The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy [most popular novels .TXT] 📗

his name, the soughing of the breeze amidst the trees seemed to hold the echo of his voice; the perfume of thyme and mignonette to bring back the savour of his kiss.

Then suddenly she became aware of hurrying footsteps on the gravelled path close by. She turned, and saw a young man whom at first she did not recognise, running with breathless haste towards her. He was hatless, his linen crumpled, his coat-collar awry. At sight of her he gave a queer cry of excitement and relief.

“Lady Blakeney! Thank God! Thank God!”

Then she recognised him. It was Bertrand Moncrif.

He fell on his knees and seized her gown. He appeared entirely overwrought, unbalanced, and Marguerite tried in vain at first to get a coherent word out of him. All that he kept on repeating was:

“Will you help me? Will you help us all?”

“Indeed I will, if I can, M. Moncrif,” Marguerite said gently. “Do try and compose yourself and tell me what is amiss.”

She persuaded him to rise, and presently to follow her to a garden seat, where she sat down. He remained standing in front of her. His eyes still looked wild and scared, and he passed a shaking hand once or twice through his unruly hair. But he was obviously making an effort to compose himself, and after a little while, during which Marguerite waited with utmost patience, he began more coherently:

“Your servants said, milady,” he began more quietly, “that you were in the garden. I could not wait until they called you, so I ran to find you. Will you try and forgive me? I ought not to have intruded.”

“Of course I will forgive you,” Marguerite rejoined with a smile, “if you will only tell me what is amiss.”

He paused a moment, then cried abruptly:

“Régine has gone!”

Marguerite frowned, puzzled, and murmured slowly, not understanding:

“Gone? Whither?”

“To Dover,” he replied, “with Jacques.”

“Jacques?” she reiterated, still uncomprehending.

“Her brother,” he rejoined. “You know the boy?”

Marguerite nodded.

“Hotheaded, impulsive,” Moncrif went on, trying to speak calmly. “He and the girl Joséphine always had it in their minds that they were destined to liberate France from her present state of anarchy and bloodshed.”

“Like you yourself, M. Moncrif!” Marguerite put in with a smile.

“Oh, I became sobered, reasonable, when I realised how futile it all was. We all owe our lives to that noble Scarlet Pimpernel. They were no longer ours to throw away. At least, that was my theory, and Régine’s. I have been engaged in business; and she works hard⁠ ⁠… Oh, but you know!” he exclaimed impulsively.

“Yes, I know all your circumstances. But to the point, I pray you!”

“Jacques of late has been very excited, feverish. We did not know what was amiss. Régine and I oft spoke of him. And Mme. de Serval has been distraught with anxiety. She worships the boy. He is her only son. But Jacques would not say what was amiss. He spoke to no one. Went to his work every day as usual. Last night he did not come home. A message came for Mme. de Serval to say that a friend in London had persuaded him to go to the play and spend the night with him. Mme. de Serval thought nothing of that. She was pleased to think that Jacques had some amusement to distract him from his brooding thoughts. But Régine, it seems, was not satisfied. After her mother had gone to bed, she went into Jacque’s room; found some papers, it seems⁠ ⁠… letters⁠ ⁠… I know not⁠ ⁠… proof in fact that the boy was even then on his way to Dover, having made arrangements to take ship for France.”

“Mon Dieu!” Marguerite exclaimed involuntarily. “What senseless folly!”

“Ah! but that is not the worst. Folly, you say! But there is worse folly still!”

With the same febrile movements that characterised his whole attitude, he drew a stained and crumpled letter from his pocket.

“She sent me this, this morning,” he said. “That is why I came to you.”

“You mean Régine?” Marguerite asked, and took the letter which he was handing to her.

“Yes! She must have brought it round herself⁠ ⁠… to my lodgings⁠ ⁠… in the early dawn. I did not know what to do⁠ ⁠… whom to consult⁠ ⁠… A blind instinct brought me here⁠ ⁠… I have no other friend⁠ ⁠…”

In the meanwhile Marguerite was deciphering the letter, turning a deaf ear to his ramblings.

“My Bertrand,” so the letter ran, “Jacques is going to France. Nothing will keep him back. He says it is his duty. I think that he is mad, and I know that it will kill maman. So I go with him. Perhaps at the last⁠—at Dover⁠—my tears and entreaties might yet prevail. If not, and he puts this senseless project in execution, I can watch over him there, and perhaps save him from too glaring a folly. We go by coach to Dover, which starts in an hour’s time. Farewell, my beloved, and forgive me for causing you the anxiety; but I feel that Jacques has more need of me than you.”

Below the signature “Régine de Serval” there were a few more lines, written as if with an afterthought:

“I have told maman that my employer is sending me down into the country about some dresses for an important customer, and that as Jacques can get a few days’ leave from his work, I am taking him with me, for I feel the country air would do him good.

“Maman will be astonished and no doubt hurt that Jacques did not send her word of farewell, but it is best that she should not learn the truth too suddenly. If we do not return to Dover within the week, you will have to break the news as gently as you can.”

Whilst Marguerite read the letter, Bertrand had sunk upon the seat and buried his head in his hands. He looked utterly dejected and forlorn, and she felt a twinge of remorse at thought how she had been wronging him all this while by doubting his love