The Elusive Pimpernel, Baroness Orczy [e book reader pdf TXT] 📗

it a condition that you write out every word of it yourself, and sign it here in this very room, in the presence of Lady Blakeney, of myself, of my colleagues and of at least half a dozen other persons whom I will select.”

“It is indeed admirably thought out, Monsieur,” rejoined Sir Percy, “and what is to become of the charming epistle, may I ask, after I have written and signed it?⁠ ⁠… Pardon my curiosity.⁠ ⁠… I take a natural interest in the matter⁠ ⁠… and truly your ingenuity passes belief⁠ ⁠…”

“Oh! the fate of this letter will be as simple as was the writing thereof.⁠ ⁠… A copy of it will be published in our Gazette de Paris as a bait for enterprising English journalists.⁠ ⁠… They will not be backward in getting hold of so much 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 cease 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 fêtes, in honour of the new religion which the people are about to adopt.⁠ ⁠… Demoiselle Désirée 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 fête 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