The Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy (story reading .TXT) 📕

kindly interest, as if he did not quite understand everything that she said. Marguerite as usual was full of tenderness and compassion.

“How terribly you must have suffered!” she said gently. “But what happened after that?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t know!” the poor woman resumed. “I was too numbed, too dazed with horror and fear, to suffer very much. The boat drifted on, I suppose. It was a beautiful, calm night. And the moon was lovely. You remember the moon last night?”

Marguerite nodded.

“But I remember nothing after⁠ ⁠… after that awful cry⁠ ⁠… and the splash! I suppose my poor François fainted or fell asleep⁠ ⁠… and that he fell into the water. I never saw him again⁠ ⁠… And I remember nothing until⁠—until I found myself on board a ship with a lot of rough sailors around me, who seemed very kind⁠ ⁠… They brought me ashore and took me to a nice warm place, where some English gentlemen took compassion on me. And⁠ ⁠… and⁠ ⁠… I have already told you the rest.”

She leaned back against the cushions of the seat as if exhausted with the prolonged effort. Her hands seemed quite cold now, almost blue, and Marguerite rose and closed the window behind her.

“How kind and thoughtful you are!” the stranger exclaimed, and after a moment added with a weary sigh, “I must not trespass any longer on your kindness. It is late now, and⁠ ⁠… I must go.”

She struggled to her feet, rose with obvious reluctance.

“The inn where I was,” she said, “it is not far?”

“But you cannot go out alone,” Marguerite reckoned. “You do not even know the way!”

“Ah, no! But perhaps your servant could accompany me⁠ ⁠… only as far as the town⁠ ⁠… After that I can ask the way⁠ ⁠… I should no longer be frightened.”

“You speak English then, Madame?”

“Oh, yes! My father was a diplomat. He was in England once for four years. I learned a little English. I have not forgotten it.”

“One of the servants shall certainly go with you. The inn you speak of must be The Fisherman’s Rest, since you found English gentlemen there.”

“If Madame will allow me?” Sir Percy broke in, for the first time since the stranger had embarked upon her narrative.

The stranger looked up at him with a half-shy, half-eager smile.

“You, milor!” she exclaimed. “Oh no! I would be ashamed⁠—”

She paused, and her cheeks became crimson whilst she looked down in utter confusion on her extraordinary attire.

“I had forgotten,” she murmured tearfully. “François made me put on these awful clothes when we left Paris.”

“Then I must lend you a cloak for tonight,” Marguerite interposed with a smile. “But you need not mind your clothes, Madame. On this coast our people are used to seeing unfortunate fugitives landing in every sort of quise. Tomorrow we must find you something wherein to travel to London.”

“To London?” the stranger said with some eagerness. “Yes! I would wish to go to London.”

“It will be quite easy. Mme. de Serval, with her son and two daughters and another friend, is travelling by the coach tomorrow. You could join them, I am sure. Then you would not be alone. You have money, Madame?” Marguerite concluded, with practical solicitude.

“Oh, yes!” the other replied. “I have plenty for present needs⁠ ⁠… in a wallet⁠ ⁠… under my clothes. I was able to collect a little⁠—and I have not lost it. I am not dependent,” she added, with a smile of gratitude. “And as soon as I have found my husband⁠—”

“Your husband?” Marguerite exclaimed.

“M. le Marquis de Fontenay,” the other answered simply. “Perhaps you know him. You have seen him⁠ ⁠… in London?⁠ ⁠… Not?”

Marguerite shook her head.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“He left me⁠—two years ago⁠ ⁠… cruelly⁠ ⁠… emigrated to England⁠ ⁠… and I was left alone in the world⁠ ⁠… He saved his own life by running away from France; but I⁠—I could not go just then⁠ ⁠… and so⁠ ⁠…”

She seemed on the verge of breaking down again, then recovered herself and continued more quietly:

“That was my idea, you see; to find my husband one day. Now a cruel Fate has forced me to fly from France; so I thought I would go to London and perhaps some kind friends will help me to find M. de Fontenay. I have never ceased to love him, though he was so cruel. And I think that⁠ ⁠… perhaps⁠ ⁠… he also has not quite forgotten me.”

“That were impossible,” Marguerite rejoined gently. “But I have friends in London who are in touch with most of the émigrés here. We will see what can be done. It will not be difficult, methinks, to find M. de Fontenay.”

“You are an angel, milady!” the stranger exclaimed; and with a gesture that was perfect in its suggestion of gracious humility, she took Marguerite’s hand and raised it to her lips. Then she once more mopped her eyes, picked up her cap and hastily hid the wealth of her hair beneath it. After which, she turned to Sir Percy.

“I am ready, milor,” she said. “I have intruded far too long as it is upon your privacy⁠ ⁠… But I am not brave enough to refuse your escort. Milady, forgive me! I will walk fast, very fast, so that milor will return to you very soon!”

She wrapped herself up in a cloak which, at Lady Blakeney’s bidding, one of the servants had brought her, and a moment or two later the stranger and Sir Percy were out of the house, whilst Marguerite remained for awhile on the porch, listening to their retreating footsteps.

There was a frown of puzzement between her brows, a look of troubled anxiety in her eyes. Somehow, the brief sojourn of that strange and beautiful woman in her house had filled her soul with a vague feeling of dread, which she tried vainly to combat. There was no real suspicion against the woman in her heart⁠—how could there be?⁠—but she⁠—Marguerite⁠—who as a rule was so compassionate, so understanding of those misfortunes, to alleviate which Sir Percy was devoting his entire life, felt cold and unresponsive in this case⁠—most unaccountably so. Mme. de Fontenay’s story