˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚ Part two. But Chauvelin was not the man to trouble himself about these social amenities, which he called mere incidents in his diplomatic career. He was blindly enthusiastic for the revolutionary cause, he despised all social inequalities, and he had a burning love for his own country: these three sentiments made him supremely indifferent to the snubs he received in this fog-ridden, loyalist, old-fashioned England. But, above all, Chauvelin had a purpose at heart. He firmly believed that the French aristocrat was the most bitter enemy of France; he would have wished to see every one of them annihilated: he was one of those who, during this awful Reign of Terror, had been the first to utter the historic and ferocious desire “that aristocrats might have but one head between them, so that it might be cut off with a single stroke of the guillotine.” And thus he looked upon every French aristocrat, who had succeeded in escaping from France, as so much prey of which the guillotine had been unwarrantably cheated. There is no doubt that those royalist émigrés, once they had managed to cross the frontier, did their very best to stir up foreign indignation against France. Plots without end were hatched in England, in Belgium, in Holland, to try and induce some great power to send troops into revolutionary Paris, to free King Louis, and to summarily hang the bloodthirsty leaders of that monster republic. Small wonder, therefore, that the romantic and mysterious personality of the Scarlet Pimpernel was a source of bitter hatred to Chauvelin. He and the few young jackanapes under his command, well furnished with money, armed with boundless daring, and acute cunning, had succeeded in rescuing hundreds of aristocrats from France. Nine-tenths of the émigrés, who were fêted at the English court, owed their safety to that man and to his league. Chauvelin had sworn to his colleagues in Paris that he would discover the identity of that meddlesome Englishman, entice him over to France, and then . . . Chauvelin drew a deep breath of satisfaction at the very thought of seeing that enigmatic head falling under the knife of the guillotine, as easily as that of any other man. Suddenly there was a great stir on the handsome staircase, all conversation stopped for a moment as the major-domo’s voice outside announced,— “His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales and suite, Sir Percy Blakeney, Lady Blakeney.” Lord Grenville went quickly to the door to receive his exalted guest. The Prince of Wales, dressed in a magnificent court suit of salmon-coloured velvet richly embroidered with gold, entered with Marguerite Blakeney on his arm; and on his left Sir Percy, in gorgeous shimmering cream satin, cut in the extravagant “Incroyable” style, his fair hair free from powder, priceless lace at his neck and wrists, and the flat chapeau-bras under his arm. After the few conventional words of deferential greeting, Lord Grenville said to his royal guest,— “Will your Highness permit me to introduce M. Chauvelin, the accredited agent of the French Government?” Chauvelin, immediately the Prince entered, had stepped forward, expecting this introduction. He bowed very low, whilst the Prince returned his salute with a curt nod of the head.
“Monsieur,” said His Royal Highness coldly, “we will try to forget the government that sent you, and look upon you merely as our guest—a private gentleman from France. As such you are welcome, Monsieur.” “Monseigneur,” rejoined Chauvelin, bowing once again. “Madame,” he added, bowing ceremoniously before Marguerite. “Ah! my little Chauvelin!” she said with unconcerned gaiety, and extending her tiny hand to him. “Monsieur and I are old friends, your Royal Highness.” “Ah, then,” said the Prince, this time very graciously, “you are doubly welcome, Monsieur.” “There is someone else I would crave permission to present to your Royal Highness,” here interposed Lord Grenville. “Ah! who is it?” asked the Prince. “Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive and her family, who have but recently come from France.” “By all means!—They are among the lucky ones then!” Lord Grenville turned in search of the Comtesse, who sat at the further end of the room. “Lud love me!” whispered His Royal Highness to Marguerite, as soon as he had caught sight of the rigid figure of the old lady; “Lud love me! she looks very virtuous and very melancholy.” “Faith, your Royal Highness,” she rejoined with a smile, “virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when it is crushed.” “Virtue, alas!” sighed the Prince, “is mostly unbecoming to your charming sex, Madame.” “Madame la Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Grenville, introducing the lady. “This is a pleasure, Madame; my royal father, as you know, is ever glad to welcome those of your compatriots whom France has driven from her shores.” “Your Royal Highness is ever gracious,” replied the Comtesse with becoming dignity. Then, indicating her daughter, who stood timidly by her side: “My daughter Suzanne, Monseigneur,” she said. “Ah! charming!—charming!” said the Prince, “and now allow me, Comtesse, to introduce to you, Lady Blakeney, who honours us with her friendship. You and she will have much to say to one another, I vow. Every compatriot of Lady Blakeney’s is doubly welcome for her sake . . . her friends are our friends . . . her enemies, the enemies of England.”
