit one another over there... gadzooks!
but there's the specific purpose.... Is it not true, sir,” he added,
turning once more to Chauvelin, “that in the pocket of that exquisitely
cut coat of yours, you have a passport--name in blank perhaps--which you
had specially designed for me?”
It was so carelessly, so pleasantly said, that no one save Chauvelin
guessed the real import of Sir Percy's words. Chauvelin, of course, knew
their inner meaning: he understood that Blakeney wished to convey to him
the fact that he was well aware that the whole scene to-night had been
prearranged, and that it was willingly and with eyes wide open that he
walked into the trap which the revolutionary patriot had so carefully
laid for him.
“The passport will be forthcoming in due course, sir,” retorted
Chauvelin evasively, “when our seconds have arranged all formalities.”
“Seconds be demmed, sir,” rejoined Sir Percy placidly, “you do not
propose, I trust, that we travel a whole caravan to France.”
“Time, place and conditions must be settled, Sir Percy,” replied
Chauvelin; “you are too accomplished a cavalier, I feel sure, to wish to
arrange such formalities yourself.”
“Nay! neither you nor I, Monsieur... er... Chauvelin,” quoth Sir Percy
blandly, “could, I own, settle such things with persistent good-humour;
and good-humour in such cases is the most important of all formalities.
Is it not so?”
“Certainly, Sir Percy.”
“As for seconds? Perish the thought. One second only, I entreat, and
that one a lady--the most adorable--the most detestable--the most
true--the most fickle amidst all her charming sex.... Do you agree,
sir?”
“You have not told me her name, Sir Percy?”
“Chance, Monsieur, Chance.... With His Royal Highness' permission let
the wilful jade decide.”
“I do not understand.”
“Three throws of the dice, Monsieur.... Time... Place... Conditions, you
said--three throws and the winner names them.... Do you agree?”
Chauvelin hesitated. Sir Percy's bantering mood did not quite fit
in with his own elaborate plans, moreover the ex-ambassador feared
a pitfall of some sort, and did not quite like to trust to this
arbitration of the dice-box.
He turned, quite involuntarily, in appeal to the Prince of Wales and the
other gentlemen present.
But the Englishman of those days was a born gambler. He lived with the
dice-box in one pocket and a pack of cards in the other. The Prince
himself was no exception to this rule, and the first gentleman in
England was the most avowed worshipper of Hazard in the land.
“Chance, by all means,” quoth His Highness gaily.
“Chance! Chance!” repeated the others eagerly.
In the midst of so hostile a crowd, Chauvelin felt it unwise to resist.
Moreover, one second's reflection had already assured him that this
throwing of the dice could not seriously interfere with the success of
his plans. If the meeting took place at all--and Sir Percy now had gone
too far to draw back--then of necessity it would have to take place in
France.
The question of time and conditions of the fight, which at best would
be only a farce--only a means to an end--could not be of paramount
importance.
Therefore he shrugged his shoulders with well-marked indifference, and
said lightly:
“As you please.”
There was a small table in the centre of the room with a settee and two
or three chairs arranged close to it. Around this table now an eager
little group had congregated: the Prince of Wales in the forefront,
unwilling to interfere, scarce knowing what madcap plans were floating
through Blakeney's adventurous brain, but excited in spite of himself at
this momentous game of hazard the issues of which seemed so nebulous,
so vaguely fraught with dangers. Close to him were Sir Andrew Ffoulkes,
Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Lord Grenville and perhaps a half score
gentlemen, young men about town mostly, gay and giddy butterflies of
fashion, who did not even attempt to seek in this strange game of chance
any hidden meaning save that it was one of Blakeney's irresponsible
pranks.
And in the centre of the compact group, Sir Percy Blakeney in his
gorgeous suit of shimmering white satin, one knee bent upon a chair, and
leaning with easy grace--dice-box in hand--across the small gilt-legged
table; beside him ex-Ambassador Chauvelin, standing with arms folded
behind his back, watching every movement of his brilliant adversary like
some dark-plumaged hawk hovering near a bird of paradise.
“Place first, Monsieur?” suggested Sir Percy.
“As you will, sir,” assented Chauvelin.
He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him and the
two men threw.
“'Tis mine, Monsieur,” said Blakeney carelessly, “mine to name the place
where shall occur this historic encounter, 'twixt the busiest man
in France and the most idle fop that e'er disgraced these three
kingdoms.... Just for the sake of argument, sir, what place would you
suggest?”
“Oh! the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin coldly,
“the whole of France stands at your disposal.”
“Aye! I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such boundless
hospitality,” retorted Blakeney imperturbably.
“Do you care for the woods around Paris, sir?”
“Too far from the coast, sir. I might be sea-sick crossing over the
Channel, and glad to get the business over as soon as possible.... No,
not Paris, sir--rather let us say Boulogne.... Pretty little place,
Boulogne... do you not think so...?”
“Undoubtedly, Sir Percy.”
“Then Boulogne it is... the ramparts, an you will, on the south side of
the town.”
“As you please,” rejoined Chauvelin drily. “Shall we throw again?”
A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between the
adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts of
laughter. Now the dice rattled again and once more the two men threw.
“'Tis yours this time, Monsieur Chauvelin,” said Blakeney, after a rapid
glance at the dice. “See how evenly Chance favours us both. Mine, the
choice of place... admirably done you'll confess.... Now yours the
choice of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir.... The southern ramparts
at Boulogne--when?”
“The fourth day from this, sir, at the hour when the Cathedral bell
chimes the evening Angelus,” came Chauvelin's ready reply.
“Nay! but methought that your demmed government had abolished
Cathedrals, and bells and chimes.... The people of France have now to
go to hell their own way... for the way to heaven has been barred by
the National Convention.... Is that not so?... Methought the Angelus was
forbidden to be rung.”
“Not at Boulogne, I think, Sir Percy,” retorted Chauvelin drily, “and
I'll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung that
night.”
“At what hour is that, sir?”
“One hour after sundown.”
“But why four days after this? Why not two or three?”
“I might have asked, why the southern ramparts, Sir Percy; why not the
western? I chose the fourth day--does it not suit you?” asked Chauvelin
ironically.
“Suit me! Why, sir, nothing could suit me better,” rejoined Blakeney
with his pleasant laugh. “Zounds! but I call it marvellous... demmed
marvellous... I wonder now,” he added blandly, “what made you think of
the Angelus?”
Everyone laughed at this, a little irrelevantly perhaps.
“Ah!” continued Blakeney gaily, “I remember now.... Faith! to think that
I was nigh forgetting that when last you and I met, sir, you had just
taken or were about to take Holy Orders.... Ah! how well the thought
of the Angelus fits in with your clerical garb.... I recollect that the
latter was mightily becoming to you, sir...”
“Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight, Sir Percy?”
said Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his antagonist's gibes, and
trying to disguise his irritation beneath a mask of impassive reserve.
“The choice of weapons you mean,” here interposed His Royal Highness,
“but I thought that swords had already been decided on.”
“Quite so, your Highness,” assented Blakeney, “but there are various
little matters in connection with this momentous encounter which are of
vast importance.... Am I not right, Monsieur?... Gentlemen, I appeal to
you.... Faith! one never knows... my engaging opponent here might desire
that I should fight him in green socks, and I that he should wear a
scarlet flower in his coat.”
“The Scarlet Pimpernel, Sir Percy?”
“Why not, Monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole, against
the black of the clerical coat, which I understand you sometime affect
in France... and when it is withered and quite dead you would find that
it would leave an overpowering odour in your nostrils, far stronger than
that of incense.”
There was general laughter after this. The hatred which every member of
the French revolutionary government--including, of course, ex-Ambassador
Chauvelin--bore to the national hero was well known.
“The conditions then, Sir Percy,” said Chauvelin, without seeming to
notice the taunt conveyed in Blakeney's last words. “Shall we throw
again?”
“After you, sir,” acquiesced Sir Percy.
For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box and
threw. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details quite
failed to interest him. What mattered the conditions of the fight which
was only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the open?
The hour and place were decided on and Sir Percy would not fail to come.
Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous spirit not
to feel in the least doubtful on that point. Even now, as he gazed with
grudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy,
noted the thin nervy hands and square jaw, the low, broad forehead and
deep-set, half-veiled eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein Percy
Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only emotion that
really swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of adventure.
The ruling passion strong in death!
Yes! Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one
hour after sunset on the day named, trusting, no doubt, in his usual
marvellous good-fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physical
and mental strength, to escape from the trap into which he was so ready
to walk.
That remained beyond a doubt! Therefore what mattered details?
But even at this moment, Chauvelin had already resolved on one great
thing: namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should be
left to Chance; he would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning,
but also with power, and if the entire force of the republican army
then available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for the
purpose, the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance of
escape left for the daring Scarlet Pimpernel.
His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney's
pleasant voice.
“Lud! Monsieur Chauvelin,” he said, “I fear me your luck has deserted
you. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more.”
“Then it is for you, Sir Percy,” rejoined the Frenchman, “to name the
conditions under which we are to fight.”
“Ah! that is so, is it not, Monsieur?” quoth Sir Percy lightly. “By my
faith! I'll not plague you with formalities.... We'll fight with our
coats on if it be cold, in our shirtsleeves if it be sultry.... I'll
not demand either green socks or scarlet ornaments. I'll even try and
be serious for the space of two minutes, sir, and confine my whole
attention--the product of my infinitesimal brain--to thinking out some
pleasant detail for this duel, which might be acceptable to you. Thus,
sir, the thought of weapons springs to my mind.... Swords you said, I
think. Sir! I will e'en restrict my choice of conditions to that of the
actual weapons with which we are to fight.... Ffoulkes, I pray you,” he
added, turning to his friend, “the pair of swords which lie across the
top of my desk at this moment....
“We'll not ask a menial to fetch them, eh, Monsieur?” he continued
gaily, as Sir Andrew Ffoulkes at a sign from him had quickly left the
room. “What need to bruit our pleasant quarrel abroad? You will like the
weapons, sir, and you shall have your own choice from the pair.... You
are a fine fencer, I feel sure... and you shall decide if a scratch or
two or a more serious wound shall be sufficient to avenge Mademoiselle
Candeille's wounded vanity.”
Whilst he prattled so gaily on, there was dead silence among all
those present. The Prince had his shrewd eyes steadily fixed upon him,
obviously wondering what this seemingly irresponsible adventurer held
at the back of his mind. There is no doubt that everyone felt oppressed,
and that a strange murmur of anticipatory excitement went round the
little room, when, a few seconds later, Sir Andrew Ffoulkes returned,
with two sheathed swords in his hand.
Blakeney took them from his friend and placed them on the little table
in front of ex-Ambassador Chauvelin. The spectators strained their necks
to look at the two weapons. They were exactly similar one to the
other: both encased in plain black leather sheaths, with steel ferrules
polished to shine like silver; the handles too were of plain steel,
with just the grip fashioned in a twisted basket pattern of the same
highly-tempered metal.
“What think you of these weapons, Monsieur?” asked Blakeney, who was
carelessly leaning against the back of a chair.
Chauvelin took up one of the two swords and slowly drew it from out its
scabbard, carefully examining the brilliant, narrow steel blade as he
did so.
“A little old-fashioned in style and make, Sir Percy,” he said, closely
imitating his opponent's easy demeanour, “a trifle heavier, perhaps,
than we in France have been accustomed to lately, but, nevertheless, a
beautifully tempered piece of steel.”
“Of a truth there's not much the matter with the tempering, Monsieur,”
quoth Blakeney, “the blades were fashioned at Toledo just two hundred
years ago.”
“Ah! here I see an inscription,” said Chauvelin, holding the sword close
to his eyes, the better to see the minute letters engraved in the steel.
“The name of the original owner. I myself bought them--when I travelled
in Italy--from one of his descendants.”
“Lorenzo Giovanni Cenci,” said Chauvelin, spelling the Italian names
quite slowly.
“The greatest blackguard that ever trod this earth. You, no doubt,
Monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine, theft, murder,
nothing came amiss to Signor Lorenzo... neither the deadly drug in the
cup nor the poisoned dagger.”
He had spoken lightly, carelessly, with that same tone of easy banter
which he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and the same drawly
manner which was habitual to him. But at these last words of his,
Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly replaced the
sword--which he had been examining--upon the table.
He threw a quick, suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning back
against the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat, was
idly toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one which the
ex-ambassador had so suddenly put down.
“Well, Monsieur,” quoth Sir Percy after a slight pause, and meeting
with a swift glance of lazy irony his opponent's fixed gaze. “Are you
satisfied with the weapons? Which of the two shall be yours, and which
mine?”
“Of a truth, Sir Percy...” murmured Chauvelin, still hesitating.
“Nay, Monsieur,” interrupted Blakeney with pleasant bonhomie, “I know
what you would say... of a truth, there is no choice between this pair
of perfect twins: one is as exquisite as the other.... And yet you must
take one and I the other... this or that, whichever you prefer....
You shall take it home with you to-night and practise thrusting at a
haystack or at a bobbin, as you please... The sword is yours to command
until you have used it against my unworthy person... yours until you
bring it out four days hence--on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, when
the cathedral bells chime the evening Angelus; then you shall cross
it against its faithless twin.... There, Monsieur--they are of equal
length... of equal strength and temper... a perfect pair... Yet I pray
you choose.”
He took up both the swords in his hands and carefully balancing them by
the extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards, he held them out towards
the Frenchman. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon him, and he from his
towering height was looking down at the little sable-clad figure before
him.
The Terrorist seemed uncertain what to do. Though he was one of
those men whom by the force of their intellect, the strength of their
enthusiasm, the power of their cruelty, had built a new anarchical
France, had overturned a throne and murdered a king, yet now, face to
face with this affected fop, this lazy and debonnair adventurer, he
hesitated--trying in vain to read what was going on behind that low,
smooth forehead or within the depth of those lazy, blue eyes.
He would have given several years of his life at this moment for one
short glimpse into the innermost brain cells of this daring mind, to see
the man start, quiver but for the fraction of a second, betray himself
by a tremor of the eyelid. What counterplan was lurking in Percy
Blakeney's head, as he offered to his opponent the two swords which had
once belonged to Lorenzo Cenci?
Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger in
the fastidious mind of this accomplished gentleman?
Surely not!
Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears. It seemed madness even
to think of Italian poisons, of the Cencis or the Borgias in the midst
of this brilliantly lighted English drawing-room.
But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words and with
looks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe and to read. He
forced himself once more to careless laughter and nonchalance of manner
and schooled his lips to smile up with gentle irony at the good-humoured
face of his arch-enemy.
He tapped one of the swords with his long pointed finger.
“Is this the one you choose, sir?” asked Blakeney.
“Nay! which do you advise, Sir Percy,” replied Chauvelin lightly. “Which
of those two blades think you is most like to hold after two hundred
years the poison of the Cenci?”
But Blakeney neither started nor winced. He broke into a laugh, his own
usual pleasant laugh, half shy and somewhat inane, then said in tones of
lively astonishment:
“Zounds! sir, but you are full of surprises.... Faith! I never would
have thought of that....Marvellous, I call it... demmed marvellous....
What say you, gentlemen?... Your Royal Highness, what think you?... Is
not my engaging friend here of a most original turn of mind.... Will you
have this sword or that, Monsieur?... Nay, I must insist--else we shall
weary our friends if we hesitate too long.... This one then, sir, since
you have chosen it,” he continued, as Chauvelin finally took one of
the swords in his hand. “And now for a bowl of punch.... Nay, Monsieur,
'twas demmed smart what you said just now... I must insist on your
joining us in a bowl.... Such wit as yours, Monsieur, must need whetting
at times. ... I pray you repeat that same sally again...”
Then finally turning to the Prince and to his friends, he added:
“And after that bowl, gentlemen, shall we rejoin the ladies?”