The Scarlet Pimpernel

a long, chilly English summer's evening was thro

f over an hour, watching those white sails, which bore so swiftly away from her the onl

ering mist; from time to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from thence the sound of merry-making and

away. He, whose notions of propriety and decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested even that an attendant should remain within call. Marguerite was grateful to her husband for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for his thoughtfulne

soar beyond the tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. Bah! And yet! . . . vague memories, that were sweet and ardent and attuned to this calm summer's evening, came wafted back to her memory,

-four hours after the simple little ceremony at old St. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had spoken of certain matters connected with

tic, ardent, passionate-to the idol of his dreams. The next night he was waylaid just outside Paris by the valets of Marquis de St. Cyr, and ignominiously thrashed-thrashed like a dog within an inch of his life-because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of the

in his manhood and his pride must have been appalling; what she su

tion, while the Marquis de St. Cyr and his family fought inch by inch for the retention of those privileges which had placed them socially above their fellow-men. Marguerite, impulsive, thoughtless, not calculating the purport of her words, still smarting under th

e was arrested. His papers were searched: letters from the Austrian Emperor, promising to send troops against the Paris populace, were found in his d

roine: and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she did not perhaps altogether realise how severely he would look upon the sin, which she had so inadvertently committed, and which still lay heavily up

y seemed to have laid aside his love for her, as he would an ill-fitting glove. She tried to rouse him by sharpening her ready wit against his dull intellect; endeavouring to excite his jealousy, if she could not rouse his love; tried to goad him to self-assertion, but all in vain. He remained the same, always passive, drawling, sle

ore distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Ffoulkes' pleasant voice, Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's occasional, drawly, sleepy comments; then realising the loneliness of the road and the fast gathering gl

ming quickly towards him, and just as she was

nne St.

aiden name uttered so close to her. She looked up at the stranger, and this time, w

n!" she e

ice," said the stranger, gallantl

e her. Chauvelin was then nearer forty than thirty-a clever, shrewd-looking personality, with a curious fox-like expression in t

uerite, with a pretty little sigh of satisf

ace that brought back memories of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned-a queen-over the intellectual coterie of th

what in the world, or whom in the w

compliment, fair lady," h

rug of the shoulders. "Je m'

ll the merry, brilliant friends whom she had left behind. So she lingered on under the pretty porch, while through the gaily-lighted dormer-window of the coffee-room sounds of laughter, of calls for "Sally" and for beer, of tapping of mugs,

ne," he said quietly, as

e thought that, with your penetration, you would have guessed that an atm

d as that?" he asked,

e retorted,

tty woman would have found English

ditatively, "ought to have a good time in England, since all the pl

ite

e said earnestly, "but I often pass a whole day-a w

allantly, "that the cleverest woma

er melodious, rippli

" she asked archly, "or I should no

romantic love match . . . tha

hauvelin, with quiet sarcasm, "did not

hauvelin . . . They come upon us like th

lent in those days; perhaps, too, he found the taking of snuff a convenient veil for disguising the qu

me gallantry, "that the most active b

a prescription against the

n that which Sir Percy Blake

f the question for the present,

again his eyes, keen as those of a fox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite. "I have a most

t w

IS Sir

he to do

escription I would offer, fair lady, is

or

ogether; the evening air was quite still, and their soft whispers were drowned in the noise which came from the coffee-room. Still, Chauvelin took a step or t

" he asked, with a sudden change of manner, which l

den. . . . Indeed I do not know if I WOULD render France a small serv

rlet Pimpernel, Citoyenne St. J

'; our horses are called 'Scarlet Pimpernel'; at the Prince of Wales' supper party the other night we had a 'souffle a la Scarlet Pimpernel.' . . . Lud!" s

l voice and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air. But he remained serious and earne

guessed, and know, that the man who hides his identity under that strange pseudonym, i

sigh, "I dare swear he is. . . . Fran

of France, and should be ready to he

nce," she retorted proudly; "as for me, I

mies of the people-to escape from the just punishment which they deserve. You know as well as I do, citoyenne, that once they are over here, those French EMIGRES try to rouse public feeling against the Republic . . . They are ready to join issue with any enemy bold enough to attack France . . . Now, within the last month scores of these EMIGRES, some only suspected of treason, others actually condemned by the Tribunal of Public Safety, have succeeded in crossing the Channel. Their escape in each instance was planned, organized and effected by this society of

often an unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste, of whom the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive was so typical an example; but republican and liberal-minded though she was from principle, she hated and loathed the methods which the young Republic had chosen for establishing itself. She had not been in Paris for some months; the horrors

young men, from a horrible death, her heart had glowed with pride for them, and now, as Chauvelin spoke, her very soul went out to the gallant a

sband's voice or his inane laugh, her thoughts had gone wandering in search of the mysterious hero! Ah! there was a man she might have loved, had he come her way: everything in him appealed to her romantic im

or France,

sterious hero had vanished, and, not twenty yards away from her, a ma

assumed flippancy, "you are astonishing.

uatingly, "Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London, so

hought of contempt on the small, thin figure before her. "Easy! you seem to forget that there are six feet of S

, citoyenne!" reiterate

n if you did know who this Scarlet Pimpernel

nd him to the guillotine first to cool his ardour, then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it, we ca

as from some noisome insect. "Whoever the man may be, he is brave and nob

by every French aristocrat

e's fresh young cheeks became a touch more pale and she bit her unde

an defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty work for you-or for Fran

Marguerite Blakeney turned her back o

, as a flood of light from the passage illumined her el

speaking over her shoulder at h

king a pinch of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub, but his shrewd, fox-like face looked neither abashed nor disap