CHAPTER 11 THE CHALLENGE It all occurred just before midnight, in one of the smaller rooms, which lead an unfiltered from the principal ballroom. Dancing had been going on for some time, but the evening was close, and there seemed to be a growing desire on the part of Lady Blakeney's guests to wander desultrally through the gardens and glass houses, or sit about where some measure of coolness could be obtained. There was a rumour that a new and charming French artiste was to sing a few peculiarly ravishing songs unheard in England before. Close to the main ballroom was the octagon music-room, which was brilliantly illuminated, and in which a large number of chairs had been obviously disposed for the comfort of an audience. Into this room many of the guests had already assembled. It was quite clear that a chamber-concert, select and attractive, as were all Lady Blakeney's entertainments, was in contemplation. Marguerite herself, released for a moment from her constant duties near her royal guests, had strolled through the smaller rooms accompanied by Juliet in order to search for Mademoiselle Candet, and to suggest the commencement of the improvised concert. Desiree Candet had kept herself very much aloof throughout the evening, only talking to the one or two gentlemen whom her hostess had presented to her on her arrival, and with Monsieur Chauvelin always in close attendance upon her every movement. Pleasantly, when dancing began, she retired to a small boudoir, and there sat down, demurely waiting, until Lady Blakeney should require her services. When Marguerite and Juliet Marnie entered the little room, she rose and came forward a few steps. "'I am ready, madame,' she said pleasantly, "'whenever you wish me to begin. I have thought out a short programme. Shall I start with the gay or the sentimental songs?'  "'Who is this woman?' murmured Juliet Marnie close to her ear. The young girl looked pale and very agitated, and her large eyes were fixed in unmistakable wrath upon the French actress before her. A little startled, not understanding Juliet's attitude, Marguerite tried to reply lightly. "'This is Mademoiselle Candet, Juliet dear,' she said, affecting the usual formal introduction, of the Varieté Theatre of Paris. "'Mademoiselle desirait Candet, who will sing some charming French ditties for us tonight.'" While she spoke, she kept a restraining hand on Juliet's quivering arm. Already with the keen intuition which had been on the qui-viv the whole evening, she sent it some mystery in this sudden outburst on the part of her young protege. But Juliet did not heed her. She felt surging up in her young overburdened heart all the wrath in the contempt of the persecuted fugitive aristocrat against the triumphant usurper. She had suffered so much from that particular class of the risen kitchen-wench of which the woman before her was so typical an example. Years of sorrow, of poverty, were behind her. Loss of fortune, of kindred, of friends. She even now a pauper, living on the bounty of strangers. And all this through no fault of her own. The fault of her class may have, but not hers. She had suffered much, and was still overwrought and nerve-strung. For some reason she could not afterwards have explained.  Afterwards she would willingly have bitten out her tongue for her vehemence, but for the moment she was absolutely incapable of checking the torrent of her own emotions. Mademoiselle Candet, indeed, she said in wrathful scorn, desirée Candet, you mean, Lady Blakeney, my mother's kitchen maid, flaunting shamelessly my dear mother's jewels which she had stolen may have. The young girl was trembling from head to foot, tears of anger obscured her eyes, her voice, which fortunately remained low, not much above a whisper, was thick and husky.  Mademoiselle Candet, I beg of you to retire. But Candet, well schooled in the part she had to play, had no intention of quitting the field of battle. The more wrathful and excited Mademoiselle de Marnie became, the more insolent and triumphant waxed the young actress's whole attitude. An ironical smile played around the corners of her mouth. Her almond-shaped eyes were half-closed, regarding through drooping lashes the trembling figure of the young impoverished aristocrat. Her head was thrown well back, in obvious defiance of the social conventions which should have forbidden a fracca in Lady Blakeney's hospitable house, and her fingers provocatively toyed with the diamond necklace which glittered and sparkled round her throat. She had no need to repeat the words of a well-learned part. Her own wit, her own emotions and feelings helped her to act just as her employer would have wished her to do. Her native vulgarity helped her to assume the very bearing which she would have desired. In fact, at this moment, Desiree Candet had forgotten everything, save the immediate present. A more than contemptuous snub from one of those penniless aristocrats who had rendered her own sojourn and London so unpleasant and unsuccessful. She had suffered from these snubs before, but had never had the chance of forcing an esclandre as a result of her own humiliation. That spirit of hatred for the rich and idle classes which was so characteristic of revolutionary France was alive and hot within her. She had never had an opportunity—she, the humble fugitive actress from a minor Paris theatre—to retort with forcible taunts to the ironical remarks made at and before her by the various poverty-stricken but haughty emigres who swarmed in those very same circles of London society into which she herself had vainly striven to penetrate. Now at last, one of this same hated class provoked beyond self-control was allowing childish and unreasoning fury to outstrip the usual calm irony of aristocratic rebuffs. Juliet had paused a while in order to check the wrathful tears which, much against her will, were choking the words in her throat and blinding her eyes. Hoity-toity! laughed Candet, hugged the young baggage. But Juliet had turned to margarite and began explaining volubly. My mother's jewels—she said in the midst of her tears—ask her how she came by them. When I was obliged to leave the home of my father's, stolen from me by the revolutionary government, I contrived to retain my mother's jewels.  She took charge of them. He said he would place them in safety with the ornaments of his church, and now I seize them round that woman's neck. I know that he would not have parted with them save with his life. All the while that the young girl spoke in a voice half choked with sobs, margarite tried with all the physical and mental will at her command to drag her out of the room, and thus to put a summary ending to this unpleasant scene. She ought to have felt angry with Juliet for this childish and senseless outburst, for it not for the fact that somehow she knew within her innermost heart that all this had been arranged and preordained—not by fate, not by a higher hand, but by the most skillful intrigue present-day France had ever known. And even now, as she was half succeeding in turning Juliet away from the sight of Candet, she was not the least surprised or startled at seeing Chauvelin standing in the very doorway through which she had hoped to pass. One glance at his face had made her fears tangible and real. There was a look of satisfaction and triumph in his pale, narrow eyes, a flash in them of approbation directed at the insolent attitude of the French actress. He looked like the stage manager of a play, content with the effect his own well-arranged scenes were producing. What he hoped to gain by this somewhat vulgar quarrel between the two women, margarite of course could not guess. That something was lurking in his mind, inimical to herself and to her husband, she did not for a moment doubt, and at this moment she felt that she would have given her very life to induce Candet and Juliet to cease this passage of arms without further provocation on either side. But though Juliet might have been ready to yield to Lady Blakeney's persuasion, desirait Candet, under Chauvelin's eye, and fired by her own desire to further humiliate this overbearing aristocrat, did not wish the little scene to end so tamely just yet. Your old galotin is made to part with his boutimédia, she said, with a contemptuous shrug of her bare shoulders. Marys and France have been starving these many years past. A paternal government seized all it could, with which to reward those that served it well, whilst all that would have been brought bread and meat for the boar was being greedily stowed away by shameless traitors. Juliet winced at the insult.  Too late now did she realize that she had deliberately stirred up a mud-heap and sent noisome insects buzzing about her ears. Mademoiselle, said Marguerite authoritatively, I must ask you to remember that Mademoiselle de Marnie is my friend, and that you are a guest in my house. Aye, I try not to forget it, rejoined Candet lightly, but of a truth you must admit, c'est de Zinès, that it would require the patience of a scene to put up with the insolence of a penniless baggage, who but lately has had to stand her trial in her own country for impurity of conduct. There was a moment's silence, whilst Marguerite distinctly heard a short sigh of satisfaction escaping from the lips of Chauvelin.  May I have the honour, he said, with his most elaborate air of courtly deference, of conducting Mademoiselle to her chaise. In the doorway just behind him stood his royal highness the Prince of Wales, chatting with apparent carelessness to Sir Andrew Fawkes and Lord Anthony Dewhurst. A curtain beyond the open door was partially drawn aside, disclosing one or two brilliantly dressed groups, strolling desultrally through the further rooms. The four persons assembled in the little bourgeois had been so absorbed by their own passionate emotions and the violence of their quarrel, that they had not noticed the approach of Zepersi Bladeney and of his friends. Juliet and Marguerite certainly were startled, and Candet was evidently taken unawares. Chauvelin and Lone seemed quite indifferent, and stood back a little when Zepersi advanced in order to allow him to pass. But Candet recovered quickly enough from her surprise.  So did I, she said with affected calm, who am to bear every insult in a house in which I was bidden as a guest. I am turned out like some intrusive and important beggar, and I, the stranger in this land, am destined to find it amidst all these brilliant English gentlemen. There is not one man of honour. Mr. Chauvelin, she added loudly, our beautiful country has, me seems, deputed you to guard the honour as well as the worldly goods of your unprotected compatriots. I call upon you, in the name of France, to avenge the insults offered to me tonight. She looked round defiantly from one to the other of the several faces, which were now turned towards her. But no one for the moment spoke or stirred. Juliet, silent and ashamed, had taken Marguerite's hand in hers, and was clinging to it as if wishing to draw strength of character and firmness of purpose through the paws of the other woman's delicate skin. Sir Percy, with back-bones still bent in a sweeping curve, had not relaxed his attitude of uttermost deference. The Prince of Wales and his friends were viewing the scene with slightly amused aloofness. For a moment, seconds at most, there was dead silence in the room, during which time it almost seemed as if the beating of several hearts could be distinctly heard. Then Chauvelin, courtly and obeying, stepped calmly forward. "'Believe me, citizeness,' he said, addressing Candet directly and with marked emphasis. I am entirely at your command. But am I not helpless, seeing that those who have so grossly insulted you are of your own irresponsible, if charming, sex?' Like a great dog after a nap, Sir Percy blatantly straightened his long back and stretched it out to its full length. "'La!' he said pleasantly. My ever-engaging friend from Calais—Sir, your servant. It seems we are ever destined to discuss amiable matters in an amiable spirit. A glass of punch, Mr.—er—Chauvelin? I must ask you, Sir Percy,' rejoined Chauvelin sternly, to view this matter with becoming seriousness. "'Seriousness is never becoming, Sir,' said Blakeney, politely smothering a slight yawn, and it is vastly unbecoming in the presence of ladies. "'Am I to understand, then, Sir Percy,' said Chauvelin, that you are prepared to apologise to Mademoiselle Candet for the insults offered to her by Lady Blakeney? Sir Percy again tried to smother that tiresome little yawn, which seemed most distressing, when he desired to be most polite. Then he flicked off a grain of dust from his immaculate lace ruffle, and buried his long slender hands in the capacious pockets of his white satin britches. Finally he said, with the most good-natured of smiles, "'Sir, have you seen the latest fashion in cravats? I would wish to draw your attention to the novel way in which we in England, I am Mechelin-edged bow.' "'Sir Percy,' retorted Chauvelin, firmly, "'since you will not offer Mademoiselle Candet the apology which she has the right to expect from you, are you prepared that you and I should cross sorts like honourable gentlemen?' Blakeney laughed, his usual pleasant, somewhat shy laugh, shook his powerful frame, and looked from his altitude of six feet three inches, down on the small, sable-clad figure of ex-ambassador Chauvelin. "'The question is, sir,' he said slowly, "'should we then be two honourable gentlemen crossing swords?' "'Sir Percy,' said Chauvelin, who for one moment had seemed ready to lose his temper, now made a sudden effort to resume a calm and easy attitude, and said quietly, "'Of course, if one of us is cowered enough to shirk the contest.' He did not complete the sentence, but shrugged his shoulders expressive of contempt. The other side of the curtain doorway, a little crowd had gradually assembled, attracted hither by the loud and angry voices which came from that small boudoir. Host and hostess had been missed from the reception rooms for some time. His royal highness, too, had not been seen for the quarter of an hour. Like flies attracted by the light, one by one, or in small, isolated groups, some of Lady Blakeney's guests had found their way to the room adjoining the royal presence. As his highness was standing in the doorway itself, no one could, of course, cross the threshold, but everyone could see into the room, and could take stock of the various actors in the little comedy. They were witnessing a quarrel between the French envoy and Sir Percy Blakeney wherein the former was evidently and deadly earnest, and the latter merely politely bored. Amused comments flew to and fro. Laugh drew in a babble of a responsible chatter, made an incessant chirruping accompaniment to the duolog between the two men. But at this stage, the prince of Wales, who hitherto had seemingly kept aloof from the quarrel, suddenly stepped forward and abruptly interposed the weight of his authority and of his social position between the bickering adversaries. "'Tushman,' he said impatiently, turning more especially towards Chauvelin. You talk at random. Sir Percy Blakeney is an English gentleman, and the laws of this country do not admit of dueling, as you understand it in France. And I, for once, certainly could not allow—'Pardon, your royal highness,' interrupted Sir Percy with irresistible bonomy. Your highness does not understand the situation. My engaging friend here does not propose that I should transgress the laws of this country, but that I should go over to France with him and fight him there, where dueling and other little matters of that sort are allowed. Yes, quite so, rejoined the prince. I understand, Monsieur Chauvelin's desire. But what about you, Blakeney? Oh! replied Sir Percy lightly. I have accepted his challenge, of course. CHAPTER XII Time, place, conditions. It would be very difficult, indeed, to say why, at Blakeney's lightly spoken words, an immediate silence should have fallen upon all those present. All the actors in the little drawing-room drama who had played their respective parts so unerringly up to now, had paused a while, just as if an invisible curtain had come down, marking the end of a scene and the interval during which the players might recover strength and energy to resume their roles. The Prince of Wales, as foremost spectator, said nothing for the moment, and beyond the doorway, the audience there assembled seemed suddenly to be holding its breath, waiting, eager, expectant, palpitating, for what would follow now. Only here and there, the gentle froo-froo of a silk skirt, the rhythmic flutter of a fan, broke those few seconds' deadly, stony silence. And yet it was all simple enough. A fracar between two ladies, the gentlemen interposing, a few words of angry expostulation, then the inevitable suggestion of Belgium or of some other country where the childish and barbarous custom of settling such matters with a couple of swords, had not been as yet systematically stamped out. The whole scene, with but slight variations, had occurred scores of times in London drawing-rooms. English gentlemen had scores of times crossed the channel for the purpose of settling similar quarrels in continental fashion. Why should the present situation appear so abnormal? So Percy Blakeney, an accomplished gentleman, was past master in the art of fence, and looked more than a match in strength and dexterity for the meagre, sable-clad little opponent, who had so summarily challenged him to cross over to France in order to fight a duel. But somehow every one had a feeling at this moment that this proposed duel would be unlike any other combat ever fought between two antagonists. Perhaps it was the white, absolutely stony and unexpressive face of Marguerite, which suggested a latent tragedy. Perhaps it was the look of unmistakable horror in Juliet's eyes, or that of triumph in those of Chauvelin, or even that certain something in his royal highness's face, which seemed to imply that the prince, careless man of the world as he was, would have given much to prevent this particular meeting from taking place. Be that as it may, there is no doubt that a certain wave of electrical excitement swept over the little crowd assembled there, the while the chief factor in the little drama, the inimitable dandy Sir Percy Blakeney himself, appeared deeply engrossed in removing the speck of powder from the white, black satin ribbon which held his gold-rimmed eyeglass. "'Gentlemen,' said his royal highness, suddenly, "'we are forgetting the ladies. My Lord Hastings,' he added, turning to one of the gentlemen who stood close to him, "'I pray you to remedy this unpardonable neglect. Men's quarrels are not fit for ladies' dainty ears.' Sir Percy looked up from his absorbing occupation. His eyes met those of his wife. She was like a marble statue, hardly conscious of what was going on around her. But he, who knew every emotion which swayed that ardent and impassionate nature, guessed that beneath that stony calm there lay a mad, almost unconquerable impulse. And that was to shout to all these puppets here, the truth, the awful, the unanswerable truth, to tell them what this challenge really meant—a trap wherein one man consumed with hatred and desire for revenge hoped to entice a brave and fearless foe into a deaf-dealing snare. Full well did Percy Blakeney guess that for the space of one second his most cherished secret hovered upon his wife's lips. One turn of the balance of fate, one breath from the mouth of an unseen sprite, and Marguerite was ready to shout, "'Do not allow this monstrous thing to be!  For that momentous second, therefore, Percy Blakeney held his wife's gaze with the magnetism of his own. For there was in him of love, of entreaty, of trust, and of command went out to her through that look with which he kept her eyes riveted upon his face. Then he saw the rigidity of her attitude relax.  She seemed to be gathering all the mental force of which her brain was capable, for one great effort of self-control. Then she took Juliet's hand in hers, and turned to go out of the room. The gentleman bowed as she swept past them, her rich silken gown making a soft shh-shh-shh as she went. She nodded to some, curtsied to the prince, and had at the last moment the supreme courage and pride to turn her head once more towards her husband in order to reassure him finally that his secret was as safe with her now in this hour of danger, as it had been in the time of triumph. She smiled and passed out of his sight, preceded by Desirée Candet, who, escorted by one of the gentlemen, had become singularly silent and subdued. In the little room now there only remained a few men. Sir Andrew Folks had taken the precaution of closing the door after the ladies had gone. Then his royal highness turned once more to Monsieur Chauvelain, and said with an obvious show of indifference, Faith, Monsieur, Missime, we are all enacting a farce which can have no final act. I vow that I cannot allow my friend Blakeney to go over to France at your bidding. Your government now will not allow my father's subjects to land on your shores without a special passport, and then only for a specific purpose. La, your royal highness, interposed, Sir Percy, I pray you have no fear for me on that score. My engaging friend here has, and I mistake not, a passport ready for me in the pocket of a sable, huge coat, and as we are hoping effectually to spit one another over there, bad zooks, but there's the specific purpose. Is it not true, sir? he added, turning once more to Chauvelain, that in the pocket of that exquisitely cut coat of yours you have a passport, name in blank perhaps, which you had specially designed for me? It was so carelessly, so pleasantly said, that no one safe Chauvelain guessed the real import of Sir Percy's words. Chauvelain, of course, knew their inner meaning. He understood that Blakeney wished to convey to him the fact that he was well aware that the whole scene to-night had been prearranged, and that it was willingly, and with eyes wide open, that he walked into the trap which the revolutionary patriot had so carefully laid for him. The passport will be forthcoming in due course, sir, retorted Chauvelain evasively, when our seconds have arranged all formalities. Seconds be dimmed, sir, rejoined Sir Percy placidly. You do not propose, I trust, that we travel a whole caravan to France. Time, place, and conditions must be settled, Sir Percy, replied Chauvelain. You are too accomplished as cavalier, I feel sure, to wish to arrange such formalities yourself. Nay! Neither you nor I, monsieur—er, Chauvelain—coathed Sir Percy Blakeney—could, I own, settle such things with persistent good humour, and good humour in such cases is the most important of all formalities. Is it not so? Certainly, Sir Percy. As for seconds—perish the thought. One second only, I entreat, and that one a lady, the most adorable, the most detestable, the most true, the most fickle amidst all her charming sex, do you agree, sir? You have not told me her name, Sir Percy. Chance, monsieur, chance! With his royal highness' permission, let the willful jade decide. I do not understand. Three throws of the dice, monsieur. Time, place, conditions, you said. Three throws, and the winner names them. Do you agree? Chauvelain hesitated.  He turned quite involuntarily in appeal to the prince of Wales, and the other gentleman present. But the Englishman of those days was a born gambler. He lived with the dice-box in one pocket, and a pack of cards in the other. The prince himself was no exception to this rule, and the first gentleman in England was the most avowed worshipper of Hazard in the land. Chance, by all means, co-fors Highless Gaily. Chance, chance, repeated the others eagerly. In the midst of so hostile a crowd, Chauvelain felt it unwise to resist. Moreover one second's reflection had already assured him that this throwing of the dice could not seriously interfere with the success of his plans. If the meeting took place at all, and Sir Percy had now gone too far to draw back, then of necessity it would have to take place in France. The question of time and conditions of the fight, which, at best, would be only a farce, only a means to an end, could not be of paramount importance. Therefore he shrugged his shoulders with well-marked indifference and said lightly, As you please. There was a small table in the centre of the room with a setty and two or three chairs arranged close to it. Around this table now an eager little group had congregated. The prince of Wales in the forefront, unwilling to interfere, scarce knowing what madcap plans were floating through Blakeney's adventurous brain, but excited in spite of himself at this momentous game of hazard the issues of which seemed so nebulous, so vaguely fraught with dangers. Close to him were Sir Andrew Folks, Lord Anthony Dewhurst, Lord Grenville, and perhaps a half-scored gentleman, young men about town mostly, gay and giddy butterflies of fashion, who did not even attempt to seek in this strange game of chance any hidden meaning save that it was one of Blakeney's irresponsible pranks. And in the centre of the compact group, Sir Percy Blakeney, in his gorgeous suit of shimmering white satin, one knee bent upon a chair, and leaning with easy grace, dice-box in hand, across the small gilt-legged table, beside him, Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin, standing with arms folded behind his back, watching every movement of his brilliant adversary, like some dark plumaged hawk hovering near a bird of paradise. Place first, Monsieur, suggested Sir Percy. As you will, sir, assented Chauvelin. He took up a dice-box which one of the gentlemen handed to him, and the two men threw. "'Tis mine, Monsieur,' said Blakeney carelessly, mine to name the place where shall occur this historic encounter, to which the busiest man in France and the most idle fob that ere disagrees these three kingdoms. Just for the sake of argument, sir, what place would you suggest?' "'Oh, the exact spot is immaterial, Sir Percy,' replied Chauvelin, coldly. The whole of France stands at your disposal. I, I thought as much, but could not be quite sure of such boundless hospitality,' retorted Blakeney imperturbably. "'Do you care for the woods round Paris, sir?' "'Too far from the coast, sir. I might be seasick crossing over the channel, and glad to get the business over as soon as possible. No, not Paris, sir. Rather, let us say, Boulogne. Pretty little place, Boulogne. Do you not think so?' "'Undoubtedly, sir Percy. Then Boulogne it is. The ramparts, and you will, on the south side of the town. As you please, rejoined Chauvelin dryly. Shall we throw again?' A murmur of merriment had accompanied this brief colloquy between the adversaries, and Blakeney's bland sallies were received with shouts of laughter. Now the dice rattled again, and once more the two men threw. "'Tis yours this time, Mr. Chauvelin,' said Blakeney, after a rapid glance of the dice. See how evenly chance favours us both. Mime the choice of place—admirably done, you'll confess. Now yours the choice of time. I wait upon your pleasure, sir. The southern ramparts at Boulogne—when?' The fourth day from this, sir. At the hour when the cathedral bell chimes the evening Angelus, came Chauvelin's ready reply. Nay! But we thought that your damned government had abolished cathedrals and bells and chimes, that people of France have now to go to hell their own way, for the way to heaven has been barred by the National Convention. Is that not so? We thought the Angelus was forbidden to be rung. Not at Boulogne, I think, sir Percy, retorted Chauvelin dryly, and I'll pledge you my word that the evening Angelus shall be rung that night. At what hour is that, sir? One hour after sundown. But why four days after this? Why not two or three? I might have asked, why the southern ramparts at Percy? Why not the western? I chose the fourth day. Does it not suit you?" asked Chauvelin, ironically. Suit me? Why, sir, nothing could suit me better, rejoined Blakeney with his pleasant laugh. Zounds! But I call it marvellous, damned marvellous. I wonder now, he added, blandly, what made you think of the Angelus? Everyone laughed at this a little, irrelevantly, perhaps. Ah! continued Blakeney gaily, I remember now, faith, to think that I was nigh forgetting that when last you and I met, sir, you had just taken, or about to take, holy orders. Ah! how well the thought of the Angelus fits in with your clerical garb! I recollect that the latter was mightily becoming to you, sir. Shall we proceed to settle the conditions of the fight, sir Percy?" said Chauvelin, interrupting the flow of his antagonist jives, and trying to disguise his irritation beneath a mask of impassive reserve. The droys of weapons, you mean, here interposed his royal highness. But I thought that sorts had already been decided on.  Am I not right, monsieur? Gentlemen, I appeal to you. Faith one never knows.  The scarlet Pimpanelle, sir Percy, why not, monsieur? It would look so well in your buttonhole against the black of the clerical coat, which I understand you some time affect in France. And when it is withered and quite dead, you would find that it would leave an overpowering odour in your nostrils far stronger than that of incense. There was general laughter after this. The hatred with which every member of the French revolutionary government, including, of course, ex-ambassador Chauvelin, bore to the national hero was well known. The conditions, then, sir Percy, said Chauvelin, without seeming to notice that taunt conveyed in Blakeney's last words, shall we throw again? After you, sir, acquiesced, sir Percy. For the third and last time the two opponents rattled the dice-box and threw. Chauvelin was now absolutely unmoved. These minor details quite fail to interest him. What mattered the conditions of the fight which was only intended as a bait with which to lure his enemy in the open? The hour and place were decided on, and sir Percy would not fail to come. Chauvelin knew enough of his opponent's boldly adventurous spirit, not to feel in the least doubtful on that point. Even now, as he gazed with grudging admiration at the massive, well-knit figure of his arch-enemy, noted the thin, nervy hands and squared jaw, the low, broad forehead and deep-set, half-failed eyes, he knew that in this matter wherein Percy Blakeney was obviously playing with his very life, the only emotion that really swayed him at this moment was his passionate love of adventure. The ruling passion strung in death. Yes. Sir Percy would be on the southern ramparts of Boulogne one hour after sunset on the day named, trusting no doubt in his usual marvellous good fortune, his own presence of mind and his great physical and mental strength to escape from the trap into which he was so ready to walk. That remained beyond a doubt. Therefore what mattered details? But even at this moment Chauvelin had already resolved on one great thing. Namely, that on that eventful day, nothing whatever should be left at chance. He would meet his cunning enemy not only with cunning, but also with power, and if the entire force of the Republican army then available in the north of France had to be requisitioned for the purpose, the ramparts of Boulogne would be surrounded and no chance of escape left for the daring Scarlett Pimbenel. His wave of meditation, however, was here abruptly stemmed by Blakeney's pleasant voice. "'Dot, monsieur Chauvelin,' he said, I fear me your luck has deserted you. Chance, as you see, has turned to me once more. Then it is for you, sir Percy,' rejoined the Frenchman, to name the conditions under which we are to fight. Ah! That is so, is it, dot, monsieur,' quotes sir Percy lightly. "'By my faith! I'll not plague you with formalities. We'll fight with our coats on, if it be cold, in our shirt-sleeves, if it be sultry. I'll not demand either green socks or scarlet ornaments. I'll even try and be serious for the space of two minutes, sir, and confine my whole attention, the product of my infinitesimal brain, to thinking out some pleasant detail for this duel which might be acceptable to you. Thus, sir, the thought of weapons springs to my mind. Swords, you said, I think. Sir, I will even restrict my choice of conditions to that of the actual weapons with which we are to fight. Folks, I pray you,' he added, turning to his friend, the pair of swords which lie across the top of my desk at this moment. "'We'll not ask a menial to fetch a man, monsieur,' he continued gaily, as Sir Andrew Folks, at a sign from him, had quickly left the room. What need to brute our pleasant quarrel abroad? You will like the weapons, sir, and you shall have your own choice from the pair. You are a fine fencer, I feel sure, and you shall decide if a scratch or two or a more serious wound shall be sufficient to avenge Mademoiselle Candaise's wounded vanity.' Whilst he prattled so gaily on there was dead silence among all those present.  There is no doubt that everyone felt oppressed, and that a strange murmur of anticipatory excitement went round the little room, when a few seconds later Sir Andrew Folks returned with two sheathed swords in his hand. Blakeney took them from his friend and placed them on the little table in front of Ex-Ambassador Chauvelin. The spectators strained their necks to look at the two weapons. They were exactly similar one to the other, both encased in plain black leather sheaths, with steel ferrules polished to shine like silver. The handles too were of plain steel, with just the grip fashioned in a twisted basket-pattern of the same highly tempered metal. "'What think you of these weapons, monsieur?' asked Blakeney, who was carelessly leaning against the back of a chair. Chauvelin took up one of the two swords and slowly drew it out from its scabbard, carefully examining the brilliant, narrow steel blade as he did so. "'A little old-fashioned in style and makes,' Sir Percy, he said, closely imitating his opponent's easy demeanour. A trifle heavier, perhaps, than we in France have been accustomed to lately, but nevertheless a beautifully tempered piece of steel. Of a true fares not much the matter with the tempering, monsieur, both Blakeney. The blades were fashioned at Toledo just two hundred years ago. "'Ah! Here I see an inscription,' said Chauvelin, holding the sword close to his eyes, the better to see the minute letters engraved in the steel. "'The name of the original owner. I myself bought them when I traveled in Italy from one of his descendants. "'Lorenzo Giovanni Censci,' said Chauvelin, spelling the Italian names quite slowly. "'The greatest black-art that ever trod this earth. You no doubt, monsieur, know his history better than we do. Rapine, theft, murder—nothing came amiss to Signore Lorenzo. Neither the deadly drug in the cup, nor the poison dagger.' He had spoken likely, carelessly, with that same tone of easy banter which he had not forsaken throughout the evening, and the same drawly manner which was habitual to him. But at these last words of his, Chauvelin gave a visible start, and then abruptly replaced the sword which he had been examining upon the table. He threw a quick suspicious glance at Blakeney, who, leaning back against the chair and one knee resting on the cushioned seat, was idly toying with the other blade, the exact pair to the one which the ex-ambassador had so suddenly put down. "'Well, monsieur,' quotes a Percy, after a slight pause, admitting with a swift glance of lazy irony his opponents fixed gaze, "'Are you satisfied with the choice? Which of the two shall be yours, and which mine?' "'Of a truth, Sir Percy,' murmured Chauvelin, still hesitating. "'Nameless, your,' interrupted Blakeney with pleasant bonomy. "'I know what you would say. Of a truth there is no choice between this pair of perfect twins. One is as exquisite as the other. And yet you must take one and I the other—this or that, whichever you prefer. You shall take it home with you to-night, and practice thrusting at a haystack, or at a bob-in, as you please. The sword is yours to command, until you have used it against my unworthy person—yours until you bring it out four days hence on the southern ramparts of Boulogne, when the cathedral bells chime the evening angelus, there you shall cross it against its faithless twin. There, monsieur, they are of equal length, of equal strength and temper, a perfect pair, yet I pray you choose.' He took up both the swords in his hands, and carefully balancing them by the extreme tip of their steel-bound scabbards. He held them out towards the Frenchman. Chauvelin's eyes were fixed upon him, and he, from his towering height, was looking down at the little sable-clad figure before him. The terrorist seemed uncertain what to do. Though he was one of those men whom, by the force of their intellect, the strength of their enthusiasm, the power of their cruelty had built anew anarchical France, had overturned a throne and murdered a king, yet now, face to face with this affected fob, this lazy and debonair adventurer, he hesitated, trying in vain to read what was going on behind that low, smooth for it, or within the depth of those lazy blue eyes. He would have given several years of his life at this moment, for one short glimpse into the innermost brain cells of this daring mind, to see the man's start, quiver but for the fraction of a second, betray himself by a tremor of the eyelid. What counter-plan was lurking in Percy Blakeney's head as he offered to his opponent the two swords, which had once belonged to Lorenzo Cengi? Did any thought of foul play, of dark and deadly poisonings linger in the fastidious mind of this accomplished gentleman? Surely not. Chauvelin tried to chide himself for such fears. It seemed madness even to think of Italian poisons, of the Cengi's or the Borges in the midst of this brilliantly lighted English drawing-room. But because he was above all a diplomatist, a fencer with words and with looks, the envoy of France determined to know, to probe and to read. He forced himself once more to careless laughter and nonchalance of manner, and schooled his lips to smile up with gentle irony at the good-humoured face of his arch-enemy. He tapped one of the swords with his long-pointed finger. Is this the one you choose, sir? asked Blakeney. Nay! Which do you advise, Sir Percy? replied Chauvelin, lightly. Which of these two blades think you is most like to hold after two hundred years the poison of the Cengi? But Blakeney neither started nor winced. He broke into a laugh, his own usual pleasant laugh, half shy and somewhat inane, then said in tones of lively astonishment. Sounds, sir!  Faith! I never would have thought of that. Marvelous, I call it! Demed marvellous! What say you gentlemen? Your Royal Highness, what think you? Is not my engaging friend here of a most original turn of mind? Will you have this sword or that, monsieur? Nay! I must insist. Else we shall weary our friends if we hesitate too long. This one, then, sir. Since you have chosen it, he continued, as Chauvelin finally took one of the swords in his hand. And now for a bowl of punch. Nay! It was damned smart what you said just now. I must insist on your joining us in a bowl. Such wit as yours, monsieur, must need wetting at times. I pray you repeat that same sally again. Then finally turning to the prince and to his friends, he added, and after that bowl, gentlemen, shall we rejoin the ladies. CHAPTER XIII Reflections It seemed indeed as if the incident were finally closed, the chief actors in the drama having deliberately vacated the centre of the stage. The little crowd which had stood in a compact mass around the table, began to break up into sundry small groups. Laughter and a sultry talk, checked for a moment by that oppressive sense of unknown danger which had weighed on the spirits of those present, once more became general. Blakeney's light-heartedness had put everyone into good humour, since he evidently did not look upon the challenge as a matter of serious moment, why, then, no one else had any cause for anxiety, and the younger men were right glad to join in that bowl of punch which their genial host had offered with so merry a grace. Heath appeared, throwing open the doors. From a distance the sound of dance music once more broke upon the ear. A few of the men only remained silent, deliberately holding aloof from the renewed mirthfulness. Foremost amongst these was his royal highness, who was looking distinctly troubled, and who had taken Sir Percy by the arm, and was talking to him with obvious earnestness. Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Lord Hastings were holding converse in a secluded corner of the room, whilst Sir Andrew Folks, as being the host's most intimate friend, felt it incumbent on him to say a few words to ex-ambassador Chauvelin. The latter was desirous of effecting retreat. Blakeney's invitation to join in the friendly bowl of punch could not be taken seriously, and the terrorist wanted to be alone in order to think out the events of the past hour. A lacky weighted on him, took the momentous sword from his hand, found his hat and cloak and called his coach for him. Chauvelin, having taken formal leave of his host and acquaintances, quickly worked his way to the staircase and hall, through the less frequented apartments. He sincerely wished to avoid meeting Lady Blakeney face-to-face. Not that the slightest twinge of remorse disturbed his mind, but he feared some impulsive action on her part, which indirectly might interfere with his future plans. Fortunately, no one took much heed of the darkly-clad, insignificant little figure that glided so swiftly by, obviously determined to escape attention. In the hall he found a Moselle Candet waiting for him. She too had evidently been desirous of leaving Blakeney manor as soon as possible. He saw her to her chaise, then escorted her as far as her lodgings, which were close by. There were still one or two things which he wished to discuss with her, one or two final instructions which he desired to give. On the whole he was satisfied with this evening's work. The young actress had well supported him, and had played her part so far with marvellous sang foie and skill. So Percy, whether willingly or blindly, had seemed only too ready to walk into the trap which was being set for him. This fact alone disturbed Chauvelin not a little, and as half an hour or so later, having taken final leave of his ally, he sat alone in the coat, which was conveying him back to town, the sword of Lorenzo Cengi close to his hand, he pondered very seriously over it. That the adventurous Scarlet Pimpernel should have guessed all along that sooner or later the French Revolutionary Government, whom he had defrauded of some of its most important victims, would desire to be even with him and to bring him to the scaffold was not to be wondered at. But that he should be so blind as to imagine that Chauvelin's challenge was anything else but a lure to induce him to go to France, could not possibly be supposed. So bold and adventurer, so keen and intrigue, was sure to have centred the trap immediately, and if he appeared ready to fall into it, it was because there had already sprung up in his resourceful mind some bold, cool or subtle counterplan with which he hoped to gratify his own passionate love of sport, whilst once more bringing his enemies to discomforture and humiliation. Undoubtedly, Sir Percy Blakeney, as an accomplished gentleman of the period, could not very well under the circumstances which had been so carefully stage-managed and arranged by Chauvelin, refuse the latter's challenge to fight him on the other side of the channel. Any hesitation on the part of the leader of that daring Scarlet Pimpernel League would have covered him with a faint suspicion of pusillanimity, and a subtle breath of ridicule, and in a moment the prestige of the unknown and elusive hero would have vanished forever. But apart from the necessity of the fight, Blakeney seemed to enter into the spirit of the plot directed against his own life, with such light-hearted merriment, such zest and joy, that Chauvelin could not help but be convinced that the capture of the Scarlet Pimpernel at Boulogne or elsewhere would not prove quite so easy a matter, as he had at first anticipated. That same night he wrote a long and circumstantial letter to his colleague Citizen Robb Spear, shifting thereby, as it were, some of the responsibility of coming events from his own shoulders, on to the executive of the Committee of Public Safety. I guarantee to you, Citizen Robb Spear, he wrote, and to the members of the revolutionary government who have entrusted me with the delicate mission, that four days from this state, at one hour after sunset, the man who goes by the mysterious name of the Scarlet Pimpernel, will be on the ramparts of Boulogne, on the south side of the town. I have done what has been asked of me. On that day and at that hour, I shall have brought the enemy of the Revolution, the intrigue against the policy of the Republic, within the power of the government which he has flouted and outraged. Now look to it, citizens all, that the fruits of my diplomacy and of my skill be not lost to France again. The man will be there at my bidding, it is for you to see that he does not escape this time. This letter he sent by Spettel Currier, which the National Convention had placed at its disposal in case of emergency. Having sealed it and entrusted it to the man, Chauvelin felt at peace with the world and with himself. Although he was not so sure of success as he would have wished, he yet could not see how failure could possibly come about. And the only regret which he felt at night, when he finally in the early dawn sought a few hours troubled rest, was that that momentous fourth day was still so very far distant. CHAPTER XIV of the Elusive Pimpernel by Baron Esorzi, read for Librivox.org by Karen Savage in January 2008. CHAPTER XIV. The Ruling Passion In the meanwhile silence had fallen over the beautiful old menorial house. One by one the guests had departed, leaving that peaceful sense of complete calm and isolation which follows the noisy chatter of any great throng bent chiefly on enjoyment. The evening had been universally acknowledged to have been brilliantly successful. True, the much-talked-of French artist had not sung the promised ditties, but in the midst of the whirl and excitement of dances, of the inspiring tunes of the stirring band, the elaborate Subran-Rachersh wines, no one had paid much heed to this change in the programme of entertainments. And every one had agreed that never had Lady Blakeney looked more raidingly beautiful than on this night.  The dramatic incidents which had taken place in the small Boudoir had not been much brooded abroad. It was always considered bad form in those courtly days to discuss men's quarrels before ladies, and in this instance, those who were present when it all occurred, instinctively felt that their discretion would be appreciated in high circles, and held their tongues accordingly. Thus the brilliant evening was brought to a happy conclusion without a single cloud to mar the enjoyment of the guests. Marguerite performed a veritable miracle of fortitude, forcing her very smiles to seem natural and gay, chatting pleasantly, even wittily upon every known fashionable topic of the day, laughing merrily the while her poor, aching heart was filled with unspeakable misery. Now, when everybody had gone, when the last of her guests had bobbed before her the prescribed curtsy, to which she had invariably responded with the same air of easy self-possession, now at last she felt free to give reign to her thoughts, to indulge in the luxury of looking her own anxiety straight in the face, and to let the tension of her nerves relax. Andrew Folks had been the last to leave, and Percy had strolled out with him as far as the garden gate, for Lady Folks had left in her shades some time ago, and so Andrew meant to walk to his home, not many yards distant, from Blakeney Manor. In spite of herself, Marguerite felt her heartstrings tighten as she thought of this young couple so lately wedded. People smiled a little when Sir Andrew Folks' name was mentioned. Some called him effeminate, others exorious. His fond attachment for his pretty little wife was thought to pass the bounds of decorum. There was no doubt that since his marriage the young man had greatly changed. His love of sport and adventure seemed to have died out completely, yielding evidently to the great, more overpowering love, that for his young wife. Suzanne was nervous for her husband's safety. She had sufficient influence over him to keep him at home, when other members of the brave little league of the Scarlet Pimpinel followed their leader with mad zest on some bold adventure. Marguerite too at first had smiled in kindly derision when Suzanne Folks, her large eyes filled with tears, had used her wiles to keep Sir Andrew tied to her own dainty apron-strings. But somehow lately, with that gentle contempt which she felt for the weaker man, there had mingled a half-acknowledged sense of envy. How different tweaked her and her husband. Percy loved her truly and with a depth of passion proportionate to his own curious dual personality. It was sacrilege almost to doubt the intensity of his love. But nevertheless, she had at all times a feeling as if he were holding himself and his emotions in check, as if his love, as if she, Marguerite, his wife, were but secondary matters in his life, as if her anxieties, her sorrow when he left her, her fears for his safety, were but small episodes in the great book of life which he had planned out and conceived for himself. Then she would hate herself for such thoughts. They seemed like doubts of him. Did any man ever love a woman, she asked herself, as Percy loved her? He was difficult to understand, and perhaps—oh, that was it awful perhaps—perhaps there lurked somewhere in his mind a slight mistrust of her. She had betrayed him once, unwittingly tis true. Did he fear she might do so again? And a night, after her guests had gone, she threw open the great windows that gave on the beautiful terrace, with its marble steps leading down to the cool river beyond. Everything now seemed so peaceful and still. The scent of the heliotrope made the night air swoon with its intoxicating fragrance. The rhythmic murmur of the waters came gently echoing from below, and from far away there came the melancholy cry of a nightbird on the prowl. That cry made Marguerite shudder. Her thoughts flew back to the episodes of this night, and to Chauvelin, the dark bird of prey with his mysterious death-dealing plans, his subtle intrigues which all tended towards the destruction of one man, his enemy, the husband whom Marguerite loved. Oh, how she hated these wild adventures which took Percy away from her side! Is not a woman who loves, be it husband or child, the most truly selfish, the most cruelly, callous creature in the world, there where the safety and well-being of the loved one is in direct conflict with the safety and well-being of others? She would right gladly have closed her eyes to every horror perpetrated in France. She would not have known what went on in Paris. She wanted her husband. And yet, month after month, with but short intervals, she saw him risk that precious life of his, which was the very essence of her own soul, for others, for others, always for others. And she, she, Marguerite, his wife, was powerless to hold him back, powerless to keep him beside her, when that mad fit of passion seized him to go on one of these wild quests where from she always feared he could not return alive. And this, although she might use every noble artifice, every tender while of which a loving and beautiful wife is capable.  And to-night, all these passionate feelings which she felt were quite unworthy of her and of him, seemed to surge within her soul more tumultuously than ever. She was longing to throw herself in his arms, to pour out into his loving ear all that she suffered, in fear and anxiety, and to make one more appeal to his tenderness and to that passion which she had so often made him forget the world at her feet. And so instinctively she walked along the terrors toward that more secluded part of the garden, just above the riverbank, where she had so oft wandered hand in hand with him, in the honeymoon of their love. There great clumps of old-fashioned cabbage roses grew an untidy splendour, and belated lilies sent intoxicating odours into the air, whilst the heavy masses of Egyptian and Mikkelmus daisies looked like ghostly constellations in the gloom. She thought Percy must soon be coming this way. Although it was so late, she knew that he would not go to bed. After the events of the night, his ruling passion, strong in death, would hold him in its thrall. She too felt wide awake and unconscious of fatigue. When she reached the secluded part beside the river, she peered eagerly up and down and listened for a sound. Presently it seemed to her that above the gentle clapper of the waters she could hear a rustle and the scrunching of the fine gravel under carefully measured footsteps. She waited a while. The footsteps seemed to draw nearer, and soon, although the starlet night was very dark, she perceived a cloaked and hooded figure approaching cautiously toward her. "'Who goes there?' she called suddenly. The figure paused, then came rapidly forward, and a voice said timidly, "'Ah! Lady Blakeney! Who are you?' asked Marguerite, premedrally. "'It is I, Desirais Candet,' replied the midnight prowler. "'De-mois-il Candet?' ejaculated Marguerite, wholly taken by surprise. "'What are you doing here, alone, and at this hour?' "'Shh!' whispered Candet eagerly as she approached, quite close to Marguerite, and drew her hood still lower over her eyes. "'I am all alone. I wanted to see someone—you, if possible, Lady Blakeney—for I could not rest. I wanted to know what had happened. What had happened? When? I don't understand.' "'What happened between Citizen Chauvelin and your husband?' asked Candet. "'What is that to you?' replied Marguerite, hortily. "'I pray you do not misunderstand me,' pleaded Candet, eagerly. "'I know my presence in your house. The quarrel which I provoked must have filled your heart with hatred and suspicion towards me. But oh! how can I persuade you? I acted unwillingly. Will you not believe me? I was that man's tool, and—' "'Oh! God!' she added, with sudden, wild vehemence. If only you could know what tyranny that accursed government of France exercises over poor, helpless women, or men who happen to have fallen within the reach of its relentless clutches—her voice broke down in a sob. Marguerite hardly knew what to say or think. She had always mistrusted this woman with her theatrical ways and stagey airs, from the very first moment she saw her in the tent on the green, and she did not wish to run counter against her instinct in anything pertaining to the present crisis. And yet in spite of her mistrust, the actress's vehement words found an echo in the depths of her own heart. How well she knew that tyranny of which Candet spoke with such bitterness! Had she not suffered from it, endured terrible sorrow and humiliation when, under the ban of that same appalling tyranny, she had betrayed the identity, then unknown to her, of the scarlet Pimpernel? Therefore, when can they pause after those last excited words, she said with more gentleness than she had shown hitherto, though still quite coldly, but you have not yet told me why you came back here to-night. If Citizen Chauvelin was your task-master, then you must know all that has occurred. I had a vague hope that I might see you. For what purpose? To warn you if I could, I need no warning. Or are too proud to take one? Do you know, Lady Blakeney, that Citizen Chauvelin has a personal hatred against your husband? How do you know that?" asked Marguerite, with her suspicions once more on the quivive. She could not understand Candet's attitude. This midnight visit, the vehemence of her language, the strange mixture of knowledge and ignorance which she displayed, what did this woman know of Chauvelin's secret plans? Was she his open ally or his helpless tool? And was she even now playing a part-torter or commanded her by that Prince of Intrigues? Candet, however, seemed quite unaware of the spirit of antagonism and mistrust which Marguerite took but little pains now to disguise. She clasped her hands together, and her voice shook with the earnestness of her entreaty. Oh! she said eagerly, have I not seen that look of hatred in Chauvelin's cruel eyes?  Why I know not, but he hates him, and means that great harm shall come to Sir Percy through this absurd duel. Oh! Lady Blakeney, do not let him go. I entreat you. Do not let him go. But Marguerite proudly drew back a step or two, away from the reach of those hands stretched out towards her in such vehement appeal. You are overwrought, mademoiselle, she said coldly. Believe me, I have no need either of your entreaties or of your warning. I should like you to think that I have no wish to be ungrateful, but I appreciate any kind thought you may have harbored for me in your mind. But beyond that, please forgive me if I say it somewhat crudely. I do not feel that the matter concerns you in the least. The hour is late, she added more gently, as if desiring to attenuate the harshness of her last words. Shall I send my maid to escort you home? She is devoted and discreet. Nay! retorted the other in tones of quiet sadness. There is no need of discretion. I am not ashamed of my visit to you to-night. You are very proud, and for your sake I will pray to God that sorrow and humiliation may not come to you as I feared. We are never likely to meet again, Lady Blakeney. You will not wish it, and I shall have passed out of your life as swiftly as I had entered into it. But there was another thought lurking in my mind when I came to-night. In case Sir Percy goes to France, the duel is to take place in or near Boulogne, this much I do know. Would you not wish to go with him? Truly, mademoiselle, I must repeat to you, that there is no concern of mine. I know. I own that. But you see, when I came back here to-night, in the silence and the darkness, I had not guessed that you would be so proud. I had thought that I, a woman, would know how to touch your womanly heart. I was clumsy, I suppose. I made so sure that you would wish to go with your husband, in case he insisted on running his head into the noose, which I feel sure Chauvelin has prepared for him. I myself start for France shortly. Citizen Chauvelin has provided me with the necessary passport for myself and my maid, who was to have accompanied me. Then, just as now, when I was all alone, and thought over all the mischief which that fiend had forced me to do for him, it seemed to me that, perhaps—she broke off abruptly, and tried to read the other woman's face in the gloom—but Marguerite, who was taller than the French woman, was standing very stiff and erect, giving the young actress neither discouragement nor confidence. She did not interrupt Candet's long and voluble explanation. Vaguely she wondered what it was all about. And even now, when the French woman paused, Marguerite said nothing, but watched her quietly as she took a folded paper from the capacious pocket of her cloak, and then held it out with a look of timidity towards Lady Blagney. "'My maid need not come with me,' said desirée Candet, humbly. "'I would far rather travel alone. This is her passport, and—' "'Oh, you need not take it out of my hand,' she added in tones of bitter self-deprecation, as Marguerite made no sign of taking the paper from her. "'See, I will leave it here amongst the roses. You mistrust me now. It is only natural. Presently perhaps—' "'Come, a reflection will come. You will see that my purpose now is selfless—that I only wish to serve you and him.'" She stooped and placed the folded paper in the midst of a great clump of centiphalium roses. And then, without another word, she turned and went away. For a few moments, whilst Marguerite still stood there, puzzled and vaguely moved, she could hear the gentle fru-fru of the other woman's skirts against the soft sand of the path, and then a long-drawn sigh that sounded like a sob. Then all was still again. The gentle midnight breeze caressed the tops of the ancient oaks and elms behind her, drawing murmurs from their dying leaves like unto the whisperings of ghosts. Marguerite shuddered with a slight sense of cold. For her, amongst the dark clump of leaves and the roses, invisible in the gloom, there fluttered with a curious melancholy flapping, the folded paper placed there by Candain. She watched it for a while, as disturbed by the wind it seemed ready to take its flight towards the river. Anon it fell to the ground, and Marguerite, with sudden overpowering impulse, stooped and picked it up. Then clutching it nervously in her hand, she walked rapidly back towards the house. CHAPTER XV Fairwell As she neared the terrace, she became conscious of several forms moving about at the foot of the steps, some few feet below where she was standing. Soon she saw the glimmer of lanterns, herd whispering voices and the lapping of the water against the side of a boat. Anon, a figure, laden with cloaks and sundry packages, passed down the steps close beside her. Even in the darkness Marguerite recognized Benion, her husband's confidential valet. Without a moment's hesitation she flew along the terrace towards the wing of the house occupied by Supercie. She had not gone far before she discerned his tall figure, walking leisurely along the path which he had skirted part of the house. He had on his large caped coat, which was thrown open in front, displaying a grey travelling suit of fine cloth. His hands were, as usual, buried in the pockets of his britches, and on his head he wore the folding chapeau bras which he habitually affected. Before she had time to think or to realize that he was going, before she could utter one single word she was in his arms, clinging to him with passionate intensity, trying in the gloom to catch every expression of his eyes, every quiver of the face now bent down so close to her. "'Percy, you cannot go. You cannot go,' she pleaded. She had felt his strong arms closing round her, his lips seeking hers, her eyes, her hair, her clinging hands, which dragged in his shoulders in a wild agony of despair. "'If you really loved me, Percy,' she murmured, "'you would not go. You would not go.' He would not trust himself to speak. It well nigh seemed as if his sinews cracked with the violent effort itself control. Oh! how she loved him when she felt in him the passionate lover, the wild untamed creature that he was at heart, on whom the frigid courtliness of manner sat but as a thin veneer. This was his own real personality. There was little now of the elegant and accomplished gentleman of fashion, school to hold every emotion in check, to hide every thought, every desire save that for amusement or for display. She feeling her power and his weakness now, gave herself wholly to his embrace, not grudging one single passionate caress, yielding her lips to him, the wild she murmured, "'You cannot go. You cannot. Why should you go? It is madness to leave me. I cannot let you go.' Her arms clung tenderly round him, her voice was warm and faintly shaken with suppressed tears, and as he wildly murmured, "'Don't, for pity's sake,' she almost felt that her love would be triumphant. "'For pity's sake, I'll go on pleading, Percy,' she whispered. "'Oh, my love, my dear, do not leave me. We have scarce had time to savor our happiness. We have such a rears of joy to make up. Do not go, Percy. There's so much I want to say to you. Nay, you shall not. You shall not,' she added with sudden vehemence. "'Look me straight in the eyes, my dear, and tell me if you can leave now.'" He did not reply. But almost roughly, he placed his hand over her tear-dimmed eyes, which were turned up to his, in an agony of tender appeal. Thus he blindfolded her with that wild caress. She should not see—no, not even she—that for the space of a few seconds stern manhood was well-nigh vanquished by the magic of her love. All that was most human in him, all that was weak in this strong and untamed nature, cried aloud for peace and luxury and idleness, for long summer-afternoons spent in lazy content, for the companionship of horses and dogs and of flowers, with no thought or cares, save those for the next evening's gavotte. No graver occupation save that of sitting at her feet. And during these few seconds, whilst his hand lay across her eyes, the lazy, idle, fop of fashionable London was fighting a hand-to-hand fight with the bold leader of a band of adventurers, and his own passionate love for his wife, ranged itself with fervent intensity on the side of his weaker self. Forgotten were the horrors of the guillotine, the calls of the innocent, the appeal of the helpless. Forgotten the daring adventures, the excitements, the hares bred the escapes. For those few seconds, heavenly in themselves, he only remembered her, his wife, her beauty and her tender appeal to him. She would have pleaded again, for she felt that she was winning in this fight. Her instinct, that unerring instinct of the woman who loves and feels herself beloved, told her that for the space of an infinitesimal fraction of time his iron will was inclined to bend, but he checked her pleading with a kiss. Then there came a change. Like a gigantic wave carried inwards by the tide, this turbulent emotion seemed suddenly to shatter itself against a rock of self-control. Was it a call from the boatman below, a distance scrunching a feet upon the gravel? Who knows? Perhaps only a sigh in the midnight air, a ghostly summons from the land of dreams had recalled him to himself.  He kissed her fondly, tenderly, and with infinite gentleness smoothed away the little damp curls from her brow. There was a wistfulness now in his caress, and in his kiss there was the finality of a long farewell. "'Tis time I went,' he said, or we shall miss the tide. These were the first coherent words he has spoken, since first she had met him here in this lonely part of the garden, and his voice was perfectly steady, conventional, and cold. An icy pang shot through Marguerite's heart. It was as if she had been abruptly wakened from a beautiful dream. "'You're not going, Percy,' she murmured, and her own voice now sounded hollow and forced. "'Oh, if you loved me, you would not go. If I love you!' Nay, in this at least there was no dream. No coldness in his voice when he repeated those words with such a sigh of tenderness, such a world of longing, that the bitterness of her great pain vanished, giving place to tears. He took her hand in his. The passion was momentarily conquered, forced within his innermost soul by his alter ego, that second personality in him, the cold, blooded, and coolly calculating adventurer, who juggled with his life and tossed it recklessly upon the sea of chance, twixed a dog-roll and a smile. But the tender love lingered on, fighting the enemy a while longer, the wistful desire was there for her kiss, the tired longing for the exquisite repose of her embrace. He took her hand in his, and bent his lips to it, and with the warmth of his kiss upon it she felt a moisture like a tear. "'I must go, dear,' he said, after a little while. "'Why, why?' she repeated obstinately. "'Am I nothing, then? Is my life of no account, my sorrows, my fears, my misery?' "'Oh!' she added, with vehement bitterness. Why should it always be others? What are others to you and me, Percy? Are we not happy here? Have you not fulfilled to its uttermost that self-imposed duty to people who can be nothing to us? Is not your life ten thousand times more precious to me than the lives of ten thousand others?' Even through the darkness, and because his face was so close to hers, she could see a quaint little smile playing round the corners of his mouth. "'Nay, my dear,' he said gently, "'tis not ten thousand lives that call to me to-day.  The duals so confidently entrusted to his care stolen from him, he waiting, perhaps, in his little presbytery, for the day when those brutes will march him to prison and to death. Nay, I think a little sea voyage and English country air would suit the Abefrucchie, my dear, and I only mean to ask him to cross the channel with me.' "'Pussy,' she pleaded. "'Oh, I know, I know,' he rejoined, with that short depravitory sigh of his, which seemed always to close any discussion between them on that point. You are thinking of that absurd dual.' He laughed lightly, good-humidly, and his eyes gleaned with merriment. "'Larm, my dear,' he said gaily, "'will you not reflect a moment? Could I refuse the challenge before his royal highness and the ladies?' I couldn't. Faith, that was it. Just a case of couldn't. Faith did it all. The quarrel, my interference, the challenge—he had planned it all, of course. Let us own that he is a brave man, seeing that he and I are not even yet, for that beating he gave me on the Calais-Cliffs.' "'Yes. He has planned it all,' she retorted vehemently. "'The quarrel to-night, your journey to France, your meeting with him face to face at a given hour in place where he can most readily, most easily close the death-trap upon you.' This time he broke into a laugh, a good, hearty laugh, full of the joy of living, of the madness and intoxication of a bold adventure, a laugh that had not one particle of anxiety or of tremor in it. "'Nay, my dear,' he said, but your ladyship is astonishing. Close a death-trap upon your humble servant. Nay! The governing citizens of France will have to be very active and mighty wide awake ere they succeed in stealing a march on me. Zounds! But we'll give them an exciting chase this time. "'Nay, little woman, do not fear,' he said, with sudden, infinite gentleness. Those damned murderers have not got me yet.' Oh! how often she had fought with him thus! With him the adventurer, the part of his dual nature that was her bitter enemy, and which took him, the lover, away from her side. She knew so well the finality of it all, the amazing hold which that unconquerable desire for these mad adventures had upon him. Impulsive ardent as she was, marguerite felt in her very soul an overwhelming fury against herself her own weakness, her own powerlessness in the face of that which forever threatened to ruin her life and her happiness. Yes! And his also! For he loved her! He loved her! He loved her! The thought went on hammering in her mind, for she knew of its great truth. He loved her and went away, and she, poor puny weakling, was unable to hold him back. The tendrils which fastened his soul to hers were not so tenacious as those which made him cling to suffering humanity over there in France, where men and women were in fear of death and torture, and looked upon the elusive and mysterious scarlet pimpenel, as a heaven-born hero sent to save them from their doom. To them, at these times, his very heart-string seemed to turn with unconquerable force, and when, with all the ardour of her own passion, she tried to play upon the cause of his love for her, he could not respond, for they, the strangers, had the stronger claim. And yet, through it all, she knew that this love of humanity, this mad desire to serve and to help, in no way detracted from his love for her, nay, it intensified it, made it purer and better, adding to the joy of perfect intercourse the poetic and subtle fragrance of ever-recurring pain. But now, at last, she felt weary of the fight. Her heart was aching, bruised, and sore. An infinite fatigue seemed to weigh like lead upon her very soul. This seemed so different to any other parting that had perforced been during the past year. The presence of Chauvelin in her house, the obvious planning in this departure for France, had filled her with a foreboding, nay, almost a certitude, of a gigantic and deadly cataclysm. Her senses began to reel. She seemed not to see anything very distinctly. Even the loved form took on a strange and ghostlike shape. He now looked preternaturally tall, and there was a mist between her and him. She thought that he spoke to her again, but she was not quite sure, for his voice sounded like some weird and mysterious echo. A basket of climbing heliotrope close by threw a fragrance into the evening air, which turned her giddy with its overpowering sweetness. She closed her eyes, for she felt as if she must die if she held them open any longer. And as she closed them, it seemed to her as if he folded her in one last, long, heavenly embrace. She felt her graceful figure swaying in his arms like a tall and slender lily bending to the wind. He saw that she was but half-conscious, and flanked heaven for this kindly solace to his heart-breaking farewell. There was a sloping mossy bank close by. There were the marble terrace yielded to the encroaching shrubbery. A tangle of pale pink monthly roses made a bow overhead. She was just sufficiently conscious to enable him to lead her to this soft green couch. There he later, amongst the roses, kissed the dear tired eyes, her hands, her lips, her tiny feet, and went. CHAPTER XVI The Rhythmic Clapper of Oars Roused Marguerite from this trans-like swoon. In a moment she was on her feet, all her fatigue gone, her numbness of soul and body vanished as in a flash. She was fully conscious now, conscious that he had gone, that according to every probability under heaven and every machination concocted in hell, he would never return from France alive, and that she had failed to hear the last words which he spoke to her, had failed to glean his last look, or to savor his final kiss. Though the night was starlit and balmy, it was singularly dark, and vainly did Marguerite strain her eyes to catch sight of that boat which was burying him away so swiftly now. She strained her ears, vaguely hoping to catch one last lingering echo of his voice, but all with silence, save that monotonous clapper, which seemed to beat against her like a rhythmic knell of death. She could hear the oars distinctly. There were six or eight, she thought, certainly no fear. Eight oarsmen probably, which meant the larger boat, and undoubtedly the longer journey, not to London only with a view to posting to Dover, but to Tilbury Fort, where the daydream would be in readiness to start with a favourable tide. Fort was returning to her slowly and coherently. The pain of the last farewell was still there, bruising her very senses with its dull and heavy weight, but it had become numb and dead, leaving her, herself, her heart and soul stunned and apathetic, whilst her brain was gradually resuming its activity. And the more she thought it over, the more certain she grew that her husband was going as far as Tilbury by river, and would embark on the daydream there. Of course he would go to Bologna at once. The duel was to take place there, Kandere had told her, adding that she thought she, Marguerite, would wish to go with him. To go with him. Heaven's above. Was not that the only real, tangible thought in that whirling chaos which was raging in her mind? To go with him. Surely there must be some means of reaching him yet. Sweet nature, God himself would never permit so monstrous a thing as this, that she should be parted from our husband now when his life was not only in danger, but forfeited already. Lost. A precious thing all but gone from this world. Percy was going to Bologna. She must go too. By posting it once to Dover she could get the tidal boat on the morrow, and reach the French coast quite as soon as the daydream. Once at Bologna she would have no difficulty in finding our husband. Of that she felt sure. She would have but a dog Chauvelin's footsteps, find out something of his plans, of the orders he gave to troops or to spies—oh, she would find him. Of that she was never for a moment in doubt. How well she remembered her journey to Calais just a year ago, in company with Sir Andrew-Folks. Chance had favoured her then, had enabled her to be of service to her husband, if only by distracting Chauvelin's attention for a while to herself. Heaven knows she had but little hope of being of use to him now, an aching sense was in her that fate had at last been too strong, that the daring adventurer had staked once too often, had cast the die, and had lost. In the bosom of her dress she felt the sharp edge of the paper left for her by Desrecande among the roses in the park. She had picked it up almost mechanically then, and tucked it away, hardly heeding what she was doing. Whatever the motive of the French actress had been in placing the passport at her disposal, Margaret blessed her in her heart for it. To the woman she had mistrusted she would owe the last supreme happiness of her life. Her resolution never once wavered. Percy could not take her with him, that was understandable. She could neither expect it nor think it, but she on the other hand could not stay in England, at Blakeney Manor, whilst any day, any hour, the death-trap set by Chauvelin for the scarlet Pimpernel might be closing upon the man whom she worshipped. She would go mad if she stayed, as there could be no chance of escape for Percy now, as he had agreed to meet his deadly enemy face to face at a given place and a given hour. She could not be a hindrance to him. And she knew enough subterfuge, enough machinations and disguises by now, to escape Chauvelin's observation, unless—unless Percy wanted her. And then she would be there. No, she could not be a hindrance.  Nobody could harm her. She could come and go as she pleased. There were plenty of swift horses in the stables, plenty of devoted servants to do her bidding quickly and discreetly. Moreover, at moments like these, conventionalities and the possible conjectures and surmises of others, became of infinitesimally small importance. The household of Blakeney Manor were accustomed to the master's sudden journeys and absences of several days, presumably on some shooting or other sporting expeditions, with no one in attendance on him save Benyon, his favourite valet. These passed without any comments now. Va! Let every one marvel for once at her ladyship's sudden desire to go to Dover, and let it all be a nine-days wonder. She certainly did not care. Skirting the house, she reached the stables beyond. One or two men were a stir. To these she gave the necessary orders for her coach and four. Then she found her way back to the house. Walking along the corridor, she went past the room occupied by Juliette de Markney. For a moment she hesitated. Then she turned and knocked at the door. Juliette was not yet in bed, for she went to the door herself and opened it. Suddenly she had been quite unable to rest. Her hair was falling loosely over her shoulders, and there was a look of grave anxiety in her young face. "'Juliette,' said Marguerite, in a hurried whisper. The moment she had closed the door behind her and she and the young girl were alone, I am going to France to be near my husband. He has gone to meet that fiend in a duel which is nothing but a trap, set to capture him and lead him to his death. I want you to be of help to me, here in my house, in my absence. I would give my love for you, Lady Blakeney,' said Juliette simply. "'Is it not his, since you save it?' It is only a little presence of mind, a little coolness in patience, which I will ask of you, dear,' said Marguerite. "'You, of course, know who your rescuer was. Therefore you will understand by fears. Until to-night I had vague doubts as to how much Chauvelin really knew. But now these doubts have naturally vanished. He and the French revolutionary government know that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney are one and the same. The whole scene to-night was pre-arranged. You and I and all the spectators, and that woman Candet, we were all puppets piping to that devil's tune. The duel, too, was pre-arranged. That woman wearing your mother's jewels. Had you not provoked her, a quarrel between her and me, or one of my guests would have been forced somehow. I wanted to tell you this, lest you should fret and think that you were in any way responsible for what has happened. You were not. He had arranged it all. You were only the tool, just as I was. You must understand and believe that.  You are not that, in any way. The challenge was bound to come. Chauvelin had arranged that it should come. And if you had failed him as a tool, he would soon have found another. Do you believe that?  But, insisted Marguerite firmly, as the young girl took her cold hand in her own, and gently fondling it, covered it with grateful kisses.  God bless you for that. You will believe it. I will. And now, for my request, rejoined Lady Blakeney, in a more quiet, more matter-of-fact tone of voice. You must represent me here, when I am gone. Fine as casually and as naturally as you can, that I have gone to join my husband on his yacht for a few days. Lucy, my maid, is devoted, and a tower of secrecy. She will stand between you and the rest of the household in concocting some plausible story. To every friend who calls, to any one of our world whom you may meet, you must tell the same tale. And if you note an air of incredulity in any one, if you hear whispers of there being some mystery, well, let the world wag its busy tongue, I care less than naught. It will soon tire of me and my doings, and having torn my reputation to shreds, will quickly leave me in peace. But to surrender of folks, she added honestly, tell the whole truth from me. He will understand and do as he thinks right. I will do all you ask, Lady Blakeney, and I am proud to think that I shall be serving you, even in so humble and easier capacity. When do you start? At once. Goodbye, Juliet. She bent down to the young girl, and kissed her tenderly on the forehead. And she glided out of the room as rapidly as she had come. Juliet, of course, did not try to detain her, or to force her help of companionship on her when, obviously, she would wish to be alone. Marguerite quickly reached her room. Her maid Lucy was already waiting for her. Devoted and silent as she was, one glance at her mistress's face told her that trouble, grave and imminent, had reached Blakeney Manor. Marguerite, whilst Lucy undressed her, took up the passport and carefully perused the personal description of one Céline Dumont, maid to citizeness Desirée Candet, which was given therein. Tall, blue eyes, light hair, age about twenty-five. It all might have been vaguely meant for her.  These she now donned, with some thick shoes and a dark coloured handkerchief tied over her head under the hood, so as to hide the golden glory of her hair. She was quite calm and in no haste. She made Lucy pack a small hand-release with some necessaries for the journey, and provided herself plentifully with money, English and French notes, which she tucked well away inside her dress. Then she bade her maid, who was struggling with her tears, a kindly farewell, and quickly went down to her coach. CHAPTER 17 Boulogne During the journey Marguerite had not much leisure to think. The discomforts and petty miseries incidental on cheap travelling had the very welcome effect of making her forget, for the time being, the sole rendering crisis through which she was now passing. For of necessity she had to travel at the cheap rate, among the crowd of poorer passengers who were herded after the packet-boat, leaning up against one another, sitting on bundles and packages of all kinds. That part of the deck, reeking with the smell of tar and sea-water, damp, squally, and stuffy, was an abomination of hideous discomfort to the dainty, fastidious lady of fashion, yet she almost welcomed the intolerable propinquity, the cold douches of salt-water which every now and then wetted her through and through, for it was the consequent sense of physical wretchedness that helped her to forget the intolerable anguish of her mind. And among these poorer travellers she felt secure from observation. No one took much notice of her. She looked just like one of the herd, and in the huddled-up little figure, in the dark, bedraggled clothes, no one would for a moment have recognized the dazzling personality of Lady Blakeney. Drawing her hood well over her head, she sat in a secluded corner of the deck, upon the little black of the lease which contained the few belongings she had brought with her. Her cloak and dress, now mud-stained and dank with splashings of salt-water, attracted no one's attention. There was a keen north-easterly breeze, cold and penetrating, but favourable to a rapid crossing. Marguerite, who had gone through several hours of weary travelling by coach before she had embarked at Dover in the late afternoon, was unspeakably tired. She had watched the golden sunset out at sea, until her eyes were burning with pain, and as the dazzling crimson and orange and purple gave place to the soft grey tones of evening, she described the round cupola of the Church of Our Lady of Boulogne against the dull background of the sky. After that her mind became a blank. A sort of torpor fell over her sense. She was wakeful and yet half asleep, unconscious of everything around her, seeing nothing but the distant, massive towers of old Boulogne churches, gradually detaching themselves one by one from out the fast-gathering gloom. The town seemed like a dream-city, a creation of some morbid imagination presented to her mind's eye as the city of sorrow and death. When the boat finally scraped her sides along the rough wooden jetty, Marguerite felt as if she were forcibly awakened. She was numb and stiff, and thought she must have fallen asleep during the last half-hour of the journey. Everything around her was dark. The sky was overcast, and the night seemed unusually somber. Figures were moving all around her. There was noise and confusion of voices, and a general pushing and shouting which seemed strangely weird in this gloom. Here among the poorer passengers, there had not been thought any necessity for a light. One solitary lantern fixed to a mast only enhanced the intense blackness of everything around. Now and then a face would come within range of this meagre streak of yellow light, looking strangely distorted, with great elongated shadows across the brow and chin, a grotesque, ghostly apparition which quickly vanished again, scurrying off like some frightened gnome, giving place other forms, other figures, all equally grotesque and equally weird. Marguerite watched them all half-stupidly and motionlessly for a while. She did not quite know what she ought to do, and did not like to ask any questions. She was dazed, and the darkness blinded her. Then gradually things began to detach themselves more clearly. On looking straight before her, she began to discern the landing place, the little wooden bridge across which the passengers walked one by one from the boat unto the jetty. The first-class passengers were evidently all alighting now. The crowd of which Marguerite formed a unit had been pushed back in a more compact herd, out of the way for the moment, so that their betters might get along more comfortably. Beyond the landing stage, a little booth had been erected, a kind of tent, open in front and lighted up within by a couple of lanterns. Under this tent there was a table, behind which sat a man dressed in some sort of official-looking clothes, and wearing the tricolour scarf across his chest. All the passengers from the boat had apparently defiled past this tent. Marguerite could see them now quite distinctly, the profiles of the various faces as they paused for a moment in front of the table, being brilliantly illuminated by one of the lanterns. Two sentinels wearing the uniform of the National Guard stood each side of the table. The passengers, one by one, took out their passport as they went by, handed it to the man in the official dress who examined it carefully, very lengthily, then signed it and returned the paper to its owner. But at times he appeared doubtful, folded the passport, and put it down in front of him. The passenger would protest. Marguerite could not hear what was said, but she could see that some argument was attempted, quickly dismissed by a peremptory order from the official. The doubtful passport was obviously put on one side for further examination, and the unfortunate owner thereof detained, until he or she had been able to give more satisfactory references to the representatives of the Committee of Public Safety stationed at Boulogne. This process of examination necessarily took a long time. Marguerite was getting horribly tired, her feet ached, and she scarcely could hold herself upright. Yet she watched all these people mechanically, making absurd little guesses in her weary mind as to whose passport would find favour in the eyes of the official, and whose would be found suspect and inadequate. Suspect!  How sorry she felt for those whose passports were detained, who tried to argue so needlessly, and who were finally led off by a soldier who had stepped out from somewhere in the dark, and had to await further examination, probably imprisonment and often death. As to herself, she felt quite safe. The passport given to her by Chauvelin's own accomplice was sure to be quite en règle. Then suddenly her heart seemed to give a sudden leap, and then to stop in its beating for a second or two. In one of the passengers, a man who was just passing in front of the tent, she had recognized the form and profile of Chauvelin. He had no passport to show, but evidently the official knew who he was, for he stood up and saluted, and listened deferentially whilst the ex-ambassador apparently gave him a few instructions. It seemed to Marguerite that these instructions related to two women who were close behind Chauvelin at the time, and who presently seemed to file past without going through the usual formalities of showing their passports. But of this she could not be quite sure. The women were closely hooded and veiled, and her own attention had been completely absorbed by this sudden appearance of her deadly enemy. Yet what more natural than that Chauvelin should be here now? His object accomplished, he had no doubt posted to Dover just as she had done. There was no difficulty in that, and a man of his type and importance would always have unlimited means and money at his command to accomplish any journey he might desire to undertake. There was nothing strange or even unexpected in the man's presence here. But somehow it had made the whole awful reality more tangible, more wholly unforgettable. Marguerite remembered his abject words to her when first she had seen him at the Richmond Fate. He said that he had fallen into disgrace, that having failed in his service to the Republic he had been relegated to a subordinate position, pushed aside with contumely to make room for better abler men. Well, all that was a lie, of course, a cunning method of gaining access into her house, of that she had already been convinced, when Candet provoked the esclandre which led to the challenge. That on French soil he seemed in anything but a subsidiary position, that he appeared to rule rather than to obey, could in no way appear to Marguerite in the nature of surprise. As the actress had been a willing tool in the cunning hands of Chauvelin, so were probably all these people around her. Where others cringed in the face of officialism, the ex-Ambassador had stepped forth as a master. He had shown a badge, spoken a word may have, and the man in the tent who had made other people tremble stood up deferentially and obeyed all commands. It was all very simple and very obvious, but Marguerite's mind has been asleep, and it was the sight of the sable-clad little figure which had roused it from its happy torpor. In a moment now her brain was active and alert, and presently it seemed to her as if another figure, taller than those around, had crossed the barrier immediately in the wake of Chauvelin. Then she chided herself for her fancies. It could not be her husband, not yet. He had gone by water, and would scarcely be in Boulogne before the morning. Ah! Now, at last, came the turn of the second-class passengers. There was a general bousculard, and the human bundle began to move. Marguerite lost sight of the tent and its awe-inspiring appurtenances. She was a mere unit again in this herd on the move. She too progressed along slowly, one step at a time. It was wearisome, and she was deadly tired. She was beginning to form plans now that she had arrived in France. All along she had made up her mind that she would begin by seeking out the Abbe-fouquet, for he would prove a link, twix to her husband and herself. She knew that Percy would communicate with the Abbe. Had he not told her that the rescue of the devoted old man from the clutches of the terrorists would be one of the chief objects of his journey, it had never occurred to her what she would do if she found the Abbe-fouquet gone from Boulogne. Eh la mer, your passport! The rough words roused her from her meditations. She had moved forward quite mechanically, her mind elsewhere, her thoughts not following the aim of her feet. Thus she must have crossed the bridge along with some of the crowd, must have landed on the jetty, and reached the front of the tent without really knowing what she was doing. Ah, yes, her passport! She had quite forgotten that. But she had it by her, quite in order, given to her in a fit of tardy remorse by Demoiselle Candet, the intimate friend of one of the most influential members of the revolutionary government of France. She took the passport from the bosom of her dress and handed it to the man in the official dress. Your name? he asked, peremptrally. Céline-Dumont! She replied, unhesitatingly, for had she not rehearsed all this in her mind dozens of times, until her tongue could rattle off the borrowed name as easily as it could her own, servitor to citizenesses irregarder. The man, who had very carefully been examining the paper the while, placed it down on the table deliberately in front of him and said, Céline-Dumont! Eh! La mer! What tricks are you up to now? Tricks? I don't understand, she said quietly, for she was not afraid. The passport was en règle. She knew she had nothing to fear. Oh! But I think you do, retorted the official with a sneer, and his a mighty clever one I'll allow. Céline-Dumont! Ma foi! Not badly imagined, ma petite mer! And all would have passed off splendidly. Unfortunately, Céline-Dumont, servitor to citizenesses irregarder, passed through these barriers along with her mistress not half an hour ago. And with a long, grimy finger he pointed to an entry in the large book which lay open before him, and wherein he had apparently been busy making notes of the various passengers who had filed past him. Then he looked up with a triumphant lear at the calm face of Marguerite. She still did not feel really frightened, only puzzled and perturbed.  You are making a mistake, citizen, she said very quietly. I am citizeness Gandaise Maid. She gave me the passport herself just before I left for England. If you will ask her the question she will confirm what I say, and she assured me that it was quite en règle. But the man only shrugged his shoulders and laughed derisively. The incident evidently amused him, yet he must have seen many of the same sort. In the far corner of the tent Marguerite seemed to discern a few moving forms, soldiers she thought, for she caught sight of a glint like that of steel. One or two men stood close behind the official at the desk, and the sentinels were to the right and left of the tent. With an instinctive sense of appeal Marguerite looked round from one face to the other. But each looked absolutely impassive and stolid, quite uninterested in this little scene. The exact counterpart of a dozen others enacted on this very spot within the last hour. Et là, la petite mère, said the official in the same tone of easy persiflage which he had adopted all along. But we do know how to concoct a pretty lie, aye, and so circumstantially, too. Unfortunately, it was citizeness Desiragandé herself who happened to be standing just where you are at the present moment along with her maid, Céline Humon, both of whom were specially signed for and recommended as perfectly trustworthy by no lesser person than Citoyen Chauvelin of the Committee of Public Safety. But I assure you that there is a mistake, pleaded Marguerite earnestly. Tis the other woman who lied, I have my passport and— A truce on this, retorted the man preemptually. If everything is as you say, and if you have nothing to hide, you'll be at liberty to continue your journey to-morrow, after you have explained yourself before the citizen governor. Next one now, quick. She tried another protest, just as those others had done whom she had watched so mechanically before. But already she knew that that would be useless, for she had felt that a heavy hand was being placed on her shoulder, and that she was being roughly led away. In a flash she had understood and seen the whole sequel of the awful trap which had all along been destined to engulf her as well as her husband.   To have enticed the scarlet pimpinote of France was a great thing. The challenge was clever, the acceptance of it by the bold adventurer foregone conclusion. But the master's stroke of the whole plan was done when she, the wife, was enticed over too, with the story of Candet's remorse and the offer of the passport. Fool! Fool! that she was! And how well did Chauvelin know feminine nature? How cleverly he had divined her thoughts, her feelings, the impulsive way in which she would act. How easily he had guessed that, knowing her husband's danger, she, Marguerite, would immediately follow him. Now the trap had closed on her, and she saw it all when it was too late. Percy Blakeney in France, his wife a prisoner, her freedom and safety in exchange for his life. The hopelessness of it all struck her with appalling force, and her sense reeled with the awful finality of the disaster. Yet instinct in her still struggled for freedom. Instead of her, and all around, beyond the tent and in the far distance, there was a provocative alluring darkness. If only she could get away, only could reach the shelter of that remote and somber distance, she would hide and wait, not blunder again, no, no. She would be prudent and wary, if only she could get away. One woman's struggles against five men. It was pitiable, sublime, absolutely useless. The man in the tent seemed to be watching her with much amusement for a moment or two, as her whole graceful body stiffened for that absurd and unequal physical contest. He seemed vastly entertained at the sight of this good-looking young woman, striving to pit her strength against five sturdy soldiers of the Republic. "'A long, that we'll do now,' he said at last, roughly. "'We have no time to waste. Get the jade away, and let her cool her temper in number six until the citizen-governor gives further orders.' "'Take her away,' he shouted more loudly, banging a grimy fist down on the table before him, as Marguerite still struggled on with the blind madness of despair. "'Bardy! Can none of you rid us of that turbulent baggage?' The crowd behind were pushing forward. The guard within the tent were jeering at those who were striving to drag Marguerite away. These latter were cursing loudly and volubly, until one of them, tired out, furious and brutal, raised his heavy fist, and with an obscene oaf, brought it crashing down upon the unfortunate woman's head. Thus, though it was the work of a savage and cruel creature, the blow proved more merciful than it had been intended. It had caught Marguerite full between the eyes. Her aching senses, wearied and reeling already, gave way beneath this terrible violence. Her useless struggles ceased. Her arms fell inert by her side, and losing consciousness completely, her proud, unbendable spirit was spared the humiliating knowledge of her final removal by the rough soldiers, and of the complete wreckage of her last lingering hopes. CHAPTER XVIII. Number 6 Consciousness returned very slowly, very painfully. It was night when last Marguerite had clearly known what was going on around her. It was daylight before she realized that she still lived, that she still knew and suffered. Her head ached intolerably. That was the first conscious sensation which came to her. Then she vaguely perceived a pale ray of sunshine, very hazy and narrow which came from somewhere in front of her, and struck her in the face. She kept her eyes tightly shut, for that filmy light caused her an increase of pain. She seemed to be lying on her back, and her fingers, wandering restlessly around, felt a hard paleos beneath their touch, then a rough pillow, and her own cloak laid over her. Thought had not yet returned. Only the sensation of great suffering and of infinite fatigue. Anon she ventured to open her eyes, and gradually one or two objects detached themselves from out the haze which still obscured her vision. Slowly the narrow aperture, scarcely a window, filled him with tiny squares of coarse, unwashed glass, through which the rays of the morning sun were making kindly efforts to penetrate. Then the cloud of dust illumined by those same rays, and made up, so it seemed to the poor, tired brain that strove to perceive, of myriads of abnormally large molecules, overabundant and overactive, for they appeared to be dancing a kind of wild sarabande before Marguerite's aching eyes, advancing and retreating, forming themselves into groups and taking on funny shapes of weird masks and grotesque faces which grinned at the unconscious figure lying helpless on the rough paleos. Through and beyond them Marguerite gradually became aware of three walls of a narrow room, dank and gray, half covered with whitewash, and half with greenish mildew, yes, and there, opposite to her and immediately beneath that semblance of a window, was another paleos, and on it something dark that moved. The words, liberté, égalité, fraternité ou la mort, stared out at her from somewhere beyond those active molecules of dust, but she also saw, just above the other paleos, the vague outline of a dark crucifix. It seemed a terrible effort to coordinate all these things, and to try and realize what the room was, and what was the meaning of the paleos, the narrow window, and the stained walls, too much altogether for the aching head to take in save very slowly, very gradually. Marguerite was content to wait, and to let memory creep back as reluctantly as it would. Do you think, my child, you could drink a little of this now? It was a gentle, rather tremulous voice which struck upon her ear. She opened her eyes, and noticed that the dark something which had previously been on the opposite paleos was no longer there, and that there appear to be a presence close to her only vaguely defined, someone kindly and tender who had spoken to her in French, with that soft sing-song accent peculiar to the Normandy peasants, and who now seemed to be pressing something cool and soothing to her lips. They gave me this for you, continued the tremulous voice close to her ear. I think it would do you good if you try to take it.  A glass was held to her lips, and she drank. The hand that held the glass was all wrinkled, brown and dry, and trembled slightly, but the arm which supported her head was firm and very kind. There! I am sure you feel better now. Close your eyes and try to go to sleep.  It seemed to her presently as if something had been interposed between her aching head and that trying ray of white September sun. Perhaps she slept peacefully for a little while after that, for though her head was still very painful, her mouth and throat felt less parched and dry. Through this sleep or semblance of sleep, she was conscious of the same pleasant voice, softly droning parters and aves close to her ear. Thus she lay during the greater part of the day. Not quite fully conscious, not quite awake to the awful memories which a nun would crowd upon her thick and fast. From time to time, the same kind and trembling hands would, with gentle pressure, force a little liquid food through her unwilling lips. Some warm soup, or a nonna glass of milk. Beyond the pain in her head, she was conscious of no physical ill. She felt at perfect peace, and an extraordinary sense of quiet and repose seemed to pervade this small room with its narrow window through which the rays of the sun came gradually and more gold and splendour as the day drew towards noon, and then they vanished altogether. The droney voice close beside her acted as a soporific upon her nerves. In the afternoon she fell into a real and beneficent sleep. But after that she woke to full consciousness. Oh! the horror! the folly of it all! It came back to her with all the inexorable force of an appalling certainty. She was a prisoner in the hands of those who long ago had sworn to bring the scarlet Pimpinel to death. She, his wife, are hostage in their hands. Her freedom and safety offered to him is the price of his own. Here there was no question of dreams or of nightmares, no illusions as to the ultimate intentions of her husband's enemies. It was all a reality. And even now, before she had the strength fully to grasp the whole nature of this horrible situation, she knew that by her own act of mad and passionate impulse she had hopelessly jeopardized the life of the man she loved. For with that sublime confidence in him begotten of her love, she never for a moment doubted which of the two alternatives he would choose when once they were placed before him. He would sacrifice himself for her. He would prefer to die a thousand deaths so long as they set her free. For herself, her own sufferings, her danger or humiliation, she cared nothing. Nay, at this very moment she was conscious of a wild, passionate desire for death. In this sudden onrush of memory and of thought, she wished with all her soul and heart and mind to die here suddenly on this hard Palaeus, in this lonely and dark prison, so that she should be out of the way once and for all, so that she should not be the hostage to be bartered against his precious life and freedom. He would suffer acutely, terribly at her loss, because he loved to above everything else on earth. He would suffer in every fiber of his passionate and ardent nature. But he would not then have to endure the humiliations, the awful alternatives, the galling impotence and miserable death, the relentless either or which his enemies were even now preparing for him. And then came a revulsion of feeling. Marguerites was essentially a buoyant and active nature, a keen brain which worked and schemed and planned, rather than one ready to accept the inevitable. Hardly had these thoughts of despair and of death formulate themselves in her mind, then with brilliant swiftness a new train of ideas began to take root. What if matters were not so hopeless after all? Already her mind had flown instinctively to thoughts of escape. Had she the right to despair? She, the wife and intimate companion of the man who had astonished the world with his daring, his prowess, his amazing good-luck, she to imagine for a moment that in this all- supreme moment of adventurous life the scarlet Pimpanel would fail? Was not English society peopled with men, women and children, whom his ingenuity had rescued from plights quite as seemingly hopeless as her own? And would not all the resources of that inventive brain be brought to bear upon this rescue, which touched him nearer and more deeply than any which he had attempted hitherto? Now Marguerite was chiding herself for her doubts and for her fears. Already she remembered that amongst the crowd on the landing stage she had perceived a figure, unusually tall, following in the wake of Chauvin in his companions. Awakened hope had already assured her that she had not been mistaken, that Percy, contrary to her own surmises, had reached Boulogne last night. He always acted so differently to what any one might expect, that it was quite possible that he had crossed over in the packet boat after all, unbeknown to Marguerite as well as to his enemies. Oh, yes! The more she thought about it all, the more sure she was that Percy was already in Boulogne, and that he knew of her capture and her danger. What right had she to doubt even for a moment that he would know how to reach her, how, when the time came, to save himself and her? A warm glow began to fill her veins. She felt excited and alert, absolutely unconscious now of pain or fatigue in this radiant joy of reawakened hope. She raised herself slightly, leaning on her elbow. She was still very weak, and the slight movement had made her giddy, but soon she would be strong and well. She must be strong and well, and ready to do his bidding when the time for escape would have come. Ah! You are better, my child, I see," said that quaint, tremulous voice again with its soft, sing-song accent, but you must not be so venturesome, you know.   Marguerite turned to look at the speaker, and in spite of her excitement, of her sorrow and of her anxieties, she could not help smiling at the whimsical little figure which sat opposite to her, on a very rickety chair, solemnly striving with slow and measured movement of hand and arm, and a large supply of breath, to get up a polish on the worn-out surface of an ancient pair of buckled shoes. The figure was slender and almost wizened. The thin shoulders round with an habitual stoop, the lean shanks were encased in a pair of much-darned, coarse-black stockings. It was the figure of an old man, with a gentle, clear-cut face, furrowed by a forest of wrinkles, and surmounted by scanty white locks above a smooth forehead which looked yellow and polished like an ancient piece of ivory. He had looked across at Marguerite, as he spoke, and a pair of innately kind and mild blue eyes were fixed with tender reproach upon her. Marguerite thought that she had never seen quite so much goodness and simple heartedness portrayed on any face before. It literally beamed out of those pale blue eyes, which seemed quite full of unshed tears. The old man wore a tattered garment, a miracle of shining cleanliness, which had once been a soutain of smooth black cloth, but was now a mass of patches and thread-bearer at shoulders and knees. She seemed deeply intent in the task of polishing his shoes, and having delivered himself of his little admonition, he very solemnly and earnestly resumed his work. Marguerite's first and most natural instinct had, of course, been one of dislike and mistrust of any one who appeared to be in some way on guard over her. But when she took in every detail of the quaint figure of the old man, his scrupulous tidiness of apparel, the resigned stoop of his shoulders, and met in full the gaze of those moist eyes, she felt that the whole aspect of the man, as he sat there polishing his shoes, was infinitely pathetic, and in its simplicity commanding of respect. "'Who are you?' asked Lady Blakeney at last, for the old man, after looking at her with a kind of appealing wonder, seemed to be waiting for her to speak. "'A priest of the good God, my dear child,' replied the old man, with a deep sigh and a shake of his scanty locks, who is not allowed to serve his divine master any longer. A poor old fellow, very harmless and very helpless, who had been set here to watch over you. "'You must not look upon me as a jailer because of what I say, my child,' he added, with a quaint air of deference and apology. "'I am very old and very small, and only take up a very little room. I can make myself very scarce. You shall hardly know that I am here. They forced me to it much against my will. But they are strong, and I am weak. How could I deny them, since they put me here? After all," he concluded naively,--"perhaps it is the will of Le Bon Dieu, and he knows best, my child. He knows best." The shoes evidently refused to respond any further to the old man's efforts at polishing them. He contemplated them now, with a whimsical look of regret on his furrowed face, then set them down on the floor and slipped his stockinged feet into them. Marguerite was silently watching him, still leaning on her elbow. Evidently her brain was still numb and fatigued, for she did not seem able to grasp all that the old man had said. She smiled to herself, too, as she watched him. How could she look upon him as a jailer? He did not seem at all like a Jacobin or a terrorist.  He seemed singularly bashful, too, and ill at ease, and loathed to meet Marguerite's great ardent eyes which were fixed questioningly upon him. "'You must forgive me, my daughter,' he said shyly, for concluding my toilet before you. I had hoped to be quite ready before you woke, but I had some trouble with my shoes. Except for a little water and soap, the prison authorities will not provide us poor captives with any means of cleanliness and tidiness, and Le Bon Dieu does love a tidy body as well as a clean soul.' "'But there, there,' he added fuzzily, "'I must not continue to gossip like this.  Oh, you will see how well I have thought it out. I need not interfere with you at all, and when you have made your little bit of toilet, you will feel quite alone, just as if the old man was not there.' He began busying himself about the room, dragging the rickety, rush-bottomed chairs forward. There were four of these in the room, and he began forming a kind of bulwark with them, placing two side by side, then piling the two others up above. "'You will see, my child, you will see,' he kept repeating at intervals as the work of construction progressed. It was no easy matter, for he was of low stature, and his hands were unsteady from apparently uncontrollable nervousness. Marguerite, leaning slightly forward, her chin resting in her hand, was too puzzled and anxious to grasp the humour of this comical situation. She certainly did not understand. This old man had in some sort of way, and for a hitherto unexplained reason, been set as a guard over her. It was not an unusual device on the part of the inhuman wretches who now ruled France, to add to the miseries and terrors of captivity, where a woman of refinement was concerned, the galling outrage of never leaving her alone for a moment. That peculiar form of mental torture, surely the invention of brains rendered mad by their own ferocious cruelty, was even now being inflicted on the hapless, dethroned Queen of France. Marguerite, in far-off England, had shuddered when she heard of it, and in her heart had prayed, as indeed every pure-minded woman did then, that proud, unfortunate Marie-Antoinette might soon find release from such torments in death. There was evidently some similar intention, with regard to Marguerite herself in the minds of those who now held her prisoner. But this old man seemed so feeble and so helpless, his very delicacy of thought as he billed up a screen to divide the squalid woman, too, proved him to be singularly inefficient for the task of a watchful jailer. When the four chairs appeared fairly steady, and a comparatively little danger of toppling, he dragged the palias forward and propped it up against the chairs. Finally he drew the table along, which held the cracked urine basin, and placed it against this improvised partition. Then he surveyed the whole construction with evident gratification and delight. "'There now,' he said, turning a face beaming with satisfaction to Marguerite, "'I can continue my prayers on the other side of the fortress.' "'Oh, it is quite safe,' he added, as with a fearsome hand he touched his engineering feet with gingerly pride, "'And you will be quite private. Try and forget that the old abbey is in the room. He does not count. Really, he does not count. He has ceased to be of any moment these many months now that St. Joseph is closed, and he may no longer say mass.' He was obviously prattling on in order to hide his nervous bashfulness. He ensconced himself behind his own finely constructed bulwark, drew a breviary from his pocket, and having found a narrow ledge on one of the chairs on which he could sit, without much danger of bringing the elaborate screen onto the top of his head, he soon became absorbed in his horizons. Marguerite watched him for a little while longer. He was evidently endeavouring to make her think that he had become oblivious of her presence, and his transparent little manoeuvres amused and puzzled her not a little. He looked so comical with his fussy and shy ways, yet with all so gentle and so kindly, that she felt completely reassured and quite calm. She tried to raise herself still further, and found the process astonishingly easy.  She sat up on the palias, then put her feet to the ground, and presently walked up to the improvised dressing-room and bathed her face and hands. The rest had done her good, and she felt quite capable of coordinating her thoughts, of moving about without too much pain, and of preparing herself both mentally and physically for the grave events which she knew must be imminent. While she busied herself with her toilet, her thoughts dwelt on the one, all-absorbing theme. Percy was in Boulogne. He knew that she was here, in prison. She would reach her without fail. In fact, he might communicate with her at any moment now, and had without a doubt already evolved a plan of escape for her, more daring and ingenious than any which he had conceived hitherto. Therefore she must be ready and prepared for any eventuality. She must be strong and eager, in no way despondent. For if he were here, would he not chide her for a want of faith?