EITHER—OR?
The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the
half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate.
“Start myself to-morrow. . . .” This she had read quite distinctly;
then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated
the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another
sentence, which was now standing clearly and distinctly, like letters
of fire, before her mental vision. “If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be in the supper-room at one o’clock precisely.” The whole was
signed with the hastily-scrawled little device—a tiny star-shaped
flower, which had become so familiar to her.
One o’clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last minuet
was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney
leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate figures.
Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock upon its
ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours
more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In two hours she
must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly
gained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she
will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his
fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It
seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too,
was noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved
her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when
she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her
brother’s kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be
looking reproachfully at her. “You might have saved me, Margot!” he
seemed to say to her, “and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you
do not know, whom you have never seen, and preferred that he should be
safe, whilst you sent me to the guillotine!”
All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite’s brain, while,
with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mazes of
the minuet. She noted—with that acute sense of hers—that she had
succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew’s fears. Her self-control
had been absolutely perfect—she was a finer actress at this moment, and
throughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the
boards of the Comédie Française; but then, a beloved brother’s life had
not depended upon her histrionic powers.
She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further allusions to
the supposed _billet doux_, which had caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such
an agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under
her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever doubt may have
crossed his mind at the moment, she had, by the time the last bars of
the minuet had been played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he
never realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what effort it
cost her to keep up a constant ripple of _banal_ conversation.
When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her into the
next room.
“I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal Highness,” she
said, “but before we part, tell me . . . am I forgiven?”
“Forgiven?”
“Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . But, remember, I am
not an Englishwoman, and I do not look upon the exchanging of _billet
doux_ as a crime, and I vow I’ll not tell my little Suzanne. But now,
tell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on Wednesday?”
“I am not sure, Lady Blakeney,” he replied evasively. “I may have to
leave London to-morrow.”
“I would not do that, if I were you,” she said earnestly; then seeing
the anxious look once more reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily;
“No one can throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, we should so
miss you on the bowling-green.”
He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where already His Royal
Highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney.
“Madame, supper awaits us,” said the Prince, offering his arm to
Marguerite, “and I am full of hope. The goddess Fortune has frowned so
persistently on me at hazard, that I look with confidence for the
smiles of the goddess of Beauty.”
“Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card tables?” asked
Marguerite, as she took the Prince’s arm.
“Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the richest
among my father’s subjects, has also the most outrageous luck. By the
way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life would
be but a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies.”