In the corner the two strangers had apparently5 finished their game; one of them arose, and standing6 with his back to the merry company at the table, he adjusted with much deliberation his large triple caped1 coat. As he did so, he gave one quick glance all around him. Everyone was busy laughing and chatting, and he murmured the words “All safe!”: his companion then, with the alertness borne of long practice, slipped on to his knees in a moment, and the next had crept noiselessly under the oak bench. The stranger then, with a loud “Good-night,” quietly walked out of the coffee-room.
Not one of those at the supper table had noticed this curious and silent man?uvre, but when the stranger finally closed the door of the coffee-room behind him, they all instinctively7 sighed a sigh of relief.
Then the young Vicomte de Tournay rose, glass in hand, and with the graceful10 affectation peculiar11 to the times, he raised it aloft, and said in broken English,—
“To His Majesty12 George Three of England. God bless him for his hospitality to us all, poor exiles from France.”
“His Majesty the King!” echoed Lord Antony and Sir Andrew as they drank loyally to the toast.
“To His Majesty King Louis of France,” added Sir Andrew, with solemnity. “May God protect him, and give him victory over his enemies.”
Everyone rose and drank this toast in silence. The fate of the unfortunate King of France, then a prisoner of his own people, seemed to cast a gloom even over Mr. Jellyband's pleasant countenance13.
“And to M. le Comte de Tournay de Basserive,” said Lord Antony, merrily. “May we welcome him in England before many days are over.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, as with a slightly trembling hand she conveyed her glass to her lips, “I scarcely dare to hope.”
But already Lord Antony had served out the soup, and for the next few moments all conversation ceased, while Jellyband and Sally handed round the plates and everyone began to eat.
“Faith, Madame!” said Lord Antony, after a while, “mine was no idle toast; seeing yourself, Mademoiselle Suzanne and my friend the Vicomte safely in England now, surely you must feel reassured14 as to the fate of Monsieur le Comte.”
“Ah, Monsieur,” replied the Comtesse, with a heavy sigh, “I trust in God—I can but pray—and hope . . .”
“Aye, Madame!” here interposed Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, “trust in God by all means, but believe also a little in your English friends, who have sworn to bring the Count safely across the Channel, even as they have brought you to-day.”
“Indeed, indeed, Monsieur,” she replied, “I have the fullest confidence in you and in your friends. Your fame, I assure you, has spread throughout the whole of France. The way some of my own friends have escaped from the clutches of that awful revolutionary tribunal was nothing short of a miracle—and all done by you and your friends—”
“We were but the hands, Madame la Comtesse . . .”
“But my husband, Monsieur,” said the Comtesse, whilst unshed tears seemed to veil her voice, “he is in such deadly peril3—I would never have left him, only . . . there were my children . . . I was torn between my duty to him, and to them. They refused to go without me . . . and you and your friends assured me so solemnly that my husband would be safe. But, oh! now that I am here—amongst you all—in this beautiful, free England—I think of him, flying for his life, hunted like a poor beast . . . in such peril. . . . Ah! I should not have left him . . . I should not have left him! . . .”
The poor woman had completely broken down; fatigue15, sorrow and emotion had overmastered her rigid16, aristocratic bearing. She was crying gently to herself, whilst Suzanne ran up to her and tried to kiss away her tears.
Lord Antony and Sir Andrew had said nothing to interrupt the Comtesse whilst she was speaking. There was no doubt that they felt deeply for her; their very silence testified to that—but in every century, and ever since England has been what it is, an Englishman has always felt somewhat ashamed of his own emotion and of his own sympathy. And so the two young men said nothing, and busied themselves in trying to hide their feelings, only succeeding in looking immeasurably sheepish.
“As for me, Monsieur,” said Suzanne, suddenly, as she looked through a wealth of brown curls across at Sir Andrew, “I trust you absolutely, and I know that you will bring my dear father safely to England, just as you brought us to-day.”
This was said with so much confidence, such unuttered hope and belief, that it seemed as if by magic to dry the mother's eyes, and to bring a smile upon everybody's lips.
“Nay! you shame me, Mademoiselle,” replied Sir Andrew; “though my life is at your service, I have been but a humble17 tool in the hands of our great leader, who organised and effected your escape.”
He had spoken with so much warmth and vehemence19 that Suzanne's eyes fastened upon him in undisguised wonder.
“Your leader, Monsieur?” said the Comtesse, eagerly. “Ah! of course, you must have a leader. And I did not think of that before! But tell me where is he? I must go to him at once, and I and my children must throw ourselves at his feet, and thank him for all that he has done for us.”
“Alas, Madame!” said Lord Antony, “that is impossible.”
“Impossible?—Why?”
“Because the Scarlet20 Pimpernel works in the dark, and his identity is only known under a solemn oath of secrecy21 to his immediate22 followers23.”
“The Scarlet Pimpernel?” said Suzanne, with a merry laugh. “Why! what a droll24 name! What is the Scarlet Pimpernel, Monsieur?”
She looked at Sir Andrew with eager curiosity. The young man's face had become almost transfigured. His eyes shone with enthusiasm; hero-worship, love, admiration25 for his leader seemed literally26 to glow upon his face.
“The Scarlet Pimpernel, Mademoiselle,” he said at last, “is the name of a humble English wayside flower; but it is also the name chosen to hide the identity of the best and bravest man in all the world, so that he may better succeed in accomplishing the noble task he has set himself to do.”
“Ah, yes,” here interposed the young Vicomte, “I have heard speak of this Scarlet Pimpernel. A little flower—red?—yes! They say in Paris that every time a royalist escapes to England that devil, Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor27, receives a paper with that little flower dessinated in red upon it. . . . Yes?”
“Then he will have received one such paper to-day?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Oh! I wonder what he will say!” said Suzanne, merrily. “I have heard that the picture of that little red flower is the only thing that frightens him.”
“Faith, then,” said Sir Andrew, “he will have many more opportunities of studying the shape of that small scarlet flower.”
“Ah! Monsieur,” sighed the Comtesse, “it all sounds like a romance, and I cannot understand it all.”
“Why should you try, Madame?”
“But, tell me, why should your leader—why should you all—spend your money and risk your lives—for it is your lives you risk, Messieurs, when you set foot in France—and all for us French men and women, who are nothing to you?”
“Sport, Madame la Comtesse, sport,” asserted Lord Antony, with his jovial8, loud and pleasant voice; “we are a nation of sportsmen, you know, and just now it is the fashion to pull the hare from between the teeth of the hound.”
“Ah, no, no, not sport only, Monsieur . . . you have a more noble motive29, I am sure, for the good work you do.”
“Faith, Madame, I would like you to find it then . . . as for me, I vow30, I love the game, for this is the finest sport I have yet encountered.—Hair-breadth escapes . . . the devil's own risks!—Tally ho!—and away we go!”
But the Comtesse shook her head, still incredulously. To her it seemed
preposterous31 that these young men and their great leader, all of them
rich, probably well-born, and young, should for no other motive than
sport, run the terrible risks, which she knew they were constantly
doing. Their nationality, once they had set foot in France, would be
no safeguard to them. Anyone found harbouring or assisting suspected
his nationality might be. And this band of young Englishmen had, to her
own knowledge, bearded the implacable and bloodthirsty tribunal of the
Revolution, within the very walls of Paris itself, and had snatched away
condemned victims, almost from the very foot of the guillotine. With a
daring to breathe, whilst the mob howled “à la lanterne les aristos!”
It had all occurred in such a miraculous37 way; she and her husband had
understood that they had been placed on the list of “suspected persons,”
which meant that their trial and death were but a matter of days—of
hours, perhaps.
Then came the hope of salvation38; the mysterious epistle, signed with the enigmatical scarlet device; the clear, peremptory39 directions; the parting from the Comte de Tournay, which had torn the poor wife's heart in two; the hope of reunion; the flight with her two children; the covered cart; that awful hag driving it, who looked like some horrible evil demon40, with the ghastly trophy41 on her whip handle!
The Comtesse looked round at the quaint42, old-fashioned English inn, the peace of this land of civil and religious liberty, and she closed her eyes to shut out the haunting vision of that West Barricade, and of the mob retreating panic-stricken when the old hag spoke18 of the plague.
Every moment under that cart she expected recognition, arrest, herself and her children tried and condemned, and these young Englishmen, under the guidance of their brave and mysterious leader, had risked their lives to save them all, as they had already saved scores of other innocent people.
And all only for sport? Impossible! Suzanne's eyes as she sought those of Sir Andrew plainly told him that she thought that he at any rate rescued his fellow-men from terrible and unmerited death, through a higher and nobler motive than his friend would have her believe.
“How many are there in your brave league, Monsieur?” she asked timidly.
“Twenty all told, Mademoiselle,” he replied, “one to command, and nineteen to obey. All of us Englishmen, and all pledged to the same cause—to obey our leader and to rescue the innocent.”
“He has done that so far, Madame.”
“It is wonderful to me, wonderful!—That you should all be so brave, so devoted44 to your fellow-men—yet you are English!—and in France treachery is rife—all in the name of liberty and fraternity.”
“The women even, in France, have been more bitter against us aristocrats45 than the men,” said the Vicomte, with a sigh.
“Ah, yes,” added the Comtesse, whilst a look of haughty46 disdain47 and intense bitterness shot through her melancholy48 eyes. “There was that woman, Marguerite St. Just, for instance. She denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family to the awful tribunal of the Terror.”
“Marguerite St. Just?” said Lord Antony, as he shot a quick and apprehensive49 glance across at Sir Andrew. [JOIN WITH NEXT PARAGRAPH]
[JOIN WITH PREVIOUS PARAGRAPH] “Marguerite St. Just?—Surely . . .”
“Yes!” replied the Comtesse, “surely you know her. She was a leading actress of the Comédie Fran?aise, and she married an Englishman lately. You must know her—”
“Know her?” said Lord Antony. “Know Lady Blakeney—the most fashionable woman in London—the wife of the richest man in England? Of course, we all know Lady Blakeney.”
“She was a school-fellow of mine at the convent in Paris,” interposed Suzanne, “and we came over to England together to learn your language. I was very fond of Marguerite, and I cannot believe that she ever did anything so wicked.”
“It certainly seems incredible,” said Sir Andrew. “You say that she actually denounced the Marquis de St. Cyr? Why should she have done such a thing? Surely there must be some mistake—”
“No mistake is possible, Monsieur,” rejoined the Comtesse, coldly. “Marguerite St. Just's brother is a noted50 republican. There was some talk of a family feud51 between him and my cousin, the Marquis de St. Cyr. The St. Justs' are quite plebeian52, and the republican government employs many spies. I assure you there is no mistake. . . . You had not heard this story?”
“Faith, Madame, I did hear some vague rumours53 of it, but in England no one would credit it. . . . Sir Percy Blakeney, her husband, is a very wealthy man, of high social position, the intimate friend of the Prince of Wales . . . and Lady Blakeney leads both fashion and society in London.”
“That may be, Monsieur, and we shall, of course, lead a very quiet life in England, but I pray God that while I remain in this beautiful country, I may never meet Marguerite St. Just.”
The proverbial wet-blanket seemed to have fallen over the merry little company gathered round the table. Suzanne looked sad and silent; Sir Andrew fidgeted uneasily with his fork, whilst the Comtesse, encased in the plate-armour of her aristocratic prejudices, sat, rigid and unbending, in her straight-backed chair. As for Lord Antony, he looked extremely uncomfortable, and glanced once or twice apprehensively54 towards Jellyband, who looked just as uncomfortable as himself.
“At what time do you expect Sir Percy and Lady Blakeney?” he contrived55 to whisper unobserved, to mine host.
“Any moment, my lord,” whispered Jellyband in reply.
Even as he spoke, a distant clatter56 was heard of an approaching coach; louder and louder it grew, one or two shouts became distinguishable, then the rattle57 of horses' hoofs58 on the uneven59 cobble stones, and the next moment a stable boy had thrown open the coffee-room door and rushed in excitedly.
“Sir Percy Blakeney and my lady,” he shouted at the top of his voice, “they're just arriving.”
And with more shouting, jingling60 of harness, and iron hoofs upon the stones, a magnificent coach, drawn61 by four superb bays, had halted outside the porch of “The Fisherman's Rest.”
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1
caped
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| 披斗篷的 | |
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dire
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| adj.可怕的，悲惨的，阴惨的，极端的 | |
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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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perils
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| 极大危险( peril的名词复数 )； 危险的事（或环境） | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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jovial
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| adj.快乐的，好交际的 | |
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jovially
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| adv.愉快地，高兴地 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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19
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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24
droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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prosecutor
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| n.起诉人；检察官，公诉人 | |
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28
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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32
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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35
turnips
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| 芜青( turnip的名词复数 )； 芜菁块根； 芜菁甘蓝块根； 怀表 | |
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barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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peremptory
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| adj.紧急的，专横的，断然的 | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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trophy
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| n.优胜旗，奖品，奖杯，战胜品，纪念品 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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45
aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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46
haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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50
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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51
feud
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| n.长期不和；世仇；v.长期争斗；世代结仇 | |
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52
plebeian
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| adj.粗俗的；平民的；n.平民；庶民 | |
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53
rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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54
apprehensively
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| adv.担心地 | |
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55
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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56
clatter
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| v./n.(使)发出连续而清脆的撞击声 | |
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57
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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58
hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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59
uneven
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| adj.不平坦的，不规则的，不均匀的 | |
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jingling
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| 叮当声 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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