The green-room was crowded when de Batz and St. Just arrived there after
the performance. The older man cast a hasty glance through the open
door. The crowd did not suit his purpose, and he dragged his companion
hurriedly away from the contemplation of Mlle. Lange, sitting in a far
corner of the room, surrounded by an admiring throng, and by innumerable
floral tributes offered to her beauty and to her success.
De Batz without a word led the way back towards the stage. Here, by the
dim light of tallow candles fixed in sconces against the surrounding
walls, the scene-shifters were busy moving drop-scenes, back cloths and
wings, and paid no heed to the two men who strolled slowly up and down
silently, each wrapped in his own thoughts.
Armand walked with his hands buried in his breeches pockets, his head
bent forward on his chest; but every now and again he threw quick,
apprehensive glances round him whenever a firm step echoed along the
empty stage or a voice rang clearly through the now deserted theatre.
“Are we wise to wait here?” he asked, speaking to himself rather than to
his companion.
He was not anxious about his own safety; but the words of de Batz had
impressed themselves upon his mind: “Heron and his spies we have always
with us.”
From the green-room a separate foyer and exit led directly out into
the street. Gradually the sound of many voices, the loud laughter and
occasional snatches of song which for the past half-hour had proceeded
from that part of the house, became more subdued and more rare. One by
one the friends of the artists were leaving the theatre, after having
paid the usual banal compliments to those whom they favoured, or
presented the accustomed offering of flowers to the brightest star of
the night.
The actors were the first to retire, then the older actresses, the ones
who could no longer command a court of admirers round them. They all
filed out of the green-room and crossed the stage to where, at the
back, a narrow, rickety wooden stairs led to their so-called
dressing-rooms--tiny, dark cubicles, ill-lighted, unventilated, where
some half-dozen of the lesser stars tumbled over one another while
removing wigs and grease-paint.
Armand and de Batz watched this exodus, both with equal impatience.
Mlle. Lange was the last to leave the green-room. For some time, since
the crowd had become thinner round her, Armand had contrived to catch
glimpses of her slight, elegant figure. A short passage led from the
stage to the green-room door, which was wide open, and at the corner
of this passage the young man had paused from time to time in his walk,
gazing with earnest admiration at the dainty outline of the young girl’s
head, with its wig of powdered curls that seemed scarcely whiter than
the creamy brilliance of her skin.
De Batz did not watch Mlle. Lange beyond casting impatient looks in the
direction of the crowd that prevented her leaving the green-room. He
did watch Armand, however--noted his eager look, his brisk and alert
movements, the obvious glances of admiration which he cast in the
direction of the young actress, and this seemed to afford him a
considerable amount of contentment.
The best part of an hour had gone by since the fall of the curtain
before Mlle. Lange finally dismissed her many admirers, and de Batz had
the satisfaction of seeing her running down the passage, turning back
occasionally in order to bid gay “good-nights” to the loiterers who
were loath to part from her. She was a child in all her movements, quite
unconscious of self or of her own charms, but frankly delighted with
her success. She was still dressed in the ridiculous hoops and panniers
pertaining to her part, and the powdered peruke hid the charm of her
own hair; the costume gave a certain stilted air to her unaffected
personality, which, by this very sense of contrast, was essentially
fascinating.
In her arms she held a huge sheaf of sweet-scented narcissi, the spoils
of some favoured spot far away in the South. Armand thought that never
in his life had he seen anything so winsome or so charming.
Having at last said the positively final adieu, Mlle. Lange with a happy
little sigh turned to run down the passage.
She came face to face with Armand, and gave a sudden little gasp of
terror. It was not good these days to come on any loiterer unawares.
But already de Batz had quickly joined his friend, and his smooth,
pleasant voice, and podgy, beringed hand extended towards Mlle. Lange,
were sufficient to reassure her.
“You were so surrounded in the green-room, mademoiselle,” he said
courteously, “I did not venture to press in among the crowd of
your admirers. Yet I had the great wish to present my respectful
congratulations in person.”
“Ah! c’est ce cher de Batz!” exclaimed mademoiselle gaily, in that
exquisitely rippling voice of hers. “And where in the world do you
spring from, my friend?
“Hush-sh-sh!” he whispered, holding her small bemittened hand in
his, and putting one finger to his lips with an urgent entreaty for
discretion; “not my name, I beg of you, fair one.”
“Bah!” she retorted lightly, even though her full lips trembled now as
she spoke and belied her very words. “You need have no fear whilst
you are in this part of the house. It is an understood thing that the
Committee of General Security does not send its spies behind the curtain
of a theatre. Why, if all of us actors and actresses were sent to
the guillotine there would be no play on the morrow. Artistes are not
replaceable in a few hours; those that are in existence must perforce be
spared, or the citizens who govern us now would not know where to spend
their evenings.”
But though she spoke so airily and with her accustomed gaiety, it was
easily perceived that even on this childish mind the dangers which beset
every one these days had already imprinted their mark of suspicion and
of caution.
“Come into my dressing-room,” she said. “I must not tarry here any
longer, for they will be putting out the lights. But I have a room to
myself, and we can talk there quite agreeably.”
She led the way across the stage towards the wooden stairs. Armand, who
during this brief colloquy between his friend and the young girl had
kept discreetly in the background, felt undecided what to do. But at
a peremptory sign from de Batz he, too, turned in the wake of the gay
little lady, who ran swiftly up the rickety steps, humming snatches of
popular songs the while, and not turning to see if indeed the two men
were following her.
She had the sheaf of narcissi still in her arms, and the door of her
tiny dressing-room being open, she ran straight in and threw the flowers
down in a confused, sweet-scented mass upon the small table that
stood at one end of the room, littered with pots and bottles, letters,
mirrors, powder-puffs, silk stockings, and cambric handkerchiefs.
Then she turned and faced the two men, a merry look of unalterable
gaiety dancing in her eyes.
“Shut the door, mon ami,” she said to de Batz, “and after that sit down
where you can, so long as it is not on my most precious pot of unguent
or a box of costliest powder.”
While de Batz did as he was told, she turned to Armand and said with a
pretty tone of interrogation in her melodious voice:
“Monsieur?”
“St. Just, at your service, mademoiselle,” said Armand, bowing very low
in the most approved style obtaining at the English Court.
“St. Just?” she repeated, a look of puzzlement in her brown eyes.
“Surely--”
“A kinsman of citizen St. Just, whom no doubt you know, mademoiselle,”
he exclaimed.
“My friend Armand St. Just,” interposed de Batz, “is practically a
new-comer in Paris. He lives in England habitually.”
“In England?” she exclaimed. “Oh! do tell me all about England. I would
love to go there. Perhaps I may have to go some day. Oh! do sit down, de
Batz,” she continued, talking rather volubly, even as a delicate blush
heightened the colour in her cheeks under the look of obvious admiration
from Armand St. Just’s expressive eyes.
She swept a handful of delicate cambric and silk from off a chair,
making room for de Batz’ portly figure. Then she sat upon the sofa, and
with an inviting gesture and a call from the eyes she bade Armand sit
down next to her. She leaned back against the cushions, and the table
being close by, she stretched out a hand and once more took up the bunch
of narcissi, and while she talked to Armand she held the snow-white
blooms quite close to her face--so close, in fact, that he could not
see her mouth and chin, only her dark eyes shone across at him over the
heads of the blossoms.
“Tell me all about England,” she reiterated, settling herself down among
the cushions like a spoilt child who is about to listen to an oft-told
favourite story.
Armand was vexed that de Batz was sitting there. He felt he could have
told this dainty little lady quite a good deal about England if only his
pompous, fat friend would have had the good sense to go away.
As it was, he felt unusually timid and gauche, not quite knowing what to
say, a fact which seemed to amuse Mlle. Lange not a little.
“I am very fond of England,” he said lamely; “my sister is married to an
Englishman, and I myself have taken up my permanent residence there.”
“Among the society of emigres?” she queried.
Then, as Armand made no reply, de Batz interposed quickly:
“Oh! you need not fear to admit it, my good Armand; Mademoiselle Lange,
has many friends among the emigres--have you not, mademoiselle?”
“Yes, of course,” she replied lightly; “I have friends everywhere. Their
political views have nothing to do with me. Artistes, I think, should
have naught to do with politics. You see, citizen St. Just, I never
inquired of you what were your views. Your name and kinship would
proclaim you a partisan of citizen Robespierre, yet I find you in the
company of M. de Batz; and you tell me that you live in England.”
“He is no partisan of citizen Robespierre,” again interposed de Batz;
“in fact, mademoiselle, I may safely tell you, I think, that my friend
has but one ideal on this earth, whom he has set up in a shrine, and
whom he worships with all the ardour of a Christian for his God.”
“How romantic!” she said, and she looked straight at Armand. “Tell me,
monsieur, is your ideal a woman or a man?”
His look answered her, even before he boldly spoke the two words:
“A woman.”
She took a deep draught of sweet, intoxicating scent from the narcissi,
and his gaze once more brought blushes to her cheeks. De Batz’
good-humoured laugh helped her to hide this unwonted access of
confusion.
“That was well turned, friend Armand,” he said lightly; “but I assure
you, mademoiselle, that before I brought him here to-night his ideal was
a man.”
“A man!” she exclaimed, with a contemptuous little pout. “Who was it?”
“I know no other name for him but that of a small, insignificant
flower--the Scarlet Pimpernel,” replied de Batz.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel!” she ejaculated, dropping the flowers suddenly,
and gazing on Armand with wide, wondering eyes. “And do you know him,
monsieur?”
He was frowning despite himself, despite the delight which he felt at
sitting so close to this charming little lady, and feeling that in a
measure his presence and his personality interested her. But he felt
irritated with de Batz, and angered at what he considered the latter’s
indiscretion. To him the very name of his leader was almost a sacred
one; he was one of those enthusiastic devotees who only care to name the
idol of their dreams with bated breath, and only in the ears of those
who would understand and sympathise.
Again he felt that if only he could have been alone with mademoiselle he
could have told her all about the Scarlet Pimpernel, knowing that in her
he would find a ready listener, a helping and a loving heart; but as it
was he merely replied tamely enough:
“Yes, mademoiselle, I do know him.”
“You have seen him?” she queried eagerly; “spoken to him?”
“Yes.”
“Oh! do tell me all about him. You know quite a number of us in France
have the greatest possible admiration for your national hero. We know,
of course, that he is an enemy of our Government--but, oh! we feel that
he is not an enemy of France because of that. We are a nation of heroes,
too, monsieur,” she added with a pretty, proud toss of the head; “we can
appreciate bravery and resource, and we love the mystery that surrounds
the personality of your Scarlet Pimpernel. But since you know him,
monsieur, tell me what is he like?”
Armand was smiling again. He was yielding himself up wholly to the charm
which emanated from this young girl’s entire being, from her gaiety
and her unaffectedness, her enthusiasm, and that obvious artistic
temperament which caused her to feel every sensation with superlative
keenness and thoroughness.
“What is he like?” she insisted.
“That, mademoiselle,” he replied, “I am not at liberty to tell you.”
“Not at liberty to tell me!” she exclaimed; “but monsieur, if I command
you--”
“At risk of falling forever under the ban of your displeasure,
mademoiselle, I would still remain silent on that subject.”
She gazed on him with obvious astonishment. It was quite an unusual
thing for this spoilt darling of an admiring public to be thus openly
thwarted in her whims.
“How tiresome and pedantic!” she said, with a shrug of her pretty
shoulders and a moue of discontent. “And, oh! how ungallant! You have
learnt ugly, English ways, monsieur; for there, I am told, men hold
their womenkind in very scant esteem. There!” she added, turning with
a mock air of hopelessness towards de Batz, “am I not a most unlucky
woman? For the past two years I have used my best endeavours to catch
sight of that interesting Scarlet Pimpernel; here do I meet monsieur,
who actually knows him (so he says), and he is so ungallant that he even
refuses to satisfy the first cravings of my just curiosity.”
“Citizen St. Just will tell you nothing now, mademoiselle,” rejoined
de Batz with his good-humoured laugh; “it is my presence, I assure you,
which is setting a seal upon his lips. He is, believe me, aching to
confide in you, to share in your enthusiasm, and to see your beautiful
eyes glowing in response to his ardour when he describes to you the
exploits of that prince of heroes. En tete-a-tete one day, you will, I
know, worm every secret out of my discreet friend Armand.”
Mademoiselle made no comment on this--that is to say, no audible
comment--but she buried the whole of her face for a few seconds among
the flowers, and Armand from amongst those flowers caught sight of a
pair of very bright brown eyes which shone on him with a puzzled look.
She said nothing more about the Scarlet Pimpernel or about England just
then, but after awhile she began talking of more indifferent subjects:
the state of the weather, the price of food, the discomforts of her own
house, now that the servants had been put on perfect equality with their
masters.
Armand soon gathered that the burning questions of the day, the horrors
of massacres, the raging turmoil of politics, had not affected her very
deeply as yet. She had not troubled her pretty head very much about the
social and humanitarian aspect of the present seething revolution.
She did not really wish to think about it at all. An artiste to her
finger-tips, she was spending her young life in earnest work, striving
to attain perfection in her art, absorbed in study during the day, and
in the expression of what she had learnt in the evenings.
The terrors of the guillotine affected her a little, but somewhat
vaguely still. She had not realised that any dangers could assail her
whilst she worked for the artistic delectation of the public.
It was not that she did not understand what went on around her, but that
her artistic temperament and her environment had kept her aloof from
it all. The horrors of the Place de la Revolution made her shudder, but
only in the same way as the tragedies of M. Racine or of Sophocles which
she had studied caused her to shudder, and she had exactly the same
sympathy for poor Queen Marie Antoinette as she had for Mary Stuart, and
shed as many tears for King Louis as she did for Polyeucte.
Once de Batz mentioned the Dauphin, but mademoiselle put up her hand
quickly and said in a trembling voice, whilst the tears gathered in her
eyes:
“Do not speak of the child to me, de Batz. What can I, a lonely,
hard-working woman, do to help him? I try not to think of him, for if
I did, knowing my own helplessness, I feel that I could hate my
countrymen, and speak my bitter hatred of them across the footlights;
which would be more than foolish,” she added naively, “for it would not
help the child, and I should be sent to the guillotine. But oh sometimes
I feel that I would gladly die if only that poor little child-martyr
were restored to those who love him and given back once more to joy and
happiness. But they would not take my life for his, I am afraid,”
she concluded, smiling through her tears. “My life is of no value in
comparison with his.”
Soon after this she dismissed her two visitors. De Batz, well content
with the result of this evening’s entertainment, wore an urbane, bland
smile on his rubicund face. Armand, somewhat serious and not a little in
love, made the hand-kiss with which he took his leave last as long as he
could.
“You will come and see me again, citizen St. Just?” she asked after that
preliminary leave-taking.
“At your service, mademoiselle,” he replied with alacrity.
“How long do you stay in Paris?”
“I may be called away at any time.”
“Well, then, come to-morrow. I shall be free towards four o’clock.
Square du Roule. You cannot miss the house. Any one there will tell you
where lives citizeness Lange.”
“At your service, mademoiselle,” he replied.
The words sounded empty and meaningless, but his eyes, as they took
final leave of her, spoke the gratitude and the joy which he felt.