The Scarlet Pimpernel: A Daring Tale of Courage - Chapter 08

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Audio Books presents The Scarlet Pimpernel by baroness or Z,
Chapter eight, The Accredited Agent. The afternoon was rapidly drawing
to a close, and a long, chilly English summer's evening
was throwing a misty pall over the green Kentish landscape.

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The day dream had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood
alone on the edge of the cliff over an hour,
watching those white sails which bore so swiftly away from her,
the only being who really cared for her, whom she
dared to love, whom she knew she could trust. Some
little distance away to her left, the lights from the
coffee room of the Fisherman's Rest glittered yellow in the

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gathering mist. From time to time, it seemed to her
aching nerves, as if she could catch from thence the
sound of merry making and of jovial talk, or even
that perpetual, senseless laugh of her husband's which grated continually
upon her sensitive ears. Sir Percy had had the delicacy
to leave her severely alone. She supposed that, in his

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own stupid, good natured way, he may have understood that
she would wish to remain alone. While those white sails
disappeared into the vague horizon so many miles away. He
whose notions of propriety and decorum were super sensitive, had
not suggested even that an attendant should remain within call.
Marguerite was grateful to her husband for all this. She

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always tried to be grateful to him, for his thoughtfulness,
which was constant, and for his generosity, which really was boundless.
She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter
thoughts of him, which made her, in spite of herself,
say cruel, insulting things which she vaguely hoped would wound him. Yes,

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she often wished to wound him, to make him feel
that she too held him in contempt, that she too
had forgotten, that she had almost loved him, loved that
inane fop whose thoughts seemed unable to 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

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attuned to this calm summer's evening came wafted back to
her memory on the invisible wings of the light sea breeze.
The time when first he worshiped her. He seemed so devoted,
a very slave, and there was a certain latent intensity
in that love which had fascinated her. Then suddenly that love,
that devotion which throughout his courtship she had looked upon

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as the slavish fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanish completely.
Twenty four hours after the simple little ceremony at Old
Saint Roch, she had told him the story of how
inadvertently she had spoken of certain matters connected with the
Marquis de Saint Cyr before some men her friends, who
had used this information against the unfortunate Marquis and sent

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him and his family to the guillotine. She hated the marquis.
Years ago, armand her dear brother loved Angels de Saint Cyr,
but Saint just was a plebeian, and the Marquis full
of the pride and arrogant prejudices of his caste. One day,
armand the respectful, timid lover ventured on sending a small
poem enthusiastic, ardent, passionate to the idol of his dreams.

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The next night he was waylaid just outside Paris by
the valets of Marquis Saint 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 aristocrat. The incident was one which, in those days,
some two years before the Great Revolution, was of almost
daily occurrence in France. Incidents of that type in fact,

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led to bloody reprisals, which a few years later sent
most of those haughty heads to the guillotine. Marguerite remembered
it all what her brother must have suffered in his manhood,
and his pride must have been appalling. What she suffered
through him and with him, she never attempted even to analyze.
Then the day of retribution came. Saint Cyr and his

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kin had found their masters in those same plebeians whom
they had despised. Armand and Marguerite, both intellectual, thinking beings, adopted,
with the enthusiasm of their years, the utopian doctrines of
the Revolution, while the Marquis de Saint 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,

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not calculating the purpose of her words. Still smarting under
the terrible insult her brother had suffered at the Marquise's hands,
happened to hear amongst her own cotery that the Saint
Cyr's were in treasonable correspondence with Austria, hoping to obtain
the Emperor's support to quell the growing revolution in their
own country. In those days, one denunciation was sufficient. Marguerite's

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few thoughtless words, and then to the Marquis de Saint
Cyr bore fruit. Within twenty four hours, he was arrested,
his papers were searched, letters from the Austrian Emperor promising
to send troops against the Paris populace were found in
his desk. He was a ra aim for treason against
the nation and sent to the guillotine, whilst his family,
his wife and his sons shared in this awful fate. Marguerite,

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horrified at the terrible consequences of her own thoughtlessness, was
powerless to save the Marquis his own cottery, her own cottery.
The leaders of the revolutionary movement all proclaimed her as
a heroine, and when she married Sir Percy Blakeney, she
did not perhaps altogether realize how severely he would look
upon the sin which she had so inadvertently committed, and

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which still lay heavily upon her soul. She made full
confession of it to her husband, trusting his blind love
for her a boundless power over him to soon make
him forget what might have sounded unpleasant to an English ear.
Certainly at the moment he seemed to take it very quietly. Hardly,
in fact, did he appear to understand the meaning of
all she said. But what was more certain still was

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that never after that could she detect the slightest sign
of that love which she once believed had been wholly hers.
Now they had drifted quite apart, and Sir Percy 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, endeavoring
to excite his jealousy. If she could not rouse his love,

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tried to gold him to self assertion, But all in
vain he remained the same, always passive, drawling, sleepy, always courteous,
invariably a gentleman. She had all that the world and
a wealthy husband can give to a pretty woman. Yet,
on this beautiful summer's evening, with the white sails of
the day dream finally hidden by the evening shadows, she

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felt more lonely than that poor tramp who plodded his
way wearily along the rugged cliffs. With another sigh, Marguerite
Blakeney turned her back upon the sea and cliffs and
walked slowly back towards the Fisherman's Rest. As she drew near,
the sound of revelry, of gay jovial laughter grew louder
and more distinct. She could distinguish Sir Andrew Folke's pleasant voice,

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Lord Tony's boisterous guffaws, her husband's occasional drawlly sleepy comments. Then,
realizing the loneliness of the road in the fast gathering
gloom round her, she quickened her steps. The next moment
she perceived a stranger coming rapidly towards her. Marguerite did
not look up. She was not the least nervous, and
the Fisherman's Rest was now well within call. The stranger

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paused when he saw Marguerite coming quickly towards him, and
just as she was about to slip past him, he
said very quietly citoyen, Saint Just Marguerite uttered a little
cry of astonishment at thus hearing her own familiar maiden
name uttered so close to her. She looked up at
the stranger, and this time with a cry of unfeigned pleasure,
she put out both her hands effusively towards him. Chauvelin,

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she exclaimed himself. Citoyen, at your service, said the stranger,
gallantly kissing the tips of her fingers. Marguerite said nothing
for a moment or two, as she surveyed with obvious
delight the not very prepossessing little figure before her. Chauvelin
was then nearer forty than thirty, a clever, rude looking
personality with a curious fox like expression in the deep

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sunken eyes. He was the same stranger who an hour
or two previously had joined mister Jellyband in a friendly
glass of wine. Chauvelin, my friend, said Marguerite, with a
pretty little sigh of satisfaction. I am mightily pleased to
see you, No doubt, poor Marguerite, Saint just, lonely in
the midst of her grandeur and of her starchy friends,

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was happy to see a face that brought back memories
of that happy time in Paris, when she reigned a
queen over the intellectual Caxeri of the Rue de Richelieu.
She did not notice the sarcastic little smile, however, that
hovered round the thin lips of Chauvelin. But tell me,
she added, merrily, what in the world, or whom in
the world are you doing here in England? I might

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return the subtle compliment, fair lady, he said, what of yourself?
Oh ay, she said, with a shrug of the shoulders.
Germainuis moun ami, That is all. They had reached the
porch of the Fisherman's Rest, but Marguerite seemed loaf to
go within. The evening air was lovely after the storm,
and she had found a friend who exhaled the breath
of Paris, who knew armound well, who could talk of

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all the merry, brilliant friends whom she had left behind.
So she lingered on under the pretty porch a while.
Through the gaily lighted dormer window of the coffee room,
sounds of laughter, of calls for Sallie and for beer,
of tapping of mugs and clinking of dice mingled with
Sir Percy Blakeney's inane and mirthless laugh. Chauvelin stood beside her,

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his shrewd, pale yellow eyes fixed on the pretty face,
which looked so sweet and childlike in this soft English
summer twilight. You surprise me, citoyen, he said, quietly, as
he took a pinch of snuff. Do I now, she
retorted gaily, faith my little chauvelin, I should have thought that,
with your penetration, you would have guessed that an atmosphere

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composed of fogs and virtues would never suit marguerite saint.
Just dear me. Is it as bad as that? He
asked in mock consternation, Quite, she retorted, and worse strange.
Now I thought that a pretty woman would have found
English country life peculiarly attractive. Yes, so did I, she said,

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with a sigh. Pretty women, she added meditatively, ought to
have a good time in England, since all the pleasant
things have forbidden them, the very things they do every day.
Quite so, you'll hardly believe it, my little chauvelin, she
said earnestly. But I often pass a whole day, a
whole day without encountering a single temptation. No wonder retorted

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Chauvelin gallantly, that the cleverest woman in Europe is troubled
with on me. She laughed, one of her melodious, rippling,
childlike laughs. It must be pretty bad, mustn't it, she
asked archly, Or I should not have been so pleased
to see you, and this within a year of a
romantic love match. That's just the difficulty. Ah, that idyllic folly,

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said Chauvelin, with quiet sarcasm, did not then survive the
lapse of we I Dilic follies never last, my little Chauvelin.
They come upon us like the measles, and are as
easily cured. Chauvelin took another pinch of snuff. He seemed
very much addicted to that pernicious habit so prevalent in
those days. Perhaps too, he found the taking of snuff

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a convenient veil for disguising the quick, shrewd glances with
which he strove to read the very souls of those
with whom he came in contact. No wonder, he repeated,
with the same gallantry, that the most active brain in
Europe is troubled with arnui. I was in hopes that
you had a prescription against the malady, my little Chauvelin,
how can I hope to succeed in that which Sir

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Percy Blakeney has failed to accomplish? Shall we leave Sir
Percy out of the question for the present, my dear friend,
She said, drily, Ah, my dear lady, pardon me, but
that is just what we cannot very well do, said Chauvelin,
whilst once again his eyes keen as those of a
fox on the alert, darted a quick glance at Marguerite.
I have a most puffin prescription against the worst form

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of arnui, which I would have been happy to submit
to you. But but what there is, Sir Percy, what
has he to do with it? Quite a good deal?
I am afraid the prescription I would offer, fair lady,
is called by a very purveyant name, work Work. Chauvelin
looked at Marguerite long and scrutinizingly. It seemed as if

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those keen, pale eyes of his were reading every one
of her thoughts. They were alone together, 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 two from under the porch, looked
quickly and keenly all round him. Then, seeing that indeed
no one was within earshot, he once more came back

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close to Marguerite. Will you render France a small service? Citoyen?
He asked, with a sudden change of manner, which lent
his thin fox like face a singular earnestness. La man,
she replied, flippantly, How serious you look all of a sudden. Indeed,
I do not know if I would render France a
small service at any rate. It depends upon the kind

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of service she or you want. Have you ever heard
of the scarlet pimpernel, citoyen, Saint just asked chauvelin abruptly.
Lad of the scarlet pimpernel, she retorted with a long
and merry laugh, faith man, we talk of nothing else.
We have hats a la scarlet pimpernel. Our horses are
called scarlet pimpernel. At the Prince of Wales's supper party

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the other night we had a souffle a la scarlet pimpernel, learned,
she added gaily. The other day I ordered at my
milliner's a blue dress trimmed with green, and bless me
if she did not call that ala scarlet pimpernel. Chauvelin
had not moved while she prattled merrily along. He did
not even attempt to stop her when her musical voice
and her childlike laugh went echoing through the still evening air.

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But he remained serious and earnest whilst she laughed, and
his voice, clear, incisive and hard, was not raised above
his breath, as he said, Then, as you have heard
of that enigmatic personage, Citoyenne, you must also have guessed
and know that the man who hides his identity under
that strange pseudonym is the most bitter enemy of our
Republic of France, of men like armand Saint just La.

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She said, with a quaint little sigh. I dare swear
he is. Franz has many bitter enemies these days. But you, Citoyenne,
are a daughter of France, and should be ready to
help her in a moment of deadly peril. My brother
Armand devotes his life to France, she retorted, proudly. As
for me, I can do nothing here in England. Yes, you,

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he urged, still more earnestly, whilst his thin fox like
face seems suddenly to have grown impressive and full of
dignity here in England. Citoyenne, you alone can help us. Listen,
I have been sent over here by the Republican government
as its representative. I present my credentials to mister Pitt
in London to morrow. One of my duties here is

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to find out all about this League of the Scarlet Pimpernel,
which has become a standing menace to France, since it
is pledged to help our cursed aristocrats, traitors to their
country and enemies of the people, to escape from the
just punishment which they deserve. You know as well as
I do, Citoyenne, that once there over here those French
emi cree try to rouse public feeling against the Republic,

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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 affected by this society of young English jackanapes,

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headed by a man whose brain seems as resourceful as
his identity is mysterious. All the most strenuous efforts on
the part of my spies have failed to discover who
he is. Whilst the others are the hands. He is
the head, who, beneath his strange anonymity, calmly works of
the destruction of France. I mean to strike at that head,
and for this I want your help through him. Afterwards

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I can reach the rest of the gang. He is
a young buck in English society. Of that I feel sure.
Find that man for me, citoyenne, he urged, find him
for France. Marguerite had listened to Chauvelin's impassioned speech without
uttering a word, scarce making a movement, hardly daring to breathe.
She had told him before that this mysterious hero of

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Romance was the talk of the smart sect to which
she belonged. Already before this, her heart and her imagination
had stirred by the thought of the brave man who,
unknown to fame, had rescued hundreds of lives from a terrible,
often unmerciful fate. She had but little real sympathy with
those haughty French aristocrats, insolent in their pride of caste

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of whom the comtes de Dournay 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 and
bluntchet of the reign of terror culminating in the September
massacres had only come across the channel to her as

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a faint echo Robespiere dan don Marraud. She had not
known in their new guise of bloody judiciaries, merciless wielders
of the guillotine. Her very soul recoiled in horror from
these successes, to which she feared her brother, armand moderate
Republican as he was, might become one day the holocaust. Then,

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when first she heard of this band of young English enthusiasts, who,
for sheer love of their fellow men, dragged women and children,
old and 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 and mysterious
leader of the reckless little band, who risked his life daily,

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who gave it freely and without ostentation, for the sake
of humanity. Her eyes were moist. When Chauvelin had finished speaking,
the lace at her bosom rose and fell with her
quick excited breathing. She no longer heard the noise of
drinking from the inn. She did not heed her husband's
voice or his inane laugh. Her thoughts had gone wandering
in search of the mysterious hero. Ah. Here was a

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man she might have loved, had he come her way.
Everything in him appealed to her romantic imagination, his personality,
his strength, his bravery, the loyalty of those who served
under him in that same noble cause, and above all
that anonymity which crowned him, as if with a halo
of romantic glory. Find him, for Francitoyenne. Chauvelin's voice, close

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to her ear, roused her from her dreams. The mysterious
hero had vanished, and not twenty yards away from her
a man was drinking and laughing to whom she had
sworn faith and loyalty. Hlah Man, she said, with a
return of her assumed flippancy. You are astonishing. Where in
the world am I to look for him. You go everywhere, Citoyenne,

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whispered Chauvelin, insinuatingly, Lady Blakeney is the pivot of social London.
So I am told you see everything, you hear everything, Easy,
my friend, retorted Marguerite, drawing herself up to her full
height and looking down with a slight thought of contempt
on the small, thin figure before her. Easy, you seem
to forget that there are six feet of Sir Percy

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Blakeney and a long line of ancestors to stand between
Lady Blakeney and such a thing as you propose for
the sake of France. Citoyenne, reiterated Chauvelin, earnestly, tush man,
you talk nonsense anyway, For even if you did know
who this scarlet pimpernel is, you could do nothing to him.
An Englishman, I'd take my chance of that, said Chauvelin

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with a dry, rasping little laugh. At any rate, we
could send him to the guillotine first to cool his
ardor then, when there is a diplomatic fuss about it,
we can apologize humbly to the British government, and if necessary,
pay compensation to the bereaved family. What you propose is horrible, Chauvelin,
she said, drawing away from him as from some noisome insect.

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Whoever the man may be, he is brave and noble.
And never do you hear me, Never would I lend
a hand to such villainy. You prefer to be insulted
by every French aristocrat who comes to this country. Chauvelin
had taken sure aim when he shot this tiny shaft.
Marguerite's fresh young cheeks became a thought more pale, and
she bit her under lip, for she would not let

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him see that the shaft had struck home. That is
beside the question, she said, at last, with indifference. I
can defend myself, but I refuse to do any dirty
work for you or for France. You have other means
at your disposal. You must use them, my friend, And
without another look at Chauvelin, Marguerite Blakeney turned her back
on him and walked straight into the inn. That is

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not your last word, citoyenne, said Chauvelin, as a flood
of light from the passage loomined her elegant, richly clad figure.
We meet in London, I hope we meet in London.
She said, speaking over her shoulder at him. But that
is my last word. She threw open the coffee room
door and disappeared from his view, but he remained under

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the porch for a moment or two, taking a pinch
of snuff. He had received a rebuke and a snub,
but his shrewd fox like face looked neither abashed nor disappointed.
On the contrary, a curious smile, half sarcastic and wholly satisfied,
played around the corners of his thin lips. End of

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Chapter eight. Dream Audiobooks hopes you have enjoyed this program.