˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Part four. “I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but first let me explain. . . . May I?” The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear what he had to say. “The other day, citoyenne,” he said, “I asked for your help. . . . France needed it, and I thought I could rely on you, but you gave me your answer. . . . Since then the exigencies of my own affairs and your own social duties have kept us apart . . . although many things have happened. . . .” “To the point, I pray you, citoyen,” she said lightly; “the music is entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk.” “One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour of meeting you at Dover, and less than an hour after I had your final answer, I obtained possession of some papers, which revealed another of those subtle schemes for the escape of a batch of French aristocrats—that traitor de Tournay amongst others—all organised by that arch-meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some of the threads, too, of this mysterious organisation have fallen into my hands, but not all, and I want you—nay! you must help me to gather them together.” Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she now shrugged her shoulders and said gaily— “Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my brother . . .” “A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne,” he continued imperturbably. “Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at ‘The Fisherman’s Rest’ at Dover that same night.” “I know. I saw them there.” “They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed league. It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay and her children across the Channel. When the two young men were alone, my spies forced their way into the coffee-room of the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants, seized their papers, and brought them to me.” In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand been imprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Still she would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily and lightly. “Faith! and your impudence passes belief,” she said merrily. “Robbery and violence!—in England!—in a crowded inn! Your men might have been caught in the act!”
“What if they had? They are children of France, and have been trained by your humble servant. Had they been caught they would have gone to jail, or even to the gallows, without a word of protest or indiscretion; at any rate it was well worth the risk. A crowded inn is safer for these little operations than you think, and my men have experience.” “Well? And those papers?” she asked carelessly. “Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of certain names . . . certain movements . . . enough, I think, to thwart their projected coup for the moment, it would only be for the moment, and still leaves me in ignorance of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.” “La! my friend,” she said, with the same assumed flippancy of manner, “then you are where you were before, aren’t you? and you can let me enjoy the last strophe of the aria. Faith!” she added, ostentatiously smothering an imaginary yawn, “had you not spoken about my brother . . .” “I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter to Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just.” “Well? And?” “That letter shows him to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of France, but actually a helper, if not a member, of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel.” The blow had been struck at last. All along, Marguerite had been expecting it; she would not show fear, she was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant even. She wished, when the shock came, to be prepared for it, to have all her wits about her—those wits which had been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even now she did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had spoken the truth; the man was too earnest, too blindly devoted to the misguided cause he had at heart, too proud of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods. That letter of Armand’s—foolish, imprudent Armand—was in Chauvelin’s hands. Marguerite knew that as if she had seen the letter with her own eyes; and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his own, until it suited him to destroy it or to make use of it against Armand. All that she knew, and yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly than she had done before. “La, man!” she said, speaking over her shoulder and looking him full and squarely in the face, “did I not say it was some imaginary plot. . . . Armand in league with that enigmatic Scarlet Pimpernel! . . . Armand busy helping those French aristocrats whom he despises! . . . Faith, the tale does infinite credit to your imagination!” “Let me make my point clear, citoyenne,” said Chauvelin, with the same unruffled calm, “I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyond the slightest hope of pardon.” Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face the situation, to realise what had best be done. In the house Storace had finished the aria, and was even now bowing in her classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.
