The Elusive Pimpernel, Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy [ready to read books .TXT] 📗

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