The morning found her fagged out, but more calm. Later on she managed to drink some coffee, and having washed and dressed, she prepared to go out.
Sir Andrew appeared in time to ascertain her wishes.
“I promised Percy to go to the Rue de Charonne in the late afternoon,” she said. “I have some hours to spare, and mean to employ them in trying to find speech with Mademoiselle Lange.”
“Blakeney has told you where she lives?”
“Yes. In the Square du Roule. I know it well. I can be there in half an hour.”
He, of course, begged to be allowed to accompany her, and anon they were walking together quickly up toward the Faubourg St. Honore. The snow had ceased falling, but it was still very cold, but neither Marguerite nor Sir Andrew were conscious of the temperature or of any outward signs around them. They walked on silently until they reached the torn-down gates of the Square du Roule; there Sir Andrew parted from Marguerite after having appointed to meet her an hour later at a small eating-house he knew of where they could have some food together, before starting on their long expedition to the Rue de Charonne.
Five minutes later Marguerite Blakeney was shown in by worthy Madame Belhomme, into the quaint and pretty drawing-room with its soft-toned hangings and old-world air of faded grace. Mademoiselle Lange was sitting there, in a capacious armchair, which encircled her delicate figure with its frame-work of dull old gold.
She was ostensibly reading when Marguerite was announced, for an open book lay on a table beside her; but it seemed to the visitor that mayhap the young girl’s thoughts had played truant from her work, for her pose was listless and apathetic, and there was a look of grave trouble upon the childlike face.
She rose when Marguerite entered, obviously puzzled at the unexpected visit, and somewhat awed at the appearance of this beautiful woman with the sad look in her eyes.
“I must crave your pardon, mademoiselle,” said Lady Blakeney as soon as the door had once more closed on Madame Belhomme, and she found herself alone with the young girl. “This visit at such an early hour must seem to you an intrusion. But I am Marguerite St. Just, and—”
Her smile and outstretched hand completed the sentence.
“St. Just!” exclaimed Jeanne.
“Yes. Armand’s sister!”
A swift blush rushed to the girl’s pale cheeks; her brown eyes expressed unadulterated joy. Marguerite, who was studying her closely, was conscious that her poor aching heart went out to this exquisite child, the far-off innocent cause of so much misery.
Jeanne, a little shy, a little confused and nervous in her movements, was pulling a chair close to the fire, begging Marguerite to sit. Her words came out all the while in short jerky sentences, and from time to time she stole swift shy glances at Armand’s sister.
“You will forgive me, mademoiselle,” said Marguerite, whose simple and calm manner quickly tended to soothe Jeanne Lange’s confusion; “but I was so anxious about my brother—I do not know where to find him.”
“And so you came to me, madame?”
“Was I wrong?”
“Oh, no! But what made you think that—that I would know?”
“I guessed,” said Marguerite with a smile. “You had heard about me then?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Through whom? Did Armand tell you about me?”
“No, alas! I have not seen him this past fortnight, since you, mademoiselle, came into his life; but many of Armand’s friends are in Paris just now; one of them knew, and he told me.”
The soft blush had now overspread the whole of the girl’s face, even down to her graceful neck. She waited to see Marguerite comfortably installed in an armchair, then she resumed shyly:
“And it was Armand who told me all about you. He loves you so dearly.”
“Armand and I were very young children when we lost our parents,” said Marguerite softly, “and we were all in all to each other then. And until I married he was the man I loved best in all the world.”
“He told me you were married—to an Englishman.”
“Yes?”
“He loves England too. At first he always talked of my going there with him as his wife, and of the happiness we should find there together.”
“Why do you say ‘at first’?”
“He talks less about England now.”
“Perhaps he feels that now you know all about it, and that you understand each other with regard to the future.”
“Perhaps.”
Jeanne sat opposite to Marguerite on a low stool by the fire. Her elbows were resting on her knees, and her face just now was half-hidden by the wealth of her brown curls. She looked exquisitely pretty sitting like this, with just the suggestion of sadness in the listless pose. Marguerite had come here to-day prepared to hate this young girl, who in a few brief days had stolen not only Armand’s heart, but his allegiance to his chief, and his trust in him. Since last night, when she had seen her brother sneak silently past her like a thief in the night, she had nurtured thoughts of ill-will and anger against Jeanne.
But hatred and anger had melted at the sight of this child. Marguerite, with the perfect understanding born of love itself, had soon realised the charm which a woman like Mademoiselle Lange must of necessity exercise over a chivalrous, enthusiastic nature like Armand’s. The sense of protection—the strongest perhaps that exists in a good man’s heart—would draw him irresistibly to this beautiful child, with the great, appealing eyes, and the look of pathos that pervaded the entire face. Marguerite, looking in silence on the dainty picture before her, found it in her heart to forgive Armand for disobeying his chief when those eyes beckoned to him in a contrary direction.
How could he, how could any chivalrous man endure the thought of this delicate, fresh flower lying crushed and drooping in the hands of monsters who respected neither courage nor purity? And Armand had been more than human, or mayhap less, if he had indeed consented to leave the fate of the girl whom he had sworn to love and protect in other hands than his own.
It seemed almost as if Jeanne was conscious of the fixity of Marguerite’s gaze, for though she did not turn to look at her, the flush gradually deepened in her cheeks.
“Mademoiselle Lange,” said Marguerite gently, “do you not feel that you can trust me?”
She held out her two hands to the girl, and Jeanne slowly turned to her. The next moment she was kneeling at Marguerite’s feet, and kissing the beautiful kind hands that had been stretched out to her with such sisterly love.
“Indeed, indeed, I do trust you,” she said, and looked with tear-dimmed eyes in the pale face above her. “I have longed for some one in whom I could confide. I have been so lonely lately, and Armand—”
With an impatient little gesture she brushed away the tears which had gathered in her eyes.
“What has Armand been doing?” asked Marguerite with an encouraging smile.
“Oh, nothing to grieve me!” replied the young girl eagerly, “for he is kind and good, and chivalrous and noble. Oh, I love him with all my heart! I loved him from the moment that I set eyes on him, and then he came to see me—perhaps you know! And he talked so beautiful about England, and so nobly about his leader the Scarlet Pimpernel—have you heard of him?”
“Yes,” said Marguerite, smiling. “I have heard of him.”
“It was that day that citizen Heron came with his soldiers! Oh! you do not know citizen Heron. He is the most cruel man in France. In Paris he is hated by every one, and no one is safe from his spies. He came to arrest Armand, but I was able to fool him and to save Armand. And after that,” she added with charming naivete, “I felt as if, having saved Armand’s life, he belonged to me—and his love for me had made me his.”
“Then I was arrested,” she continued after a slight pause, and at the recollection of what she had endured then her fresh voice still trembled with horror.
“They dragged me to prison, and I spent two days in a dark cell, where—”
She hid her face in her hands, whilst a few sobs shook her whole frame; then she resumed more calmly:
“I had seen nothing of Armand. I wondered where he was, and I knew that he would be eating out his heart with anxiety for me. But God was watching over me. At first I was transferred to the Temple prison, and there a kind creature—a sort of man-of-all work in the prison took compassion on me. I do not know how he contrived it, but one morning very early he brought me some filthy old rags which he told me to put on quickly, and when I had done that he bade me follow him. Oh! he was a very dirty, wretched man himself, but he must have had a kind heart. He took me by the hand and made me carry his broom and brushes. Nobody took much notice of us, the dawn was only just breaking, and the passages were very dark and deserted; only once some soldiers began to chaff him about me: ‘C’est ma fille—quoi?’ he said roughly. I very nearly laughed then, only I had the good sense to restrain myself, for I knew that my freedom, and perhaps my life, depended on my not betraying myself. My grimy, tattered guide took me with him right through the interminable corridors of that awful building, whilst I prayed fervently to God for him and for myself. We got out by one of the service stairs and exit, and then he dragged me through some narrow streets until we came to a corner where a covered cart stood waiting. My kind friend told me to get into the cart, and then he bade the driver on the box take me straight to a house in the Rue St. Germain l’Auxerrois. Oh! I was infinitely grateful to the poor creature who had helped me to get out of that awful prison, and I would gladly have given him some money, for I am sure he was very poor; but I had none by me. He told me that I should be quite safe in the house in the Rue St. Germain l’Auxerrois, and begged me to wait there patiently for a few days until I heard from one who had my welfare at heart, and who would further arrange for my safety.”
Marguerite had listened silently to this narrative so naively told by this child, who obviously had no idea to whom she owed her freedom and her life. While the girl talked, her mind could follow with unspeakable pride and happiness every phase of that scene in the early dawn, when that mysterious, ragged man-of-all-work, unbeknown even to the woman whom he was saving, risked his own noble life for the sake of her whom his friend and comrade loved.
“And did you never see again the kind man to whom you owe your life?” she asked.
“No!” replied Jeanne. “I never saw him since; but when I arrived at the Rue St. Germain l’Auxerrois I was told by the good people who took charge of me that the ragged man-of-all-work had been none other than the mysterious Englishman whom Armand reveres, he whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel.”
“But you did not stay very long in the Rue St. Germain l’Auxerrois, did you?”
“No. Only three days. The third day I received a communique from the Committee of General Security, together with an unconditional certificate of safety. It meant that I was free—quite free. Oh! I could scarcely believe it. I laughed and I cried until the people in the house thought that I had gone mad. The past few days had been such a horrible nightmare.”
“And then you saw Armand again?”
“Yes. They told him that I was free. And he came here to see me. He often comes; he will be here anon.”
“But are you not afraid on his account and your own? He is—he must be still—‘suspect’; a well-known adherent of the Scarlet Pimpernel, he would be safer out of Paris.”
“No! oh, no! Armand is in no danger. He, too, has an unconditional certificate of safety.”
“An unconditional certificate of safety?” asked Marguerite, whilst a deep frown of grave puzzlement appeared between her brows. “What does that mean?”
“It means that he is free to come and go as he likes; that neither he nor I have anything to fear from Heron and his awful spies. Oh! but for that sad and careworn look on Armand’s face we could be so happy; but he is so unlike himself. He is Armand and yet another; his look at times quite frightens me.”
“Yet you know why he is so sad,” said Marguerite in a strange, toneless voice which she seemed quite unable to control, for that tonelessness came from a terrible sense of suffocation, of a feeling as if her heart-strings were being gripped by huge, hard hands.
“Yes, I know,” said Jeanne half hesitatingly, as if knowing, she was still unconvinced.
“His chief, his comrade, the friend of whom you speak, the Scarlet Pimpernel, who risked his life in order to save yours, mademoiselle, is a prisoner in the hands of those that hate him.”
Marguerite had spoken with sudden vehemence. There was almost an appeal in her voice now, as if she were trying not to convince Jeanne only, but also herself, of something that was quite simple, quite straightforward, and yet which appeared to be receding from her, an intangible something, a spirit that was gradually yielding to a force as yet unborn, to a phantom that had not yet emerged from out chaos.
But Jeanne seemed unconscious of all this. Her mind was absorbed in Armand, the man whom she loved in her simple, whole-hearted way, and who had seemed so different of late.
“Oh, yes!” she said with a deep, sad sigh, whilst the ever-ready tears once more gathered in her eyes, “Armand is very unhappy because of him. The Scarlet Pimpernel was his friend; Armand loved and revered him. Did you know,” added the girl, turning large, horror-filled eyes on Marguerite, “that they want some information from him about the Dauphin, and to force him to give it they—they—”
“Yes, I know,” said Marguerite.
“Can you wonder, then, that Armand is unhappy. Oh! last night, after he went from me, I cried for hours, just because he had looked so sad. He no longer talks of happy England, of the cottage we were to have, and of the Kentish orchards in May. He has not ceased to love me, for at times his love seems so great that I tremble with a delicious sense of fear. But oh! his love for me no longer makes him happy.”
Her head had gradually sunk lower and lower on her breast, her voice died down in a murmur broken by heartrending sighs. Every generous impulse in Marguerite’s noble nature prompted her to take that sorrowing child in her arms, to comfort her if she could, to reassure her if she had the power. But a strange icy feeling had gradually invaded her heart, even whilst she listened to the simple unsophisticated talk of Jeanne Lange. Her hands felt numb and clammy, and instinctively she withdrew away from the near vicinity of the girl. She felt as if the room, the furniture in it, even the window before her were dancing a wild and curious dance, and that from everywhere around strange whistling sounds reached her ears, which caused her head to whirl and her brain to reel.
Jeanne had buried her head in her hands. She was crying—softly, almost humbly at first, as if half ashamed of her grief; then, suddenly it seemed, as if she could not contain herself any longer, a heavy sob escaped her throat and shook her whole delicate frame with its violence. Sorrow no longer would be gainsaid, it insisted on physical expression—that awful tearing of the heart-strings which leaves the body numb and panting with pain.
In a moment Marguerite had forgotten; the dark and shapeless phantom that had knocked at the gate of her soul was relegated back into chaos. It ceased to be, it was made to shrivel and to burn in the great seething cauldron of womanly sympathy. What part this child had played in the vast cataclysm of misery which had dragged a noble-hearted enthusiast into the dark torture-chamber, whence the only outlet led to the guillotine, she—Marguerite Blakeney—did not know; what part Armand, her brother, had played in it, that she would not dare to guess; all that she knew was that here was a loving heart that was filled with pain—a young, inexperienced soul that was having its first tussle with the grim realities of life—and every motherly instinct in Marguerite was aroused.
She rose and gently drew the young girl up from her knees, and then closer to her; she pillowed the grief-stricken head against her shoulder, and murmured gentle, comforting words into the tiny ear.
“I have news for Armand,” she whispered, “that will comfort him, a message—a letter from his friend. You will see, dear, that when Armand reads it he will become a changed man; you see, Armand acted a little foolishly a few days ago. His chief had given him orders which he disregarded—he was so anxious about you—he should have obeyed; and now, mayhap, he feels that his disobedience may have been the—the innocent cause of much misery to others; that is, no doubt, the reason why he is so sad. The letter from his friend will cheer him, you will see.”
“Do you really think so, madame?” murmured Jeanne, in whose tear-stained eyes the indomitable hopefulness of youth was already striving to shine.
“I am sure of it,” assented Marguerite.
And for the moment she was absolutely sincere. The phantom had entirely vanished. She would even, had he dared to re-appear, have mocked and derided him for his futile attempt at turning the sorrow in her heart to a veritable hell of bitterness.
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