Free The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Emmuska Orczy Page A

horror and in intensity. And Marguerite could not speak
to her brother about the secrets of her heart; she hardly understood
them herself, she only knew that, in the midst of luxury, she felt
lonely and unhappy.
    And now Armand was going away; she feared for his safety, she longed for
his presence. She would not spoil these last few sadly-sweet moments by
speaking about herself. She led him gently along the cliffs, then down
to the beach; their arms linked in one another's, they had still so much
to say that lay just outside that secret orchard of theirs.

Chapter VIII - The Accredited Agent
*
    The afternoon was rapidly drawing to a close; and a long, chilly English
summer's evening was throwing a misty pall over the green Kentish
landscape.
    The DAY DREAM had set sail, and Marguerite Blakeney stood alone on the
edge of the cliff over an hour, watching those white sails, which bore
so swiftly away from her the only being who really cared for her, whom
she dared to love, whom she knew she could trust.
    Some little distance away to her left the lights from the coffee-room of
"The Fisherman's Rest" glittered yellow in the gathering mist; from time
to time it seemed to her aching nerves as if she could catch from thence
the sound of merry-making and of jovial talk, or even that perpetual,
senseless laugh of her husband's, which grated continually upon her
sensitive ears.
    Sir Percy had had the delicacy to leave her severely alone. She supposed
that, in his own stupid, good-natured way, he may have understood that
she would wish to remain alone, while those white sails disappeared into
the vague horizon, so many miles away. He, whose notions of propriety
and decorum were supersensitive, had not suggested even that an
attendant should remain within call. Marguerite was grateful to her
husband for all this; she always tried to be grateful to him for his
thoughtfulness, which was constant, and for his generosity, which really
was boundless. She tried even at times to curb the sarcastic, bitter
thoughts of him, which made her—in spite of herself—say cruel,
insulting things, which she vaguely hoped would wound him.
    Yes! she often wished to wound him, to make him feel that she too held
him in contempt, that she too had forgotten that she had almost loved
him. Loved that inane fop! whose thoughts seemed unable to soar beyond
the tying of a cravat or the new cut of a coat. Bah! And yet! . . . vague
memories, that were sweet and ardent and attuned to this calm summer's
evening, came wafted back to her memory, on the invisible wings of the
light sea-breeze: the tie when first he worshipped her; he seemed so
devoted—a very slave—and there was a certain latent intensity in that
love which had fascinated her.
    Then suddenly that love, that devotion, which throughout his courtship
she had looked upon as the slavish fidelity of a dog, seemed to vanish
completely. Twenty-four hours after the simple little ceremony at old
St. Roch, she had told him the story of how, inadvertently, she had
spoken of certain matters connected with the Marquis de St. Cyr before
some men—her friends—who had used this information against the
unfortunate Marquis, and sent him and his family to the guillotine.
    She hated the Marquis. Years ago, Armand, her dear brother, loved Angele
de St. Cyr, but St. Just was a plebeian, and the Marquis full of
the pride and arrogant prejudices of his caste. One day Armand, the
respectful, timid lover, ventured on sending a small poem—enthusiastic,
ardent, passionate—to the idol of his dreams. The next night he was
waylaid just outside Paris by the valets of Marquis de St. Cyr, and
ignominiously thrashed—thrashed like a dog within an inch of his
life—because he had dared to raise his eyes to the daughter of the
aristocrat. The incident was one which, in those days, some two years
before the great Revolution, was of almost daily occurrence in France;
incidents of that type, in fact, led to bloody reprisals, which a