The Scarlet Pimpernel. Baroness Orczy

the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the Revolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched away condemned victims, almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With a shudder, she recalled the events of the last few days, her escape from Paris with her two children, all three of them hidden beneath the hood of a rickety cart, and lying amidst a heap of turnips and cabbages, not daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled, “A la lanterne les aristos!” at the awful West Barricade.

      It had all occurred in such a miraculous way; she and her husband had understood that they had been placed on the list of “suspected persons,” which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days – of hours, perhaps.

      Then came the hope of salvation; the mysterious epistle, signed with the enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory directions; the parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife’s heart in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible evil demon, with the ghastly trophy on her whip handle!

      The Comtesse looked round at the quaint, old-fashioned English inn, the peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke of the plague.

      Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other innocent people.

      And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne’s eyes as she sought those of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that he at any rate rescued his fellowmen from terrible and unmerited death, through a higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.

      “How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?” she asked timidly.

      “Twenty all told, Mademoiselle,” he replied, “one to command, and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same cause – to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent.”

      “May God protect you all, Messieurs,” said the Comtesse, fervently.

      “He had done that so far, Madame.”

      “It is wonderful to me, wonderful! – That you should all be so brave, so devoted to your fellowmen – yet you are English! – and in France treachery is rife – all in the name of liberty and fraternity.”

      “The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us aristocrats than the men,” said the Vicomte, with a sigh.

      “Ah, yes,” added the Comtesse, while a look of haughty disdain and intense bitterness shot through her melancholy eyes, “There was that woman, Marguerite St. Just for instance. She denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror.”

      “Marguerite St. Just?” said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and apprehensive glance across at Sir Andrew.

      “Marguerite St. Just? – Surely …”

      “Yes!” replied the Comtesse, “surely you know her. She was a leading actress of the Comedie Francaise, and she married an Englishman lately. You must know her—”

      “Know her?” said Lord Antony. “Know Lady Blakeney – the most fashionable woman in London – the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we all know Lady Blakeney.”

      “She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,” interposed Suzanne, “and we came over to England together to learn your language. I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did anything so wicked.”

      “It certainly seems incredible,” said Sir Andrew. “You say that she actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake—”

      “No mistake is possible, Monsieur,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly. “Marguerite St. Just’s brother is a noted republican. There was some talk of a family feud between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr. The St. Justs are quite plebeian, and the republican government employs many spies. I assure you there is no mistake … You had not heard this story?”

      “Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours of it, but in England no one would credit it … Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of Wales … and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in London.”

      “That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet life in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just.”

      The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased in the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid and unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked extremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively towards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.

      “At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?” he contrived to whisper unobserved, to mine host.

      “Any moment, my lord,” whispered Jellyband in reply.

      Even as he spoke, a distant clatter was heard of an approaching coach; louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable, then the rattle of horses’ hoofs on the uneven cobble stones, and the next moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and rushed in excitedly.

      “Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “they’re just arriving.”

      And with more shouting, jingling of harness, and iron hoofs upon the stones, a magnificent coach, drawn by four superb bays, had halted outside the porch of “The Fisherman’s Rest.”

       CHAPTER V

       Marguerite

      In a moment the pleasant oak-raftered coffee room of the inn became the scene of hopeless confusion and discomfort. At the first announcement made by the stable boy, Lord Antony, with a fashionable oath, had jumped up from his seat and was now giving many and confused directions to poor bewildered Jellyband, who seemed at his wits’ end what to do.

      “For goodness’ sake, man,” admonished his lordship, “try to keep Lady Blakeney talking outside for a moment while the ladies withdraw. Zounds!” he added, with another more emphatic oath, “this is most unfortunate.”

      “Quick Sally! the candles!” shouted Jellyband, as hopping about from one leg to another, he ran hither and thither, adding to the general discomfort of everybody.

      The Comtesse, too, had risen to her feet: rigid and erect, trying to hide her excitement beneath more becoming sang-froid, she repeated mechanically,—

      “I will not see her! – I will not see her!”

      Outside, the excitement attendant upon the arrival of very important guests grew apace.

      “Good-day, Sir Percy! – Good-day to your ladyship! Your servant, Sir Percy!” – was heard in one long, continued chorus, with alternate more feeble tones of – “Remember the poor blind man! of your charity, lady and gentleman!”

      Then suddenly a singularly sweet voice was heard through all the din.

      “Let the poor man be – and give him some supper at my expense.”

      The voice was low and musical, with a slight sing-song in it, and a faint soupçon of foreign intonation in the pronunciation of the consonants.

      Everyone in the