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<h2> CHAPTER XII THE SCRAP OF PAPER </h2>
<p>Marguerite suffered intensely. Though she laughed and chatted, though she
was more admired, more surrounded, more FETED than any woman there, she
felt like one condemned to death, living her last day upon this earth.</p>
<p>Her nerves were in a state of painful tension, which had increased a
hundredfold during that brief hour which she had spent in her husband's
company, between the opera and the ball. The short ray of hope—that
she might find in this good-natured, lazy individual a valuable friend and
adviser—had vanished as quickly as it had come, the moment she found
herself alone with him. The same feeling of good-humoured contempt which
one feels for an animal or a faithful servant, made her turn away with a
smile from the man who should have been her moral support in this
heart-rending crisis through which she was passing: who should have been
her cool-headed adviser, when feminine sympathy and sentiment tossed her
hither and thither, between her love for her brother, who was far away and
in mortal peril, and horror of the awful service which Chauvelin had
exacted from her, in exchange for Armand's safety.</p>
<p>There he stood, the moral support, the cool-headed adviser, surrounded by
a crowd of brainless, empty-headed young fops, who were even now repeating
from mouth to mouth, and with every sign of the keenest enjoyment, a
doggerel quatrain which he had just given forth. Everywhere the absurd,
silly words met her: people seemed to have little else to speak about,
even the Prince had asked her, with a little laugh, whether she
appreciated her husband's latest poetic efforts.</p>
<p>"All done in the tying of a cravat," Sir Percy had declared to his clique
of admirers.</p>
<p>"We seek him here, we seek him there,<br/>
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.<br/>
Is he in heaven?—Is he in hell?<br/>
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel"<br/></p>
<p>Sir Percy's BON MOT had gone the round of the brilliant reception-rooms.
The Prince was enchanted. He vowed that life without Blakeney would be but
a dreary desert. Then, taking him by the arm, had led him to the
card-room, and engaged him in a long game of hazard.</p>
<p>Sir Percy, whose chief interest in most social gatherings seemed to centre
round the card-table, usually allowed his wife to flirt, dance, to amuse
or bore herself as much as she liked. And to-night, having delivered
himself of his BON MOT, he had left Marguerite surrounded by a crowd of
admirers of all ages, all anxious and willing to help her to forget that
somewhere in the spacious reception rooms, there was a long, lazy being
who had been fool enough to suppose that the cleverest woman in Europe
would settle down to the prosaic bonds of English matrimony.</p>
<p>Her still overwrought nerves, her excitement and agitation, lent beautiful
Marguerite Blakeney much additional charm: escorted by a veritable bevy of
men of all ages and of most nationalities, she called forth many
exclamations of admiration from everyone as she passed.</p>
<p>She would not allow herself any more time to think. Her early, somewhat
Bohemian training had made her something of a fatalist. She felt that
events would shape themselves, that the directing of them was not in her
hands. From Chauvelin she knew that she could expect no mercy. He had set
a price on Armand's head, and left it to her to pay or not, as she chose.</p>
<p>Later on in the evening she caught sight of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord
Antony Dewhurst, who seemingly had just arrived. She noticed at once that
Sir Andrew immediately made for little Suzanne de Tournay, and that the
two young people soon managed to isolate themselves in one of the deep
embrasures of the mullioned windows, there to carry on a long
conversation, which seemed very earnest and very pleasant on both sides.</p>
<p>Both the young men looked a little haggard and anxious, but otherwise they
were irreproachably dressed, and there was not the slightest sign, about
their courtly demeanour, of the terrible catastrophe, which they must have
felt hovering round them and round their chief.</p>
<p>That the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel had no intention of abandoning
its cause, she had gathered through little Suzanne herself, who spoke
openly of the assurance she and her mother had had that the Comte de
Tournay would be rescued from France by the league, within the next few
days. Vaguely she began to wonder, as she looked at the brilliant and
fashionable in the gaily-lighted ball-room, which of these worldly men
round her was the mysterious "Scarlet Pimpernel," who held the threads of
such daring plots, and the fate of valuable lives in his hands.</p>
<p>A burning curiosity seized her to know him: although for months she had
heard of him and had accepted his anonymity, as everyone else in society
had done; but now she longed to know—quite impersonally, quite apart
from Armand, and oh! quite apart from Chauvelin—only for her own
sake, for the sake of the enthusiastic admiration she had always bestowed
on his bravery and cunning.</p>
<p>He was at the ball, of course, somewhere, since Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and
Lord Antony Dewhurst were here, evidently expecting to meet their chief—and
perhaps to get a fresh MOT D'ORDRE from him.</p>
<p>Marguerite looked round at everyone, at the aristocratic high-typed Norman
faces, the squarely-built, fair-haired Saxon, the more gentle, humorous
caste of the Celt, wondering which of these betrayed the power, the
energy, the cunning which had imposed its will and its leadership upon a
number of high-born English gentlemen, among whom rumour asserted was His
Royal Highness himself.</p>
<p>Sir Andrew Ffoulkes? Surely not, with his gentle blue eyes, which were
looking so tenderly and longingly after little Suzanne, who was being led
away from the pleasant TETE-A-TETE by her stern mother. Marguerite watched
him across the room, as he finally turned away with a sigh, and seemed to
stand, aimless and lonely, now that Suzanne's dainty little figure had
disappeared in the crowd.</p>
<p>She watched him as he strolled towards the doorway, which led to a small
boudoir beyond, then paused and leaned against the framework of it,
looking still anxiously all round him.</p>
<p>Marguerite contrived for the moment to evade her present attentive
cavalier, and she skirted the fashionable crowd, drawing nearer to the
doorway, against which Sir Andrew was leaning. Why she wished to get
closer to him, she could not have said: perhaps she was impelled by an
all-powerful fatality, which so often seems to rule the destinies of men.</p>
<p>Suddenly she stopped: her very heart seemed to stand still, her eyes,
large and excited, flashed for a moment towards that doorway, then as
quickly were turned away again. Sir Andrew Ffoulkes was still in the same
listless position by the door, but Marguerite had distinctly seen that
Lord Hastings—a young buck, a friend of her husband's and one of the
Prince's set—had, as he quickly brushed past him, slipped something
into his hand.</p>
<p>For one moment longer—oh! it was the merest flash—Marguerite
paused: the next she had, with admirably played unconcern, resumed her
walk across the room—but this time more quickly towards that doorway
whence Sir Andrew had now disappeared.</p>
<p>All this, from the moment that Marguerite had caught sight of Sir Andrew
leaning against the doorway, until she followed him into the little
boudoir beyond, had occurred in less than a minute. Fate is usually swift
when she deals a blow.</p>
<p>Now Lady Blakeney had suddenly ceased to exist. It was Marguerite St. Just
who was there only: Marguerite St. Just who had passed her childhood, her
early youth, in the protecting arms of her brother Armand. She had
forgotten everything else—her rank, her dignity, her secret
enthusiasms—everything save that Armand stood in peril of his life,
and that there, not twenty feet away from her, in the small boudoir which
was quite deserted, in the very hands of Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, might be the
talisman which would save her brother's life.</p>
<p>Barely another thirty seconds had elapsed between the moment when Lord
Hastings slipped the mysterious "something" into Sir Andrew's hand, and
the one when she, in her turn, reached the deserted boudoir. Sir Andrew
was standing with his back to her and close to a table upon which stood a
massive silver candelabra. A slip of paper was in his hand, and he was in
the very act of perusing its contents.</p>
<p>Unperceived, her soft clinging robe making not the slightest sound upon
the heavy carpet, not daring to breathe until she had accomplished her
purpose, Marguerite slipped close behind him. . . . At that moment he
looked round and saw her; she uttered a groan, passed her hand across her
forehead, and murmured faintly:</p>
<p>"The heat in the room was terrible . . . I felt so faint . . . Ah! . . ."</p>
<p>She tottered almost as if she would fall, and Sir Andrew, quickly
recovering himself, and crumpling in his hand the tiny note he had been
reading, was only apparently, just in time to support her.</p>
<p>"You are ill, Lady Blakeney?" he asked with much concern, "Let me . . ."</p>
<p>"No, no, nothing—" she interrupted quickly. "A chair—quick."</p>
<p>She sank into a chair close to the table, and throwing back her head,
closing her eyes.</p>
<p>"There!" she murmured, still faintly; "the giddiness is passing off. . . .
Do not heed me, Sir Andrew; I assure you I already feel better."</p>
<p>At moments like these there is no doubt—and psychologists actually
assert it—that there is in us a sense which has absolutely nothing
to do with the other five: it is not that we see, it is not that we hear
or touch, yet we seem to do all three at once. Marguerite sat there with
her eyes apparently closed. Sir Andrew was immediately behind her, and on
her right was the table with the five-armed candelabra upon it. Before her
mental vision there was absolutely nothing but Armand's face. Armand,
whose life was in the most imminent danger, and who seemed to be looking
at her from a background upon which were dimly painted the seething crowd
of Paris, the bare walls of the Tribunal of Public Safety, with
Foucquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, demanding Armand's life in the
name of the people of France, and the lurid guillotine with its stained
knife waiting for another victim . . . Armand! . . .</p>
<p>For one moment there was dead silence in the little boudoir. Beyond, from
the brilliant ball-room, the sweet notes of the gavotte, the frou-frou of
rich dresses, the talk and laughter of a large and merry crowd, came as a
strange, weird accompaniment to the drama which was being enacted here.
Sir Andrew had not uttered another word. Then it was that that extra sense
became potent in Marguerite Blakeney. She could not see, for her two eyes
were closed, she could not hear, for the noise from the ball-room drowned
the soft rustle of that momentous scrap of paper; nevertheless she knew—as
if she had both seen and heard—that Sir Andrew was even now holding
the paper to the flame of one of the candles.</p>
<p>At the exact moment that it began to catch fire, she opened her eyes,
raised her hand and, with two dainty fingers, had taken the burning scrap
of paper from the young man's hand. Then she blew out the flame, and held
the paper to her nostril with perfect unconcern.</p>
<p>"How thoughtful of you, Sir Andrew," she said gaily, "surely 'twas your
grandmother who taught you that the smell of burnt paper was a sovereign
remedy against giddiness."</p>
<p>She sighed with satisfaction, holding the paper tightly between her
jewelled fingers; that talisman which perhaps would save her brother
Armand's life. Sir Andrew was staring at her, too dazed for the moment to
realize what had actually happened; he had been taken so completely by
surprise, that he seemed quite unable to grasp the fact that the slip of
paper, which she held in her dainty hand, was one perhaps on which the
life of his comrade might depend.</p>
<p>Marguerite burst into a long, merry peal of laughter.</p>
<p>"Why do you stare at me like that?" she said playfully. "I assure you I
feel much better; your remedy has proved most effectual. This room is most
delightedly cool," she added, with the same perfect composure, "and the
sound of the gavotte from the ball-room is fascinating and soothing."</p>
<p>She was prattling on in the most unconcerned and pleasant way, whilst Sir
Andrew, in an agony of mind, was racking his brains as to the quickest
method he could employ to get that bit of paper out of that beautiful
woman's hand. Instinctively, vague and tumultuous thoughts rushed through
his mind: he suddenly remembered her nationality, and worst of all,
recollected that horrible tale anent the Marquis de St. Cyr, which in
England no one had credited, for the sake of Sir Percy, as well as for her
own.</p>
<p>"What? Still dreaming and staring?" she said, with a merry laugh, "you are
most ungallant, Sir Andrew; and now I come to think of it, you seemed more
startled than pleased when you saw me just now. I do believe, after all,
that it was not concern for my health, nor yet a remedy taught you by your
grandmother that caused you to burn this tiny scrap of paper. . . . I vow
it must have been your lady love's last cruel epistle you were trying to
destroy. Now confess!" she added, playfully holding up the scrap of paper,
"does this contain her final CONGE, or a last appeal to kiss and make
friends?"</p>
<p>"Whichever it is, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, who was gradually
recovering his self-possession, "this little note is undoubtedly mine, and
. . ." Not caring whether his action was one that would be styled ill-bred
towards a lady, the young man had made a bold dash for the note; but
Marguerite's thoughts flew quicker than his own; her actions under
pressure of this intense excitement, were swifter and more sure. She was
tall and strong; she took a quick step backwards and knocked over the
small Sheraton table which was already top-heavy, and which fell down with
a crash, together with the massive candelabra upon it.</p>
<p>She gave a quick cry of alarm:</p>
<p>"The candles, Sir Andrew—quick!"</p>
<p>There was not much damage done; one or two of the candles had blown out as
the candelabra fell; others had merely sent some grease upon the valuable
carpet; one had ignited the paper shade aver it. Sir Andrew quickly and
dexterously put out the flames and replaced the candelabra upon the table;
but this had taken him a few seconds to do, and those seconds had been all
that Marguerite needed to cast a quick glance at the paper, and to note
its contents—a dozen words in the same distorted handwriting she had
seen before, and bearing the same device—a star-shaped flower drawn
in red ink.</p>
<p>When Sir Andrew once more looked at her, he only saw upon her face alarm
at the untoward accident and relief at its happy issue; whilst the tiny
and momentous note had apparently fluttered to the ground. Eagerly the
young man picked it up, and his face looked much relieved, as his fingers
closed tightly over it.</p>
<p>"For shame, Sir Andrew," she said, shaking her head with a playful sigh,
"making havoc in the heart of some impressionable duchess, whilst
conquering the affections of my sweet little Suzanne. Well, well! I do
believe it was Cupid himself who stood by you, and threatened the entire
Foreign Office with destruction by fire, just on purpose to make me drop
love's message, before it had been polluted by my indiscreet eyes. To
think that, a moment longer, and I might have known the secrets of an
erring duchess."</p>
<p>"You will forgive me, Lady Blakeney," said Sir Andrew, now as calm as she
was herself, "if I resume the interesting occupation which you have
interrupted?"</p>
<p>"By all means, Sir Andrew! How should I venture to thwart the love-god
again? Perhaps he would mete out some terrible chastisement against my
presumption. Burn your love-token, by all means!"</p>
<p>Sir Andrew had already twisted the paper into a long spill, and was once
again holding it to the flame of the candle, which had remained alight. He
did not notice the strange smile on the face of his fair VIS-A-VIS, so
intent was he on the work of destruction; perhaps, had he done so, the
look of relief would have faded from his face. He watched the fateful
note, as it curled under the flame. Soon the last fragment fell on the
floor, and he placed his heel upon the ashes.</p>
<p>"And now, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite Blakeney, with the pretty
nonchalance peculiar to herself, and with the most winning of smiles,
"will you venture to excite the jealousy of your fair lady by asking me to
dance the minuet?"</p>
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