The Elusive Pimpernel

I Paris: 1793

There was not even a reaction.

On! ever on! in that wild, surging torrent; sowing the wind of anarchy, of terrorism, of lust of blood and hate, and reaping a hurricane of destruction and of horror.

On! ever on! France, with Paris and all her children still rushes blindly, madly on; defies the powerful coalition⁠—Austria, England, Spain, Prussia, all joined together to stem the flow of carnage⁠—defies the Universe and defies God!

Paris this September 1793!⁠—or shall we call it Vendemiaire, Year I of the Republic?⁠—call it what we will! Paris! a city of bloodshed, of humanity in its lowest, most degraded aspect. France herself a gigantic self-devouring monster, her fairest cities destroyed, Lyons razed to the ground, Toulon, Marseilles, masses of blackened ruins, her bravest sons turned to lustful brutes or to abject cowards seeking safety at the cost of any humiliation.

That is thy reward, oh mighty, holy Revolution! apotheosis of equality and fraternity! grand rival of decadent Christianity.

Five weeks now since Marat, the bloodthirsty Friend of the People, succumbed beneath the sheath-knife of a virgin patriot, a month since his murderess walked proudly, even enthusiastically, to the guillotine! There has been no reaction⁠—only a great sigh!⁠ ⁠… Not of content or satisfied lust, but a sigh such as the man-eating tiger might heave after his first taste of long-coveted blood.

“Perhaps, Citizen Chauvelin,” said the latter at last, “you have already guessed what there is left for me to say. But lest there should remain in your mind one faint glimmer of doubt or of hope, let me tell you this. The Revolutionary Government gives you this chance of redeeming your failure, but this one only; if you fail again, your outraged country will know neither pardon nor mercy. Whether you return to France or remain in England, whether you travel North, South, East or West, cross the Oceans, or traverse the Alps, the hand of an avenging People will be upon you. Your second failure will be punished by death, wherever you may be, either by the guillotine, if you are in France, or if you seek refuge elsewhere, then by the hand of an assassin.

“Look to it, Citizen Chauvelin! for there will be no escape this time, not even if the mightiest tyrant on earth tried to protect you, not even if you succeeded in building up an empire and placing yourself upon a throne.”

“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 apologize to Mademoiselle Candeille for this insult 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 breeches; 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 tie a Mechlin-edged bow.”

“Sir Percy,” retorted Chauvelin firmly, “since you will not offer Mademoiselle Candeille the apology which she has the right to expect from you, are you prepared that you and I should cross swords 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 ⁠…”

“Sir?”

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! a terrible word these times! since Merlin’s terrible law decreed now that every man, woman or child, who was suspected by the Republic of being a traitor, was a traitor in fact.

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.

In a moment Chauvelin was on his feet and with eyes dilated, lips parted in awed bewilderment, he was gazing towards the open window, where astride upon the sill, one leg inside the room, the other out, and with the moon shining full on his suit of delicate-coloured cloth, his wide caped coat and elegant chapeau-bras, sat the imperturbable Sir Percy.

“I heard you muttering such pleasant words, Monsieur,” continued Blakeney calmly, “that the temptation seized me to join in the conversation. A man talking to himself is ever in a sorry plight⁠ ⁠… he is either a madman or a fool⁠ ⁠…”

He laughed his own quaint and inane laugh and added apologetically:

“Far be if from me, sir, to apply either epithet to you⁠ ⁠… demmed bad form calling another fellow names⁠ ⁠… just when he does not quite feel himself, eh?⁠ ⁠… You don’t feel quite yourself, I fancy just now⁠ ⁠… eh, Monsieur Chaubertin⁠ ⁠… er⁠ ⁠… beg pardon, Chauvelin⁠ ⁠…”

He sat there quite comfortably, one slender hand resting on the gracefully-fashioned hilt of his sword⁠—the sword of Lorenzo Cenci⁠—the other holding up the gold-rimed eyeglass through which he was regarding his avowed enemy; he was dressed as for a ball, and his perpetually amiable smile lurked round the corners of his firm lips.

Chauvelin had undoubtedly for the moment lost his presence of mind. He did not even think of calling to his picked guard, so completely taken aback was he by this unforeseen move on the part of Sir Percy.