The Scarlet Pimpernel: A Daring Tale of Courage - Chapter 19

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Dream Audio Books presents The Scarlet Pimpernel by baroness or Z,
Chapter nineteen. The Scarlet Pimpernel. At what particular moment the
strange doubt first crept into Marguerite's mind, she could not
herself have said. With the ring tightly clutched in her hand,
she had run out of the room, down the stairs,

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and out into the garden, where, in complete seclusion, alone
with the flowers and the river and the birds, she
could look again at the ring and study that device
more closely, stupidly, senselessly. Now, sitting beneath the shade of
an overhanging sycamore, she was looking at the plain gold
shield with the star shaped little flower engraved upon it.

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Bah it was ridiculous. She was dreaming. Her nerves were overwrought,
and she saw signs and mysteries in the most trivial coincidences.
Had not everybody about town recently made a point of
affecting the device of that mysterious and heroic scarlet pimpernel?
Did she herself wear it embroidered on her gowns, set
in gems, and enamel in her hair. What was there

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strange in the fact that Sir Percy should have chosen
to use the device as a seal ring. He might
easily have done that, Yes, quite easily. And besides, what
connection could there be between her exquisite dandy of a husband,
with his fine clothes and refined, lazy ways, and the
daring plotter who rescued French victims from beneath the very
eyes of the leaders of a bloodthirsty revolution. Her thoughts

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were in a whirl, her mind a blank. She did
not see anything that was going on around her, and
was quite startled when a fresh, young voice called to
her across the garden, Cherie, Cherie, where are you? And
little Suzanne, fresh as a rose bud, with eyes dancing
with glee and brown curls fluttering in the soft morning breeze,
came running across the lawn. They told me you were

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in the garden. She went on, prattling merrily and throwing
herself with a pretty girlish impulse, into Marguerite's arms. So
I ride out to give you a surprise. You did
not expect me quite so soon, did you, my darling
little margot Cherie. Marguerite, who had hastily concealed the ring
in the folds of her kerchief, tried to respond gaily
and unconcernedly to the young girl's impulsiveness. Indeed, sweet one,

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she said, with a smile, it is delightful to have
you all to myself and for a nice whole long day.
You won't be bored. Oh bored, Margot? How can you
say such a wicked thing? Why when we were in
the dear old convent together, we were always happy when
we were all out to be alone together and to
talk secrets. The two young girls had linked their arms

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in one another's and began wandering around the garden. Oh
how lovely your home, miss Margore Darling, said little Suzanne enthusiastically.
And how happy you must be. Aye. Indeed I ought
to be happy, oughtn't I? Sweet one, said Marguerite, with
a wistful little sigh. How sadly you say it, Cherie?
Oh well, I suppose now that you are a married woman,

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you won't get to talk secrets with me any longer.
Oh what lots and lots of secrets we used to
have at school? Do you remember? Some we did not
even confide to Sister Teresa of the Holy Angels, though
she was such a dear and now you have one
all important secret, a little one, said Marguerite merrily, which
you are forthwith going to confide in me. Nay, you

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need not blush, Cherie, she added, as she saw Suzanne's
pretty little face Crimson with blushes. Faith, there's nought to
be ashamed of. He is a noble and true man,
and one to be proud of as a lover and
as a husband. Indeed, Cherie, I am not ashamed, rejoined
Suzanne softly. And it makes me very very proud to

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hear you speak so well of him. I think Mamma
will consent, she added thoughtfully, and I shall be oh
so happy. But of course, nothing is to be thought
of until Papa is safe, Marguerite started. Suzanne's father, the
Comte Dournay, one of those whose life would be jeopardized
if Chauvelin succeeded in establishing the identity of the Scarlet pimpernel.

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She had understood all along from the Comtesse, and also
from one or two of the members of the League,
that their mysterious leader had pledged his honor to bring
the fugitive Comte d'urnay safely out of France. Whilst little
Suzanne unconscious of all save her own, all important little
secret went prattling on. Marguerite's thoughts went back to the
events of the past night, Armand's peril, Chauvelin's threat, his

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cruel either awe, which she had accepted, and then her
own work in the matter, which should have culminated at
one o'clock in Lord Grenville's dining room, when the relentless
agent of the French government would finally learn who was
this mysterious scarlet pimpernel who so openly defied an army
of spies and placed himself so boldly and for mere sport,
on the side of the enemies of France. Since then,

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she had heard nothing from Chauvelin. She had concluded that
he had failed, and yet she had not felt anxious
about Armand, because her husband had promised her that Armand
would be safe. But now suddenly, as Suzanne prattled merrily along,
an awful horror came upon her for what she had done.
Chauvelin had told her nothing. It was true, but she

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remembered how sarcastic and evil he looked when she took
final leave of him after the ball. Had he discovered
something then had he already laid his plans for catching
the daring plotter red handed in France and sending him
to the guillotine without compunction or delay. Marguerite turned sick
with horror, and her hand convulsively clutched the ring in
her dress. You are not listening, shay, said Suzanne, reproachfully,

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as she paused in her long, highly interesting narrative. Yes, yes, darling, indeed,
I am, said Marguerite, with an effort forcing herself to smile.
I love to hear you talking, and your happiness makes
me so very glad. Have no fear. We will manage
to propitiate mamma. Sir Andrew Folkes is a noble English gentleman.
He has money and position. The comtesse will not refuse

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her consent. But now, little one, tell me what is
the latest news about your father, oh, said Suzanne, with
mad glee. The best we could possibly hear. My Lord
Hastings came to see Mamma early this morning. He said
that all is now well with yepapas, and we may
safely expect the mere in England in less than four days. Yes,

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said Marguerite, whose glowing eyes were fastened on Suzanne's lips
as she continued merrily, Oh, we have no fear now.
You don't know, Cherie, that that great and noble scarlet
pimpernel himself has gone to save Papa. He has gone, Cherie,
actually gone, added Suzanne excitedly. He was in London this morning,
He would be in Calais perhaps to morrow, where he
would meet Papa. And then and then the blow had fallen.

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She had expected it all along, though she had tried
for the last half hour to delude herself and to
cheat her fears. He had gone to Calais, had been
in London this morning. He the scarlet Pimpernel, Pussy Blakeney,
her husband whom she had betrayed last night to Chauvelin Percy, Percy,
her husband, the scarlet Pimpernel. Oh how could she have

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been so blind? She understood it all now, all at once,
that part he played, the mask he bore in order
to throw dust in everybody's eyes, and all for the
sheer sport and devilry, of course, saving men, women and
children from death as other men destroy and kill animals,
for the excitement the love of the thing. The idle
rich man wanted some aim in life. He and the

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few young bucksy enrolled under his banner had amused themselves
for months in risking their lives for the sake of
an innocent few. Perhaps he had meant to tell her
when they were first married, and then the story of
the Marquis Saint Zio had come to his ears, and
he had suddenly turned from her, thinking no doubt that
she might some day betray him and his comrades who
had sworn to follow him, And so he had tricked

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her as he tricked all others. Whilst hundreds now owed
their lives to him, and many lives owed him both
life and happiness. The mask of an inane fop had
been a good one, and the part consummately well played.
No wonder that Chauvelin's spies had failed to detect in
the apparently brainless incompoop, the man whose reckless, daring and
resourceful ingenuity had baffled the keenest French spies, both in

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France and in England. Even last night, when Chauvelin went
to Lord Grenville's dining room to seek that daring scarlet pimpernel,
he only saw that inane Sir Percy Blakeney, fast asleep
in a corner of the sofa, had his astute mind
guessed the secret, then here lay the whole awful, horrible,
amazing puzzle in betraying a nameless stranger to his fate

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in order to save her brother. Had Marguerite Blakeney sent
her husband to his death? No, no, no, A thousand
times no. Surely fate could not deal a blow like that.
Nature itself would rise in revolt. Her hand when it
held that tiny scrap of paper last night, would surely
have been struck numb. Ere it committed a deed so
appalling and so terrible. But what is it, Cherie, said

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little Suzanne, now genuinely alarmed, for Marguerite's color had become
dull and ashen. Are you ill, Marguerite? What is it? Nothing? Nothing, child,
she murmured, as in a dream. Wait a moment, Let
me think. Think you said the scarlet pimpernel had gone
to day? Marguerite, Cherie, what is it? You frighten me?

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It is nothing, child, I tell you nothing. I must
be alone a minute, and dear one, I may have
to curtail our time together to day. I may have
to go away. You'll understand. I understand that something has happened, Cherie,
and that you won't be alone. I won't be a
hindrance to you. Don't think of me, my maid, Lucille
has not yet gone. We will go back together. Don't

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think of me. She threw her arms impulsively round Marguerite.
Child as she was, she felt the poignancy of her
friend's grief, and with the infinite tact of her girlish tenderness,
she did not try to pry into it, but was
ready to efface herself. She kissed Marguerite again and again,
then walked sadly back across the lawn. Marguerite did not move.

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She remained there, thinking, wondering what was to be done.
Just as little Suzanne was about to mount the terrace steps,
a groom came running round the house towards his mistress.
He carried a sealed letter in his hand. Suzanne instinct
turned back. Her heart told her that here perhaps was
further ill news for her friend, and she felt that
poor Margout was not in a fit state to bear

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any more. The groom stood respectfully beside his mistress. Then
he handed her the sealed letter. What is that? Asked Marguerite,
just come by run o' a lady. Marguerite took the
letter mechanically and turned it over in her trembling fingers.
Who sent it, she said? The runner said, My lady,
replied the groom that his orders were to deliver this,
and that your ladyship would understand from whom it came.

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Marguerite tore open the envelope. Already her instinct told her
what it contained, and her eyes only glanced at it mechanically.
It was a letter by armand Saint Just to Sir
Andrew Folkes, the letter which Chauvelin's spies had stolen the
Fisherman's rest, and which Chauvelin had held as a rod
over her to enforce her obedience. Now he had kept
his word. He had sent her back Saint Just's compromising letter,

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for he was on the track of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
Marguerite's senses reeled. Her very soul seemed to be leaving
her body. She tottered and would have fallen, but for
Suzanne's arm round her waist. With superhuman effort, she regained
control over herself. There was yet much to be done.
Bring that runner here to me. She said to the
servant with much calm. He has not gone, No, my lady.

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The groom went, and Marguerite turned to Suzanne, and you, child,
run within. Tell Lucille to get ready. I fear that
I must send you home, child, and stay. Tell one
of the maids to prepare a traveling dress and cloak
for me. Suzanne made no reply. She kissed Marguerite tenderly
and obeyed without a word. The child was overawed by
the terrible, nameless misery in her friend's face. A minute later,

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the groom returned, followed by the runner who had brought
the letter. Who gave you this packet, asked Marguerite. A gentleman,
my lady, replied the man at the Rose and Thistle inn,
opposite sharing Cross, he said, you would understand. At the
Rose and Thistle, what was he doing. He was waiting
for the coach, your ladyship, which he had ordered. The coach, yes,
my lady, a special coach he had. All I understood

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from his man that he was posting straight to Dover.
That's enough, you may go. She turned to the groom,
My coach and the four swiftest horses in the stables
to be ready. At once. The groom and runner both
went quickly off to obey. Marguerite remained standing for a
moment on the lawn, quite alone. Her graceful figure was
as rigid as a statue. Her eyes were fixed, her
hands were tightly clasped across her breast. Her lips moved

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as they murmured with pathetic, heart breaking persistence. What's to
be done, What's to be done? Where to find him? Oh? God,
grant me light. But this was not the moment for
remorse and despair. She had done, unwittingly, an awful and
terrible thing, the very worst crime, in her eyes, that
woman ever committed. She saw it in all its horror.

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Her very blindness in not having guessed her husband's secret,
seemed now to her another deadly sin. She ought to
have known. She ought to have known. How could she
imagine that a man who could love with so much
intensity as Percy Blakeney had loved her from the first
How could such a man be the brain ingless idiot
he chose to appear. She at least ought to have
known that he was wearing a mask, and having found

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that out, she ought to have torn it from his face.
Whenever they were alone together. Her love for him had
been paltry and weak, easily crushed by her own pride,
and she too had worn a mask in assuming a
contempt for him, whilst as a matter of fact she
completely misunderstood him. But there was no time now to
go over the past. By her own blindness, she had sinned.
Now she must repay not by empty remorse, but by

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prompt and useful action. Percy had started for Calais, utterly
unconscious of the fact that his most relentless enemy was
on his heels. He had set sail early that morning
from London Bridge. Provided he had a favorable wind, he
would no doubt be in France within twenty four hours.
No doubt he had reckoned on the wind and chosen
this route. Chauvelin, on the other hand, would post a

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dover charter a vessel there and undoubtedly reach Calais much
about the same time. Once in Calais, Percy would meet
all those who were eagerly waiting for the noble and
brave Scarlet Pimperne, who had come to rescue them from
horrible and unmerited death. With Chauvelin's eyes now fixed upon
his every movement. Percy would thus not only be in
endatering his own life, but that of Suzanne's father, the

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old Comte Durnay, and of those other fugitives who were
waiting for him and trusting in him. There was also Armand,
who had gone to meet de Tournay, secure in the
knowledge that the Scarlet pimpernel was watching over his safety.
All these lives and that of her husband, lay in
Marguerite's hands. These she must save, if human pluck and
ingenuity were equal to the task. Unfortunately, she could not

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do all this quite alone. Once in Calais, she would
not know where to find her husband, Whilst Chauvelin, in
stealing the papers at Dover, had obtained the whole itinerary.
Above every thing, she wished to warn Percy. She knew
enough about him by now to understand that he would
never abandon those who trusted in him, that he would
not turn his back from danger and leave the Comte
Durnay to fall into the bloodthirsty hands that knew of

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no mercy. But if he were warned, he might form
new plans, be more weary, more prudent. Unconsciously, he might
fall into a cunning trap but once warned, he might
yet succeed. And if he failed, if indeed, fate and chauvelin,
with all the resources at his command, proved too strong
for the daring plotter after all, then at least she

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would be there by his side to comfort, love and cherish,
to cheat death, perhaps at the last by making it
seem sweet. If they died, both together locked in each
other's arms, with the supreme happiness of knowing that passion
had responded to passion, and that all misunderstandings were at
an end. Her whole body stiffened, as with a great
and firm resolution. This she meant to do. If God

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gave her wits and strength. Her eyes lost their fixed look.
They glowed with inward fire at the thought of meeting
him again so soon, in the very midst of most
deadly perils. They sparkled with the joy of sharing these
dangers with him, of helping him, perhaps, of being with
him at the last. If she failed, the childlike sweet
face had become hard and set. The curved mouth was

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closed tightly over her clenched teeth. She meant to do
or die with him, and for his sake. A frown
which spoke of an iron will and unbending resolution appeared
between the two straight brows. Already her plans were formed.
She would go and find Sir Andrew Folks first. He
was Percy's best friend, and Marguerite remembered with a thrill,
with what blind enthusiasm the young man always spoke of

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his mysterious leader. He would help her where she needed help.
Her coach was ready. A change of raiment and a
farewell to little Suzanne, and she would be on her way.
Without haste, but without hesitation, she walked quietly into the house.
End of chapter nineteen. Dream Audiobook's hopes you have enjoyed
this program.