The Scarlet Pimpernel: A Daring Tale of Courage - Chapter 16

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Audio Books presents the Scarlet Pimpernel by baroness or Z,
Chapter sixteen, Richmond. A few minutes later, she was sitting
wrapped in cozy furs near Sir Percy Blakeney on the
box seat of his magnificent coach, and the four splendid
Bays had thundered down the quiet street. The night was

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warm in spite of the gentle breeze, which fanned Marguerite's
burning cheeks. Soon London houses were left behind and rattling
over old Hammersmith Bridge. Sir Percy was driving his bays
rapidly towards Richmond. The river wound in and out in
its pretty delicate curves, looking like a silver serpent. Beneath
the glittering rays of the moon, long shadows from overhanging

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trees spread occasional deep poles right across the road. The
bays were rushing along at breakneck speed, held but slightly
back by Sir Percy's strong, unerring hands. These nightly drives
after balls and suppers in London, were a source of
perpetual delight to Marguerite, and she appreciated her husband's eccentricity keenly,
which caused him to adopt this mode of taking her

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home every night to their beautiful home by the river,
instead of living in a stuffy London house. He loved
driving his spirited horses along the lonely moonlit roads, and
she loved to sit on the box seat with the
soft air of an English late summer's night fanning her
face after the hot atmosphere of a ball or supper party.
The drive was not a long one, less than an hour,

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sometimes when the bays were very fresh, and Sir Percy
gave them full rein to night. He seemed to have
a very devil in his fingers, and the coach seemed
to fly along the road beside the river as usual.
He did not speak to her, but stared straight in
front of him, the ribbons seeming to lie quite loosely
in his slender white hands. Marguerite looked at him tentatively.

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Once or twice. She could see his handsome profile and
one lazy eye with its straight, fine brow and drooping
heavy lid. The face in the moonlight looked singularly earnest
and recalled to Marguerite's aching heart, those happy days of
courtship before he had become the lazy nincompoop, the affecte fop,
whose life seemed spent in card in supper rooms. But

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now in the moonlight she could not catch the expression
of the lazy blue eyes. She could only see the
outline of the firm chin, the corner of the strong mouth,
the well cut, massive shape of the forehead. Truly nature
had meant well by Sir Percy. His faults must all
be laid at the door of that poor half crazy
mother and of the distracted, heart broken father, neither of

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whom had cared for the young life which was sprouting
up between them, and which, perhaps their very carelessness was
already beginning to wreck. Marguerite suddenly felt intense sympathy for
her husband. The moral crisis she had just gone through
made her feel indulgent towards the faults the delinquencies of others.
How thoroughly a human being can be buffeted and overmastered

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by fate had been borne in upon her with appalling force.
Had any one told her a week ago that she
would stoop to spy her friends, that she would betray
a brave and unsuspecting man into the hands of a
relentless enemy, she would have laughed the idea to scorn.
Yet she had done these things anon, perhaps the death
of that brave man would be at her door, just

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as two years ago the Marquis de Saint Ceo had
perished through thoughtless words of hers. But in that case
she was morally innocent. She had meant no serious harm.
Fate merely had stepped in. But this time she had
done a thing that obviously was base, had done it
deliberately for a motive which perhaps high moralists would not

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even appreciate. As she felt her husband's strong arm beside her,
she also felt how much more he would dislike and
despise her if he knew of this night's work. Thus,
human beings judge of one another with but little reason
and no charity. She despised her husband for his inanities
and vulgar, unintellectual occupations, and he, she felt, would despise her.

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Still worse, because she had not been strong enough to
do right for right sake, and to sacrifice her brother
to the dictates of her conscience. Buried in her thoughts,
Marguerite had found this hour in the breezy summer night
all too brief, and it was with a feeling of
keen disappointment that she suddenly realized that the bays had
turned into the massive gates of her beautiful English home.

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Sir Percy Blakeney's house on the River has become a
historic one, palatial in its dimensions. It stands in the
midst of exquisitely laid out gardens, with the picturesque terrace
and frontage to the river. Built in Tudor days. The
old red brick of the walls looks eminently picturesque in
the midst of a bower of green, the beautiful lawn
with its old sun dial adding the true note of

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harmony to its foregrounds. And now, on this warm early
autumn night, the leaves slightly turned to russets and gold,
the old garden looked singularly poetic and peaceful in the moonlight.
With unerring precision, Sir Percy had brought the four bays
to a standstill immediately in front of the fine Elizabethan
entrance hall. In spite of the late hour. An army

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of groom seemed to have emerged from the very ground.
As the coach had thundered up and was standing respectfully round,
Sir Percy jumped down quickly then helped Marguerite to alight.
She lingered outside for a moment whilst he gave a
few orders to one of his men. She skirted the
house and stepped on to the lawn, looking out dreamily
into the silvery landscape. Nature seemed exquisitely at peace in

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comparison with the tumultuous emotions she had gone through. She
could faintly hear the ripple of the river and the
occasional soft and ghost like fall of a dead leaf
from a tree. All else was quiet round her. She
had heard the horses prancing as they were being led
away to their distant stables, the hurrying of servants feet
as they had all gone within to rest. The house

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also was quite still. In two separate suites of apartments,
just above the magnificent reception rooms, lights were still burning.
They were her rooms and his, well, divided from each
other by the whole width of the house, as far
apart as their own lives had become. Untarily, she sighed
at that moment, she could really not have told why

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she was suffering from unconquerable heartache. Deeply and achingly, she
was sorry for herself. Never had she felt so pitiably lonely,
so bitterly in want of comfort and of sympathy. With
another sigh, she turned away from the river towards the house,
vaguely wondering if after such a night she could ever
find rest and sleep. Suddenly, before she reached the terrace,

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she heard a firm step upon the crisp gravel, and
the next moment her husband's figure emerged out of the shadow.
He too had skirted the house and was wandering along
the lawn towards the river. He still wore his heavy
driving coat with the numerous lapels and collars he himself
had set in fashion, but he had thrown it well back,
burying his hands, as was his wont in the deep

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pockets of his satin breeches. The gorgeous white costume he
had worn at Lord Grenville's ball with the jabbou of
priceless lace, looked strangely ghostly against the dark background of
the house. He apparently did not notice her, for after
a few moments pause, he presently turned back towards the
house and walked straight up to the terrace. Sir Percy,

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he already had one foot on the lowest of the
terrace steps, but at her voice, he started and paused,
then looked searchingly into the shadows. When she had called him,
she came forward quickly into the moonlight, and as soon
as he saw her, he said, with that air of
consummate gallantry he always wore when speaking to her, at
your service, madame. But his foot was still on the step,

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and in his whole attitude there was a remote suggestion,
distinctly visible to her that he wished to go and
had no desire for a midnight interview. The air is
deliciously cool, she said, the moonlight peaceful and poetic, and
the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it awhile
the hour is not yet late? Or is my company

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so distasteful to you that you are in a hurry
to rid yourself of it? Nay, madame, he rejoined placidly.
But as on the other foot, the shoe happens to be,
And I'll warrant you'll find the midnight air more poetic
without my company, no doubt. The sooner I removed the obstruction,
the better your ladyship will like it. He turned once
more to go. I protest you mistake me, sir Percy,

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She said, hurriedly, and drawing a little closer to him.
The estrangement which her lass has risen between us was
none of my making. Remember, be glad you must pardon
me there, madame, he protested coldly. My memory was always
of the shortest. He looked her straight in the eyes
with that lazy nonchalance which had become sick and natured
to him. She returned his gaze for a moment, then

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her eyes softened as she came up quite close to him,
to the foot of the terrace steps of the shortest,
Sir Percy, faith, how it must have altered? Was it
three years ago or four that you saw me for
one hour in Paris on your way to the east.
When you came back two years later, you had not
forgotten me. She looked divinely pretty as she stood there

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in the moonlight, with the fur cloak sliding off her
beautiful shoulders, the gold embroidery on her dress shimmering around her.
Her childlike blue eyes turned up fully at him. He
stood for a moment, rigid and still, but for the
clenching of his hand against the stone balustrade of the terrace.
You desired my presence, madame, he said frigidly. I take

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it that it was not with the view to indulging
in tender reminiscences. His voice certainly was cold and uncompromising,
his attitude before her, stiff and unbending woman leader Coorum
would have suggested Marguerite should return coldness for coldness, and
should sweep past him without another word, only with a
curt nod of her head. But womanly instinct suggested that

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she should remain that keen instinct which makes a beautiful woman,
conscious of her powers, long to bring to her knees
the one man who pays her no homage. She stretched
out her hand to him. Nay, Sir Percy, why not
the present is not so glorious, but that I should
not wish to dwell a little in the past. He
bent his tall figure, and, taking hold of the stream

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tip of fingers which she still held out to him,
he kissed them ceremoniously. If faith, madame, he said, then
you will pardon me if my dull wits cannot accompany you.
There Once again, he attempted to go. Once more, her voice,
sweet childlike, almost tender, called him back, Sir Percy, your serpent, madame,

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is it possible that love can die, she said, with sudden,
unreasoning vehemence. Methought that the passion which you once felt
for me would outlast the span of human life. Is
there nothing left of that love, percy which might help
you to bridge over that sad estrangement? His massive figure
seemed while she spoke thus to him to stiff and
still more the strong mouth hardened, A look of relentless

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obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy blue eyes. With what
object I pray you, madame? He asked coldly. I do
not understand you yet, tis simple enough, he said, with
sudden bitterness, which seemed literally to surge through his words,
though he was making visible efforts to suppress it. I
humbly put the question to you, for my slow wits

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are unable to grasp the cause of this, your ladyship's
sudden new mood. Is it that you have the taste
to renew the devilish sport which you played so successfully
last year? Do you wish to see me once more
a love sick suppliant at your feet, so that you
might again have the pleasure of kicking me aside like
a troublesome lap dog. She had succeeded in rousing him
for the moment, and again she looked straight at him,

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For it was thus she remembered him a year ago. Percy,
I entreat you, she whispered. Can we not bury the past?
Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that
your desire was to dwell in it. Nay, I spoke
not of that past, Percy, she said, while the tone
of tenderness crept into her voice. Rather, did I speak
of a time when you loved me still? And I oh,

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I was vain and frivolous. Your wealth and position allured me.
I married you, hoping in my heart that your great
love for me would be getting me a love for you.
But alas the moon had sunk low behind a bank
of clouds in the east, a soft gray light was
beginning to chase away the heavy mantle of the night.

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He could only see her graceful outline now, the small
queenly head with its wealth of reddish golden curls, and
the glittering gems forming the small star shaped red flower
which she wore as a diadem in her hair. Twenty
four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis Saint Cio
and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the

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popular rumor reached me that it was the wife of
Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send them there. Nay,
I myself told you the truth of that odious tale,
not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers,
with all its horrible details. And you believed them then
and there, she said, with great vehemence, without a proof
or question, you believed that I, whom you vowed you

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loved more than life, whom you professed you worshiped, that
I could do a thing so base as these strangers
chose to recount. You thought I meant to deceive you
about it all that I ought to have spoken before
I married you. Yet had you listened, I would have
told you that up to the very morning on which
SalCo went to the guillotine, I was straining every nerve,
using every influence I possessed, to save him and his family.

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But my pride sealed my lips when your love seemed
to perish, as if under the knife of that same guillotine.
Yet I would have told you how I was duped,
I I whom that same popular rumor had endowed with
the sharpest wits in France. I was tripped into doing
this thing by men who knew how to play upon
my love for an only brother and my desire for revenge.
Was it unnatural? Her voice became choked with tears. She

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paused for a moment or two, trying to regain some
sort of composure. She looked appealingly at him, almost as
if he were her judge. He had allowed her to
speak on in her own vehement, impassioned way, offering no comment,
no word of sympathy. And now while she paused, trying
to swallow down the hot tears that gushed to her eyes,

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he waited, impassive and still. The dim gray light of
early dawn seemed to make his tall form look taller
and more rigid. The lazy, good natured face looked strangely altered. Marguerite,
excited as she was, could see that the eyes were
no longer languid, the mouth no longer good humored and inane.

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A curious look of intense passion seemed to glow from
beneath his drooping lids. The mouth was tightly closed, the
lips compressed, as if the will alone held that surging
passion in check. Marguerite Blakeney was above all a woman,
with all a woman's fascinating foibles, all a woman's most
lovable sins. She knew in a moment that for the

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past few months she had been mistaken that this man
who stood here before her, cold as a statue when
her musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her as
he had loved for a year ago. That his passion
might have been dormant, but that it was there as strong,
as intense, as overwhelming as when first her lips met
his in one long, maddening kiss. Pride had kept him

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from her, and woman like she meant to win back
that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly, it seemed
to her that the only happiness life could ever hold
for her again would be in feeling that man's kiss
once more upon her lips. Listen to the tale, Sir Percy,
she said, and her voice was low, sweet, infinitely tender,

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armand was all in all to me. We had no
parents and brought one another up. He was my little father,
and I his tiny mother. We loved one another. So
then one day do you mind me, Sir Percy, the
Marquis Saint Cil had my brother armand thrashed, thrashed by
his lackeys, that brother, whom I loved better than all

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the world, and his offense, that he a plebean, had
dared to love the daughter of the aristocrat. For that
he was waylaid and thrashed, thrashed like a dog within
an inch of his life. How I suffered. His humiliation
had eaten into my very soul. When the opportunity occurred
and I was able to take my revenge, I took it.
But I only thought to bring that proud Marquis to

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trouble and humiliation. He plotted with Austria against his own country.
Chance gave me knowledge of this. I spoke of it,
but I did not know. How could I guess? They
trapped and duped me. When I realized what I had done,
it was too late. It is perhaps a little difficult, Madame,
said Sir Percy, after a moment of silence between them,

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to go back over the past. I have confessed to
you that my memory is short, but the thought certainly
lingered in my mind that at the time of the
Marquise's death. I entreated you for an explanation of those
same noisome popular rumors. If that same memory does not
even now play me a trick. I fancy that you
refused me all explanation then, and demanded of my love

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a humiliating allegiance it was not prepared to give. I
wished to test your love for me, and it did
not bear the test. You used to tell me that
you drove the very breath of life but for me,
and for love of me, and to probe that love.
You demanded that I should forfeit mine honor, he said,
whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leave him his rigidity

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to relax. That I should accept, without murmur or question,
as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my mistress.
My heart overflowing with love and passion. I asked for
no explanation. I waited for one, not doubting, only hoping.
Had you spoken but one word from you, I would
have accepted any explanation and believed it. But you left

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me without a word beyond a bold confession of the
actual horrible facts. Proudly you returned to your brother's house
and left me alone for weeks, not knowing now in
whom to believe since the shrine which contained my one illusion,
lay shattered to earth at my feet. She need not complain.
Now that he was cold and impassive. His very voice

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shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making
superhuman efforts to keep in check. Aye, the madness of
my pride, she said, sadly. Hardly had I gone already,
I had repented. But when I returned, I found you
oh so altered, wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference
which you have never laid aside until until now. She

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was so close to him that her soft, loose hair
was wafted against his cheek. Her eyes, glowing with tears,
maddened him. The music in her voice sent fire through
his veins. But he would not yield to the magic
charm of this woman, whom he had so deeply loved,
and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly.
He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision

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of that sweet face, of that snow white neck and
graceful figure round which the faint, rosy light of dawn
was just beginning to hover playfully. Nay, madame, it is
no mask, he said, icily, I swore to you once
that my life was yours. For months now it has
been your plaything. It has served its purpose. But now

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she knew that the very coldness was a mask. The trouble,
the sorrow she had gone through last night suddenly came
back into her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather
with the feeling that this man who loved her would
help her bear the burden. Sir Percy, she said impulsively.
Heaven knows you have been at pains to make the
task which I had set to myself difficult to accomplish.

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You spoke of my mood just now. Well we will
call it that, if you will. I wished to speak
with you because because I was in trouble and had
need of your sympathy. It is yours to command. Madame.
How cold you are, she sighed, faith I can scarce
believe that, but a few months ago one tear in

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my eye had set you well nigh crazy. Now I
come to you with a half broken heart, and and
I pray you, madame, he said, whilst his voice shook
almost as much as hers. In what way can I
serve you? Pussy armand is in deadly danger? A letter
of his rash impetuous, as were all his actions and

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written to Sir Andrew Folks, has fallen into the hands
of a fanatic armand is hopelessly compromised. Tomorrow, perhaps he
will be arrested after that the guillotine. Unless, oh, it
is horrible, she said, with a sudden wail of anguish,
as all the events of the past night came rushing
back to her mind. Horrible, and you do not understand,

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cannot And I have no one to whom I can
turn for help or even for sympathy. Tears now refuse
to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the
awful certainty of our man's fate overwhelmed her. She tottered,
ready to fall, and leaning against the stone balustrade, she
buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly at

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first mention of armand Saint Just's name, and of the
peril in which he stood. Sir Percy's face had become
a shade more pale, and the look of determination and
obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his eyes. However,
he said nothing for the moment, but watched her as
her delicate frame was shaken with sobs watched her until
unconsciously his face softened, and what looked almost like tears

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seemed to glisten in his eyes. And so he said,
with bitter sarcasm, the murderous dog of the revolution is
turning upon the very hands that fed it. Begad, madame,
he added, very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically,
will you dry your tears? I never could bear to
see a pretty woman cry. And I instinctively, with sudden,

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overmastering passion, at the sight of her helplessness and of
her grief, he stretched out his arms and the next
would have seized her and held her to him, protected
from every evil with his very life, his very heart's blood.
But pride had the better of it in this struggle.
Once again he restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will,
and said, coldly, though still very gently, will you not

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turn to me, madame, and tell me in what way
I may have the honor to serve you. She made
a violent effort to control herself, and turning her tear
stained face to him, she once more held out her hand,
which she kissed with the same punctilious gallantry. But Marguerite's fingers,
this time lingered in his hand for a second or two,
longer than was absolutely necessary. And this was because she

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had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly and was burning hot,
whilst his lips felt as cold as marble. Can you
do aught for armand she said, sweetly and simply, you
have so much influence at court, so many friends. Nay, madame,
should you not seek the influence of your French friend,
Monsieur chauvelin his extends. If I mistake not even as

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far as the Republican government of France, I cannot ask him, Percy. Oh,
I wish I dared to tell you, But but he
has put a price on my brother's head. Which she
would have given words if she had felt the courage
then to tell him everything, all she had done that night,
how she had suffered, and how her hand had been forced.

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But she dared not give way to that impulse, not now,
when she was just beginning to feel that he still
loved her, when she hoped that she could win him back.
She dared not make another confession to him. After all,
he might not understand, he might not sympathize with her
struggles and temptation. His love, still dormant, might sleep the
sleep of death. Perhaps he divined what was passing in

(23:31):
her mind. His whole attitude was one of intense longing,
a veritable prayer for that confidence which her foolish pride
withheld from him. When she remained silent, he sighed and said,
with marked coldness, faith, madame, since it distresses you, we
will not speak of it as for armand I pray
you have no fear. I pledge you my word that

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he shall be safe. Now have I your permission to go?
The hour is getting late, and you will at least
accept my gratitude, she said, as she drew quite close
to him, and speaking with real tenderness, with a quick,
almost involuntary effort. He would have taken her then in
his arms, for her eyes were swimming with tears which
he longed to kiss away. But she had lured him

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once just like this, then cast him aside like an
ill fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood,
a caprice, and he was too proud to lend himself
to it once again. It is too soon, madame, he
said quietly. I have done nothing as yet. The hour
is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will
be waiting for you upstairs. He stood aside to allow

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her to pass. She sighed a quick sigh of disappointment.
His pride and her beauty had been in direct conflict,
and his pride had remained the conqueror. Perhaps, after all
she had been deceived. Just now, what she took to
be the light of love in his eyes might only
have been the passion of pride. Or who knows of
hatred instead of love. She stood looking at him for

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a moment or two longer. He was again as rigid
as impassive as before. Pride had conquered, and he cared
not for her. The gray light of dawn was gradually
yielding to the rosy light of the rising sun. Birds
began to twitter, Nature awakened, smiling in happy response to
the warmth of this glorious October morning. Only between these

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two hearts there lay a strong, impassable barrier built up
of pride on both sides, which neither of them cared
to be the first to demolish. He had bent his
tall figure in a low, ceremonious bow. As she, finally,
with another bitter little sigh, began to mount the terrace steps.
The long train of her gold embroidered gown swept the
dead leaves off the steps, making a faint, harmonious shchh

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as she glided up with one hand resting on the balustrade,
the rosy light of dawn making an aureole of gold
round her hair and causing the rubies on her head
and arms to sparkle. She reached the tall glass doors
which led into the house. Before entering, she paused once
again to look at him, hoping against hope to see
his arms stretched out to her, and to hear his

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voice calling her back. But he had not moved. His
massive figure looked the very personification of unbending pride, of
fierce obstinacy. Hot tears again surged to her eyes, as
she would not let him see them. She turned quickly
within and ran as fast as she could up to
her own rooms. Had she but turned back then and
looked out once more on to the roselit garden, she

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would have seen that which would have made her own
suffering seem but light and easy to bear. A strong
man overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair,
pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone, the
will was powerless. He was but a man, madly, blindly,
passionately in love. And as soon as her light footsteps

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had died away within the house, he knelt down upon
the terraced steps, and in the very madness of his love,
he kissed one by one the places where her small
foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there where her
tiny hand had rested. Last end of chapter sixteen. Dream
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