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

Percy Blakeney’s curiously blended character, was never for a moment in doubt but that he would write the infamous letter, save his wife by sacrificing his honour, and then seek oblivion and peace in suicide.

With so much disgrace, so much mud cast upon their chief, the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would cease to be. That had been Chauvelin’s plan all along. For this end he had schemed and thought and planned, from the moment that Robespierre had given him the opportunity of redeeming his failure of last year. He had built up the edifice of his intrigue, bit by bit, from the introduction of his tool, Candeille, to Marguerite at the Richmond gala, to the arrest of Lady Blakeney in Boulogne. All that remained for him to see now would be the attitude of Sir Percy Blakeney tonight, when, in exchange for the stipulated letter, he would see his wife set free.

All day Chauvelin had wondered how it would all go off. He had stage-managed everything, but he did not know how the chief actor would play his part.

From time to time, when his feeling of restlessness became quite unendurable, the ex-ambassador would wander round Fort Gayole and on some pretext or other demand to see one or the other of his prisoners. Marguerite, however, observed complete silence in his presence: she acknowledged his greeting with a slight inclination of the head, and in reply to certain perfunctory queries of his⁠—which he put to her in order to justify his appearance⁠—she either nodded or gave curt monosyllabic answers through partially closed lips.

“I trust that everything is arranged for your comfort, Lady Blakeney.”

“I thank you, sir.”

“You will be rejoining the Daydream tonight. Can I send a messenger over to the yacht for you?”

“I thank you. No.”

“Sir Percy is well. He is fast asleep, and hath not asked for your ladyship. Shall I let him know that you are well?”

A nod of acquiescence from Marguerite and Chauvelin’s string of queries was at an end. He marvelled at her quietude and thought that she should have been as restless as himself.

Later on in the day, and egged on by Collot d’Herbois and by his own fears, he had caused Marguerite to be removed from No. 6.

This change he heralded by another brief visit to her, and his attitude this time was one of deferential apology.

“A matter of expediency, Lady Blakeney,” he explained, “and I trust that the change will be for your comfort.”

Again the same curt nod of acquiescence on her part, and a brief:

“As you command, Monsieur!”

But when he had gone, she turned with a sudden passionate outburst towards the Abbé Foucquet, her faithful companion through the past long, weary hours. She fell on her knees beside him and sobbed in an agony of grief.

“Oh! if I could only know⁠ ⁠… if I could only see him!⁠ ⁠… for a minute⁠ ⁠… a second!⁠ ⁠… if I could only know!⁠ ⁠…”

She felt as if the awful uncertainty would drive her mad.

If she could only know! If she could only know what he meant to do.

“The good God knows!” said the old man, with his usual simple philosophy, “and perhaps it is all for the best.”

The room which Chauvelin had now destined for Marguerite was one which gave from the larger one, wherein last night he had had his momentous interview with her and with Sir Percy.

It was small, square and dark, with no window in it: only a small ventilating hole high up in the wall and heavily grated. Chauvelin, who desired to prove to her that there was no wish on his part to add physical discomfort to her mental tortures, had given orders that the little place should be made as habitable as possible. A thick, soft carpet had been laid on the ground; there was an easy chair and a comfortable-looking couch with a couple of pillows and a rug upon it, and oh, marvel! on the round central table, a vase with a huge bunch of many-coloured dahlias which seemed to throw a note as if of gladness into this strange and gloomy little room.

At the furthest corner, too, a construction of iron uprights and crossway bars had been hastily contrived and fitted with curtains, forming a small recess, behind which was a tidy washstand, fine clean towels and plenty of fresh water. Evidently the shops of Boulogne had been commandeered in order to render Marguerite’s sojourn here outwardly agreeable.

But as the place was innocent of window, so was it innocent of doors. The one that gave into the large room had been taken out of its hinges, leaving only the frame, on each side of which stood a man from the municipal guard with fixed bayonet.

Chauvelin himself had conducted Marguerite to her new prison. She followed him⁠—silent and apathetic⁠—with not a trace of that awful torrent of emotion which had overwhelmed her but half-an-hour ago when she had fallen on her knees beside the old priest and sobbed her heart out in a passionate fit of weeping. Even the sight of the soldiers left her outwardly indifferent. As she stepped across the threshold she noticed that the door itself had been taken away: then she gave another quick glance at the soldiers, whose presence there would control her every movement.

The thought of Queen Marie Antoinette in the Conciergerie prison with the daily, hourly humiliation and shame which this constant watch imposed upon her womanly pride and modesty, flashed suddenly across Marguerite’s mind, and a deep blush of horror rapidly suffused her pale cheeks, whilst an almost imperceptible shudder shook her delicate frame.

Perhaps, as in a flash, she had at this moment received an inkling of what the nature of that terrible “either⁠—or” might be, with which Chauvelin was trying to force an English gentleman to dishonour. Sir Percy Blakeney’s wife had been threatened with Marie Antoinette’s fate.

“You see, Madame,” said her cruel enemy’s unctuous voice close to her ear, “that we have tried our humble best to make your brief sojourn