˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Part two. Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived from France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning about her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly trying by witty sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to the Comtesse’s sad mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne’s eyes seemed wistful; when she first entered the crowded house, she had looked eagerly all around, scanned every face, scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she wished to see was not there, for she settled herself down quietly behind her mother, listened apathetically to the music, and took no further interest in the audience itself. “Ah, Lord Grenville,” said Lady Portarles, as following a discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary of State appeared in the doorway of the box, “you could not arrive more à propos. Here is Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest news from France.” The distinguished diplomatist had come forward and was shaking hands with the ladies. “Alas!” he said sadly, “it is of the very worst. The massacres continue; Paris literally reeks with blood; and the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day.” Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her own misguided country. “Ah, Monsieur!” she said in broken English, “it is dreadful to hear all that—and my poor husband still in that awful country. It is terrible for me to be sitting here, in a theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst he is in such peril.” “Lud, Madame!” said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, “your sitting in a convent won’t make your husband safe, and you have your children to consider: they are too young to be dosed with anxiety and premature mourning.” The Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend. Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted a jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the most genuine sympathy and most gentle kindliness, beneath the somewhat coarse manners affected by some ladies at that time. “Besides which, Madame,” added Lord Grenville, “did you not tell me yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their honour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?” “Ah, yes!” replied the Comtesse, “and that is my only hope. I saw Lord Hastings yesterday . . . he reassured me again.” “Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, that they surely will accomplish. Ah!” added the old diplomatist with a sigh, “if I were but a few years younger . . .” “La, man!” interrupted honest Lady Portarles, “you are still young enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that sits enthroned in your box to-night.”
I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remember that in serving our country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the accredited agent of his Government . . .” “Odd’s fish, man!” she retorted, “you don’t call those bloodthirsty ruffians over there a government, do you?” “It has not been thought advisable as yet,” said the Minister, guardedly, “for England to break off diplomatic relations with France, and we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she wishes to send to us.” “Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox over there is nothing but a spy, I’ll warrant, and you’ll find—an I’m much mistaken, that he’ll concern himself little with diplomacy, beyond trying to do mischief to royalist refugees—to our heroic Scarlet Pimpernel and to the members of that brave little league.” “I am sure,” said the Comtesse, pursing up her thin lips, “that if this Chauvelin wishes to do us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in Lady Blakeney.” “Bless the woman!” exclaimed Lady Portarles, “did ever anyone see such perversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of the gab, will you please explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In your position here in England, Madame,” she added, turning a wrathful and resolute face towards the Comtesse, “you cannot afford to put on the hoity-toity airs you French aristocrats are so fond of. Lady Blakeney may or may not be in sympathy with those ruffians in France; she may or may not have had anything to do with the arrest and condemnation of St. Cyr, or whatever the man’s name is, but she is the leader of fashion in this country; Sir Percy Blakeney has more money than any half-dozen other men put together, he is hand and glove with royalty, and your trying to snub Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you look a fool. Isn’t that so, my lord?” But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflections this homely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de Tournay, remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen on the third act of Orpheus, and admonishments to silence came from every part of the house. Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back into his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat all through this entr’acte, with his eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite to him, where, with much frou-frou of silken skirts, much laughter and general stir of curiosity amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had just entered, accompanied by her husband, and looking divinely pretty beneath the wealth of her golden, reddish curls, slightly besprinkled with powder, and tied back at the nape of her graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed in the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladies that night had discarded the cross-over fichu and broad-lapelled over-dress, which had been in fashion for the last two or three years. She wore the short-waisted classical-shaped gown, which so soon was to become the approved mode in every country in Europe. It suited her graceful, regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery.
