The Scarlet Pimpernel: A Daring Tale of Courage - Chapter 10

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Audio Books presents The Scarlet Pimpernel by baroness or Z,
Chapter ten in the opera box. It was one of
the gala nights at Covent Garden Theater, the first of
the autumn season in this memorable year of Grace seventeen
ninety two. The house was well packed, both in the

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smart orchestra boxes and in the pit, as well as
in the more plebeian balconies and galleries above. Gluck's orpheus
made a strong appeal to the more intellectual portions of
the house, whilst the fashionable women, the gaily dressed and
brilliant throng spoke to the eye of those who cared
but little for this latest importation from Germany. Selina Stores

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had been duly applauded after her Grand Aria by her
numerous admirers. Benjamin Klden, the acknowledged favorite of the ladies,
had received special gracious recognition from the Royal Box. And
now the curtain came down after the glorious finale to
the second act, and the audience, which had hung spellbound
on the magic strains of the great Maestro, seemed collectively

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to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction, previously letting loose
its hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues. In the smart
orchestra boxes, many well known faces were to be seen.
Mister Pitt, overweighted with cares of state, was finding brief
relaxation in to night's musical treat The Prince of Wales, jovial, rotund,
somewhat coarse and commonplace in appearance, moved about from box

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to box, spending brief quarters of an hour with those
of his more intimate friends. In Lord Grenville's box, too,
a curious, interesting personality attracted everyone's attention. A thin, small
figure with shrewd sarcastic face and deep set eyes, attentive
to the music, keenly critical of the audience, Dressed in
immaculate black, with dark hair free from any powder. Lord Grenville,

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foreign Secretary of State, paid him marked though frigid deference.
Here and there. Dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty,
one or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrasts
the haughty, aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French
royalist emigres who persecuted by the relentless revolutionary faction of

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their country had found a peaceful refuge in England. On
these faces, sorrow and care were deeply writ The women especially,
paid but little heed either to the music or to
the brilliant audience. No doubt, their thoughts were far away,
with husband, brother son, maybe still in peril or lately
succumbed to a cruel fate. Among these, the Comtesse de

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Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived from France, was a
most conspicuous figure, dressed in deep, heavy black silk, with
only a white lace handkerchief to relieve the aspect of
mourning about her person. She sat beside Lady Portarles, who
was vainly trying, by witty sallies in somewhat broad jokes
to bring a smile to the Comtesse's sad mouth. Behind

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her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and
somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne's eyes seemed whisper
when she first entered the crowded house. She had looked
eagerly all around, scanning every face, scrutinized every box. Evidently
the one face she wished to see was not there,
for she settled herself quietly behind. Her mother listened apathetically

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to the music and took no further interest in the
audience itself. Ah Lord Grenville, said, Lady portarles As. Following
a discreet knock, the clever, interesting head of the Secretary
of State appeared in the doorway of the box. You
could not arrive more apropos. Here is Madame la Comte
de Journay, positively dying to hear the latest news from France.

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The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands
with the ladies alas he said, sadly, it is of
the very worst. The massacres continue. Paris literally reeks with blood,
and the guillotine claims a hundred victims a day. Pale
and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair,
listening horror struck to this brief and graphic account of

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what went on in her own misguise country. Ah monsieur,
she said, in broken English, it is dreadful to hear
all that, and my poor husband still in that awful country.
It is terrible for me to be sitting here in
a theater all save friends in peace, while he is
in such beryl. Lad Madame said, honest bluff, Lady Portarles,

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you're sitting in a convent. Won't make your husband safe,
and you have your children to consider. They are too
young to be dosed with anxiety and premature mourning. The
Comtesse smiled through her tears at the vehemence of her friend.
Lady Portarles, whose voice and manner would not have misfitted
a jockey, had a heart of gold, and hid the
most genuine sympathy and most gentle kindliness beneath the somewhat

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coarse manners affected by some ladies at that time. Besides which,
Madame added, Lord Grenville, did you not tell me yesterday
that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had bledged their
honor to bring Monsieur le comte safely across the channel? Ah, yes,
replied the Comtesse, And that is my only hope. I
saw Lord Hastings yesterday, reassured me again. Then I am

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sure you need have no fear what the League have
sworn that they will surely accomplish. Ah, added the old diplomat,
with a side if I were but a few years younger,
lah Man interrupted, honest, Lady Portarles, you are still young
enough to turn your back on that French scarecrow that
sits enthroned in your box to night. I wish I could,

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but your ladyship must remember that in serving our country
we must put prejudices aside. Monsieur Chauvelin is the accredited
agent of his government. Odd's fish man, she retorted. You
don't call those bloodthirsty Ruffians over there a government, do you.
It has not been thought advisable as yet, said the Minister, guardedly,
for England to break off diplomatic relations with France, and

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we cannot therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agents
she wishes to send to US diplomatic relations. Be damned,
my lord, that sly little fox over there is nothing
but a spy. I'll warrant and you'll find, and I'm
much mistaken that he'll concern himself little with such diplomacy,
beyond trying to do mischief to Royalist refugees, to our
heroic scarlet pimpernel, and to the members of that brave

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little league. I am sure, said the Comtesse, pursing up
her thin lips, that if this Chauvelin wishes to do
us mischief, he will find a faithful ally in Lady Blakeney,
bless the woman ejaculated, Lady Portarles, Did ever anyone see
such pervacity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab.
Will you please explain to Madame la comtesse she is

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acting like a fool in your position here in England. Madame,
she added, turning a wrathful and resolute face toward the comptes.
You cannot afford to put on the hoity toity airs.
You French aristocrats are so fond of Lady Blakeney. May
or may not be in sympathy with those ruffians in France.
She may or may not have had anything to do
with the arrest and condemnation of Saint Ceo or whatever

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the man's name is. But she is the leader of
fashion in this country. Sir Percy Blakeney has more money
than any half dozen other men put together. He is
hand in love with Royalty, and you are trying to
snub Lady Blakeney. Will not harm her, but will make
you look a fool. Isn't that so? My lord? But
what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what
reflections this comely tirade of Lady Portalle's led the Comtesse

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de d'urnay remained unspoken, for the curtain had just risen
on the third act of Orpheus, and admonishments to silence
came from every part of the house. Lord Grenville took
a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back into
his box, where Monsieur Chauvelin had sat through this antract
with his eternal snuff box in his hand, and with
his keen, pale eyes intently fixed upon a box opposite him, where,

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with much frou frew of silken skirts, much laughter, and
general stir of curiosity amongst the audience, Marguerite Blakeney had
just entered, accompanied by her husband, and looking divinely pretty
beneath the wealth of her golden reddish curls, slightly besprinkled
with powder, and tied back at the nape of her
graceful neck with a gigantic black bow. Always dressed in

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the very latest vagary of fashion, Marguerite, alone among the
ladies that night, had discarded the crossover fichu and broad
lapelled overs, which had been in fashion for the last
two or three years. She wore the short waisted classical
shaped gown, which so soon was to become the approved
mode in every country in Europe. It suited her graceful
regal figure to perfection, composed as it was of shimmering

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stuff which seemed a mass of rich gold embroidery. As
she entered, she leant for a moment out of the box,
taking stock of all those present whom she knew. Many
bowed to her as she did so, and from the
royal box there came also a quick and gracious salute.
Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the
third act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her

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exquisite little hand toying with a small jeweled fan, her
regal head, her throat, arms and neck covered with magnificent
diamonds and rare gems, the gift of the adoring husband
who sprawled leisurely by her side. Marguerite was passionately fond
of music. Orpheus charmed her to night. The very joy
of living was writ plainly upon the sweet young face.

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It sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit
up the smile that lurked around them. She was, after all,
but five and twenty in the heyday of youth, the
darling of a brilliant, throng, adored, fated, petted, cherished. Two
days ago, the day dream had returned from Calais, bringing
her news that her idolized brother had safely landed, that
he thought of her and would be prudent for her sake.

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What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluk's impassioned strains,
that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished love dreams,
forgot even the lazy, good humored nonentity, who had made
up for his lack of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly
advantages upon her. He had stayed beside her in the
box just as long as convention demanded, making way for
his Royal Highness and for the host of admirers, who,

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in a continued procession came to pay homage to the
Queen of fashion. Sir Percy had strolled away to talk
to more congenial friends. Probably Marguerite did not even wonder
whither he had gone. She cared so little. She had
had a little court round her, composed of the Gennesse
d'urey of London, and had just dismissed them all, wishing
to be alone with look for a brief while. A

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discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.
Come in, she said, with some impatience, without turning to
look at the intruder. Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted
that she was alone, and now, without pausing for that
impatient to come in, he quietly slipped into the box,
and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's chair. A

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word with you, citoyenne, he said quietly. Marguerite turned quickly
in alarm, which was not altogether feigned. Blood man, you
frightened me, she said, with a forced little laugh. Your
presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Gluke
and have no mind for talking. But this is my
only opportunity, he said as quietly, and without waiting for permission,
he drew a chair close behind her, so close that

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he could whisper in her ear without disturbing the audience
and without being seen in the dark background of the box.
This is my only opportunity, he repeated, as she vouchsafed
him no reply. Lady Blakeney is always so surrounded, so
fated by her court, that a mere old friend has
but fit chance. Faith Man, she said impatiently, you must
seek for another opportunity. Then I am going to Lord

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Grenville's ball to night after the opera, so are you, probably,
I'll give you five minutes. Then, three minutes in the
privacy of this box are quite sufficient for me, he
rejoined placidly, And I think that you will be wise
to listen to me, citoyen, Saint just Marguerite instinctively shivered.
Chauvelin had not raised his voice above a whisper. He
was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff. Yet there

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was something in his attitude, something in those pale, foxy eyes,
which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins, as
would the sight of some deadly hitherto unguessed peril. Is
that a threat, citoyen, she asked at last, nay, fair lady,
he said, gallantly, only an arrow shot into the air.
He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a

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mouse running heedlessly by, ready to spring, yet waiting with
that feline sense of enjoyment of mischief about to be done.
Then he said quietly, your brother Saint just is in peril.
Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him.
He could only see it in profiled, for Marguerite seemed
to be watching the stage intently, but Chauvelin was a

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keen observer. He noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes,
the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralyzed tension
of the beautiful, graceful figure. Lad Then she said, with
affected merriment, since tis one of your imaginary plots, you'd
best go back to your own seat and leave me
enjoy the music, And with her hand she began to

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beat time nervously against the cushion of the box. Selina
Staoris was seeing the gueffarot to an audience that hung
spell bound upon the Prima Donna's lips. Chauvelin did not
move from his seat. He quietly watched that tiny nervous hand,
the only indication that his shaft had indeed struck home. Well,
she said, suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned unconcern.

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Well citoyen, he rejoined placidly about my brother. I have
news of him for you, which I think will interest you.
But first let me explain, may I the question was unnecessary,
he felt, though Marguerite still held her head steadily averted
from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear

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what he had to say. The other day, Citoyen, he said,
I asked for your help. France needed it, and I
thought I could rely on you, but you gave me
your answer. Since then, the exigencies of my own affairs
and your own social duties have kept us apart, although
many things have happened to the point I pray you, citoyen,

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she said lightly. The music is entrancing, and the audience
will get impatient of your talk. One moment, Citoyen, the
day on which I had the honor of meeting you
at Dover, and less than an hour after I had
your final answer, I obtained possession of some papers which
revealed another of those subtle schemes for the escape of
a batch of French aristocrats, that traitor d d'urnay, amongst others,

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all organized by that arch meddler, the Scarlet Pimpernel. Some
of the threads, too, of this mysterious organization have come
into my hands, but not all. And I want you, nay,
you must help me to gather them together. Marguerite seemed
to have listened to him with marked impatience. She now
shrugged her shoulders and said, gaily, bah man, have I

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not already told you that I care not about your
schemes or about the scarlet pimpernel, And had you not
spoken about my brother? Are little patience I entreat citoyenne?
He continued imperturbably. Two gentlemen, Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Sir
Andrew Folks were at the Fisherman's Rest at Dover that
same night. I know I saw them there. They were

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already known to my spies as members of that accursed league.
It were Sir Andrew Folks who escorted the Comtesse d'urnay
and her children across the channel. When the two young
men were alone, my spies forced their way into the
coffee room of the inn, gagged and pinioned the two gallants,
seized their papers, and brought them to me in a
mo She had guessed the danger papers had Armund been imprudent.

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The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Still she
would not let this man see that she feared. She
laughed gaily and lightly, faith and your impudence passes belief,
she said, merrily, Robbery and violence in England in a
crowded inn, your men might have been caught in the act.
What have they had They are children of France and

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they have been trained by your humble servant. Had they
been caught, they would have gone to jail or even
to the gallows without a word of protest or indiscretion.
At any rate, it was well worth a risk. A
crowded inn is safer for those little operations than you think.
And my men have experience well, and those papers, she
asked carelessly. Unfortunately, though they have given me cognizance of

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certain names, certain movements, enough I think to thwart their
projected coup for the moment. It would only be for
the moment, and still leaves me in ignorance of the
identity of the scarlet pimpernel. Pla, my friend, she said,
with the same assumed flippancy of manner. Then you are
where you were before, aren't you? And you can let
me enjoy the last shrough of the Aria faith, she added, ostentatiously,

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smothering an imaginary yawn. Had you not spoken about my brother,
I am coming to him now. Citoyen. Among the papers
there was a letter to Sir Andrew Folkes, written by
your brother Saint just Well. And that letter shows him
to be not only in sympathy with the enemies of France,
but actually a helper, if not a member of the

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League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. The blow had been struck
at last. All along, Marguerite had been expecting it. She
would not show fear. She was determined to seem unconcerned, flippant.
Even she wished when the shock came, to be prepared
for it to have all her wits about her, those
wits which had been nicknamed the keenest in Europe. Even

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now she did not flinch. She knew that Chauvelin had
spoken the truth. The man was too earnest, too blindly
devoted to the misguided cause. He had at heart, too
proud of his countrymen, of those makers of revolutions, to
stoop to low, purposeless falsehoods. That letter of Armand's foolish,
imprudent Armand was in Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as

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if she had seen the letter with her own eyes,
and Chauvelin would hold that letter for purposes of his
own until it suited him to destroy it or to
make use of it against armand all that she knew.
And yet she continued to laugh more gaily, more loudly
than she had done before. Ah Man, she said, speaking
over her shoulder and looking him full and squarely in
the face. Did I not say it was some imaginary plot?

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Armand in league with that enigmatic scarlet pimpernel, armand busy
helping those French aristocrats whom he despises. Faith the tale
does infinite credit to your imagination. Let me make my
point clear, citoyen, said Chauvelin, with the same unruffled calm.
I must assure you that Saint Just is compromised beyond
the slightest hope of pardon. Outside the orchestra box, all

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were silent for a moment or two. Marguerite sat straight upright,
rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face the situation,
to realize what had best be done. In the house
Storess had finished the aria and was even now bowing
in her classic garb but an approved eighteenth century fashion
to the enthusiastic audience, who cheered into the echo Chauvelin,

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said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without that touch
of bravado which had characterized her attitude all along. Chauvelin,
my friend, shall we try to understand one another? It
seems that my wits have become rusty by contact with
this damp climate. Now tell me you are very anxious
to discover the identity of the scarlet pimpernel. Isn't that
so Franz's most bitter enemy, citoyenne, all the more dangerous

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as he works in the dark, all the more noble?
You mean well, and you would now force me to
do some spying work for you in exchange for my
brother Arman's safety. Is that it five two very ugly words,
fair lady, protested Chauvelin urbanely. There can be no question
of force, and the service which I would ask of

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you in the name of France could never be called
by the shocking name of spying at any rate. That
is what it is called over here, she said, dryly.
That is your intention, is it not? My intention? Is
that you yourself win the free pardon for Urmand Saint
just by doing me a small service? What is it?
Only watch for me? To night, Citoyen, Saint just, he said, eagerly, listen.

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Among the papers which were found about the person of
Sir Andrew Folkes, there was a tiny note. See, he added,
taking a tiny scrap of paper from his pocket book
and handing it to her. It was the same scrap
of paper which four days ago the two young men
had been in the act of reading at the very
moment when they were attacked by Chauvelin's minions. Marguerite took
it mechanically and stooped to read it. There were only

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two lines, written in a distorted, evidently disguised handwriting. She
read them half aloud. Remember we must not meet more
often than is strictly necessary. You have all instructions for
the second. If you wish to speak to me again,
I shall be at G's ball. What does it mean,
she asked, Look again, Citoyen, and you will understand. There

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is a device here in the corner, a small red flower. Yes,
the scarlet pimpernel, she said eagerly. And G's ball means
Grenville's ball. He will be at my Lord Grenville's ball
to night. That is how I interpret the note. Citoyen concluded,
chauvelin Blandly Lord Anthony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Folks. After
they were pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried

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by my orders to a lonely house in the Dover Road,
which I had rented for the purpose. There they remained
close prisoners until this morning. But having found this tiny
scrap of paper, my intention was that they should be
in London in time to attend my Lord Grenville's ball.
You see, do you not that they must have a
great deal to say to their chief, and thus they
will have an opportunity of speaking to him to night,

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just as he did them to do. Therefore, this morning
those two young gallants found every bar and boat open
in that lonely house on the Dover Road, Their jailers disappeared,
and two good horses standing ready, saddled and tethered in
the yard. I have not seen them yet, but I
think we may safely conclude that they did not draw
rein until they reached London. Now you see how simple

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it all is, Citoyenne. It does seem simple, doesn't it,
she said, with a final bitter attempt at flippancy. When
you want to kill a chicken. You take hold of it,
then you wring its neck. It's only the chicken who
does not find it quite so simple. Now you hold
a knife at my throat and a hostage for my obedience.
You find it simple. I don't, nay, citoyenne. I offer

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you a chance of saving the brother you love from
the consequences of his own folly. Marguerite's face softened, her
eyes at last grew moist as she murmured half to herself,
the only being in the world who has loved me
truly and constantly. But what do you want me to do? Chauvelin,
she said, with a world of spare in her tear
choked voice. In my present position, it is well nigh impossible,

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Nay citoyenne, he said, drily and relentlessly, not heeding that despairing,
childlike appeal which might have melted a heart of stone.
As Lady Blakeney, no one suspects you, and with your
help to night, I may who knows, succeed in finally
establishing the identity of the scarlet pimpernel. You are going
to the ball Anon. Watch for me there, watch and listen.

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You can tell me if you hear a chance word
or whisper. You can note every one to whom Sir
Andrew Folkes or Lord Antony Dewhurst will speak. You are
absolutely beyond suspicion. Now the scarlet pimpernel will be at
Lord Grenville's ball to night. Find out who he is,
and I will pledge the word of France that your
brother shall be safe. Chauvelin was putting the knife to

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her throat. Marguerite felt herself entangled in one of those
webs from which she could hope for no escape. A
precious hostage was being held for her obedience. For she
knew that this man would never make an empty threat,
no doubt armand was already signal to the Committee of
Public Safety as one of the suspect. He would not
be allowed to leave France again and would be ruthlessly

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struck if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment,
woman like she still hoped to temporize, she held out
her hand to this man, whom she now feared and hated.
If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin,
she said, pleasantly, will you give me that letter of
Saint Just's if you render me useful service to night yitoyenne.
He replied, with a sarcastic smile. I will give you

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that letter to morrow. You do not trust me, I
trust you absolutely, dear lady. But Saint Just's life is
forfeit to his country. It rests with you to redeem it.
I may be powerless to help you, she pleaded, were
I ever so willing, that would be terrible. Indeed, he
said quietly, for you and for Saint Just. Marguerite shuddered.

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She felt that from this man she could expect no mercy.
All powerful, he held the loved life in the hollow
of his hand. She knew him too well not to
know that if he failed in gaining his own ends,
he would be pitiless. She felt cold in spite of
the oppressive air of the opera house. The heart appealing
strains of the music seemed to reach her as from

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a distant land. She drew her costly lay scarf up
around her shoulders and sat silently, watching the brilliant scene
as if in a dream. For a moment, her thoughts
wandered away from the loved one who was in danger,
to that other man who also had a claim on
her confidence. And her affection. She felt lonely, frightened for
our man's sake. She longed to seek comfort and advice

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from someone who would know how to help and console.
Sir Percy Blakeney had loved her once, he was her husband.
Why should she stand alone through this terrible ordeal. He
had very little brains, it is true, but he had
plenty of muscle. Surely if she provided the thought and
he the manly energy and pluck, together they could outwit
the astute diplomatist and save the hostage from his vengeful

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hair without imperiling the life of the noble leader of
that gallant little band of heroes, Sir percing U Saint
just well. He seemed attached to him. She was sure
that he could help. Chauvelin was taking no further heed
of her. He had said his cruel either or and
left her to decide. He, in his turn, now appeared
to be absorbed in the soul stirring melodies of Orpheus,

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and was beating time to the music with his sharp
ferret like head. A discreet rap at the door roused
Marguerite from her thoughts. It was Sir Percy Blakeney, tall sleepy,
good humored, and wearing that half shy, half inane smile
which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve. Er
your chair is outside, my dear, he said, with his

(25:40):
most exasperating drawer. I suppose you will want to go
to that demned ball. Excuse me, er, Monsieur Chaublanc, I
had not observed you. He extended two slender white fingers
towards Chauvelin, who had risen when Sir Percy entered the box.
Are you coming, my dear? Hush sh came in angry
remonstrance from different parts of the house. Damned impudence, commented

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Sir Percy with a good natured smile. Marguerite sighed impatiently.
Her last hopes seemed suddenly to have vanished away. She
wrapped her cloak around her, and, without looking at her husband,
I am ready to go, she said, taking his arm
at the door of the box, she turned and looked
straight at Chauvelin, who, with his chapeau bras under his
arm and a curious smile round his thin lips, was

(26:23):
preparing to follow the strangely ill assorted couple. It is
only au revoir chauvelin. She said, pleasantly, we shall meet
at my Lord Grenville's ball anon. And in her eyes
the astute Frenchman read, no doubt, something which caused him
profound satisfaction, for with a sarcastic smile he took a
delicate pinch of snuff. Then, having dusted his dainty laced jabu,

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he rubbed his thin bony hands contentedly together. End of
Chapter ten. Dream Mordiobook's hopes you have enjoyed this program