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

interesting matter.... Can you not see the attractive headlines in 'The London Gazette,' Sir Percy? 'The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel unmasked! A gigantic hoax! The origin of the Blakeney millions!'... I believe that journalism in England has reached a high standard of excellence... and even the 'Gazette de Paris' is greatly read in certain towns of your charming country.... His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, and various other influential gentlemen in London, will, on the other hand, be granted a private view of the original through the kind offices of certain devoted friends whom we possess in England.... I don't think that you need have any fear, Sir Percy, that your caligraphy will sink into oblivion. It will be our business to see that it obtains the full measure of publicity which it deserves...”

He paused a moment, then his manner suddenly changed: the sarcastic tone died out of his voice, and there came back into his face that look of hatred and cruelty which Blakeney's persiflage had always the power to evoke.

“You may rest assured of one thing, Sir Percy,” he said with a harsh laugh, “that enough mud will be thrown at that erstwhile glorious Scarlet Pimpernel... some of it will be bound to stick...”

“Nay, Monsieur... er... Chaubertin,” quoth Blakeney lightly, “I have no doubt that you and your colleagues are past masters in the graceful art of mud-throwing.... But pardon me... er.... I was interrupting you.... Continue, Monsieur... continue, I pray. 'Pon my honour, the matter is vastly diverting.”

“Nay, sir, after the publication of this diverting epistle, meseems your honour will ceased to be a marketable commodity.”

“Undoubtedly, sir,” rejoined Sir Percy, apparently quite unruffled, “pardon a slip of the tongue... we are so much the creatures of habit.... As you were saying...?”

“I have but little more to say, sir.... But lest there should even now be lurking in your mind a vague hope that, having written this letter, you could easily in the future deny its authorship, let me tell you this: my measures are well taken, there will be witnesses to your writing of it.... You will sit here in this room, unfettered, uncoerced in any way, and the money spoken of in the letter will be handed over to you by my colleague, after a few suitable words spoken by him, and you will take the money from him, Sir Percy... and the witnesses will see you take it after having seen you write the letter... they will understand that you are being PAID by the French government for giving information anent royalist plots in this country and in England... they will understand that your identity as the leader of that so-called band is not only known to me and to my colleague, but that it also covers your real character and profession as the paid spy of France.”

“Marvellous, I call it... demmed marvellous,” quoth Sir Percy blandly.

Chauvelin had paused, half-choked by his own emotion, his hatred and prospective revenge. He passed his handkerchief over his forehead, which was streaming with perspiration.

“Warm work, this sort of thing... eh... Monsieur... er... Chaubertin?...” queried his imperturbable enemy.

Marguerite said nothing; the whole thing was too horrible for words, but she kept her large eyes fixed upon her husband's face... waiting for that look, that sign from him which would have eased the agonizing anxiety in her heart, and which never came.

With a great effort now, Chauvelin pulled himself together and, though his voice still trembled, he managed to speak with a certain amount of calm:

“Probably, Sir Percy, you know,” he said, “that throughout the whole of France we are inaugurating a series of national fetes, in honour of the new religion which the people are about to adopt.... Demoiselle Desiree Candeille, whom you know, will at these festivals impersonate the Goddess of Reason, the only deity whom we admit now in France.... She has been specially chosen for this honour, owing to the services which she has rendered us recently... and as Boulogne happens to be the lucky city in which we have succeeded in bringing the Scarlet Pimpernel to justice, the national fete will begin within these city walls, with Demoiselle Candeille as the thrice-honoured goddess.”

“And you will be very merry here in Boulogne, I dare swear...”

“Aye, merry, sir,” said Chauvelin with an involuntary and savage snarl, as he placed a long claw-like finger upon the momentous paper before him, “merry, for we here in Boulogne will see that which will fill the heart of every patriot in France with gladness.... Nay! 'twas not the death of the Scarlet Pimpernel we wanted... not the noble martyrdom of England's chosen hero... but his humiliation and defeat... derision and scorn... contumely and contempt. You asked me airily just now, Sir Percy, how I proposed to accomplish this object... Well! you know it now—by forcing you... aye, forcing—to write and sign a letter and to take money from my hands which will brand you forever as a liar and informer, and cover you with the thick and slimy mud of irreclaimable infamy...”

“Lud! sir,” said Sir Percy pleasantly, “what a wonderful command you have of our language.... I wish I could speak French half as well...”

Marguerite had risen like an automaton from her chair. She felt that she could no longer sit still, she wanted to scream out at the top of her voice, all the horror she felt for this dastardly plot, which surely must have had its origin in the brain of devils. She could not understand Percy. This was one of those awful moments, which she had been destined to experience once or twice before, when the whole personality of her husband seemed to become shadowy before her, to slip, as it were, past her comprehension, leaving her indescribably lonely and wretched, trusting yet terrified.

She thought that long ere this he would have flung back every insult in his opponent's teeth; she did not know what inducements Chauvelin had held out in exchange for the infamous letter, what threats he had used. That her own life and freedom were at stake, was, of course, evident, but she cared nothing for life, and he should know that certainly she would care still less if such a price had to be paid for it.

She longed to tell him all that was in her heart, longed to tell him how little she valued her life, how highly she prized his honour! but how could she, before this fiend who snarled and sneered in his anticipated triumph, and surely, surely Percy knew!

And knowing all that, why did he not speak? Why did he not tear that infamous paper from out that devil's hands and fling it in his face? Yet, though her loving ear caught every intonation of her husband's voice, she could not detect the slightest harshness in his airy laugh; his tone was perfectly natural and he seemed to be, indeed, just as he appeared—vastly amused.

Then she thought that perhaps he would wish her to go now, that he felt desire to be alone with this man, who had outraged him in everything that he held most holy and most dear, his honour and his wife... that perhaps, knowing that his own temper was no longer under control, he did not wish her to witness the rough and ready chastisement which he was intending to mete out to this dastardly intriguer.

Yes! that was it no doubt! Herein she could not be mistaken; she knew his