The Elusive Pimpernel, Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy [ready to read books .TXT] 📗
- Author: Baroness Emmuska Orczy Orczy
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Therefore she rose to go, and as she did so, once more tried to read the expression in his face... to guess what was passing in his mind.
“Nay, Madam,” he said, whilst he bowed gracefully before her, “I fear me this lengthy conversation hath somewhat fatigued you.... This merry jest 'twixt my engaging friend and myself should not have been prolonged so far into the night.... Monsieur, I pray you, will you not give orders that her ladyship be escorted back to her room?”
He was still standing outside the circle of light, and Marguerite instinctively went up to him. For this one second she was oblivious of Chauvelin's presence, she forgot her well-schooled pride, her firm determination to be silent and to be brave: she could no longer restrain the wild beatings of her heart, the agony of her soul, and with sudden impulse she murmured in a voice broken with intense love and subdued, passionate appeal:
“Percy!”
He drew back a step further into the gloom: this made her realize the mistake she had made in allowing her husband's most bitter enemy to get this brief glimpse into her soul. Chauvelin's thin lips curled with satisfaction, the brief glimpse had been sufficient for him, the rapidly whispered name, the broken accent had told him what he had not known hitherto: namely, that between this man and woman there was a bond far more powerful that that which usually existed between husband and wife, and merely made up of chivalry on the one side and trustful reliance on the other.
Marguerite having realized her mistake, ashamed of having betrayed her feelings even for a moment, threw back her proud head and gave her exultant foe a look of defiance and of scorn. He responded with one of pity, not altogether unmixed with deference. There was something almost unearthly and sublime in this beautiful woman's agonizing despair.
He lowered his head and made her a deep obeisance, lest she should see the satisfaction and triumph which shone through his pity.
As usual Sir Percy remained quite imperturbable, and now it was he, who, with characteristic impudence, touched the hand-bell on the table:
“Excuse this intrusion, Monsieur,” he said lightly, “her ladyship is overfatigued and would be best in her room.”
Marguerite threw him a grateful look. After all she was only a woman and was afraid of breaking down. In her mind there was no issue to the present deadlock save in death. For this she was prepared and had but one great hope that she could lie in her husband's arms just once again before she died. Now, since she could not speak to him, scarcely dared to look into the loved face, she was quite ready to go.
In answer to the bell, the soldier had entered.
“If Lady Blakeney desires to go...” said Chauvelin.
She nodded and Chauvelin gave the necessary orders: two soldiers stood at attention ready to escort Marguerite back to her prison cell. As she went towards the door she came to within a couple of steps from where her husband was standing, bowing to her as she passed. She stretched out an icy cold hand towards him, and he, in the most approved London fashion, with the courtly grace of a perfect English gentleman, took the little hand in his and stooping very low kissed the delicate finger-tips.
Then only did she notice that the strong, nervy hand which held hers trembled perceptibly, and that his lips—which for an instant rested on her fingers—were burning hot.
Chapter XXVII: The Decision
Once more the two men were alone.
As far as Chauvelin was concerned he felt that everything was not yet settled, and until a moment ago he had been in doubt as to whether Sir Percy would accept the infamous conditions which had been put before him, or allow his pride and temper to get the better of him and throw the deadly insults back into his adversary's teeth.
But now a new secret had been revealed to the astute diplomatist. A name, softly murmured by a broken-hearted woman, had told him a tale of love and passion, which he had not even suspected before.
Since he had made this discovery he knew that the ultimate issue was no longer in doubt. Sir Percy Blakeney, the bold adventurer, ever ready for a gamble where lives were at stake, might have demurred before he subscribed to his own dishonour, in order to save his wife from humiliation and the shame of the terrible fate that had been mapped out for her. But the same man passionately in love with such a woman as Marguerite Blakeney would count the world well lost for her sake.
One sudden fear alone had shot through Chauvelin's heart when he stood face to face with the two people whom he had so deeply and cruelly wronged, and that was that Blakeney, throwing aside all thought of the scores of innocent lives that were at stake, might forget everything, risk everything, dare everything, in order to get his wife away there and then.
For the space of a few seconds Chauvelin had felt that his own life was in jeopardy, and that the Scarlet Pimpernel would indeed make a desperate effort to save himself and his wife. But the fear was short-lived: Marguerite—as he had well foreseen—would never save herself at the expense of others, and she was tied! tied! tied! That was his triumph and his joy!
When Marguerite finally left the room, Sir Percy made no motion to follow her, but turned once more quietly to his antagonist.
“As you were saying, Monsieur?...” he queried lightly.
“Oh! there is nothing more to say, Sir Percy,” rejoined Chauvelin; “my conditions are clear to you, are they not? Lady Blakeney's and your own immediate release in exchange for a letter written to me by your own hand, and signed here by you—in this room—in my presence and that of sundry other persons whom I need not name just now. Also certain money passing from my hand to yours. Failing the letter, a long, hideously humiliating sojourn in the Temple prison for your wife, a prolonged trial and the guillotine as a happy release!... I would add, the same thing for yourself, only that I will do you the justice to admit that you probably do not care.”
“Nay! a grave mistake, Monsieur.... I do care... vastly care, I assure you ... and would seriously object to ending my life on your demmed guillotine... a nasty, uncomfortable thing, I should say... and I am told that an inexperienced barber is deputed to cut one's hair.... Brrr!... Now, on the other hand, I like the idea of a national fete... that pretty wench Candeille, dressed as a goddess... the boom of the cannon when your amnesty comes into force.... You WILL boom the cannon, will you not, Monsieur?... Cannon are demmed noisy, but they are effective sometimes, do you not think so, Monsieur?”
“Very effective
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