Less than half an hour later, Marguerite, buried in thoughts, sat inside her coach, which was bearing her swiftly to London.
She had taken an affectionate farewell of little Suzanne, and seen the child safely started with her maid, and in her own coach, back to town. She had sent one courier with a respectful letter of excuse to His Royal Highness, begging for a postponement1 of the august visit on account of pressing and urgent business, and another on ahead to bespeak2 a fresh relay of horses at Faversham.
Then she had changed her muslin frock for a dark travelling costume and mantle3, had provided herself with money—which her husband's lavishness4 always placed fully5 at her disposal—and had started on her way.
She did not attempt to delude6 herself with any vain and futile7 hopes; the safety of her brother Armand was to have been conditional8 on the imminent9 capture of the Scarlet10 Pimpernel. As Chauvelin had sent her back Armand's compromising letter, there was no doubt that he was quite satisfied in his own mind that Percy Blakeney was the man whose death he had sworn to bring about.
No! there was no room for any fond delusions11! Percy, the husband whom she loved with all the ardour which her admiration12 for his bravery had kindled13, was in immediate14, deadly peril15, through her hand. She had betrayed him to his enemy—unwittingly 'tis true—but she had betrayed him, and if Chauvelin succeeded in trapping him, who so far was unaware16 of his danger, then his death would be at her door. His death! when with her very heart's blood, she would have defended him and given willingly her life for his.
She had ordered her coach to drive her to the “Crown” inn; once there, she told her coachman to give the horses food and rest. Then she ordered a chair, and had herself carried to the house in Pall17 Mall where Sir Andrew Ffoulkes lived.
Among all Percy's friends who were enrolled18 under his daring banner, she felt that she would prefer to confide19 in Sir Andrew Ffoulkes. He had always been her friend, and now his love for little Suzanne had brought him closer to her still. Had he been away from home, gone on the mad errand with Percy, perhaps, then she would have called on Lord Hastings or Lord Tony—for she wanted the help of one of these young men, or she would be indeed powerless to save her husband.
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, however, was at home, and his servant introduced her ladyship immediately. She went upstairs to the young man's comfortable bachelor's chambers20, and was shown into a small, though luxuriously21 furnished, dining-room. A moment or two later Sir Andrew himself appeared.
He had evidently been much startled when he heard who his lady visitor was, for he looked anxiously—even suspiciously—at Marguerite, whilst performing the elaborate bows before her, which the rigid22 etiquette23 of the time demanded.
Marguerite had laid aside every vestige24 of nervousness; she was perfectly25 calm, and having returned the young man's elaborate salute26, she began very calmly,—
“Sir Andrew, I have no desire to waste valuable time in much talk. You must take certain things I am going to tell you for granted. These will be of no importance. What is important is that your leader and comrade, the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . my husband . . . Percy Blakeney . . . is in deadly peril.”
Had she had the remotest doubt of the correctness of her deductions27, she would have had them confirmed now, for Sir Andrew, completely taken by surprise, had grown very pale, and was quite incapable28 of making the slightest attempt at clever parrying.
“No matter how I know this, Sir Andrew,” she continued quietly, “thank God that I do, and that perhaps it is not too late to save him. Unfortunately, I cannot do this quite alone, and therefore have come to you for help.”
“Lady Blakeney,” said the young man, trying to recover himself, “I . . .”
“Will you hear me first?” she interrupted. “This is how the matter stands. When the agent of the French Government stole your papers that night in Dover, he found amongst them certain plans, which you or your leader meant to carry out for the rescue of the Comte de Tournay and others. The Scarlet Pimpernel—Percy, my husband—has gone on this errand himself to-day. Chauvelin knows that the Scarlet Pimpernel and Percy Blakeney are one and the same person. He will follow him to Calais, and there will lay hands on him. You know as well as I do the fate that awaits him at the hands of the Revolutionary Government of France. No interference from England—from King George himself—would save him. Robespierre and his gang would see to it that the interference came too late. But not only that, the much-trusted leader will also have been unconsciously the means of revealing the hiding-place of the Comte de Tournay and of all those who, even now, are placing their hopes in him.”
She had spoken quietly, dispassionately, and with firm, unbending resolution. Her purpose was to make that young man trust and help her, for she could do nothing without him.
“I do not understand,” he repeated, trying to gain time, to think what was best to be done.
“Aye! but I think you do, Sir Andrew. You must know that I am speaking the truth. Look these facts straight in the face. Percy has sailed for Calais, I presume for some lonely part of the coast, and Chauvelin is on his track. He has posted for Dover, and will cross the Channel probably to-night. What do you think will happen?”
The young man was silent.
“Percy will arrive at his destination: unconscious of being followed he will seek out de Tournay and the others—among these is Armand St. Just, my brother—he will seek them out, one after another, probably, not knowing that the sharpest eyes in the world are watching his every movement. When he has thus unconsciously betrayed those who blindly trust in him, when nothing can be gained from him, and he is ready to come back to England, with those whom he has gone so bravely to save, the doors of the trap will close upon him, and he will be sent to end his noble life upon the guillotine.”
Still Sir Andrew was silent.
“You do not trust me,” she said passionately29. “Oh, God! cannot you see that I am in deadly earnest? Man, man,” she added, while, with her tiny hands she seized the young man suddenly by the shoulders, forcing him to look straight at her, “tell me, do I look like that vilest30 thing on earth—a woman who would betray her own husband?”
“God forbid, Lady Blakeney,” said the young man at last, “that I should attribute such evil motives31 to you, but . . .”
“But what? . . . tell me. . . . Quick, man! . . . the very seconds are precious!”
“Will you tell me,” he asked resolutely32, and looking searchingly into her blue eyes, “whose hand helped to guide M. Chauvelin to the knowledge which you say he possesses?”
“Mine,” she said quietly, “I own it—I will not lie to you, for I wish you to trust me absolutely. But I had no idea—how could I have?—of the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel . . . and my brother's safety was to be my prize if I succeeded.”
She nodded.
“It is no use telling you how he forced my hand. Armand is more than a brother to me, and . . . and . . . how could I guess? . . . But we waste time, Sir Andrew . . . every second is precious . . . in the name of God! . . . my husband is in peril . . . your friend!—your comrade!—Help me to save him.”
Sir Andrew felt his position to be a very awkward one. The oath he had taken before his leader and comrade was one of obedience34 and secrecy35; and yet the beautiful woman, who was asking him to trust her, was undoubtedly36 in earnest; his friend and leader was equally undoubtedly in imminent danger and . . .
“Lady Blakeney,” he said at last, “God knows you have perplexed37 me, so that I do not know which way my duty lies. Tell me what you wish me to do. There are nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for the Scarlet Pimpernel if he is in danger.”
“There is no need for lives just now, my friend,” she said drily; “my wits and four swift horses will serve the necessary purpose. But I must know where to find him. See,” she added, while her eyes filled with tears, “I have humbled38 myself before you, I have owned my fault to you; shall I also confess my weakness?—My husband and I have been estranged39, because he did not trust me, and because I was too blind to understand. You must confess that the bandage which he put over my eyes was a very thick one. Is it small wonder that I did not see through it? But last night, after I led him unwittingly into such deadly peril, it suddenly fell from my eyes. If you will not help me, Sir Andrew, I would still strive to save my husband. I would still exert every faculty40 I possess for his sake; but I might be powerless, for I might arrive too late, and nothing would be left for you but lifelong remorse41, and . . . and . . . for me, a broken heart.”
“But, Lady Blakeney,” said the young man, touched by the gentle earnestness of this exquisitely42 beautiful woman, “do you know that what you propose doing is man's work?—you cannot possibly journey to Calais alone. You would be running the greatest possible risks to yourself, and your chances of finding your husband now—were I to direct you ever so carefully—are infinitely43 remote.”
“Oh, I hope there are risks!” she murmured softly. “I hope there are dangers, too!—I have so much to atone44 for. But I fear you are mistaken. Chauvelin's eyes are fixed45 upon you all, he will scarce notice me. Quick, Sir Andrew!—the coach is ready, and there is not a moment to be lost. . . . I must get to him! I must!” she repeated with almost savage46 energy, “to warn him that that man is on his track. . . . Can't you see—can't you see, that I must get to him . . . even . . . even if it be too late to save him . . . at least . . . to be by his side . . . at the last.”
“Faith, Madame, you must command me. Gladly would I or any of my comrades lay down our lives for your husband. If you will go yourself . . .”
“Nay, friend, do you not see that I would go mad if I let you go without me?” She stretched out her hand to him. “You will trust me?”
“I await your orders,” he said simply.
“Listen, then. My coach is ready to take me to Dover. Do you follow me, as swiftly as horses will take you. We meet at nightfall at 'The Fisherman's Rest.' Chauvelin would avoid it, as he is known there, and I think it would be the safest. I will gladly accept your escort to Calais . . . as you say, I might miss Sir Percy were you to direct me ever so carefully. We'll charter a schooner47 at Dover and cross over during the night. Disguised, if you will agree to it, as my lacquey, you will, I think, escape detection.”
“I am entirely48 at your service, Madame,” rejoined the young man earnestly. “I trust to God that you will sight the Day Dream before we reach Calais. With Chauvelin at his heels, every step the Scarlet Pimpernel takes on French soil is fraught49 with danger.”
“God grant it, Sir Andrew. But now, farewell. We meet to-night at Dover! It will be a race between Chauvelin and me across the Channel to-night—and the prize—the life of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
He kissed her hand, and then escorted her to her chair. A quarter of an hour later she was back at the “Crown” inn, where her coach and horses were ready and waiting for her. The next moment they thundered along the London streets, and then straight on to the Dover road at maddening speed.
She had no time for despair now. She was up and doing and had no leisure to think. With Sir Andrew Ffoulkes as her companion and ally, hope had once again revived in her heart.
God would be merciful. He would not allow so appalling50 a crime to be committed, as the death of a brave man, through the hand of a woman who loved him, and worshipped him, and who would gladly have died for his sake.
Marguerite's thoughts flew back to him, the mysterious hero, whom she had always unconsciously loved, when his identity was still unknown to her. Laughingly, in the olden days, she used to call him the shadowy king of her heart, and now she had suddenly found that this enigmatic personality whom she had worshipped, and the man who loved her so passionately, were one and the same: what wonder that one or two happier Visions began to force their way before her mind? She vaguely51 wondered what she would say to him when first they would stand face to face.
She had had so many anxieties, so much excitement during the past few hours, that she allowed herself the luxury of nursing these few more hopeful, brighter thoughts. Gradually the rumble52 of the coach wheels, with its incessant53 monotony, acted soothingly54 on her nerves: her eyes, aching with fatigue55 and many shed and unshed tears, closed involuntarily, and she fell into a troubled sleep.
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1
postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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bespeak
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| v.预定；预先请求 | |
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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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lavishness
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| n.浪费，过度 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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delude
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| vt.欺骗；哄骗 | |
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futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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conditional
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| adj.条件的，带有条件的 | |
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imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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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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delusions
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| n.欺骗( delusion的名词复数 )；谬见；错觉；妄想 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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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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peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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confide
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| v.向某人吐露秘密 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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luxuriously
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| adv.奢侈地，豪华地 | |
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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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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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salute
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| vi.行礼，致意，问候，放礼炮；vt.向…致意，迎接，赞扬；n.招呼，敬礼，礼炮 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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vilest
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| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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perplexed
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| adj.不知所措的 | |
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humbled
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| adj. 卑下的，谦逊的，粗陋的 vt. 使 ... 卑下，贬低 | |
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estranged
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| adj.疏远的，分离的 | |
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faculty
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| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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schooner
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| n.纵帆船 | |
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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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49
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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52
rumble
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| n.隆隆声；吵嚷；v.隆隆响；低沉地说 | |
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53
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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