His Royal Highness had laughed until the tears streamed down his cheeks at Blakeney's foolish yet funny repartees. His doggerel1 verse, “We seek him here, we seek him there,” etc., was sung to the tune2 of “Ho! Merry Britons!” and to the accompaniment of glasses knocked loudly against the table. Lord Grenville, moreover, had a most perfect cook—some wags asserted that he was a scion3 of the old French noblesse, who, having lost his fortune, had come to seek it in the cuisine4 of the Foreign Office.
Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood, and surely not a soul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terrible struggle which was raging within her heart.
The clock was ticking so mercilessly on. It was long past midnight, and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table. Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted against one another—the dearly-beloved brother and he, the unknown hero.
Marguerite had not even tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour; she knew that his keen, fox-like eyes would terrify her at once, and incline the balance of her decision towards Armand. Whilst she did not see him, there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague, undefined hope that “something” would occur, something big, enormous, epoch-making, which would shift from her young, weak shoulders this terrible burden of responsibility, of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives.
But the minutes ticked on with that dull monotony which they invariably seem to assume when our very nerves ache with their incessant5 ticking.
After supper, dancing was resumed. His Royal Highness had left, and there was general talk of departing among the older guests; the young ones were indefatigable6 and had started on a new gavotte, which would fill the next quarter of an hour.
Marguerite did not feel equal to another dance; there is a limit to the most enduring self-control. Escorted by a Cabinet Minister, she had once more found her way to the tiny boudoir, still the most deserted7 among all the rooms. She knew that Chauvelin must be lying in wait for her somewhere, ready to seize the first possible opportunity for a tête-à-tête. His eyes had met hers for a moment after the 'fore-supper minuet, and she knew that the keen diplomatist, with those searching pale eyes of his, had divined that her work was accomplished8.
Fate had willed it so. Marguerite, torn by the most terrible conflict heart of woman can ever know, had resigned herself to its decrees. But Armand must be saved at any cost; he, first of all, for he was her brother, had been mother, father, friend to her ever since she, a tiny babe, had lost both her parents. To think of Armand dying a traitor9's death on the guillotine was too horrible even to dwell upon—impossible, in fact. That could never be, never. . . . As for the stranger, the hero . . . well! there, let Fate decide. Marguerite would redeem10 her brother's life at the hands of the relentless11 enemy, then let that cunning Scarlet12 Pimpernel extricate13 himself after that.
Perhaps—vaguely—Marguerite hoped that the daring plotter, who for so many months had baffled an army of spies, would still manage to evade14 Chauvelin and remain immune to the end.
She thought of all this, as she sat listening to the witty15 discourse16 of the Cabinet Minister, who, no doubt, felt that he had found in Lady Blakeney a most perfect listener. Suddenly she saw the keen, fox-like face of Chauvelin peeping through the curtained doorway17.
“Lord Fancourt,” she said to the Minister, “will you do me a service?”
“Will you see if my husband is still in the card-room? And if he is, will you tell him that I am very tired, and would be glad to go home soon.”
The commands of a beautiful woman are binding21 on all mankind, even on Cabinet Ministers. Lord Fancourt prepared to obey instantly.
“I do not like to leave your ladyship alone,” he said.
“Never fear. I shall be quite safe here—and, I think, undisturbed . . . but I am really tired. You know Sir Percy will drive back to Richmond. It is a long way, and we shall not—an we do not hurry—get home before daybreak.”
Lord Fancourt had perforce to go.
The moment he had disappeared, Chauvelin slipped into the room, and the next instant stood calm and impassive by her side.
“You have news for me?” he said.
An icy mantle23 seemed to have suddenly settled round Marguerite's shoulders; though her cheeks glowed with fire, she felt chilled and numbed24. Oh, Armand! will you ever know the terrible sacrifice of pride, of dignity, of womanliness a devoted25 sister is making for your sake?
“Nothing of importance,” she said, staring mechanically before her, “but it might prove a clue. I contrived—no matter how—to detect Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in the very act of burning a paper at one of these candles, in this very room. That paper I succeeded in holding between my fingers for the space of two minutes, and to cast my eye on it for that of ten seconds.”
“Time enough to learn its contents?” asked Chauvelin, quietly.
She nodded. Then she continued in the same even, mechanical tone of voice—
“In the corner of the paper there was the usual rough device of a small star-shaped flower. Above it I read two lines, everything else was scorched26 and blackened by the flame.”
“And what were these two lines?”
Her throat seemed suddenly to have contracted. For an instant she felt that she could not speak the words, which might send a brave man to his death.
“It is lucky that the whole paper was not burned,” added Chauvelin, with dry sarcasm27, “for it might have fared ill with Armand St. Just. What were the two lines, citoyenne?”
“One was, 'I start myself to-morrow,'” she said quietly; “the other—'If you wish to speak to me, I shall be in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely28.'”
Chauvelin looked up at the clock just above the mantelpiece.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
She was pale as a statue, her hands were icy cold, her head and heart throbbed31 with the awful strain upon her nerves. Oh, this was cruel! cruel! What had she done to have deserved all this? Her choice was made: had she done a vile32 action or one that was sublime33? The recording34 angel, who writes in the book of gold, alone could give an answer.
“What are you going to do?” she repeated mechanically.
“Oh, nothing for the present. After that it will depend.”
“On what?”
“On whom I shall see in the supper-room at one o'clock precisely.”
“You will see the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course. But you do not know him.”
“No. But I shall presently.”
“Sir Andrew will have warned him.”
“I think not. When you parted from him after the minuet he stood and watched you, for a moment or two, with a look which gave me to understand that something had happened between you. It was only natural, was it not? that I should make a shrewd guess as to the nature of that 'something.' I thereupon engaged the young gallant20 in a long and animated35 conversation—we discussed Herr Glück's singular success in London—until a lady claimed his arm for supper.”
“Since then?”
“I did not lose sight of him through supper. When we all came upstairs again, Lady Portarles buttonholed him and started on the subject of pretty Mlle. Suzanne de Tournay. I knew he would not move until Lady Portarles had exhausted36 the subject, which will not be for another quarter of an hour at least, and it is five minutes to one now.”
He was preparing to go, and went up to the doorway, where, drawing aside the curtain, he stood for a moment pointing out to Marguerite the distant figure of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes in close conversation with Lady Portarles.
“I think,” he said, with a triumphant37 smile, “that I may safely expect to find the person I seek in the dining-room, fair lady.”
“There may be more than one.”
“Whoever is there, as the clock strikes one, will be shadowed by one of my men; of these, one, or perhaps two, or even three, will leave for France to-morrow. One of these will be the 'Scarlet Pimpernel.'”
“Yes?—And?”
“I also, fair lady, will leave for France to-morrow. The papers found at Dover upon the person of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes speak of the neighbourhood of Calais, of an inn which I know well, called 'Le Chat Gris,' of a lonely place somewhere on the coast—the Père Blanchard's hut—which I must endeavour to find. All these places are given as the point where this meddlesome38 Englishman has bidden the traitor de Tournay and others to meet his emissaries. But it seems that he has decided39 not to send his emissaries, that 'he will start himself to-morrow.' Now, one of those persons whom I shall see anon in the supper-room, will be journeying to Calais, and I shall follow that person, until I have tracked him to where those fugitive40 aristocrats41 await him; for that person, fair lady, will be the man whom I have sought for, for nearly a year, the man whose energy has outdone me, whose ingenuity42 has baffled me, whose audacity43 has set me wondering—yes! me!—who have seen a trick or two in my time—the mysterious and elusive44 Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“And Armand?” she pleaded.
“Have I ever broken my word? I promise you that the day the Scarlet Pimpernel and I start for France, I will send you that imprudent letter of his by special courier. More than that, I will pledge you the word of France, that the day I lay hands on that meddlesome Englishman, St. Just will be here in England, safe in the arms of his charming sister.”
And with a deep and elaborate bow and another look at the clock, Chauvelin glided45 out of the room.
It seemed to Marguerite that through all the noise, all the din22 of music, dancing, and laughter, she could hear his cat-like tread, gliding46 through the vast reception-rooms; that she could hear him go down the massive staircase, reach the dining-room and open the door. Fate had decided, had made her speak, had made her do a vile and abominable47 thing, for the sake of the brother she loved. She lay back in her chair, passive and still, seeing the figure of her relentless enemy ever present before her aching eyes.
When Chauvelin reached the supper-room it was quite deserted. It had that woebegone, forsaken48, tawdry appearance, which reminds one so much of a ball-dress, the morning after.
Half-empty glasses littered the table, unfolded napkins lay about, the chairs—turned towards one another in groups of twos and threes—seemed like the seats of ghosts, in close conversation with one another. There were sets of two chairs—very close to one another—in the far corners of the room, which spoke49 of recent whispered flirtations, over cold game-pie and champagne50; there were sets of three and four chairs, that recalled pleasant, animated discussions over the latest scandals; there were chairs straight up in a row that still looked starchy, critical, acid, like antiquated51 dowagers; there were a few isolated52, single chairs, close to the table, that spoke of gourmands53 intent on the most recherché dishes, and others overturned on the floor, that spoke volumes on the subject of my Lord Grenville's cellars.
It was a ghostlike replica54, in fact, of that fashionable gathering55 upstairs; a ghost that haunts every house where balls and good suppers are given; a picture drawn56 with white chalk on grey cardboard, dull and colourless, now that the bright silk dresses and gorgeously embroidered57 coats were no longer there to fill in the foreground, and now that the candles flickered58 sleepily in their sockets59.
Chauvelin smiled benignly60, and rubbing his long, thin hands together, he looked round the deserted supper-room, whence even the last flunkey had retired61 in order to join his friends in the hall below. All was silence in the dimly-lighted room, whilst the sound of the gavotte, the hum of distant talk and laughter, and the rumble62 of an occasional coach outside, only seemed to reach this palace of the Sleeping Beauty as the murmur63 of some flitting spooks far away.
It all looked so peaceful, so luxurious64, and so still, that the keenest observer—a veritable prophet—could never have guessed that, at this present moment, that deserted supper-room was nothing but a trap laid for the capture of the most cunning and audacious plotter those stirring times had ever seen.
Chauvelin pondered and tried to peer into the immediate65 future. What would this man be like, whom he and the leaders of a whole revolution had sworn to bring to his death? Everything about him was weird66 and mysterious; his personality, which he had so cunningly concealed67, the power he wielded68 over nineteen English gentlemen who seemed to obey his every command blindly and enthusiastically, the passionate69 love and submission70 he had roused in his little trained band, and, above all, his marvellous audacity, the boundless71 impudence72 which had caused him to beard his most implacable enemies, within the very walls of Paris.
No wonder that in France the sobriquet73 of the mysterious Englishman roused in the people a superstitious74 shudder75. Chauvelin himself as he gazed round the deserted room, where presently the weird hero would appear, felt a strange feeling of awe76 creeping all down his spine77.
But his plans were well laid. He felt sure that the Scarlet Pimpernel had not been warned, and felt equally sure that Marguerite Blakeney had not played him false. If she had . . . a cruel look, that would have made her shudder, gleamed in Chauvelin's keen, pale eyes. If she had played him a trick, Armand St. Just would suffer the extreme penalty.
But no, no! of course she had not played him false!
Fortunately the supper-room was deserted: this would make Chauvelin's task all the easier, when presently that unsuspecting enigma78 would enter it alone. No one was here now save Chauvelin himself.
Stay! as he surveyed with a satisfied smile the solitude79 of the room, the cunning agent of the French Government became aware of the peaceful, monotonous80 breathing of some one of my Lord Grenville's guests, who, no doubt, had supped both wisely and well, and was enjoying a quiet sleep, away from the din of the dancing above.
Chauvelin looked round once more, and there in the corner of a sofa, in the dark angle of the room, his mouth open, his eyes shut, the sweet sounds of peaceful slumbers81 proceeding82 from his nostrils83, reclined the gorgeously-apparelled, long-limbed husband of the cleverest woman in Europe.
Chauvelin looked at him as he lay there, placid29, unconscious, at peace with all the world and himself, after the best of suppers, and a smile, that was almost one of pity, softened84 for a moment the hard lines of the Frenchman's face and the sarcastic85 twinkle of his pale eyes.
Evidently the slumberer86, deep in dreamless sleep, would not interfere87 with Chauvelin's trap for catching88 that cunning Scarlet Pimpernel. Again he rubbed his hands together, and, following the example of Sir Percy Blakeney, he, too, stretched himself out in the corner of another sofa, shut his eyes, opened his mouth, gave forth89 sounds of peaceful breathing, and . . . waited!
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1
doggerel
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| n.拙劣的诗，打油诗 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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cuisine
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| n.烹调，烹饪法 | |
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incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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8
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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redeem
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| v.买回，赎回，挽回，恢复，履行（诺言等） | |
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relentless
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| adj.残酷的，不留情的，无怜悯心的 | |
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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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extricate
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| v.拯救，救出；解脱 | |
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evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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gallantly
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| adv. 漂亮地，勇敢地，献殷勤地 | |
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gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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mantle
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| n.斗篷，覆罩之物，罩子；v.罩住，覆盖，脸红 | |
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numbed
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| v.使麻木，使麻痹( numb的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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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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scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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throbbed
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| 抽痛( throb的过去式和过去分词 )； （心脏、脉搏等）跳动 | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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meddlesome
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| adj.爱管闲事的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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aristocrats
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| n.贵族( aristocrat的名词复数 ) | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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49
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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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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antiquated
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| adj.陈旧的，过时的 | |
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isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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gourmands
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| n.喜欢吃喝的人，贪吃的人( gourmand的名词复数 )；美食主义 | |
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replica
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| n.复制品 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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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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embroidered
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| adj．绣花的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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59
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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benignly
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| adv.仁慈地，亲切地 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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luxurious
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| adj.精美而昂贵的；豪华的 | |
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65
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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70
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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71
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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72
impudence
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| n.厚颜无耻；冒失；无礼 | |
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73
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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75
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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76
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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77
spine
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| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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78
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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79
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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80
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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81
slumbers
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| 睡眠，安眠( slumber的名词复数 ) | |
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82
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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83
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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84
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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85
sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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86
slumberer
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| 睡眠者，微睡者 | |
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87
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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88
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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89
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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