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<h2> CHAPTER X IN THE OPERA BOX </h2>
<p>It was one of the gala nights at Covent Garden Theatre, the first of the
autumn season in this memorable year of grace 1792.</p>
<p>The house was packed, both in the 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."</p>
<p>Selina Storace had been duly applauded after her grand ARIA by her
numerous admirers; Benjamin Incledon, the acknowledged favourite 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 spell-bound on the magic strains of the great
maestro, seemed collectively to breathe a long sigh of satisfaction,
previous to letting loose its hundreds of waggish and frivolous tongues.
In the smart orchestra boxes many well-known faces were to be seen. Mr.
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 to box,
spending brief quarters of an hour with those of his more intimate
friends.</p>
<p>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—Foreign Secretary of State—paid him marked, though
frigid deference.</p>
<p>Here and there, dotted about among distinctly English types of beauty, one
or two foreign faces stood out in marked contrast: the haughty
aristocratic cast of countenance of the many French royalist EMIGRES who,
persecuted by the relentless, revolutionary faction of 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.</p>
<p>Among these the Comtesse de Tournay de Basserive, but lately arrived from
France, was a most conspicuous figure: dressed in deep, heavy black silk,
with only a white lace kerchief to relieve the aspect of mourning about
her person, she sat beside Lady Portarles, who was vainly trying by witty
sallies and somewhat broad jokes, to bring a smile to the Comtesse's sad
mouth. Behind her sat little Suzanne and the Vicomte, both silent and
somewhat shy among so many strangers. Suzanne's eyes seemed wistful; when
she first entered the crowded house, she had looked eagerly all around,
scanning every face, scrutinised every box. Evidently the one face she
wished to see was not there, for she settled herself quietly behind her
mother, listened apathetically to the music, and took no further interest
in the audience itself.</p>
<p>"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 <i>A</i> PROPOS. Here is
Madame la Comtesse de Tournay positively dying to hear the latest news
from France."</p>
<p>The distinguished diplomat had come forward and was shaking hands with the
ladies.</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>Pale and tearful, the Comtesse was leaning back in her chair, listening
horror-struck to this brief and graphic account of what went on in her own
misguided country.</p>
<p>"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 theatre, all safe and in peace, whilst he
is in such peril."</p>
<p>"Lud, Madame!" said honest, bluff Lady Portarles, "your 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."</p>
<p>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 coarse manners affected by some ladies at
that time.</p>
<p>"Besides which, Madame," added Lord Grenville, "did you not tell me
yesterday that the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had pledged their
honour to bring M. le Comte safely across the Channel?"</p>
<p>"Ah, yes!" replied the Comtesse, "and that is my only hope. I saw Lord
Hastings yesterday . . . he reassured me again."</p>
<p>"Then I am sure you need have no fear. What the league have sworn, that
they surely will accomplish. Ah!" added the old diplomat with a sigh, "if
I were but a few years younger . . ."</p>
<p>"La, 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."</p>
<p>"I wish I could . . . but your ladyship must remember that in serving our
country we must put prejudices aside. M. Chauvelin is the accredited agent
of his Government . . ."</p>
<p>"Odd's fish, man!" she retorted, "you don't call those bloodthirsty
ruffians over there a government, do you?"</p>
<p>"It has not been thought advisable as yet," said the Minister, guardedly,
"for England to break off diplomatic relations with France, and we cannot
therefore refuse to receive with courtesy the agent she wishes to send to
us."</p>
<p>"Diplomatic relations be demmed, my lord! That sly little fox over there
is nothing but a spy, I'll warrant, and you'll find—an 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 little league."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Bless the woman!" ejaculated Lady Portarles, "did ever anyone see such
perversity? My Lord Grenville, you have the gift of gab, will you please
explain to Madame la Comtesse that she is acting like a fool. In your
position here in England, Madame," she added, turning a wrathful and
resolute face towards the Comtesse, "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 St. Cyr,
or whatever 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 and glove with royalty, and your trying to snub
Lady Blakeney will not harm her, but will make you look a fool. Isn't that
so, my Lord?"</p>
<p>But what Lord Grenville thought of this matter, or to what reflections
this comely tirade of Lady Portarles led the Comtesse de Tournay, 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.</p>
<p>Lord Grenville took a hasty farewell of the ladies and slipped back into
his box, where M. Chauvelin had sat through this ENTR'ACTE, with his
eternal snuff-box in his hand, and with his keen pale eyes intently fixed
upon a box opposite him, where, with much frou-frou 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 the very latest vagary of
fashion, Marguerite alone among the ladies that night had discarded the
crossover fichu and broad-lapelled over-dress, 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 stuff which seemed a mass of
rich gold embroidery.</p>
<p>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.</p>
<p>Chauvelin watched her intently all through the commencement of the third
act, as she sat enthralled with the music, her exquisite little hand
toying with a small jewelled 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.</p>
<p>Marguerite was passionately fond of music. ORPHEUS charmed her to-night.
The very joy of living was writ plainly upon the sweet young face, it
sparkled out of the merry blue eyes and lit up the smile that lurked
around the lips. She was after all but five-and-twenty, in the hey day of
youth, the darling of a brilliant throng, adored, FETED, petted,
cherished. Two days ago the DAY DREAM had returned from Calais, bringing
her news that her idolised brother had safely landed, that he thought of
her, and would be prudent for her sake.</p>
<p>What wonder for the moment, and listening to Gluck's impassioned strains,
that she forgot her disillusionments, forgot her vanished love-dreams,
forgot even the lazy, good-humoured nonentity who had made up for his lack
of spiritual attainments by lavishing worldly advantages upon her.</p>
<p>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 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 JEUNESSE DOREE of London,
and had just dismissed them all, wishing to be alone with Gluck for a
brief while.</p>
<p>A discreet knock at the door roused her from her enjoyment.</p>
<p>"Come in," she said with some impatience, without turning to look at the
intruder.</p>
<p>Chauvelin, waiting for his opportunity, noted that she was alone, and now,
without pausing for that impatient "Come in," he quietly slipped into the
box, and the next moment was standing behind Marguerite's chair.</p>
<p>"A word with you, citoyenne," he said quietly.</p>
<p>Marguerite turned quickly, in alarm, which was not altogether feigned.</p>
<p>"Lud, man! you frightened me," she said with a forced little laugh, "your
presence is entirely inopportune. I want to listen to Gluck, and have no
mind for talking."</p>
<p>"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 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 FETED by her court, that a mere old friend has
but very little chance."</p>
<p>"Faith, man!" she said impatiently, "you must seek for another opportunity
then. I am going to Lord Grenville's ball to-night after the opera. So are
you, probably. I'll give you five minutes then. . . ."</p>
<p>"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,
Citoyenne St. Just."</p>
<p>Marguerite instinctively shivered. Chauvelin had not raised his voice
above a whisper; he was now quietly taking a pinch of snuff, yet there 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.</p>
<p>"Nay, fair lady," he said gallantly, "only an arrow shot into the air."</p>
<p>He paused a moment, like a cat which sees a 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—</p>
<p>"Your brother, St. Just, is in peril."</p>
<p>Not a muscle moved in the beautiful face before him. He could only see it
in profile, for Marguerite seemed to be watching the stage intently, but
Chauvelin was a keen observer; he noticed the sudden rigidity of the eyes,
the hardening of the mouth, the sharp, almost paralysed tension of the
beautiful, graceful figure.</p>
<p>"Lud, 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."</p>
<p>And with her hand she began to beat time nervously against the cushion of
the box. Selina Storace was singing the "Che faro" to an audience that
hung spellbound 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.</p>
<p>"Well?" she said suddenly and irrelevantly, and with the same feigned
unconcern.</p>
<p>"Well, citoyenne?" he rejoined placidly.</p>
<p>"About my brother?"</p>
<p>"I have news of him for you which, I think, will interest you, but first
let me explain. . . . May I?"</p>
<p>The question was unnecessary. He felt, though Marguerite still held her
head steadily averted from him, that her every nerve was strained to hear
what he had to say.</p>
<p>"The other day, citoyenne," 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 up apart . . . although many things have happened. . . ."</p>
<p>"To the point, I pray you, citoyen," she said lightly; "the music is
entrancing, and the audience will get impatient of your talk."</p>
<p>"One moment, citoyenne. The day on which I had the honour 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 de
Tournay amongst others—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."</p>
<p>Marguerite seemed to have listened to him with marked impatience; she now
shrugged her shoulders and said gaily—</p>
<p>"Bah! man. Have I not already told you that I care nought about your
schemes or about the Scarlet Pimpernel. And had you not spoken about my
brother . . ."</p>
<p>"A little patience, I entreat, citoyenne," he continued imperturbably.
"Two gentlemen, Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes were at 'The
Fisherman's Rest' at Dover that same night."</p>
<p>"I know. I saw them there."</p>
<p>"They were already known to my spies as members of that accursed league.
It was Sir Andrew Ffoulkes who escorted the Comtesse de Tournay 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."</p>
<p>In a moment she had guessed the danger. Papers? . . . Had Armand been
imprudent? . . . The very thought struck her with nameless terror. Still
she would not let this man see that she feared; she laughed gaily and
lightly.</p>
<p>"Faith! and your impudence pases belief," she said merrily. "Robbery and
violence!—in England!—in a crowded inn! Your men might have
been caught in the act!"</p>
<p>"What if they had? They are children of France, and 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 the risk. A crowded inn is safer for these little
operations than you think, and my men have experience."</p>
<p>"Well? And those papers?" she asked carelessly.</p>
<p>"Unfortunately, though they have given me cognisance of 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.</p>
<p>"La! 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 strophe of the ARIA. Faith!" she added, ostentatiously smothering
an imaginary yawn, "had you not spoken about my brother . . ."</p>
<p>"I am coming to him now, citoyenne. Among the papers there was a letter to
Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, written by your brother, St. Just."</p>
<p>"Well? And?"</p>
<p>"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 League of the
Scarlet Pimpernel."</p>
<p>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 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.</p>
<p>That letter of Armand's—foolish, imprudent Armand—was in
Chauvelin's hands. Marguerite knew that as 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.</p>
<p>"La, 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. . . .
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!"</p>
<p>"Let me make my point clear, citoyenne," said Chauvelin, with the same
unruffled calm, "I must assure you that St. Just is compromised beyond the
slightest hope of pardon."</p>
<p>Inside the orchestra box all was silent for a moment or two. Marguerite
sat, straight upright, rigid and inert, trying to think, trying to face
the situation, to realise what had best be done.</p>
<p>In the house Storace had finished the ARIA, and was even now bowing in her
classic garb, but in approved eighteenth-century fashion, to the
enthusiastic audience, who cheered her to the echo.</p>
<p>"Chauvelin," said Marguerite Blakeney at last, quietly, and without that
touch of bravado which had characterised 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?"</p>
<p>"France's most bitter enemy, citoyenne . . . all the more dangerous, as he
works in the dark."</p>
<p>"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 Armand's
safety?—Is that it?"</p>
<p>"Fie! two very ugly words, fair lady," protested Chauvelin, urbanely.
"There can be no question of force, and the service which I would ask of
you, in the name of France, could never be called by the shocking name of
spying."</p>
<p>"At any rate, that is what it is called over here," she said drily. "That
is your intention, is it not?"</p>
<p>"My intention is, that you yourself win the free pardon for Armand St.
Just by doing me a small service."</p>
<p>"What is it?"</p>
<p>"Only watch for me to-night, Citoyenne St. Just," he said eagerly.
"Listen: among the papers which were found about the person of Sir Andrew
Ffoulkes there was a tiny note. See!" he added, taking a tiny scrap of
paper from his pocket-book and handing it to her.</p>
<p>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 two lines, written in a distorted, evidently
disguised, handwriting; she read them half aloud—</p>
<p>"'Remember we must not meet more often than is strictly necessary. You
have all instructions for the 2nd. If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be at G.'s ball.'"</p>
<p>"What does it mean?" she asked.</p>
<p>"Look again, citoyenne, and you will understand."</p>
<p>"There is a device here in the corner, a small red flower . . ."</p>
<p>"Yes."</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"That is how I interpret the note, citoyenne," concluded Chauvelin,
blandly. "Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, after they were
pinioned and searched by my spies, were carried 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, just as he directed them to do.
Therefore, this morning, those two young gallants found every bar and bolt
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 it all is,
citoyenne!"</p>
<p>"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."</p>
<p>"Nay, citoyenne, I offer you a chance of saving the brother you love from
the consequences of his own folly."</p>
<p>Marguerite's face softened, her eyes at last grew moist, as she murmured,
half to herself:</p>
<p>"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
despair in her tear-choked voice. "In my present position, it is well-nigh
impossible!"</p>
<p>"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,
citoyenne, watch and listen. . . . You can tell me if you hear a chance
word or whisper. . . . You can note everyone to whom Sir Andrew Ffoulkes
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."</p>
<p>Chauvelin was putting the knife to 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
signalled to the Committee of Public Safety as one of the "suspect"; he
would not be allowed to leave France again, and would be ruthlessly
struck, if she refused to obey Chauvelin. For a moment—woman-like—she
still hoped to temporise. She held out her hand to this man, whom she now
feared and hated.</p>
<p>"If I promise to help you in this matter, Chauvelin," she said pleasantly,
"will you give me that letter of St. Just's?"</p>
<p>"If you render me useful service to-night, citoyenne," he replied with a
sarcastic smile, "I will give you that letter . . . to-morrow."</p>
<p>"You do not trust me?"</p>
<p>"I trust you absolutely, dear lady, but St. Just's life is forfeit to his
country . . . it rests with you to redeem it."</p>
<p>"I may be powerless to help you," she pleaded, "were I ever so willing."</p>
<p>"That would be terrible indeed," he said quietly, "for you . . . and for
St. Just."</p>
<p>Marguerite shuddered. She felt that from this man she could expect no
mercy. All-powerful, he held the beloved 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.</p>
<p>She felt cold in spite of the oppressive air of opera-house. The
heart-appealing strains of the music seemed to reach her, as from a
distant land. She drew her costly lace scarf up around her shoulders, and
sat silently watching the brilliant scene, as if in a dream.</p>
<p>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 Armand's sake; she longed to
seek comfort and advice 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 hands,
without imperilling the life of the noble leader of that gallant little
band of heroes. Sir Percy knew St. Just well—he seemed attached to
him—she was sure that he could help.</p>
<p>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 sour-stirring melodies of ORPHEUS, and was beating time to the music
with his sharp, ferret-like head.</p>
<p>A discreet rap at the door roused Marguerite from her thoughts. It was Sir
Percy Blakeney, tall, sleepy, good-humoured, and wearing that half-shy,
half-inane smile, which just now seemed to irritate her every nerve.</p>
<p>"Er . . . your chair is outside . . . m'dear," he said, with his most
exasperating drawl, "I suppose you will want to go to that demmed ball. .
. . Excuse me—er—Monsieur Chauvelin—I had not observed
you. . . ."</p>
<p>He extended two slender, white fingers toward Chauvelin, who had risen
when Sir Percy entered the box.</p>
<p>"Are you coming, m'dear?"</p>
<p>"Hush! Sh! Sh!" came in angry remonstrance from different parts of the
house. "Demmed impudence," commented Sir Percy with a good-natured smile.</p>
<p>Marguerite sighed impatiently. Her last hope seemed suddenly to have
vanished away. She wrapped her cloak round her and without looking at her
husband:</p>
<p>"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 preparing to follow
the strangely ill-assorted couple.</p>
<p>"It is only AU REVOIR, Chauvelin," she said pleasantly, "we shall meet at
my Lord Grenville's ball, anon."</p>
<p>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 lace jabot, he
rubbed his thin, bony hands contentedly together.</p>
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