"I think we understand one another, citoyenne," he said quietly, and with a sigh of complete satisfaction. "It is late now. At what hour may I have the privilege of seeing you alone?"
"At three in the afternoon?" she replied tonelessly, like one speaking in a dream. "Citizen Tallien is always at the Convention then, and my door will be denied to everybody else."
"I'll be here at three o'clock," was Chauvelin's final word.
Theresia had not moved. He made her a deep bow and went out of the room. The next moment the opening and shutting of the outer door proclaimed that he had gone. After that, Theresia Cabarrus went to bed.
And whilst the whole of Europe was in travail with the repercussion of the gigantic upheaval that was shaking France to its historic foundations, the last few years had seen but very little change in this little corner of England.
The Fisherman's Reststood where it had done for two centuries and long before thrones had tottered and anointed heads fallen on the scaffold. The oak rafters, black with age, the monumental hearth, the tables and high-backed benches, seemed like mute testimonies to good order and to tradition, just as the shiny pewter mugs, the foaming ale, the brass that glittered like gold, bore witness to unimpaired prosperity and an even, well-regulated life.
Over in the kitchen yonder, Mistress Sally Waite, as she now was, still ruled with a firm if somewhat hasty hand, the weight of which, so the naughty gossips averred, even her husband, Master Harry Waite, had experienced more than once. She still queened it over her father's household, presided over his kitchen, and drove the young scullery wenches to their task with her sharp tongue and an occasional slap. ButThe Fisherman's Restcould not have gone on without her. The copper saucepans would in truth not have glittered so, nor would the home-brewed ale have tasted half so luscious to Master Jellyband's faithful customers, had not Mistress Sally's strong brown hands drawn it for them, with just the right amount of creamy foam on the top and not a bit too much.
And so it was still many a "Ho, Sally! 'Ere Sally! 'Ow long'll you be with that there beer!" or "Say, Sally! A cut of your cheese and home-baked bread; and look sharp about it!" that resounded from end to end of the long, low-raftered coffee-room ofThe Fisherman's Rest, on this fine May day of the year of grace 1794.
Sally Waite, her muslin cap set at a becoming angle, her kerchief primly folded over her well-developed bosom, and her kirtle neatly raised above a pair of exceedingly shapely ankles, was in and out of the room, in and out of the kitchen, tripping it like a benevolent if somewhat substantial fairy, bandying chaff here, administering rebuke there, hot, panting and excited.
The while mine host, Master Jellyband—perhaps a shade more portly of figure, a thought more bald of pate, these last two years—stood with stubby legs firmly planted upon his own hearth, wherein, despite the warmth of a glorious afternoon, a log fire blazed away merrily. He was giving forth his views upon the political situation of Europe generally with the self-satisfied assurance born of complete ignorance and true British insular prejudice.
Believe me, Mr. Jellyband was in no two minds about "them murderin' furriners over yonder" who had done away with their King and Queen and all their nobility and quality, and whom England had at last decided to lick into shape.
"And not a moment too soon, hark'ee, Mr. 'Empseed," he went on sententiously. "And if I 'ad my way, we should 'ave punished 'em proper long before this—blown their bloomin' Paris into smithereens, and carried off the pore Queen afore those murderous villains 'ad 'er pretty 'ead off of 'er shoulders!"
Mr. Hempseed, from his own privileged corner in the inglenook, was not altogether prepared to admit that.
"I am not for interfering with other folks' ways," he said, raising his quaking treble so as to stem effectually the torrent of Master Jellyband's eloquence. "As the Scriptures say——"
"Keep your dirty fingers from off my waist!" came in decisive tones from Mistress Sally Waite, whilst the shrill sound made by the violent contact of a feminine hand against a manly cheek froze the Scriptural quotation on Mr. Hempseed's lips.
"Now then, now then, Sally!" Mr. Jellyband thought fit to say in stern tones, not liking his customers to be thus summarily dealt with.
"Now then, father," Sally retorted, with a toss of her brown curls, "you just attend to your politics, and Mr. 'Empseed to 'is Scriptures, and leave me to deal with them impudent jackanapes. You wait!" she added, turning once more with a parting shot directed against the discomfited offender. "If my 'Arry catches you at them tricks, you'll see what you get—that's all!"
"Sally!" Mr. Jellyband admonished more sternly this time. "You'll 'ave my lord Hastings 'ere before 'is dinner is ready."
Which suggestion so overawed Mistress Sally that she promptly forgot the misdoings of the forward swain and failed to hear the sarcastic chuckle which greeted the mention of her husband's name. With an excited little cry, she ran quickly out of the room.
Mr. Hempseed, loftily unaware of interruption, concluded his sententious remark:
"As the Scriptures say, Mr. Jellyband: 'Ave no fellowship with the unfruitful work of darkness.' I don't 'old not with interfering. Remember what the Scriptures say: 'E that committeth sin is of the devil, and the devil sinneth from the beginning,'" he concluded with sublime irrelevance, sagely nodding his head.
But Mr. Jellyband was not thus lightly to be confounded in his argument—no, not by any quotation, relevant or otherwise!
"All very fine, Mr. 'Empseed," he said, "and good enough for them 'oo, like yourself, are willin' to side with them murderin' reprobates. . . ."
"Like myself, Mr. Jellyband?" protested Mr. Hempseed, with as much vigour as his shrill treble would allow. "Nay, but I'm not for them children of darkness——"
"You may be or you may not," Mr. Jellyband went on, nothing daunted. "There be many as are, and 'oo'd say 'Let 'em murder,' even now. But I say that them as 'oo talk that way are not true Englishmen; for 'tis we Englishmen 'oo can teach the furriner just what 'e may do and what 'e may not. And as we've got the ships and the men and the money, we can just fight 'em as are not of our way o' thinkin'. And let me tell you, Mr. 'Empseed, that I'm prepared to back my opinions 'gainst any man as don't agree with me!"
For the nonce Mr. Hempseed was silent. True, a Scriptural text did hover on his thin, quivering lips; but as no one paid any heed to him for the moment its appositeness will for ever remain doubtful. The honours of victory rested with Mr. Jellyband. Such lofty patriotism, coupled with so much sound knowledge of political affairs, could not fail to leave its impress upon the more ignorant and the less fervent amongst the frequenters ofThe Fisherman's Rest.
Indeed, who was more qualified to pass an opinion on current events than the host of that much-frequented resort, seeing that the ladies and gentlemen of quality who came to England from over the water, so as to escape all them murtherin' reprobates in their own country, did most times halt atThe Fisherman's Reston their way to London or to Bath? And though Mr. Jellyband did not know a word of French—no furrin lingo for him, thank 'ee!—he nevertheless had mixed with all that nobility and gentry for over two years now, and had learned all that there was to know about the life over there, and about Mr. Pitt's intentions to put a stop to all those abominations.
Even now, hardly had mine host's conversation with his favoured customers assumed a more domestic turn, than a loud clatter on the cobblestones outside, a jingle and a rattle, shouts, laughter and hustle, announced the arrival of guests who were privileged to make as much noise as they pleased.
Mr. Jellyband ran to the door, shouted for Sally at the top of his voice, with a "Here's my lord Hastings!" to add spur to Sally's hustle. Politics were forgotten for the nonce, arguments set aside, in the excitement of welcoming the quality.
Three young gallants in travelling clothes, smart of appearance and debonair of mien, were ushering a party of strangers—three ladies and two men—into the hospitable porch ofThe Fisherman's Rest.The little party had walked across from the inner harbour, where the graceful masts of an elegant schooner lately arrived in port were seen gently swaying against the delicately coloured afternoon sky. Three or four sailors from the schooner were carrying luggage, which they deposited in the hall of the inn, then touched their forelocks in response to a pleasant smile and nod from the young lords.
"This way, my lord," Master Jellyband reiterated with jovial obsequiousness. "Everything is ready. This way! Hey, Sallee!" he called again; and Sally, hot, excited, blushing, came tripping over from the kitchen, wiping her hot, plump palms against her apron in anticipation of shaking hands with their lordships.
"Since Mr. Waite isn't anywhere about," my lord Hastings said gaily, as he put a bold arm round Mistress Sally's dainty waist, "I'll e'en have a kiss, my pretty one."
"And I, too, by gad, for old sake's sake!" Lord Tony asserted, and planked a hearty kiss on Mistress Sally's dimpled cheek.
"At your service, my lords, at your service!" Master Jellyband rejoined, laughing. Then added more soberly: "Now then, Sally, show the ladies up into the blue room, the while their lordships 'ave a first shake down in the coffee-room. This way, gentlemen—your lordships—this way!"
The strangers in the meanwhile had stood by, wide-eyed and somewhat bewildered in face of this exuberant hilarity which was so unlike what they had pictured to themselves of dull, fog-ridden England—so unlike, too, the dreary moroseness which of late had replaced the erstwhile light-hearted gaiety of their own countrymen. The porch and the narrow hall ofThe Fisherman's Restappeared to them seething with vitality. Every one was talking, nobody seemed to listen; every one was merry, and every one knew everybody else and was pleased to meet them. Sonorous laughter echoed from end to end along the solid beams, black and shiny with age. It all seemed so homely, so happy. The deference paid to the young gallants and to them as strangers by the sailors and the innkeeper was so genuine and hearty, without the slightest sign of servility, that those five people who had left behind them so much class-hatred, enmity and cruelty in their own country, felt an unaccountable tightening of the heart, a few hot tears rise to their eyes, partly of joy, but partly too of regret.
Lord Hastings, the youngest and merriest of the English party, guided the two Frenchmen toward the coffee-room, with many a jest in atrocious French and kindly words of encouragement, all intended to put the strangers at their ease.
Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes—a trifle more serious and earnest, yet equally happy and excited at the success of their perilous adventure and at the prospect of reunion with their wives—lingered a moment longer in the hall, in order to speak with the sailors who had brought the luggage along.
"Do you know aught of Sir Percy?" Lord Tony asked.
"No, my lord," the sailor gave answer; "not since he went ashore early this morning. 'Er Ladyship was waitin' for 'im on the pier. Sir Percy just ran up the steps and then 'e shouted to us to get back quickly. 'Tell their lordships,' 'e says, 'I'll meet them atThe Rest.' And then Sir Percy and 'er ladyship just walked off and we saw naun more of them."
"That was many hours ago," Sir Andrew Ffoulkes mused with an inward smile. He too saw visions of meeting his pretty Suzanne very soon, and walking away with her into the land of dreams.
"'Twas just six o'clock when Sir Percy 'ad the boat lowered," the sailor rejoined. "And we rowed quick back after we landed 'im. But theDay-Dream, she 'ad to wait for the tide. We wurr a long while gettin' into port."
Sir Andrew nodded.
"You don't know," he said, "if the skipper had any further orders?"
"I don't know, sir," the man replied. "But we mun be in readiness always. No one knows when Sir Percy may wish to set sail again."
The two young men said nothing more, and presently the sailors touched their forelocks and went away. Lord Tony and Sir Andrew exchanged knowing smiles. They could easily picture to themselves their beloved chief, indefatigable, like a boy let out from school, exhilarated by the deadly danger through which he had once more passed unscathed, clasping his adored wife in his arms and wandering off with her, heaven knew whither, living his life of joy and love and happiness during the brief hours which his own indomitable energy, his reckless courage, accorded to the sentimental side of his complex nature.
Far too impatient to wait until the tide allowed theDay-Dreamto get into port, he had been rowed ashore in the early dawn, and his beautiful Marguerite—punctual to the assignation conveyed to her by one of those mysterious means of which Percy alone knew the secret—was there ready to receive him, to forget in the shelter of his arms the days of racking anxiety and of cruel terror for her beloved through which she had again and again been forced to pass.
Neither Lord Tony nor Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, the Scarlet Pimpernel's most faithful and devoted lieutenants, begrudged their chief these extra hours of bliss, the while they were left in charge of the party so lately rescued from horrible death. They knew that within a day or two—within a few hours, perhaps—Blakeney would tear himself away once more from the clinging embrace of his exquisite wife, from the comfort and luxury of an ideal home, from the adulation of friends, the pleasures of wealth and of fashion, in order mayhap to grovel in the squalor and filth of some outlandish corner of Paris, where he could be in touch with the innocents who suffered—the poor, the terror-stricken victims of the merciless revolution. Within a few hours, mayhap, he would be risking his life again every moment of the day, in order to save some poor hunted fellow-creature—man, woman or child—from death that threatened them at the hands of inhuman monsters who knew neither mercy nor compunction.
As for the nineteen members of the League, they took it in turns to follow their leader where danger was thickest. It was a privilege eagerly sought, deserved by all, and accorded to those who were most highly trusted. It was invariably followed by a period of rest in happy England, with wife, friends, joy and luxury. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, Lord Anthony Dewhurst and my lord Hastings had been of the expedition which brought Mme. de Serval with her three children and Bertrand Moncrif safely to England, after adventures more perilous, more reckless of danger, than most. Within a few hours they would be free to forget in the embrace of clinging arms every peril and every adventure save the eternal one of love, free to forswear everything outside that, save their veneration for their chief and their loyalty to his cause.
An excellent dinner served by Mistress Sally and her attendant little wenches put everybody into rare good-humour. Madame de Serval—pale, delicate, with gentle, plaintive voice and eyes that had acquired a pathetically furtive look—even contrived to smile, her heart warmed by the genuine welcome, the rare gaiety that irradiated this fortunate corner of God's earth. Wars and rumours of war reached it only as an echo of great things that went on in the vast outside world; and though more than one of Dover's gallant sons had perished in one or the other of the Duke of York's unfortunate incursions into Holland, or in one of the numerous naval engagements off the Western shores of France, on the whole, the war, intermittent and desultory, had not yet cast its heavy gloom over the entire country.
Joséphine and Jacques de Serval, whose enthusiasm for martyrdom had received so severe a check in the course of the Fraternal Supper in the Rue St. Honoré, had at first with the self-consciousness of youth adopted an attitude of obstinate and irreclaimable sorrow, until the antics of Master Harry Waite, pretty Sally's husband—jealous as a young turkey-cock of every gallant who dared to ogle his buxom wife—brought laughter to their lips. My lord Hastings' comical attempts at speaking French, the droll mistakes he made, easily did the rest; and soon their lively, high-pitched Latin voices mingled with unimpaired gaiety with the more mellow sound of Anglo-Saxon tongues.
Even Régine de Serval had smiled when my lord Hastings had asked her with grave solemnity whether Mme. de Serval would wish "le fou de descendre"—the lunatic to come downstairs—meaning all the while whether she wanted the fire in the big hearth to be let down, seeing that the atmosphere in the coffee-room was growing terribly hot.
The only one who seemed quite unable to shake off his moroseness was Bertrand Moncrif. He sat next to Régine, silent, somewhat sullen, a look that seemed almost one of dull resentment lingering in his eyes. From time to time, when he appeared peculiarly moody or when he refused to eat, her little hand would steal out under the table and press his with a gentle, motherly gesture.
It was when the merry meal was over and while Master Jellyband was going the round with a fine bottle of smuggled brandy, which the young gentlemen sipped with unmistakable relish, that a commotion arose outside the inn; whereupon Master Harry Waite ran out of the coffee-room in order to see what was amiss.
Nothing very much apparently. Waite came back after a moment or two and said that two sailors from the barqueAngelawere outside with a young French lad, who seemed more dead than alive, and whom it appears the barque had picked up just outside French waters, in an open boat, half perished with terror and inanition. As the lad spoke nothing but French, the sailors had brought him along toThe Fisherman's Rest, thinking that maybe some of the quality would care to interrogate him.
At once Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, my lord Tony and Lord Hastings were on the qui vive. A lad in distress, coming from France, found alone in an open boat, suggested one of those tragedies in which the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel was wont to play a rôle.
"Let the lad be taken into the parlour, Jellyband," Sir Andrew commanded. "You've got a fire there, haven't you?"
"Yes, yes, Sir Andrew! We always keep fires going here until past the 15th of May."
"Well then, get him in there. Then give him some of your smuggled brandy first, you old dog! then some wine and food. After that we'll find out something more about him."
He himself went along in order to see that his orders were carried out Jellyband, as usual, had already deputed his daughter to do the necessary, and in the hall there was Mistress Sally, capable and compassionate, supporting, almost carrying, a youth who in truth appeared scarce able to stand.
She led him gently into the small private parlour, where a cheerful log-fire was blazing, sat him down in an arm-chair beside the hearth, after which Master Jellyband himself poured half a glass of brandy down the poor lad's throat. This revived him a little, and he looked about him with huge, scared eyes.
"Sainte Mère de Dieu!" he murmured feebly. "Where am I?"
"Never mind about that now, my lad," replied Sir Andrew, whose knowledge of French was of a distinctly higher order than that of his comrades. "You are among friends. That is enough. Have something to eat and drink now. Later we'll talk."
He was eyeing the boy keenly. Contact with suffering and misery over there in France, under the leadership of the most selfless, most understanding man of this or any time, had intensified his powers of perception. Even the first glance had revealed to him the fact that here was no ordinary waif. The lad spoke with a gentle, highly refined voice; his skin was delicate, and his face exquisitely beautiful; his hands, though covered with grime, and his feet, encased in huge, coarse boots, were small and daintily shaped, like those of a woman. Already Sir Andrew had made up his mind that if the oilskin cap which sat so extraordinarily tightly on the boy's head were to be removed, a wealth of long hair would certainly he revealed.
However, all these facts, which threw over the young stranger a further veil of mystery, could not in all humanity he investigated now. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, with the consummate tact born of kindliness, left the lad alone as soon as he appeared able to sit up and eat, and himself rejoined his friends in the coffee-room.
No one, save a very few intimates, knew of the little nest wherein Sir Percy Blakeney and his lady hid their happiness on those occasions when the indefatigable Scarlet Pimpernel was only able to spend a few hours in England, and when a journey to their beautiful home in Richmond could not be thought of. The house—it was only a cottage, timbered and creeper-clad—lay about a mile and half outside Dover off the main road, perched up high on rising ground over a narrow lane. It had a small garden round it, which in May was ablaze with daffodils and bluebells, and in June with roses. Two faithful servants, a man and his wife, looked after the place, kept the nest cosy and warm whenever her ladyship wearied of fashion, or else, actually expecting Sir Percy, would come down from London for a day or two in order to dream of that elusive and transient happiness for which her soul hungered, even while her indomitable spirit accepted the inevitable.
A few days ago the weakly courier from France had brought her a line from Sir Percy, together with the promise that she should rest in his arms on the 1st of May. And Marguerite had come down to the creeper-covered cottage knowing that, despite obstacles which might prove insuperable to others, Percy would keep his word.
She had stolen out at dawn to wait for him on the pier; and sure enough, as soon as the May day sun, which had risen to-day in his glory as if to crown her brief happiness with warmth and radiance, had dissipated the morning mist, her yearning eyes had spied the smart white gig which had put off from theDay-Dream, leaving the graceful ship to await the turn of the tide before putting into port.
Since then, every moment of the day had been one of rapture. The first sight of her husband in his huge caped coat, which seemed to add further inches to his great height, his call of triumph when he saw her, his arms outstretched, there, far away in the small boat, with a gesture of such infinite longing that for a second or two tears obscured Marguerite's vision. Then the drawing up of the boat against the landing-stage; Percy's spring ashore; his voice, his look; the strength of his arms; the ardour of his embrace. Rapture, in truth, to which the thought of its brief duration alone lent a touch of bitterness.
But of parting again Marguerite would not think—not to-day, while the birds were singing a deafening pæon of joy; not while the scent of growing grass, of moist, travailing earth, was in her nostrils; not while the sap was in the trees, and the gummy crimson buds of the chestnuts were bursting into leaf. Not while she wandered up the narrow lane between hedges of blackthorn in bloom, with Percy's arm around her, his loved voice in her ear, his merry laughter echoing through the sweet morning air.
After that, breakfast in the low, raftered room—the hot, savoury milk, the home-baked bread, the home-churned butter. Then the long, delicious, intimate talk of love, and of yearnings, of duty and gallant deeds. Blakeney kept nothing secret from his wife; and what he did not tell her, that she easily guessed. But it was from the members of the League that she learned all there was to know of heroism and selflessness in the perilous adventures through which her husband passed with so light-hearted a gaiety.
"You should see me as an asthmatic reprobate, m'dear," he would say, with his infectious laugh. "And hear that cough! Lud love you, but I am mightily proud of that cough! Poor old Rateau does not do it better himself; and he is genuinely asthmatic."
He gave her an example of his prowess; but she would not allow him to go on. The sound was too weird, and conjured up visions which to-day she would fain forget.
"Rateau was a real find," he went on more seriously; "because he is three parts an imbecile and as obedient as a dog. When some of those devils are on my track, lo! the real Rateau appears and yours truly vanishes where no one can find him!"
"Pray God," she murmured involuntarily, "they never may!"
"They won't, m'dear, they won't!" he asserted with light-hearted conviction. "They have become so confused now between Rateau the coalheaver, the mysterious Scarlet Pimpernel, and the problematic English milor, that all three of these personalities can appear before their eyes and they will let 'em all escape! I assure you that the confusion between the Scarlet Pimpernel who was in the antechamber of Mother Théot on that fateful afternoon, and again at the Fraternal Supper in the Rue St Honoré, and the real Rateau who was at Mother Théot's while that same exciting supper party was going on, was so great that not one of those murdering reprobates could trust his own eyes and ears, and that we got away as easily as rabbits out of a torn net."
Thus did he explain and laugh over the perilous adventure where he had faced a howling mob disguised as Rateau the coalheaver, and with almost superhuman pluck and boldness had dragged Mme. de Serval and her children into the derelict house which was one of the League's headquarters. That is how he characterised the extraordinary feat of audacity when, in order to give his gallant lieutenants time to smuggle the unfortunates out of the house through a back and secret way, he showed himself on the balcony above the multitude, and hurled dummy figures into the brazier below. Then came the story of Bertrand Moncrif, snatched half-unconscious out of the apartment of fair Theresia Cabarrus, whilst Robespierre himself sat not half a dozen yards away, with only the thickness of a wall between him and his arch-enemy.
"How the woman must hate you!" Marguerite murmured, with a slight shudder of acute anxiety which she did her best to conceal. "There are things that a woman like the Cabarrus will never forgive. Whether she cares for Bertrand Moncrif or no, her vanity will suffer intensely, and she will never forgive you for taking him out of her clutches."
He laughed.
"Lud, m' dear!" he said lightly. "If we were to take heed of all the people who hate us we should spend our lives pondering rather than doing. And all I want to ponder over," he added, whilst his glance of passionate earnestness seemed to envelop her like an exquisite, warm mantle, "is your beauty, your eyes, the scent of your hair, the delicious flavour of your kiss!"
It was some hours later on that same glorious day, when the shadows of ash and chestnut lay right across the lane and the arms of evening folded the cosy nest in their mysterious embrace, that Sir Percy and Marguerite sat in the deep window-embrasure of the tiny living-room. He had thrown open wide the casements, and hand resting in hand, they watched the last ray of golden light lingering in the west and listened to the twitterings which came like tender "good nights" from the newly-built nests among the trees.
It was one of those perfect spring evenings, rare enough in northern climes, without a breath of wind, when every sound carries clear and sharp through the stillness around. The air was soft and slightly moist, with a tang in it of wakening life and of rising sap, and with the scent of wild narcissus and of wood violets rising like intoxicating incense to the nostrils. It was in truth one of those evenings when happiness itself seems rudely out of place and nature—exquisite, but so cruelly transient in her loveliness—demands the tribute of gentle melancholy.
A thrush said something to its mate—something insistent and tender that lulled them both to rest. After that, Nature became quite still, and Marguerite, with a catch in her throat which she would have given much to suppress, laid her head upon her husband's breast.
Then it was that suddenly a man's voice, hoarse but distinct, broke in upon the perfect peace around. What it said could not at first be gathered. It took some time ere Marguerite became sufficiently conscious of the disturbing noise to raise her head and listen. As for Sir Percy, he was wrapped in the contemplation of the woman he worshipped, and nothing short of an earthquake would have dragged him back to reality, had not Marguerite raised herself on her knees and quickly whispered:
"Listen!"
The man's voice had been answered by a woman's, raised as if in defiance that seemed both pitiful and futile.
"You cannot harm me now. I am in England!"
Marguerite leaned out of the window, tried to peer into the darkness which was fast gathering over the lane. The voices had come from there: first the man's, then the woman's, and now the man's again; both speaking in French, the woman obviously terrified and pleading, the man harsh and commanding. Now it was raised again, more incisive and distinct than before, and Marguerite had in truth some difficulty in repressing the cry that rose to her lips. She had recognized the man's voice.
"Chauvelin!" she murmured.
"Aye, in England, citoyenne!" that ominous voice went on dryly. "But the arm of justice is long. And remember that you are not the first who has tried—unsuccessfully, let me tell you!—to evade punishment by flying to the enemies of France. Wherever you may hide, I will know how to find you. Have I not found you here, now?—and you but a few hours in Dover?"
"But you cannot touch me!" the woman protested with the courage of one in despair.
The man laughed.
"Are you really simple enough, citoyenne," he said, "to be convinced of that?"
This sarcastic retort was followed by a moment or two of silence, then by a woman's cry; and in an instant Sir Percy was on his feet and out of the house. Marguerite followed him as far as the porch, whence the sloping ground, aided by flagged steps here and there, led down to the gate and thence on to the lane.
It was close beside the gate that a human-looking bundle lay huddled, when Sir Percy came upon the scene, even whilst, some fifty yards away at the sharp bend of the lane, a man could be seen walking rapidly away, his pace wellnigh at a run. Sir Percy's instinct was for giving chase, but the huddled-up figure put out a pair of arms and clung to him so desperately, with smothered cries of: "For pity's sake, don't leave me!" that it would have been inhuman to go. And so he bent down, raised the human bundle from the ground, and carried it bodily up into the house.
Here he deposited his burden upon the window seat, where but a few moments ago he had been wrapped in the contemplation of Marguerite's eyelashes, and with his habitual quaint good-humour, said:
"I leave the rest to you, m'dear. My French is too atrocious for dealing with the case."
Marguerite understood the hint. Sir Percy, whose command of French was nothing short of phenomenal, never used the language save when engaged in his perilous undertakings. His perfect knowledge of every idiom would have set any ill-intentioned eavesdropper thinking.
The human bundle looked very pathetic lying there upon the window seat, propped up with cushions. It appeared to be a youth, dressed in rough fisherman's clothes and with a cap that fitted tightly round the head; but with hands delicate as a woman's and a face of exquisite beauty.
Without another word, Marguerite quietly took hold of the cap and gently removed it. A wealth of blue-black hair fell like a cascade over the recumbent shoulders. "I thought as much!" Sir Percy remarked quietly, even whilst the stranger, apparently terrified, jumped up and burst into tears, moaning piteously:
"Oh, mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Sainte Vierge, protégez-moi!"
There was nothing to do but to wait; and anon the first paroxysm of grief and terror passed. The stranger, with a wry little smile, took the handkerchief which Lady Blakeney was holding out to her and proceeded to dry her tears. Then she looked up at the kind Samaritans who had befriended her.
"I am an impostor, I know," she said, with lips that quivered like those of a child in grief. "But if you only knew. . .!"
She sat bolt upright now, squeezing and twirling the wet handkerchief between her fingers.
"Some kind English gentlemen were good to me, down in the town," she went on more glibly. "They gave me food and shelter, and I was left alone to rest. But I felt stifled in the narrow room. I could hear every one talking and laughing, and the evening air was so beautiful. So I ventured out. I only meant to breathe a little fresh air; but it was all so lovely, so peaceful . . . here in England . . . so different to . . ."
She shuddered a little and looked as if she was going to cry again. But Marguerite interposed gently:
"So you prolonged your walk, and found this lane?"
"Yes. I prolonged my walk," the woman replied. "I did not notice that the road had become lonely. Then suddenly I realized that I was being followed, and I ran. Mon Dieu, how I ran! Whither, I knew not! I just felt that something horrible was at my heels!"
Her eyes, dilated with terror, looked as black as sloes. They were fixed upon Marguerite, never once raised on Sir Percy, who, standing some way apart from the two women, was looking down on them, silent and apparently unmoved.
The stranger shuddered again; her face was almost grey in its expression of fear, and her lips seemed quite bloodless. Marguerite gave her trembling hands an encouraging pat.
"It was lucky," she said gently, "that you found your way here."
"I had seen the light," the woman continued more calmly. "And I believe that at the back of my mind there was the instinct to run for shelter. Then suddenly my foot knocked against a stone, and I fell. I tried to raise myself quickly, but I had not the time, for the next moment I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a voice—oh, a voice I dread, citoyenne!—called to me by name."
"The voice of citizen Chauvelin?" Marguerite asked simply.
The woman looked up quickly.
"You knew——?" she murmured.
"I knew his voice."
"But you know him?" the other insisted.
"I know him—yes," Marguerite replied. "I am a compatriot of yours. Before I married, I was Marguerite St. Just."
"St. Just?"
"We are cousins, my brother and I, of the young deputy, the friend of Robespierre."
"God help you!" the woman murmured.
"He has done so already, by bringing us both to England. My brother is married, and I am Lady Blakeney now. You too will feel happy and safe now that you are here."
"Happy?" the woman ejaculated, with a piteous sob. "And safe? Mon Dieu, if only I could think it!"
"But what have you to fear? Chauvelin may have retained some semblance of power over in France. He has none over here."
"He hates me!" the other murmured. "Oh, how he hates me!"
"Why?"
The stranger made no immediate reply. Her eyes, dark as the night, glowing and searching, seemed to read the very soul behind Marguerite's serene brow. Then after awhile she went on, with seeming irrelevance:
"It all began so foolishly! . . . mon Dieu, how foolishly! And I really meant nothing treacherous to my own country—nothing unpatriotic, quoi?" She suddenly seized Marguerite's two hands and exclaimed with childlike enthusiasm: "You have heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel, have you not?"
"Yes," Marguerite replied. "I have heard of him."
"You know then that he is the finest, bravest, most wonderful man in all the world?"
"Yes, I know that," Marguerite assented with a smile.
"Of course, in France they hate him. Naturally! He is the enemy of the republic, quoi? He is against all those massacres, the persecution of the innocent. He saves them and helps them when he can. So they hate him. Naturally."
"Naturally!"
"But I have always admired him," the woman continued, enthusiasm glowing in her dark eyes. "Always; always! Ever since I heard what he had done, and how he saved the Comte de Tournai, and Juliette Marny, and Esther Vincent, and—and countless others. Oh, I knew about them all! For I knew Chauvelin well, and one or two of the men on the Committee of Public Safety quite intimately, and I used to worm out of them all the true facts about the Scarlet Pimpernel. Can you wonder that with my whole soul I admired him? I worshipped him! I could have laid down my life to help him! He has been the guiding star of my dreary life—my hero and my king!"
She paused, and those deep, dark eyes of hers were fixed straight out before her, as if in truth she beheld the hero of her dreams. There was a glow now in her cheeks, and her marvellous hair fell like a sable mantle around her, framing the perfect oval of the face and enhancing by vivid contrast the creamy whiteness of chin and throat and the rose-like bloom that had spread over her face. Indeed, this was an exquisitely beautiful creature, and Marguerite, herself one of the loveliest women of her time, was carried away by genuine, whole-hearted admiration for the stranger, as well as by her enthusiasm, which, in very truth, seeing its object, was a perfectly natural feeling.
"So now," the woman concluded, coming back to the painful realities of life with a shudder, which extinguished the light in her eyes and took all the glow out of her cheeks, "so now you understand perhaps why Chauvelin hates me!"
"You must have been rather indiscreet," Marguerite remarked with a smile.
"I was, I suppose. And Chauvelin is so vindictive. He hates the Scarlet Pimpernel. Out of a few words, foolishly spoken perhaps, he has made out a case against me. A friend gave me warning. My name was already in the hands of Foucquier-Tinville. You know what that means! Perquisition! Arrest! Judgment! Then the guillotine! Oh, mon Dieu! And I had done nothing!—nothing! I fled out of Paris. An influential friend just contrived to arrange this for me. A faithful servant accompanied me. We reached Boulogne. How, I know not! I was so weak, so ill, so wretched, I hardly lived. I just allowed François—that was my servant—to take me whithersoever he wished. But we had no passports, no papers—nothing! And Chauvelin was on our track. We had to hide—in barns . . . in pig-styes . . . anywhere! But we reached Boulogne at last . . . I had some money, fortunately. We bribed a fisherman to let us have his boat. Only a small boat—imagine! A rowing boat! And François and I alone in it! But it meant our lives if we didn't go; and perhaps it meant our lives if we went! A rowing boat on the great, big sea! . . . Fortunately the weather was fine, and François said that surely we would meet an English vessel which would pick us up. I was more dead than alive. And François lifted me into the boat. And I just remember seeing the coast of France receding, receding, receding—farther and farther from me. I was so tired. It is possible that I slept. Then suddenly something woke me. I was wide awake. I had heard a cry. I knew I had heard a cry, and then a splash—an awful splash! I was wet through. One oar hung in the rowlock; the other had gone. And François was not there. I was all alone."
She spoke in hard, jerky sentences, as if every word hurt her physically as she uttered it. For the most part she was looking down on her hands, that twitched convulsively and twisted the tiny wet handkerchief into a ball. But now and again she looked up, not at Marguerite always, rather at Sir Percy. Her glowing, tear-wet eyes fastened themselves on him from time to time with an appealing or a defiant gaze. He appeared silent and sympathetic, and his glance rested on her the whole while that she spoke, with an expression of detached if kindly interest, as if he did not quite understand everything that she said. Marguerite as usual was full of tenderness and compassion.
"How terribly you must have suffered!" she said gently. "But what happened after that?"
"Oh, I don't know! I don't know!" the poor woman resumed. "I was too numbed, too dazed with horror and fear, to suffer very much. The boat drifted on, I suppose. It was a beautiful, calm night. And the moon was lovely. You remember the moon last night?"
Marguerite nodded.
"But I remember nothing after . . . after that awful cry . . . and the splash! I suppose my poor François fainted or fell asleep . . . and that he fell into the water. I never saw him again. . . . And I remember nothing until—until I found myself on board a ship with a lot of rough sailors around me, who seemed very kind. . . . They brought me ashore and took me to a nice warm place, where some English gentlemen took compassion on me. And . . . and . . . I have already told you the rest."
She leaned back against the cushions of the seat as if exhausted with the prolonged effort. Her hands seemed quite cold now, almost blue, and Marguerite rose and closed the window behind her.
"How kind and thoughtful you are!" the stranger exclaimed, and after a moment added with a weary sigh, "I must not trespass longer on your kindness. It is late now, and . . . I must go."
She struggled to her feet, rose with obvious reluctance.
"The inn where I was," she said. "It is not far?"
"But you cannot go out alone," Marguerite rejoined. "You do not even know the way!"
"Ah, no! But perhaps your servant could accompany me . . . only as far as the town. . . . After that, I can ask the way . . . I should no longer be frightened."
"You speak English then, Madame?"
"Oh, yes! My father was a diplomat. He was in England once for four years. I learned a little English. I have not forgotten it."
"One of the servants shall certainly go with you. The inn you speak of must beThe Fisherman's Rest, since you found English gentlemen there."
"If Madame will allow me?" Sir Percy broke in, for the first time since the stranger had embarked upon her narrative.
The stranger looked up at him with a half-shy, half-eager smile.
"You, milor!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no! I would be ashamed——"
She paused, and her cheeks became crimson whilst she looked down in utter confusion on her extraordinary attire.
"I had forgotten," she murmured tearfully. "François made me put on these awful clothes when we left Paris."
"Then I must lend you a cloak for to-night," Marguerite interposed with a smile. "But you need not mind your clothes, Madame. On this coast our people are used to seeing unfortunate fugitives landing in every sort of guise. To-morrow we must find you something wherein to travel to London."
"To London?" the stranger said with some eagerness. "Yes! I would wish to go to London."
"It will be quite easy. Mme. de Serval, with her son and two daughters and another friend, is travelling by the coach to-morrow. You could join them, I am sure. Then you would not be alone. You have money, Madame?" Marguerite concluded, with practical solicitude.
"Oh, yes!" the other replied. "I have plenty for present needs . . . in a wallet . . . under my clothes. I was able to collect a little—and I have not lost it I am not dependent," she added, with a smile of gratitude. "And as soon as I have found my husband——"
"Your husband?" Marguerite exclaimed.
"M. le Marquis de Fontenay," the other answered simply. "Perhaps you know him. You have seen him . . . in London? . . . Not?"
Marguerite shook her head.
"Not to my knowledge."
"He left me—two years ago . . . cruelly . . . emigrated to England . . . and I was left all alone in the world. . . . He saved his own life by running away from France; but I—I could not go just then . . . and so . . ."
She seemed on the verge of breaking down again, then recovered herself and continued more quietly:
"That was my idea, you see; to find my husband one day. Now a cruel Fate has forced me to fly from France; so I thought I would go to London and perhaps some kind friends will help me to find M. de Fontenay. I have never ceased to love him, though he was so cruel. And I think that . . . perhaps . . . he also has not quite forgotten me."
"That were impossible," Marguerite rejoined gently. "But I have friends in London who are in touch with most of the émigrés here. We will see what can be done. It will not be difficult, methinks, to find M. de Fontenay."
"You are an angel, milady!" the stranger exclaimed; and with a gesture that was perfect in its suggestion of gracious humility, she took Marguerite's hand and raised it to her lips. Then she once more mopped her eyes, picked up her cap and hastily hid the wealth of her hair beneath it. After which, she turned to Sir Percy.
"I am ready, milor," she said. "I have intruded far too long as it is upon your privacy. . . . But I am not brave enough to refuse your escort. Milady, forgive me! I will walk fast, very fast, so that milor will return to you very soon!"
She wrapped herself up in the cloak which, at Lady Blakeney's bidding, one of the servants had brought her, and a moment or two later the stranger and Sir Percy were out of the house, whilst Marguerite remained for awhile in the porch, listening to their retreating footsteps.
There was a frown of puzzlement between her brows, a look of troubled anxiety in her eyes. Somehow, the brief sojourn of that strange and beautiful woman in her house had filled her soul with a vague feeling of dread, which she tried vainly to combat. There was no real suspicion against the woman in her heart—how could there be?—but she—Marguerite—who as a rule was so compassionate, so understanding of those misfortunes, to alleviate which Sir Percy was devoting his entire life, felt cold and unresponsive in this case—most unaccountably so. Mme. de Fontenay's story differed but little in all its grim detail of misery and humiliation from the thousand and one other similar tales which had been poured for the past three years into her sympathetic ear. She had always understood, had always been ready to comfort and to help. But this time she felt very much as if she had come across a sick or wounded reptile, something weak and dumb and helpless, and yet withal unworthy of compassion.
However, Marguerite Blakeney was surely not the woman to allow such fancies to dry the well of her pity. The gallant Scarlet Pimpernel was not wont to pause in his errands of mercy in order to reflect whether the objects of his selfless immolation were worthy of it or no. So Marguerite, with a determined little sigh, chided herself for her disloyalty and cowardice, and having dried her tears she went within.
For the first five minutes, Sir Percy Blakeney and Madame de Fontenay walked side by side in silence. Then she spoke.
"You are silent, milor?" she queried, speaking in perfect English.
"I was thinking," he replied curtly.
"What!"
"That a remarkably fine actress is lost in the fashionable Theresia Cabarrus."
"Madame de Fontenay, I pray you, milor," she retorted dryly.
"Theresia Cabarrus nevertheless. Madam Tallien probably to-morrow: for Madame divorced that weak-kneed marquis as soon as the law 'contre les émigrés' allowed her to regain her freedom."
"You seem very well informed, milor."
"Almost as well as Madame herself," he riposted with a pleasant laugh.
"Then you do not believe my story?"
"Not one word of it!" he replied.
"Strange!" she mused. "For every word of it is true."
"Demmed strange!" he assented.
"Of course I did not tell all," she went on, with sudden vehemence. "I could not. My lady would not understand. She has become—what shall I say?—very English. Marguerite St. Just would understand . . . Lady Blakeney—no?"
"What would Lady Blakeney not understand!"
"Eh bien! About Bertrand Moncrif."
"Ah?"
"You think I did harm to the boy . . . I know . . . you took him away from me . . . You! The Scarlet Pimpernel! . . . You see, I know! I know everything! Chauvelin told me . . ."
"And guided you most dexterously to my door," he concluded with a pleasant laugh. "There to enact a delicious comedy of gruff-voiced bully and pathetic victim of a merciless persecution. It was all excellently done! Allow me to offer you my sincere congratulations!"
She said nothing for a moment or two, then queried abruptly:
"You think that I am here in order to spy upon you!"
"Oh!" he riposted lightly, "how could I be so presumptuous as to suppose that the beautiful Cabarrus would bestow attention on so unworthy an object as I?"
"'Tis you now, milor," she rejoined drily, "who choose to play a rôle. A truce on it, I pray you; and rather tell me what you mean to do."
To this query he gave no reply, and his silence appeared to grate on Theresia's nerves, for she went on harshly:
"You will betray me to the police, of course. And as I am here without papers——"
He put up his hand with that gently deprecating gesture which was habitual to him.
"Oh!" he said, with his quiet little laugh, "why should you think I would do anything so unchivalrous!"
"Unchivalrous?" she retorted with a pathetic sigh of weariness. "I suppose, here in England, it would be called an act of patriotism or self-preservation . . . like fighting an enemy . . . or denouncing a spy——"
She paused for a moment or two, and as he once more took refuge in silence, she resumed with sudden, moving passion:
"So it is to be a betrayal after all! The selling of an unfortunate woman to her bitterest enemy! Oh, what wrong have I ever done you, that you should persecute me thus?"
"Persecute you?" he exclaimed. "Pardi, Madame; but this is a subtle joke which by your leave my dull wits are unable to fathom."
"It is no joke, milor," she rejoined earnestly. "Will you let me explain? For indeed it seems to me that we are at cross purposes, you and I."
She came to a halt, and he perforce had to do likewise. They had come almost to the end of the little lane; a few yards farther on it debouched on the main road. Beyond that, the lights of Dover Town and the Harbour lights glinted in the still, starry night. Behind them the lane, sunk between grassy slopes and overhung by old elms of fantastic shapes, appeared dark and mysterious. But here, where they stood, the moon shed its full radiance on the broad highway, the clump of copper beeches over on the left, that tiny cottage with its thatched roof nestling at the foot of the cliff; and far away, on the picturesque mass of Dover Castle, the church and towers. Every bit of fencing, every tiny twig in the hawthorn hedges, stood out clear cut, sharp like metal in the cold, searching light. Theresia—divinely slender and divinely tall, graceful despite the rough masculine clothes which she wore—stood boldly in the full light; the tendrils of her jet black hair were gently stirred by an imperceptible breeze, her eyes, dark and luminous, were fixed upwards at the man whom she had set out to subjugate.
"That boy," she went on quite gently, "Bertrand Moncrif, was just a young fool. But I liked him, and I could see the abyss to which his folly was tending. There was never anything but friendship between us; but I knew that sooner or later he would run his head into a noose, and then what good would his pasty-faced sweetheart have been to him? Whilst I—I had friends, influence—quoi? And I liked the boy; I was sorry for him. Then the catastrophe came . . . the other night. There was what those ferocious beasts over in Paris were pleased to call a Fraternal Supper. Bertrand Moncrif was there. Like a young fool, he started to vilify Robespierre—Robespierre, who is the idol of France! There!—in the very midst of the crowd! They would have torn him limb from limb, it seems. I don't know just what happened, for I wasn't there; but he came to my apartment—at midnight—dishevelled—his clothes torn—more dead than alive. I gave him shelter; I tended him. Yes, I!—even whilst Robespierre and his friends were in my house, and I risked my life every moment that Bertrand was under my roof! Chauvelin suspected something then. Oh, I knew it! Those awful pale, deep-set eyes of his seemed to be searching my soul all the time! At which precise moment you came and took Bertrand away, I know not. But Chauvelin knew. He saw—he saw, I tell you! He had not been with us the whole time, but in and out of the apartment on some pretext or other. Then, after the others had left, he came back, accused me of having harboured not only Bertrand, but the Scarlet Pimpernel himself!—swore that I was in league with the English spies and had arranged with them to smuggle my lover out of my house. Then he went away. He did not threaten. You know him as well as I do. Threatening is not his way. But from his look I knew that I was doomed. Luckily I had François. We packed up my few belongings then and there. I left my woman Pepita in charge, and I fled. As for the rest, I swear to you that it all happened just as I told it to milady. You say you do not believe me. Very well! Will you then take me away from this sheltered land, which I have reached after terrible sufferings? Will you send me back to France, and drive me to the arms of a man who but waits to throw me into the tumbril with the next batch of victims for the guillotine? You have the power to do it, of course. You are in England; you are rich, influential, a power in your own country; whilst I am an alien, a political enemy, a refugee, penniless and friendless. You can do with me what you will, of course. But if you dothat, milor, my blood will stain your hands for ever; and all the good you and your League have ever done in the cause of humanity will be wiped out by this execrable crime."
She spoke very quietly and with soul-moving earnestness. She was also exquisitely beautiful. Sir Percy Blakeney had been more than human if he had been proof against such an appeal, made by such perfect lips. Nature itself spoke up for Theresia: the softness and stillness of the night; the starlit sky and the light of the moon; the scent of wood violets and of wet earth, and the patter of tiny, mysterious feet in the hedgerows. And the man whose whole life was consecrated to the relief of suffering humanity and whose ears were for ever strained to hear the call of the weak and of the innocent—he would far, far sooner have believed that this beautiful woman was speaking the truth, rather than allow his instinct of suspicion, his keen sense of what was untrustworthy and dangerous, to steel his heart against her appeal.
But whatever his thoughts might be, when she paused, wearied and shaken with sobs which she vainly tried to suppress, he spoke to her quite gently.
"Believe me, dear lady," he said, "that I had no thought of wronging you when I owned to disbelieving your story. I have seen so many strange things in the course of my chequered career that, in verity, I ought to know by now how unbelievable truth often appears."
"Had you known me better, milor——" she began.
"Ah, that is just it!" he rejoined quaintly. "I did not know you, Madame. And now, meseems, that Fate has intervened, and that I shall never have the chance of knowing you."
"How is that?" she asked.
But to this he gave no immediate answer, suggested irrelevantly:
"Shall we walk on? It is getting late."
She gave a little cry, as if startled out of a dream, then started to walk by his side with her long, easy stride, so full of sinuous grace. They went on in silence for awhile, down the main road now. Already they had passed the first group of town houses, andThe Running Footman, which is the last inn outside the town. There was only the High Street now to follow and the Old Place to cross, andThe Fisherman's Restwould be in sight.
"You have not answered my question, milor," Theresia said presently.
"What question, Madame?" he asked.
"I asked you how Fate could intervene in the matter of our meeting again."
"Oh!" he retorted simply. "You are staying in England, you tell me."
"If you will deign to grant me leave," she said, with gentle submission.
"It is not in my power to grant or to refuse."
"You will not betray me—to the police?"
"I have never betrayed a woman in my life."
"Or to Lady Blakeney?"
He made no answer.
"Or to Lady Blakeney?" she insisted.
Then, as he still gave no answer, she began to plead with passionate earnestness.
"What could she gain—or you—by her knowing that I am that unfortunate, homeless waif, without kindred and without friends, Theresia Cabarrus—the beautiful Cabarrus!—once the fiancée of the great Tallien, now suspect of trafficking with her country's enemies in France . . . and suspect of being a suborned spy in England! . . . My God, where am I to go? What am I to do? Do not tell Lady Blakeney, milor! On my knees I entreat you, do not tell her! She will hate me—fear me—despise me! Oh, give me a chance to be happy! Give me—a chance—to be happy!"
Again she had paused and placed her hand on his arm. Once more she was looking up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, her full red lips quivering with emotion. And he returned her appealing, pathetic glance for a moment or two in silence; then suddenly, without any warning, he threw back his head and laughed.
"By Gad!" he exclaimed. "But you are a clever woman!"
"Milor!" she protested, indignant.
"Nay: you need have no fear, fair one! I am a lover of sport. I'll not betray you."
She frowned, really puzzled this time.
"I do not understand," she murmured.
"Let us get back toThe Fisherman's Rest," he retorted with characteristic irrelevance. "Shall we?"
"Milor," she insisted, "will you explain?"
"There is nothing to explain, dear lady. You have asked me—nay! challenged me—not to betray you to any one, not even to Lady Blakeney. Very well! I accept your challenge. That is all."
"You will not tell any one—any one, mind you!—that Mme. de Fontenay and Theresia Cabarrus are one and the same?"
"You have my word for that."
She drew a scarce perceptible sigh of relief.
"Very well then, milor," she rejoined. "Since I am allowed to go to London, we shall meet there, I hope."
"Scarcely, dear lady," he replied, "since I go to France to-morrow."
This time she gave a little gasp, quickly suppressed—for she hoped milor had not noticed.
"You go to France to-morrow, milor?" she asked.
"As I had the honour to tell you, I go to France to-morrow, and I leave you a free hand to come and go as you please."
She chose not to notice the taunt; but suddenly, as if moved by an uncontrollable impulse, she said resolutely:
"If you go, I shall go too."
"I am sure you will, dear lady," he retorted with a smile. "So there really is no reason why we should linger here. Our mutual friend M. Chauvelin must be impatient to hear the result of this interview."
She gave a cry of horror and indignation.
"Oh! You—you still think that ofme?"
He stood there, smiling, looking down on her with that half-amused, lazy glance of his. He did not actually say anything, but she felt that she had her answer. With a moan of pain, like a child who has been badly hurt, she turned abruptly, and burying her face in her hands, she sobbed as if her heart would break. Sir Percy waited quietly for a moment or two, until the first paroxysm of grief had quieted down, then he said gently:
"Madame, I entreat you to compose yourself and to dry your tears. If I have wronged you in my thoughts, I humbly crave your pardon. I pray you to understand that when a man holds human lives in his hands, when he is responsible for the life and safety of those who trust in him, he must be doubly cautious and in his turn trust no one. You have said yourself that now at last in this game of life and death, which I and my friends have played so successfully these last three years, I hold the losing cards. Then must I watch every trick all the more closely, for a sound player can win through the mistakes of his opponent, even if he hold a losing hand."
But she refused to be comforted.
"You will never know, milor—never—how deeply you have wounded me," she said through her tears. "And I, who for months past—ever since I knew!—have dreamed of seeing the Scarlet Pimpernel one day! He was the hero of my dreams, the man who stood alone in the mass of self-seeking, vengeful, cowardly humanity as the personification of all that was fine and chivalrous. I longed to see him—just once—to hold his hand—to look into his eyes—and feel a better woman for the experience. Love? It was not love I felt, but hero-worship, pure as one's love for a starlit night or a spring morning, or a sunset over the hills. I dreamed of the Scarlet Pimpernel, milor; and because of my dreams, which were too vital for perfect discretion, I had to flee from home, suspected, vilified, already condemned. Chance brings me face to face with the hero of my dreams, and he looks on me as that vilest thing on earth: a spy!—a woman who would lie to a man first and send him afterwards to his death!"
Her voice, though more passionate and intense, had nevertheless become more steady. She had at last succeeded in controlling her tears. Sir Percy had listened—quite quietly, as was his wont—to her strange words. There was nothing that he could say to this beautiful woman who was so ingenuously avowing her love for him. It was a curious situation, and in truth he did not relish it—would have given quite a great deal to see it end as speedily as possible. Theresia, fortunately, was gradually gaining the mastery over her own feelings. She dried her eyes, and after a moment or two, of her own accord, she started once more on her way.
Nor did they speak again with one another until they were under the porch ofThe Fisherman's Rest.Then Theresia stopped, and with a perfectly simple gesture she held out her hand to Sir Percy.
"We may never meet again on this earth, milor," she said quietly. "Indeed, I shall pray to le bon Dieu to keep me clear of your path."
He laughed good-humouredly.
"I very much doubt, dear lady," he said, "that you will be in earnest when you utter that prayer!"
"You choose to suspect me, milor; and I'll no longer try to combat your mistrust. But to one more word you must listen: Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse. The invincible Scarlet Pimpernel might one day need the help of Theresia Cabarrus. I would wish you to believe that you can always count on it."
She extended her hand to him, and hie took it, the while his inveterately mocking glance challenged her earnest one. After a moment or two he stooped and kissed her finger-tips.
"Let me rather put it differently, dear lady," he said. "One day the exquisite Theresia Cabarrus—the Egeria of the Terrorists, the fiancee of the Great Tallien—might need the help of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel."
"I would sooner die than seek your help, milor," she protested earnestly.
"Here in Dover, perhaps . . . but in France? . . . And you said you were going back to France, in spite of Chauvelin and his pale eyes, and his suspicions of you."
"Since you think so ill of me," she retorted, "why should you offer me your help?"
"Because," he replied lightly, "with the exception of my friend Chauvelin, I have never had so amusing an enemy; and it would afford me intense satisfaction to render you a signal service."
"You mean, that you would risk your life to save mine?"
"No. I should not risk my life, dear lady," he said with his puzzling smile. "But I should—God help me!—do my best, if the need arose, to save yours."
After which, with another ceremonious bow, he took final leave of her, and she was left standing there, looking after his tall, retreating figure until the turn of the street hid him from view.
Who could have fathomed her thoughts and feelings at that moment? No one, in truth; not even herself. Theresia Cabarrus had met many men in her day, subjugated and fooled not a few. But she had never met any one like this before. At one moment she had thought she had him: he appeared moved, serious, compassionate, gave her his word that he would not betray her; and in that word, her unerring instinct—the instinct of the adventuress, the woman who succeeds by her wits as well as by her charm—told her that she could trust. Did he fear her, or did he not? Did he suspect her? Theresia could not say. She had no experience of such men. As for the word "sport," she hardly knew its meaning; and yet he had talked of not betraying her because he was "a lover of sport!" It was all very puzzling, very mysterious.
For a long while she remained standing in the porch. From the square bay window on her right came the sound of laughter and chatter, issuing from the coffee-room, whilst one or two noisy groups of sailors and their girls passed her by, singing and laughing, down the street. But in the porch, where she stood, the noisy world appeared distant, as if she were alone in one of her own creation. She could, just by closing her eyes and ears to the life around her, imagine she could still hear the merry, lazy, drawling voice of the man she had set out to punish. She could still see his tall figure and humorous face, with those heavy eyes that lit up now and again with a strange, mysterious light, and the firm lips ever ready to break into a smile. She could still see the man who so loved sport that he swore not to betray her, and risked the chance, in his turn, of falling into a trap.
Well! he had defied and insulted her. The letter, which he left for her after he had smuggled Bertrand Moncrif out of her apartment, rankled and stung her pride as nothing had ever done before. Therefore the man must be punished, and in a manner that would leave no doubt in his mind as to whence came the blow that struck him. But it was all going to be very much more difficult than the beautiful Theresia Cabarrus had allowed herself to believe.
It was a thoughtful Theresia who turned into the narrow hall ofThe Fisherman's Resta few moments later. The inn, when she left it earlier in the evening, had still been all animation and bustle consequent on the arrival of their lordships with the party of ladies and gentlemen over from France, and the excitement of making all these grand folk comfortable for the night. Theresia Cabarrus, in her disguise as a young stowaway, had only aroused passing interest—refugees of every condition and degree were frequent enough in these parts—and when awhile ago she had slipped out in order to enact the elaborate rôle devised by her and Chauvelin, she had done so unperceived. Since then, no doubt there had been one or two cursory questions about the mysterious stowaway, who had been left to feed and rest in the tiny living-room; but equally no doubt, interest in him waned quickly when it was discovered that he had gone, without as much as thanking those who had befriended him.