The Scarlet Pimpernel: A Daring Tale of Courage - Chapter 06

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Audio Books presents the Scarlet Pimpernel by baroness or Z,
Chapter six, an exquisite of ninety two. Sir Percy Blakeney,
as the Chronicles of the time informos, was in this
year of grace seventeen ninety two, still a year or
two on the right side of thirty, tall above the
average even for an Englishman, broad shouldered and massively built,

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he would have been called unusually good looking, but for
a certain lazy expression in his deep set blue eyes,
and that perpetual inane laugh which seemed to disfigure his strong,
clearly cut mouth. It was nearly a year ago now
that Sir Percy Blakeney, Baronet, one of the richest men
in England, leader of all the fashions, and intimate friend
of the Prince of Wales, had astonished fashionable society in

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London and Bath by bringing home from one of his
journeys abroad a beautiful, fascinating, clever French wife. He the sleepiest, dullest,
most British Britisher that had ever set a pretty woman yawning,
had secured a brilli and matrimonial prize, for which, as
all chroniclers of her there had been many competitors. Marguerite
Saint Just had first made her debut in artistic Parisian

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circles at the very moment when the greatest social upheaval
the world has ever known was taking place within its
very walls. Scarcely eighteen, lavishly gifted with beauty and talent,
chaperoned only by a young and devoted brother, she had
soon gathered round her in her charming apartment in the Ruchelieu,
a coterie which was as brilliant as it was exclusive. Exclusive,

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that is to say, only from one point of view.
Marguerite Saint Just was, from principle and by conviction, a
Republican equality of birth was her motto. Inequality of fortune
was in her eyes, a mere untoward accident. But the
only inequality she admitted was that of talent. Money and
titles may be hereditary, she would stay, but brains are not.

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And thus her charming salon was reserved for originality and intellect,
for brilliance and wit, for clever men and talented women,
and the entrance into it was soon looked upon in
the world of intellect, which, even in those days and
in those troublous times, found its pivot in Paris as
the seal to an artistic career. Clever men, distinguished men,

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and even men of exalted station formed a perpetual and
brilliant court round the fascinating young actress of the comedy Francaise,
and she glided through republican, revolutionary, bloodthirsty Paris like a
shining comet with a trail behind her. Of all that
was most distinguished, most interesting in intellectual Europe, then the
climax came. Some smiled indulgently and called it an artistic eccentricity.

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Others looked upon it as a wise provision in view
of the many events which were crowding, thick and fast
in Paris just then. But to all the real motive
of that climax remained a puzzle and a mystery. Anyway,
Marguerite Saint just married to Percy Blakeney one fine day,
just like that, without any warning to her friends, without
a souire de condred or or dinele fiancee or other

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ippurtenances of a fashionable French wedding. How that stupid, dull englishman, ever,
came to be admitted within the intellectual circle which reolved
round the cleverest woman in Europe, as her friends unanimously
called her, No one ventured to guess golden key is
said to open every door, asserted the more malignantly inclined
enough she married him, and the cleverest woman in Europe

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had linked her fate to that dmned idiot Blakeney, And
not even her most intimate friends could assign to this
strange step any other motive than that of supreme eccentricity.
Those friends who knew laughed to scorn the idea that
Marguerite Saint just had married a fool for the sake
of the worldly advantages with which he might endow her.
They knew as a matter of fact that Marguerite Saint

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just cared nothing about money, and still less about a title. Moreover,
there were at least half a dozen other men in
the cosmopolitan world, equally well born, if not so wealthy,
as Blakeney, who would have been only too happy to
give Marguerite Saint just any position she might choose to covert.
As for Sir Percy himself, he was universally voted to
be totally unqualified for the honorous post he had taken

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upon himself. His chief qualifications for it seemed to consist
in his blind adoration for her, his great wealth, and
the high favor in which he stood at the English court.
But London society thought that, taking into consideration his own
intellectual limitations, it would have been wiser on his part
had he bestowed those worldly advantages upon a less brilliant
and witty wife. Although lately he had been so prominent

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a figure and fashionable English society, he had spent most
of his early life abroad. His father, the late Sir
Algernon Blakeney, had had the terrible misfortune of seeing an
idolized young wife become hopelessly insane after two years of
happy married life. Percy had just been born when the
late Lady Blakeney fell prey to the terrible malady, which

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in those days was looked upon as hopelessly incurable and
nothing short of a curse of God upon the entire family.
Sir Algernon took his afflicted young wife abroad, and there,
presumably Percy was educated and grew up between an imbecile
mother and a distracted father until he attained his majority.
The death of his parents, following close one upon another,

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left him a free man, and as Sir Algernon had
led a forcibly simple and retired life, the large Blakeney
fortune had increased tenfold. Sir Percy Blakeney had traveled a
great deal abroad before he brought home his beautiful, young
French wife. The fashionable circles of the time were ready
to receive them both with open arms. Sir Percy was rich,
his wife was accomplished. The Prince of Wales took a

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very great liking to them both. Within six months they
were the acknowledged leaders of fashion and of style. Sir
Percy's coats were the talk of the town. His inanities
were quoted, his foolish laugh copied by the gilded youth
at Ormac's or the Moor. Everyone knew that he was
hopelessly stupid, but then that was scarcely to be wondered at,
seeing that all the Blakeneys for generations had been notoriously dull,

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and that his mother died in imbecile. Thus society accepted him,
petted him, made much of him. Since his horses were
the finest in the country, his fates and wines the
most sought after. As for his marriage with the cleverest
woman in Europe. Well, the inevitable came with sure and
rapid footsteps. No one pitied him, since his fate was
of his own making. There were plenty of young ladies

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in England, of high birth and good looks, who would
have been quite willing to help him spend the Blakeney fortune,
whilst smiling indulgently at his inanities and his good humored foolishness. Moreover,
Sir Percy got no pity because he seemed to require none.
He seemed very proud of his clever wife, and to
care little that she took no pains to disguise that
good natured contempt which he evidently felt for him, and

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that she even amused herself by sharpening her ready wits
at his expense. But then Blakeney was really too stupid
to notice the ridicule with which his wife covered him,
And if his matrimonial relations with the fascinating Parisienne had
not turned out all that his hopes and his dog
like devotion for her had pictured, society could never do
more than vaguely guess at it. In his beautiful house

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at Richmond, he played second fiddle to his clever wife
with imperturbable bonomie. He lavished jewels and luxuries of all
kinds upon her, which she took with inimitable grace, dispensing
the hospitality of his superb mansion with the same graciousness
with which he had welcomed the intellectual cottereri of Paris. Physically,
Sir Percy Blakeney was undeniably handsome, Always excepting the lazy,

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bored look which was habitual to him, he was always
irreproachably dressed, and wore the exaggerated, unquoiyable of fashions which
had just crept across from Paris to England, with the
perfect good taste innate in an English gentleman. On this
special afternoon in September, in spite of the long journey
by coach, in spite of rain and mud, his coat
sat irreproachably across his fine shoulders. His hands looked almost

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femininely white as they emerged through billowy frills of the
finest Mechlin lace. The extravagantly short waisted satin coat, wide
lapelled waistcoat, and tight fitting striped bridges set off his
massive figure to perfection and in repose one might have
admired so fine a specimen of english manhood until the
foppish ways, the affected movements, the perpetual inane laugh brought

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one's admiration of Sir Percy Blakeney to an abrupt close.
He had lolled into the old fashioned inn parlor, shaking
the wet off his fine overcoat, then putting up a
gold rimmed eye glass to his lazy blue eye. He
surveyed the company upon whom an embarrassed silence had suddenly fallen.
How do tony, how do folks? He said, recognizing the

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two young men and shaking them by the hands. Zounds,
My dear fellow, he added, smothering a slight yawn. Did
you ever see such a beastly day damned climate? This
with a quaint little laugh, half of embarrassment and half
of sarcasm. Marguerite had turned towards her husband and was
surveying him from head to foot, with an amused little
twinkle in her merry blue eyes, Ah, said Sir Percy,

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after a moment or two silence, as no one offered
any comment, How sheepish you all? Look? What's up? Oh? Nothing,
Sir Percy replied, marguerite with a certain amount of gaiety, which, however,
sounded somewhat forced. Nothing to disturb your equanimity, only an
insult to your wife. The laugh which accompanied this remark
was evidently intended to reassure Sir Percy as to the

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gravity of the incident. It apparently succeeded in that for
echoing the laugh, he rejoined placidly, Lah, my dear, you
don't say so, be gad who was the bold man
who dared to tackle you? Eh? Lord Tony tried to interpose,
but had no time to do so, for the young
vicomte had already quickly stepped forward. Monsieur, he said, prefixing

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his little speech with an elaborate bow and speaking in
broken English, My mother, the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive,
has offenced madame, who I see is your wife. I
cannot ask your bowdon for my mother what she does
is right in my eyes, but I am ready to
offer you the usual reparation between men of honor. The
young man drew up his slim stature to its full

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height and looked very enthusiastic, very proud, and very hot
as he gazed at six foot odd of gorgeousness as
represented by Sir Pursely Blakeney, Baronet lud Sir Andrew, said, Marguerite,
with one of her merry infectious laughs. Look on that
pretty picture the English Turkey and the French bantam vs.
Simile was quite perfect, and the English Turkey looked down

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with complete bewilderment upon the dainty little French bantam which
hovered quite threateningly around him. Laugh, Sir, said Sir Percy,
at last, putting up his eye glass and surveying the
young Frenchman with undisguised wonderment, Where in the cacou's name
did you learn to speak English? Monsieur protested the Vicomte,
somewhat abashed at the way his warlike attitude had been

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taken by the ponderous looking englishman. I protest his marvelous,
continued Sir Percy, imperturbably demned, marvelous. Don't you think so? Tony? Eh?
I vow I can't speak French LINGO like that? What nay,
I'll vouch for that, rejoined Marguerite. Sir Percy has a
British accent you could cut with a knife, Monsieur interposed.

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The Vicomte earnestly, and in still more broken English, I
fear you have not understand. I offer you the only
possible reparation among gentlemen. What the devil is that, asked
Sir Percy. Blandly my sword, Monsieur replied the Vicomte, who,
though still bewildered, was beginning to lose his temper. You

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are a sportsman, Lord Tony, said Marguerite merrily, ten to
one on the little bantam. But Sir Percy was staring
sleepily at the Vicomte for a moment or two through
his partly closed heavy lids. Then he smothered another yawn,
stretched his long limbs, and turned leisurely away. Lad love you, sir,
he muttered, good humoredly, damn it, young man, what's the
good of your soul to me? What the Vicomte thought

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and felt at that moment, when that long limbed Englishman
treated him with such marked insolence might fill volumes of
sound reflections. What he said resolved itself into a single
articulate word, for all the others were choked in his
throat by his surging wrath. Adieul Monsieur, he stammered. Once more.
Blakeney turned and from his high altitude, looked down on

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the choleric little man before him. But not even for
a second did he seem to lose his own imperturbable
good humor. He laughed his own pleasant and inane laugh, and,
burying his slender, long hands into the capacious pockets of
his overcoat, he said leisurely, a bloodthirsty young Ruffian, do
you want to make a whole and lure abiding man?

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As for me, sir, I never fight duels, he added,
as he placidly sat down and stretched his long, lazy
legs out before him. Damned uncomfortable things, duels, ain't they? Tony? Now?
The Vicomte had no doubt vaguely heard that in England
the fashion of dueling amongst gentlemen had been suppressed by
the law. With a very stern hand still to him,

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a Frenchman whose notions of bravery and honor were based
upon a code that had centuries of tradition to back it,
the spectacle of a gentleman actually refusing to fight a
duel was little short of an enormity. In his mind,
he vaguely pondered whether he should strike that long legged
Englishman in the face and call him a coward, or
whether such conduct in a lady's presence might be deemed ungentlemanly.

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When Marguerite happily interposed, I pray you, Lord Tony, she said,
in that gentle, sweet musical voice of hers, I pray
you play the peacemaker. The child is bursting with rage.
And she added, with a sous song of dry sarcasm,
might do Sir Percy an injury. She added a mocking
little laugh, which however, did not in the least disturb

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her husband's placid equanimity. The British Turkey has had the day,
she said, Sir Percy would provoke all the saints in
the calendar and keep his temper the while. But already Blakeney,
good humored as ever, had joined in the laugh against himself.
Dn Smart that now, wasn't it, he said, turning pleasantly
to the Vicomte clever woman my wife, Sir, you will

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find that out if you live long enough in England.
Sir Percy is right to Vicomte. Here, interposed Lord Antony,
laying a friendly hand on the young Frenchman's shoulder. It
would hardly be fitting that you should commence your career
in England by provoking him to a duel for a
moment longer. The Vicomte hesitated. Then, with a slight shrug
of the shoulders, directed against the extraordinary code of honor

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prevailing in this fog ridden island, he said, with becoming dignity. Ah, well,
if Monsieur is satisfied, I have no griefs you Millor
are at protector. If I have done wrong, I withdraw myself.
I do rejoined Blakeney, with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Withdraw yourself over there, damned excitable little puppy, he added

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under his breath. Faith folks, if that's a specimen of
the goods you and your friends bring over from France,
my advice to you is drop a mid channel, my friend,
or I shall have to see oh pit about it,
Get him to clap on a prohibitive tariff and put
you in the stocks in you smuggle las, Sir Percy,
your chivalry misguides, you said, marguerite coquettishly. You forget that

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you yourself have imported one bundle of goods from France.
Blakeney slowly rose to his feet, and making a deep
and elaborate bow before his wife, he said, with consummate gallantry.
I had the pick of the market, Madame, and my
taste is unerring, more so than your chivalry, I fear,
she retorted sarcastically. Odd's life, my dear, be reasonable? Do

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you think I am going to allow my body to
be made a pin cushion off by every little frogg
eater who don't like the shape of your nose? Long,
Sir Percy, laughed Lady Blakeney, as she bobbed him a
quaint and pretty curtsey. You need not be afraid. Tis
not the men who dislike the shape of my nose afraid?
Be damned? Do you impugne my bravery? Madame? I don't

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patronize the ring for nothing, do I? Tony. I've put
up the fists with Red sam before now, and and
he didn't get it all his own way either. It's faith,
Sir Percy, said Marguerite, with a long and merry laugh
that went echoing along the old oak rafters of the parlor.
Why would I had seen you then? You must have
looked a pretty picture. And to be afraid of a

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little French boy, ha ha ha ha ha ha, coed
Sir Percy, good humoredly flaw, madame, you honor me zeuks, folks,
mark you that I have made my wife laugh, the
cleverest woman in Europe. Odds fish. We must have a
bowl on that, and he tapped vigorously on the table

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near him. Hey, jelly quick man here jelly harmony was
once more restored. Mister Jellyband, with a mighty effort, recovered
himself from the many emotions he had experienced within the
last half hour. A bowl of punch, jelly, hot and strong. Eh,
said Sir Percy. The wits that have just made a
clever woman laugh must be whetted. Ha ha, hasten my good jelly. Nay,

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there is no time, Sir Percy, interposed Marguerite. The skipper
will be here directly, and my brother must get on
board or the daydream will miss the tide. Time, My dear,
there is plenty of time for verny gentleman to get
drunk and get on board before the turn of the tide.
I think your ladyship, said Jellyband respectfully, that the young
gentleman is coming along now with Sir Percy's skipper. That's right,

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said Blakeney. Then armand can join us. In the merry bowl.
Think you tony, he added, turning towards the Vicomte, that
the Jackanapes of yours will join us in a glass,
tell him that we'd drink in token of reconciliation. In fact,
you are all such merry company, said Marguerite, that I
trust you will forgive me if I bid my brother
good bye in another room. It would have been bad

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form to protest. Both Lord Antony and Sir Andrew felt
that Lady Blakeney could not altogether be in tune with
them at the moment. Her love for her brother armand
Saint just was deep and touching in the extreme. He
had just spent a few weeks with her in her
English home and was going back to serve his country
at the moment when death was the usual reward for
the most enduring devotion. Sir Percy also made no attempt

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to detain his wife with that perfect, somewhat affected gallantry
which characterized his every movement. He opened the coffee room
door for her and made her the most approved and
elaborate bow, which the fashion of the time dictated, as
she sailed out of the room without bestowing on him
more than a passing slightly contemptuous glance. Only Sir Andrew Folkes,
whose every thought since he had met Suzanne de d'urnay

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seemed keener, more gentle, more innately sympathetic, noted the curious
look of intense longing, of deep and hopeless passion with
which the inane and flippant Sir Percy followed the retreating
figure of his brilliant wife. End of Chapter six. Dream
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