˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Part five. “Chauvelin,” said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without that touch of bravado which had characterised her attitude all along, “Chauvelin, my friend, shall we try to understand one another. It seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with this damp climate. Now, tell me, you are very anxious to discover the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, isn’t that so?” “France’s most bitter enemy, citoyenne . . . all the more dangerous, as he works in the dark.” “All the more noble, you mean. . . . Well!—and you would now force me to do some spying work for you in exchange for my brother Armand’s safety?—Is that it?” “Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady,” protested Chauvelin, urbanely. “There can be no question of force, and the service which I would ask of you, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking name of spying.” “At any rate, that is what it is called over here,” she said drily. “That is your intention, is it not?” “My intention is, that you yourself win a free pardon for Armand St. Just by doing me a small service.” “What is it?” “Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just,” he said eagerly. “Listen: among the papers which were found about the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!” he added, taking a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her. It was the same scrap of paper which, four days ago, the two young men had been in the act of reading, at the very moment when they were attacked by Chauvelin’s minions. Marguerite took it mechanically and stooped to read it. There were only two lines, written in a distorted, evidently disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud— “‘Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly necessary. You have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I shall be at G.’s ball.’” “What does it mean?” she asked. “Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand.” “There is a device here in the corner, a small red flower . . .” “Yes.” “The Scarlet Pimpernel,” she said eagerly, “and G.’s ball means Grenville’s ball. . . . He will be at my Lord Grenville’s ball to-night.”
“That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne,” concluded Chauvelin, blandly. “Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried by my orders to a lonely house on the Dover Road, which I had rented for the purpose: there they remained close prisoners until this morning. But having found this tiny scrap of paper, my intention was that they should be in London, in time to attend my Lord Grenville’s ball. You see, do you not? that they must have a great deal to say to their chief . . . and thus they will have an opportunity of speaking to him to-night, just as he directed them to do. Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants found every bar and bolt open in that lonely house on the Dover Road, their jailers disappeared, and two good horses standing ready saddled and tethered in the yard. I have not seen them yet, but I think we may safely conclude that they did not draw rein until they reached London. Now you see how simple it all is, citoyenne!” “It does seem simple, doesn’t it?” she said, with a final bitter attempt at flippancy, “when you want to kill a chicken . . . you take hold of it . . . then you wring its neck . . . it’s only the chicken who does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold a knife at my throat, and a hostage for my obedience. . . . You find it simple. . . . I don’t.” “Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love from the consequences of his own folly.” Marguerite’s face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as she murmured, half to herself: “The only being in the world who has loved me truly and constantly. . . . But what do you want me to do, Chauvelin?” she said, with a world of despair in her tear-choked voice. “In my present position, it is well-nigh impossible!” “Nay, citoyenne,” he said drily and relentlessly, not heeding that despairing, childlike appeal, which might have melted a heart of stone, “as Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your help to-night I may—who knows?—succeed in finally establishing the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel. . . . You are going to the ball anon. . . . Watch for me there, citoyenne, watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you hear a chance word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom Sir Andrew Ffoulkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are absolutely beyond suspicion now. The Scarlet Pimpernel will be at Lord Grenville’s ball to-night. Find out who he is, and I will pledge the word of France that your brother shall be safe.” Chauvelin was putting the knife to her throat. Marguerite felt herself entangled in one of those webs, from which she could hope for no escape. A precious hostage was being held for her obedience: for she knew that this man would never make an empty threat. No doubt Armand was already signalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the “suspect”; he would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be ruthlessly struck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment—woman-like—she still hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this man, whom she now feared and hated. “If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin,” she said pleasantly, “will you give me that letter of St. Just’s?” “If you render me useful assistance to-night, citoyenne,” he replied with a sarcastic smile, “I will give you that letter . . . to-morrow.”
