Two days of agonizing suspense, of alternate hope and despair, had told
heavily on Marguerite Blakeney.
Her courage was still indomitable, her purpose firm and her faith
secure, but she was without the slightest vestige of news, entirely shut
off from the outside world, left to conjecture, to scheme, to expect and
to despond alone.
The Abbe Foucquet had tried in his gentle way to be of comfort to her,
and she in her turn did her very best not to render his position more
cruel than it already was.
A message came to him twice during those forty-eight hours from Francois
and Felicite, a little note scribbled by the boy, or a token sent by the
blind girl, to tell the Abbe that the children were safe and well, that
they would be safe and well so long as the Citizeness with the name
unknown remained closely guarded by him in room No. 6.
When these messages came, the old man would sigh and murmur something
about the good God: and hope, which perhaps had faintly risen in
Marguerite's heart within the last hour or so, would once more sink back
into the abyss of uttermost despair.
Outside the monotonous walk of the sentry sounded like the perpetual
thud of a hammer beating upon her bruised temples.
“What's to be done? My God? what's to be done?”
Where was Percy now?
“How to reach him!... Oh, God! grant me light!”
The one real terror which she felt was that she would go mad. Nay! that
she was in a measure mad already. For hours now,--or was it days?... or
years?... she had heard nothing save that rhythmic walk of the sentinel,
and the kindly, tremulous voice of the Abbe whispering consolations,
or murmuring prayers in her ears, she had seen nothing save that prison
door, of rough deal, painted a dull grey, with great old-fashioned lock,
and hinges rusty with the damp of ages.
She had kept her eyes fixed on that door until they burned and ached
with well-nigh intolerable pain; yet she felt that she could not look
elsewhere, lest she missed the golden moment when the bolts would be
drawn, and that dull, grey door would swing slowly on its rusty hinges.
Surely, surely, that was the commencement of madness!
Yet for Percy's sake, because he might want her, because he might have
need of her courage and of her presence of mind, she tried to keep her
wits about her. But it was difficult! oh! terribly difficult! especially
when the shade of evening began to gather in, and peopled the squalid,
whitewashed room with innumerable threatening ghouls.
Then when the moon came up, a silver ray crept in through the tiny
window and struck full upon that grey door, making it look weird and
spectral like the entrance to a house of ghosts.
Even now as there was a distinct sound of the pushing of bolts and bars,
Marguerite thought that she was the prey of hallucinations. The Abbe
Foucquet was sitting in the remote and darkest corner of the room,
quietly telling his beads. His serene philosophy and gentle placidity
could in no way be disturbed by the opening or shutting of a door, or by
the bearer of good or evil tidings.
The room now seemed strangely gloomy and cavernous, with those deep,
black shadows all around and that white ray of the moon which struck so
weirdly on the door.
Marguerite shuddered with one of those unaccountable premonitions of
something evil about to come, which ofttimes assail those who have a
nervous and passionate temperament.
The door swung slowly open upon its hinges: there was a quick word of
command, and the light of a small oil lamp struck full into the gloom.
Vaguely Marguerite discerned a group of men, soldiers no doubt, for
there was a glint of arms and the suggestion of tricolour cockades and
scarves. One of the men was holding the lamp aloft, another took a few
steps forward into the room. He turned to Marguerite, entirely ignoring
the presence of the old priest, and addressed her peremptorily.
“Your presence is desired by the citizen governor,” he said curtly;
“stand up and follow me.”
“Whither am I to go?” she asked.
“To where my men will take you. Now then, quick's the word. The citizen
governor does not like to wait.”
At a word of command from him, two more soldiers now entered the room
and placed themselves one on each side of Marguerite, who, knowing that
resistance was useless, had already risen and was prepared to go.
The Abbe tried to utter a word of protest and came quickly forward
towards Marguerite, but he was summarily and very roughly pushed aside.
“Now then, calotin,” said the first soldier with an oath, “this is none
of your business. Forward! march!” he added, addressing his men, “and
you, Citizeness, will find it wiser to come quietly along and not to
attempt any tricks with me, or the gag and manacles will have to be
used.”
But Marguerite had no intention of resisting. She was too tired even to
wonder as to what they meant to do with her or whither they were going;
she moved as in a dream and felt a hope within her that she was being
led to death: summary executions were the order of the day, she knew
that, and sighed for this simple solution of the awful problem which had
been harassing her these past two days.
She was being led along a passage, stumbling ever and anon as she
walked, for it was but dimly lighted by the same little oil lamp, which
one of the soldiers was carrying in front, holding it high up above his
head: then they went down a narrow flight of stone steps, until she and
her escort reached a heavy oak door.
A halt was ordered at this point: and the man in command of the little
party pushed the door open and walked in. Marguerite caught sight of
a room beyond, dark and gloomy-looking, as was her own prison cell.
Somewhere on the left there was obviously a window; she could not see
it but guessed that it was there because the moon struck full upon the
floor, ghost-like and spectral, well fitting in with the dream-like
state in which Marguerite felt herself to be.
In the centre of the room she could discern a table with a chair close
beside it, also a couple of tallow candles, which flickered in the
draught caused no doubt by that open window which she could not see.
All these little details impressed themselves on Marguerite's mind, as
she stood there, placidly waiting until she should once more be told to
move along. The table, the chair, that unseen window, trivial objects
though they were, assumed before her overwrought fancy an utterly
disproportionate importance. She caught herself presently counting up
the number of boards visible on the floor, and watching the smoke of the
tallow-candles rising up towards the grimy ceiling.
After a few minutes' weary waiting which seemed endless to Marguerite,
there came a short word of command from within and she was roughly
pushed forward into the room by one of the men. The cool air of a late
September's evening gently fanned her burning temples. She looked round
her and now perceived that someone was sitting at the table, the other
side of the tallow-candles--a man, with head bent over a bundle of
papers and shading his face against the light with his hand.
He rose as she approached, and the flickering flame of the candles
played weirdly upon the slight, sable-clad figure, illumining the keen,
ferret-like face, and throwing fitful gleams across the deep-set eyes
and the narrow, cruel mouth.
It was Chauvelin.
Mechanically Marguerite took the chair which the soldier drew towards
her, ordering her curtly to sit down. She seemed to have but
little power to move. Though all her faculties had suddenly become
preternaturally alert at sight of this man, whose very life now was
spent in doing her the most grievous wrong that one human being can do
to another, yet all these faculties were forcefully centred in the one
mighty effort not to flinch before him, not to let him see for a moment
that she was afraid.
She compelled her eyes to look at him fully and squarely, her lips not
to tremble, her very heart to stop its wild, excited beating. She felt
his keen eyes fixed intently upon her, but more in curiosity than in
hatred or satisfied vengeance.
When she had sat down he came round the table and moved towards her.
When he drew quite near, she instinctively recoiled. It had been an
almost imperceptible action on her part and certainly an involuntary
one, for she did not wish to betray a single thought or emotion, until
she knew what he wished to say.
But he had noted her movement--a sort of drawing up and stiffening of
her whole person as he approached. He seemed pleased to see it, for
he smiled sarcastically but with evident satisfaction, and--as if his
purpose was now accomplished--he immediately withdrew and went back to
his former seat on the other side of the table. After that he ordered
the soldiers to go.
“But remain at attention outside, you and your men,” he added, “ready to
enter if I call.”
It was Marguerite's turn to smile at this obvious sign of a lurking fear
on Chauvelin's part, and a line of sarcasm and contempt curled her full
lips.
The soldiers having obeyed and the oak door having closed upon them,
Marguerite was now alone with the man whom she hated and loathed beyond
every living thing on earth.
She wondered when he would begin to speak and why he had sent for her.
But he seemed in no hurry to begin. Still shading his face with his
hand, he was watching her with utmost attention: she, on the other hand,
was looking through and beyond him, with contemptuous indifference, as
if his presence here did not interest her in the least.
She would give him no opening for this conversation which he had
sought and which she felt would prove either purposeless or else deeply
wounding to her heart and to her pride. She sat, therefore, quite still
with the flickering and yellow light fully illumining her delicate face,
with its child-like curves, and delicate features, the noble, straight
brow, the great blue eyes and halo of golden hair.
“My desire to see you here to-night, must seem strange to you, Lady
Blakeney,” said Chauvelin at last.
Then, as she did not reply, he continued, speaking quite gently, almost
deferentially:
“There are various matters of grave importance, which the events of the
next twenty-four hours will reveal to your ladyship: and believe me
that I am actuated by motives of pure friendship towards you in this
my effort to mitigate the unpleasantness of such news as you might hear
to-morrow perhaps, by giving you due warning of what its nature might
be.”
She turned great questioning eyes upon him, and in their expression she
tried to put all the contempt which she felt, all the bitterness, all
the defiance and the pride.
He quietly shrugged his shoulders.
“Ah! I fear me,” he said, “that your ladyship, as usual doth me grievous
wrong. It is but natural that you should misjudge me, yet believe me...”
“A truce on this foolery, M. Chauvelin,” she broke in, with sudden
impatient vehemence, “pray leave your protestations of friendship and
courtesy alone, there is no one here to hear them. I pray you proceed
with what you have to say.”
“Ah!” It was a sigh of satisfaction on the part of Chauvelin. Her
anger and impatience even at this early stage of the interview proved
sufficiently that her icy restraint was only on the surface.
And Chauvelin always knew how to deal with vehemence. He loved to play
with the emotions of a passionate fellow-creature: it was only the
imperturbable calm of a certain enemy of his that was wont to shake his
own impenetrable armour of reserve.
“As your ladyship desires,” he said, with a slight and ironical bow of
the head. “But before proceeding according to your wish, I am compelled
to ask your ladyship just one question.”
“And that is?”
“Have you reflected what your present position means to that inimitable
prince of dandies, Sir Percy Blakeney?”
“Is it necessary for your present purpose, Monsieur, that you should
mention my husband's name at all?” she asked.
“It is indispensable, fair lady,” he replied suavely, “for is not the
fate of your husband so closely intertwined with yours, that his actions
will inevitably be largely influenced by your own.”
Marguerite gave a start of surprise, and as Chauvelin had paused she
tried to read what hidden meaning lay behind these last words of his.
Was it his intention then to propose some bargain, one of those terrible
“either-or's” of which he seemed to possess the malignant secret? Oh!
if that was so, if indeed he had sent for her in order to suggest one of
those terrible alternatives of his, then--be it what it may, be it the
wildest conception which the insane brain of a fiend could invent, she
would accept it, so long as the man she loved were given one single
chance of escape.
Therefore she turned to her arch-enemy in a more conciliatory spirit
now, and even endeavoured to match her own diplomatic cunning against
his.
“I do not understand,” she said tentatively. “How can my actions
influence those of my husband? I am a prisoner in Boulogne: he probably
is not aware of that fact yet and...”
“Sir Percy Blakeney may be in Boulogne at any moment now,” he
interrupted quietly. “An I mistake not, few places can offer such great
attractions to that peerless gentleman of fashion than doth this humble
provincial town of France just at this present.... Hath it not the
honour of harbouring Lady Blakeney within its gates?... And your
ladyship may indeed believe me when I say that the day that Sir Percy
lands in our hospitable port, two hundred pairs of eyes will be fixed
upon him, lest he should wish to quit it again.”
“And if there were two thousand, sir,” she said impulsively, “they would
not stop his coming or going as he pleased.”
“Nay, fair lady,” he said, with a smile, “are you then endowing Sir
Percy Blakeney with the attributes which, as popular fancy has it,
belong exclusively to that mysterious English hero, the Scarlet
Pimpernel?”
“A truce to your diplomacy, Monsieur Chauvelin,” she retorted, goaded by
his sarcasm, “why should we try to fence with one another? What was the
object of your journey to England? of the farce which you enacted in
my house, with the help of the woman Candeille? of that duel and
that challenge, save that you desired to entice Sir Percy Blakeney to
France?”
“And also his charming wife,” he added with an ironical bow.
She bit her lip, and made no comment.
“Shall we say that I succeeded admirably?” he continued, speaking with
persistent urbanity and calm, “and that I have strong cause to hope that
the elusive Pimpernel will soon be a guest on our friendly shores?...
There! you see I too have laid down the foils.... As you say, why should
we fence? Your ladyship is now in Boulogne, soon Sir Percy will come to
try and take you away from us, but believe me, fair lady, that it would
take more than the ingenuity and the daring of the Scarlet Pimpernel
magnified a thousandfold to get him back to England again... unless...”
“Unless?...”
Marguerite held her breath. She felt now as if the whole universe must
stand still during the next supreme moment, until she had heard what
Chauvelin's next words would be.
There was to be an “unless” then? An “either-or” more terrible no doubt
than the one he had formulated before her just a year ago.
Chauvelin, she knew, was past master in the art of putting a knife at
his victim's throat and of giving it just the necessary twist with his
cruel and relentless “unless”!
But she felt quite calm, because her purpose was resolute. There is no
doubt that during this agonizing moment of suspense she was absolutely
firm in her determination to accept any and every condition which
Chauvelin would put before her as the price of her husband's safety.
After all, these conditions, since he placed them before HER, could
resolve themselves into questions of her own life against her husband's.
With that unreasoning impulse which was one of her most salient
characteristics, she never paused to think that, to Chauvelin, her own
life or death were only the means to the great end which he had in view:
the complete annihilation of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
That end could only be reached by Percy Blakeney's death--not by her
own.
Even now as she was watching him with eyes glowing and lips tightly
closed, lest a cry of impatient agony should escape her throat,
he,--like a snail that has shown its slimy horns too soon, and is not
ready to face the enemy as yet,--seemed suddenly to withdraw within his
former shell of careless suavity. The earnestness of his tone vanished,
giving place to light and easy conversation, just as if he were
discussing social topics with a woman of fashion in a Paris
drawing-room.
“Nay!” he said pleasantly, “is not your ladyship taking this matter in
too serious a spirit? Of a truth you repeated my innocent word 'unless'
even as if I were putting knife at your dainty throat. Yet I meant
naught that need disturb you yet. Have I not said that I am your friend?
Let me try and prove it to you.”
“You will find that a difficult task, Monsieur,” she said drily.
“Difficult tasks always have had a great fascination for your humble
servant. May I try?”
“Certainly.”
“Shall we then touch at the root of this delicate matter? Your ladyship,
so I understand, is at this moment under the impression that I desire
to encompass--shall I say?--the death of an English gentleman for whom,
believe me, I have the greatest respect. That is so, is it not?”
“What is so, M. Chauvelin?” she asked almost stupidly, for truly she had
not even begun to grasp his meaning. “I do not understand.”
“You think that I am at this moment taking measures for sending the
Scarlet Pimpernel to the guillotine? Eh?”
“I do.”
“Never was so great an error committed by a clever woman. Your ladyship
must believe me when I say that the guillotine is the very last place
in the world where I would wish to see that enigmatic and elusive
personage.”
“Are you trying to fool me, M. Chauvelin? If so, for what purpose? And
why do you lie to me like that?”
“On my honour, 'tis the truth. The death of Sir Percy Blakeney--I may
call him that, may I not?--would ill suit the purpose which I have in
view.”
“What purpose? You must pardon me, Monsieur Chauvelin,” she added with
a quick, impatient sigh, “but of a truth I am getting confused, and my
wits must have become dull in the past few days. I pray to you to add
to your many protestations of friendship a little more clearness in your
speech and, if possible, a little more brevity. What then is the purpose
which you had in view when you enticed my husband to come over to
France?”
“My purpose was the destruction of the Scarlet Pimpernel, not the death
of Sir Percy Blakeney. Believe me, I have a great regard for Sir Percy.
He is a most accomplished gentleman, witty, brilliant, an inimitable
dandy. Why should he not grace with his presence the drawing-rooms of
London or of Brighton for many years to come?”
She looked at him with puzzled inquiry. For one moment the thought
flashed through her mind that, after all, Chauvelin might be still in
doubt as to the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.... But no! that hope
was madness.... It was preposterous and impossible.... But then, why?
why? why?... Oh God! for a little more patience!
“What I have just said may seem a little enigmatic to your ladyship,” he
continued blandly, “but surely so clever a woman as yourself, so great
a lady as is the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, will be aware
that there are other means of destroying an enemy than the taking of his
life.”
“For instance, Monsieur Chauvelin?”
“There is the destruction of his honour,” he replied slowly.
A long, bitter laugh, almost hysterical in its loud outburst, broke from
the very depths of Marguerite's convulsed heart.
“The destruction of his honour!... ha! ha! ha! ha!... of a truth,
Monsieur Chauvelin, your inventive powers have led you beyond the bounds
of dreamland!... Ha! ha! ha! ha!... It is in the land of madness
that you are wandering, sir, when you talk in one breath of Sir Percy
Blakeney and the possible destruction of his honour!”
But he remained apparently quite unruffled, and when her laughter had
somewhat subsided, he said placidly:
“Perhaps!...”
Then he rose from his chair, and once more approached her. This time she
did not shrink from him. The suggestion which he had made just now, this
talk of attacking her husband's honour rather than his life, seemed so
wild and preposterous--the conception truly of a mind unhinged--that she
looked upon it as a sign of extreme weakness on his part, almost as an
acknowledgement of impotence.
But she watched him as he moved round the table more in curiosity now
than in fright. He puzzled her, and she still had a feeling at the back
of her mind that there must be something more definite and more evil
lurking at the back of that tortuous brain.
“Will your ladyship allow me to conduct you to yonder window?” he said,
“the air is cool, and what I have to say can best be done in sight of
yonder sleeping city.”
His tone was one of perfect courtesy, even of respectful deference
through which not the slightest trace of sarcasm could be discerned, and
she, still actuated by curiosity and interest, not in any way by fear,
quietly rose to obey him. Though she ignored the hand which he was
holding out towards her, she followed him readily enough as he walked up
to the window.
All through this agonizing and soul-stirring interview she had felt
heavily oppressed by the close atmosphere of the room, rendered nauseous
by the evil smell of the smoky tallow-candles which were left to spread
their grease and smoke abroad unchecked. Once or twice she had gazed
longingly towards the suggestion of pure air outside.
Chauvelin evidently had still much to say to her: the torturing, mental
rack to which she was being subjected had not yet fully done its work.
It still was capable of one or two turns, a twist or so which might
succeed in crushing her pride and her defiance. Well! so be it! she
was in the man's power: had placed herself therein through her own
unreasoning impulse. This interview was but one of the many soul-agonies
which she had been called upon to endure, and if by submitting to it all
she could in a measure mitigate her own faults and be of help to the
man she loved, she would find the sacrifice small and the mental torture
easy to bear.
Therefore when Chauvelin beckoned to her to draw near, she went up to
the window, and leaning her head against the deep stone embrasure, she
looked out into the night.