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

“What was your idea,” she asked, “in coming to me? What can I do?”

“Give me advice, milady!” he implored. “I am so helpless, so friendless. When I had the letter, I could think of nothing at first. You see, Régine and Jacques started early this morning, by the coach from London, long before I had it. I thought you could tell me what to do, how to overtake them. Régine loves me⁠—oh, she loves me! If I knelt at her feet I could bring her back. But they are marked people, those two. The moment they attempt to enter Paris, they will be recognised, arrested. Oh, my God! have mercy on us all!”

“You think you can persuade Régine, M. Moncrif?”

“I am sure,” he asserted firmly. “And you, milady! Régine thinks the whole world of you!”

“But there is the boy⁠—Jacques!”

“He is just a child⁠—he acted on impulse⁠—and I always had great authority over him. And you, milady! The whole family worship you!⁠ ⁠… they know what they owe you. Jacques has not thought of his mother; but if he did⁠—”

Marguerite rose without another word.

“Very well,” she said simply. “We go together and see what we can do with those two obstinate young folk.”

Bertrand gave a gasp of surprise and of hope. His whole face lighted up and he gazed upon the beautiful woman before him as a worshipper would on his divinity.

“You, milady?” he murmured. “You would⁠ ⁠… really⁠ ⁠… help me⁠ ⁠… like that?”

Marguerite smiled.

“I really would help you like that,” she said. “My coach is ordered; we can start at once. We’ll get relays at Maidstone and at Ashford, and easily reach Dover tonight, before the arrival of the public coach. In any case, I know every one of any importance in Dover. We could not fail to find the runaways.”

“But you are an angel, milady!” Bertrand contrived to stammer, although obviously he was overwhelemed with gratitude.

“You are ready to start?” Marguerite retorted, gently checking any further display of emotion.

He certainly was hatless, and his clothes were in an untidy condition; but such trifles mattered nothing at a moment like this. Marguerite’s household, on the other hand, were accustomed to these sudden vagaries and departures of their mistress, either for Dover, Bath, or any known and unknown destination, often at a few minutes’ notice.

In this case the coach was actually at the gates. The maids packed the necessary valise; her ladyship changed her smart gown for a dark travelling one, and less than half an hour after Bertrand Moncrif’s first arrival at the Manor, he was searted beside Lady Blakeney in her coach. The coachman cracked his whip, the postilion swung himself into the saddle, and the servants stood at attention as the vehicle slowly swung out of the gates; and presently, the horses putting on the pace, disappeared along the road, followed by a cloud of dust.

Bertrand Moncrif, brooding, absorbed in thoughts, said little or nothing while the coach swung along at a very brisk pace. Marguerite, who always had plenty to think about, did not feel in the mood to try and make conversation. She was very sorry for the young man, who in very truth must have suffered also from remorse. His lack of ardour⁠—obviously only an outward lack⁠—toward his fiancée and the members of her family, must to a certain extent have helped to precipitate the present catastrophe. Coolness and moroseness on his part gave rise to want of confidence on the other. Régine, heartsick at her lover’s seeming indifference, was no doubt all the more ready to lavish love and self-sacrifice upon the young brother. Marguerite was sorry enough for the latter⁠—a young fool, with the exalté Latin temperament, brimming over with desires for self-immolation as futile as they were senseless⁠—but her generous heart went out to Régine de Serval, a girl who appeared redestined to sorrow and disappointments, endowed with an exceptionally warm nature and cursed with the inability to draw wholehearted affection to herself. She worshipped Bertrand Moncrif; she idolised her mother, her brother, her sister. But though they, one and all, relied on her, brought her the confidences of their troubles and their difficulties, it never occurred to any one of them to give up something⁠—a distraction, a fancy, an ideal⁠—for the sake of silent, thoughtful Régine.

Marguerite allowed her thoughts thus to dwell on these people, whom her husband’s splendid sacrifice on their behalf had rendered dear. Indeed, she loved them like she loved so many others, because of the dangers which he had braved for their sakes. Their lives had become valuable because of his precious one, daily risked because of them. And at the back of her mind there was also the certainty that if these two young fools did put their mad project in execution and endeavoured to return to Paris, it would again be the gallant Scarlet Pimpernel who would jeopardise his life to save them from the consequences of their own folly.

Luncheon and a brief halt was taken at Farningham and Maidstone reached by three o’clock in the afternoon. Here Lady Blakeney’s own servants took leave of her, and post-horses were engaged to take her ladyship on to Ashford. Two hours later, at Ashford, fresh relays were obtained. The public coach at this hour was only some nine or ten miles ahead, it seems, and there was now every chance that Dover would be reached by nightfall and the young runaways met by their pursuers on arrival.

All was then for the best. Bertrand, after the coach had rattled out of Ashford, appeared to find comfort and courage. He began to talk, long and earnestly⁠—of himself, his plans and projects, his love for Régine, to which he always found it so difficult to give expression; of Régine herself and the de Servals, mother, son and daughters. His voice was toneless and very even. The monotony of his diction acted after awhile as