˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Part six. “You do not trust me?” “I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just’s life is forfeit to his country . . . it rests with you to redeem it.” “I may be powerless to help you,” she pleaded, “were I ever so willing.” “That would be terrible indeed,” he said quietly, “for you . . . and for St. Just.” Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved life in the hollow of his hand. She knew him too well not to know that, if he failed in gaining his own ends, he would be pitiless. She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of the opera-house. The heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from a distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders, and sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream. For a moment her thoughts wandered away from the loved one who was in danger, to that other man who also had a claim on her confidence and her affection. She felt lonely, frightened for Armand’s sake; she longed to seek comfort and advice from someone who would know how to help and console. Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once; he was her husband; why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal? He had very little brains, it is true, but he had plenty of muscle: surely, if she provided the thought, and he the manly energy and pluck, together they could outwit the astute diplomatist, and save the hostage from his vengeful hands, without imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallant little band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well—he seemed attached to him—she was sure that he could help. Chauvelin was taking no further heed of her. He had said his cruel “Either—or—” and left her to decide. He, in his turn now, appeared to be absorbed in the soul-stirring melodies of Orpheus, and was beating time to the music with his sharp, ferret-like head. A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing that half-shy, half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve. “Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m’dear,” he said, with his most exasperating drawl, “I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball. . . . Excuse me—er—Monsieur Chauvelin—I had not observed you. . . .” He extended two slender, white fingers towards Chauvelin, who had risen when Sir Percy entered the box. “Are you coming, m’dear?” “Hush! Sh! Sh!” came in angry remonstrance from different parts of the house. “Demmed impudence,” commented Sir Percy with a good-natured smile. Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to have vanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without looking at her husband: “I am ready to go,” she said, taking his arm. At the door of the box she turned and looked straight at Chauvelin, who, with his chapeau-bras under his arm, and a curious smile round his thin lips, was preparing to follow the strangely ill-assorted couple. “It is only au revoir, Chauvelin,” she said pleasantly, “we shall meet at my Lord Grenville’s ball, anon.”
And in her eyes the astute Frenchman read, no doubt, something which caused him profound satisfaction, for, with a sarcastic smile, he took a delicate pinch of snuff, then, having dusted his dainty lace jabot, he rubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together. ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Lord Grenville's Ball. The historic ball given by the then Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs—Lord Grenville—was the most brilliant function of the year. Though the autumn season had only just begun, everybody who was anybody had contrived to be in London in time to be present there, and to shine at this ball, to the best of his or her respective ability. His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales had promised to be present. He was coming on presently from the opera. Lord Grenville himself had listened to the two first acts of Orpheus, before preparing to receive his guests. At ten o’clock—an unusually late hour in those days—the grand rooms of the Foreign Office, exquisitely decorated with exotic palms and flowers, were filled to overflowing. One room had been set apart for dancing, and the dainty strains of the minuet made a soft accompaniment to the gay chatter, the merry laughter of the numerous and brilliant company. In a smaller chamber, facing the top of the fine stairway, the distinguished host stood ready to receive his guests. Distinguished men, beautiful women, notabilities from every European country had already filed past him, had exchanged the elaborate bows and curtsies with him, which the extravagant fashion of the time demanded, and then, laughing and talking, had dispersed in the ball, reception, and card rooms beyond. Not far from Lord Grenville’s elbow, leaning against one of the console tables, Chauvelin, in his irreproachable black costume, was taking a quiet survey of the brilliant throng. He noted that Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney had not yet arrived, and his keen, pale eyes glanced quickly towards the door every time a newcomer appeared. He stood somewhat isolated: the envoy of the Revolutionary Government of France was not likely to be very popular in England, at a time when the news of the awful September massacres, and of the Reign of Terror and Anarchy, had just begun to filtrate across the Channel. In his official capacity he had been received courteously by his English colleagues: Mr. Pitt had shaken him by the hand; Lord Grenville had entertained him more than once; but the more intimate circles of London society ignored him altogether; the women openly turned their backs upon him; the men who held no official position refused to shake his hand.
