As he re-entered the large room, she was standing beside the table,
with one dainty hand resting against the back of the chair, her whole
graceful figure bent forward as if in an agony of ardent expectation.
Never for an instant, in that supreme moment when his precious life was
at stake, did she waver in courage or presence of mind. From the moment
that he jumped up and took the candlesticks in his hands, her sixth
sense showed her as in a flash what he meant to do and how he would wish
her to act.
When the room was plunged in darkness she stood absolutely still;
when she heard the scuffle on the floor she never trembled, for her
passionate heart had already told her that he never meant to deliver
that infamous letter into his enemies' hands. Then, when there was the
general scramble, when the soldiers rushed away, when the room became
empty and Chauvelin alone remained, she shrank quietly into the darkest
corner of the room, hardly breathing, only waiting.... Waiting for a
sign from him!
She could not see him, but she felt the beloved presence there,
somewhere close to her, and she knew that he would wish her to wait....
She watched him silently... ready to help if he called... equally ready
to remain still and to wait.
Only when the helpless body of her deadly enemy was well out of the
way did she come from out the darkness, and now she stood with the full
light of the lamp illumining her ruddy golden hair, the delicate blush
on her cheek, the flame of love dancing in her glorious eyes.
Thus he saw her as he re-entered the room, and for one second he paused
at the door, for the joy of seeing her there seemed greater than he
could bear.
Forgotten was the agony of mind which he had endured, the humiliations
and the dangers which still threatened: he only remembered that she
loved him and that he worshipped her.
The next moment she lay clasped in his arms. All was still around
them, save for the gentle patter-patter of the rain on the trees of the
ramparts: and from very far away the echo of laughter and music from the
distant revellers.
And then the cry of the sea-mew thrice repeated from just beneath the
window.
Blakeney and Marguerite awoke from their brief dream: once more the
passionate lover gave place to the man of action.
“'Tis Tony, an I mistake not,” he said hurriedly, as with loving fingers
still slightly trembling with suppressed passion, he readjusted the hood
over her head.
“Lord Tony?” she murmured.
“Aye! with Hastings and one or two others. I told them to be ready for
us to-night as soon as the place was quiet.”
“You were so sure of success then, Percy?” she asked in wonderment.
“So sure,” he replied simply.
Then he led her to the window, and lifted her onto the sill. It was not
high from the ground and two pairs of willing arms were there ready to
help her down.
Then he, too, followed, and quietly the little party turned to walk
toward the gate. The ramparts themselves now looked strangely still
and silent: the merrymakers were far away, only one or two passers-by
hurried swiftly past here and there, carrying bundles, evidently bent on
making use of that welcome permission to leave this dangerous soil.
The little party walked on in silence, Marguerite's small hand resting
on her husband's arm. Anon they came upon a group of soldiers who were
standing somewhat perfunctorily and irresolutely close by the open gate
of the Fort.
“Tiens c'est l'Anglais!” said one.
“Morbleu! he is on his way back to England,” commented another lazily.
The gates of Boulogne had been thrown open to everyone when the Angelus
was rung and the cannon boomed. The general amnesty had been proclaimed,
everyone had the right to come and go as they pleased, the sentinels had
been ordered to challenge no one and to let everyone pass.
No one knew that the great and glorious plans for the complete
annihilation of the Scarlet Pimpernel and his League had come to naught,
that Collot was taking a mighty hoax to Paris, and that the man who had
thought out and nearly carried through the most fiendishly cruel plan
ever conceived for the destruction of an enemy, lay helpless, bound and
gagged, within his own stronghold.
And so the little party, consisting of Sir Percy and Marguerite, Lord
Anthony Dewhurst and my Lord Hastings, passed unchallenged through the
gates of Boulogne.
Outside the precincts of the town they met my Lord Everingham and Sir
Philip Glynde, who had met the Abbe Foucquet outside his little church
and escorted him safely out of the city, whilst Francois and Felicite
with their old mother had been under the charge of other members of the
League.
“We were all in the procession, dressed up in all sorts of ragged
finery, until the last moment,” explained Lord Tony to Marguerite as the
entire party now quickly made its way to the harbour. “We did not know
what was going to happen.... All we knew was that we should be wanted
about this time--the hour when the duel was to have been fought--and
somewhere near here on the southern ramparts... and we always have
strict orders to mix with the crowd if there happens to be one. When we
saw Blakeney raise the candlesticks we guessed what was coming, and we
each went to our respective posts. It was all quite simple.”
The young man spoke gaily and lightly, but through the easy banter of
his tone, there pierced the enthusiasm and pride of the soldier in the
glory and daring of his chief.
Between the city walls and the harbour there was much bustle and
agitation. The English packet-boat would lift anchor at the turn of the
tide, and as every one was free to get aboard without leave or passport,
there were a very large number of passengers, bound for the land of
freedom.
Two boats from the “Day-Dream” were waiting in readiness for Sir Percy
and my lady and those whom they would bring with them.
Silently the party embarked, and as the boats pushed off and the sailors
from Sir Percy's yacht bent to their oars, the old Abbe Foucquet began
gently droning a Pater and Ave to the accompaniment of his beads.
He accepted joy, happiness and safety with the same gentle philosophy
as he would have accepted death, but Marguerite's keen and loving ears
caught at the end of each “Pater” a gently murmured request to le bon
Dieu to bless and protect our English rescuer.
Only once did Marguerite make allusion to that terrible time which had
become the past.
They were wandering together down the chestnut alley in the beautiful
garden at Richmond. It was evening, and the air was heavy with the
rich odour of wet earth, of belated roses and dying mignonette. She had
paused in the alley, and placed a trembling hand upon his arm, whilst
raising her eyes filled with tears of tender passion up to his face.
“Percy!” she murmured, “have you forgiven me?”
“What, m'dear?”
“That awful evening in Boulogne... what that fiend demanded... his awful
'either--or'... I brought it all upon you... it was all my fault.”
“Nay, my dear, for that 'tis I should thank you...”
“Thank me?”
“Aye,” he said, whilst in the fast-gathering dusk she could only just
perceive the sudden hardening of his face, the look of wild passion in
his eyes, “but for that evening in Boulogne, but for that alternative
which that devil placed before me, I might never have known how much you
meant to me.”
Even the recollection of all the sorrow, the anxiety, the torturing
humiliations of that night seemed completely to change him; the voice
became trenchant, the hands were tightly clenched. But Marguerite drew
nearer to him; her two hands were on his breast; she murmured gently:
“And now?...”
He folded her in his arms, with an agony of joy, and said earnestly:
“Now I know.”
End of Project Gutenberg's The Elusive Pimpernel, by Baroness Emmuska Orczy